Rob and I have been friends for a long, long time. Here's how it happened.
We went to a teeny, super-conservative college (which is funny, considering that Rob and I are neither teeny, nor super-conservative). My freshman year, I attended auditions for "The Music Man", and saw a man sitting in the audience (wearing overalls!!) next to the director. I thought, "oh, that must be a professor, or perhaps someone from the town."
(This is where Rob likes to insert the fact that he was wearing a shirt with the Greek letters of his campus housing group on it, but he's not writing this blog, is he? Hm?)
No, he was a senior English major who was the assistant director. We were acquaintances. I felt threatened by his silliness and his popularity, he felt threatened by my angst and my perm.
Long story short (too late), over the course of the coming year, we bonded over some major disappointments (and our lack of coping ability). In the years following his graduation, we kept in touch and even did a show together here and there (ask us about "The Mousetrap" sometime), but we really hit our stride in 1997. Rob called me to audition for a show he was directing in Pittsburgh. Two weeks later, my mom passed away. My network of brand-new friends became my lifeline during the most difficult time I'd ever experienced, and Rob spent countless (seriously, countless) hours talking me through the transition from the person I'd been to the person I'd have to become. I couldn't be more grateful.
I've come to realize that not only am I half a person without Rob in my life, he's the better half of me as a person. I'm boring, anti-social, sarcastic, mean, unpleasant, and whiny. Rob is spontaneous, fun, smart, encouraging, diplomatic, and helpful. When we're together, he makes me all of the things he is. I couldn't ever be half the friend to him that he's been to me.
(Also, don't get me wrong. Rob's pretty mean sometimes. And whiny.)
Rob, thank you for breaking into my car that time I couldn't get my trunk open. And for doing it in an Eat'n'Park parking lot on a 20,368 degree July afternoon.
Thank you for carrying all of that stuff to my apartment from my Dad's. In the rain.
Thanks for knowing when I need to hide, and giving me a place to hide.
Thank you for driving me home from Erie when you knew my stuff wouldn't fit in my car.
Thanks for hosting my birthday party every year. I know it must be a major pain.
Thanks for being a great director. I learn so much from working with you.
Thanks for not always casting me. It's a good lesson in humility, and did you know that I need that sometimes?
Thank you for listening to me talk about EVERY STUPID BOY IN MY LIFE.
Thanks for being honest when I ask you why I'm single. Also, thanks for telling me I'm not ugly.
Thanks for helping me pack up my office in a hurry that time I got laid off. It wasn't easier because you were there, but I can't imagine how hard it would have been if you weren't.
Thank you for always being up for a spontaneous game of Bananagrams.
Thank you for sharing your family, friends, jobs, and life with me.
Thanks for being my best friend. I love you.
--Becki
Friday, February 17, 2012
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Bark bark!
Hiya, folks! Becki here, with a blog to tide you over until Rob and I read again.
I love animals. Not enough to not eat the tasty ones, but still, a lot. I grew up on a farm full of animals, and have always had something of a soft spot for even the most pathetic and unlovable creatures.
(Insert your own "this explains your taste in men" joke here, Rob.)
I spent the night last night at the home of a dear friend with two other dear friends. (Will the novelty of the sleepover ever wear off, girls? Will it? It hasn't for me.) We drank wine and talked about boys and kids and friends and family and everything else, and it was lovely.
Then, when leaving, I almost backed into a ravine. Seriously, inches away from doom. But that's not the point of this blog.
After teaching for a few hours (on even fewer hours of sleep...on a floor...ow), I returned to my home with nothing on my mind but the anticipation and delight of an impending nap. I parked the car, headed up the sidewalk, and was certainly surprised to find a rather large and fluffy dog sitting at the top of the steps to my house. "How unusual," I thought to myself, "as I do not own a dog."
I approached the stairs, expecting to see that the dog was tied to my lamppost by one of my Crazy Upstairs Neighbors or perhaps had an owner nearby that I hadn't noticed. Nope. Instead, the dog started barking like I was a vicious home intruder and would not let me up the stairs.
"Now, this is a quandary!" I thought. "This is my house. Maybe I should be barking?"
In the interest of my love of script-style notation, here's how that would have gone.
ME: BARK BARK.
DOG: BARK BARK.
ME: BARK BARK.
DOG: BARK BARK.
