mid pizza and Diet Cokes

Told K Ho, when she picked me up for lunch, I can't believe I said yes to this. Had essentially no idea what the process would entail or what the theatre would look like or even how I'd get around. I just trusted I'd figure it out. Although I don't often trust myself to figure things out, I am a good pilot for a weird little arts program. One could argue my whole life is but a collection of cobbled together weird little arts programs. I remember talking about it with a peer from grad school once. (Oh I'm sure I gave him a cute little blog nickname twelve years ago, but god help me if I can remember those anymore. I should have made a key. But I didn't. So now if I ever look back in my archives here I have to scratch my chin and whisper soto, "Interesting memory...but who is 'Frazzykins?'")

Anyway, I had reached out to this peer, AC, after I saw they were abroad teaching acting workshops. They were like, "Mostly did it for the grant money, but it's been really cool." And ain't that the way. I have all kinds of stupid things on my art/work resume because I've never not been grubbing for money. But almost all those stupid things ended up being incredible memories. And, yeah, I guess if I'd been in the position to do other things with my time, maybe those other things could have been incredible memories too. But, I kinda don't think so.

I've been cornered into non-self serving experiences, and that's been really special for me. And important to my voice. Maybe necessary to my voice. Maybe my voice refused to sing in places privilege would have sent me. I wouldn't have picked to teach a musical theatre camp for 5th graders when I was 28, but I was desperate, and I still think about funny things those girls did, realizations we all had together. I wonder if any of them thought about our Newsies history lesson while the writers' strike was national news.

Had to go to Maine to teach improv to seniors for a week right before moving to LA. Horrible timing, but the gig was for $800--money I'd need to sustain myself until I landed something in my new city. Was I irritated to be going? Yes. Do I still think fondly about doing comedy with elderly women, one who was blind?! YES!

I've done gigs for hospice patients and fried eggs and stuffed bears and worn a mascot costume and crafted banana splits and sliced ham and proctored exams for people who couldn't hold pencils and led comma seminars and coached speech club and fired guns and shot arrows and instructed drama games and counseled preteens through their relationship with god and taught teens on the South Side playwriting with the time I wanted so much for my own plays. I worked on a cruise ship. None of this is what I wanted, but I would never trade any of it now.

So doing a play workshop in Virginia for $300? Sign me right up. I took a redeye, got in at 6 AM. The director picked me up in pjs. The theatre was only 20 minutes away. An adorable little spot with a maroon awning in a strip mall. Right away, I liked it.

Director let me in the scene shop. There was a sketchy yellow couch and a sad rainbow afghan. I don't remember much else until I woke with a start at about 9. I wandered, shoeless into the lobby, where the whole staff was having a meeting. The executive director hopped up and pointed me toward the hotel.

I felt half-human and wobbled over, through a little dirt path between the trees. The desk guy told me my room wasn't ready, so I flopped in the lobby, greasy and ripe. A little before noon my shower dream died, so I changed my t-shirt and put on deodorant in the bathroom. My old high school bestie picked me up in this state. All par for the course. We got mid pizza and Diet Cokes. It was so easy to talk about the people we know and how things have been and especially, if there's a nuke, run into it. She said I seemed the same, and I said, ah that's nice but my soul's been broken, just a little.

I was able to clean up, in ten minutes flat, right before my first rehearsal. I rushed in right on time, to find my script in a binder at the table. At the spot labeled "playwright."

minutes

Spent today with Tira. Unexpectedly even. Out of character for me, especially on a high pressure day like today. I had to set my goals and dream my dreams and all that. Was up early compiling a little batch of photos for the internet. I don’t usually like posting recaps, but for some reason I felt compelled this year. I bopped to the cafe to yap with Puhg. I sold him on the party for tonight by promising him we could leave by 12:30. The wild girl from our building cycloned in with her redheaded friend. Puhg tried to get their take, and I said, no no they’re nuts. They cackled and jumped around, told us they aren’t nuts at all! Redhead went on, they spent last new years shoveling ice cream into their mouths at 11:47, before the diet started.

