Jiggety Jig

As I landed in Nashville Saturday afternoon, I became painfully aware that in my seven month absence I had become more familiar with San Diegan terrain than ever I had been with Tennessean turf. But however unfamiliar the cityscape, the landscape was heartening: lush green trees unlike anything California has to offer suggested the possibility of rain. I’ve missed the rains.

On the ride home my thoughts turned to the necessary business of my homecoming. I would soon have to return to work, having run through my savings in San Diego. There would be no cable, phone, or internet access at the apartment; my roommate had disconnected each when he accepted a job outside of Nashville before my return. Care of our apartment, and my roommate’s cat, were now left to me. Vacation was over; it was time to resume my responsible adult life. It was a reality too soon realized.

Outside the apartment, a heaping mass of alien green goo lined my walkway. Mix equal parts cement, large-curd cottage cheese, and green paint in a large bucket, tip the bucket and walk 20 paces and you’ve got the image. Inside the apartment, the scene was no prettier. My plants were dead, the air conditioner was on the fritz, and my roommate's cat, a 26-pound behemoth too fat to clean herself, had soiled every inch of our rented carpet. The cat, too, was caked in her own filth. Despite a friend’s attempts to spot-clean before my arrival, the devastation was total. Within the hour, I was firing up the SteamVac. In Nashville. With no air conditioning. Welcome home.

Usually, I’m an animal lover. Dogs, cats, llamas, don’t care. But Joseph’s cat is the exception. I’ve hated the noisy, smelly creature since day one. And I hated her doubly as I remembered that the deposit required to keep her had never been paid. When management comes knocking for damage monies at the end of our lease, I’m going to regret having ever put my name on that document.

Saturday and Sunday were given exclusively to cleaning the entry level of our three-story townhome: living room, dining room, and kitchen. By Monday morning I was seeing improvement, but I had not progressed to other floors when I called maintenance about the air conditioning. Charging the unit is outdoor work, so there would be no fear of anyone entering the apartment.

The matter was handled promptly and the apartment became slowly cooler as the day progressed. But when I quieted the cleaning machinery Monday night, I could hear the tell-tale drip from the hall closet. The AC unit inside the house was leaking now. A lot. I might have noticed the wet floor earlier had I not been soaking it myself with cleaning fluid at the time. While I had been busy not noticing it, it had been busy leaking through to the basement below. Where the cat had made the largest, smelliest messes. Where her food and litter live. Where she was hiding from the noise above. Filthy beast. Now I had a maintenance problem that would require letting someone into the house, and a house that required keeping them out.

On Tuesday, day four, I paid someone else to clean the cat while I moved my own cleaning operations downstairs. By the end of the day, I’d steamed the apartment from top to bottom. Though I’d managed to eliminate the worst of the stains, many refused to be removed. And the source of an unrelenting odor remains a mystery. Odds are, it’s coming from the furniture. Damned cat. But by Wednesday I was comfortable enough, considering the urgency, to call maintenance about the small lake forming in my hallway.

By Wednesday I had also moved my computer upstairs and had a phone line installed so that I could rejoin the online community through the blistering speed of dial-up internet access. I’m a wild woman, I know. That process, begun Monday, took three days to complete. Who knew that you had to request touch tone service? Or that having a name delivered to your caller ID box with the number costs a dollar more than having the number delivered alone.

Having my office upstairs, though, is already a great improvement. Now I’ll only have to venture into the cat’s domain long enough to feed her and clean the cat box each day; and she’s not allowed to enter mine at all.

San Diego... Nashville... Denver

All my bags are packed
I'm ready to go
I'm standin' here outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye
But the dawn is breakin'
It's early morn
The taxi's waitin'
He's blowin' his horn
Already I'm so lonesome
I could die

So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you'll wait for me
Hold me like you'll never let me go
'Cause Im leavin' on a jet plane
Don't know when I'll be back again
Oh babe, I hate to go

Cysto No

For weeks now I've known it was coming. Today is the day. The day of the cystoscopy. I woke nervous and scared, not entirely sure what to expect. As I began an online search of the procedure -- and most importantly, the route it would take to my bladder -- I was greeted by an e-mail from a dear San Diegan friend who was thinking of me, hoping for the best, and waiting for an update. Thank you. I needed that.

Unsure whether I could eat in the hours before my appointment, I was pining for a cup of coffee when I replied that I would indeed supply post-oscopy information, but that it might be late afternoon before I was able. After all, I hadn't been given any pre-procedure instructions. I didn't know whether I would be under local anaesthetic for a quick look-see or given either general or spinal anesthetic for a more intensive search and snip. I had no clue what time I'd be getting home or what shape I'd be in when I got there.

Moments after I'd sent my reply, my friend wrote back, offering to leave work and take me to and from the doctor. It was an incredibly sweet offer, but I couldn't accept without knowing that I'd actually need the assistance. So I called the urologist's office. First, I wanted to know if I could have my coffee. Second, I wanted to know if I would need the offered transportation.

The receptionist/nurse who answered the phone was confused for a moment as she looked up my information. She didn't understand what I was asking. Why wouldn't I eat breakfast? Why wouldn't I be able to drive home? Today was my first visit with a new doctor. I wasn't scheduled for a cystoscopy today; today's appointment was merely a consultation. It would take about an hour, she told me.

