My Seven Last Words

"Holy crap," she blasphemed blithely, "that's-a-lotta church time." It really is! I just got the email with he coming week's rehearsal/service choir schedule. Check it out:

Tomorrow: Two rehearsals, two services.
Monday: No church. My last chance to get groceries, do laundry, and commit a couple of sins.
Tuesday: 11:15 call for a 12:00 service, which is The Blessing of the (Extra-Virgin) Oil, and no, I am not kidding. Somehow I suspect the oil will be Extra-Virgin-In-Perpetuity.
Wednesday: A two-hour evening rehearsal with orchestra.
Maunday Thursday: 6:30 call for 7:30 service.
Good Friday: 11:15 call for Noon Good Friday Service.
Saturday: 7:15 call for the 8:00 Easter Vigil
Easter Sunday: 8:00 call for services at 9 and 11

I'm estimating 23 hours at church this week, not including travel time. After all this, I fully expect to transubstantiate. Or bite the head off a chocolate Jesus. And then go get brunch.

So. Let me know if you need me to pray for your sins, or for the healing of your bodily ills, or even your flawed fashion sense, because by this time next week, I should be BFF with anyone Who ever played a starring role in a stained glass window.

Terra Firma

We made it back home yesterday evening and immediately went out for Japanese food, where we ran into the other Newtopians who had also returned to empty refrigerators.

Then, my brain sharpened with sushi, I went over to Mamarazzi to make fun of Madonna.

And now, inspired by the sight of Madge in her purty white clothes, I'm doing laundry.

Live blogging from Orlando airport. Again.

You know, I'm sort of a Pollyanna type, so my first reaction to dealing with adversity is to find the bright side.

Now the dark side of my situation is that lately, I've been spending an unbelievable amount of time in airports. Even though hanging around in airports is not my idea of Spring Break Bliss.

On the other hand, hanging around the Orlando airport is affording me the opportunity to drink Cafe con Leche and eat quesitos. Which is nice. And with luck, the fat and sugar calories will decide that what happens in the airport stays in the airport.

Although even the Pollyanna in me suspects that those calories are going to climb onto my ass and ride back to Chicago with me.

When you're a professional whiner, luxurious Bahamian cruises can't cramp your style

I thought I would take advantage of the free wireless internet service at the Orlando airport to copy and paste a rant from my Sent Email folder. I begin by replying to my friend's pleasure in my having to pay big bucks to read emails from her. And then I segue into a more general rant.

Aboard the Disney Wonder, At Sea

... I'm also paying to read myself. And I don't seem able to log the fuck off this expensive network, so even when I'm not using my laptop, I'm getting charged for connect time. Naturally I'm not happy about that. Sure, I enjoy throwing money around like all that water out there, but I'd like to get something for it, and unused internet connect time doesn't qualify.

The seawood wrap/massage thing I did this morning was pretty unpleasant. The seaweed wrap part of the event means you get painted all over with green goo in a chilly room, then wrapped up in one of those foil blankets they put on runners who have just completed a marathon, with some cotton blankets on top of that. Then I got a foot rub instead of the scalp massage because having just spent $45 on a shampoo/blow-out, I was damned if someone was going to rub oil all over my scalp. I suppose the foot rub was pleasant enough, but I spent the whole time thinking about the invitations I haven't yet ordered for the fundraiser I'm chairing in June.

Then I had to drag my seaweed-covered body into a shower stall while trying to keep a towel on my head to protect my hair from the shower spray, not to mention the seaweed. Where I used some kind of shower gel and then some kind of scrubby shit to get the seaweed off. I could have hung out in there for a long, long time because it was warm, unlike the room with the seaweed.

Then the masseuse gave me a back and lower leg massage. The parts where I was lying on my stomach were not excruciating, but not comfortable, either, since my boobs got in the way, and I couldn't really breathe with my face on a terrycloth-covered donut. I think my head ended up a bit lower than my torso, and my sinuses took the opportunity to fill. So there I was, mouth breathing and trying to prop my head up while holding my breasts off the table. And then, the masseuse found some knotted muscles and beat them up for a while, and then, when that wasn't enough torment for her to inflict, she went at my right scapular like a terrier with a bone.

I suppose I ended up all relaxed and shit, but it's been an hour and I'm already back to my usual tense self, complete with my signature loudly crackling shoulder joints. Not to mention that I'm supposed to be drinking water to help flush out toxins, but I hate water, so I'm on my second latte. I figure I might as well give the water some more toxins to flush, in case I they all came out in the seaweed wrap.

So the relaxed/detoxed effects lasted all of twenty minutes--but what's a girl to do? I suppose I should just stop typing and mousing and using the internet. Also, I guess I should knock off sitting upright, brushing my teeth, or using my facial muscles in any way whatsoever.

Because basically, everything I like to do makes me tense. Life makes me tense. Tense is my natural state.

