A few weeks ago, a friend was in town for a visit. We spent an afternoon in a coffee shop in each other's company. I worked through the Jonesin' Crossword while she was occupied with writing no fewer than 80 thank you notes for her generous students and distant family members. Being a resourceful lass, she had found a fail proof formula for writing an appropriate thank you note in six easy steps. I believe her guide comes from The Morning News, but I'll recapitulate it here:
Greet the giver
Thank the giver
Discuss use
Refer to recent and upcoming interactions
Repetition of gratitude
Salutation
I didn't have reason to use the formula at the time. For once I had written my holiday thank you notes promptly and, although I have not bothered to mail them yet, I did not feel that my notes strayed too far from this guide. Admittedly, I do bend the rules a bit on number four because, quite frankly, I enjoy talking about me. Today, however, I finally found a suitable occasion to put the formula to use.
Dear Miso Soup,
Thank you for burning my tongue tongue today. Your gift really caught me by surprise! I was not expecting more than the pleasure of your delicious company. You really outdid yourself when you scalded the roof of my mouth as well. Your generosity and kindness is greatly appreciated, O cloudy and salty broth of yum.
How did you know that I have low-tolerance to heat? All day I've been particularly sensitive to the sensation of creating important consonant phonemes. Also, I really did not want to enjoy the rest of my lunch or anything else I attempted to eat. I plan to use the burnt tongue to consider what it might be like to have fur instead of taste buds.
I'd been looking forward to our visit since I first thought that your company might rouse me from the quasi-hypothermic state induced by my drafty and cold apartment. I look forward to seeing you again soon. Perhaps we shall run into each other the next time I have a hankering for sashimi, donburi, or combination Bento box lunch.
I recently decided that one's proclivity towards performance runs through the blood. A performer that's not living the life often seems to be a bit anemic, or at least more prone to metaphoric bruising. I'm certainly no exception. Though the performance vein is innate, my identity as a performer has passed through several incarnations. This must is part of the natural process that occurs before one finally figures out how best to fit in with the cosmic puzzle of the performance world.
To cite an early example, circa age four I wanted nothing more than to be a big bosomed blonde with a beautiful voice just like Dolly Parton. I got exactly what I asked for, in certain respects. But I'm no Dolly. And thankfully so, might I add.
In my adolescence, I wanted (very badly) to be a stand up comic. I studied up and became extremely well versed in the routines of big name comics in the mid-90s. As I learned more about comedy as a craft, I quickly realized that it is a very difficult reality. It's not an easy life and it's particularly difficult if you're not funny when you try to be. As I used to say, I wanted to be a comedian but it turns out I just needed therapy.
Like my more ambitious and confident self, my comedian persona now seems to be a semi-fictitious character from long ago and far away. I recognize it sometimes in passing. It's like running into an old acquaintance. I exchange a quick but awkward, "Hey... hey... What've you been up to? Ah... an early retirement! Sounds great. Oh really, it's terrible? I'm sorry to hear that. Well. Gotta go stare at the paint on my walls now. It's been great to see you. Look me up on MySpace, will ya?"
Of course, it was one of my closest friends from way back in my comedian days that introduced me to The Maria Bamford Show last week. I found that I really connected with the little viddy I've included below for the following reasons:
I've heard that badgering about makeup before.
Until recently I worked for the Portland branch of that temp agency.
I totally sing all of my anxieties goblins aloud to myself. All the time.
Without further ado, Mizz Bamford:
With this post I hope to get the crowcrastination ball a-rollin' again. If you, dear reader, could only see how oft the dreaded red DRAFT label clutters the admin page of this blog. I have a shameful pile of half written anecdotes; there might be a few that are worthy of brushing the dust off the cover.
Okay, this one made me feel better. But only because it was inspired by this:
