But Call Me Betsy

I had one of those dreams last night where I'm in a play, but haven't rehearsed any of the lines in weeks, don't know the part very well, and don't have a costume, and am also playing someone against type (in this case, I think I was Falstaff. Perhaps I feel like I've been eating too many Christmas cookies?). I had to go onstage first. When I peeked through the curtains, the seats were mostly blank, but when I went onstage (with the play strategically smuggled in the front of my shirt), it was a packed crowd. I warbled and chortled about (as Falstaff does), while also realizing that I wasn't emphasizing the right words. The line would be something like, "Is that a dagger I see before me?" but I'd say it like, "Is THAT a dagger I see before me?" As if there 4-5 things in my line of vision. The cast and director were not pleased with me and told me so after the show. I was upset, not just because of my poor performance, but also because I ...

And Barack Obama was in it. I dreamed I was in some kind of shopping center and he just walked in to look at a table of books. He was wearing a red Polo shirt. In the dream, I kept thinking how I had to act cool, you know, not stare or faint or anything. It was so vivid. I could see the freckles on his arms. He had a surprisingly deep voice and also wasn't surrounded by any body guards or security. I thought he might notice how unaffected I was acting and want to talk to me. He did not. It must be so odd to be famous enough that you make cameo appearances in the dreams of strangers. Here is a photo of a set back blue house I pass on my walk down South Street. This is my shadow. Hair was biggish that day. The campus. It's so pretty in the fall. I guarantee that even though you can't see them with the naked eye, there are at least 16 squirrels hidden in this photo somewhere. A little street flair. And the corresponding house. Seems as though Home Depot was having a sale on t...

We went over essays/stories the other night in the class I'm taking at Penn. Last week, we all had to turn in drafts of our work, even if we're not being reviewed for several weeks. This is odd to me. Usually, you turn your piece in the week before it will be workshopped. That way, you can continue working on it up until the last minute. So, for the next four weeks, I am not supposed to make any changes to my story. Of course, I could anyway, but then that means that the class critique might not be relevant by the time we get around to doing it. An older woman in the class unintentionally said the funniest thing. We were going over her piece and talking about comments and she said, Oh, did I need to write comments for my own piece? Sure, yes. "The writing here is hard to follow and I didn't know what was going on." We also did something I've never done in a grad class before--we had a training session on how to give good feedback. The teacher read aloud a pa...

For the better. I can now take the subway three stops, get off at South and Broad, and walk the rest of the way to work in about half an hour. And it's a nice walk. Lots of little shops and restaurants. I bought two Clemintines, an apple, a Greek yogurt, and Health Nut trail mix at a little store somewhere, along with pumpkin-flavored coffee. It was there that I had a brief conversation with another woman trying to pour coffee. I didn't like her because she seem exasperated that the guy ahead of us was grabbing drinks for his work crew, but I talked to her anyway. Later in the walk, I saw this black homeless-looking guy fiddling with his belt in a doorway. Another woman was walking toward me and I saw she was looking at him too, and frowning. I said, What is he doing? She said, He's peeing. He's peeing in those people's doorway. I said, That's a nice way to start your morning. They're also doing construction near Penn for the new Penn park. Here is a crane w...

In our office! Sweeten has always had a little squirrel problem, but I think we've now reached critical mass. Yesterday, Jason and I watched a fat squirrel run back and forth across his desk. It had arrived from the hole in his floor (see below). Even though we've set feral traps, the squirrels will not go for the peanut butter. Why should they? There's plenty of chocolate around that tastes much better and doesn't cause you to be trapped in a cage. This is Franco, Leigh Ann's cat. I went with her yesterday to pick him up for the vet, where he had his teeth cleaned. They gave her liver-flavored toothpaste to periodically rub on his teeth. Know what my cats get? The occasional can of smelly wet foot, divided by three.

That's what the Philadelphia ladies say when something is dead wrong. "It's a sin..." That's what they were saying today at lunch when I was describing L.'s mom to them--how she has moved into yet another house that he will not be allowed to stay in because of (1). dust or (2). the smell of something burning or (3). electrical problems or (4). lawn fertilizer at the next door neighbor's house or (5). a dog that stopped by once ten years ago or (6). the possibility of disaster, harm, germs, dirt, smells, lightning, banana peels, etc. (image is from www.toothpastefordinner.com) The reading/discussion went well last night; several of my co-workers/friends showed up, which was nice. No one heckled. The guy who supposedly goes to all of the readings and asks dumb questions wasn't there, thankfully. I also turned in a story draft for my grad class last night; it needs work. It's a story about what it was like to work at the organ transplant place; how ...

If you need to see me this evening, I'll be taking part in a reading of Philadelphia Noir , edited by Carlin Romano at the Penn bookstore at 6 PM. You can read about it here . We're not actually reading from the book, because that would take forever, but I guess we're supposed to say something about the process of writing the story--how we came up with our ideas, etc. I made Dan talk with me about it yesterday so I could try to remember how the idea came about. I was just rereading some of the story, and the narrator just really isn't very likable. The situation too is a bit of a stretch. But I can talk about how I determined where it would be set. I was writing it when I was also looking for a house, and so I got to see the inside of all of these different South Philly homes, and started noticing similarities among some of the places where you could just tell the owners were older. Dark paneling, furniture covered in plastic, Jesus-es all over the place, and, oddly,...