WHAT?!? How is it that when I made an appointment for a surgical procedure no one at any point informed me that my appointment was not for that procedure at all?

I had planned to have my test results sent home to my Tennessean doctor, but now it seems there will be no Californian test. A consultation today would be a waste of everyone's time; I will not be here for a future appointment.

So thanks again to my sweet friend who offered to help. The call you inspired saved me the cost of an office visit, an hour's wasted time, and a load of frustration.

And I can have my coffee too!

Strange Twist of Fate's Ankle

I'm trying not to let it go to my head. No, no, do not kiss the ring. I'm checking my ego. You see, as soon as San Diego bestowed two community theatre acting awards upon me, it was inevitable: the folks in Nashville began to clamor for my triumphant return to the professional realm.

As a techie. (Ahem!)

The most recent in a line of Stage Managers filling the position I once vacated has quit. And the show must go on. Having held the post for a number of years, I am best qualified to fill in during an emergency. Having been unemployed for seven months, I am eager to receive a paycheck. And so I will return to the land of Dixie before the week is out.

At this Nashville theatre, unlike any other I know, the title “Stage Manager” is all-encompassing. The one to whom it is attached is required to be the entire tech crew: hanging lights, locating and editing sound cues, replacing props, controlling special effects, cleaning and repairing the set, operating light and sound boards, announcing time calls, herding the cast, maintaining equipment, and the list goes on. Even on-the-spot costume repair and medical treatment fall into the Stage Manager’s purview. In fact, in a theatre where the “magic stage” is a 15x15 set that lowers from its second floor home to its first floor audience, the Stage Manager is an elevator operator and maintenance man to boot. Though it is a necessary job, it is a demanding and thankless one that few people hold for more than a year. It does not take a newcomer long to become disgruntled. It takes him only a bit more time to call it quits. But when he does, I receive a phone call. Please, please, pretty please….

Now, while I greatly appreciate the San Diegan praise for my work, work done here has been performed outside of the professional arena. Which is to say I ain’t been paid in a while and any offer of a paycheck when I get back to Tennessee sounds pretty good, even if I have to be behind the scenes to earn it. So, while another naïve college graduate is sought to unwittingly sell her soul for professional experience, I’ve agreed to temporarily reclaim the helm of my old tech booth.

Of course, in the Fates’ plaything that is my life, as soon as I agreed to hide once again behind the scenery, I received two offers of potential work in front of it: one a personal audition invitation from a director here in San Diego, the other a callback for a show at the very theatre where I’d just agreed to stage manage in Nashville, and both extraordinary in their content and timing. The best unbidden opportunities always seem to visit when you cannot greet them. I cannot audition in San Diego because I’ve agreed to return to Nashville, and I will not get the acting job in Nashville because my services may be needed in the tech booth. If I were to be cast before a new SM was found, the show could not go on.

The Fates have a droll sense of humor.

But I’m willing to give them credit where it’s due: at least they’ve provided a paycheck. Feeding the ego is nice, but feeding the budget is more important.

And the Aubrey Goes To...

At the 40th Annual Aubrey Awards and Celebration held this Sunday at the Courtyard by Marriott hotel in Old Town San Diego, I was presented with the Aubrey Award for Best Lead Actress in a Comedy for the 2004/2005 season.


Awarded by ACT San Diego, a non-profit organization founded in 1964 to improve the quality of community theatres throughout San Diego County, the Aubrey represents the best performances spanning from northern Escondido to southern Chula Vista. Using a standardized judging sheet, traveling judges grade performances on a 10-point scale. To be nominated, a performance must have scored 8.0 or better. To win, well, that process was undisclosed. However, attendees were informed that most winners this year had been judged 9.0 or better. Despite my hopes that it would be, I was shocked to hear my name called -- and even pronounced correctly -- in the Lead Actress category. The surreal experience of accepting that award is still sinking in. But that's a story for another time. For now: they like me, they really like me.

And though I told you not to hold your breath waiting to see a picture of this award on my blog, I'll thank you now for crossing your fingers.

Ultra-Lite. Sans the Aircraft.

I have a good friend who’s a beer snob. The worst kind of beer snob. The rookie beer snob. Chris (who knows I love him anyway) will tell you himself that he hated beer for years... until somebody handed him a Guinness. Yep, Guinness. As if the world needed another Guinness snob. Lord, help us all. And hide the Miller Lite.

The shiver that just ran down Chris’ spine at the mere mention of a light beer was palpable across 2,000 miles.

Me, I’m no snob. When I drink, it’s usually whatever comes to the table in a pitcher with enough mugs to go around. But if I’m in a position to order my own brew, I prefer not to have to chew it. Light, crisp, mass-produced American swill is just fine with me. My wallet appreciates it, too. Although it’s usually Bud Light that’s tapped into a sharable container, it’s always Miller Lite that’s ordered in a bottle meant for me.

Until recently.

As I was fighting the worst of the weight gain that came with giving up my Marlboros (seven months ago now) and becoming increasingly sedentary, I was urged to switch to Michelob Ultra, the low-carbohydrate beer. I did. I preferred Miller Lite, but for the promise of dietary benefit (and after the first good beer buzz) I learned to enjoy Mich Ultra. Then reading Chris’ beer blog made me think. Exactly how substantial was the trade-off? I did a little research.

