Adventure in Coming Home

It’s not unknown that the last two years have been hard and confusing. That I’ve been searching for something to fill that space in me. That space that I’ve been filling with things that I do enjoy. Jokes, laughter, making other people successful, performing things I enjoy, readings.

In February, as with every February, the anniversary of the beginning of the worst things rolled around, but it was also an audition for a show I’ve always desperately wanted to be in. I simply didn’t have the strength to do it. I believed with all of my being I could have been in it, but I didn’t think I could muster my strength to actually audition. The next weekend another audition presented itself. An audition with a new company that was focused on Shakespeare and his contemporaries. After a year of reading and a summer of improv, I decided my injured brain could handle this experience. It was, up to that point, the best audition of my life. I let myself go. I didn’t have anything to lose. I didn’t know these people. I still had comedy to fall back to if it didn’t go well. I could still stand if it didn’t go well, but it did go well. It went well enough that I walked out of there confident that I would get the role I wanted. So confident I went out to dinner with a friend to celebrate that very day, despite the bad news we had received personally between us.

A couple of weeks later I was cast in the very role I was certain I’d gotten, and I knew that meant comedy was going to take a bit of a back seat. It meant that a lot of things were going to take a bit of a back seat. When the break down of scenes came out, and it showed I was in every scene, but two and later every scene, but one everyone was going to lose a lot of face time. I knew that. People were largely understanding. Most people were largely understanding. I didn’t, however, want to stop investing in things I cared about. I would, while I could, make runs to the Let’s Comedy office before rehearsals. Grab a meal and run to the office after work. When one of our guys was in South Korea this month I made a point to run to the bar directly after work before every show if I could to set up the room and then run to rehearsal. I’d eat if I had time, which usually happened after rehearsal some time around 11. This is the life I wanted.

Being busy is one of the most lovely things to me. It can be exhausting, of course, but what it also does is keeps me from letting my depression and PTSD take control. Those two things often just need time to breathe to take over, and if they don’t have time to ruminate then they can’t take over my brain. If all I can think about is how Antipholous is looking at me and how I hope the room is filling up right now for Kinane and whether or not I actually said “else never” or “else ever” and if I remembered to bring my rosary out with me this time or not and did Jensen and I wear our blue socks on the same feet tonight? I don’t have time or space for my brain to get anxious with my depression or PTSD. I just don’t, which is beautiful. I’m not saying it’s healthy. It’s just what’s happening right now.

What has also happened because of this show is I have found my tribe. These people. They are kindred. There was an immediate connection. The woman I am almost constantly working alongside is someone I auditioned with. In the cold reads I threw her over my back, and she just let that happen. We’d never met, but she just let that happen. Her name also happens to be Halee. She also happens to have red hair. She also happens to get lost in obnoxious laughter that is constantly changing. We’ve slowly melded. And we aren’t the only ones. It’s not just her. I went out for drinks with another cast member one night, and we stayed out for six hours talking. It started with silly voices then got very serious then got silly then got serious then got kindred. People who understand that you ask if you can hug someone. A man in a Peanu Keeyes shirt. Kisses on everyone’s cheeks. Everyone is safe. Something about this group of people is different than other casts I’ve worked with before. When rehearsals were first starting, I was leaving my old job, and things were getting less than savory we’ll say. I wasn’t going to say anything, but I knew it was going to be a problem emotionally when it came time for rehearsal as rehearsals were getting more intense. I contacted my director who was 1) immediately indignant with me, and 2) understanding and supportive. Supportive in a way someone in his capacity had not been before. I was home. I was safe. I know I’m not alone in that.

I know because in this cast we’ve suffered losses, and we’ve carried each other. We’ve been injured, and we’ve carried each other and adapted. We’ve been emotionally damaged, and we’ve carried each other. These people are safe. These people are home. In a way I’ve never felt before, it’s going to be hard to walk away from this show on Sunday morning. I’m going to be sad not to see them every day. They are my tribe.