So I sat on the balcony a bit, enjoying the rain, then gathered my little chipmunk bag and trotted to the crystal shop for a sound bath. Tira met me and we let the bowls wash us away. I wrote down three words I want to bring into 2026 and three words I don’t. I got an idea that is either insane or wonderful.

We went to use the bathroom at my alcove nearby, then why not have a little treat, you know? Tira said, “You can’t believe that stuff 100% or you go psycho, but you do have to believe…something.” We each got bowls of cocoa, a strawberry cheesecake for Tira and a snickerdoodle slice for me. She and her girlfriend broke up at Christmas and she just got a job as a line cook even though she’s been nominated for Emmys. We talk about how sad it is to grieve our industry but how we don’t feel it’s right to leave just yet. It’s hard to describe, but we both feel it in our bones.

Tira mentions picking up dinner for later. Money is weird. A big theme of the year. I haven't scrimped this hard since 2017 but it doesn't ever make a difference. I'll cut a subscription or a hobby or plans and that's when rent goes up. It makes me sick that Puhg and I throw 30K to a giant conglomerate every year. One thing I still haven't sorted out is how to think about things and not think about things at the same time. I recommend the local pizza shop instead of the high-end corner joint and once we get there it smells so good we decide to each get the lunch special. I buy, and it feels really warm because Tira bought me my first lunch in our old TV writers’ room. Things come back around. The owner hustles out with our little sauces and Cokes. She's in good spirits with a blonde ponytail. I get home at 2:30 and write for a long time. I don’t feel satisfied with any of the drafts, give up around 6 and take a shower.

I have to get ready for the aforementioned party, so I’ll have to reflect more on my year tomorrow or the next day. I try not to bring anything negative into fresh Januarys—even reflection maybe. I spent yesterday doing tedious tax calculations and getting bloodwork and writing my insurance and paying my bills. Still, I wish I could leave some of the chewing behind me too. But maybe this is good for me. Not much exists in perfect lines, from 11:59 to midnight what is the difference? But there is a difference. One can't let too many minutes slip.

Same Hundred Dollars

Back got hot, itchy looking for that envelope. The envelope with $100 in it. It was a gift from last year. Been on my bookshelf since for a special (undetermined) purpose. Suddenly doing my frantic New Years' Eve scrub of the apartment, I couldn't find it. I wanted to cry. I'd shoved so many papers in the trash. Old statements and receipts--did the envelope and its cargo end go with them? I made the peace when, an hour later, I saw it. Sitting next to a book. In plain sight. I carefully hid it inside my cigar box of things not to lose--

--next to a gift card for $100 to a swanky Hollywood spot. A piece of plastic with real value. I look forward to using it but couldn't tell you when that might be. I haven't eaten inside a restaurant in months. But when it's safe enough, and when I find the right date, I'll be ready.

Because of omicron, no parties to midnight. Instead we ordered a pizza. For pick-up even--to save the delivery fees. When I arrived the girl behind the counter was stressed. Our order was under the wrong name and a line was forming and I peered into the kitchen to see a couple masked, hair-netted, workers rushing around the ovens. "How many people are working tonight?" I asked. She told me a couple drivers, her int he front, a few in the back...but they were super understaffed. I'd gotten some 20s for a drive, pulled five out, and put them in the tip jar. I walked out feeling generous, but by the time I reached Puhg idling on the street, I felt dumb. I go on work hiatus February 1st.

Two months ago some young 20something guy in a Tesla scratched my bumper in traffic. We exchanged info. It was such a small scratch (on an already scratched up car), the $1200 fix and calls on calls to insurance companies seemed excessive. I texted him I wasn't moving forward with action. He gratefully Venmoed me $100 as a gesture. It was nice. But now, when I'm in a bad mood, I see that scratch and get so upset. I saved that rich guy a thousand dollars and he made me late for gymnastics. Not the right way to think about it.

