My favourite drug of all time is when I’m sitting in the audience of something I have written and people laugh at all of the right places. There is nothing like it. Even E can’t touch it.
A far away second is when I am training or just telling a story with mates and you hit the punch line and they laugh.
Today one of my stories that I told got the exact same laugh that it got in London and it was wonderful.
I realise that this makes me shallow and sad. I don’t care.
Sometimes I get these grumpy blues where I just want to do nothing except eat chocolate cake.
I’m in one of them now only I don’t have any cake. It dosn’t help that my period just started and I am crampy and bloated and burst into tears at the slightest thing.
Stuart suggested that I come with him to Camden and when I was ho-huming about it, told me to not come if I don’t want to. All very reasonable. I still tried to pick a fight with him over it.
“So, you don’t want me to come.”
“That’s not what I said. I said, don’t come if you feel like you have to.”
He should just realise that he can’t do anything right at the moment except give me a hug and let me cry a little.
I hate when I get like this. Makes me feel weak. And hormonal. And stupid.
I should just go buy some cake and watch something cheerful like Ingmar Bergman films.
Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
Henry David Thoreau
I play the “what if” game with myself. It isn’t so much a regret party - more a wondering who and where I would be if I had zagged instead of zigging. I have talked about this before about how the most innocuous of decisions can change your entire life.
My saying yes to the museum date with the IT guy at Yahoo (Stuart). If I had said no would I still be in Los Angeles? And if still in LA, the next question is would I have gone postal at my office and be in jail serving life?
If I hadn’t been a good Catholic girl, going to mass while I was at University, would I still consider myself a Christian?
If I had not taken the internship in the amazingly disorganized and completely FUBAR literary department at the now defunct Group Theatre in Seattle, would I still be actively involved in that scene?
I wonder if it is the small part of me that still thinks I am a writer that does this. That has this urge to play with the dramatic action dominos and knock them over in another direction. The thing is, if I had zagged, I would be curious about the zig.
I do have certain regrets, most of them around my being a lazy bitch. Not being serious with my writing, not being serious with taking care of my body, not being serious about keeping my long distance friendships healthy. I have long lists in my head about things that I need to do, that I want to do, but somehow let time get away. (I really need to call my Grandparents. Haven’t spoken to them for months and months.)
I think I’m a floater. It’s not that I wait for things to happen to me or that I wait for people to take care of me or sort things for me or carry my over packed luggage - Good fucking god I hate people like that. It is more. . . I just get by leading my life of quiet desperation.
I’m not sure why I do this.
I procrastinate. I am sitting here writing this when I should be getting ready for work. That said, if there were a meeting or some emergency that I would need to be there for, I would be there first thing.
I have the Life in the UK test Friday and I have barely cracked the book. Sigh. I know what I will be doing the next two evenings. I have heard it is a rather easy test so if I fail it, I really am a Muppet.
Not really sure what else to say about my procrastinating right now. Guess I will tell you later.
I cry. Big sobbing sap.
I just had to wipe my eyes. I’m watching the wonderful interview/food show A Taste of My Life. It’s a show with Nigel Slater (who I adore). He interviews celebrities and talks about their life in relation to food and he cooks the food that comes out of those conversations. (Which is an inspired idea.) They often film little bits of family and friends for the guest and I got teary at the Natasha Richardson section. Why?
I’m a big shill.
If something is a little funny, I with laugh. If something is a little sentimental or sad, I will sob. Sleepless in Seattle I will cry at. I’m cursing myself the entire time that I am letting my buttons be pushed, but I will cry anyway. If something is sad and it isn’t shit, I’m an even bigger mess. I dare you to not cry at the end of Places in the Heart, which may have one of the most perfect endings ever. (Wonderful film if you don’t know it.)
I also cry when I am really, really angry which pisses me off because it is so fucking girly and makes me feel like I look weak, which makes me cry even more.
I also cry (well not cry, my eyes water) when I find something really funny which can be embarrassing when people think something has upset you and you’re actually fine.
So if you see me crying, I could be really upset or I just saw a sappy commercial or I am livid or I’m laughing at something.
I curse. I like to throw out the occasional f-bomb. I am a bit better now, but I still do it.
Not sure why. When I was a kid and when my mom was angry, she was so very talented at stringing words together that even David Mamet hadn’t thought of. Now she says ‘fetch’ and ’shoot’ which is good because her blood pressure is much lower and she is generally a much happier person, which isn’t due to her not swearing. I think it is due to the fact that she has been retired for over ten years.