A twelve ounce serving of Michelob Ultra has 95 calories, only one fewer than Miller Lite. (Interestingly, Ultra was first marketed at a Lite-matching 96 calories, so one wonders where in the marketing department that extra calorie was lost). Michelob Ultra is 4.1% alcohol by volume where Miller Lite weighs in a 4.2%. And in the carb category, Michelob Ultra claims 2.9 grams to Miller Lite’s 3.2 grams. Yes, Ultra wins that battle: by 0.3 grams of carbs.

Here’s a little bit of math for you. One Baked Lay’s potato chip has 2.09 grams of carbs. Drinking either Mich Ultra or Miller Lite, you’re barely getting more than the carbohydriacal (yes, I made that word up) equivalent of ONE low-fat potato chip. The difference between the two beer brands is approximately one seventh of that potato chip -- you would have to drink SEVEN Miller Lites to out-carb an equal number of Mich Ultras by the amount of one tasty Lay’s. And let’s face it, by the time you’ve had seven bottles of anything, you’re probably going to ruin your carb count by stopping off at Waffle House on your way home anyway. In someone else’s car.

Someone in the Miller marketing department lost their job over this one. If not, they should have. Michelob should have never been able to pull the “diet beer” title – and sales – away from them. It’s simply not supportable.

So good-bye tasteless Ultra, you lying bastard beer, I’m going back to my ex.

I just won't let Chris see the empties.

Church's-Chicken-Hill Downs

When I expressed an interest in Del Mar horse racing this week, I was asked by a Californian friend, via e-mail, how I had managed to live in Tennessee without having seen a horse race. The short answer is that Tennessee is not Kentucky. The long answer, however, is what I chose to provide.

I explained how, despite the fact that Seabiscuit, War Admiral, and every horse in the 2003 Kentucky Derby could trace its lineage back to a stud (Bonnie Scotland) from Nashville’s Belle Meade Plantation (where I once worked as a waitress), there hadn’t been horse racing in Tennessee, save for an annual fundraising event, since an anti-betting law was passed in 1906. The Iroquois Steeplechase (named for another distinguished Belle Meade sire) is run the second Saturday of May each year at Percy Warner Park without betting, which remained illegal in Tennessee until the legislature passed the State Lottery bill in June of 2003.

That’s the almost-short answer. In my actual reply I allowed my research to elaborate, naming the 30 remaining acres of the once 5,400-acre plantation “one of the South’s most outstanding showplaces” and placing the “beautifully restored” Belle Meade Mansion on the National Register of Historic Places. My online resources spanned the Plantation’s website, the Lottery Insider, and the Tennessee Encyclopedia of History and Culture. Oddly, one of the better resources came from the American Bar Association which provided tour information for folks attending their spring meeting in Nashville. Go figure.

Having been greeted with a page and a half of research in response to what was barely more than a yes or no question, my friend replied “I’m trying to think of other subjects on which I could get free in-depth research by making casual remarks.” I laughed for a full minute before going on to read “Why is the sky blue? And why DO chickens cross roads?”

Not one to let a smart-assed question go unanswered, I quickly replied that blue was the shortest wavelength of light and the most easily scattered when it hit the Earth’s atmosphere, going on to explain how that also makes a sunset appear red. But in answer to the chicken question I wanted more; a little less science, a little more tongue-in-cheek. I found my answer easily and didn’t edit my reply. If he thought a page and a half was long.... Ha! Some of the answers were too fun not to share, though. So here are my favorite online answers to “Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?”

Plato: For the greater good.

Karl Marx: It was a historical inevitability.

Torquemada: Give me ten minutes with the chicken and I'll find out.

Douglas Adams: Forty-two.

Buddha: If you ask this question, you deny your own chicken-nature.

Emily Dickinson: Because it could not stop for death.

Ralph Waldo Emerson: It didn't cross the road; it transcended it.

Ernest Hemingway: To die. In the rain.

Mark Twain: The news of its crossing has been greatly exaggerated.

Macbeth: To have turned back were as tedious as to go o'er.

Donne: It crosseth for thee.

Anyone else got a question?

Ding Dong! The Jig is Dead!

When I came to San Diego in January, the apartment where I would be staying was mostly a quiet one. In the evenings, I was told, you could expect to hear the resident one floor above (affectionately dubbed Thumper and assumed to be female) scurrying about at top speed. On the weekends, you could expect to hear the downstairs neighbor playing his music too loudly and entertaining guests.

By April, through my continued stay, I had become as familiar with the pattern as had my parents, for whom the apartment had been secured, in their frequent visits. But in April the pattern changed. The music downstairs was no longer confined to the weekends. Or the evenings. At any time of day or night, a loud base line could be heard. And felt. It was no longer simply too loud. It was Earth-shaking. Mr. Jiggy-With-It had arrived.

No one had moved out of the apartment below when the Jigster moved in; he was joining their number and upping their game. As a group they were intolerable: loud, obnoxious, rude, and omnipresent. The next three months were one big party in the apartment downstairs. And one big headache in the block of apartments above it.