Wake up to an email from this designer I follow on Instagram. She makes one-of-a-kind coats repurposed from old quilts. I raced to her website to see five new coats for sale. I had to act fast. Only one remained. $300. I put it in my cart...but then wondered if it was indeed the perfect color for me. Maybe too pale. I knew if I didn't buy it now it would disappear forever. What's money if it's once in a lifetime? I didn't buy it and the next day revisited the photo. It was fine.

I pay my thousand dollar rent and don't question it. I look up rentals for a vacation. Some hundreds of dollars more than others. But that's negligible. I remember my friend in high school who had me spot him $5 to buy tickets to another school's play. He never paid me back. I spend $40 on fancy donuts, get fussy my license replacement was $38. 

I wish it was easier to kiss you on the mouth,

like it is to work hard, and earn an honest wage.

You're not always fair to me, like I wish you would be.

He's the one who left home, and I'm the one who stayed.

Fifth Grade, Listening to OAR

"I'm in fifth grade" I said to Puhg. We had turned down a quiet street in the neighborhood. It feels suburban even though traffic is behind the houses and the observatory is under the moon. It's so hot in LA, which made me cranky last summer. But this summer we have a new AC unit. Now the August mug feels right. I had my own body at 11. The playgrounds become equipment when they used to be castles. In three more years they'd be hangouts, places to lounge around and gossip. I remember when three of us were draped across the slides behind my old elementary school and someone brought up how N_____ S_______ had jumped up and down at a graduation party and exposed her tummy which was surprisingly soft and pudgy. We'd all honed in on the exact same moment, our collective hive brains humming, "But I thought she exercised." But in fifth grade there was only regular and fat.

I didn't know what middle school would look like and I never thought about it. I had signed up for four weeks of summer camp, but I didn't guess what would happen there. The future existed but I hadn't begun to consider it. In 6th grade when I went to the pool I looked at the lifeguards and wondered if I worked with them who would be my friend and if I would man snack bar or the deep end. I drew myself in a sketch pad holding one of the official red inner tubes. I had a nose ring. I don't know where that image came from, but it came to be, what, ten years later?

The future has been better and worse than expected. What sounds good on paper can be excruciating and what sounds terrible can be pretty good. And awareness can make it all the worse or better.

But so this feeling is here now, I notice. It certainly helps that in the evening we ate raspberry blue gummies, watched Last Action Hero, and ordered pizza. If that isn't 90s vibes. Nevermind the gummies were organic and the pizza vegan (delivered via application) and the movie digitally rented from a super conglomerate streamed straight to our Apple TV. Nevertheless. It was night and there were no plans for morning or forever for that matter. I couldn't hope if I tried. Swam in the afternoon and I'll do it again today.

First Year Out of College

I've decided I'm going to be one of those people who has an empty inbox. You know. Delete stuff I no longer need. File things I want to save. Be reminded easy what I need to respond to.

I decided this somewhat randomly about two weeks ago. I was at The Writing Center and no students had come in for walk-in tutoring. I had around 17K emails in the the gmail I started in college. This isn't that much maybe. I also have a junk account, two school accounts, and a professional artist account. Maybe I'll deal with those sometime too.

So, first, I used the search bar to weed out advertising junk. I deleted all the "Groupon," "Twitter," "Jamba Juice" hits etc. After destroying as many spams as possible I started working through my cache starting with the oldest messages to the newest.

Right now I have 7,881 emails in my inbox. I have lurched from my freshman year to my first year out of college. It's been weird to my life snippets in a vertical list. That year seems so foreign to my life now, but it was actually incredibly foundational. A flurry of student notes from the Writing Center, navigating a weird boss for an after school program, running my first marathon, all my grad school statements of purpose, a community theatre musical rehearsal emails, indie improv team volleys. Some of it is embarrassing--advice I gave in a very knowing way, hatching my sense of humor, I had no fear, and I substitute taught an English 100 lab for free on Valentine's night.