When Sunday hits I will cry. I will cry a lot, I imagine. I will try not to. I will work to distract myself. I’ll probably have brunch with Piper, because I don’t want to cry about how much I miss these people. I don’t cry when shows end. I will this time.

I tell you this now, because I do have a little time and last night we got to just spend some time together. Sure we had a brief rehearsal, but I also got to witness some of that carrying, some of that love and support. But I also wanted you to know you still have time to see this bond. You can still see this show before it’s gone. May 26, 27, and 28 at 8:00 p.m. at the Auer Center ArtsLab at 300 E Main Street in Fort Wayne, IN. Tickets are only $15.0012931081_457003501170169_8199661723697369969_n



My tribe. I found my tribe.



Adventure in Still Talking

In the last week several things happened.

First, last Monday I started my new job, and I love it. It’s going to make things so much lighter for my brain. Already I can feel so many burdens being lifted. I can feel myself opening up space for things I enjoy and need far more than stress and pain. Chiefly, this means my brain is open to leave work and go to rehearsals without the burden of loathing. I can go to rehearsals and have a brain ready to create. I can go to rehearsals ready to delve into a thing I love.

Second, I left rehearsal Friday night full of energy. I was considering going for a run, but decided to go to the bar to see if our show was still happening. I haven’t been able to do much with Let’s Comedy, and I’ve been feeling guilty about that. I wanted to be able to be as supportive as possible. Comedy has always been something that I care deeply about, but ultimately it does sort of fill this weird space. It’s a round object in my heart, which turns out is heart-shaped. It fills so much, but not all of it. And here comes theatre again, doing its job, but I don’t want to leave comedy behind because it has taken such good care of me and brought me such wonderful people. But after the show ended I had a bad interaction. I was saying “good-bye” to some friends and noticed someone a little twitchy behind me looking at me and pacing. I decided to cling to my pal a while longer until he moved along and I could duck to the back room again where I made a break for my car. I ran for my car. I drove home. I’ve never run to my car before. Not unless challenged to a foot race I knew I’d lose. When I reached my house I sent texts to several people. To my people. The people I knew could talk me out of the car, because I found myself in my ritualistic spot in front of my house immobilized. “Does he know where I live?” “Did he follow me?” “Why does this keep happening to me?” “Is this my fault again?” “Is it always my fault?” They convinced me out of my car. That I was safe. Inside was safe. Some of them were just down the road if I needed them. I grabbed Gilda Catner when I got inside. I locked the door. I locked it again. I carried her up the stairs. I didn’t change my clothes. I didn’t do anything. Holding Gilda, I crawled into the utmost corner of my bed and sobbed. I fell asleep some time some hours later, Gilda still in my arms.

I woke up with her in my arms. A pounding headache from dehydration. I made myself leave the house. I wanted to blog something completely different on Saturday. I was writing letters. Letters I keep starting, but can’t ever seem to finish.

Because Saturday, third, I learned that Jim Leugers died. Jim Leugers was an incredible comic and artist and human out of Indianapolis. I didn’t know him well enough. What I did know was the effects of him in the community around him. Jim was this big beating heart and like arteries he pulsed this beautiful thing through so many people. So many of them, whether they realize it or not, are intimate reflections of Jim. The ways they take the time to encourage or guide people after a show, kindly or otherwise. The ways they take the time for each other at all. Comedy is such a different beast than theatre to experience, but I think what I love about this particular community is the way Jim impacted it. Because he kept it from becoming so isolating. It’s something that I hope doesn’t get lost, and I don’t think will get lost, simply because Jim isn’t here anymore. He influenced so many people, it’s impossible for that to get lost. Those reflections of him, those kindnesses (surly though they could be), I see them in so many people who knew him well, and I’m not even sure if they know where they learned it. It’s an enormous loss to his family, to his friends, to his community. But he isn’t gone. He’s genuinely left behind so much of himself in so many people. Last night I was driving someone home from a get together that was held in his honor, and he just kept saying, “I can’t believe he’s gone.” And I said, “Nah. He’s not. Just think how stupid it is that you can see pieces of him in even the dumbest people who knew him. He’s everywhere, and that’s the most annoying thing he could have done.” But it’s also the most beautiful. He shaped a whole community in Indianapolis, and who knows how far that reaches? He traveled. His friends traveled. Pieces of Jim are everywhere.

