“Girl, if my dick rips through my pantyhose …” (Dv to Cy)

“You’re drunker than the whole Sioux nation!” (Ct to Dv)

“Your Christmases are notorious for you becoming a big fucking alcoholic.” (Td to Ty)

Hello, and happy Hangover Monday. I am seated at my usual perch, still rather marveling at the fact that I managed to get up, get dressed, and get to work in no more than 45 minutes, when the commute alone usually takes an hour in itself.

I awoke at 8:13 this morning, jolting upright with a comical intake of breath as if I had been being held underwater against my will. I dashed out of bed, threw on some clothing, popped on my glasses, grabbed my bag, my coat, and my gloves, and ran out the door. (Man, it’s cold today. I thought my hands were going to break off, it’s so cold. And, it SNOWED a little! Yay!)

Good thing I:

- rarely hang up my clothing, and thus could almost quite literally fall out of bed and into a reasonably fashionable outfit.

- wear waterproof mascara that didn’t completely wash off before I went to bed last night, and thus did not have to reapply hangover-hiding makeup.

- have fun glasses that I like to wear, and thus did not feel compelled to spend time inserting contact lenses.

- have chopped all of my hair off, into a scrappy style that only improves with brushless bedhead.

Amazing, one’s capability to move at supersonic speed when one wakes up late, still floating on the bubbles of the previous night’s champagne. Me, oh my, aren’t I just the little night-owly socialite?

Hangover Mondays, while yucky in and of themselves, are suggestive of otherwise thoroughly RWR-worthy weekends. And so I bring you, with all appropriate pomp and circumstance …

Part the First: In which Luvabeans has a cozy day indoors, then closes a very rewarding show, shears off her hair in her friend’s kitchen, and parties till the wee hours.

Sunday, yesterday. (Oh, my. It just occurred to me, I had really long hair until late last night. How funky. It was all phone-chord curly from the rain. Anyway … ) Nothing. I did nothing. I was originally going to see a friend’s exhibit at a gallery in Wicker Park. But the weather (the sky was giving a steady and healthy pre-snow rain) and the coziness of my apartment dissuaded me from going outside except to rent a couple of videos, which I then took home and watched in quick succession, breaking every so often to wolf down some asparagus.

(I have a thing for asparagus. I mean, just look at the word: asparagus

It’s such a beautiful combination of assonance and consonance, and it’s physically adorable. All round and open and sort of dumpy, yet comforting and elegant at the same time. Like an old French countryman. The vegetable itself is likewise paradoxical: turgid yet yielding, a solid column with a leafy tip. Ah, yes, the inherent and deceptively complex poetry that is the asparagus.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Sunday.)

So, after a very fulfilling and lovely gray day full of jack crap, movies, and asparagus, I put on some pants and my coat, and walked to the theatre for my final show.

I had my wimpy little bright red umbrella, the one that doesn’t stay up unless I keep a tight grip on it, and which I have to hold very close to my head and point towards the wind at all times in order to ensure that it will provide me the slightest modicum of protection. I love that umbrella. It tries so hard. It’s been through a lot, and it’s not as young as it used to be, but it gets the job done as long as I help it out. One could say that my umbrella is weathered.

On the wet way to the theatre, we (my umbrella and I) passed a tragic sight. A large, burgundy brother of my little red companion had been discarded, ribs all broken and protective bowl completely collapsed and twisted, awning immodestly splayed, curved handle sticking straight up towards the sky. Sad, really, the bitter mockery of that broken umbrella, once so proper, reduced to something face down and helpless in the midst of a magnificent rainstorm. It was like a large sea bird that had met with an unfortunate bolt of lightning and crashed, head-first into the ground. Not wanting to upset my little red umbrella, I covered its eyes, paid my silent respects, and walked on.

(Aside: I also get really sad when I see fake flowers “planted” outside of shops, most notably outside of gas stations. God, as if it’s not bad enough for them that they don’t get to be real flowers, some asshole has to aggravate that sensitive issue by trying to make them into a faux-garden. It must be so humiliating for those poor silk blossoms.)

I arrived at the theatre where I and my wonderful fellow cast-members underwent our final make-up session, leaving the bathroom a Pollocky mess of splotches from grey, white, and black makeup; red, yellow and purple tempera paint; sponge-marks and discarded curlers. Our final Barbizon explosion.

The show was SOLD OUT again, which was a fine farewell. Afterwards, we all got paid, washed off, bundled up and trekked off to Ct and Ty’s to crack open the bubbly and drink to a job well done.

BUT FIRST …

Before the party, Cy cut my hair off in her kitchen. We’d been planning to do it for over a month. What a trippy angle I was at: seated in a chair surrounded by newspapers, the only reflective surface being the shiny door of the oven that was right next to my head. Not that it made any difference, as Cy forbade me from touching or looking at my hair until she was done.

Have you ever had most of your hair cut off by a straight-edged razor? It’s a foreboding yet satisfying experience. Cy grabbed big sections of my hair, took the razor, and with a mighty sskkkrrrrrriiitttt, chopped off a hunk at a time, which she then tossed light-heartedly in the towel in my lap, laughing as I freaked out at the increasingly massive mound of disembodied hair and pouring me drink after drink. After she was done, she oohed and aaahed, then called her roommate into the kitchen to ooh and aah, both of them picking at my new hairdo, staring at the wisps and smiling, but not looking at my face. “You should have done this so long ago,” they said.