But, oh, there are precious moments. Long chains with friends who were still friends, pictures from Dusty, and the most charming: a lesson plan for the first improv class I ever taught. The usual teacher for the Level One class at the comedy theatre I performed at couldn't make one week. He asked this other girl and I to cover. We were PUMPED. We went out for pizza beforehand and freaked out about everything we wanted to teach the class. The place was called Suds or something and we sat at a countertop and just gushed about all we loved and hated about improvising. We practically ran to the theatre screeching in excitement. We had both just broken up with our boyfriends.

When we arrived we found only ONE PERSON there for the class--a middle age woman who was pretty nervous. No idea why she took the class, but it was only her second attempt at improv ever. The other girl and I were not deterred. We went full-ham on our plan and took turns being in the scene with the woman. Toward the end of the three hours, I think we were both so eager to act, we just did a ton of three person scenes. We laughed and laughed in that shady, bunk basement room for rent.

Weekend, mid-twenties

First I grade papers at 5 AM. A dance work-out and racing out the door. New camel-colored coat. Square Potbelly sandwich and the creamiest Dunkin coffee. Class begins at 8 AM. Today's to-dos are grammar and style review on the second in-class essay followed by brainstorming and peer-editing on the persuasive issue assignment. The happy chef plans an essay about why churches need to pay taxes. Lots of teen programs for the South Side. Russian exchange student has decided to write a persuasive essay about why there should be a washer and dryer in her apartment.

AStanSr and I walk Maggie Daley Park. The bop around the city slopping through time. Eventually I must go home. I must write a letter of recommendation and recap with Bisque over crackers and cheese. I walk a mile and a half on Friday night holding a giant comforter and pillow because it is girl's night. TQ and I gossip dipping pretzels into frosting. Gala arrives, Puppy Chow. We put on glitter tattoos and watch Coyote Ugly from the hardwood floor. It is misogynistic. You can't fight the moonlight.

My alarm goes off at 6:30. I catch the bus home, run three miles at the gym (glitter tatt dissolves), and throw my junk together for a long day. Another Dunkin coffee praise allah and Lyfts. I rehearse four hours for the Halloween sketch show. I really like comedy. Korean lunch. I like how the hard eggs looks, chopped in two. I take an unfamiliar bus to David's Bridal. Hell is David's Bridal on a Saturday. Nothing is there, everyone is busy, no one is helpful, everyone is happy and spending disgusting amounts of money. This is not the point. I leave angry rushing to the downtown theatre. I show up late to the solo show with a new friend. A simple and wide-eyed friend. "I like you," I think, "but I also am not in this place right now." Bisque heard my bits over pizza. I did an open mic. So far, so good. It's late, and I feel it.

Running on the lake. Raspberry scones from a terrible waitress. I feel frustrated. The city rage is strong. In improv class I play a woman so in love with life she ventriloquists a dead body at a wake. I buy ear warmers. I meet Kam at my favorite woody bar. The posse, we are called, byt someone I admire. Kam and Nep and me, all watching subpar improve from the back row. Back to Kam's apartment to pump Nep up. She has to quit her job, we all have to feel confident about ourselves. Yes, I have lots to do, but I'm done done, honey bun.

And a Year Later, Another Graduation

Last night was the closing show of my ensemble's run at SC. The Program is officially over. The reason I moved across the country is complete. I feel like I'm standing about two steps up at the bottom of a long flight of stairs. At the same time, I shouldn't discount the fact that at one time I saw those two steps as an end goal in themselves. My appetite has been wetted, but if I had to walk away today, I've already accomplished something a lot of people only dream of doing.

As soon as the audience was ushered out, I changed out of my show clothes. The directors ran through the process of "celebrating us" in robotic fashion. Eight boxes of pizza were delivered and lined up. Pitchers of Sprite and beer on the cab tables. The stage manager turned on some generic party music. "Hooray us," we all said. No one called our names. We lined up by the stage and shook our right hands and took rolled up red t-shirts with our lefts. We all put them on over our clothes and took pictures and gave out compliments like parade candy. This may be some people's way to release a year of toil, growth, and personal conviction, but it's not mine, so I phoned it in. Kinda happy, but really needing more time to decompress.

It's not a giant wave of anything yet. No walls are crumbling. I think I'll see the ones I want to see again? Won't I? I keep some words close. I dream.