The night I found out, fourth, someone told me to never stop talking about what has happened to me, which is why I’m writing this at all. Because so many of us have been silent for far too long. This is for Spencier.

So fifth. When I was living in Indianapolis, after my third assault, I was reaching my breaking point.I think I reached it. I think I was ready to give up completely. I was done. I was going to give up on everything. Suicide was hard on the table, and I was so silent that no one would have known. I wouldn’t have known who to tell or how to talk about it. Or even why to talk about it. One day a friend of mine friend college who lived in Fishers suggested I just try going to the Indianapolis Museum of Art. “Look, you like art. It’s free. And maybe you’re just not getting out enough anymore.” He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. I wouldn’t let him know. But it was a good suggestion. So that Saturday I put my bravest face on, and if memory serves my cutest “I’m going to look at art” outfit, and I went. I wandered, and I wandered. Most of the day. It was at the very least calming. He was onto something there. Then I wandered into a room. A room where the ceiling was covered in colored wires and tiny speakers. There were a lot of people in there talking so I didn’t get it. I walked the room and looked outside. I read the placards. It wasn’t until I read the placard that I realized what was happening. The room cleared of the noisy people. I curled up on the floor in a corner, and I sat silently. I listened. I listened for over an hour. I cried. I wasn’t alone anymore. I changed my mind. I went back to that room every week until I moved back to Fort Wayne which happened four years ago tomorrow. Every time I need to go to Indianapolis, if it is my power I make a trip to that room. It is now $18 to get into the museum, and it’s worth it for me to regroup. I spent almost three hours sitting in there today. When I walked in today, I came in as the whispers of “I love you” began to swell. I sat silently as school groups shouted and ran around.

At one point a woman came in and sat beside me on the bench. We were both just looking up at the speakers. I was crying. I could feel her crying too. As she got up to leave she put her hand gently on my hand and said, “Art can do that. Enjoy your time.”

Thank you, Julianne Swartz. You saved my life.



Adventure in Hauntober: Part 2! The Return of Hauntober

After the first installment of Hauntober, I decided it was important than I did two more installments. So today I offer you the autumnal movies that get me through October. I will say, none of them are notably haunting, well that’s not exclusively true. It’s mostly true though. These are the movies that put me in front of a fire or curled up in bed in a pair of leggings and leg warmers. Some knee high socks and an over-sized sweatshirt. (As a rule this is also my go-to laying around the house outfit). (Also, as a rule, this is not a leaving the house EVER outfit, because I care about you as humans).

So here they are my autumn movies, for no other reason than they feel like autumn to me:

Blackbeard’s Ghost (1968):
This is classic ’60s Disney. The ghost of Blackbeard (Peter Ustinov) himself is called on by accident when Dean Jones reads a spell out loud. The old captain must redeem himself and help out a pack of old ladies who happen to be his ancestors. Zaniness ensues. Drunk pirate zaniness. Ships on the land? With wheels? This is unheard of! Oh did I mention that no one except Dean Jones can see Blackbeard?

The Canterville Ghost (1996):
Sir Simon de Canterville (Sir Patrick Stewart) is condemned to haunt his old home thanks to a gypsy and a family curse. He can only be released from the curse and forgiven of his sins when a young girl (Neve Campbell, that’s right. It was the ’90s and the height of Neve Campbell season) prays for him. This isn’t the first of the TV specials you’ll see on my list, but it is the only Oscar Wilde retelling. Plus! There are two younger brothers in this movie (Adam and Washington), who get along better than young brothers are supposed to. They act as one human being. It’s really creepier than the ghost.

