It’s feeling very Monday in here. How about watching a little comedy from Liz Feldman?
Or skip work and go see American Teen.
(The Lifetime movie about my busted tailbone is called: I Only Cry When I Sneeze: The Dumbass Moves of Camle Riboy.)
There’s no order of importance here, but in the last week or so I’ve had a package lost at the post office, a letter returned because it didn’t reach the recipient in time, my computer stolen, and my tailbone broken.
I’m not sad or pissed off, but I am getting impatient with living my days balanced on one hip and my nights splayed across ice packs. And I’m really tired of calling the post office. Other than that, it’s work-book-work.
Mostly I’m nervous, because in a couple of days I’m teaching a class where I’m not as worried about being funny as I am being fun. Ages 8-12?! Yikes. I am a very old lady to them.
Speaking of, last weekend I got carded buying a bottle of wine, and the mohawked dude behind the counter looks at my ID and goes, “Whoa. WHOA.” Then he looks at the people in line behind me and goes, “I thought she was WAY younger than that. I mean, that’s a like, a baby face compared to how old you–”
“ALL RIGHT,” I shouted. “It was flattering at first, but that’s enough. I’m not THAT old.”
And then he did that head bob that means, “Kinda you are.”
That story has nothing to do with why I haven’t been updating my blog other than I proceeded to drink that bottle of wine, talking about how I’m not old, and then I was in no condition to write anything to anyone.
…I will probably not tell that story to the eight-year olds.