This is a followup to yesterday’s post, which was written in quite the haphazardly, slapdash fashion. If you haven’t read it yet, I suggest you do that first, to avoid confusion.
…catering headquarters. I was, for obvious reasons, in a bit of a state at that point, and there wasn’t anyone left except for one poor kitchen boy, who took one look at me and got the hell out of my way. I realized I was going to be late for this meeting I had to go to, so I threw things back where they belonged, reparked the stupid, honking big van, and sprinted to my car.
I definitely sped down to the studio. I think if I passed any cops they could probably sense the crazy that was happening in my car, so they got out of my way.
Got to the studio, 5 minutes late. Varenka unlocked the door for me and let me in and I run into the room and sit against the wall.
Do you ever have those moments where you’ve been running around all day and you just stop and sit down and all the sudden all you want to do is go to sleep? That’s kind of what was happening to me, but I’d had three cups of coffee at work (it’s free! Yay!) and so I had exhaustion jitters. I was semi-falling asleep against the wall, but I couldn’t get my hands and feet to stop jerking. It wasn’t so much like I couldn’t sit still as that my extremities were twitching. During this semi-serious conversation about changing your life. We’ve all been there, right?
I’m pretty sure at this point I may actually be dying, but I pick up the packet of paper I’m given and flip through it in an attempt to look like I’m paying any sort of attention. I seriously couldn’t tell you what we talked about if my life depended on it. I think cucumbers were involved? I don’t know.
The meeting ends. Sprint home. Get changed. I actually had time to play through one song before I headed down to the gig. I also realized I hadn’t eaten in about 8 (9? 10?) hours, so I slammed a Lean Cuisine (Santa Fe rice and beans, nummers). Then I realized it was Scarlett O’Hara’s birthday and she told me to look cute and wear heels, so I rechanged into a dramatically less comfortable outfit, ran to my car, and sprinted (sped) downtown.
So I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I sort-of play in a band aka a duet aka my friend who is in an actual, real band lets me sing with him sometimes. I play the ukulele, because I am a giant cliché. My friend (let’s call him Captain Apollo) basically has to coddle and cosset me into doing this, because I apparently have no problem talking to giant groups of people, but I would rather pull out my toenails than sing in front of people in public places.
Captain Apollo talks me through soundcheck, and we get everything set-up and then I go drink what is rapidly becoming my regular pre-show order of a Labatt Blue and a shot of Jameo.
At this point my friends show up with Scarlett O’Hara, and I realize that I’ve neglected to properly prepare them for the atmosphere that is this bar (let’s call it the Battlestar). So they walk into the Battlestar and they’re all prettied up and Varenka is wearing actual, real live pants which is an extremely rare event for her, and we’ve all got heels on and whatnot, and this is one of those divey-er types of dive bars where the average clientele have knuckle tattoos and you’re almost encouraged to draw obscene things on the wall. It’s bit of a surreal moment, and they’re all looking a bit deer-in-headlightsy, even Rory, who rocks a poker face like no one else I’ve ever met.
However, I have no time to comfort them because just like that Captain Apollo is summoning me to the stage. I play my 7 song set-list, which went pretty okay, and get off the stage, and the girls are raring to get out of the Battlestar, like, yesterday. So we rush out of there.
We wander around for a bit and end up in my least favorite bar in town, which is apparently pretty heated on a Thursday because It Is Bumping.
And that’s when I just lose my head.
I think I’ve done a pretty decent job at explaining how Thursday was just a bit of a shit-show for me thus far. So imagine, if you will, coming fresh from the day I’ve had with barely any time to sit down, let alone take my foot off the gas pedal, and getting immediately thrown into a club packed full of sweaty strangers who are trying to rub up on you and chat you up and buy you drinks. It was not pretty. Varenka and Scarlett ended up getting tequila shots which I did not partake in as I was driving, and they seemed to be immediately okay with the situation. I backed myself up against the wall and clung to my Red Bull vodka for dear life.
I think I lasted about twenty minutes before I had to get out of there, internet. I was about to have a breakdown that would rival any toddler you know. Imagine a five-year old just had to pick up all her toys and eat brussel sprouts for dinner and then her brother gets a bigger slice of cake than she does. That was me. I was tired, uncomfortable, overwhelmed, emotional and I. Just. Couldn’t.
