I'm having a who am I and what the hell is going on around here day. My discomfort may be due to the fact that I tried to get fancy and waxed my girl mustache instead of bleaching it. I had a reaction so I'm now walking around with a disfiguring ZITSTACHE and the product I bought at Sephora to supposedly help has dried out everything so whatever patch of skin isn't erupting is instead peeling.
In trying to make the best of the situation happening on my face, I told Jane who was bummed on the phone, "If it makes you feel any better, I have a zit mustache."
And it did help Jane. So Jane feels better about her life but I somehow took 25 minutes to try on fourteen t-shirts in the morning before going with the one I picked out in the first place. And I was just dressing for was the High School Musical show rehearsal. Do I need a perfect t-shirt to sit in a room putting Spanish lines into a script that I'll later feed to the cast on stage as the new TELEPROMPTER OPERATOR for the South American tour? Hell naw! And don't even get me started on how random my job is. The point is that learning to use a teleprompter does not require the right t-shirt.
Earlier this morning I called Miguel, who is in town from Seattle for a coffee conference.
"Miguel," I said, "I'm sorry I didn't make it to the party last night."
"Oh, no, it's okay," he said, "I'm sorry, too, for..." before unsuccessfully wracking his brain to find something to be sorry about just out of habit. He's a very polite overapologizer.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"Hollywood Boulevard and Vine," he said.
"What! I'm riding my bike over to say hi before I go to work."
When I got myself and my zit mustache to Hollywood Blvd, I called him again, "Hey, I'm here."
"I'm in an oxygen bar with tubes stuck up my nose. I'll be done in five minutes," he said.
"Wow. Okay." Who am I to judge? But that is funny.
We threaded our way through the tourists on the sidewalk who were posing for photos with fake Gene Simmons and fake Michael Jackson and then crossed the street to sit outside a coffeeshop. Miguel asked me about living in Southern California and I automatically distanced myself from our immediate surroundings, "Look, this street is nuts. I've never even been over here before."
Right then, a man dressed as either Moses or Anakin Skywalker walked past our table.
"But my neighborhood, Atwater Village, is a regular place to live. Totally nice."
Later, after cursing my entire collection of t-shirts and typing way too many exclamation points into the teleprompter (MUCHAS, MUCHAS GRACIAS, BUENOS AIRES!!!!!), and after walking past Fergie in the hallway of the rehearsal space and mistaking her for just another gal with long extensions, super big sunglasses, and a miniature dog, I came home, sank into a chair, and decided not to go anywhere for the rest of the night because I can't even take it anymore, not today.
Frank left to see some music with his nephew, Josh, but called me right away to tell me about the transvestite who lifted her skirt to show some leg as he drove past.
"Oh, that's nice," I said.
"Yeah, and he or she is working our block exactly, right between our house and the light."
"Really?" I said.
But I didn't need convincing because that is this kind of day.