grrgoyl: (Alan Alone)
This past weekend it was -8 degrees in Denver. MINUS EIGHT DEGREES. I was obsessed, as I am every year, with draft-proofing our house with the cheap, generally ineffective measures available at Lowe's -- until the tragic news story of a family of four found dead of monoxide poisoning in their home. MyFriendDeb said these fancy new houses being built are so well insulated that it's much more of a threat, whereas our older, leakier home paradoxically is much safer. After that I decided I'd rather just put on an extra sweatshirt to combat the chill. We made an emergency run to Target Sunday for a space heater for the bird, the only creature Tery is really concerned about staying properly warm.


This is what happens to the inside of cheap, decades-old windows in minus eight degrees. Yes, Virginia, that's ice. The brown part is the color the frame normally is


We've decided the next time we have a large cash windfall (ha) we're looking into getting some better windows. Cuz dayum.

I contented myself instead with putting up a black-out curtain over the balcony door, the largest culprit. It does a fantastic job of keeping out cold. Unfortunately, it works equally well at keeping out light. Deb would never tolerate such a measure, afflicted as she is with seasonal affective disorder (which is actually year-round).

The nice thing about -8 degrees in Denver is the 6% humidity, which means the snow covering my car when I got out of work Sunday morning was as dry as fine desert sand. Fell away with barely a touch. That's what I love about Denver.

I don't let the cold get me down. When we bought our Christmas tree it was literally 70 degrees and we wore shorts. THAT'S fucking depressing, if you're as concerned about global warming as I am.

We're also concerned about pipes bursting, mostly because for the first time we have two empty units below us (and when you walk barefoot in our place you can tell. I used to think our place should be warmer with heat rising from Kent's place underneath us. Now I see the difference. We miss you, Kent). I highly doubt the families have the heat turned on. Whereas I can't blame them for not wanting to pay to heat an empty apartment, if the pipes burst they'll have one hell of a mess on their hands. We'll fortunately only suffer the inconvenience of being without water.

However, the bottom unit, which belongs to the elderly woman who went to a nursing home, has had the inner door wide open for weeks now (outer storm door closed and locked). I've called the property company no less than three times about it. They keep saying they're having trouble reaching the family. So if pipes DO burst, the off-site families most likely won't be reachable for that either, in which case we WILL have a problem on our hands.

Again, it's mostly my inability to control the rest of the world that's the real source of my frustration. That and the unbelievable depths of stupidity and inconsideration the rest of the world is capable of.

~*~

I mentioned a few posts ago how this Christmas is cursed. My poor sister who had her boyfriend's gift stolen didn't get a scrap of sympathy from the seller, who basically said, "It's not my fault since you didn't ask for insurance. And no, I can't knock a couple of dollars off another one for you." I'm an occasional eBay seller and that really surprised me. I personally would have tried to work with her a little bit, even if she wasn't my sister. As a buyer, at that point I would have said "Sayonara, bitch, and thanks for nothing" but Amy was so convinced this was the perfect gift for him that she swallowed her pride and ordered a second one.

(For the record, this is what she was trying to buy:



Yeah, nothing special about it, except Amy's boyfriend I guess really likes beer and finds that tag line humorous. But the price of the auction with shipping came close to $20, both times, just because it's framed up all nice (because lord knows it would be unbearably tacky to hang just a bare beer ad). Except it's not even an original, just a laser inkjet printout of the ad, making $40 an outrageous price. The auction it turns out doesn't claim to be an original, but holy rip-offs, Batman, it takes some stones to charge that much for a fucking photocopy. Twice.)

I had ordered three things from asseenontvguys.com. The package came quickly, sadly containing two things I hadn't ordered and missing one thing I had. They fixed the problem quickly, but still. I thought I was safe from going anywhere near a shipping facility until some time in January.

I thought I had finished my shopping finally, when I received the email that my order for my other sister's present had been cancelled by the Amazon seller -- forcing me to track it down elsewhere.