You get the picture, yes? Yes.
Barky (let's call him Barky, guys) appeared to be well fed, and had tags (although he certainly wouldn't let me near enough to see them). He was limpy, so I thought maybe he was injured. I'm no hero, so I called Animal Control. They assured me that someone would be there to help me out within the next 4 hours. (Nothing like specificity, Animal Control! High fiiiiive!)
I finally got past him into my apartment, where I got a small dish of water and a small dish of cat food. He was NOT pumped to see me when I returned, but he ate and drank like he'd just dog-sledded a Caprice Classic through the Gobi desert. "Poor little abandoned guy!" I thought to myself. "All alone in this crazy world...I get you, man. I get you."
I sat there with him, making sure he didn't run away before Animal Control arrived. We waited quietly together (the barking abated after the cat food/water was offered, but he was still not interested in me checking his tags) for almost two hours.
And when Animal Control arrived he barked. A lot. Then he walked to a house two yards over, climbed up the stairs, and was greeted with open arms...by his owner. Apparently the back door had been left open, and Barky (whose name is not Barky) scooted out for an adventure in my yard.
I am sure that the folks at Animal Rescue think I am really, really dumb. But this dog was barking A LOT. If your dog was missing, and you heard constant (and eerily familiar) barking two yards away, would you not investigate? Would you not? HMMMM? Anyway, somehow I ended up looking like the opposite of Nancy Drew. I'm glad this story ended happily, though, aren't you? I liked lil' Barky.
This is not the first time a lost animal has found me. The most beautiful little cocker spaniel without tags hopped into my car once while I was checking the mail. I gave her to a friend's grandma, who loved the heck out of her. A handsome yellow cat scratched on my door in the middle of winter. He was given to my friend and her mom, where he lived in the lap of luxury for years.
I am a magnet for bewildered animals and emotionally unavailable men.
I love animals. Not enough to not eat the tasty ones, but still, a lot. I grew up on a farm full of animals, and have always had something of a soft spot for even the most pathetic and unlovable creatures.
(Insert your own "this explains your taste in men" joke here, Rob.)
I spent the night last night at the home of a dear friend with two other dear friends. (Will the novelty of the sleepover ever wear off, girls? Will it? It hasn't for me.) We drank wine and talked about boys and kids and friends and family and everything else, and it was lovely.
Then, when leaving, I almost backed into a ravine. Seriously, inches away from doom. But that's not the point of this blog.
After teaching for a few hours (on even fewer hours of sleep...on a floor...ow), I returned to my home with nothing on my mind but the anticipation and delight of an impending nap. I parked the car, headed up the sidewalk, and was certainly surprised to find a rather large and fluffy dog sitting at the top of the steps to my house. "How unusual," I thought to myself, "as I do not own a dog."
I approached the stairs, expecting to see that the dog was tied to my lamppost by one of my Crazy Upstairs Neighbors or perhaps had an owner nearby that I hadn't noticed. Nope. Instead, the dog started barking like I was a vicious home intruder and would not let me up the stairs.
"Now, this is a quandary!" I thought. "This is my house. Maybe I should be barking?"
In the interest of my love of script-style notation, here's how that would have gone.
ME: BARK BARK.
DOG: BARK BARK.
ME: BARK BARK.
DOG: BARK BARK.
You get the picture, yes? Yes.
Barky (let's call him Barky, guys) appeared to be well fed, and had tags (although he certainly wouldn't let me near enough to see them). He was limpy, so I thought maybe he was injured. I'm no hero, so I called Animal Control. They assured me that someone would be there to help me out within the next 4 hours. (Nothing like specificity, Animal Control! High fiiiiive!)
I finally got past him into my apartment, where I got a small dish of water and a small dish of cat food. He was NOT pumped to see me when I returned, but he ate and drank like he'd just dog-sledded a Caprice Classic through the Gobi desert. "Poor little abandoned guy!" I thought to myself. "All alone in this crazy world...I get you, man. I get you."
I sat there with him, making sure he didn't run away before Animal Control arrived. We waited quietly together (the barking abated after the cat food/water was offered, but he was still not interested in me checking his tags) for almost two hours.
And when Animal Control arrived he barked. A lot. Then he walked to a house two yards over, climbed up the stairs, and was greeted with open arms...by his owner. Apparently the back door had been left open, and Barky (whose name is not Barky) scooted out for an adventure in my yard.
