I mean, look at him.We went on a date tonight. I agreed to drive since he’s underage and all and when I picked him up he had a lovely yellow sparkly card for me. Yellow. Of course. And inside the card, he thanked me for taking him on a date and told me that he loves me.

Like I said, my life is rich.

He also informed me that he wanted to get me flowers, but unfortunately ran out of time. Understandable. He had a very busy day of slip and slides and play-making, from what I heard over dinner tonight. And really, it’s the thought that counts. Well, at least in this case, anyway.

We went to Ollie’s favorite restaurant and had some amazing Vietnamese food. And then had some ice cream at Friendly’s, which is always perfect, if you ask me. We also saw a baby bunny eating some grass outside and how hilarious this sentence would be if I swopped out eating for smoking.

But hugs, not drugs, baby bunny!

It was an altogether adorable night and I think I might love one-on-one time with people I love more than anything else.

And yesterday I had the pleasure of speaking with a man named Larry on the phone about buying a certain bedroom set that I never do want to see again. We were talking about addresses and what his ETA might be to pick it up when all of the sudden he started talking me through it. What? I know, that’s how I felt too. He was telling me that he had been divorced, too. TOO. You know, me and Larry. So much in common. And that he had gotten through it. And then he told me that he’d pray for me and that’s real nice, it really is, but it’s bad enough getting random Larrys out and about buying your bed, but when they start praying for you too…Well, let’s just say that’s when you’re like, yep. this is my life. take a nice inhalation because this is what it smells like–larry praying for you.

And nope, I am not an ounce above Larry’s prayers.

But seven months ago my life didn’t look quite so much like it was in such obvious need of prayer by total strangers who are buying my bed. Not a complaint, though; just an observation. And I am not crying or anything; I actually think it’s kind of funny.

Oh, and tonight I got home to a quiet and dark house. This might sound creepy, but I kind of like it. Because there was the piano, all begging to be played and it was like, you spend all day with kids and they make you necklaces out of gimp and you wear them! and yet you’re gonna just walk on by…?

So I was like, You’re right, piano. And if you made me a necklace out of gimp, I’d wear it too.

So I sat down and played and then I decided to play a ballad that I wrote for the play my brother wrote that he asked me to turn into a musical by way of adding tunes. And if you are an editor, please, have yourself a field day with that terrible sentence.

And there was one song in particular that strikes a chord with me. Jason emailed me, asking me if I would have a very hard time writing a sad song for Esther to sing; that this song should be something about how Xerxes (which happens to be Drew’s screen name for just about everything, ironically enough) falls very short of his role as husband and how Esther is a woman of worth, despite how she is treated by him.

Do you think you could handle writing something like that? he asked, more than a little tongue in cheek.

So I sat down and wrote it in just a few minutes, it felt. Bam. Here’s a little bit of what’s happened to me, a little bit of my childhood, and a little bit of hope anyway.

It’s called You’ll Know Him. And my niece Charis sure did knock it out of the park when she sang it on stage, by the way.

Which she wasn’t, thankfully.
And considering the fact that she never did marry King Henry VIII, that’s probably not gonna happen anytime soon.

But the thing is, I’ve been feeling like that chicken lately. The one with its head cut off, I mean.

And it’s funny how when it rains, it seems to pour.

( Yes, let’s see just how many cliches I can fit in this one post!).

Because I, along with my brother Jonathan, have been busy putting a musical–The Story of Esther–on its feet, and well, it’s the day of the show, y’all (which sadly, is NOT a cliche, but it is a quote from Waiting for Guffman so should count for something, right?)! But all this to say that this week has been tech week.

No problem.
Except that this week is also when a casting company has decided they want to see me.
Every day since Wednesday.
Now both are awesome–Esther and getting seen by this casting company–but together?

Let’s see what kind of fancy footwork can be done to make it work (as Tim Gunn would say!).