I hope Christmas gets here before anything else goes wrong.

~*~

Watching Nobel Son has reawakened my obsession with Alan, which was never really dead, just waning a bit. I've been rewatching all my old favorites, even ordered Truly, Madly, Deeply from eBay (a film that didn't particularly impress me back when I wasn't sure how far my love for him would take me).

Via my f-list, I wandered over to check out this video of Alan signing autographs after Jimmy Kimmel. The video itself isn't as interesting as the comment section, wherein I felt the need to defend him to someone snidely mocking his aging features. "Yep, and if you're honest, you dream of having half his sex appeal when you're his age" I smacked them down.

I've garnered quite a little fan club from this (well, two people), which makes me happy. Mostly because I'm still having trouble convincing Tery of his appeal. I was sharing in the Rickman love with one of them when she made the observation, "If I met him in real life I'd be resisting the urge to rape him or something." Whoa, stalker girl. That's going a bit too far. If I ever were lucky enough to meet him, I'd have trouble making eye contact, never mind considering anything remotely sexual. I think he'd be enormously intimidating in reality, between the English reserve and his built-in gravitas.

Via the same F-list person, Alan might be apartment hunting in Manhattan. I'm not sure how this was deduced from the pictures posted, but it's thrilling all the same. My theory is he's getting lonely with Daniel stuck in New York for months and can't wait any longer for him to come home to London (no disrespect to Alan's actual partner, of course).

Speaking of Daniel, this one is for my Equus peeps (from the Gypsy of the Year awards, where Equus won the top fundraiser position):



~*~

Tery got the word today that their sister vet hospital had to fire both their medical director and hospital manager, for letting a girl known to have hepatitis C (and possibly a drug user) live on the premises (where narcotics are kept) for an unknown length of time. Which I feel really puts my fifteen-minute Heelys practice into sharp perspective, not that we'll say as much to Tery's medical director.

~*~

Finally, Kitten Mitten has suddenly, after two years living here, noticed the ledge that runs around our kitchen to separate it from the living room.


She can do whatever she wants when she does that little head tilt thing (and she knows it)


Here are more to give you a better idea:




She really is the most beautiful cat in all the world.
grrgoyl: (equus)
I have seen the peen


Just got back from New York yesterday. My trip was completely packed! I met the ultra-fun [livejournal.com profile] swankyfunk, who was everything I expected and more. We finally solved the mystery of how to pronounce her name (well, most of the confusion was on my end). We browsed the Virgin Megastore, where I experienced the very surreal moment of spotting one of her icons in the book Stuff on my Cat while standing beside the icon-maker herself. Then onto Barnes & Noble for a bathroom break and more browsing. From there we hooked up with my sister, and back to Madison Park to meet the stunning and stylishly-dressed [livejournal.com profile] minikitkatgirl for lunch at the Shake Shack -- which I enjoyed despite receiving the news from my bank that my debit card had been compromised and had to be cancelled immediately.

Then a quick stop at Forbidden Planet in Union Square (where I couldn't resist buying this extremely subversive Jesus magnet set) before heading to Broadway to try to settle on plans for dinner near the theater. We decided on an Italian place, where I had the pleasant surprise of meeting the mega-fabulous [livejournal.com profile] madam_o. Then in almost no time at all we were going to the play!

We waited on the sidewalk with the rest of the mob, where an older British woman overheard our conversation and interjected, "I just want to see Daniel's cock." We congratulated her on her honesty. Naughty naughty Meisje tried to snap an illicit photo of the stage set, which was impossible without the flash. I begged her not to get us kicked out and she relented. Our seats were really, really good (thanks to Amy!) and I was vibrating in my seat with excitement.

::cut for length, probably spoilers, though I think everyone I know who is planning on going was there with me:: )

After the show we made a token effort to wait at the stage door for Daniel, but the stage manager claimed he had already left, and frankly I had to pee so badly I was ready to use the alley. We were there long enough to apparently piss off Daniel's "#1 fan" when we stepped in front of her inadvertently -- I missed her outburst, but Meisje heard it. I would have pointed out that if she really was his #1 fan, she should be there every night so what was the problem? Then I would've peed on her shoes.

