Crazy Crap Item #32: The part where I realize my penmanship needs work

Today, my husband has graciously agreed to do the grocery shopping, as I have had a very busy schedule of late. Plus, I agreed to make lasagna for dinner, so it all balances out.

I supplied a list of items we needed, which led to this conversation, later in the day:

eamondaly1110: the last item on the list looks like 'turkey purples'.
eamondaly1110: any idea what that is?
kaydaly88: hmmm. turey purples.
kaydaly88: that doesn't sound like something i'd ask for.
kaydaly88: turkey hotdogs?
eamondaly1110: maybe turky purples.
eamondaly1110: turkt purples.
kaydaly88: okay
kaydaly88: this is a guess
kaydaly88: and a sad reflection on my handwriting
kaydaly88: but
kaydaly88: maybe
kaydaly88: toilet paper?
eamondaly1110: yes!
kaydaly88: i was in a hurry.
eamondaly1110: that's what it is.
kaydaly88: but if they have turkey purples on sale
kaydaly88: i'd say stock up!

Eamon kindly provides this proof of my poor penmanship.

Crazy Crap Item #32: The part where I suspect I will be widowed young

So last week, I come home from an engagement out on the town, and am welcomed by a quite intoxicating scent at my front door. Pork chops, I think. That smells like pork chops.

Eamon is quite mysterious. "No, it's not pork chops."

"Well, it smells like pork chops."

"No, it's not pork chops."

And so it goes, until eventually, he can conceal his pride and pleasure in his cooking no longer, and reveals how he has supped this evening. In the same way that one does not like to speak the name of demons for fear of invoking them, I shan't recount the details. Instead, I'll let this picture reveal the truth.

Crazy Crap Item #31: The part where I drink it all in

So, according to New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin, his town is the metropolitan equivalent to chocolate milk.

After circulating this comment to some of my friends, I had to ask, "What is the beverage equivalent to Chicago?" I'd proffered sasparilla, for no good reason, but my good friend Will Kelly had the definitive response:

I am glad you asked Kay, I see Chicago as a 7-11 Slurpee. Basically because it is cold, and at the same time so lovely to eat/drink thus making it a drink and a sweet treat. Another reason I think we are a slurpee is because of 7-11's open policy on mixing flavors, you can go crazy or go with a single flavor. I feel that mirrors all the tastes and flavors of Chicago.

I'm so glad that's settled.

Crazy Crap Item #30: The part where I am reminded that age is only a number

In the hopes of keeping a truly comprehensive record of all the insanity, I am compelled to recall an event from last summer.

I was on the Red line heading north from Fullerton. Eamon was playing football once a week; the team meets at McGee’s for drinks after. I had decided to join them. By 10pm, it was clear Eamon was in for the long haul, so I bid him adieu.

On the train, I pass the time by playing Bejeweled on my cell phone. Through my jewel-sorting haze, I heard a man politely offer his seat to two woman so they could sit together. That was nice, I thought, swapping an emerald and diamond to score four in a row. He then plunked himself down next to me.

I play in silence for a few minutes, until he leans over conspiratorially. “Text message or a game?”

I look at him for the first time. He’s maybe late 20s, short blond hair. He’s stocky and muscle-bound and is wearing workout clothes. Earphones hang from his ears.

“Game,” I reply.

“Tell the truth,” he challenges me. “The best place to play is the pot, right?”

I assure him that the toilet is why God created crossword puzzles.

We chat some more of computer games, and he makes another bold assertion.

“Any guy will admit it: Between computer games and masturbation, they never get anything done.”

Hm. OK, I guess I’ll have to take his word for that one. I become aware that everyone around me is a bit uncomfortable with his not-so-appropriate line of flirtation. Me, I’m pretty unflappable. But I figure it’s time to put up a little wall.

“Yeah, my husband would probably agree with that.”

He does not blanch, but continues to talk about toilets, masturbation and computer games. I admit that I don’t play a lot of games, and that the one I’m playing is but a pale imitation of the game I used to love, Jewel Box, which had pretty graphics and soothing music.

“Oh, that’s what girls like,” he notes.

I bemoan the fact that Jewel Box is Mac based, so I don’t get to play it anymore. In fact, it’s been a good 10 years since I got to play it. It was quite a pleasant distraction when I was in grad school.

He stops, struck. Looks closer at me. “Wait, how old are you?”

I tell him I’ll be 39 next month.

A gasp from him. “Whoa. You’re a hot 39!”

I laugh and thank him, saying my husband would agree.

“Yeah,” he continues, chattering somewhat obsessively now, “You tell your husband I said he’s lucky. That’s good you’re married. You have to have kids. They’ll be very well-endowed.”
Truth to tell, I’m a busty lass. Still, it seems an odd reason to propagate, and an odd way to compliment a woman you’ve just met. I smile uncertainly.

“Yeah, your sons would be like tripods!”