So wednesday I drove to NYC and drove back for rehearsal. Then I recorded with Shane. And “recording with Shane” meant that I plopped down on a pillow and fell asleep while Shane and Pat worked hard.

When I asked Shane if I could hear the tracks later he asked me if I knew the story of the Little Red Hen. He was teasing, but still. Good point.

Thursday I drove back to the city, danced to the point where I could have maybe thrown up, had I been the kind that does that, which I don’t, and then drove back to Delaware. I stopped to sing three songs with Shane at a concert and then made it to help run a cue to cue tech rehearsal into a dress rehearsal.

And then today.
I HAVE to be back by seven. I accompany this show and nobody else even knows the music remotely. So I got myself a real nice little Amtrak ticket and man, does it feel luxurious to be all relaxed and not having to pay attention or worry that I’ll get stuck in traffic or even sit up cause, girl! you’re driving! that ain’t no joke!

Instead, I’m all relaxed on the train. And I’m On my way back from NYC and it takes not even an hour and a half to get there, compliments of the speedy Acela Express.

And I’ll make the show tonight.
And tomorrow I don’t have to get up and go to NYC, which sort of feels like a day off, by this point.

So yes, this chicken has found her head once again.

And nope, I never did read that book.

But see, I go to my website’s dashboard in order to write a new post and every day, right at the top, it says something like, Akismet has kept your blog free from 128 spam comments today. And I am left indebted to this nebulous Akismet.

And curious.

Who is he, exactly? And is he single? Obviously he’s got a job, so that’s a good sign. And I mean, if he sounds like his name, then the only logical conclusion would be that he’s probably an ancient Egyptian spirit of some sort and I should also probably see about getting him a pyramid sometime soon. I know that the zoning laws around here prevented my parents’ from building the pond they had wanted, but I wonder how good ole PA would feel about a pyramid?

So now my to-do list looks something like this:

• wrap up Esther the Musical
• sell my stupid wedding dress
• finish memorizing the song I wrote for an upcoming show
• go back to the family court in order to finish filing for a divorce
• find out how to go about building a pyramid

Oh, and I need to add one more thing to that sensible list:

• eat four, yes FOUR! bailey’s irish creme cupcakes

Because when I was about to get into bed, I picked up a pillow and found this tonight:

Pretty sure the Tooth Fairy has been put out of business.

So let it be known that in the great Case of the Stolen Cupcake of ’10, restitution has been made. More than made, I would say.

And now it looks like I am going to have a party. A cupcake party. Cause I am going to need help to eat these things. If you’d like to attend, just let me know.

And you want to know what I’ve now successfully crossed off my to-do list?

• attending the funniest and maybe most pointless (other than it made me laugh!) rehearsal ever.

Which was tonight. See, Shane and I are playing at this benefit concert for Haiti at UofD tomorrow night. It’s kind of cool that we get to play because it was pretty legit in the sense that you had to submit a video and everything in order to get selected. So we were notified that we were, indeed, selected and then we were notified that we have to come to a rehearsal for the show at ten p.m., Wednesday night.

And at ten we walk into the room and see a huge group of people all singing We Are the World on the stage. So, naturally, Shane just goes and joins them. On the stage. And yes, I’m a lemming, so yes, I do too.

Though neither of us know the song. And neither of us are supposed to be singing it anyway.

But we sit there on the stage and everybody around us is belting out nice lyrics about something collective and something supportive, and there we are: sitting while laughing in the way that you do when you don’t want to look like you’re laughing cause everybody else is being really serious around you.

And then they decide to do the whole song over again and Shane looks pleased as punch to be sitting among them–still on the stage, I might add!–and I ask him if we can please go sit somewhere else. He finally relents and we go to a less conspicuous area which basically means we are no longer on the stage as the only two people who don’t know the song that everybody else is so passionately relaying.

Thank. God.