An older woman appeared on the sidewalk beside us and asked, "Did Danny make it tonight?" Evidently his grandmother had died a few days previously. Tery had been gleefully joking since the moment I bought my ticket that something was going to happen and I'd see his understudy. How close she came to being right.

We got friend!Amy to Port Authority, barely (her shoes had sworn revenge on her for some past misdeed), and Meisje got me to the subway and pointed me in the right direction back to Jason's -- where I met his other roommate, who loves Harry Potter, Alan Rickman and almost as many movies as me. We dished until 2 am. Before that, photos:


My favorite, even though her camera mischievously switched to B&W without permission


::more this way:: )

I flew out Wed morning, after La Guardia's Dunkin Donuts kiosk failed to provide me with a Bavarian creme. Amy was right, they suck. And thus ended my magical, whirlwind New York "weekend" to see Equus (and meet practically half my f-list).

Except for Mrs. Thompson, the 80-something woman I got stuck sitting next to from Minnesota to Denver. She asked me where I was from. "Denver," I answered, "where are you from?" And then she proceeded to talk nonstop for the rest of the flight. Right up until the moment we stepped off the plane this woman told me practically her life story. I was too polite to turn away.

She was from Kansas City, Missouri. From her description, Kansas City, Missouri is a very dark, violent place. She had only lurid tales of babies dying after being forgotten in a car, of husbands being murdered for insurance money, of kids going to court for dropping a book on the teacher's foot (these were all among her close friends and relations). Mrs. Thompson had a firm, unshakeable idea of right and wrong, and it was all very black and white. She was kind of terrifying. I took secret pleasure in the fact she had no idea she was talking to a raging bisexual liberal who reads filthy, filthy slash fiction.

She was also diabetic. She ordered a Diet Pepsi from the beverage service, then got so engrossed in her storytelling she forgot she had it. I got alarmed when she saw them coming back around with the garbage bags and she started knocking it back like a shot of whiskey. "I'm sure they'll come around again," I cautioned her, "You don't have to..." Too late.

When we were finally in the airport, she reunited with her husband (they for some reason couldn't sit together on the plane). I stopped to say goodbye, and this adorable little man asked, "Did you sit next to her?" He reached over to gently cup my head, "Your poor ear!"

Now all I have to live for is Guitar Hero: World Tour and Rock Band 2. : (
grrgoyl: (equus)
It seems like my weekends before going on vacation are always the most eventful.

Friday night I was going to have an embarrassingly easy night -- nothing hospitalized at all, five dogs to walk and one cat.

Then around 10 pm someone rang the doorbell - never my favorite thing. I dashed upstairs and saw what looked like three teenage boys on the front porch, cupping their hands to the window to see in.

"What do you need?" I hollered through the thick door.

"My dog's hurt!" one of them answered.

"We're closed," I told them, "There's a 24-hour place on the sign on the wall."

I then retreated into Tery's office to watch their departure on the security camera. It was surprisingly long in coming for a medical emergency. I watched the kids roam around the lot, one of them speaking on a cell phone, another walking the length of the building down to the fence surrounding the exercise yard, another just lingering by my car.

I could see at least one more in the SUV, but no sign of anyone else or even a dog for that matter, as the windows were tinted darker than what seemed legal.

I didn't like it, not one little bit.

I tried peeking through the blinds to get a license plate. They must have seen me, because they immediately trotted back to the door and started pounding.

I went back, repeating, "There are no doctors here. We're closed. There's an emergency facility listed on the sign," and I tried pointing in the appropriate direction, since they really seemed to be having a hard time understanding.

They hung around another five minutes after that. Just as I was speaking to the police, they suddenly jumped into the SUV and drove off.

Despite me saying, "Oh never mind, they're leaving," a black & white actually pulled up within five minutes.

I invited the officer in to view the security tape. Naturally the remote's batteries were dead, and navigating the menus with the buttons on the machine was tricky enough without a cop staring at me and the suspects getting farther away with each passing second.

I finally brought up the footage and we watched it together. His first comment was, "They look like gang members, don't they?" The term "gang member" to me evokes images of tattoos, leather and unconcealed weapons. These kids, in their baggy sky blue T-shirts and khakis, could have been a local church group on a field trip to my untrained eye, except for the skulking suspiciously around the building part. It was the matching shades of blue that made him arrive at this conclusion. I learn something new every day.

We watched it right to the point where they hightailed it suddenly for no apparent reason. They actually backed the vehicle straight up to one of the cameras in a K-turn, but disappointingly the quality is nowhere close to good enough to read the plate (even after I fiddled with some of the monitor settings tonight in a last-ditch effort to break the case wide open).

He said he believed they were a gang looking for hospitals to break into, and that "when it heats up, they hit everybody." He took my statement, which I felt was kind of lame given I had only really seen them face-to-face through the heavily frosted glass of the door. All I could say for sure was one had shoulder-length blond hair. Oh, and of course the white SUV with tinted windows -- I realized driving into work tonight that white SUVs are incredibly common, followed closely by white SUVs with tinted windows. (Scientific study: On the way home at 5 am I counted 25 white SUVs, and that was an extremely random sample. Ten of them were on the hospital's street -- it's practically the official car of South Sheridan. Five of them were on our street, three more in our parking lot alone.)


These are kids supposedly desperately seeking medical attention for their dog. These are some select shots taken over an approximately 15-minute time period (by me. The video records continously). I didn't care at all for how the blond stroked my car in the last shot


He said he'd have the cops on the beat looking. I said I was going to be there all night and asked for an increased presence. I then escorted him to the door with a dorky comment about this happening because I was going on vacation Monday, which he didn't respond to. Despite never so much as stealing a pack of gum in my life, cops make me inexplicably nervous -- like one verbal misstep and they'll start pistolwhipping me. And I've noticed, at least in my case, that the harder and the more consciously you attempt not to look suspicious, the more spectacularly you will fail.

I detailed the entire event to Tery, who forbade me to walk any dogs the next morning just in case the youts (movie reference, anyone?) came back and realized they might be able to jump the fence. She also ordered me to release Beowulf, the fairly ferocious German shepherd who nonetheless likes me, loose in the hospital at the first sign of additional shenanigans. Had I known I was in for such an adventure, I would have brought him upstairs with me the first time.

I beseeched the dogs, on this of all nights, not to bark without a damn good reason. But dogs are still whiny bitches, and don't care much if their sudden outburst at 2 am into an otherwise silent building is enough to give me heart palpitations. Stupid, stupid dogs (except Beowulf).

Not a terribly restful night followed, but there was no more sign of the youts - which I personally attribute to the presence of a mystery truck owner who has been parking here the past few weekends.

The first weekend I noticed him I kind of freaked out. Suddenly I looked at the monitor and there was this big blue Tundra parked so close behind my car it might have been touching it. I snuck around in the dark, trying to see if there was anyone inside. I did get a license plate on him, which I could see clearly from the doctor's office.

I called the police to have them check it out, because it seemed awfully peculiar -- I mean, just parked so damn close to my car when the whole lot was empty (not that he should be using the lot anyway, but sometimes people park here when Taco Junior across the street is full).

I went back through the security tape (what on earth did we do on the nght shift before security cameras?) and saw him park, get out and walk down the street. I noticed the vehicle was pretty tricked out, custom rims, shiny and clean. This man obviously loved his truck and, for some reason, deemed our parking lot (and more specifically two inches behind my beat-to-hell Honda) the safest place on the street.

