Self-Indulgent Ramblings

Okay… all season, I’ve been part of a triumvirate of people who were running a professional theatre (FOR FREE) here in Greenville. In fact, two of us even applied to be hired as permanent executive directors. But that didn’t happen.

It’s important to understand something about the South. Southerners believe that anyone who is from outside the South inherently knows more than anyone who is from the South. But no one from outside the South should make anyone from the South feel like they know more than a Southerner. It’s this whole weird thing.

AND… once you’ve lived in the South long enough, your status as someone who knows more is revoked, but you are not accepted as a Southerner either.

I am a citizen of nowhere.

At any rate, all this leads up to the fact that they hired this guy from New York who is coming in and treating us (the theatre professionals who have been running this theatre all year) like a bunch of local yokles who don’t know our ass from our elbow.

I get angry from time to time. I even overreact here and there. But overall, most things don’t inspire true, real anger.

But condescention? That’ll earn you some shattered patellas.

Bitches.

Okay… It’s fun to write copy. I enjoy telling stories and embodying an attitude or an identity.

But right now, I just feel like I’m spewing propaganda. I’m doing work for this big labor union… and everything is “for my country” this and “working family that” and I just feel like a rhetoric factory.

It just feels strange… and a little grimy.

Okay… my currently pregnant coworker and my formerly pregnant, currently jealous that she’s not pregnant, coworker are talking all about reflux and babies throwing up in your belly button and something to that effect.

TRA LA LA! I’m not listening!

There are times when I love our nice, open office with no walls. There are times when it just makes me want to claw my own eyes out.

{sigh}

My friend Jared said something the other night that made me decide that I was going to start a recurring series for my rabid readers (for “rabid readers” read “my own personal gratification”).

Things I will Never Say #1:

“So I went for a run, and I felt much better.”

Okay… this is not really all that funny… but for some reason I think it’s hysterical. And apparently so does everyone else. This video has gotten something like 2 million views in the few days it’s been live. Weird. And there is no reason for it to make me laugh as much as it is. {shrug}

Okay… this is an amusing story. I mean, even if you’re NOT a nutso cat person like me.

Ah… isn’t it fun when you’re at the office at midnight reading quotes from labor union members and deciding that maybe you’re not as liberal as you thought you were? Or maybe it’s just that they’re so liberal that they reset the whole scale.

Whatever the case… it’s late and I’m getting punchy. Which means that comments are making it into the presentation that I have to give in 8 1/2 hours that normally wouldn’t. Things like my {gulp} boyfriend’s observation that when he hears union he thinks “of a hot chick who works as a welder during the day, and is hopeful to getting into a professional dance academy. That’s my kind of labor union.”

Man… this is going to be an interesting presentation. Or it will be to me. Because I’ll be running on Corona Light and Red Bull.

Okay…

So I have this whole nifty stat counter thing built into this blog. And I can see - on some big, 30,000 miles up level - who reads my blog.

I think that my {gulp} boyfriend (to whom I refused to give the address… because this is my cathartic dumping grounds) has located my blog.

I don’t go to swing dancing! You don’t read my blog!

THBT!!!

You know what I learned yesterday? When it’s your birthday… your fortieth birthday…. and you have three children… and your girlfriend wants to take you out to dinner to celebrate the anniversary of your birth… you don’t go where your girlfriend would think you might.

You go to Pizza Hut.

Yup. Last night I took my {gulp} boyfriend and his {gulp} 3 children out to dinner at Pizza Hut. And you know what happens then, right?

You spend the rest of the evening with indigestion and a greasy face.

Yeah. He’s 40. Weird, isn’t it? Of course, he said to me, “This is probably more painful for you than it is for me.”

My Reply?

“Nah. Oh… by the way… My Mom says ‘Happy birthday.’ My Dad say ‘He’s WHAT?!?!?!’”