I have been wiped out all week. Part of it has to do with the fact that it’s my monthly exhausted time (and by the way, THANK YOU Ms. Uterus for timing my two day window of PMS and zits for the one event of the year where my speckles and under eye circles are going to be the subject of a million digital photos splashed across the internet) and part of it is due to the fact that I just came off a weekend trip and refuse to give into my body’s need for sleep because damn it, it’s just forty-eight hours and I can always sleep later. I had planned to catch up by going to bed early on Monday, but then I was offered free tickets to an acoustic concert by Richard Marx and Edwin McCain, who are purveyors of two of my favorite sappy songs ‘I’ll Be’ and ‘Hold Onto The Nights’. With the former, I have been known to bawl uncontrollably thinking about the idea of having a greatest fan of my life, and with the latter, I used to get all sappy about my crush of the moment (Chuck aka My Lloyd Dobbler, complete with Converse high tops and trench coat) when I was fifteen and really wanted to hold on to the memoREEEEEEES. I accepted the tickets immediately and Penny agreed to accompany me, but then I started to feel even more tired and crampy and cranky, however I sucked it up and went to the concert. And sitting fourth row, talking directly to Edwin McCain and Richard Marx in the absolutely breathtakingly restored historic Fox theatre‘ well, I was very glad that I went. Even if Marx played every song in his repetoire EXCEPT ‘Hold Onto The Nights’ and even if it meant that I didn’t get to sleep that night until very very late.
And so the week has gone. I’ve stayed up late every night for one reason or other, the sleep debt accumulating behind the closed door of my brain until I found myself with a headache and what I suspect were wakeful dreams yesterday. I took my lunch hour at the end of the day so that I could leave early, went home, stripping my clothes off as I walked through the house, and immediately crashed beneath my down comforter. Apparently Esteban came in but I was sleeping so soundly that he couldn’t bring himself to interrupt my dreams. And there were dreams. Hot randy sex dreams about people I work with, people with online diaries (yes, probably you) and weird flirting teenage comedies involving Andrew McCarthy and Alan Ruck and directed by John Hughes. I slept for three hours, got up and sat in the living room watching CSI in High Definition (something I would not recommend even though it seems as though you can reach through and grab hold of Treasure Island, you can also reach through and grab the glistening heart sitting in the metal coroner’s tray) while eating my dinner of Special K Red Berries (thanks to the wonders of CSI, now looked like I was eating a bowl full of scabs), and then drudged back through the house and collapsed into bed once more. Apparently there was a huge thunderstorm in the night that kept Esteban up, but I only vaguely heard it and commented to Esteban that the British were coming. And coming hard, according to Hugh Grant and Rupert Everett frolicking in my subconscious.
What’s with me and the slash recently? Weird. I was thisclose to buying a pair of funky Converse All Stars until someone pointed out that it was the Official Shoe of Fag Haggery. And not that I’m against Fag Haggery and in fact, would gleefully play the part of funny fat fag hag to some delightfully clever lucky gay man, but I would rather have these details about my personality left a bit camouflaged, something for a new friend to uncover, like so many pearls in a bed of oysters. Anyway, I would much rather wear my goofy Eddie Bauer ‘I drive a Range Rover and drink Dewars at my weekend place at the lake’ sneakers instead. Mostly because I’m not any of those things (note to mysterious benefactors: I sure wouldn’t turn down either one!)
On that note, I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the things we do to show the world who we are. For instance, I know someone who likes Disney. A lot. To the extent that she wears a lot of Winnie the Pooh t-shirts and the Mouse staples all of her important memos. What is she trying to tell everyone? Why this urge to be categorized, to identify oneself as a member of a tribe of some sort, even if it’s the Emo Glasses Wearing VW Bug Driving Death Cab For Cutie Listening tribe.
There was more here but I decided that it sounded whiny, so it’s gone now. Instead, pictures.