I called the police back and cancelled the drive-by, believing him to be harmless. At 3 am when he was still there I started worrying a tad, like about how I was going to leave at the end of my shift if I turned out to be wrong. Then at 3:30 he disappeared, a little too late to be eating Mexican or even be at a bar (they both close by 2).

He's appeared every weekend since, always parking directly behind me and disappearing by 3:30. Tery doesn't like it, but it makes me feel safer -- makes it look like there's more than just me here in the hospital. After Friday night she wonders if he was in cahoots with my young visitors, but I argued if he was casing the joint, there were less conspicous locations.

Saturday night he was back. I also got tired of listening to Beowulf shuffling restlessly in his cage and let him out despite being sans shenanigans. I gave him free run of the entire hospital, and I must say, listening to him pacing back and forth upstairs soothed me more than ten alarm systems. He was my biggest fan, stopping by occasionally to snuffle my hair or let me pet him. Tery tells me the girls on the day shift are terrified to even open his cage (he growls at them), so he probably doesn't get too much exercise then.

I decided on the spot I would let him patrol like this every time he boards (which is more often than you'd think, his owner is constantly going on month-long business trips).

I'm mostly sharing this story so that people like [livejournal.com profile] kavieshana, who think my occasional anxiety working here is a bit of an overreaction, realize that sometimes it is very firmly based in reality.

~*~

Tomorrow, I am on vacation -- a three-day whirlwind trip to New York. There will be hooking up with my sister, the awesome [livejournal.com profile] minikitkatgirl and [livejournal.com profile] swankyfunk, much walking and experiencing of the City, and perhaps later on a taking in of Equus. I'm pretty damn excited, yo.
grrgoyl: (equus)
I simply don't understand it. I order things online all the time, partly because I can usually find them much, much cheaper than in stores, and partly because I enjoy having a steady stream of incoming mail. But it's uncanny how the most exciting packages consistently arrive on either Friday or Saturday (when I can at least enjoy them on Sunday), or more likely, on Monday afternoon when my weekend is mostly over. Consistently. I could order something on a Monday morning from one state over and it won't arrive until the following Monday.

So I sit, waiting for two DVDs -- one of which I ordered on May 3rd, but since I opted for free shipping it went into the "take your own sweet time" bin at the post office. Oh, it exists. I'm sure of it.

Yet these have arrived, that were supposed to take 6-8 weeks and that I can't truly enjoy until Oct:



(So, [livejournal.com profile] swankyfunk and [livejournal.com profile] minikitkatgirl: how about stimulating my economy, if you know what I mean? ::suggestive eyebrow waggle::)

Speaking of Equus (or, "that potter nudity thing" as it's been dubbed by Tery's brother), for one thrilling day I thought Ryan was actually going to come with me to see it. We spent a day frantically e-mailing back and forth, figuring plane fares and hotel rates, before it all came crashing down the following morning because John didn't want to go. John wants to go to Vegas, which will be there next year, whereas Equus is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Ah well. It's his prerogative, but I think he's crazy. Hopefully one day he'll learn what Tery and I are convinced is the secret to a successful relationship: That there's something to be said for some quality alone time. We've been together 15 years so I think we're onto something. Her idea of a fun night is drinking and watching football. Mine is watching Alan Rickman movies in an endlessly repeating cycle. Not really much room for compromise there, hence alone time. Thank god this extends to cross-country trips as well.

I think it's just as well. It would have been a logistical nightmare organizing things for the two of them, plus my sister coming down from Boston, plus Amy and Meisje, plus Tery's brother in there somewhere. Still, it would've been awfully fun with Ryan.

~*~

We have a new neighbor who is perhaps more mysterious than Tracey. He's in the building across from us one floor down, so we have a perfect view of his balcony/living room. He doesn't own a stick of furniture, unless you count the massive electric grill smoker he cooks with once a week, sending great billowing clouds of smoke up to us. Sometimes he has kids there that jump on an air mattress. Once he had a party, his guests sitting on folding lawn chairs in the living room. Once he had a black lab puppy. Now he has some sort of Akita mix, full grown, that barks at every blade of grass that's stirred by the wind. And not just a normal stupid-dog-barking-because-he-can bark, but a vicious, thundering, I'm-about-to-tear-your-throat-out kind of bark. My poor Mitten is afraid to go out onto our balcony with that murderous cacophony going on.