But natural is good, right? So what's with all the seaweed and oil? I feel like a cross between a maki roll and one of those shallow saucers they fill with oil in"Italian" restaurants because they don't think you like butter with your bread. Because, honestly, more oil please; I simply can't get enough of the stuff. Don't stint, JUST POUR SOME MORE ON.

And another thing. Do they all absolutely have to try to sell me seaweed bath salts and cellulite oil and other ridiculously unscientific mumbo-jumbo-laden overpriced products?

Are you getting the idea that I loathe spa services?

Well, I bought some AHA cream and some night cream. And a bottle of some kind of greeze (grease with a Southern accent) for my cuticles and heels and even hair, should I become emboldened to greeze up my head with it (only to have to spend an hour in the shower scrubbing it out ...)

All in all between the services, the tips, the products, and the gold Disney Cruise charm and chain I bought myself because I fucking felt like it, plus the expensive internet time I can't manage to turn off, I expect I added about $1,000 to our credit cards.

ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?

xxx,
Name Withheld Upon Request

p.s. It's been an hour and a half and I'm still slippery.

If you're reading this, you should know this:

I'm not. My internet access is all but non-existent.

So I'll have to save the thrilling tale of our journey to Walt Disney World for one of those long winter evenings, as this is my first internet access since Wednesday, and I doubt I'll have much time for composing witty blog entries while on board a cruise ship.

BUT you need to know two things:

I have been hanging around with the Jokes.

And I'm staying in Tuvalu.

If you're feeling like shit / And you need a quick lift / Caffeine

I'm completely freaking out over EVERYTHING, but especially over other people's caffeine levels. Or the lack thereof.

Blackbird says she hasn't had caffeine in 22 years. That's a long time. I haven't known how to drive a car that long, but I've been driving around like the bat in the adage for a fairly long stretch, and always in a highly caffeinated state, or at the very least, wishing I were. I cannot imagine doing without for 22 years.

Then there's Joke, who claims to always drink espresso. With which, frankly, I can't be bothered. The cups are so small. The coffee, while robust in aroma, is frankly, pallid as to caffeine level. And the whole experience is over so soon. You might as well try to stay awake by sniffing the aroma from someone else's cup.

How on earth do they get anything done?

Me, I've got fifty-million things to do, and I'm pumping seriously heavy mugs of coffee to try to keep up with at least some portion of my to-do list. Which at the moment, includes the following:

1. Do laundry, empty refrigerator, tidy house, pack for Spring break.
2. Don't forget the sunscreen.
3. Do any of my spring clothes fit?
4. Crash diet time.
5. Where are our bathing suits?
6. Passports!!!!!!
7. Oh my GOD is it too late to call Disney and book shore leave or whatever they call it?
8. The Jokes are going to join us in Disney World. But are we going to eat any meals together? Probably not, since no one has called Disney Dining to book tables for eight incredibly noisy people--HEY--at least seven of which are not I, so don't look at me, OK?
9. Fundraiser 1: review invitation copy; deal with invitation list; deal with caterer.
10. Fundraiser 2: compose invitation copy, find sample invitation that has been lost for weeks, find similarly lost check from corporate donor, freak out, nag committee members to do their jobs.
11. Inform all teachers who scheduled tests for Friday that (neener neener!) my son and daughter won't be here to take them.
12. Tidy house again so the turtle sitter won't think I'm a slob.
13. Book eyebrow and leg wax, manicure, pedicure, shampoo and blow out for Wednesday morning.
14. Freak out some more.
15. And then some more, for good measure.

You can see why I marvel over other people's lack of caffeine consumption. And that's exactly what I'm doing right now, while drinking yet another mug of coffee, and blogging like a squirrel on crack.

Friday natterings

I'm sorry, Internet. I put all of today's ration of creativity into this week's Mamarazzi post. Check it out if you want to see why Donald Trump probably won't bother to get a paternity test for his latest wife's baby.

I got my hair colored and styled today. It looks good. The rest of me kind of sucks, but tonight we're going to see Cosi Fan Tutti. We sit in a box, and before the opera we have dinner in this special dining room for the Truly Big Donors. I enjoy swanning around there and feeling like Really Hot Shit, so don't worry, Internet; I'll slap on some makeup and get into the Little Black Dress du jour (whom am I kidding?* I only have one Little Black Dress. And it's "du soir," anyway.)

Now for the bad news. I need to get off my ass and pack up the minivan for a weekend in the city. I also need to talk my children into putting their clothes on, because they didn't have school today, and naturally, stayed in their pajamas.

Tomorrow I have four hours of rehearsals for a piece I don't like very much. On Sunday I'll have to perform it. If asked, "Poppy, do you like the Durufle' Requiem?" My answer would be "Feh." But do people ask? No, they do not. And therein lies the problem.

Oh yeah. It got cold again. On Monday it was 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Today it's 36 degrees.

There's an asshole parked on my street. The rear of his or her car is lapping over my driveway by about a foot and a half. Do I have your permission to smack him?

*Note correct grammar. See how easy it is? Why does this elude so many people, most of who should know better?