Today’s post-hangover poop smelled eerily of meat, which is especially disconcerting considering I’m a vegetarian. I’m concerned that last night, in my drunken state, I unthinkingly downed a pork chop or two while my back was turned.

And now …

Fasten your seatbelts, it's time for another Luvabeans Reverse Weekend Recap! Break out the pinata and the cheese platter!

Cigars? Cigarettes? Cigars? Cigarettes?

Strike up the mariachi band! (Ooh ... speaking of which ... well, I'll get to that. It pertains to Friday, which will be our penultimate stop on the reverse weekend recap tour. If I talk about Friday now, I’m liable to forget what happened on Saturday and Sunday. Don’t ask.)

And yes, it makes complete sense to incorporate cheese, cigarette-girls and Mexican festivities in a single fantastical celebration. There will also be leprechauns serving champagne. Leave the kids at home.

Welcome to my head. You can have a seat on the merry-go-round, next to TJ.

Sunday! Yesterday! I woke up, had a scrumptious dish-free breakfast consisting of spoonfuls of peanut butter (protein! essential fats!), washed down with and rye crackers (grains! fiber! complex carbs!) dipped in pasta sauce (pseudo-veggies! garlic! staggering amounts of sodium!) and a few swigs of Diet Cherry Coke,

(Dear Coke,

Regarding the all-too-recent debuts of Diet Vanilla Coke and Diet Cherry Coke…

What took you so frickin’ long?

Keep up the good work,

Kelly
Slave to Artificial Sweetener)

and then I toddled out to the gym. Was pleased to discover that I knew many of the answers to the questions on Weekend Edition's "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" quiz show, to which I listened via Walkman while sweating on the elliptical trainer. I was SO ellipticizing WAY faster than the dame 3 machines down from me. I SO would have kicked her ass, had I not been on a machined designed to take you miles of nowhere as fast as you can go. And I could SO turn that into a metaphor for my life if I didn’t think it would insult your intelligence.

So yep, then I returned to my apartment, took a shower, and was about to get dressed when it occurred to me that I had purchased a bag of apples at Dominick’s on Thursday, and hadn’t seen them since. Not in the fridge, not on the floor, not on the chair… It should be mentioned that my wee apartment is neither big enough nor (at present) messy enough to swallow too many foreign objects, Dominick’s bags of gala apples notwithstanding. That didn’t stop me from crawling around on my carpet, peering under my bed and dresser, sniffing for fermenting produce. No dice. I must’ve left them in the parking lot and returned home with only my fat-free, sugar-free, natural-product-free frozen yogurt and Diet Cherry Coke. Perhaps it was a subconscious retaliation against my conscious effort to include more actual food in my diet.

Anyway, flash back to nekkid Kelly crawling around her apartment in fruitless pursuit of last week’s apples.

I gave up, I got dressed, I blow-dried my hair (and millions of snowballs got their chances in hell), I had some yogurt, I went to rehearsal. Blah blah rehearsal, blah blah acting, blah blah puppets. I’m very excited about the show, and what’s better is that all of us in the cast are just as excited, but I won’t bore you with the “process” or the “discoveries,” because Reverse Weekend Recaps are to be focused on antics, relationships, and whatever paltry amount of debauchery I can drudge up. If you want info on the show, by all means e-mail me, and I will regale you with detail after detail of our rehearsals, from the zip-zap-zop competitions (of which I am reigning champion) to soundball to environmentally-specific blocking to the life-sized Rita Hayworth puppet that is soon to replace my body in my femme fatale role.

And, that last part’s kind of a shame. One of my scenes as femme fatale features me in a little power-play with a former lover, a bad boy played by a very, very attractive young man, let’s call him F. Sort of goofy and punky, with crazy eyes that dart all over the place until he gets to know you better, and then he has no trouble making eye contact. I always dig the strange fellows with intense eyes and strange senses of humor. They never go for me, however. Bah. He has a girlfriend, anyway, but there ain’t no doubt: I’m crushin’. I’m crushin’ like a Prussian. It’s kind of fun, if utterly hopeless.

Anyway, the scene in question involves a lot of me being groped by my punky young friend, which I’ll miss once I’m operating the puppet instead of performing the scene myself. And, I might be flattering myself, but I’m gonna go ahead and say that once he’s fondling a large, jointed plank of luan instead of my ass, it won’t be as fun for him, either.

After rehearsal, I met up with a bunch of friends from the show at a bar, where another one of their friend’s theatre companies was having a benefit for their production of “The Three Sisters.” Drinking for charity! Yay. Booze and Chekhov: how appropriate. I sat and talked with my friend David, and drank altogether more than I intended, which means I also smoked altogether too many cigarettes. The waitress took a liking to me, so my single shots of JD were served as generous doubles, probably a total of 8 shots over the course of the evening. It’s cool, I had 5 or so nacho chips to soften the blow of whiskey to stomach. Christ.

F showed up with some friends, a bespectacled boy named Chris, and a small, pointy dude with a black beret named Damian. Looking back, I’m proud that, upon being introduced to the pointy fellow, I was able to restrain myself from declaring, “Of COURSE your name is ‘Damian!’” Nice guys. David and I sat with them for awhile, we all finished our booze, and parted ways drunk and merry.

On the train ride home, David and I fantasized about winning the lottery …

Poof! A check for David’s theatre company! A million dollars to help them get their own space, and get out of the skanky, leaky shithole that we’re currently working in!

Poof! A check for Meghan’s fledgling children’s theatre company! I am benefactress extraordinaire!

Poof! With a flourish of the wrist, a check is signed and, no more student loan payments for my sister or me!

Poof! College funds for my cousins, and for my friends’ kids, Tuesdae and Pheonix!

Poof! Shut up, credit card! Get off my ass!

Poof! No more deficit for certain companies that will go unmentioned!

I am a heroine in my own mind. Tum-ta-raaah!!!

Yep. I got home, and kept those sweet little pipe dreams with me to coast me off to sleep.

Saturday, I went to the cultural center downtown, where my show’s director works, and helped my friends record their monthly radio for the blind, then I stayed to record some sound bites for the radio-drama portion of our show. Then I faced the fact that I desperately needed new clothes, bit the bullet, and went shopping.

I have to be in a very special mood of self-acceptance to go clothing shopping. First of all, the process of searching for fun clothes and finding them in my size can be daunting and horribly tedious. I also hate, hate, hate being approached by the patented plasticky retail toadies in constant pursuit of their sales commissions.

“Stop kissing my ass, please. I don’t trust your opinion. I think that if I was trying on a Glad trash bag, you would tell me I looked fabulous in effort to make a sale, and try to hook me up with some overpriced strappy sandals to boot. I know you’re trying, but I don’t like you because despite your friendliness, you exhibit nary a flicker of humanity.”

OK, that isn’t always the case with retail folk. Sometimes, when I crack a joke, I’ll get a giggle or, better yet, a groan. I appreciate it when people call me on my lameness. That endears them to me. No response, or worse, taking my sarcasm literally? Don’t touch me, don’t get me a dressing room, and go to hell.

Oh, and there’s always the fitting process to contend with. In case you haven’t noticed, my body image is none-too-stellar. Going into a room surrounded by reflections of my body under fluorescent lighting, with mirrors flashing myriad versions of me at every conceivable angle while I’m squeezing into foreign and unpredictable clothing is akin to being covered in raw ground chuck and thrown in a shark tank. Except all the sharks bear my face. Nightmare? Maybe a little. Overdramatic? Never.

Saturday, however, the shopping goddesses were smiling upon me. I spent over $200, but I found a number of really darling tops and a couple of fantastic, FANTASTIC skirts. Remind me to make a sacrifice at the alter of Urban Outfitters later on. (Yes, I shop at Urban Outfitters, and while I can often find cute clothes at pretty good prices, I acknowlege that Urban Outfitters is the bend-you-over corporation for the anti-corporate indie folk. It’s like the Whole Foods of clothing. Ha.) So, ain’t no doubt: I was stylin’. Stylin’ like a violin. (OK, that was just awful. Not like the “Prussian” line was an Oscar Wilde-inspired jewel, but at least the rhyme wasn’t forced.)

I then went to my friends’ house, and they cooked me dinner. Black beans with chipotle. Fucking good. I had a really weak margarita that, for some reason, went straight to my head and made me doubt the supposedly inherited alcohol tolerance of my Irish decent. A lovely day.

And, Friday. Baptista, her friend Tiffany, and I went to see “Once Upon a Time in Mexico,” thus the earlier comment about the mariachi band. Oh, see the movie! Especially from the point of view of a cock-lover, it was really great film. Same fairytale romantic campiness of “Desperado” and “El Mariachi,” featuring both Antonio Banderas AND Johnny Depp. We went to Moody's for some beer afterwards, where thousands of drunk Loyola students were reuniting and covering every visible surface with Johnny Cash stickers. (Sniff ...) No Jack Tripper stickers were in sight, though.

Baptista and I had a minor debate, inspired by our recent viewing of Antonio Banderas and Johnny Depp. The debate: Pretty Boys vs. Gritty Boys. Baptista looks for "a boy who's prettier than [she is]." Not me. Gritty wins every time.

Not that in the real world, I ever hold people up to the Hollywood ideals. That's just boring.

OH! I got brand new glasses on Friday. I love them. Love them, love them, love them. They're red with amber earpieces, and have the sexiest cat-eye frames. Ooh, I love them so. They gave me the strenght to go clothing shopping on Saturday, I believe.

I have new glasses, and they talk to me.

So, we're back to today, hangover Monday. I'm actually not hung over anymore. But when I woke up at 5:20 this morning to go to the gym, I was definitely still drunk and I definitely sprang from my bed and fell directly into the bookcase. As I am not a total masochist, I decided to skip my workout, down a liter of water, and go back to bed for an hour. Good choice.

Something I noticed this weekend: when I wake up and trudge my naked self to my closet to scrounge up some workout clothes, the morning sun through my window casts a perfect silhouette of me against the door. It's a lovely silhouette, really.

Jeezis. I don't know what my problem is.

Hope your weekend was spastic, and that maybe you're sporting a smidge of a hangover, and that maybe you're floundering in the rainbowy oil slick of a fun, fruitless crush.

~ 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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