I am sure that the folks at Animal Rescue think I am really, really dumb. But this dog was barking A LOT. If your dog was missing, and you heard constant (and eerily familiar) barking two yards away, would you not investigate? Would you not? HMMMM? Anyway, somehow I ended up looking like the opposite of Nancy Drew. I'm glad this story ended happily, though, aren't you? I liked lil' Barky.
This is not the first time a lost animal has found me. The most beautiful little cocker spaniel without tags hopped into my car once while I was checking the mail. I gave her to a friend's grandma, who loved the heck out of her. A handsome yellow cat scratched on my door in the middle of winter. He was given to my friend and her mom, where he lived in the lap of luxury for years.
I am a magnet for bewildered animals and emotionally unavailable men.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
R$b and Be$ki M$ke M$d B$nk
I love Ke$ha, and I wish I had an "S" in my name so I could make it a dollar sign like hers. Since I do have a "c", I guess I could do that "cent" sign, but it is not on my keyboard. What's the world coming to?
Brilliant money making scheme in the car on the way home from Rob's tonight. Here's how that conversation went:
(Also, do you notice that I write in script form most of the time? I think in script form most of the time, so I guess it stands to reason. Anyway, feel free to act these scripts out with friends from your neighborhood and sell some lemonade and make some cents.)
While driving home, I notice a sign that says "Single Lane Only". I clearly thought it said "Single Ladies Only" for a second, and it made me a) excited and b) giggle. I called Rob.
ME: I just saw a sign that said "Single Lane Only" and I thought it said "Single Ladies Only."
ROB: Wouldn't that be great? You could just cruise right to your destination.
ME: BRILLIANT MONEY MAKING SCHEME AHEAD, ROBERT! Let's buy a parking lot, and single people will park their cars there! We'll match them up, and they'll carpool together!
ROB: That is a terrible idea. What if they hate each other on their commute in the morning? They still have to commute home that night.
ME: Hm, we'll have to get a shuttle bus for emergencies. What should we call it? How about "Love in the HOV Lane"?
ROB: You don't think that sounds too much like "Love in the HIV Lane"?
ME: Hm, good point.
ROB: Livin' it up while you're goin' down?
ME: It would be difficult to market something that bears more than a passing resemblance to a deadly epidemic.
ROB: Uh, yes.
Anyway, I still think it is a good idea. Single people fill out a little questionnaire. We match them up based on simple criteria: do you smoke? do you like country music? do you listen to Fox News? do you bathe daily? weekly? monthly? Then, based on their answers, they'll hitch a ride together for the day. Seriously, at least you'd have traffic to talk about. Better than some blind dates I've survived, staring at the seconds ticking away on the calculator watch of a 6'11" behemoth while contemplating what would be easier: trying to squeeze my butt out of the bathroom window or faking my own death at Panera.
Do not misread me: I love being single. I'm selfish, stubborn, and frequently irritating. I'd rather be all of those things in the company of my cat than inflict it on some unsuspecting fellow. But there are VERY few perks of being single. You don't get to go on double dates. You do get to go on blind dates with guys who refer to vegetables as "barf".
I'm just sayin', a "Single Ladies Only" lane would certainly brighten my outlook on spinsterhood.
Brilliant money making scheme in the car on the way home from Rob's tonight. Here's how that conversation went:
(Also, do you notice that I write in script form most of the time? I think in script form most of the time, so I guess it stands to reason. Anyway, feel free to act these scripts out with friends from your neighborhood and sell some lemonade and make some cents.)
While driving home, I notice a sign that says "Single Lane Only". I clearly thought it said "Single Ladies Only" for a second, and it made me a) excited and b) giggle. I called Rob.
ME: I just saw a sign that said "Single Lane Only" and I thought it said "Single Ladies Only."
ROB: Wouldn't that be great? You could just cruise right to your destination.
ME: BRILLIANT MONEY MAKING SCHEME AHEAD, ROBERT! Let's buy a parking lot, and single people will park their cars there! We'll match them up, and they'll carpool together!
ROB: That is a terrible idea. What if they hate each other on their commute in the morning? They still have to commute home that night.
ME: Hm, we'll have to get a shuttle bus for emergencies. What should we call it? How about "Love in the HOV Lane"?