Neighbors on all sides moved out during those three months. Even Thumper. But directly above the offending apartment and most affected by it, I stayed, fervently wishing to be heavily armed and legally free to open fire. Now, I do not approve of gunplay and would never under normal circumstances wish dead anybody who hadn’t previously dated my boyfriend, but in my fantasies I was willing to overlook my nice Catholic girl prejudices for a little quiet.

Fortunately, time has brought us around to another “A” month and another, more welcome, change of pattern. On the first weekend of August, I spied one of my downstairs neighbors moving his things to a portable storage unit. On the second weekend, I witnessed the remaining roommates finish the job. Mr. Jiggy-With-It has gone. Peace is restored. The apartment is quiet again.

At least until the next guy moves in.

PS: Happy Birthday, Jake!

And the Aldea Goes To...

At the 19th Annual OnStage Playhouse Banquet and Awards Ceremony this morning in Chula Vista, California, I was presented with the Aldea Award for Best Lead Actress in a Comedy or Musical during the 2004/2005 season.

I was thrilled to be recognized for my role as Olive Madison in The Odd Couple (female version), particularly after our heavily-nominated show lost in most categories to the equally well represented musical, Godspell.

While the Aldea Awards honor performances at OnStage Playhouse, the ACT-San Diego Aubrey Awards (which will be presented at the 40th Annual Celebration next Sunday) honor performances across the county. With roughly 4,255 square miles of competition, I am particularly thrilled to be among the 7 Aubrey nominees for Best Lead Actress in a Comedy.

I wouldn't hold my breath waiting to see a picture of that award on my blog. But I might cross my fingers.

*San Diego County ranks 4th in population of all metropolitan areas in the U.S.

Opsy Daisy

The next step in my medical examination will be invasive. Soon, they'll be filming a miniseries from my bladder. The doctor/director will be moving a film crew through delicate terrain to take a good look at the location. If he doesn't like the backdrop, he'll send the set crew in to cut away bits of the scenery and get them ready for their close-ups.

I've made the necessary appointment with the urologist to whom I've been referred in California, but before the month is out I'll have to figure out how to direct this tumbling snowball home to Tennessee.

Sweeps Week Continues

You're not going to believe me. It's too much. It's overkill. There can't possibly be another phone story.

But there is.

Last night, when I ran out for dinner, I missed a call. The answering machine here doesn't sound any alerts, so it was late in the evening before I saw the silent blinking light and realized I had a message. When I hit play, my doctor's voice introduced itself. "Hi, Kelly, this is Dr. Dysart, letting you know that the..." Beep.

The machine cut him off.

The machine cut him off! So he called back, speaking quickly this time. "I need to refer you to a urologist. That number is..." Beep.

It cut him off again!

This week has been filled with dead batteries, crossed phone lines, and snarky answering machines. And I don't think it's a coincidence any more. These are just the first signs of unrest. Soon we will be facing a major phone uprising. Demanding better wages and benefits, vaction, and a conversation cap, phones everywhere will band together and go on strike until a new collective bargaining agreement can be reached! They've watched the NHL; they know how it's done.

Before that happens, though, I need to talk to my doctor. Cross your fingers for me. This is the first time that a battery of tests has sent me forward to a specialist rather than backward to the obvious diagnosis.

Must Me TV

My life has been abducted by television network executives. Not the good ones who work hard all year, but the guys who crawl out of the woodwork during sweeps week and decide that every show on the network is going to be tied together with a common theme. Like, oh I don't know... dead phones, let's say.

For example:

First, the highly successful series Friends-ish will feature that kooky girl Rach-kel debating whether to use money she found under the sofa to replace her dead cell phone battery, even though she knows the money is Mom-ica's....

Then, on Sein-keld, our vacationing heroine Kel-aine will lose days of mobile phone usage to a dead battery while fighting the foreign Cell Nazi for a replacement. When she finally wins, she'll discover she missed an important call from her landlord back home... and another fight is looming.

Finally, on ER-ER-O, after allowing a controversial procedure at County General Hospital Days of Our Lives, Dr. Kel-izabeth Corday will distractedly scour her kitchen. She'll unplug and move the portable phone to clean under it, but when she puts it back, she'll plug into the wrong phone jack and possibly miss an important call from her own doctor with test results....

Jeez... not only am I stuck in a bad Sweeps Week marketing ploy, it seems I'm also stuck in 1999 -- none of the shows I spoofed are still in first-run. (Whattaya mean ER hasn't been cancelled yet? Why not?) But you get my point. On TV, I'd never have bought the dead phone theme. I'd have been rolling my eyes in disgust. "Weak! Weak!" I'd have cried.

But at least on TV it would have happened to three different people.

Don't Ask

I'm a freak. I love it when I have to have medical tests. I like the little ones -- blood and urine tests -- but I'm particularly fond of the big ones. The ones you can't just do any old day. Ones that require large, expensive toys. EKGs, CT scans, EEGs, Lower GIs, X-Rays, ultrasounds. I've had them all, and I love the whole thing. The sounds, the smells, the unique stamp it puts on a day. Of course, that's probably because I've always been healthy. The tests have always eliminated serious diagnoses; only one has ever found anything worse than a broken bone or pneumonia.