Some of my trainmates are openly staring at him now. I’m not sure I agree that bustiness in the mother means a big package in sons. And while still I’m enjoying being unflappable, I’m still a bit relieved when he mentions his stop is Bryn Mawr, one precious stop before mine.

As I walk from the Thorndale stop to my house, I call Eamon to inform him that a socially inappropriate 20-something wants him to know his wife is a hot 39.

Crazy Crap Item #29: The part where I understand how Lana Turner felt at Schwab's

It's been a full week since I posted any crazy crap because, I felt, nothing truly crazy had happened in my life. Ah, the dullness.

Then it struck me that something fairly crazy had happened, and I had merely overlooked it. Forgive me, I've been very busy, so perhaps my crazy meter is off.

Here is the jist: A little over the week ago, I was sent to review a little show at a little theater. It had a fairly small crazy-ness factor: the son of Jim Belushi was in the cast. Clearly, I'm not so starstruck as to think that mere fact warrants a crazy crap entry.

I was attending solo that night, and being it was a small house, it was -- ugh -- general admission. I loathe general admission. I'm small, and so I need a good seat in order to see. Really. Besides, I'm selfish. And I hate having to jostle to secure my place.

At this particular performance, however, I did not need to jostle, as the producers had thoughtfully set aside primo seats for reviewers and representatives of the Jeff committee (Chicago's version of the Oscars). Being as Eamon was not in tow, I was shown to a single reviewer's seat, located directly next to a Jeff committee seat. And up until about 5 minutes before curtain, the seat next to me remained open.

At the very last moment, a fellow was shown in by an usher, who directed him to the seat next to me. I'm a polite sort, so I got up to let him in (my seat was on the aisle). While doing so, it registered with me that he was, oh my, the top critic at one of Chicago's most renowned newspapers (for discretion's sake, I shan't name names).

Well, again, I am not starstruck, so I in no way acknowledged his stature, thinking that I'd demonstrate my consummate professionalism by leaving him to his work unmolested.

And that's where it gets crazy.

Unbidden, he asks, "Who do you write for?" I tell him, and he asks my name. I say, "I'm sorry?" thinking I must have misheard. He asks again, and I tell him. He nods, and indicates that (a.) he's seen my work, and (b.) he's liked my work.

As given as I am to flights of egotistical fancy, this seemed altogether untenable. I mean really. I'm a third-string reviewer at best. And I'm a newbie. I assumed, therefore, that he was just being polite.

So we chat a bit more, and I explain how I met my editor and that I'm a full-time freelancer. He asks about that, and I explain what kind of work I do, and who else I've written for. Then he asks, "Have you written for us?"

I admit no, I have not.

Then he says that I should send him some clips, as they are in need of feature writers. Very great need, he adds, with just a hint of despair.

Wha? I think. He's serious. He wants me to send him some stuff, and indicates that he'll forward it on to other members of the organization.

Well, my my my.

By the end of the show, I have convinced myself that he was just being curteous, that he couldn't possibly mean it, but I intend to check in with my editor to clear that I can continue writing review for TimeOut while taking on assignments for this competing (and dominant) publication.

Well, to close out a long story as briefly as possible, my editor assures me that the professional proposition I received is, indeed, a big deal and a big compliment. And that I should go for it.

And that's just crazy.

Crazy Crap Item #28: The part where I weep for Broadway

Phantom of the Opera just surpassed Cats as the longest-running Broadway show ever.

Sigh.

That said, the show has provided a mass of wealth for my friend and one-time castmate, Jim Weitzer, who made a mint playing Raoul in the Broadway and touring companies.

And, of course, that Andrew Lloyd Webber masterpiece inspired my good friends Nicole Hudson and Michael Shattner to create my all-time favorite bowlderized ditty, by rewriting the title song as an anthem for a new musical version of Oediupus Rex:

"I killed my father;
Slept with my mom.
Now what a bother
My life's become.
The curse upon me
Will have no end.

I'm OEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-DIPUS THE KING
I have no eyes,
I gouged them out."

Crazy Crap Item #27: The part where the name of this blog is suddenly and unexpectedly justified

Things have been slow, crazy-crap-wise. My life has been painfully normal the last few weeks, which makes blogging about the insanity nigh unto impossible.

And then...

I begin to sift through a crapload of materials for a variety of projects I'm doing for a client. One is a return to a project I'd done some work on before, faculty profiles for a redesign of a college website. I'd drafted about half the profiles last fall; now I was being asked to input changes from the client on all the profiles completed and send them back to the client for final approval.

So I'm sifting through the profiles I didn't write to get a sense of the scope of the project.

And then I see it. A profile of a young theater professor. And I recognize the name. Sure, maybe it's not such a stretch. I'm from L.A.; the college is based in L.A. I've done theater, and did a lot of performing in my home town.

But still, what are the odds that a random prof at a random college would be the KID WHO PLAYED SEYMOUR WHEN I PLAYED AUDREY IN LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS MORE THAN SIXTEEN YEARS AGO????

Clearly, it's one for the crazy crap record books.