Something Something Donut Joke

Right Now

You are where you're supposed to be.

What a cultured weekend. Auditions and teaching residency meeting at the specifically non-chain coffee shop. Birthday celebration at a Rick Bayless hotspot. Underground site-specific seance theatre. I was almost late, so I sprinted the half mile from the train. Rainbow sweater ripped over my head along the graveyard. I ate leftover ice cream cake for dinner and next was the new play inspired by Moby Dick in Wicker Park.

And then there are groceries to buy and college classes to plan and finally, finally a taste-testing pizza gathering. I have never felt more exhausted yet excited than when looking at my weekend calendar now that I am a tried and true Chicagoan. The most fun, the best of the best, but huffing and puffing, the hours the the minutes the moments.

And the seasons, they go round and round. And the painted ponies go up and down.

Back There, In the Place We Used to Start

Third Eye Blind is on my work-out mix right now. The first time I heard the doot doot doot dootdodootdoot it was squeaking out of a boombox in the multi-purpose room of my middle school. I was 10 and attending a summer pom camp. The eighth grade girl leading my dance class jumped onto the radiator to turn up the radio. "This reminds me of camp!" she pouted to her co-counselor before kicking off with her white cheer shoes.

We had just stopped for pizza puffs. We were halfway to the state school for cheer and pom camp. It was 2001, and there was little better than traveling in a mini-van stuffed with my friends. I think Peppermint's mom drove us. Third Eye Blind came on the radio, and I realized that I was that girl on the radiator now.

Poms camp was so special. We screamed out school fight song every time we entered the gym with all the other teams. We learned dances to Aaron Carter on the corner of the soccer field. The grass was yellowed and dry. The watter bottles were piled high. It was a week, but what did we do every night? We practiced I remember. We imagined how cool it would be to live in the old olive dorm rooms. There were mini-fridges and I took a strawberry from the cafeteria to see what would happen to it in the freezer box.

Logically But

Logically we all know there are literally millions of people in the world who wish wish wish they had what we have. Logically this is true, but, oh, it is so hard for that fact to make a difference when the days are a little too rainy and the pizza is a little too abundant in your diet.

I wonder why that logic doesn't help almost ever. Like, you can say the words, "I should be happy," but it never sinks in. But keep making the list. Fake the gratitude til you make the gratitude.

Maybe your mom will make you her famous cheesy chicken, or maybe you will get to dance to BSB at your high school best friend's wedding, your boyfriend will hug you in the bread aisle, and you can fall asleep on your dad's couch for however long it takes.

Cheecahgo

It's been just over a month since I returned from the land of cacti, and I must admit, I really do believe Chicago is the best city in the country. For a little sunbug like me, it's still not MY place because omg winter. But in general...I truly don't know how you could argue.

1. Dopest skyline. I took this for granted growing up. I had heard of other cities and I assumed they were all like mine. But every time I go to a new place my question is frequently, "Where's downtown?" Chicago's heart is prominent and breathtaking.

2. It's a city and people act like it, and also crime, but in general it's not dog-eat-dog. Chicago is known for it's bang in creative work environments and generally helpful city employees, yo.

3. Culture not to be topped. Art Institute, Science and Industry, Field Museum. Okay. Bias here. Obvs NY is giving it a run for its money. But would you rather have the sparkle of Broadway or the development of Steppenwolf? You know? It's a different vibe.

4. Similarly, comedy. This is the comedy capitol of the world. So. Whattup.

5. Lake Michigan. Honestly, it's as majestic as the ocean with no sharks or salt. Plus it's PART of the city. You're got gonna walk on the beach in the middle of your LA day. But here. Yup. Go for it.

6. Pizza.

7. Get going. Middle of the country. Go anywhere! All destinations are basically the same. Inside the city, best public transit IMO.

8. Is cool enough to have tourists and tourist destinations but not too cool that everyone you meet is a transplant. There's a way of life here actually largely informed by our creature comforts. I am the way I am not parallel to the fact that hot dogs are a diet staple and the huge population of Irish Catholics mean constant wakes and parties to soften them, I'm who I am because of it.