I lit outta there like a race horse on speed, people.
Moral of the story?
There is none.
Okay internet. I have no time to write a blog today. So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m giving myself exactly twenty minutes to write, and at the end I’m cutting it off, no matter where I end up. If there’s story left over, I’ll finish it tomorrow. Here goes nothing.
So I cater part-time for a really awesome local catering place here, and two weeks ago they sent me to run a reception for the creative writing program up at the swanky university here in town. If you follow my blog you may remember me mentioning this program before- I was recently rejected from it.
Cut to this Thursday.
This is what my schedule looked like – teach a yoga class, run home, shower, run to work, cater another reception for the program I was just denied from, run back to the yoga studio for a 40 days meeting, run back home, change, run downtown, play a music gig, and then go out of my friend Scarlett O’Hara’s birthday. Oh, also write a blog post at some point. Yeesh.
As anticipated, the day went just about as well as expected. First off, I woke up to house construction drilling its way into my skull. Then we were out of non-decaf coffee Keurig cups. Great start. I ended up gerry-rigging a fillable Keurig thingy while the construction guys yelled at each other across my kitchen.
I had a crazy full noon class at the studio (14 people!!!) WHICH I TOTALLY ROCKED. So that made up for the morning.
Fast forward to the event (ten minutes on the clock, I think I can do this post in under twenty). The event coordinator, recognizing me from the previous event when we discussed my application to and excitement about the program, immediately asked if I was accepted, and I had to tell her I was not. Awkward. I set everything up and wait for the students to come in, whereupon three others I’d had the same conversation with prior, asked me the same thing (still rejected, thanks guys).
And then I get to stand there invisibly in the corner listening to people workshop their current projects and talk about literature and eat canapés and occasionally come over to get refills on their flavored seltzer water. Fab.
By the time people are filling out of there, I’m so flustered that the event coordinator mentions something to me about a reception involving the poet Lynn Emanuel and I refer to her as a dude, which probably confirms for her my rejection from Cornell because how dare I not know every poet ever and their respective genders (is what I’m thinking, because that’s how my mind works).
So then I get to packed everything up and push this ridiculously full cart up a hill through the snow to the van, and things are dropping off the stupid thing and I’m huffing and puffing and wearing a freaking skirt and flats and someone asks if I need help and I almost bite their head off because THE SITUATION WAS UNDER CONTROL (not).
And then I pack up the van and cry and have a little hissy fit for about three minutes before heading back to the
Ugh, internet. I was totally going to write about something cool but Mom asked me to print something out and the printer is having a hissy fit and now my hands look like I got into a turf war with a toddler holding an uncapped marker in Peaceful Sky Dove Blue or whatever. So we are going to talk about printers.
I know I’m a yoga teacher and I’m not supposed to get irrationally upset about random things, but I’m about to have a breakdown right now. I can’t even process how upset I get staring at the blinky little lights that flash at me whenever I open the machine and gaze into the innards of the printer. Like, COME ON, CANONiP6700D. I’m printing in black and white and the “Photo Cyan” is out of ink and you can’t handle it? GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, CANONiP6700D IF THAT IS YOUR REAL NAME. MORE LIKE CANAN8423I’MANIDIOTWHOCAN’TPERFORMUNDERPRESSURE.
Honestly, why do I need two different types of cyan? Like, real talk. I know it’s like yada ya photorealistic bleep bloop something or other, but COME ON. The other colors in there have their heads in the game, Cyan, what’s your deal?
Ugh, and then of course I put the wrong Cyan cartridge in there and the printer’s just blinking at me and the screen’s flashing this message like YOU HAVE THE SAME TWO TYPES OF CYAN IN THERE NOW, IDIOT.
SHUT UP PRINTER YOU DON’T KNOW ME.
So then I went upstairs and tried to use Dad’s printer and the software wouldn’t install on my laptop so I had a mental breakdown moment and Dad was just staring at me like whut and I was all GAHHHH all the printers in the house be trifling, D!!!
Seriously though. Ugh.