Oops

I missed a day. Sorry. I didn't really know how long the "a post every weekday" thing was likely to last, but I guess now I do. Not very long. But you'll note that I'm back already. See? Getting back on the proverbial horse right away (an approach, it bears mentioning, that I never took with actual horses), proving definitively that though the similarities between my relationship with this blog and my relationship with the gym are legion, I'm better at this by a slight margin. Mostly because I can do this while sitting down, expending very little physical force, and not having to change into any special clothes. Mind you, the email I got from the gym yesterday said that 30 minutes a day of exercise, five times a week would dramatically diminish my "risk of mortality."* It said nothing whatever about blogging.

*This continues to amuse me. No matter how much you exercise, you're still going to die. Sorry about that. There is no such thing as eliminating your risk of mortality. I think they might want to go for "increase your longevity," but then I'm just a writer, so what would I know? I'm sure the exercisers have this well in hand, what with all that extra oxygenated blood flowing freely to their brains and all.

Speaking of the exercise I'm not doing and the mortality I'm recklessly courting by, interestingly enough, doing nothing, I am watching way too much TV. It's depressing, actually. I need to develop an interest in cooking or crafting or something. Or somehow acquire more friends. Or perhaps just different friends? I continue to try to solve the combined boredom/loneliness problem by inserting a boyfriend into the landscape, but the Men of the Internet continue to ignore me en masse, so something else needs to happen. Horticulture? Canning? Embroidery?

I believe this is the moment that most women turn to cats, but, as you no doubt know, I could not detest cats any more if I tried.

Ouch, again

I received a bill for my historic kidney stone surgery, of which, I am ecstatic to report, I am only required to pay a very small portion. It cost a lot. Drink water. That's my big advice.

The most surprising bit is the line item for "Recovery Room" which runs to very nearly $3,000. Did you know it cost that much to lie unconscious, drooling blood, in a room with at least ten other unconscious people?
Yeah. Me neither.

If you're on a budget, I think you can just find a flophouse full of junkies and have more or less the same experience for free.

Farewell

Richard Griffiths has died, which makes me sad. Even sadder is the fact that I learned this from an internet headline "Harry Potter Actor Griffiths Dies." This is not unlike referring to Marlon Brando as "Superman Actor"--not untrue, but rather missing the point. When the black day comes that we say farewell to Maggie Smith, I will not be responsible for my actions if she's blithely referred to as "Harry Potter Actress." You are forewarned.

I had the enormous good fortune to see Mr. Griffiths in Alan Bennett's The History Boys on Broadway some years ago. I would have liked very much to see it again almost immediately after the curtain call. He was a great actor. I'm sorry he's gone.

Falling in love again

You may recall my fantasizing about being Marlene Dietrich (you may also recall fantasizing about yourself being Marlene Dietrich, but I wouldn't know about that). Well, as it happens, I basically am Marlene Dietrich. I offer this evidence.

On one hand, it is comforting (however hollowly) to know that I am not alone in pitiful behavior, that even Marlene Dietrich has wandered around ridiculously pining for men who ignore her. On the other hand: Men, what gives? This pattern of behavior that spans the decades and leads you to ignore not only me, but also Marlene Frickin' Dietrich really must stop.

Have you seen Marlene Dietrich?

Exactly.

So, while I need no longer envy Marlene Dietrich her love life, I do keenly envy her being a close personal friend of Noel Coward. It is a thing to which I have long, and alas, fruitlessly, aspired.

When you are selecting friends from among famous people whom you do not know, your slim odds of success greatly improve if you first narrow the candidates to those among the living. A tiresome restriction, but there it is.

Also, how much do you love that Yul Brenner was called Curly?

One fewer

I got an email today with the subject heading "Top 5 Deathbed Regrets of Writers." It's likely that I will suffer from all five of them, but just in case one of them was "Failed to update my blog after being totally on a roll," I am here. Maybe this simple act of showing up means I'll only suffer four deathbed regrets--as a writer, anyway. I hate to contemplate the number of non-writing related deathbed regrets there may be. I may require a long, wasting sort of illness in order to get though them.

One of the downsides of being cowardly is that regrets are easy to come by. Perhaps you would like to cross-stitch that onto a throw pillow as a warning to yourself. Granted, it will have to be a pretty big pillow to fit such a long phrase, but that's okay. When you get home from all those brave, self-actualizing activities, you're probably going to be pretty tuckered out. A large, cautionary pillow may come in handy.

You're welcome.