We'll just see about that. He's a renter, so the odds are on our side. Hopefully this dog will last as long as the black lab and the kids did.

~*~

Finally, I've about had it with my little transcription board, the one I go to for help with blanks in reports. The last two posts I made quickly devolved into people screaming at me for the stupidest little things.

Lemme 'splain. A lot of times people will ask for help for example with a medication, saying only "It sounds like 'chlamydia,' what do you think it could be?" In this case, and rightly so, people start yelling "CONTEXT!!" because yes, knowing what the patient is being seen for might provide some sort of clue to the medication.

I was doing an operative report, surgery involving the semitendinosus muscle. At one point the doctor started referring to the "semi-T's." I asked the board how to pluralize "semitendinosus" to try to spell it out. Well of course "semitendinosus" is an adjective and you can't pluralize adjectives, but that's beside the point. People started screaming at me, "CONTEXT!!! WHAT'S SO F-ING HARD ABOUT GIVING US CONTEXT???" I responded that I didn't think context would really help, but if you insist, the sentence is "I used #1 Vicryl to repair the semi-T's." There. Better??? I asked how many different uses of "semitendinosus" there could be, really, but by that point the insults were flying and no one was listening to reason. I had one soul who agreed with me that it was quite ridiculous and some people just wanted to create drama. I ducked out quietly, finished my report as best I could alone, and signed out for the day.

Then just yesterday I asked for help with a medication. It was in a list of allergies so I didn't think I had much context to provide there either. "_____ causes psoriasis" was the complete sentence. I also mentioned that the patient was diabetic, trying to be as helpful as possible. Miraculously, someone offered a suggestion that made sense when I researched it and discovered it to be an anti-hypertensive, and the patient did have a history of hypertension. Thinking I was being helpful in confirming the answer, I came back and said so.

BIG. MISTAKE.

"ARRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHH!!! HYPERTENSION IS CONTEXT!!!!!" they screamed. "WHY DID YOU SAY YOU HAD NO CONTEXT??????" I apologized profusely, but again it just got more and more out of hand. When I suggested that perhaps people were overreacting, I got called a "newbie" and was told that "maybe you don't belong in this profession." Why, because my head doesn't explode every time someone makes a mistake?

I was going to ask how people who work from home could be so freakin' tense, but I realized that not every MT works from home. And talking to my sister later that evening, I realized something else: most people go to work and are surrounded by co-workers that they backstab and stress about. These MT's working at home don't have that, so this board is their drama outlet. Personally I work from home precisely because I can't stand the drama and the cattiness, considered myself well quit of it when I realized I could support myself solely working from home (well, the vet hospital helps). I should have realized that where there are people, there is stress. I will never be free of it until I die.
grrgoyl: (equus)
I couldn't say more about this yesterday as it all came together rather suddenly after a long day of trying to make it come together, and then it was time to nap and onto my second job -- and napping was no mean feat considering how excited I was.

I apologize to [livejournal.com profile] minikitkatgirl for subjecting her to an anxiety attack over the phone. As well I apologize to [livejournal.com profile] swankyfunk for doubting her.

Once we all got in touch, [livejournal.com profile] minikitkatgirl very quickly found us three seats together, Orchestra, Row D (which is actually six rows from the stage thanks to stupid rows AAA and BBB. But ask me if I'm worried about two rows when I was prepared to sit in the mezzanine before this find). "Oh my god!" sister Amy exclaimed. "You'll be able to see the sweat on his..." "Balls?" I helpfully supplied. "I was going to say 'upper lip' but I suppose that's true too," she finished.