ROB: You don't think that sounds too much like "Love in the HIV Lane"?
ME: Hm, good point.
ROB: Livin' it up while you're goin' down?
ME: It would be difficult to market something that bears more than a passing resemblance to a deadly epidemic.
ROB: Uh, yes.
Anyway, I still think it is a good idea. Single people fill out a little questionnaire. We match them up based on simple criteria: do you smoke? do you like country music? do you listen to Fox News? do you bathe daily? weekly? monthly? Then, based on their answers, they'll hitch a ride together for the day. Seriously, at least you'd have traffic to talk about. Better than some blind dates I've survived, staring at the seconds ticking away on the calculator watch of a 6'11" behemoth while contemplating what would be easier: trying to squeeze my butt out of the bathroom window or faking my own death at Panera.
Do not misread me: I love being single. I'm selfish, stubborn, and frequently irritating. I'd rather be all of those things in the company of my cat than inflict it on some unsuspecting fellow. But there are VERY few perks of being single. You don't get to go on double dates. You do get to go on blind dates with guys who refer to vegetables as "barf".
I'm just sayin', a "Single Ladies Only" lane would certainly brighten my outlook on spinsterhood.
Monday, June 6, 2011
This happened!
Imagine, if you will, that you are me. You are in your jammies at 10am, because your work day doesn't begin until 4pm.
(It is great to be me, did you know that?)
Suddenly, a pounding at the door! You contemplate hiding, then you remember that you have no curtains. It would take but one teeny peek in the window to reveal that you are watching Netflix on your couch in your jammies with your cat at 10am on a Monday morning. This is embarrassing (so you definitely shouldn't blog about it), so you flee to the rear of the apartment!
Then you remember: you are neither graceful nor lithe. Whoever was just pounding on your door probably heard you prance down the hall with the agility of an anesthetized water buffalo, so maybe you should just answer the door?
And anyway, there might be an emergency! The building might be on fire! Flames may have alerted passing pedestrians, who have run to the door and are pounding so you can escape with your health and posessions!
Answer the door!!!!
(Note: do not wear a bra. Fire will not wait for your gigantic tatas!)
It's a Pittsburgh Public Works dude. Your upstairs neighbors are apparently doing some house cleaning, and have deposited monumental amounts of garbage on the curb. It's not garbage night. That's frowned upon.
This transpired:
Disgruntled, Irate Community Worker And Drudge: Is that your garbage?
ME: No. It belongs to the upstairs neighbors, and they are not here. (read: they are here, I can hear their delightful pounding, but I'm not about to rat them out to you, pal)
DICWAD: Okay, well, you can't do that.
ME: Do what?
DICWAD: Put your garbage on the curb when it's not garbage day.
ME: Oh, okay. Well, I didn't. So, thanks.
DICWAD: Where's your landlord?
ME: Um, I don't know? New York City? That's where he lives. I've never met him.
DICWAD: Well, do you have his phone number?!
ME: (lie) Nope.
DICWAD: I mean, this is ridiculous. Your garbage pickup isn't until Wednesday, and it's only Monday.
ME: No, no. Our garbage pickup is Tuesday.
DICWAD: Uh, NO. Your garbage pickup is WEDNESDAY.
(He is not pleased with the fact that a braless, pajama clad bedhead is arguing with him. Clearly, this is not in his job description.)
ME: Is that new? Has that just changed?
DICWAD: (laughing) No, it has ALWAYS BEEN ON WEDNESDAY.
ME: I have lived here for 6 years. For 6 years, I have been putting my garbage out on Monday night, and it is gone on Tuesday morning. Who has been picking it up!?
DICWAD: Well, I don't know, but your garbage pickup day is Wednesday, lady. I am the boss. I think I know more about pickup days than you do.
ME: (concentrating very, very hard on not punching this toolbag for just calling me "lady") Yes, but you have to keep track of many, many garbage pickup times. I only have to know one. Mine. Which is Tuesday.
DICWAD: You are clearly very confused, honey.
ME: Aaaaaaaaaand, we're done here. (close door firmly, making sure boobs are safely inside)
WHAT I SHOULD HAVE SAID:
Can I have your name and phone number so I can call you on Wednesday morning to pick up the garbage that is still sitting on my curb because my garbage pickup is Tuesday?
