It has recently come to my attention that my blog used to be "funnier" when it wasn't so much "journalling." My apologies. Although quite honestly, this was never intended to be a laugh-a-minute type thing. Sadly, the things that people find amusing are actual events, truthful musings and honest to gosh awkward scenarios that, were they kept inside, would but fester.
That said, here is my favorite joke.
A grasshopper walks into a bar and takes a seat at the stool. The bartender approaches him and says, "Wow, this is so cool. A real grasshopper. You know, we have a drink named after you!" The grasshopper, clearly touched, leans across the bar and eagerly asks, "You have a drink named STEVE?"
Phew. Humor. Check.
And now, if I may, I'd love to tell the fantastic story of my morning...(sorry, Em, the blog has to be about me a LITTLE bit. You know, kind of like a running log of things I want to remember. Like a web log. Or, you know, a blog.)
So, this a.m. started a tad roughly. I'm supposed to be out the door at 6:45am on Wednesdays and Fridays, harsh enough when I'm actually able to do it- but at 6:49 P.J. woke me and asked, "Don't you have somewhere to BE?" While I stood in place with my mouth agape, P.J. proceeded to fill my coffee mug, put my scripts (that he had printed out) into my bag for tonight, laid out my coat, mittens, hat and boots in a me-shaped position by the table, and gently inquired if he could do anything else. I think he was trying to encourage the putting-on of my pants. (Meanwhile, the laundry that each of us thought the other had put into the dryer last night...was sitting in the basement. Frozen. With allll of the socks in the known universe.)
So I ran. (And put on pants.) I missed a bus. Checked the bus tracker on my phone. 8 minutes. No good, CTA, no good at all. So I continued to run. And I ran and kept on running past Leavitt, Hoyne, Damen, and then at Wolcott (darn you, Wolcott!) I slipped on a patch of black ice and ran myself into a flying V (bags, coffee mug and me) and thudded into an unsuspecting man and subsequently a brick wall. And then my back made friends with the pavement. And my hip said 'howdy-do' to my travel mug, which cracked in angry protest.
And I saw the train go by overhead.
I assured the crowd of gawking non-helper-uppers that I was fine and in fact ENJOYED wearing snow. Nonchalantly, I gingerly stepped the rest of the way to the Addison station and tapped my train pass against the turnstile. Nothing. Tapped it again. "Please retouch card," it implored me. I went to the next turnstile and did so. "SINGLE USE," it indignantly told me. "This IS my single use," I yelled at it. Another train was rumbling its approach. I frantically waved to the 'attendant,' now staring at me as if I were trying to make off with one of the turnstiles and not merely a dissatisfied commuter.
"It's only one use," she mouthed, not realizing that the door to her kiosk was open.
"I know," I shouted back, quite possibly in a too-loud voice. "I just tapped it once."
"Did you already go through?"
I stared at her, down at my [snowy] belongings and then up the stairs where I could hear the train approaching. And hear it leave. I continued to stare, hopefully in a steely sort of way, but I think I only managed to do a sort of balefully pathetic face.
Sighing the sigh of the long-suffering, the sigh of one forced to work to such a stressfully violent and decrepit locales as the stop at Addison and Lincoln (amidst dry cleaners, multi-million dollar condos and Turkish cafes), she let me through the turnstile with an 'I'm onto you,' kind of smirk.
"Pass is only single use."
THANK YOU. I did thank her.
Got upstairs to the platform, looked around- no train in sight. However, the bus- the one I couldn't bear to wait for- was pulling up at the station.
But other than a nagging 'back of the skull' headache and a sense that my heart is still perhaps beating a tad too fast- other than that- this day is proving better than I had hoped.
And does anyone feel like seeing some theatre tonight? Chicago Dramatists, 8pm, featuring Yours Truly as a playwright and Miss Kat Daniels as my star. Blue line Chicago stop.
If I'm late, check the turnstile.