Thoughtbytes - Take 2

As you may recall, I recently had some technical issues withthis blog. Subsequently, “Rewrite blog post” has been on my To Do list every day since then. Since the Unfortunate Event occurred a week ago, clearly this task has become problematic.

Actually, it’s not the task; it’s my brain. (Stupid Brain Weasels*!)

See, I realized that I’m actually resentful of the site for eating my post. And because I’m Quite Contrary, withholding my bloggy goodness is apparently how this resentment manifests. (Let’s not get into the ridiculousness of resenting an inanimate object, OK? I know it’s silly, but there are my FEELS we’re talking about, internets; they’re not rational by definition.)

So, in the spirit of getting back on the blogging horse (yeesh, mixed metaphors much?), here’s my attempt to recreate last week’s thoughtbyte post.

·         How does a thing called a Burnt Ends Sandwich have any right to taste that good? I mean, the words “burnt” and “ends” together are the sole descriptors of said sandwich. How could that possibly be tasty? But clearly it was… ohhhh, Gates BBQ, I love you so.

·         This love of Gates is yet one more indicator that I am not a Texan, even though I’ve spent more than 30 years here. Texas BBQ? Blech. Too sweet. Give me tangy, vinegary sauce every time.

·         It is, in fact, possible to be funnel caked into submission when you don’t even purchase a funnel cake. Just add 3 friends who each needs her Very Own Funnel Cake, and the willingness to help out when they each in turn admit they can’t finish on their own. (What can I say? I’m a giver!)

·         Apparently, the answer to the question, “Do I really need a third sugar skull t-shirt?” is a resounding “YES!” when said skull is covered in glitter. On a related note, *GLITTER BOMB!* (Sorry, Julian…)

·         Speaking of sugar skulls (like ya do), the group I sing with has been invited to sing for some talented, tap dancing kids at their Halloween show. To look appropriately spooky, we decided on sugar skull make up. I not only get to wear sugar skulls, I get to BE a sugar skull! This makes my not-so-inner Goth girly do some very un-Goth-like squeebling.

·         We’re also learning Donovan’s “Season of the Witch.” Because the Diva knows/loves me, she asked me to sing lead. This led to me squeebling some more. (I know, I know… I love Gothy oontz-oontz stuff, but I also have huge love in my heart for 60s psychedelia. I’m a conundrum.)

Seriously Cthulhu-esque. innit?

·     Went to the Chihuly exhibit at the Dallas Arboretum. It was a lovely event for a friend's milestone birthday. (On Thursdays they do live music on the lawn; that evening featured Big Band tunes.) Some of the glass was lovely, but far too much seemed Lovecraft-inspired. I kept expecting to see an eyeball looking at me, right before it came to life and gobbled humanity whole. 

Me & my Mom-Away-From-Mom
at the Arboretum

      I did, however, manage to use the Big Band theme to try out my Rosie the Riveter look. (Hey, it was humid and I have really sad flat hair on a good day, so it was more of a practical decision than anything... though I will acknowledge my obvious love of playing period dress up games...)

·         While it’s somewhat reasonable to expect to hear the intro to AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” on a bagpipe when one is at an Irish music festival, beer can, in fact, make you doubt that what you’re hearing is actually happening. And when the piper deftly launches into the hook from “Sweet Child O’ Mine” and then segues into “Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now),” beer can make you think you might be having a small stroke (at least until a compadre confirms what is going on). For the record, all of this sounded awesome even to people not drinking beer. That was one talented piper.

·         Beer also turns burly guys into Woo Girls. (Adding beer on top of a funnel cake sugar high might also facilitate this transition.) This is, as one would imagine, a veritably fountain of comedy  gold.

I’m sure there’s a thoughtbyte or two missing, but this is what I can remember. I have done my duty by posting. And hey—it got me over being angry at a Web site.

Mostly.

* Sometimes you hear people describe unhealthy, obsessive mental behavior with the “hamster in a wheel” metaphor. My brain is, apparently, an overachiever; it replaced hamsters with weasels. They’re more ferocious and a lot less cute than hamsters and when they run rampant it’s really not pretty.

Hats Off*

I never would have thought of myself as A Hat Person, but I would have been wrong.

See, my friend B has lovely, sleek hair that holds curls and waves in a way that makes me more than a little jealous. Lamenting how my sad, flat, baby-fine hair makes it tricky to go work out and then go somewhere—yes, I am a sweater (no, I don't mean a knit top/jumper; I am merely a lover of sweaters)—because I can't just wash-and-go. Well, I could, but it's largely inadvisable. (Rather like that next-to-last sentence. I've been told I write like I talk; it's a feature.)

Trust me on this. The amount of work it takes just to keep my tresses from pulling a Marcia is kind of astounding.

ANYway...

B cocked her head to the side, blue eyes beaming at me as if I'd lost the rest of what passes for my mind, and delivered a mild reprimand wrapped in advice: "You have the Hat Gene, sistah. USE IT!"

Oh. Well all righty then.

With that, I embraced being A Hat Person.

Being Fictional Is Hard Work

Oh beloved internets, I have fallen victim to the age old Having Too Much Life issue. My apologies for letting it keep me from you! Though I find that my busy brain is nearly always full of idle chatter and many thinky-thoughts, when it comes to choosing ones to commit to the pixelated page I'm often blocked. *le sigh*

And while I love springtime in Texas (despite the trees having sex in my nose, making breathing a somewhat more difficult proposition—stupid allergies!), it is far and away the busiest, craziest time of the year in my world (making ideating and blogging said ideas harder, too). The local Renaissance festival opens this weekend, you see, and the a cappella ensemble I sing with performs there. Yes, internets; I am in my early 40s and I still play dress up. Don't hate. (Seriously, it's all about the music for me. There is no better therapy than making music with some of the people most dear to me, and getting to act silly before and after the harmonizing. Trust me on this.)