But I didn't, because I was too busy thinking, "Who argues with a garbage man at 10am on a gorgeous, sunny Monday morning? People who don't work in offices." So, maybe there are perks to being Not Me, too.
(It is great to be me, did you know that?)
Suddenly, a pounding at the door! You contemplate hiding, then you remember that you have no curtains. It would take but one teeny peek in the window to reveal that you are watching Netflix on your couch in your jammies with your cat at 10am on a Monday morning. This is embarrassing (so you definitely shouldn't blog about it), so you flee to the rear of the apartment!
Then you remember: you are neither graceful nor lithe. Whoever was just pounding on your door probably heard you prance down the hall with the agility of an anesthetized water buffalo, so maybe you should just answer the door?
And anyway, there might be an emergency! The building might be on fire! Flames may have alerted passing pedestrians, who have run to the door and are pounding so you can escape with your health and posessions!
Answer the door!!!!
(Note: do not wear a bra. Fire will not wait for your gigantic tatas!)
It's a Pittsburgh Public Works dude. Your upstairs neighbors are apparently doing some house cleaning, and have deposited monumental amounts of garbage on the curb. It's not garbage night. That's frowned upon.
This transpired:
Disgruntled, Irate Community Worker And Drudge: Is that your garbage?
ME: No. It belongs to the upstairs neighbors, and they are not here. (read: they are here, I can hear their delightful pounding, but I'm not about to rat them out to you, pal)
DICWAD: Okay, well, you can't do that.
ME: Do what?
DICWAD: Put your garbage on the curb when it's not garbage day.
ME: Oh, okay. Well, I didn't. So, thanks.
DICWAD: Where's your landlord?
ME: Um, I don't know? New York City? That's where he lives. I've never met him.
DICWAD: Well, do you have his phone number?!
ME: (lie) Nope.
DICWAD: I mean, this is ridiculous. Your garbage pickup isn't until Wednesday, and it's only Monday.
ME: No, no. Our garbage pickup is Tuesday.
DICWAD: Uh, NO. Your garbage pickup is WEDNESDAY.
(He is not pleased with the fact that a braless, pajama clad bedhead is arguing with him. Clearly, this is not in his job description.)
ME: Is that new? Has that just changed?
DICWAD: (laughing) No, it has ALWAYS BEEN ON WEDNESDAY.
ME: I have lived here for 6 years. For 6 years, I have been putting my garbage out on Monday night, and it is gone on Tuesday morning. Who has been picking it up!?
DICWAD: Well, I don't know, but your garbage pickup day is Wednesday, lady. I am the boss. I think I know more about pickup days than you do.
ME: (concentrating very, very hard on not punching this toolbag for just calling me "lady") Yes, but you have to keep track of many, many garbage pickup times. I only have to know one. Mine. Which is Tuesday.
DICWAD: You are clearly very confused, honey.
ME: Aaaaaaaaaand, we're done here. (close door firmly, making sure boobs are safely inside)
WHAT I SHOULD HAVE SAID:
Can I have your name and phone number so I can call you on Wednesday morning to pick up the garbage that is still sitting on my curb because my garbage pickup is Tuesday?
But I didn't, because I was too busy thinking, "Who argues with a garbage man at 10am on a gorgeous, sunny Monday morning? People who don't work in offices." So, maybe there are perks to being Not Me, too.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
No, no. We did not get Raptured.
Rob and Becki are still earthbound, despite the best efforts of a nasty flu bug.
I don't know about you, but when I'm not feeling tip-top, I am completely antisocial.
(I'm going to put it out there--I'm pretty antisocial in general.)
I don't want to talk to anyone, or see anyone, or do anything to encourage anyone to be around me. Maybe it's a primal instinct to keep my germs to myself? Or maybe I'm just cranky and don't feel like taking a shower.
Today, I watched a movie about Yosemite National Park on Netflix, since I was determined not to leave the confines of my bedroom until my voice stopped sounding like the lovechild of Bea Arthur and Darth Vader. I'm a total documentary junkie--I like nature documentaries, as long as cute animals don't die. I like political documentaries, as long as they don't piss me off too much. I like nerdy documentaries, unless...well, I like all nerdy documentaries. And historical documentaries. Also, documentaries about places I've never been. And documentaries about people, especially people who do weird things. DO YOU WANT TO GET IN MY PANTS YET? I thought so.