I'm writing this in Millenium Park, waiting to meet a friend. A jazz band is playing, a traffic cop's whistle compliments the tunes, the fountain spits.

Italy: Part Four Point Five

The amount of time you have in a place is usually the amount of time you need. Over our final dinner in Rome, which, by the way, could not get more Italian (see photo), we reflected on what we might change.

Checkered tablecloth, vino, red sauce, bottled water.

Because earlier that afternoon we had made our way off the beaten track to find a pizza place only locals went to and enjoyed the feel of real city--not tourist explosion--I wished we had done something similar in Florence. On our way back into the city hub we passed Romans buying shoes off sidewalk tables, and I ate a rose gelato.

The best mushroom pizza ever.

My other regrets were a contemporary art museum in Venice (I had plumb forgot on our one short day) and not noticing our hotel in Rome was adjacent to an excellent-looking bakery until we were walking to dinner and it was closed. Three minor regrets? Overall, we killed it.

Hotel breakfast.

The Vatican was expensive, but now I've seen the Sistine Chapel. It looks like the pictures though. Not sure if that makes it more or less important to see. We also accidentally planned our visit for Wednesday morning mass. No wonder there were so many people milling around the piazza! I've now seen the pope.

Pope, yo.

Borghese Gallery was the best way to spend our last afternoon. If you don't know, the Borghese is all about making connections from various aesthetics and time periods to conformed ideas. While Renaissance art isn't necessarily my jam, the nectar of inference is. Fitting for a big trip. When we return to where we're from, our biggest baggage are the connections we carry.

Me as an extra in a Wes Anderson film set in Borghese Gardens.

We woke up at 6 to offer plenty of time for an 11 AM flight, but once we were ready we were alerted via email the flight had been bumped two hours later. "You know what this means," said Bisque. And of course he meant that regret bakery would be open! We bought a tiny apple pastry, a napoleon, and a ricotta fluff. Coupled with the light Italian breakfast we always had at hotels and the copious orange juice I drank on the plane, it was a sugary trip back to Arizona. I was ready.

Ciao, Italia!

It's easier to be Puff, but it's harder to be Sean.

Italian Birthday

Hoisted our duffels and made our way (regretfully) trainward ho. Goodbye, Cinque. I stopped in the teeny market for a little block of Parmesan and some native sweet bread. Four hour trip to Rome requires snacks.

We had a two hour delay in a quaint station with nothing but a trashy gift shop and a McDonalds. We decided to enjoy a couple lattes and were delighted by the assortment of pastries McDs had. I ate a super flaky, dusted with powdered sugar, ricotta cheese poof. Quite honestly it was the best breakfast I had all trip. If a year ago you would have told me my birthday breakfast would be from Ronald himself I would have probably assumed my life somehow unraveled to disastrous shambles and not that I would actually be very satisfied.

The weather was perfect. Creamy clouds and faint smells of countryside. On the train I planned to read more of A Room with a View, but we ended up in the most serendipitous of cars! Six little seats filled by three couples in their twenties from the US, Austrailia, and India. We spent the entire time asking each other questions about our cultures, comparing, contrasting, commenting on what we'd seen of Italy so far. I still can't get over this really. It seemed almost planned, but it was just the luck of the 19 Mag!

We decided to cab to our hotel in Rome to avoid pickpockets and a transportation headache after a longish trip. It was cheaper than we expected and much appreciated. I opened my window as the new city air whipped in.

For dinner we found a little checked-tablecloths and all pizza place. My main request was to have two gelato for dessert. The night was young. We visited The Pantheon, people watched for hours with gelato number one (chocolate orange) in hand.

We watched a street clown for a bit and headed to Trevi Fountain. Stayed on a bench from early dusk until it was completely lit watching couples kissing and large groups tossing coins behind them.

I chose a delightful lemon gelato two, Bisque made good on his promise for a backrub and we planned our very busy marrow. I reflected on the year as I drifted to sleep.