That one, a GTT (glucose tolerance test), found a real problem. One I knew about before the doctors did; one that sent the doctors back to school before they'd believe me. In fact, most of the other tests I've had were part of the process of eliminating everything else before a doctor would run the test I knew I needed. I knew because I'd seen my father suffer my symptoms. My problem was inherited.

Don't get me started on the number of people who SAY they're hypoglycemic. Who taught them this word?

I have a soapbox. One on which I frequently take stand when it comes to this issue. Because everybody is little-h hypoglycemic at some point in most days. It's part of the body's system of checks and balances. Your blood sugar drops; you eat. That's what hypoglycemia means: low sugar. Perfectly normal little-h hypoglycemia. It's the big-h variety that'll get you. Hypoglycemia is the pancreatic flip side of Diabetes... creating too much insulin rather than too little. Or, in my case, way too much insulin rather than way too little. There's no danger of over-administering with a needle -- the body does so without help. And don't keep candy around for the insulin overload to work on because, unlike the Diabetic body, the reactive Hypoglycemic body will make more insulin in response, dropping the blood sugar still lower. Hypoglycemic shock? A daily possibility. Without a prescription!

Now, to be fair, there are people whose blood sugar tends to run a bit low, but there are very few of us who so overproduce insulin as a response to ingesting sugar that the mistake could be fatal. I think the disease needs a new name to distinguish it from the normal little-h drops in blood sugar. Hyperinsulinism, for example. Not that a new name would help. Maybe one percent of one percent of the population actually has this problem, so no matter what you call it, no one (even many doctors) knows what it is. Or at least, they don't know what the real thing is. The one with the big H. If they know the word at all it's because they can point to ten people who claim to be hypoglycemic because they needed a biscuit one day a few years ago. So many have cried wolf that no one takes the real thing seriously. Like I said... don't get me started. But your friend who likes to walk around saying he's hypoglycemic as if he has a disease is part of my problem. Don't let him talk to me until I've seen his GTT results.

Told you I had a soap box. But I digress.

Yesterday I went in for a cat scan of the kidneys, bladder, and the ureters that connect them -- the whole urinary system -- to once again rule out serious diagnoses. I was laid out on a table, hooked up to an IV full of warming contrast dye, and shot into a tunnel of x-ray equipment. With my arms stretched over my head, I listened as a computerized voice told me when to hold my breath and when to exhale while cameras shot pictures of my guts. I loved it.

In the years since I last had a cat scan the machine and the test have changed. Once a 45-minute affair, this process took roughly ten minutes. And the tunnel of x-ray equipment was much more compact than I remembered. Rather than a room unto itself, this was merely a fat ring in the middle of one. It was an in and out, over and done with affair, much too quick for my fascination. Almost anti-climactic. Like giving all of your ride tickets at the fair to one that ends too soon.

The problem with the big tests, though, is that no matter how healthy you might be, no matter how fine you might feel, the fact is that there is something wrong with you. Maybe not scary, probably not life-threatening, but there's something that the first little tests picked up on. And so there's a natural tendency, I think, to want to play into test day and feel sick. There's a drama in lying on the couch, the IV bandage and patient wristband on your arm, feeling all oogie and wanting someone to bring you a cup of soup and feel sorry for you. It's one of those rare days that just screams for a little pampering. And it's a hell of a bummer to spend it alone. By noon yesterday, I'd gone home to a quiet apartment where no one waited. I spent the rest of the day watching TV, eating sugar-free popsicles, and staring at the phone, which didn't ring.

So today I'm going out to pamper myself. And if Dr. AWOL calls while I'm out... well... I hope he leaves a number where I can reach him this time.

Once in a Lifetime

As I jumped out of a shower on Wednesday, I heard a rattling at the front door. A key in the lock. It was too early to expect my father home from work and I hadn’t called for maintenance, so I listened to the persistent rattling in the keyhole for a few moments before, wrapped in a bathrobe and sopping wet, I cracked the door open to investigate.

The young military man behind it was at first relieved to see the door had opened, and then nonplussed to see what was on the other side. Obviously, my being home had come as a surprise. Or, rather, my being in what he thought was HIS home had come as a surprise. He glanced at the number by the door, reached for the bag he’d dropped while fighting the key, and muttered “I’m on the wrong floor.” Not one to linger makeup-free in terrycloth, I accepted his explanation readily and locked myself in again. Moments later I heard the door one floor above mine slam decisively. Welcome, neighbor.

On Thursday afternoon, I heard the tell-tale rattling again and chuckled. This time, I would spare the man’s dignity and let him figure it out for himself. By Friday, he’d learned where he lives. But by Sunday, the key that belongs to my door had a story of its own.

I was to meet a growing group of friends for breakfast Sunday morning at a North Park restaurant called The Linkery, but when the first of our party arrived there, the call went out: The Linkery has stopped serving breakfast. The plan was changed. Because I hadn’t been to this part of town before, Kathryn and Joey waited at the restaurant to meet me. From there, I would follow them onward to The Mission, where the rest of our party would be waiting. But neither Kathryn nor Joey was driving; they’d left that to their friend Lettie, who’d moved from Texas a day earlier and was no more familiar with the area than I was. To avoid disaster, Kathryn jumped into my car and decided that we would lead.

