It was an eventful morning, sort of.

First, I awoke at two in the morning.

Sidenote: One should never awake at two in the morning. If you see 2 a.m., it should be because you've stayed up that late drinking/carousing/making bad decisions. Waking up at that hour never bodes well. Ever.

So I woke up because I had a headache. When I say the word 'headache,' here, what I really mean is that there was a throbbing in my head that made me want to drill a hole in my temple to let out the pressure of whatever the hell was causing the pain. I had a mild headache when I went to bed, but didn't think much of it. But at two, it had morphed into a living, evil entity, bent on the destruction of my Tuesday.

I took Tylenol, which, for me, is sort of like sticking a band-aid on a sucking chest wound. I drifited in and out of sleep, having all sorts of disturbing dreams (one involving my involvement in a cheesy 80's music video) until 6, when Nolan gave me more Tylenol.

The boys dressed, packed their lunches, brushed and flossed and fed themselves breakfast. It's mornings like this when I praise God that I've raised such independent, resposible kids. (I did have to get up and rescue Ethan who was trapped under the garage door - but that's an interesting story for another day.) They left for school, and I began the phase of headachey-ness that involves me on the bathroom floor revisiting last night's goat cheese pizza.

It was unpleasant, to say the very least.

In any case, I finally couldn't stand the pain and called Nolan to drive me to the Emergency Room. He's a great guy in crisis time; I'm so glad I'm married to him. He anticipated my needs, was kind and attentive and bulldogged the hospital staff until they made the pain go away. And they did, mostly. I never actually opened my eyes that I remember, the nurse and doctor were all just voices and footsteps. I got 2 shots (freaking OUCH), 3 prescriptions and a CAT scan that came back negative. I'm assuming that meant that I don't have a tumor or a brain bleed, not that I do not in fact, have a brain.

Though sometimes I wonder...

Anyway, if the pain was a 9 this morning, it's a 2 now. And even though I slept for most of the afternoon, I'm giving up for the night. I'm going to take some more of those glorious meds that the doctor prescribed, and pray with all my might that when I awake, it will NOT be two in the morning, I will NOT have a blinding pain in my head, and the chicken noodle soup I had for dinner will not make a reappearance.

Here's hoping, y'all. Night.

So many things to say.

First of all, we're on day 7 of the mothpocalypse. By that, I mean that we didn't have a good hard freeze this Winter, and now we are OVERRUN by moths. It is a swarm of Biblical proportions, folks. And so, so gross. I opened up our attic space to find out why the air conditioner wasn't working, and was dive bombed by no less than two hundred moths when I turned on the light. I screamed, flailed, tripped going out the door and slammed it behind me as if the moths were zombies that wanted to eat my brain.

I don't like moths. They got in my hair. Gross.

Fortunately, they'll all die soon. And I'm not sad. One of my friends said it best: I used to feel bad for moths; they're butterflies without the fun colors. But they've gone to far.

Second, I took the job as the costumer for ALT's upcoming production of Les Miserables. We're one of the first Community Theatres in the country to get the rights, and that's awfully prestigious. I'm pretty excited about it, I won't lie. Les Miz is one of the first shows I ever saw on Broadway at the tender age of 18. It was a life-changing trip and I remember being spellbound during that show, and being utterly bereft, actually weeping at the story.

So I get to costume it, being that I can't sing. Not like that. And I like to costume the first show of the season. Especially if it has a French name.

Thirdly, Nolan and I are going to London at the beginning of June! It's been a long time coming, and we're going to see shows and do touristy things. I know there are some girls on my friends list that are British. Can you help us out? Is there anything we definitely can't miss?

Lastly, I got a shot in the rear end this morning, and it did not feel good. There was an infant in the exam room next door getting his immunizations, and although I did not wail loudly like he did, I can certainly understand the impetus. That crap hurt.

And that's all the news fit to type!

So I went to a hockey game Friday night.

That sounds like me, right?

And it would have been alright, except for the fact that I called the start of play a 'puck off' and was consequently made fun of for the rest of the night.

And there was a sixty-something woman with a cowbell two rows behind us that insisted on ringing the bloody thing for the ENTIRE GAME. And when her wrist got tired, she beat on the thing with a stick.

She survived only because I am a good, Christian woman who frequently observes the Judeo-Christian ethic of 'Thou shalt not kill.'

But generally, the hockey game was fine. Boys beating the crap out of each other on ice was entertaining. And the Amarillo Bulls won. I'm not a high-fiver, but I was around people that were, so I high-fived. And I even explained some of the rules to Nolan, due to the fact that I watched a boyfriend in college play for about a billion hours on Sega. Or something.

In other news, I'm in the "Elite Eight" in my writing competition, against a writer (and friend) I cannot possibly hope to beat. I sent in my submission already instead of messing with it, and I feel good. It's very me. So there you have it.

