22 good to be true

I totally settled with that title. But it's late and I've been meaning to write for a day and a half now. I came really close this morning, but being a wee bit hungover I opted for spooning with my dog on the couch for a couple hours instead.

I have enjoyed a very good past couple of days. I'll work backwards, like Memento.

At work tonight, I didn't have to do anything. So I read and tried not to look to hungover.

This afternoon, I gave myself a grace period in which I generally lazed about the house, accomplished nothing and felt superb about it.

This morning, I woke up in time to see my roommate off to work and promptly fell back asleep on the couch with my dog (who is soft and smells better than ever after getting all her hair buzzcut off recently).

Last night, I had a dance party at a neighborhood bar with friends. Much credit is due to alcohol, but the dancing was really absurd, completely out of control and oh so much fun. Birthdays are a nice excuse for friends to remind each other constantly why and how much they love one another.

Yesterday evening, after skipping out on class after an hour, my mother took me bowling. We had had a big day, and while the bowling was fun, we were a bit cranky.

Yesterday afternoon, I took my mom to see "The Farnsworth Invention" after a crisis of Broadway faith in which we almost saw "August: Osage County." Being that my mom is the Aaron Sorkin fan that she is, I came to my senses and we got TKTS for the history-laden (but still dramatic and funny) play. We both enjoyed the hell out of ourselves with the play alone, but as we were leaving we were in for a humongous surprise that I'll probably always associate with this birthday. Aaron Sorkin was giving a Q&A session with some high schoolers, and being that we are slow ass theater leavers, my mom and I got to hide out and listen. Afterwards, emboldened by my birthday adventure seekingness, I went up to Sorkin and said a bunch of words I don't even remember. My heart was beating and I was visibly shakey, but unlike my mother I was able to come within 10 feet of the guy. Honestly, he was really cool and the whole experience smacked of good luck. Afterwards, between our frustrated realizations of "what we should have said," mom and I came to the conclusion that we just couldn't believe that we didn't ask him to dinner.

Yesterday at lunch, we went to John's Pizzeria and had a killer lunch. I sorted through the dozens of fabric swatches that I had collected for my fashion design class (a hobbie I might continue even when I don't go into making clothes). In Wednesdays past, I'd really always missed my mom the most during lunches by myself. So free of spectacle as it is, lunch might have been the nicest part of my day.

Yesterday morning, I woke up much earlier than my BAC the night before could have predicted. Mom and I got Starbucks and confirmed that no, my debit card hadn't been stolen.

Two nights ago, I met up with my roommates to celebrate the countdown to CJBday (I just made that up now... keep it in mind for next year). We had had a couple of birthday shots and by 1am I was absolutely convinced that I was getting a tattoo. (The bar was on St. Marks and it would have been entirely possible.) Adding to the debauchery, the bartender was a bit of a "cute guy" (as they say) and I was having fun flirting with him. Now, there's no element of surprise to this post because I don't even want to try to build suspense to satisfy the UTTER bewilderment I felt when my mom showed up at the bar.

I had absolutely no idea that she was coming or what was going on. All I knew was that that night was the most pleasantly surprised I have ever felt (it continued when we cabbed home and I discovered presents and a cake which my roommate had set up).

So, to end a long descriptive post I will say this: Good birthday. Things are looking good. Goodnight.

Of course I'm posting on Wednesday

Because Wednesdays are amazing. Wednesdays are a refresher course in why I love life. Wednesdays are consistently, extremely, hyperbolically amazing.

Today I saw "The 39 Steps," a play based on the Alfred Hitchcock movie. Of course, while the Hitch thriller was completely serious in its twisty turney-ness, the play was a complete farce (intentionally). There were four actors playing all 30-something roles, and truthfully this led to some creative and visually hilarious staging. Yes, it was funny. Yes, it was clever.

That being said, I wanted to personally elbow everyone in the theater in the esophagus. I've never seen a play get this much laughter for what was really just cute and clever. I switched seats at intermission because the woman next to me in the mezzanine kept musing (ALOUD!) that "This is so clever." Tragically, the woman I ended up sitting next to during the second act was incapable of normal human laughter. Instead of a chuckle, or even a snicker, she would substitute saying (ALOUD!) the phrase "That's funny" whenever something remotely funny happened.