Then, they rushed off to get the mirror, leaving me to stare at the 9-inch long locks coiled lifelessly on my lap, and yelling over their shoulders, “Don’t touch it! Don’t look at it!”

End result: I love it. It’s cute and funky and wispy, and can be floofed or flattened depending upon mood or occasion. Next up, color! Hoo, change is fun.

I’m so used to having to maneuver my shirts, scarves, collars, etc. around a mass of hair, I overcompensate in movement when putting on or taking off clothing, and instinctively reach back to yank my hair out of my coat, only to rediscover it’s absence. The phantom hair. Much like an amputees “phantom limb.” Except it’s hair, and it’ll grow back. Ha ha, amputees.

Anyway, I put my hair in a zip-loc bag and Cy and I went to the closing-night party. Nothing eventful, really, except for the dramatic reception of my new hair cut (which I admit that I demanded, somewhat). Just good people and good fun on a Sunday night. A fond farewell which kept me out until 3 AM, and made me much drunker than I perhaps intended to be.

It was very nice to realize, before stumbling into bed, that I didn’t have to dredge up an elastic to secure my hair from my face while I slept. I could just cut my strings and collapse onto the mattress.

End Sunday.

Part the Second: In which Luvabeans buys a pair of jeans, and consequently begins to suspect that she has powers of transmogrification, before another fine evening of theatre and comeraderie.

I bit the bullet on Saturday and went jeans-shopping. My beloved jeans had gone from somewhat raggedy to absolutely scandalous in a matter of days, with huge, gaping holes worn away in the crotch area. (How do one’s jeans get worn away in the crotch? Don’t ask.) Argh. Jeans-tryings-on. Yuck. Second only to swimsuit on-trying on my list of Activities to Willingly Replace with a Nice Session of Toenail Pulling. Not having weighed myself in weeks, I had managed to convince myself that I’d gained 15 pounds and would probably have to go up a size in jeans. As I began browsing through the jeans in Retail Store X, mentally preparing a buffer for the inevitable pummeling of my self-esteem, cute Retail Workerboy X came around the corner.

Retail Workerboy X: Finding everything OK?

Me: Yeah. Um, do you have any more sizes in the back?

RWbX: Not of the dark jeans, no.

Me: Oh. OK.

RWbX: Sorry.

Me: Hey, no, it’s not your fault. These will probably be fine.

RWbX: OK.

Exit RWbX, who leaves to go fold sweaters. I stay by the same jeans rack, still browsing. RWBX, who has evidently finished folding the sweaters, comes around the corner again, cloaked in patented retail vapidity.

RWbX: Finding everything OK?

Me: Yup. Still good. Thanks.

RWbX: Need anything?

Me: Not if you’re sure there aren’t more sizes in the back.

RWbX: Not of the dark jeans, no.

Me: OK. Thanks.

RWbX: Sorry.

We exchange smiles, and he leaves again, to fetch the stepladder necessary to reach the loftiest shelves. I continue to browse in the same area.

Oh, Jesus, here he comes again.

RWbX: Finding everything OK?

Me: Yup. Everything’s fine.

RWbX: You sure?

Me: Yup. I’m just going to try these on.

RWbX: The dark jeans?

Me: Yeah.

By that point, I was starting to think that each time RWbX left the frame, I was somehow morphing into something so radically different that I was unrecognizable by the next time he approached me, because each time he treated me like he had never seen me before. It wasn’t like he was doing that obnoxious salesman harping thing, he wasn’t breathing down my neck or anything, and he was consistently friendly. Nice guy, but limited vocabulary. It was as if he legitimately didn’t remember me from one conversation to the next.

Anyway, so I bought a perfect pair of jeans, and found that I had actually gone down a size. Glory be. I need to stop being so insane.

Saturday night we SOLD OUT again, then I and some company members and their friends went to a nice little dive bar by Wayne & Devon, where we stayed until about 2:30. I was wearing this hat of Cy’s, a gray stocking cap with floppy little daisies attached all over it. It looked like an Esther Williams bathing cap.

Home, and to bed.

End Saturday

Part the third and final: In which Luvabeans does another show, then goes back in time to visit an old fashioned movie house.

Christ, I always have the hardest time remembering what I did on Friday.

Well, there was work, where I worked. From there I went to the theatre, another SOLD OUT show, hoorah and applause and hoorah, to Cy’s for a quick beer and to see a mask she’s been working on, and then to the Music Box to meet people a midnight showing of Ed Wood, a wee bottle of Seagram’s 7 under my coat. (Wow. I really don’t drink that much, but this RWR is making me look like a big ol’ lush.)

The Music Box is an old movie theatre, big screen with curtains and old trailers and all, that shows arty films and older films. I had never seen Ed Wood, and loved it. Martin Landau was perfect. Perfect. Johnny Depp was great, as always. Sarah Jessica Parker was benign and uninteresting, as always. Tim Burton did a dark and wonderful job, as always.

J drove me home, which was nice. Then I went to bed. I new it would be a good weekend, and it was.

Hey, look! My hangover’s gone!

~ 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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