they walk alike, they talk alike, sometimes they even… (nevermind.)

When my friend Rebecca and I are out in public, we are sometimes mistaken for sisters. In fact, when Dan, his brother Adam, Rebecca and I are sitting at a restaurant together, we look like an East Side version of the Bobbsey Twins: the boys in their ringer t-shirts, Rebecca and I in blue hoodies with our hair pulled into ponytails.

But the story Dan told me today, this one’s the best. Here it is as I heard it, during mile three of this morning’s ten-mile run with Dan (Yes, I ran anyway, even though the nice nurse suggested (ordered) that I don’t. I didn’t want to call Dan in the middle of the night or early in the morning and puss out on him, particularly because we’d logged all the miles during the week leading up to our long run. I got up early and had a good breakfast, drank lots of water, ate an orange, and did some stretching. What do you know, all that preparation worked! We did all ten miles, and didn’t die, and we’re awesome and this week, unlike last, I didn’t come down with the chills for an hour afterward. Yay, us.)

Anyway. Back to the story.

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This Flute of Mine, So Gay

Right now somewhere in Los Angeles and New York, simultaneously, there’s a conference call to discuss whether or not our show is going to Aspen. We won’t know for a few hours. I’m trying to pretend my stomach isn’t twisting in knots.

I’m working on one script while reading another, and because my brain is being pulled in too many directions, I thought I’d take a moment to tell you about this past weekend. Immediately after announcing the Battle of the Seven Rebeccas, one dropped out and another declared herself the winner. After hearing this story, you might agree. Continue reading

obligatory wedding stories (random)

The cost of alterations (a simple hem) is almost half the cost of the dress itself. I went in a few weeks ago and put on the dress, standing in front of their large mirrors.

I had put the dress on twice since I’d gotten it home over the summer. No. Wait. Three times.

The first time I was drunk, it was midnight, and I knew stee would be home in an hour, but I had to know if the dress was still something I liked, as I hadn’t seen it in almost three months. Here’s a little tip from me to you: never try to do this by yourself. Continue reading