I’m not an angry swearer. I mean, I do swear when angry, but I am more of a punctuation swearer.
Like when Stu forgot the keys and I said, “You gotta be fucking kidding me.” If I had said, “You gotta be kidding me” it just isn’t the same.
So I curse.
Fucking sue me.
I have the unfortunate habit of smiling when I hear something really terrible. I don’t think the horrible news is funny and I’m not amused but I have this involuntary pull up of my lips.
Friend: My parents were both diagnosed with cancer this morning.
Me: (Smile. Quickly cover face with hands) Oh, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry.
Friend: Why are you smiling. It’s not funny.
Me: (Still smiling. Keep one hand over bottom part of face) I know! It’s terrible.
Friend: They have less than six months to live.
Me: (Suck in lips. Shake my head hoping the motion will kill the smile twitch) God. I’m sorry, sorry. . .
I am exaggerating (slightly).
I will sometimes read the horoscopes of people that I am actively not speaking to and am always a little disappointed that there isn’t a blurb telling that specific person how crap they are as a human being and that they really should just give it all up and throw themselves in front of a train.
I love kids but am very happy that I don’t have them. One of my scripts I wrote a million years ago had a character that said, “We don’t want kids. We want dogs.”
I don’t know how some parents, especially in my industry do it. I love that I am able to go out after work and not stress taking care of a family or dealing with shrieking temper tantrums.
I’m happy being the cool Aunt- especially given that my nephews mothers are. . . sigh. . . shall we say, lacking certain skills? My stepfather once said, “Nicole is the only one that should have had kids.” I adore my nephews and the lunch dates out with them are some of my favourite memories.
When I was 20 and was first expressing the crazy thought that I would not have kids, a guy I worked with at the Utah Shakespearean Festival (Hey. Don’t laugh. It’s won a Tony) said, “You have to have kids Nicole. Smart people never breed.”
I dated him a few years later for a second probably because of that comment. (Telling me I’m pretty may make me like you, but tell me I am smart, I’ll have sex with you. I won’t say what I will do if you tell me I’m funny.)
So kids. Yeah.
One of my favourite bits from the David Mamet film State and Main is:
Joseph Turner White: You like kids?
Ann Black: Never saw the point of ‘em.
Joseph Turner White: Me neither.
So. Yeah. Kids, I don’t want kids.
Stuart doesn’t want kids.
I don’t want kids with Stuart.
I usually lie when making small talk with the mini cab drivers that drive me to the airport. 99.9 % of the time they are Muslim men that are married with children and when they ask if I have kids I say no and when they follow up with, “Someday?” I lie and I say, “Someday! Sure!”
Telling them I don’t want kids would just be too uncomfortable.
I don’t want kids. People know that about me. It isn’t new.
What you don’t know about me is that sometimes, I’m not sure why, I cry that I will never have a little hand reach out for me in the night. That I will never have a little soul call me Mommy or Mum or scream how much they hate me. That I will never say, “No, I can’t come out for drinks because someone is at home needing me.”
But I don’t want kids.
Really.
Honestly.
I have no interest in them.
(. . .Anyone who would have had a class with Davey would have known what I am doing. Those of you that have not had the opportunity are forgiven from not understanding that I am feeing rather sad. Actually, if I may be allowed. . . I am melancholy. But this shall pass. . . I am a verb. I will explain that later.
At some point.
Don’t worry.)
I am deeply ashamed about this. I really ought to go see someone about it. I can’t believe I am writing these words. I will regret this one day. . .
When I am alone. Maybe driving, usually driving. If I am listening to the radio. . . and an Air Supply song comes on? I will. . .
Oh god.
Please don’t judge me.
I will. . .
I will-
I,I,I. . .willsingalongandtheworstpartisIknowallthewords.
I feel so dirty.
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All words © Nicole Thomas unless otherwise credited.
Not that I think that anyone would be silly enough to steal my ramblings, but in case you may be thinking about it. . . the very act of my writing this means that I own the copyright. Really. Look it up.
So, please don't plagiarize. It just ain't cool. And what I say just isn't that interesting. Trust me. Most of my friends don't even read this.
That being said, I do subscribe to the T.S. Eliot philosophy of "Immature poets borrow, mature poets steal." There is a difference between Stealing and stealing. . . This is not to say that I am mature. If anything. . . I'm rambling aren't I? That's what I do. I ramble. So, yeah. I'll shut up now.
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