Part of my sickness is hearing bits of dialogue in my brain, or lines. If I am lucky, I have a notebook to write it down otherwise– Zip. Bupkiss. Gone.

If I am deep into writing a play, characters will act out scenes in my head and I just have to get somewhere to transcribe their banter, but it’s been some time since that happened.

Today I took my brand spanking new notebook and myself to lunch at Bodean’s. I have a play- a horribly derivative kitchen sink poor man’s Albee, Ayckbourn and Gurney, but a play nonetheless in my little head and I want to start to get it down.

I looked over at one of the waitresses and snorted when I heard what one of the male characters (in my head) said.

I wrote down, “Yes. She is very pretty. In a transvestite kind of way.”

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Lea Stein Fairy

Originally uploaded by treefrog girl.

Wonderful post (as usual) at 37 Days about imagination and children and allowing for possibility.

Patti’s post reminds me of a phrase written on my First Grade report card. If I were to pull out this 32 year old document which I’ve saved somewhere in the loft, you would see that Sister carped, “Uses inappropriate colors.”

If she is still alive, which is entirely possible as she was evil, I am certain she would consider it a sin that I salute my six year old self.

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A.O. Scott has been one of my favourite film critics for a while. His style is clear, he doesn’t get all uppity and snobby and sometimes he makes me laugh. His review for The Love Guru has a couple of inspired paragraphs.

Which might sum up “The Love Guru” in its entirety but only at the risk of grievously understating the movie’s awfulness. A whole new vocabulary seems to be required. To say that the movie is not funny is merely to affirm the obvious. The word “unfunny” surely applies to Mr. Myers’s obnoxious attempts to find mirth in physical and cultural differences but does not quite capture the strenuous unpleasantness of his performance. No, “The Love Guru” is downright antifunny, an experience that makes you wonder if you will ever laugh again.

And this is, come to think of it, something of an achievement. What is the opposite of a belly laugh? An interesting question, in a way, and to hear lines like “I think I just made a happy wee-wee” or “I’m making diarrhea noises in my cup” or to watch apprentice gurus attack one another with urine-soaked mops is to grasp the answer. Please don’t misunderstand: I’m not opposed to infantile, regressive, scatological humor. Indeed, I consider myself something of a connoisseur. Or maybe a glutton. So it’s not that I object to the idea of, say, witnessing elephants copulate on the ice in the middle of a Stanley Cup hockey match, or seeing a dwarf sent flying over the same ice by the shock of defibrillator paddles. But it will never be enough simply to do such things. They must be done well.

I have a feeling they won’t be using his quotes for the poster. . .

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I’m flipping around in Monster looking at job ads not out of any huge wish to leave my gig- but I’ve always tried to keep my eye open for what’s out there as you never know.

In my surfing travels, I come across an ad that may have the most inspired sentence EVER.

Are you looking for an international oriented and challenging career at one of the leading global engineering thermoplastic companies?

How did they know? Just this morning I thought, “I know! Thermoplastic Engineering!”

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Given my natural talent for hurting myself, skydiving, bungee jumping and crossing a road in Vietnam are activities best left to others. I often have some phantom bruise on my body earned from running into an invisible wall and the not so invisible ones.

Once in my apartment in LA, I stepped on a pile of newspapers that were on the floor, managed to lose my balance and fell backward, smacking my head on the floor. I lay there for a few moments. My cats crawling over me. . .mewing in that, ”Oooo! You’re down on the floor. . . are you dead yet so we can eat you?” way that cats have. And I knew. I saw with absolute clarity that this, someday, was exactly how I was going to bite it.

You read it here first.

If stubbing your toes were an Olympic Sport, I would be the Nadia Comaneci.

You don’t believe me?

Guess how I broke my ankle eight years ago? (Those that know, pipe down.)

Answer: Walking down the pavement (sidewalk) in Greenwich Village.

And so. Because Dear Reader, random, freakish injury is something I am terribly well versed in, it so happened in the wee small hours of the morning, I won a trip to the A&E (ER for my American readers).

Last night I had some people over for dinner. It was a no partner’s thing and Stuart was a doll and didn’t raise a fuss when I kicked him out of the house as it gave him a chance to give his father his Father’s Day present. (I don’t normally make it a habit to arrange dinner parties he doesn’t get to attend. He was supposed to still be in the US but had cut his trip short and come home early.)