Kathryn is an easily distracted navigator. She gets lost in whatever story she’s telling and forgets that she is meant to be giving directions -- a habit which often results in urgent shouts of “turn here!” just moments before the opportunity is lost. I followed her commands, hoping Lettie wasn’t hyperventilating behind us, until we found the restaurant and the rest of our party.

As I exchanged greetings with Kathleen and Phillip, I failed to hear that the adventure was not yet over. Lettie, no doubt addled after chasing my car, had locked her keys in hers. As we waited for a table, Kathryn devised a plan which involved my driving Joey back to their apartment for a specific phone number that would help Lettie retrieve her keys.

An hour and a half later, when we were finally given a table (and a seat!), I was not eager to leave it, but I gave my order to Kathryn and followed Joey out to the parking lot nonetheless. He stopped at Lettie’s car, noticing that the passenger window was open a crack. It was not enough to be helpful, but it had caught his attention and he began calling our party inside. As he went down the list, calling everyone in the restaurant, it became evident that no one inside could hear their cell phone over the bustling noise. But as he called them one by one, he gave me time to experiment. And when someone on the other end finally answered him, all Joey could say was “Never mind. Kelly’s got it open.”

I had opened Lettie’s car with the key to my apartment.

Years ago, after my brother accused me of copying his keys when an old one on my ring started his truck, I realized that there are more things that need locking than there are locks. I’ve kept every key I’ve touched since. However, here in San Diego, I have only three: one to the car, one to the apartment, and one to the mailbox. That one of them would open Lettie’s car was amazing; the odds were astronomically against. Yet, I’d tried. And viola!

Joey and I got back to the table before our food was cold, Lettie had her keys, and my front door story had come full circle.

And you may ask yourself

How do I work this?

And you may ask yourself

Where is that large automobile?

And you may tell yourself

This is not my beautiful house!

And you may tell yourself

This is not my beautiful wife!

-- The Talking Heads

These Little Updates

Here we go again: the personal update for those keeping track.

(1) The Cat Scan is scheduled for Tuesday morning.
(2) Apartment manager Jonathan (Nashville) went home sick today. No news on the rent situation.
(3) Two of the three downstairs neighbors are gone, but the Jaguar and the stereo so far have stayed. Wunderbar.

Jinx!

I'm not superstitious in the black cat, broken mirror, salt over the shoulder way. I'm not afraid to walk under a ladder, I think that seeing an owl in the daytime would be kinda cool, and I have no plans to kill any sparrows. Friday the 13th? Another day. However, I do have a certain kind of superstitious nature. I believe one can tempt fate. I believe that if one talks about good fortune too soon he can jinx it.

Yesterday, that's what I did.

In the height of the afternoon, before the day was out, I celebrated my luck. I had had my cell phone battery replaced for free and discovered the noisy neighbors below were moving. Hurray, I thought, what good fortune! I wrote posts, sent e-mails, and performed somersaults. Well... I mentally performed somersaults. I was giddy with glee. Until nightfall.

With some small power restored to my days-dead cell phone, I checked messages before leaving the new battery to charge overnight. I had one. From my landlord in Nashville.

After a management shift at my place, new property manager Jonathan had called to inform me that my rent check, received on time, had been rejected. Someone (or something) had warned him not to accept checks from apartment 11E.

Now I've never bounced a rent check or had one rejected, but my roommate has. More than once. My roommate is, in fact, notoriously bad with finances. I, on the other hand, am not. I am meticulous. So to hear that my check was being rejected by association was a blow. But that wasn't all. If the situation wasn't corrected by the 5th, a hefty late fee would be attached.

It was the 5th before I retrieved the message.

Now, on Saturday the 6th, I'm arming for battle with an apartment complex almost 2,000 miles away. Because it’s the weekend, Jonathan isn't in the office, but a girl named Teresa tells me that our apartment is flagged in a computer which doesn't distinguish between roommates. Explaining the importance of that distinction was fruitless; "the computer" would not budge. If the previous management knew how to override the block, new management does not. Or, rather, it is not willing to. Instead, Teresa told me, I could pay by credit card. I declined and left my number for Jonathan, to continue the effort on Monday.

Which brings me back to the cell phone. Reassured by the flashing "Charge Complete!" screen on its face after leaving the it to power up overnight, I turned my phone on this morning to discover that the new battery was no better charged than the old one had been. Fearing the worst, I trudged back to Verizon with the phone, the receipt for the battery exchange, and the charger in hand. One look at the no-brand charger I'd bought at a mall kiosk early in my visit was all they needed. "Crap!" they proclaimed it and promptly sold me a new one. I didn't get out free this time, but I should be thankful: with some companies, killing the old battery with an unlicensed charger would have made me responsible for the new battery cost, too. At Verizon, it didn't.

A new battery is now powering up on a new charger and the results look promising. When Jonathan calls on Monday, I'll be able to take the call. And I'll still have some money in my wallet if I can't talk him out of the late fee.

O Frabjous Day! Callooh! Callay!

Someone must have slipped me some Felix Felicis.

My cell phone died a few days ago. Not sure how much a new battery would cost, I delayed replacing it. Today at the Verizon Wireless store, I handed over my phone and told my story. They handed the phone back to me and gave me a battery free of charge. Turns out, it's still under warranty. Woo-Hoo!