I went out for some Malaysian cuisine with a pal of mine last night, and we ordered pearl noodles. Do you know what those are? They are noodles that are shaped exactly like worms. Big, fat, delicious noodle-worms. I'm not sure I can bring myself to eat the leftovers. I feel like that should have been on the menu somwhere. Like, "*=Spicy. **=Contains Eggs. ***=Bears Uncanny Resemblance to Larvae."
Anyway, buyer beware.
Back to the documentaries! ::coughcough::
RobandBECKI
I don't know about you, but when I'm not feeling tip-top, I am completely antisocial.
(I'm going to put it out there--I'm pretty antisocial in general.)
I don't want to talk to anyone, or see anyone, or do anything to encourage anyone to be around me. Maybe it's a primal instinct to keep my germs to myself? Or maybe I'm just cranky and don't feel like taking a shower.
Today, I watched a movie about Yosemite National Park on Netflix, since I was determined not to leave the confines of my bedroom until my voice stopped sounding like the lovechild of Bea Arthur and Darth Vader. I'm a total documentary junkie--I like nature documentaries, as long as cute animals don't die. I like political documentaries, as long as they don't piss me off too much. I like nerdy documentaries, unless...well, I like all nerdy documentaries. And historical documentaries. Also, documentaries about places I've never been. And documentaries about people, especially people who do weird things. DO YOU WANT TO GET IN MY PANTS YET? I thought so.
I went out for some Malaysian cuisine with a pal of mine last night, and we ordered pearl noodles. Do you know what those are? They are noodles that are shaped exactly like worms. Big, fat, delicious noodle-worms. I'm not sure I can bring myself to eat the leftovers. I feel like that should have been on the menu somwhere. Like, "*=Spicy. **=Contains Eggs. ***=Bears Uncanny Resemblance to Larvae."
Anyway, buyer beware.
Back to the documentaries! ::coughcough::
RobandBECKI
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Dating is Easy and Fun. Let Us Show You How!
We (finally, we know, we know) took our second "Win a Date with Rob and Becki" winner out today! Carl chose Lulu's noodles as his dining destination, and we very much enjoyed eating noodles and discussing profound topics of the day. Thank you, Carl, for a terrific date!
Rob is still sick, as you can plainly see from the pathetic face he's wearing in today's pictures. He's complaining of a sore and swollen throat, he's got a deep and chesty cough, and he's being kind of a jerk in general. The last part's probably just part of him being a crotchety old man...but anyone out there have any home remedies he could try? I told him that he probably has the ebola virus, and that he should just go ahead and give me all of his furniture. Maybe he should try Mucinex first, though, before hiring a U-Haul.
There was a rather apocalyptic thunderstorm while we were out and about today--here in Pittsburgh, The World's Most Overcast Place to Live (I made that up), we've had day after day of rain, thunderstorms, and general cloudiness. Enough is enough. Let's make giant fans to blow the clouds aside. That seems like the only logical solution.
That's it from Rob and Beckiville. Buckle up for safety!
RobandBECKI
(Seriously, Rob will eventually write here. He's just sick right now. Don't give up on him.)
Rob is still sick, as you can plainly see from the pathetic face he's wearing in today's pictures. He's complaining of a sore and swollen throat, he's got a deep and chesty cough, and he's being kind of a jerk in general. The last part's probably just part of him being a crotchety old man...but anyone out there have any home remedies he could try? I told him that he probably has the ebola virus, and that he should just go ahead and give me all of his furniture. Maybe he should try Mucinex first, though, before hiring a U-Haul.
There was a rather apocalyptic thunderstorm while we were out and about today--here in Pittsburgh, The World's Most Overcast Place to Live (I made that up), we've had day after day of rain, thunderstorms, and general cloudiness. Enough is enough. Let's make giant fans to blow the clouds aside. That seems like the only logical solution.
That's it from Rob and Beckiville. Buckle up for safety!
RobandBECKI
(Seriously, Rob will eventually write here. He's just sick right now. Don't give up on him.)
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Give Me a Hand.
As you may know (or may not know, depending on your skills in the stalking department), I work as a freelance musician/actor/director/teacher around the western PA area. This involves a lot of networking, gigging, and random acts of theatrics for the occasional paycheck.
