From two feet away, the cap popped straight off the top of the milk bottle and fell to the floor. This relates to nothing, but was so amazingly random I had to mark the occassion.

Today I'm covering a shift at the Rotunda (my once-upon-a-time home) that I've only watched in passing while calling time remaining to actors. I'm afraid I'm going to turn into entertainment for the actors already set in the booth (much as I often treated certain other TA-DAA handlers in the past).

Maybe irony does have me on its list after all?

why must the world be fraught with peril?

Though it's fortunately the part of the world that isn't actually me, even if it might directly relate to things like not having to fit all the sound design work (putting it into the book, setting levels, practicing cues prior to actors, practicing cues with actors) into the same day. Which is just like affecting me personally.

Anyway, at least I'm not on irony's hit list right now, as it chose not to strike me down for similar comments (re: actors who play sports and/or do other things that could put the show in a bind if they are injured) as the person who now may have six weeks of dragging himself up and down stairs.

I'm being a bit overly dramatic about all this, but both hit on the same day (basically - the ankle injury was last night but not checked out until today) and I'm a bit jostled from the "pouring water on fires all around"-ness of the afternoon.


In "news only for my mother," the proper answers to your questions are:
* yes, much
* no, really, it hasn't fallen off or or hurt lately or anything
* it's certainly not boring
* Mo-om! (when do I have time?)

(besides the scrumptiousness)

There is no reason for me to be sitting up at three in the morning eating queso and listening to opera.

Of all the adventures I've had lately, I never would've guessed this would be the one to gain its own three-part (and sure to continue) saga.

Popular opinion of those who've recently seen my foot seem to agree that I did *not* actually remove anything (beyond the top few skin layers) when I finally sucked things up Wednesday night and spent quality time with a sterilized pair of tweezers. Instead, I seem to have shoved the shard so far into my foot that I cannot actually feel it there anymore.

(Side note: part of me wonders if maybe it's just dried blood or something from when I performed personal surgery Wednesday, seeing as I never actually bled then, but no one will know until more poking ensues.)

Seeing as this was discovered last night/this morning at around 1 a.m., it was far from the ideal time to try Round 2, no matter if I had a willing doctor. The slaphappiness of the evening deterred me from offering a needle to someone who had recently been completely collapsed, laughing about the word "ferret" and sound effects of raptors that actually sound like screaming girls just minutes prior. It's only now that I'm so fully aware that I should've just done it last night, when my own hysterical tiredness would've been the perfect anesthesia.

this is what parents are for, dangit!

After several futile efforts (trying to trick myself, thinking about how painful it would be for the foot to get infected or--worse--need to be paid for by seeing an actual doctor), I've decided that the only way to remove the piece of glass from my foot would be to have someone else do it.

This is why my parents always pulled out my splinters when I was little: you need someone that you trust enough not to stop digging into your skin no matter how much you wince.

minor, ticklish surgery

I ended up stepping on the world's tiniest, sharpest tidbit of glass last night, and--judging from the stabbing pain I feel when I step on that area of my foot--it must be lodged inside my foot for the rest of eternity.

Part of me wants to just douse it with hydrogen peroxide, as if that'll knock the glass free with fizzing action, but I think such an idea would actually end with my missing the early morning box office meeting as I lay passed out on the floor from the stinging pain.

Except I now have frizzy hair

It feels so much better outside in the hot, humid rain than it does inside with the Texas air conditioning.

the apparent half hour later

Wow, my desk looks really nice when there isn't fifteen pounds of junk sitting on it.

because I'm tired of looking at the same post

* Of course you never bruise the times when you know exactly what hit you, and who you could tease about the damage.

* I should force myself to spend the next half hour cleaning up my room, since that's all the time it would take, but I can imagine five things I rather do instead.

* I purchased a new pair of tennis shoes (all manner of shiny, on sale high-tech-ness) and tote bag (not nearly as conveniently designed). $23 versus an excellent story (that I haven't posted about yet) that further fuels the "don't mess with Hannah" machine? Solid bargin.

* Paul Rundle, I know I owe you a letter. I'm sorry.

* I should just accept the fate that all the Pride and Prejudice blocking will be rewritten sometime at about 2 a.m. the day before paper tech.

7500 Bellaire

I thank God for small miracles: library DVDs that won't need to be paid for, journals found on the floor upon entering bedrooms, and dragonflies hovering out back around the just-started-blooming daisies.