On my return home, I passed a couple of young men in the parking lot, filling a PODS unit with goodies. I'd had my suspicions about the unit's tell-tale location for days, but today my suspicions were confirmed. Mr. Jiggy-With-It downstairs is moving out! Woo-Hoo!

These things come in threes and the day isn't over yet. But after those two, I'm good. Really. I'm chortling in my joy.

* For the benefit of the woefully uninitiated, Felix Felicis is, in the world of Harry Potter, liquid luck. Derived from Latin: fruitful, favorable, fortunate, happy, or lucky.

Qu'est-ce Que C'est

I have one of those last names that's hard to spell. One of those long Polish last names full of consonants and very few vowels. So it's never a surprise to see my name misspelled. Over the years I've seen more than a few interesting variations, but a mundane version that simply drops the z seems to be most popular. At least, it is online.

A Google search of my name spelled properly will gather roughly the same amount of information as a search of my name spelled without the z. No other misspelling has proved so fruitful on the internet. For example, if I wanted to find reviews of any show I did in San Diego, I'd type my name correctly. If I wanted to find my Nashville reviews, I'd type it incorrectly, leaving out the z. For all I know, there's a slew of information about me I'll never find for an o where a c should be, an e instead of an a, or any combination of substitutions and omissions -- with 10 letters, my last name gives folks plenty to work with -- but if only the z is dropped, I can usually find what I'm looking for.

So this morning, when it occurred to me to look up last weekend's Instant Theatre, I tried both the proper spelling and the popular misspelling to find results. I got a hit. From the misspelling. The link: my own blog.

Whoa, Nelly! Hold your horses! That's just wrong!

First of all, I use my full name very rarely and judiciously in these posts. It is the internet, after all; if there's a psycho killer reading my blog, I want to make him work a little bit to find me. Second, I did not use my name at all -- in full or in part -- in the post pointed to by the Google link. Third (and most important), I know how to spell my name. Sure, it's possible I made a typographical error, but I checked: any time my name was used it was spelled correctly. And it isn't listed in my Blogger profile at all. Curious. If the blog isn't getting Google hits from the correct spelling, how is it getting hits from the misspelling?

And why, of all posts, did it link to The Quick and the Light on their Feet? Read that one out of context and you get all sorts of wrong ideas.... the pride parade, the theatre project, the sketchy doctor's exam. I feel a Seinfeld-esque "not that there's anything wrong with that" coming on. No, no. Context was important for that one.

Of course, I don't need to worry about it. It's not like anyone else is going to find me that way. After all, even if someone randomly decides to Google me, the odds are good that they can't spell my name. With or without the z.

Qua?

I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

See, I've been writing this blog for months now, sometimes pouring my heart into a post, sometimes slapping something up to fill space and prove to my four readers that I'm still alive while waiting for the next burst of inspiration. (I'm still waiting, by the way). My blog doesn't receive a lot of comments. Fine. No pressure. I can waste the webspace however I like.

So yesterday I didn't write anything. I posted pictures. And I didn't even take the pictures (unusual for my blog). One was a publicity photo and I was in the other one. I wrote a caption. That's it. And suddenly, by comparison to any normal day, I was flooded with comments.

Oh the irony!

One comment, lost after I deleted the whole entry momentarily, thanked me for an excellent post. The captioned picture? My mind was sent awhirl with images of poor Anonymous K sitting in an internet torture chamber, forced to read my blogs everyday and screaming "No! No! Make it stop!" as some of my longer posts have trailed on. Yesterday must have been a relief for poor AK. "Thank you! Thank you for not writing!" Ahhhh.

Not that I'm paranoid or anything.

Another anonymous comment praised the whole blog, as did a third comment from another blogger who wrote "you have a riveting web log and undoubtedly must have atypical & quiescent potential for your intended readership."

Um... thanks?

I've got a degree in English and I'm not sure what he's trying to tell me, but I appreciate his "riveting" and "best wishes for continued ascendancy." Ascendancy we like. Ascendancy is good. But it makes me wonder: is that a random wish, or is there something I don't know? Like how these folks all found me on the same caption-writing day....

Riddles I Couldn't Resist

After checking a fellow blogger's page (see link in post above), I had to share these riddles found there. I answered both quickly, but I still think they're fun!

Pronounced as one letter,
And written with three,
Two letters there are,
And two only in me.
I'm double, I'm single,
I'm black blue and grey,
I'm read from both ends,
And the same either way.

Something very extraordinary happened on the 6th of May, 1978 at 12:34 a.m. What was it?

That's My Boy!

Shakespeare in the Park's The Winter's Tale (Nashville) opens August 11.

Saturday in Hillcrest

Dr. AWOL

I can't resist. This is too good.

After a long silence, Dr. AWOL resurfaced on Friday with news that I would need a CT Scan -- a urogram -- to determine the cause of my hematuria. In layman's terms: they want to X-ray my guts 'cause there's blood in my pee. Fine. The thing is... I've had more tests than I care to recount, and doctors don't generally call with results unless they are serious. In fact, I've only been called once before. That time, the call for further testing was scary, and so were the results. This call was eerily similar and scared me a bit, too. I listened carefully as the doctor explained what the first tests had revealed and why he wanted further tests. He told me which outpatient facility to visit and that I'd need an X-ray referral from him to make the appointment.