What this means in practical terms is that I don't have a day off until June (though I'd be fibbing, internets, if I led you to believe that I didn't have a stockpile of vacation days waiting for that inevitable mid-season ye-gods-I-need-to-sleep-in-past-6-or-I-may-kick-a-kitten moment). And while I'm no longer part of the cast—which means 8 weekends of all-day rehearsals before an 8 weekend run—there's still quite a bit of prep work to be done.

See, we don't just sing. We are have characters. There's a story line behind our group, and the characters drive the banter between the songs. We are the village Tart Sellers, you see. Only the owner (the director's IRL mother) doesn't know that when we deliver tarts, we deliver tarts (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more). But no worries—our shows are kid-friendly; we describe ourselves as "Disney porn." We're so silly and fluffy there's no way we could be offensive. See?

The fluffy look, though, requires some effort... and a lot of luggage. I wish I were kidding, internets. That high-maintenance fictional Tart practically needs her own valet. It's ridiculous.

As proof I present Exhibit A—packed for a visit to the Texas Renaissance Festival:

(The red bag doesn't count - it's just pillows that make hotels more bearable.)

My stuff? In the duffel bag on the right; note that it also contains toiletries. The twice-as-large rolling suitcase on the right? Merely costume for a person that isn't real. (We share the silver makeup case, though admittedly most of the outrageous color palette inside it was bought with her in mind.)

My father once said that I work harder at my hobbies than most people do at their jobs. I don't know if that's true, but I wouldn't be surprised. As much as I enjoy what I do during the season, I'm kind of looking forward to the first week of June.

I know how much energy and effort goes into this labor of love, you see; I took the week post-festival off. When my co-workers asked, "What are you going to do?" I answered in all honesty (and with a small sigh of relief), "Not a damn thing."

So here's to my 8th season with some of my favorite people, doing what I love best. Maybe I'll find a valet this year...

A Slight Case of Hyperbole*

This post will make those of you who have met me more than twice will either find my next statement to be humorous or so utterly unbelievable that you'll think it's an exaggeration, but I swear to you it's not.

In packing for a business trip last week**, I determined that I didn't own enough black shirts.

I seriously couldn't find one that looked right with what I was planning to wear!

Here's how I know this is a suspension of disbelief moment. My friend, who, for blog purposes we'll call The Muppet (who is, as you'd guess, a very physically expressive, animated human), knew this about me years and years ago. I showed up at a party and she exclaimed, "And there's Peg wearing all black." (Cue deadpan.) "Try not to be shocked." (Maybe... just maybe, internets, I might still have a bit of an old-school Goth thing going on.)

This may be one of those things that only other women and gay men—or at least those who are clothes-oriented—understand. While I have a lot of black clothing, the shades of black don't always match (due to dye lots and slight fading in the wash, etc.). And since this jacket was black and grey striped with black trim at the edges, the black shirt to go underneath would be right up against the black stripe, thus showing very obviously that the blacks didn't match. Gasp, argh!

Since I was traveling for a somewhat important business trip, that clearly would not do.

"Peg," you may be thinking, "why didn't you simply pack something else?"

To which, dear internets, I would respectfully reply, "Because of shoes." And I wouldn't even be fibbing or using what my friend LE Bean calls The Exaggeray (which is the linguistic equivalent of a Death Ray, only it imbues a statement with dangerously toxic levels of hyperbole).

Of course, when one is flying nowadays, there's a heightened need to streamline packing. While I am a Gold frequent flyer—which means I don't get charged that pesky $25 baggage check fee—I still don't want to have to wrangle a ridiculous amount of luggage. (I still have my monstrosity of a purse plus a laptop bag with which to contend, after all.) Therefore, I try to fit it all in one case, which means 1 to 2 pairs of shoes at the most.

Since I'm trying to be a healthier Peg—what with surviving the Boobonic Plague^TM and all—one of those pairs is going to be something athletic in nature, thus not at all suited for business meetings when one is employed at a company in the top 20 of Fortune 500 companies.

This means that before each trip I have to decide which pair of shoes I wish to wear for business. Then I have to match my outfits to go with the resulting choice of either black or brown shoes (and if you have to ask why it matters, internets, I don't know that I can help you). My wardrobe choices are further narrowed by my inability to almost pathological hatred of ironing. This limits options to things that won't wrinkle (much).

Add to that my post-Plague issues with climate control—radiation blew out my thyroid, so for the first time in the history of me I am perennially chilly (which equals layers of clothing and an extra wrap to avoid freezing to death [damn you, Exaggeray!] discomfort and proportional levels of crankiness)—and it curtails my choices even further.

It's not like I can pack my Skull and Crossbones Slanket (best. purchase. EVAR!), and I'd feel a little silly shipping it. Then there's the possibility of loss or damage. (The horror!) Plus, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to expense it.

It's tragic, really, these First World problems of mine.

So to 'splain (or, since it's probably too late, sum up like a dashing Spanish swordsman), one pair of black shoes + shades of black that don't match ÷ necessity for warm(ish), packable business-appropriate clothing = ±20*** black shirts/sweaters that simply won't do.

In other words, I really don't own enough black clothing. Who'd have thunk it?





* Bonus points to any of you who get the musical reference in the title.

** This is where I make my excuse for not posting last week. Somehow, I thought that traveling all morning, meetings all afternoon, and a team dinner that evening would still leave me time to write this post.


All I can say, internets, is that some days it's a good thing I'm pretty 'cuz I ain't always that bright.

*** Also not an exaggeration