Had ten people over which is always a bit of a military operation cooking for that many. Especially when you have a mix of low carbers, vegetarians and normal folks that are quite happy to eat whatever you give them.

Was a really fun evening. Wish I could have even more people over but space and my culinary ability is tapped out methinks at 10 bodies.

I had training to do the next morning so I didn’t let myself get too tipsy. Just tipsy enough.

All guests we gone by 1:30 and our cleaner would be here in the morning so I needed to do the dishes before she arrived and I left for work. I decided to clean before bed.

And so it happened that at 2am when I was three-fourths of the way through the dishes, I managed to gash the top of my right index finger. In the 10 seconds from it happening to my grabbing a paper towel to apply pressure, my kitchen looked like the Manson family had attacked me.

Okay. I could just put a plaster (band-aid) on it and carry on. Sure. I pulled the paper towel away to see if the bleeding stopped. Blood spurted like The Black Knight’s flesh wound.

Great.

Where do I go?

I called Stuart at his parents to ask for advice but he didn’t hear the phone. Don’t blame him. It’s two in the bloody morning.

What to do? I have zero clue where the closest hospital is so I dial 999 (911)

“Is this an emergency?”

“Well. No. Not as such. But I am bleeding and that’s not so good is it?”

She gives another number. I call. They give me the name to the hospital, St. George’s, which as soon as I heard the name I thought, “Oh yeah. I knew that.”

Take a mini cab the mile and half to the hospital (£7.50. Jerk. But I was too tired to fight his over charging me. I should have threatened to bleed on his backseat.

They look at it rather quickly. Tell me I will need stitches. And then I wait. And wait. And wait some more. What was odd is there were only two other people in the waiting room.

When they finally looked at me, the kid (had to be early 20’s tops) that fixed me up was great and I was sent on my way around 6. He was sweet and told me I was brave for taking the shot so well when he was numbing up my hand. (Which. Ok. I admit it. . . warmed me to him. Ooo! Look. I’m brave. But really how else are you supposed to take it. Sure those shots burn like a mother, but what choice do you have?)

I had to cancel my training this morning since I had zero sleep. Giving a class on Giving and Receiving Feedback would probably have not been a good thing.

The odds are high, that when my death (that will come from some random fluke accident like something out of a French farce) will be very funny to everyone watching.

Except to me. But hey. Feel free to giggle as I collect my Darwin Award.

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Someone put this on my Facebook Funwall. . .

So funny

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Stuart is coming home from San Francisco today and I need to pick up the flat for him. It’s just a bit cluttered with laundry hanging up and I was cleaning up my closet yesterday getting depressed about the fact I don’t fit in 95% of the clothing I own.

It’s beautiful today.Sunny. Clear. Feels like Spring in Los Angeles.

I made coffee and settled down at the computer before the mad dash to pick up the house.

Something was missing. I needed something.

Then I knew.

In LA the background noise when I woke up was National Public Radio. It was a huge part of my life. I listened as I got ready for work. I listened in the car. I was one of those people when I got pulled into a story would sit in the garage waiting for it to end, even if it meant being late. I gave lots of cash to my stations as well supporting KCRW and KPCC. I went to events watching Prairie Home Companion and Wait Wait. . . Don’t Tell Me being taped.

I realize this makes me terribly middle classed.

Bite me.

I put on the stream.Who says I can’t listen to Talk To the Nation Science Friday on a Sunday?

Happy now. And Stuart will be home soon.

*All Things Considered Theme Song

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I will be attending my first English wedding in a few weeks and I have been rather excited by the prospect not only because I think the happy couple are lovely people but at the prospect of wearing a hat.Hats are big at weddings here.

I love hats.

I look really good in hats.

I was online last night surfing ebay and I decided to splurge on a  Karen Miller dress that was half the price of what it would be if I got it in a brick and mortar.

But what about the hat? A few searches later on “wedding hat”, “ascot hat” and finally “formal hat”, I found an American website (of all things) that had something I think will be fabulous.

Next stop. . . Ascot. 

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Saw this a few months ago and it still makes me cry-laugh.

I think part of the reason I find it so hysterical is I have met people here with unusual surnames- names so bad I don’t know how they survived school.

I have no clue how John Oliver held himself together for this.

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