Twitchy Woman

I woke up with it two days ago. A tiny twitch in my right eye. It comes and goes — it’s not a constant twitching –but it’s driving me crazy.

At first I thought I just needed a cup of coffee. Then I figured I needed three cups of coffee. I was still twitching. I had a meeting that morning and drove to the other side of Los Angeles (the other thing I like about meetings — it forces me to learn to drive around LA and know all the different parts of this city. It can be very intimidating if you aren’t forced out there). I was forty-five minutes early for the meeting (not knowing your way around LA means you often end up way early or incredibly late, but oddly enough, never on time). I walked to a nearby Internet coffee shop, debated paying twelve dollars just to wax nostalgic over high-speed internet access, but settled down with a cafe au lait and the latest book I’m reading (Armistead Maupin’s The Night Listener).

Needless to say, by the time I reached the office for my meeting an hour later, I was like South Park’s Tweek. Four cups of coffee and a right twitchy eye fueled my incessant babbling. “Hi, I’m me! Wanna meet me! These are the things I do! I’ve done this and this and this and this and I’d like to do this and this and this…”

And he asks, “Where are you from?”

So I launch into the thirty-five minute song-and-dance known as “Isn’t Austin the Raddest?”

If he looks out the window, I cue the music for “I Used To Live In West Hollywood (I Recently Moved).”

If she leans back in her chair and folds her arms, I do a tender rendition of “What Didn’t You Like About My Script?” It’s a gentle love song about a woman who loves a man nobody wants.

If I make him laugh, I do the one-two follow-up by tapdancing to “And I Used To Do Lots Of Sketch Comedy (Portfolio Available Upon Request).” This is always followed by my five-minute comedy set called “Second City! Am I Right People? I Mean, Come On!” Then, if they seem interested in the comedy world and know the keywords of “Aspen” and “Improv,” I normally do the modest aria “I Just Wrote and Directed A Show (Please Don’t Sue Me, Anne Heche).”

Normally the entire number goes very well in just under an hour, but this new twitchy-eye thing is really throwing off my timing. Today as I leaned back and sipped Coffee Number Seven my right eye launched into “Creepy Girl Flirts,” a number I only do when I’m trapped in a bar with someone who doesn’t understand the word “No.”

I instantly smacked my eye with my hand. “Sorry,” I mumbled from under my makeshift eye-patch. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Oh, I get that sometimes,” he said. “The twitch. Means your tired. But yeah, you worry that someone thinks you’re twitchy.”

Which only means: he was just thinking I was twitchy. Twitchy and tired. Like a smack addict. That’s who he wants working at his company, a smack addict.

I was so embarrassed I went right into “I Sold A Book About My Website (Reprise)” before doing the first number and had to backtrack just a bit with “W-W-W Dot I Am A Failed Dot Com Dot Com” so he was with me, but all I could think about was my twitchy eye.

It twitched all the way home, mocking me, reminding me that perhaps I’m spending too much time in front of monitors lately instead of pillows and that maybe I shouldn’t try to do so many things that don’t pay me money at once.

It’s like when I’m cooking spaghetti and I’m not sure if it’s finished. I don’t throw just one noodle in case that one is a bad representative of the group. I throw about five noodles to see if more than one stick. The problem is I may have mostly cooked spaghetti, but I end up tossing a third of it on the wall.

The resolution? Mac and Cheese and a long nap. Let my twitchy eye sing me a lullaby for a change.

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