Let's work backwards.

I find that I often remember things best when I start from what happened most recently, and let things unfold from there like a road-map. Otherwise, my life-narrative stays in a non-chronological blop in my head, a wonky slurry of recent and semi-recent happenings, as if I had tried, unsuccessfully, to re-fold said roadmap. It's kind of like being drunk all the time. It doesn't bother me, but it makes it more difficult to relay stories in direct chronological order.

Other things I do backwards:

1) Read magazines.

That's it.

Not much of a list, eh?

My seventh grade English teacher, from whom I learned the rules of creating an outline, including such edicts as "If there is a 1., there must be a 2., if there's an a), there must be a b), etc," would be chagrined. That's OK. She smelled funny.

Sometimes I put my eyeliner on after my mascara (on the rare occasions when I wear both), which Teen magazine will tell you is a no-no in the grand order of makeup application. I probably read that issue of the magazine backwards (see above), which, I suppose, explains that.

Anyway ...

Yesterday was Tuesday, a pseudo-Monday, as it marked the beginning of a short workweek following Labor Day weekend. I took Friday off and was thus greeted by a heap of dire scheduling dramas all quickly sorted out into a neat little agenda by little me, the scheduling uberfairy. I fear I may have discovered that my superpower is the ability to pester people more prosperous than I into doing my bidding.

"Go here! Meet this person! Discuss! Appoint! Eat if there's food, otherwise don't ask for any! Drink crappy coffee and love it! Get back to me with feedback, toot sweet! Confirm! Accept! Deny! Reply! Comply! Comply! Comply!"

And oh, they do. They live in fear of my wiseass emails in which I half-jokingly refer to myself as the "scheduling fascist," (the term "Nazi" seems a little ... I don't know ... ethnocentric? Gawd) and say things like, "What ho! I am, alas, not finished pestering you." They laugh and reply with little :)s, but there is an involuntary cringe of terror under the laughter.

And they reply. They confirm or deny. They comply, they comply, they comply.

Something that rankles me and makes me want to don a beret, wave a crimson flag, and start a manifesto:

We're interviewing folks for a newly available position, and have brought in a few qualified candidates for extensive meetings with various area directors. Now, Our Boss and CEO wishes to receive detailed feedback from each director based on his/her impressions of each candidate, how qualified he/she thinks the candidate is for the job, and his/her final preference.

"My, how democratic! How very respectful," you think. "How lucky you are to work in an environment where the opinion of each employee is so deeply respected, and seriously weighed in making a final decision!"

Oh, little grasshoppers. I, too, was once green to the ways of the corporate machine. But there comes a time when we all must see the truth, and then we can rub our wings together and create the chirping nighttime song of mourning for sunnier days.

No, grasshoppers. Our Boss and CEO made it clear to me that while he's "interested" to see what the staff has to input to the decision, if it doesn't correspond to the decision he has already made, than to fucking hell with them all. Or, in his words, he'll "do what [he] has to do." And then he smiled and dashed off to deliver an ultimatum disguised under clever, jaunty puns and eyebrow wags.

I have an inkling as to whom he'll choose. And yes, she's qualified. But it's the principle. Knowing that he's asking scores of people to waste their time on a decision that is ultimately his alone, that bothers me.

Through the open door, I've heard and experienced his side of the interviews. To Our Boss and CEO, "interview" apparently means, "Tell me about yourself in 90 seconds, and I'll surmise the rest based on that little information I let you provide, combined with what I used my super-powered instincts to deduce about you the second you walked in the door. After I've decided the 'type' of person you are, I'll interrupt you and ramble on at length about my own fascinating personal experiences and my vision for my -- i mean, our -- company." And that, grasshoppers, is an interview.

So, that was my Tuesday. Other than having dealt all day with an inexplicable craving for fried eggs, and having funfun rehearsal for the show I’m currently rehearsing, on Tuesnight, there wasn’t much to it.

Oh ... a bit of TMI to coast you off to sleep ...

Sometimes, and I know this is ridiculous, I'm afraid that by wearing a tampon, I'm plugging up an outlet for toxins to exit from my body. Like wearing a tampon is analogous to plugging up the exhaust pipe to a Pinto.

And if the seeming jump from the cravings-comment to the tampon-comment requires further transitional explanation, then perhaps you are a retard.

I just made myself uncomfortable.

Happier note: rehearsals are going splendidly. I adore my cast, I adore my roles, and I think the show may be smashing.

Monday, Labor Day. I dig the concept of Labor Day. I don't think I have ever done anything even remotely laborious on Labor Day since becoming a productive member of the ratrace, and I marvel at the concept of a day that seems dedicated to doing exactly nothing. When I was little, I think I was forced to do (much hated) yard work on Labor Day, which may have been my parents' way to make the inevitable advent of the school year more attractive by comparison. I have always preferred new pencils to old weeds. Or old leaves. Or more recent installments of either of such unattractive-to-homeowners flora. I hated yardwork. Hated it.