Instead

This morning gifted me a particularly beautiful Arizona run. The week is starting. A big week. I was pounding out anxiety and grump and hope. My iPod was on shuffle, and this little gem caught my ear. Perfect. So perfect. It was from a fat playlist of albums Lazz gave me right before I moved far away from the Midwest.

Oh, I wish I had a suntan.
I wish I had a pizza and a bottle of wine.
I wish I had a beach house.
Then we could make a big fire every night.

Instead I'm just crazy. I'm totally mad.
Yeah, I'm just crazy, and ______ in the head.
And maybe if I really try with all of my heart
then I could make a brand new start in love with you.

March Luck

There are so many wonderful people that surround my life. They waltz in and they take pictures of me while I scoot home in shorts and galoshes in pouring rain. They greet me at the testing center with Jamba Juice. They get the margherita flatbread because I don't eat meat. They put tiny gold boxes on the metal table. I laugh until I cannot stand.

I ask How did this happen to me? On a good day, on a day I have put on real clothes and eaten oatmeal I say I deserve this. And on days I show up ten minutes late to work because I was Googling the cast of One Tree Hill I ask harder, more times, with earnestness.

The theories:

1. People are not only good. They are great. The odds, they're fabulous. It seems like a miracle to be so connected, but we're all miracles, so it's not.

2. I am just so lucky.

Post Encyclo last night. Ladeez.

Maybe Curing Cancer

Cancer research using mice. I checked the box for “Approve Funding,” and I greenlit funding for a bio PhD candidate’s dissertation project in which he intends to give mice tumors.

As part of my academic community service, I evaluate grants for the Graduate and Professional School Association once a semester. I find it interesting. Today I read a lot about topographical research in Tanzania, for example.

How could I refuse this student who has such good intentions? That’s not my place. There is no segment on the rubric for “Ethically Ambiguous for the Reviewer.” It was an excellent application. My hamster Jefferson died of a brain tumor when I was 11. He jittered himself to death. He could not operate his jaw enough to eat. He curled into shavings and prayed for an end to the pain. Jefferson has white hair and a pointed nose.

My aunt died of cancer two years ago. And she too was white with sharp features when I last saw her. No one—no creature-- deserves these things.

I approved the funding.

Two years ago I also had dinner with my old buddy Jimbo. He’s a smarty and always has been. We chomped on mushroom pizza and he explained how his office analyzes code to find patterns that will break cancer, but what he really does all day is stare at screens and numbers. Meanwhile, I made like ten cents an hour helping college kids write thesis statements. Jimbo said, “At least I can say what I do for a living is cure cancer.” But that’s actually not true. It’s not true because what if they never find the pattern? It’s actually pretty likely they don’t. I passed those kids on their sophomore writing portfolios. They learned how to use commas. This I know.

Underground improv stage. Chicago 2012.

I talked to Jimbo this morning on GChat while I was in Office Hours. It’s an even shoddier desk in the basement of a crummy building. And the boiler blasts every ten minutes. And he’s been maybe curing cancer for four years.

Pizza Monster

This one time this summer I freaked out so intensely at one of my improv classmates for not knowing the way to the pizza place we were going to when she said she did that she likened it to the scene in The Blair Witch Project where the teenagers lose the map.

My female improv classmates.

"I am a pizzatarian."--Yatchface, 2010

Weekend Things

Improv workshop with Susan Messing
Navy Pier ferris wheel, popcorn, giant pretzel
Hating Lollapalooza for ruining every bus route ever
Pizza Pot Pie at Chicago Pizza & Oven Grinders
Fraiser & hot fudge sundaes
Four mile run
Ice cream for breakfast
Pirated Louie
Writing--minimally
Reading--a tad
Looking up useless junk online--colossally
Mainly staying in bed
Not enjoying Workaholics--still watching it
Ice cream for dinner
Adaptation
Sunday Brunch at Waffles
Church
Walk to Frank Lloyd Wright house
Beach frolic

Soon to come:
Farmer's Market veggies
Improv shows
A late train home
Final week of improv intensive starts tomorrow!