And then the guy in charge tells us that it’s our turn to rehearse on stage. But there are no microphones and no cable to plug in Shane’s guitar; guess we’re just doing this one for ourselves. Oh, and there is also a pretty big, mostly female a cappella group already practicing on the right half of the stage. The guy tells us to just go on over to the left side of the stage and practice anyway.  Cause it’s not like a whole other song being played and sung directly to their left is going to bother a group that has no background music.

And then, to make the practice even more interesting, the guy in charge follows us and sits right in front of us, cross legged. He then takes out his phone, sets it to stop watch mode, and proceeds to tell us to “go.”

So Shane starts playing and we start singing and then–surprise, surprise!–the a cappella group gets annoyed and someone walks over and asks us to please stop. The guy in charge stops his stop watch and Shane and I stop our playing and then that’s it. The rehearsal is over and we are more than ready for tomorrow night, I suppose.

We look at each other, laugh, and both agree it was one of the best practices ever.

Too bad Akismet doesn’t keep me from silly practices like he keeps my blog from spam comments, I guess.

And some of it is spelled T-A-X-E-S.

And some of it is spelled D-I-V-O-R-C-E.

And some of it is even spelled E-S-T-H-E-R. Um, lest you think that Esther is some chick that I need to do, let me explain.  I am referring to the rest of the music I need to write to go along with the script that my brother Jason has written for the church Easter musical.

But I took a bath tonight and it’s like all my energy went with the water once I unstopped the drain. Seriously, I was so tired that I didn’t even bother putting lotion on before hopping right into bed. And I’ve got the kind of dry skin that is at such a deficit that even a whole bottle of lotion would leave me still not quite as soft and silky as the average Joe. And there’s Joe with his nice and smooth skin and hardly even caring that it is, anyway; and here’s me with my skin that was only soft once in my whole life and that was the time that I almost died in bikram yoga, it was so hot and humid in there–and tell me, is this fair?

But then there are the small comforts that seem to leap out at you. Especially when you are tired. You know, finding a pair of clean and matching socks without even scouring your room for them.

And then there’s tonight when I reached into my underwear drawer and right there, sitting pretty at the top of the pile, was one of my absolute favorite pair to wear. Yellow and soft and huh, I wonder if this is TMI…oh well, it’s not like I’m saying it’s a thong or anything like that.

But despite that rush of extreme tiredness that about knocked me over, I smiled. And felt just a little bit happier. And I wonder how it is in a world where such horrifying things have recently happened to me,  effectively causing me to stop caring about most things, that I am now reduced to feeling happier because of some underwear. Or maybe it’s not reduced, maybe it’s that I am feeling a little better. And able to appreciate some details again–which is so different from just not caring.

Cause seriously, I had stopped caring. I’m sorry, but it’s true. When that horrid earthquake devastated Haiti it was hard to drum up a lot of feeling at all. I guess I was so busy taking inventory of my own self, wondering if there were any survivors deep inside, listening for some sounds of life, that I just couldn’t bring myself to think much about whatever was happening on the other side of the world. And don’t quote me on that–the other side of the world, I mean–I am admittedly bad at geography.

Haiti might very well be somewhere in Canada.

Okay, so I’m not that bad at geography. But pretty bad. Just today a dear friend and I were laughing about how, when we were growing up as some of the coolest home schoolers around, the subject of geography was covered by a silly little game called geosafari. I guess our moms just thought that fifteen minutes of that every few days oughtta do it. And if the fact that I recently asked a friend if Kentucky borders Pennsylvania doesn’t prove that little theory flat out wrong, I’m not sure what does. In my defense, however, I had heard someone say the word Pennsyltucky and so concluded that must mean that those two states touch at some point.

Oh, but they don’t. Just to be clear.

And yes, heart wrenching things have gone on and are continuing to go on, but there it is: a pair of underwear makes me happy. Or at least happier. And I don’t know quite what that says about the world and I don’t know quite what that says about me, but well, I’m grateful to be wearing one of my favorite pair of underwear.

I guess I’ll leave it at that tonight.