And told me to pick up the referral at his office on Monday.

I didn't. I didn't leave the house at all Monday. It could wait a day, I figured. I'd pick it up Tuesday.

But when I checked the mail Monday afternoon, the referral was waiting for me there.

?!?

The doctor must have been holding the phone in his left hand while stuffing the thing into an envelope with his right.

Thank God he's not a surgeon. I'd hate to think where he'd leave his keys.

My Week Begins at the End

It was a long weekend in Hillcrest, but a good one.

On Saturday morning, I took a shuttle bus from Balboa Park to a University Avenue apartment where friends were hosting a parade-watching shindig. By mid-morning, three straight women, two straight men, and one gay guy were hanging over the balcony, mimosas and muffins in hand, to ogle.

The parade began at the corner of University and Normal, only paces away from the apartment. In the pre-show hour, our token homo affectionately pointed out the "dykes on bikes" waiting at the corner to start the parade. At 11:00, they would take a right-hand turn onto University and begin the festivities.

Once they did, our view best caught floats rounding the corner and riders transitioning from "are we there yet?" to "we're on!" It was a fine position for watching the parade, but it wasn't a boon for photo taking. For that, we were on the wrong side of a median which separated the parade from us by a distance that could only be overcome by a good zoom lens. But the surprise was that even sans obstacles, the parade wasn't a photographer's dream. Apparently, drag queens and maribou aren't what your average gay men and women want representing the lifestyle.

Still, it was a fun afternoon shared with good company.

By early evening, we scattered to our respective shows and rehearsals. With my car stranded in Balboa Park, I walked a few blocks to catch a late lunch at St. Tropez, then another few blocks to David's Coffee House for the first meeting of Instant Theatre.

There was a nice turnout, but not the number our producer had planned for. As groups were being formed, writers and directors were asked to pull double-duty to compensate for the shortage of actors. A shortage of actors: a sure sign of the apocolypse.

I was surprised to find myself among the oldest members of the company, and deflated when I was grouped with the youngest among them. I was comforted to discover that our writer, at least, was my age. As we walked from David's Coffee House to Cindy's place to start writing, my conversation with Matt quickly took a surreal turn. Within 6 steps we went from exchanging pleasantries to discussing a mutual friend from Nashville. It went something like this:

Matt: So, where have you been acting?
Kelly: Well, I've done a few community shows here, but I've done the bulk of my acting in Nashville, so you probably haven't heard of...
Matt: I know some places in Nashville. Where?
Kelly: Well, Chaffin's Barn Dinner Theatre,
Mystery.Comedy....
Matt: Chaffin's Barn? Do you know Richard Daniel?
(A moment of stunned silence)
Kelly: Yes....

Talk about a small world. Not only do I know Richard, I was once poised to date him. It never happened; I started dating Brian after Richard left Nashville to work a months-long acting contract on a cruise ship. On that contract, and on the one following -- before and after Richard knew about Brian -- Matt was his acting partner. "Oh... so you're the girl..."

Sigh.

Matt, who would have a conflict on Sunday, was assigned to co-write with a girl named Traci. Our first meeting was painful. As I sat quietly listening to everyone's input and argument over story ideas, I couldn't help thinking about the old saying "a camel is a horse built by committee." Judging by this group, I thought, that committee had done a damn fine job. I was the first to exit, suggesting that we should leave the writing to the writers and let them get on with it.

Others must have followed suit, because Matt and Traci had a finished script ready for us by midnight.

Early Sunday morning, we regrouped at Cindy's. Matt could not be with us, which left me the oldest in the group by a good 10 years. And I felt every year of it as I asked to have drug references and college slang explained to me. 420? Hella? Fortunately, my character (the brainy chick) didn't have to fight through too much lingo.

We spent the day learning lines and rehearsing, which was a neat trick with both our writer (Traci) and director (Raj) on stage. We walked to the theatre for our afternoon tech, grabbed lunch at a little Greek place in the heart of Hillcrest, and walked back to Cindy's for a few more runs before taking it on the road to David's Coffee House. From there, it was another short walk to 6th @ Penn, where we would be ushered in one group at a time perform.

Note to self: there are days when strappy heels are the wrong choice in footwear. Ouch!

We had shows at 6 and 8 for the public and then filed in again at 10 to watch each other perform. All were well received.

After the show, our producer (also young) invited everyone to wind down at his place after a long day. Usually, I'm up for a cast party, but I was feeling a bit midwestern and matronly as this conversation ensued:

Traci: Cindy, you're going to the party, right?
Cindy: Yeah.
Traci: Wanna ride with us, dude?
Cindy: Totally!
Traci: Raj, there's hella room...
Raj: I'll drive, man.
Cindy: Are you going, Kelly?
Kelly: No, I'm heading home. I'll be thinking of you when I slather on the Aspercreme.
Traci: Oh, right on. Hasta. Cindy, wanna smoke a bowl?

Even when I was that young, I wasn't that young. And after 24 hours of theatre and walking all over Hillcrest for two days, I was looking forward to a warm bed.

Today, I'm not doing anything. I'm loafing. I'm a couch potato. I'm vegging. I'm the whole breadstick and salad combo. Just try to stop me.