Say. You there. Do you hear that? The sound of revelry in the distance? True, it is faint, but ever growing. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of people carousing in the streets. They are banging on trashcans, blowing their car horns, startling women with exuberant and unexpected kisses on the mouth. It’s because they know about today. Today is the day when…
I zipped up my pre-pregnancy jeans.
Though I have been exercising, though I have been eating as though I am a candidate for sainthood, I tried these jeans knowing I would not be able to pull them past my kneecaps. But up they crept. Surely, I thought, these jeans cannot cover my bum. But there they are! Clearly I will never be able to button and zip them again in this lifetime. And then? Snap! Zooop!
I. Am. Wearingmyprepregnancyjeans!
Of course, it’s not possible for me to breathe in them, but that didn’t stop me from tearing into the living room to do an elaborate burlesque for Bryan.
“How do you like that, baby? Uh! You remember these jeans? Oh yeah you do. These jeans have missed you, baby. Can you hear this zipper screaming for mercy? That’s niiiiiiiice. You like this muffin top? It’s all yours. Uh! Awwwwwwww yeaaaaaaah.”
And though I am currently standing as I type this because it is impossible to sit down without inviting a medical emergency, I think we can safely say that I look hot.
There’s a brief interview with me up at In the Air. My interviewer is a kid who’s learning how to express himself better and finding ways to relate to other people better. His questions are great. Go check it out.
Me: We could just redo the Hot Dog on a Stick thing. Hank could be a soft pretzel! But then we’d have to rebuild your corndog outfit.
Bryan: We could do that.
Me: Or Hank could be a monkey, you could be a banana, and I could be Carmen Miranda.
Bryan: … Why do I always have to be a giant phallus?
Me: I guess that’s just how I see you.
At 826 Valencia’s Creative Non-Fiction writing seminar, Beth Lisick talked about her decision to write her new book Helping Me Help Myself, which is a humorous take on trying to live by various self-help books. Of San Francisco, she said:
“You go to the park and there’s like two Wiccan potlucks â€” the alternative world. So the mainstream world did seem sort of exotic and interesting to me.”
Because most writers I know began writing in part to assuage the pain of always being picked last at kickball, my immediate mental image of “literary basketball” is a tangle of flailing arms and pasty middle-age guys yelling, “I’m open! Dude, Beckett! I’m OPEN!”
Go see Sweeney Todd at the ACT. If you live in the Bay Area, or have plans to visit, you must go. Buy your tickets now please. Spoilers ahead:
Sweeney Todd, of course, is a musical about a serial killer. In this production, the cast doubles as the orchestra. Do you hear me? They found people who could act and sing and play instruments.
You will come away feeling gravely untalented, but you will also want to kiss John Doyle on the mouth. (Is that cool, Mr. Doyle? Do you mind if San Francisco kisses you on the mouth? We like you as more than a friend.)
Anyway, see it! You must see it.