The prompt for the submission was "Inevitable." When I asked my family (on the way to the hockey game) what they thought I should write, Ethan suggested the "Inevitable Snowman."

He was not kidding.

But now I'm thinking about it. Who wouldn't?

The minute someone says that, you absolutely must. It's a biological imperative, right?

I have to scratch. But perhaps I'm not all that smart. My degree isn't one that is widely respected. You say you have a BFA in Theatre Arts Performance, and folks aren't thinking you're roughly on par with a brain surgeon. This said, when I actually visit a doctor, I like to think that they're smarter than I am.

This is not always the case.

( An horrific adult story, for your reading pleasure... )

I intended to come home from my four day weekend and present you with a few words consisting of or abounding in pith regarding a dermatological visit, a Rached-type nurse and my own abject humiliation. Perhaps another time.



Instead, we got home and my father-in-law had to give us the sad news that while we were gone, our thirteen year-old black Labrador retriever, Katie Bell, passed away Easter Sunday.

She was an amazing dog. She once saved me from Zombies and a raccoon, liked to convince Nolan that she was a lap dog, served as a napkin for my youngest, was a bit like me (and vice-versa), and was generally the best dog in the natural free-born world.

We got to say goodbye as a family this evening, and put her to rest together.

Kate was loved well, and will be missed, for sure.

Okay, readers. Let's take a departure to a first world subject that no one ever talks about. It's horrific and unfair, and desperately needs to be brought to your attention.

Public restrooms.

I have to admit, I'm not a fan of the public restroom. It's not due to performance anxiety; I can go if I really need to, regardless of the situation. It's just in general, I have an aversion to them, and rightfully so. In Junior High, I always waited until I got home to go. It had less to do with how clean the bathroom was than the fact that I once caught Randi Something smoking in the upstairs girls' room by the history department, and after she was consequently caught (like every other juvenile delinquent stupid enough to smoke in the school building), she decided I was at fault. (Incidentally, I did not rat her out. I feel stupid people should be left to their own stupid devices.) The misunderstanding culminated in her publicly shouting at me and me engaging in the first and only fist fight in my otherwise very physically passive life.

( My opinions on the subject... )

If you've made it this far, patiently sitting through my diatribe about potties, I feel compelled to tell you that it was a rant between this and the Travel Safety Administration and their bastard coated bastard tendencies.

I figured this one wouldn't put me on the 'No Fly' list.

Probably. Here's hoping.

At a certain point in life, I've realized that you have to accept things about yourself that you really don't like.

And I'm not talking about my thighs, here, folks. Although, to look at me, you'd certainly think I've given up on that front. No, I'm ever hopeful, there.

I'm speaking here of my general, misanthropic air. The older I get, the less and less I desire to speak to the people. (Not persons, mind you, but The People. Persons are great, and I love persons. I'll talk to a person all day long.) I came to this realization the other night in the car, when my husband asked me if I wanted to talk about something.

My answer was, "No, I really don't. If I never had to have another conversation again, I'd be alright with that."

Nolan looked at me speculatively and replied, "You know, that's true. If you never had to speak, you wouldn't. You'd be completely okay with that."

( Let me explain. )

Yeah. So, written versus spoken word. Your thoughts? Please weigh in. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me to seek therapy. Tell me I'm not alone.

On this one thing, I'll allow an opinion. :)

I awoke at an ungodly hour this morning (where in my world ungodly is anything before seven) because I actually have something to do today. Gasps all around, right? I'm headed over to a neighboring town that houses our regional university, which takes some planning beforehand and includes a drive, thus the up at dawn thing. When Ethan got up and saw that I was not in holey yoga pants with yesterday's eye makeup on, he of course asked where I was going.

I answered, "I'm going to WT (West Texas A & M University) to hold a mock audition for some of the college students."

He blinked. I explained.

"So that they will know what a real audition will be like."

He frowned.

"I'm going to tell them, 'You did this and this wrong, this was good, but this could be better.'"

His frown deepened.

At this point, I felt like I was being judged by the almost twelve year-old. I asked, "What?"

He grumbled, "I don't want you to be the bad guy."

I have to admit, I was taken aback. I've never thought of auditors as 'the bad guy.' I've thought of them as a judge, as someone I want to please, and as the thing standing between me and the next job, but not the bad guy.

Well, crap. I'm the bad guy?

Wait. I'm the bad guy. This is sort of growing on me, now. It has a kind of mystique,right? It's shrouded in mystery and cloaked in coolness.

Except for the fact that I'm not getting paid and it's for a college Theatre II class.

Meh. I'm not the bad guy. I'm going to shoot for "Not the Lame Guy." Or girl, as the case may be.

Hope I don't miss.

(And hey! Look! I changed my username! After six years of living with something I chose on a whim and had to explain constantly ("No, sorry, I don't think I'm queen of the Underworld"), I'm now ME. It's a good feeling.)