I've decided to embrace my inner perv. I want to see Harry Potter naked (or the "Potter peen" as [livejournal.com profile] minikitkatgirl put it). Think less of me if you will, I don't care. The only thing that could make the play better would be if Rickman played the psychiatrist (or better still, Rickman as Alan Strang, though I think that might be pushing the age envelope way past breaking point).

If people are wondering about my change of heart after all my whinging about poverty before, well, it's the difference between $150 for a seat at the back of the theater and $116 for a seat six rows from the stage. That's a difference I simply couldn't ignore, impending dentist appointments be damned.

I can relax now that we have the tickets. Now it's the simple matter of a plane ticket to New York, not nearly as challenging. But if you click below, you'll get to read my account of waiting in line for Lion King tickets when the show toured in Denver, and why I felt such unbearable pressure to buy Equus as soon as possible. (In my eyes at least) Lion King on tour was huge. Equus, with Dan Radcliffe, on Broadway, is COLOSSAL.

::The Circle of Life, or, the Queue of Eternity:: )

I'm going to see Equus..........: )
grrgoyl: (palin)
Disregard my last post. [livejournal.com profile] swankyfunk and [livejournal.com profile] minikitkatgirl have rocked my world. I still feel a bit like I've fallen asleep at my computer and had a wonderful, wonderful dream. And Tery didn't believe me when I said the whole month of April would be a celebration of my birthday!
grrgoyl: (Office Poop)

Shit-tooth Redux


It's months like this I wish I could see into the future. If I could, I woudn't have dropped $500 on my car (all of it maintenance work on a day I was feeling particularly affectionate towards my Honda, that never gives me a moment's trouble despite only receiving the cheapest gas I can find by way of service), if I knew my dental bridge was going to fall out this week.

Looking back, I know the exact moment it happened -- my lunch seemed a bit crunchier than it should have been. But it wasn't until I brushed my teeth before bed that I noticed the huge gap. "Oh, damn. Now I'VE got a shit tooth," I told Tery. I'd like to point out my reaction was substantially subdued compared to her total wig-out upon noticing her tooth missing ("You're not flying to see your family in the morning," she pointed out. I maintained that it made no difference, since even if I were my family would never notice it). Then she said, "I can't be married to a shit-tooth." Ouch. (Although if you look closely you'll see it's not really a shit-tooth so much as a cyborg plate inserted over a socket of completely dead nerve endings, not nearly so gross to look at.)

Thank god my dentist office still remembers me. I loved my dentist, whom I visited extensively back when I had insurance. I suspect I won't love him nearly so much when I go back sans coverage, but at least he still has my x-rays.

So that expense is hanging over my head. I shouldn't have been surprised then when Equus tickets went on sale this week. $150 for cheap seats, on top of $250 just to fly to New York. Suddenly the event I would have killed to attend last year is looking a lot more...optional. I simply can't justify it, despite Tery's attempts to talk me into it. Her brother lives in New York and probably would go with me. But a.) for that amount of money I want to go with someone who would be every bit as excited as me, b.) with my luck Daniel Radcliffe would be sick or something the night I went and, c.) the cheap seats look really far from the stage on the map. There are just too many things that could go wrong, and for that amount of money I'm not willing to risk it.

It's a source of irritation to me, not only that I have to miss such an exciting show, but that in general most Broadway plays aren't available on DVD. Some argue that ticket sales would drop if people knew they could just buy the DVD later. I disagree. I think a live performance is an entirely different experience and the people who can feasibly indulge will continue to. But in the absence of a commercially produced DVD, I will seek out a bootleg and give my money to someone not connected with the production. Is that right? I don't think it is, but what other choice do I have? As I read on someone's blog, for most of us Broadway isn't just a few stops away on the subway, and I highly doubt Dan Radcliffe will be touring in Denver.

