performances

While I can't say that my performance went off without a hitch - I did indeed need to be reminded of the third sentence of the first bit - what I can say is that it was very, uh, warmly received.

The whole night was amazing. All the performances kicked ass (and you can see more by some of the performers on April 4), and the DJs spun amazing. There were pretty ladies dancing everywhere, on stage and off. The boys weren't half bad neither.

And also, we raised a good chunk of change for the Bursary Fund.

Strangely enough, as soon as I got off stage I felt flat. For no reason. People were nothing but effusive about what Shelley and I did, and I was genuinely pleased about that, but I felt like a pricked balloon.

So much tension and worry going into the night, I think. When that kind of tension eases off, it can leave in its wake one of two things - either you get a rush of euphoria and ride that for the rest of the night, or you feel emptied out and affectless. I think I put up a good front, but man, I was pulling it out of the reserves.

That's carried through to today, sadly, along with the dry, catchy throat that was exacerbated by shouting over music. I've felt low and lonely most of today. Not great, not fun, but okay.

And I can't get through 5 sentences without trailing off into a breathy cough that turns into a hack that makes it sound like my lungs are turning inside out inside my ribs. Luckily, my lungs feel much better than they sound.

Man, I feel like I'm going in about 10 different directions at once.

It's going to be warm in California. I won't have to wear a parka. Man, I hope we bought enough beer for tomorrow night. What if someone gets sick for the show? What if I fall down again? No, I won't be drinking. When I see CT, boy, am I going to [redacted] [redacted] him. What if I've fucked up and they pull our license? What if our houseguest thinks my house is dirty? Or ugly? And don't forget to take the address of where you're staying in San Fran. Those poor bartenders, Rice-a-roni Fuck Fest 2009. Oh, that Michael. Fucking hilarious.

Instead of being extra responsible and coming home early from work to clean and practice, I met Michael for a post-work drink. We sat at the bar in the Whalesbone and gossiped and laughed and said inappropriate things to the waitstaff.

I got back half-drunk and wound up, talking exactly one mile a minute.

When Shelley came over, I realized that half-drunk with only a couple of slices of bread and hummus to sop that up is a bad way to practice. I have those pieces memorized, and quite well by now, but when push comes to shove, the start of the next line sticks its head in the sand. Hopefully, when we're on stage, and push comes to shove comes back to push, I'll be able to yank 'em out.

Well, the cold has laid off, or rather laid in, lower.

I've developed my Third Stage Honk, during which I sit by the computer in the kitchen not noticing what I sound like until M-C comes down and says "Jesus, you okay? You sound awful." Or Shelley calls, and when I go to say hello the air catches on my vocal chords but I don't want to honk hello in her ear and so I swallow it instead, which sounds not like hello at all but like air leaving a bellows; or, like Shelley's grandma.

But I feel fine. It's just with the honking every time I breathe in. Exactly what I was hoping to avoid by taking a day off.

Because what is not sexy? Giving out a big honk in the middle of your porn reading.

++

It's probably a good thing I'm so het up over this performance on Friday. I'm het up for a bunch of reasons.

One, I usually read my work, rather than memorizing and performing it. Been a long time since I've had to go off-book, as it were. Two, I'm not used to taking my clothes off in front of a large group of people. Three, I'm not used to performing with other people, and although I'm pretty solid when Shelley's not performing with me, the first time or two together I'm off my game.

What's the worst that can happen? Well. The worst is that I start into a coughing fit part way through and have to leave the stage because of it. And that's pretty bad.

Anyone have any suggestions about staving off a coughing fit? My ex used to use Slippery Elm if he was feeling throaty and had to go on stage.

I'm willing to listen to any and all pet remedies.

++

It's probably a good thing that I'm so het up over the performance on Friday because if I weren't, my head would be totally lost in the clouds thinking about my trip to California and I'd be walking into things and falling under cars.

One. Week. Today.

While I can't believe the time has passed so quickly, CT and I have both had it already with the anticipation.

Before a month ago, we weren't going to see each other again, well, maybe in the far off distant probably-never future; that was the plan. So the first few weeks after I booked were a high of "oh my god, i'm going to see you again. for real! that's so weird. i'm so excited."

Now, though I'm still excited, and how, I'm used to the idea of going, and I would really really like to stop remembering what it's like to kiss him and actually plant my lips right smack on him.

I've managed not to start packing, but it's taken all my worrying about the performance to do so. Starting Saturday, all bets are off.

Jennifer and I did a reading last night, reprising our roles as Miss Matilda Manners and Miss Edwina Etiquette. It was in Rolf's living room, and we were the openers for a band from Waterloo called Agile Like This. They were really fun. They had a song about how great feminism is. That made me happy.

I was also happy with our performance, though I was way more nervous than I remember being for the launch at venus envy. The more intimate environment, I think.

After ALT, Aurele, Eric and I went to the Shanghai for a bit of kareoke watching and a drink. It was super messy there, end of the night "I drank enough to get my courage up to sing that Meatloaf song that goes on for one hundred excrutiating years but then I didn't stop drinking and now I'm doing weird dancing while other people are singing" kind of messy. It was entertaining, but a little strange, voyeuristic, like we'd caught the last act of something a little naughty that was supposed to make sense, instead of just dropping in to the local to have a beer.

For two days in a row, I have had two breakfasts. First breakfast has been a leisurely and lovely chat over toast and coffee and sliced pear, served with a side of making out. This morning, I introduced my gentleman caller to the Two Commandments of Megan's House.

1) Thou shalt not get peanut butter in the honey jar.
2) Thou shalt not flip the flip-top lid on the toothpaste tube. Thou shalt unscrew the entire cap because it is cleaner and nicer than getting the flip-top lid all cakey and gummy with old toothpaste that is impossible to help getting jammed into the flip-top hinge.

There's really only the two rules. Other than the common sense rule of treating me, my cat, and my belongings with care. But I've set the bar high enough at this point that people who don't get the unspoken rule don't usually make it to my apartment. At least not twice. And I don't serve them coffee.

My gentleman caller gets the unspoken rule. And then some. In fact, my gentleman caller seems to intuitively understand that the way to my heart is to ask me to help him organize his record collection and then listen patiently while I list all the ways in which that most enjoyable task could be accomplished.*

I get that most people don't see the wisdom of not flipping the flip-top lid right away, and must be shown the way and the light of entire cap removal.

* By band name, by genre (which would, of course, mean the creation of a controlled vocabulary), by country of origin, by label - all those alphabetically ordered. Then there's the idea of arranging them chronologcially. Of course, it will most likely be alphabetically by band name, and then chronologcially by album, because that is what makes the most sense. Because I said so.