The Cider House Rules (1999):
An all-star cast with Michael Caine, Tobey Macguire, Charlize Theron, and Paul Rudd deal with abortions and apples (this is not an accurate summary. well kind of) in this Academy Award-winning film adaptation of John Irving’s novel of the same name.

Chronicles of Narnia (1988-1990):
C.S. Lewis’ famous series told by none other than the BBC. In the ’80s. So brace yourself for camp, but if you can look away from the poor production value then you’ll see a pretty darn accurate depiction of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Prince Caspian, The Voyage of the Dawn Treder, and The Silver Chair. Not to mention you’ll get to see the Doctor (Tom Baker) play Puddleglum. The music from these movies still haunts my head and my heart. And by movies I mean mini-serials.

Clue (1985):
A zany list of what are now B-listers take to the screen for a romp through a favorite board game. Christopher Lloyd, Martin Mull, Tim Curry, Madeline Kahn, Eileen Brennan, Michael McKean, and Lesley Ann Warren bring the board game to life as they try to figure out who killed Mr. Body and several other people. Puns and mayhem fill the screen. Not to mention this movie has three endings, son!

Dead Poets Society (1989):
Alright, if you have seen this movie, then I’m sorry. You weren’t even warned by Robin Williams having a beard, so how could you have known in advance that you were going to cry? You couldn’t, so I’m warning you. Brotherhood, poetry, suicide, theatre. See? You’re sad already. Just watch it.

Donnie Darko (2001):
I reckon I could qualify this as a Halloween movie as well. Donnie Darko (Jake Gyllenhall) isn’t anything special. Unless you consider schizophrenia and time travel notably special. They’re pretty common place in my life. (awful jokes) If you can keep yourself from having nightmares about Frank and completely ignore the fact that there is a nonsensical sequel out there then you’ll be fine.

Eulogy (2004):
This is a movie that comes from a time in the world where I didn’t want to punch Zooey Deschenal. That time is over now. Long over. Grandpa has died and the family is coming together for the first time in a long time. I promise, you’ll even learn to tolerate Ray Romano by the end. Dysfunctional families are always funny right? Right? Especially when you hand them suicidal tendencies, marijuana, an over abundance of sexuality, and self-loathing. Right? Okay, so it’s a dark comedy.

Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009):
Wes Anderson’s first movie on the list. It’s a vague retelling of Roald Dahl’s book of the same name. Really vague. But it’s star-studded cast in, easily, the most beautiful claymation I’ve ever seen. As always Anderson’s team bring together a beautiful soundtrack that echoes with autumn. And the colors, oh the colors. It’s a real clustercuss of autumn. Did I mention it’s funny? Yeah. It’s that.

The Four Seasons (1981):
Alan Alda, Carol Burnett. You in yet? Three married couples on vacations through the seasons, so I guess just watch the part that takes place in autumn. Or all of it. Oh watch it all.

Funny Farm (1988):
Chevy Chase plays Andy Farmer who buys a place in Vermont with his wife. The Farmers buy a farm, but the Farmers aren’t farmers. I don’t think that’s the tagline. It should have been. Best movie ever? No. But watch it anyway! Because Chevy Chase.

Good Will Hunting (1997):
This is the movie that taught us that Ben Affleck is at his best (acting-wise) when he is writing for Ben Affleck. But the movie warns you. Robin Williams has a beard. So brace for that. The Afflecks and Matt Damon in their home of Boston. A genius from Southie as a janitor at Harvard. Take it. Love it. The Academy did, back when the Academy meant something. The whole thing makes me think of the color orange. Just a big pile of orange.

Harry Potter (2001-2011):
Specifically Sorcerer’s Stone, Chamber of Secrets, and Prisoner of Azkaban. I think as the stories get darker the movies feel colder to me, so they begin to feel more like winter than autumn. I’m not going to pretend to sum this up for you.