Now, I hate it when people vocally and emphatically praise a mediocre play as they leave the theater. Just imagine my steam-blowing-out-my-earedness when my two neighbors did it DURING the show.

It really kills me because I'm sure the play was good enough for me to be able to say I just enjoyed it. I love Hitchcock. I love visual humor and clever staging. But forevermore will I have to remember "The 39 Steps" as the play that was good, but not that good.

To return my heart to an upright and happy position, I'll end on this note. Tonight at Fashion Design, we did (more) live model drawings. Taking my teacher's advice (proof that I've improved my ability to swallow my pride, considering she began her criticism with "If you want your drawings to look less cartoon-y), I drew a really stunning figure. Which the entire class was going apeshit over. I'm trying to stay humble, but I need to emphasize this fact so that later this week when I feel worthless (it happens once a week, at least) I'll remember back to Wednesday night when I was a fucking ace talent, superartist extrordinaire.

I'm a fucking ace talent, superartist extrordinaire.

Post-yoga and feeling fine

Okay, this post is going to make people think I'm a big effing hippie. And you know, maybe I am-- my hair and fingernails certainly attest to it.

But yes, I'm not eating meat for a little while. For at least a week, to test the dolphin-safe waters. I read up on the benefits of a vegan diet somewhere (I know where, I'm just too embarrassed to disclose), and it actually made enough of an impact that I'd give it a shot. Why not? I have the whole rest of my life to chow down on animal carcass if I decide that my diet was lacking without it. Otherwise, I feel like I'm making a political statement that worldwide veganism would, YES, be an insanely positive thing. (My favorite fun fact is actually that the collective farts and burps of animals raised for slaughter are releasing enough methane into the air to punch a hole in the o-zone. In hindsight, I'm a bigger fan of sensation than fact, and it is for this reason that I'll never be a journalist.)

No meat. No dairy. Just whole grains, fruits, vegetables and (ohlordy) soy. Which isn't too far a cry from what I manage to eat anyway (I didn't say I was eradicating fried food, afterall). If in a week I feel as good as coughskinnybitchcough says I will, maybe I'll look into a longer trial. But really, after this morning's yoga (I sucked, but I feel great) and Jamba Juice, the endorphins alone are convincing me that I could get used to this bright and shiny vegan feeling.

Give it a week.

Blahblahblahandthen OHMYGOD Wednesday matinee day

That's what life feels like lately. Wednesdays are the shit, contrary to popular belief. Given my work schedule, Wednesday at 2pm is the only reliable time I can see a Broadway show (and for student rush prices, no less!). So the past couple Wednesdays have been joyous, old-fogey filled afternoon theater adventures.

Today, I saw "The Seafarer," by Conor McPherson. At first, it was just a delightful banter-fest (those Irish accents SLAY ME). Somewhere in the second act, it became the Broadway play where I (seated cheaply in the front row) almost got hit square in the middle of my forehead by a piece of flying set. It's a fight scene, and a chair gets thrown into a dresser-- which in this ill-fated performance, starred an air-borne drawer handle that chipped violently off. Towards the audience. Right at me.

Thanks to my ninja-esque reflexes and a readiness at all times for shit to try hitting me in the face, I ducked. It actually would have hit me if I hadn't. And later, when the show had ended and it became acceptable, everyone in my section of the audience was like "HOLYSHITDUDETHATWASAWESOME." Which is funny to hear when a retiree says it.

Otherwise, I had a pretty boring week.

Other than the fact that I'm not eating meat anymore. We'll talk about that soon. I'm shleepy and I plan on waking up early to do some fuckin YOGA.

I cyciclical

In the course of one week I have
- been outrageously optimistic
- experienced a brief bout of productivity
- gotten sick
- gotten sicker
- lost hope (hyperbole intended)
- healed, so to speak
- thrown a Superbowl party
- regained my optimism

I'd call that "about par."

And to thank for my optimism returning, I'd call it a three-way tie between
- seeing "A Chorus Line"
- being one of the top three sketch-artists in my fashion design class (self-appointed)
- Ricky's all-too-late expulsion from Project Runway

I like
- lists, apparently
- ice cream
- when Stephen King writes the back page article in Entertainment Weekly

I don't like
- ending on a positive note, apparently
- Ricky
- when Diablo Cody writes the back page article in Entertainment Weekly