Day 211
Most of the day was spent writing a script rewrite that was due today, but stared quite late. If you guessed that I started it yesterday I owe you a golden goose. Anyway, the only break from scene cards was a trip to the mailbox. In my mailbox was a tiny scrap of paper that said I had received a parcel. I went to the office to retrieve it. It was a care package from my mother in it were the following:
8 Cadbury Cream Eggs
1 bag of Wintergreen mints
1 box of processed fake cheese
3 tubes of mascara
2 bags of Werther's Original
1 tub of pink cotton candy
4 sticks of deodorant
1 family-size pack of Q-tips
2 1-pound bags of coffee
3 skeins of hot pink yarn
2 skeins of dark green yarn (apparently, those are supposed to go together)
4 pillowcases
2 boxes of Band-Aids
1 gigantic sausage
1 Gladware tub filled with as many fortune cookies as $1 will buy you at Wong's
And an envelope filled with the following:
-a picture of a very old man I don't know sitting in a room filled with junk
-an opened bank statement
-a printout of a pill that has "Fuckitol" written on it
-1 picture of my parents' dog
-8 pictures that she took of where I now live
-a newspaper story about a high school classmate that she made me read when I was home for Christmas
-a section of the paper in which kids wrote in poems for Martin Luther King Jr.
-and, 2 sections of the paper that are filled with photos of babies, not because my mom thinks that they are cute but because every year she looks at this "Babies Born This Year" feature and laughs at the ugly ones.
The above is all you need to know about my mother. Except, that is was her birthday today and I forgot about it, until she told me about it. I asked her what she was going to do for her birthday and she said, "drink a big margarita."
At supper tonight I was standing in line with my pseudo-date from the other night. As he went on and on about how he didn't do so well on a recent test, and sometime after I kept thinking about things much more life or death, I realized something: I am flypaper for bitchy men. Seriously, why is it me that they come to when they have some diva-esque problem with their friend who isn't a friend that they could just ignore. Do I look like I care? What the hell is it about me that draws guys to me and makes them kvetch about ridiculous things that they will probably forget about tomorrow? Is it my hairstyle? I can change it. My eyes? I can wear sunglasses. Is it my smell? I can change perfume. I haven't date all that much in the last couple years so I had to ask my friend, "Does the man always just sit there and bitch about petty bullshit and not listen to you?" She said, "Not when I go out on dates. I am the one bitching on and on and he's the one listening to every word and remembering it." So it must be my smell. Shit, I like this perfume.
Tonight I went to a George Bernard Shaw play and it was hilarious. Who knew that staunchy Bulgarian people could have such funny body language. They were always striking poses and making declarations. I don't know if Shaw intended this, but I am taking his teachings to heart. After the play my "date" and I went out for a coke and a snack. The entire time we were there I was striking poses. Well, except for when we hid out from a couple people in my building. When we paid the check the people from my building were also at the register paying my check, and the old creeper man noticed my poses and lovely hair, and commented about how lovely I look. Too bad the giant in the kitchen didn't notice. Maybe I need to pose closer to the kitchen. Or, I just need to fall for creepy old men.
Tip of the Day: Cotton Candy from a plastic tub is better than the real thing.
-Canadian Castaway
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