O, Brother Where Art Thou? (2000):
A modernized retelling of the Odyssey. Yeah, I think I’m allowed to consider the ’30s modern compared to ancient Greece. Ulysses Everett McGuill (George Clooney) may not be bonafide, but he’s going to get his wife back. With the help of two other inmates (Jon Turturro and Tim Blake Nelson) the three embark on a journey to seek the treasure. If by the end of the movie you’re mad at me, I’ll only tell you to go back and listen to the music again. This, not ER, not anything else, made me fall in love with George Clooney.

October Sky (1999):
Come on. OCTOBER Sky. What was I supposed to do? Ignore it? Plus, Sputnik 1, space travel dreams, coal miners, fathers who want to dash dreams. The whole thing. If I’m really honest, which I disgustingly am, then I’ll have to admit I’ve only seen this once. Nonetheless it feels like fall. Right?

Penelope (2006):
A new fairy tale! An actual one. With the twist having some actual value, and not a kiss from a prince or something stupid! A family curse. All that. Plus Catherine O’Hara being a horrible mother. It’s always a win. Christina Ricci looking stunning with a pig face. James McAvoy being precious as always.

A Prairie Home Companion (2006):
If you love the radio program, then the movie will delight you. If you had no idea it was a radio program, then the movie will delight you. A group of friends doing the same radio show they’ve been doing for decades puts on one last performance as a ghost guides them through the night. With some of the stars of the real show and some stars who steal the show.

The Royal Tenenbaums (2001):
Wes Anderson, part 2. Royal Tenenbaum (Gene Hackman), his family of genius children, his wife (Anjelica Huston), and some friends try to come to terms with each other for the first time in 22 years. Alec Baldwin narrates.

The Skulls (2000):
This is not the best movie ever. But secret societies are always a win. Especially at colleges when life, honor, friendship and reputation are on the line.

Adventure in Being Bested

“They used to dance,” I hear Lucy Pevensie pleading for empathy from Trumpkin. They used to be so much more these trees. They used to be what they were meant to be.

“I used to be king,” I hear Peter Pevensie begging his siblings to remember. He used to be greater than himself

I used to bake. I used to write. I used to act. I used to sing. I used to do improv. I used to have opportunities at every turn. I didn’t take all of them, and some of them weren’t for me though I tried anyway. It wasn’t just college it was life.

I find myself breaking down. More than ever. Alone in a place I don’t like. Alone in an apartment that is haunted only by the noise from the TV or my neighbor’s constant coughing or yelling. Even in searching for them, opportunities are scarce.

It’s not that I miss theatre, even if part of me does. It’s not that I even miss acting, even if part of me does. What I miss is the learning and yearning. What I miss is the building into each other. I miss being on a stage with a tiny audience or just whoever is there for the night. I miss pushing each other beyond the limit, and probably beyond what was appropriate for a Christian university. I miss get up on a tiny stage late after rehearsal with anybody at all and just rolling with it. I miss the sound of laughter not from the audience but from each other. The I-can’t-believe-you-took-it-there laugh.

I’m not a singer, by any stretch. That doesn’t mean I didn’t sing. That I didn’t gather around a long table in the dining commons with 15 people and belt “La Vie Boheme” before we ate our Thanksgiving dinner. That doesn’t mean a roadtrip doesn’t have a strictly showtunes playlist. In the car alone on a trip home my playlist sounds a lot like NPR, because it is. Or silence.

I haven’t turned my heat on yet. I only just latched the windows. And I won’t turn my heat on until I get the sense it won’t get warmer than 40 in the day. I want to bake just for the chance to heat my house, but also to calm my nerves. To try something new. I don’t want baked good around my apartment though. My body doesn’t need that. There was always someone. Now there’s no one.