It also involves a LOT of quality time in my vehicle.
Today, I had to go downtown (I hate downtown...hate it. I like parking lots and friendly, accommodating pedestrians.) for a meeting, which was stressful. And my printer doesn't work, which is also stressful when trying to...well, print. I was running late due to lack of printer, and when I ran out of my house umbrella-less (in a rare moment of non-downpour--what is this? Forks, Washington??), I thought...I should definitely run back and get my umbrella...no, no. I'm sure I'll be fine.
Suffice it to say, it was really, really rainy. But that is not the point of this little story.
I was doing my hair and makeup in my car, as per usual. I have these two little curly bobby-pins that hold my hair into a teeny little side bun just perfectly. I love them. They are my standby on bad hair days (like today). However, when rounding a curve in great haste...they rolled (in slow motion) from the passenger seat into the abyss.
Frantically, I reached in between the seat and the emergency brake to attempt to reach the precious bobby-pins--with visions of frizzed out homeless-person-hair clouding my judgement--and after nearly dislocating my wrist in the fruitless search, I gave up.
But my hand...my hand! It was stuck. Like, really stuck. Like, the time I got my hand stuck after dislodging a paper jam in the copier while student teaching, and couldn't get it out and had to wait for 20 minutes until I was found in a weeping, toner-covered heap by the gym teacher.
I thought, "I'll have to call and tell them I'm running late, so I can pull over and get my hand out. But I can't call them while I am driving, because I only have one hand! How am I supposed to parallel park??! I'm going to die in this car today with one hand lodged in a seat cushion!! I've never given birth, never been to Paris, never met George Clooney! My life is wasted, and now it's over because of a bobby pin!" I'm not going to admit to crying about this, but there were tears on standby, making ready in case the situation called for them. With little regard for the recently-applied mascara, I was about to turn on the waterworks and lament my fate as a car-cushion-handed freak.
In a moment of resilience and fortitude (which happened to be at the next red light), I got the brilliant idea to pull the lever and shift the seat back.
Poof! Cue the "Hallelujah Chorus!" Jazz hands (plural)!
Moral of the story: Be careful out there.
RobandBECKI
It also involves a LOT of quality time in my vehicle.
Today, I had to go downtown (I hate downtown...hate it. I like parking lots and friendly, accommodating pedestrians.) for a meeting, which was stressful. And my printer doesn't work, which is also stressful when trying to...well, print. I was running late due to lack of printer, and when I ran out of my house umbrella-less (in a rare moment of non-downpour--what is this? Forks, Washington??), I thought...I should definitely run back and get my umbrella...no, no. I'm sure I'll be fine.
Suffice it to say, it was really, really rainy. But that is not the point of this little story.
I was doing my hair and makeup in my car, as per usual. I have these two little curly bobby-pins that hold my hair into a teeny little side bun just perfectly. I love them. They are my standby on bad hair days (like today). However, when rounding a curve in great haste...they rolled (in slow motion) from the passenger seat into the abyss.
Frantically, I reached in between the seat and the emergency brake to attempt to reach the precious bobby-pins--with visions of frizzed out homeless-person-hair clouding my judgement--and after nearly dislocating my wrist in the fruitless search, I gave up.
But my hand...my hand! It was stuck. Like, really stuck. Like, the time I got my hand stuck after dislodging a paper jam in the copier while student teaching, and couldn't get it out and had to wait for 20 minutes until I was found in a weeping, toner-covered heap by the gym teacher.
I thought, "I'll have to call and tell them I'm running late, so I can pull over and get my hand out. But I can't call them while I am driving, because I only have one hand! How am I supposed to parallel park??! I'm going to die in this car today with one hand lodged in a seat cushion!! I've never given birth, never been to Paris, never met George Clooney! My life is wasted, and now it's over because of a bobby pin!" I'm not going to admit to crying about this, but there were tears on standby, making ready in case the situation called for them. With little regard for the recently-applied mascara, I was about to turn on the waterworks and lament my fate as a car-cushion-handed freak.
In a moment of resilience and fortitude (which happened to be at the next red light), I got the brilliant idea to pull the lever and shift the seat back.
Poof! Cue the "Hallelujah Chorus!" Jazz hands (plural)!
Moral of the story: Be careful out there.
RobandBECKI
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