Sunday, February 12, 2006

Rose Amoebas

My friend Jeff came over here this morning and brought me a pretty plant for Valentine's day. I don't know what kind of plant it is or how to take care of it. He told me it was a perennial, to which I replied, "Oh, that makes it doubly horrible when I kill it like an annual"

Jeff was looking at my wallpaper on my computer, which is currently this:

And he said, "that looks like Amoeba's to me."

I scathingly told him it's called P-A-I-S-L-E-Y, but he said, "Nope. Rose Amoeba's." This is Jeff, who can trace his ancestry all the way back to Cleveland. But no further.

I thought I was offering myself such a treat today by taking in the Sunday Matinee over at the Geary Theater. I love live theater, but I do not love theater seating. Those narrow, teensy seats were designed for an earlier time, when the homo sapien theaterati only achieved the full adult stature of about 5'2" tall. My legs do NOT fit in between the end of my seat and the back of the seat in front of it, causing me to spend endless agonizing minutes squirming and crossing and uncrossing them and trying to find someplace to tuck them until they fall asleep on me and have to be shifted again.

I am about to confess a story the likes of which rivals only the true tale in which I turned to my boss' visiting brother, after having chatted with him for fully five minutes, and asked him if he spoke English. Because, Gentle Readers, I made a mistake in my choice of Plays. I THOUGHT I was going to see "Six Women With Brain Death," a ribald and silly comedy that has been highly recommended to me for years, but actually what I sat through for two grueling hours was "The *female-body-part* Monologues. With skits like "If your *female-body-part* could talk, what would it say? and "300 Slang Names for your *female-body-part*. I even had to sit through a 15 minute sketch of an actress dressed like a dominatrix imitating fourteen or fifteen different kinds of sexual moans that your *female-body-part* makes. But the lowlight was being required to SCREAM OUT *FEMALE-BODY-PART! FEMALE-BODY-PART!* over and over like a Rolffing Mantra before the end of the show. It was supposed to be liberating and enlightening, but it just felt cheap and tawdry.

And my friend Sharon spent the day at a Victorian Tea party and got to make paper dolls out of antique pink crepe paper.

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