Life is defeating me with its lifeness. I’m trying to stay above water, but it’s pressing in. I spend days at a time in bed. I have nothing to get up for. I cry a lot. And what’s worse, is every day I feel myself losing any sense of who I was. And there’s nothing I can do to save her. I feel bested by my loneliness, and I must, by the grace and strength of God, pull myself free.

Adventure in Passion (not as salacious as you’d like or expect)

One quiet evening on a visit to Huntington I was sitting at the Rusty Dog with a friend of mine. We were discussing life’s pains and the things that drive us. I knew that she had started attending dance classes in Fort Wayne. She humbly told me that she knew she wasn’t very good, but she knew that if she wasn’t dancing somehow she just wouldn’t be able to survive. I had remarked how brave I thought she was. Going up there to this class every week where she simply did not know anyone. And all I could think was, “Good for you.”

Until, I got away from the conversation and all I could think was, “what the heck drives me that way?” I enjoy theatre. I enjoy comedy. I enjoy writing. I enjoy painting. But none of them so much that my life would explode if I did not have them. I used to think it was the case with theatre, but I’m really doing quite alright without it. So what is it? I’m not really passionate about anything. I’m not really driven by anything.

I don’t adore myself enough, or pine for the approval of my words enough, to pursue any sort of stand-up comedy. Sit-down comedy maybe, but only because I’m lazy and I have little feet. I write all day for work, perhaps not the most uplifting material or what I enjoy really, but it’s enough to satisfy any slight “need.”

I thought about taking some art classes. I even looked into it briefly, before I got horrified by prices or the insistence on having a child. If you want an inexpensive, but still quite acceptable class you take it with your child, which makes it less…inviting or really probably challenging. If you want a challenging class for adults you shell out more money than one’s bank account could possibly afford. An art class would be a seemingly appropriate way to meet new people with similar, slightly douchey interests, while simultaneously challenging myself and improving my meager skill.

As it is the benefits do not outweigh the cost.

I’ve looked into getting involved in helping with area children’s theatres, but their mission statements almost always infuriate me. Some of them so blatantly suggesting that they would prefer to only foster a love of theatre in those they think most worthy of it. They’re kids; let them play.

At the end of all of it, though, there’s nothing in me that requires something so beautifully as the way my friend needed dance. And when I’m honest about it, I’m disappointed in myself for caring so little about so very much. Passionless living. I disturb even my own heart with it. It takes me to a place that feels a lot like mediocrity in many areas. An unfocused emptiness. Or perhaps better a driveless focus. A regular Jane of no trades. Settling for average, or more often, less than average quality in many areas, none of which are excelled in. It’s a little, if not entirely, shattering every time I realize how truly passionless I am.

Adventure in design

About 8 months ago I sat down with Huntington University theatre professors, Jay Duffer and Michael Slane, for the opportunity to design and execute make up for the upcoming production on “Beauty and the Beast”.  They asked me to write my name down on an unaffiliated list, and they’d talk to me when the time came.

Let’s not forget that I was forgotten. I was. Until the week before rehearsals started when I sent an e-mail asking if I was still in consideration for the part.

I started designing the day I learned the job was mine. Researching animals and candles and clocks and opera prima donnas and beasts and belles.

I attended production meetings, where I was the only one who had anything to say, because I was the only actual designer there. And they all got to talk every day if they wanted, while I was limited to just my lonely Tuesdays.

I came and I worked and I designed and I applied. And I was a make up machine.

I waited and waited to learn if wigs and prosthetics were coming. Nervously waiting to find out if I would suddenly have a huge amount of work to do.

Finally it all came.

So we rehearsed and I panicked, and then it all went away.

Then I was in the swing.

Suddenly I’m a den mother. Making sure actors are here. Making sure they’re doing what they need to do. Making sure there weren’t condoms in my bag, from actors who think it’s funny to not practice safe sound. Making sure Glen applied all of his make up, which makes the design. Tidying wigs. Spraying down costumes.

Painting costumes? Wait, that’s not my job, but one night until 5:30 in the morning I was doing it. Not sure how, but I did. Without a place to, but needing to, sleep I slept a few savory hours in the make up room. It became my second, bug infested home.