Five Things (7.16.12)

1. A family who all supports me when I am sicko blicko all weekend. This is big. This is huge.
2. HBOGO for proudly bringing me It Takes Two, Girls reruns, Newsroom, and Veep. (See also "sicko all weekend")
3. Due's pizza. Chicago's finest.
4. My improv ensemble and instructors. I am entertained and educated every day!
5. Progress is the law.

Bonus Thing: Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind--always--but especially with George. The lights go out. I think, "I REALLY liked that play." Lights up. She leans over. She says, "Hey, I really liked that one."

Day in the Life, June 2, 2012

Dear Grandchildren of the Future,

If you're reading this, consider me hog-tied! A. Because I can't imagine having kids! Let alone kids on kids! And B. Because if you've found this it means all the Internet's data wasn't destroyed in a huge terrorist attackor/and snafu.

Anyway, grandkids of the future, obviously you were looking for something in creeping through ol' Maw Maw's blog from her 20s. But, how can I give you advice or anything when you're probably teleporting or, the opposite, only ever sit perfectly still but communicate with others via an elaborate wifi in your retina?

I'll assume I'm dead by now--hopefully some kind of donut related death?--and you guys are just curious about what life was like for your cool ancestors! So let me tell you about my day. Just so you can get a feel for Grammy's life and times.

-Woke up and finished an opinion essay about tumblr & beauty for this journal I write for
-Made some acorn squash and ate it
-Read a nice article by Viola Hays
-Ran 6 miles
-Hassled my dad into cutting up a pineapple
-Showered and ate some of aforementioned pineapple with some peanuts (in 2012 it is a commonly held belief that you are supposed to consume protein after exercise--this always feels kind of heavy to me, so I am betting by the time you're reading this, that theory has been disproven...or, actually, you probably have been genetically modified to be naturally fit, so you don't even know what a work-out is let alone how to eat after one)
-Took my car for one final nostalgic cruise. My baby is sold, so I had a goodbye spin. I took her to Walgreens when I needed to buy some notebooks, and then I cruised about a mile in the June sun with the windows open. No music, just the hum of my 90s beaut. I started to think, "You know what? Driving can be nice." And that's when a bird flew right into the windshield. "I take it back," I thought.
-Wanting to have some adventure in my last joint production with Wanda (car name--Do you kids name inatimate objects? I assume so. Otherwise, wouldn't you feel weird referring to your robot maid as simply "Robot Maid"?), I passed a physic's office ("walk-ins welcome") and decided to get my palm read
-The psychic told me I have a long life ahead of me with no illness or accidents. Also that I don't open up to many people, I work hard for what I want, my "best" color is lavender, my best number is four, and I will get married and have a family. So, I guess that's good news for you guys, you yet-to-exist chillins'.
-Before I left the psychic told me I could ask one question--anything at all and it would be answered. I thought about it for longer than she was probably comfortable, especially since she was most likely thinking, "Don't burst a capillary thinking, kid, I'm a phony." I don't know a lot of things, but I honestly couldn't think of a question. So I asked something I knew the answer to already. It was still nice to hear someone reaffirm what I know. Even if you kiddos now drink seahorse blood out of juice boxes, I suppose I just came up with one piece of advice you can take with you--even in your space suit: There should probably be no question about your own life that you can't answer yourself.
-The joyride was over, and my dad and I went on a walk to grab a Redbox. I've wanted to see We Need to Talk about Kevin, and today was the day! I was very excited. We tried to stream the film last night on Apple TV, but the download would have taken two hours--this probably sounds hilarious to you. Buffering and loadtime for entertainment.
-We watched the movie, which is horribly brutal but very very well done. I enjoyed.
-Dinner time. We walked to a pizza place downtown. Your great-grandpa was a good dude.
-Once home, we built a small bonfire in the backyard and made s'mores, chatted about life in general, basked in the night sky, lit off some fireworks.

So, that's what life looks like when you're me. Keep on keepin' on, offspring!

Best,
Alice