Lots of little things kept me from going to Connecticut this weekend. I was supposed to drive to visit AnnaMo, who has been kicking her own ass marketing her candidate and prying cold hard cash from the tightfisted souls of Hartford. As I woke up early Friday morning, unpacked and vaguely hungover, it became clear my trip was in danger.
It was pouring rain so hard my windshield wipers could barely keep up. My driver's license had expired the week before. I had yet to do any reading for Monday's class, and could ill-afford a repeat of last weeks excrutiating silences and the professor's fist slamming on the desk as he threatened to walk out. Work was a madhouse of dozens of tiny tasks. Tuesday starts the Hell Month of truly intense rehearsals-- every night, running through full acts and full shows, off-book. We had our biggest tech day yet on Saturday and I hadn't once stopped by to help paint, build, or even buy coffee.
So there was no one reason I couldn't go (apart from the expired license, I suppose, but I've driven from Michigan to DC with an expired license before and managed to live)(not that this is wise, nor am I in any way endorsing said endeavor, merely stating facts as they stand). Lots of little reasons got in the way, though, and this is why I am not in Connecticut watching the Yale/Dartmouth football game, drinking martinis and speaking in a nasal Westchester lockjaw. Weekend was instead spent watching Michigan humiliate herself (TWO missed field goals? against Minnesota? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?), drinking beer at the Brickskellar and speaking in a British accent with Libs as we swooned over Mr. Darcy, Part the Second. Verbs are essentially the same, but apparently geography possesses its own unique nouns.
I sit here in my ratty Scrubs scrubs from the NBC studio store, watching The Thomas Crown Affair for the eighty-fourth time and wishing that my wardrobe was entirely Celine by Michael Kors and that I was the kind of woman who could pull of wearing sunglasses indoors. Sadie is rolled over on her back next to me, paws in the air and spine contorted in the shape of a question mark. She's giving me a look that clearly says "Woman, is there a reason you're not rubbing my belly right now? Is that not what I keep you for?" Maybe I'll cook something ambitious for dinner-- maybe something with the jar of hoison sauce I bought over three months ago when I went grocery shopping after a couple of cocktails.
I still have reading to do, but not right now. Right now, I'm going to roll around in having a whole day unexpectedly free. Wrap myself up in it and marinate in it. Whole. Lotta. Nuthin.