No, now that I live in a city and have Labor from which to take a Day of restitution, I rejoice in the lethargic nothingness of the non-holiday. Monday was RAINING, oh tra-la, giving me even more of an excuse to sleep until one PM, watch movies in bed, and eat chips. I LOVE IT! The most strenuous activity I engaged in was putting on pants, taking the train to Meghan's, sitting on her couch, watching more movies, and eating more chips. Oh no, wait, it was cheese. I ate cheese at Meghan's. Then I went home and ate CHIPS there. You can see how such a busy day can be confusing. I went to bed early and, honest to God, I think I dreamed about puppies. Labor Day!

Sunday I roiled in the misery of a dry-heaving hangover from 7 AM to 11 AM, wretching ear-waxy clots of bile into the toilet every half-hour while Dionysus laughed at me from his distant Olympian disco. Just having finished watching the movie “Cabaret,” in which the following alleged hangover cure is referred to, I toyed briefly with the idea of throwing back a Prairie Oyster (a raw egg mixed with Tabasco sauce), but quickly discarded that notion as it triggered a 30th dash from my bed to barf nothingness into the toilet. Then I stumbled into the shower, stumbled into some clothes, and stumbled, so, so sickly, to take the train downtown to the studio where we were recording sound clips for the show.

Oh, God.

Taking the subway while sporting a hangover is a truly humbling experience. You are at the mercy of all of your bodily functions at once … trying to stay upright, with all of your secretions firmly held in your vice-weakened body, while in the meantime inevitably trying to meet some kind of time restraint. I, for one, had to be at rehearsal at noon, so I swallowed my pride (and a lovely mouthful of regurgitated bile) and showed up, on time, a crusty, hung-the-fuck-over, wad of poo, cocooned in my sorry purple cardigan like the sorry, shriveled, lovechild of ET and an ewok. I wanted nothing more than to go home and die. I endured the well-deserved heckles of my castmates, had an altoid, and took a 2-minute nap on the grungy carpet.

When I awoke, I was a new woman.

Must say, the immediate post-hangover feeling of being reborn, at least for me, makes the hangover almost worth the agony. Almost. I feel invincible and deliciously hungry for the rest of the day after shedding the scales of a hangover. Then, of course, I come face to face with some form of my nemesis, alcohol, and I retreat like a vampire in a convertible at sunrise.

Wisely, I did jack shit on Sunday night, soas not to invite further wrath from the hangover gods.

Saturday was a the festive day of youthful rollicking which brought on Sunday’s hangover.

I started with a long, lovely bike ride during the day, all the way from my Edgewater apartment to the tip of Navy Pier and back, returning to my apartment invigorated and tanned. Cycling is the means through which I explore my locales, and my recent prolonged bike rides have made me realize that I love Chicago. The lakeshore bike path is perfect as long as your not an asshole and don’t cut people off or block traffic, the skyscape is beautiful, the lake is turquoise and blue and brown and amazing. I’m glad I opened my eyes and finally claimed this city as my own. Took me fucking long enough.

In the evening, Baptista, her sister, her sister’s friends, a couple of bottles of wine and I, went to the (FREE!) Jazz Fest in Grant Park. Thus began the liver-damaging debauchery. We drank, laughed, searched for portapotties, people-watched, and music-listened. Baptista and I went from there to the Hungry Brain for more people-watching, music-listening, and booze-imbibing. Baptista was hit on by every man there, while I had a lengthy conversation with a strange young man, a self-proclaimed “semi-retired” photographer, who claimed to never remember anyone’s face or name, then claimed to be a genius. I smiled and said, “You’re kind of an asshole, aren’t you?” He offered to buy me a beer. I bought one for him, instead. I enjoy assholes. I don’t date them, per se, but they’re invariably interesting to talk to. You’d be surprised what people tell you if you let them.

Baptista and I took a cab home, and I stumbled into bed after swallowing a few Advil and a liter and a half of water. Needless to say, it didn’t do much good in staving off the hangover. (Although, to the credit of the Advil, Sunday’s hangover didn’t involve that infamous, awful, throbbing, hangover headache.)

Friday I … Christ, that was a long time ago …

Oh. I took the day off, ran some errands, paid some bills, and took another long, lovely bikeride. I met up with Lynne for dinner, and then we went to see Whale Rider. For the love of GOD, please see that movie. I sobbed freely through the second half, again having blurred the line between fiction and reality. That film is amazing.

TA-DAAAAAH!

That brings us back to today, which, so far, has involved oatmeal, iced coffee, and Tootsie Rolls.

Thank you very much.

This time-jumping has been fun. I think it’s good, sometimes, to make my life as much like a Quentin Tarantino movie as possible. Now, all I need is Christopher Walken.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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