~*~

Finally, I weep for our educational system. I'd like to make it clear that I'm not exactly a geography wiz. But it still pained me when someone on the transcription board the other day asked "Are Japanese and Asian the same thing?" (the doc had used both terms to describe the same patient) Are you kidding me? I answered, a tad snarkily, "Ummmmm, Japan's a country and Asia is the continent that includes Japan, so yes." No response. A few others tried rephrasing it, but it wasn't until someone wrote "All Japanese are Asian, but not all Asian are Japanese" that this Einstein replied, "Thank you! That was confusing me below." Did the word "continent" throw you off? It frightens me that this person is responsible for medical documents.
grrgoyl: (snapecast)
Before I begin, let me say that I totally blame my overwrought, overemotional condition today on too much work and not enough sleep.

In my daily search on YouTube for bootleg videos from Equus, I saw a new one from an LJ user, [livejournal.com profile] starrose17. It wasn't even video of the play, just a shot of the Gielgud Theatre from the sidewalk, with its stark black and white lettering and 80-foot promotional poster that has riveted me from the first moment I saw it:

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I watched the 30-second clip in silence, and then burst into tears. I would link to it here, but frankly I'm too depressed to do so.

I've known that seeing this play is an impossibility. From the very first whispers of rumors I heard on the Harry Potter pipeline, I knew that I would most probably never get to see it. True, I have every intention of returning to London for a visit, maybe even this year, but for the next few months, between my dismal bank account and JeffyJeff's teaching schedule (or should I say "shedule"), getting there in time to see Dan Radcliffe's performance is absolutely right out.

Before today I thought I had completely accepted this sad, but hardly life-ending, reality.

Jeffy was very glib about it in his email, as only one who truly doesn't care about the show could be (oh, the irony. He lives in London and couldn't care less). "We'll find you a show featuring barely pubescent boys in Soho" he quipped. I had to explain that the allure wasn't seeing naked boys; I need look no further than my internet bookmarks for that. It was seeing Dan Radcliffe, who by all accounts is amazing. Furthermore I know firsthand that it's an incredible play, having seen a production back in college and being utterly blown away (how I miss the days of student discounts).

...Okay, yes. I want to see Harry Potter naked. Naked and having simulated sex, including simulated orgasms. Me and I suspect the vast majority of Harry Potter fans, even those not old enough to know any better. And if they could be totally honest with themselves, I'll bet even the non-Harry Potter fans feel just the slightest twinge of curiosity (with the exception of Tery, naturally). The only way I could want to see this any more would be if Alan Rickman played the psychiatrist (I would seriously consider selling a kidney to get there in that case). The thought of not getting to see it depresses me so much I wish I could undergo hypnotherapy to forget that it even exists.

But it just isn't to be. Last week was more likely than this week, when flights jumped from $500 to $1200 overnight. And with Jeffy unable to take any time off to spend with me until July, I would literally have to jet over there for the show, maybe take a day to recover, and come back. My two-job-working, barely-bill-paying lifestyle simply doesn't allow for that kind of extravagance.

Anyone who says money can't buy happiness is hereby encouraged to shove it straight up their ass.

Tery tried to comfort me, bless her. She can't stand to see me weep. She pointed out, and she's 100% correct, that with my luck I would go but find myself seated behind a pillar, or next to someone really rude or loud, or see Dan's understudy because he's suffering from exhaustion that night. That kind of shit happens to me all the time. My first time seeing Cats in New York we were in nosebleed seats and the woman in front of me spent the entire first act hunched forward to see better, totally obscuring my view (I asked her to move for Act II, embarking on a lifetime course of not hesitating to speak up for myself, often to Tery's chagrin but hey, has anyone else noticed people aren't getting any more polite?)

I'm better now, really. But if anyone has access to some bootleg video (or knows of some secret way to make my dream come true) send it my way, pretty please?

Edit: Wait, wait, hold everything. Now there are rumors of the play coming to Broadway, with Dan. Highly unsubstantiated, but maybe my trip to see Jeffy can wait until next year...

Oh, and last night I had to deal with my first dog seizure. But I've already blabbed on enough.

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December 2011

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