And now I’m here for our final performance waiting for the show to finally wrap. Wanting, hoping to get pictures of some of my designs. But there just aren’t any guarantees anymore.

I’m wide awake; it’s morning

tLet me begin by saying I came back to the room exhausted. I could barely stand anymore. I briefly slept for about an hour. Well, now it’s 4 am and I hate that nap.


Overall today was an exciting day.

After I got sleepypants out of bed we headed off to Kilburn station, which was a lot farther away than Willesden Green, but we go a little lost. We took the Jubilee line to Green Park station and then took the Piccadilly to Piccadilly Circus station, which thankfully was not a real circus. 

This put us right in the heart of Soho.  We wandered around the area for some time. Went to a few shops. Went to a mall. (Dirk, I have something for you). ALSO! Dirk! I saw that boombox bag today. There was a yellow one and a white one and wee black one. They actually had connections for you ipod in them as well and had speakers. only 19.99 pound.  

Eventually we ran out of open places to go so we stopped in a cafe where we found someone who didn’t hate us at all for being American.  We were standing outside the cafe looking in deciding whether or not to go in because it seemed full. The owner opens the door and says, “Come on then, ladies, we’ll make room.” We walk in. He moves a woman there by herself to a smaller table and seats us at her table.  We order our food and he brings out to us. He was actually quite great. We paid and he asked us how long we were there for and what we were doing for New Years.  We told him. He said that he hoped to see us again before we left, but if he didn’t happy new years anyway. Sweet man.

After some more wandering we finally got to get into the gorgeous Palace Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue to see Monty Python’s Spamalot. Now, I expected nothing less than fantasmic, and I got so much more. Even in my exhausted state I fell in love with the characters, laughed out loud numerous times, and oh, did I mention we were in the front row. Three rows back and I’d have been called on stage. The Lady of the Lake was superb. She was a Swedish woman who won the Swedish/Spamalot version of the show in America where people were trying to get on Grease. She was perfect. Her timing was excellent. Her voice was phenomenal. Also, a little surprisingly she was not a small woman.  I mean she was no cow, but she was about my shape (plus butt) and a little taller. I was surprised.  Lancelot and Gallahad had me wondering the whole performance. They both seemed so familiar.  But strangely enough my heart belonged to Patsy by the end of the show. He was spot on. I could not have been more pleased.

When the show ended we fought the massive crowds back to the subway and got home quite quickly. I think we’re finally getting a hold of this underground business. Tomorrow will be a new test.

Tomorrow we’re going to Oxford, which means to get there we’re also going to King’s Cross. Platform 9 3/4 this way. Now we have to get ourselves to the station and THEN figure out how to get to Oxford.

I think there’s a very distinct possibility that by the end of this trip I’ll have lost a fair bit of weight. We walk so much and we eat about a meal and a half a day, if we remember our half. Can’t argue with that kind of success, eh?  Then maybe I can start dressing like the women of London who all seem to have embarrassingly not called each other in the morning to make sure they didn’t all wear the same thing. They all seem to be sporting leggings and calf high boots with the tiniest mini skirts. And some other outrageous shirt. I saw a girl tonight in a dress, no that’s not fair to dresses. In this shirt that just covered her bum. Sleeveless. And boots. WHAT?! It’s 30 degrees! They’re all wearing this outfit though. Except for all the black women I’ve seen. We’re dressed much like them. Jeans. Shirts with sleeves. Sweaters. People clothes, not doll clothes. Oh well.

I also need to call John and Bea tomorrow after we figure out what time our train gets to Manchester to let them know when we’re coming.  We check out of our room on Friday at 9:30am, so we’ll probably be in Manchester by about 11:30 depending on the train schedule. 

oi, Mum, wanna drop a few extra bucks on my card, just in case?  Lovelove


Happy New Year, everyone. Make better choices in 2009. K?