I’m taking a break from the best romantic suspense comedy featuring Whoopi Goldberg ever written. Seriously, what was it about the eighties that allowed them to try casting Whoopi and Jonathan Pryce as romantic leads? Or was it just Penny Marshall that was so badass?
Either way, it makes for good strep throat sicky watching. “I was raised by two lesbians…. Mick, Mick, Mick… Speak English!”
I’m thinking this whole strep thing is my body telling me I’m not writing enough. Or, you know, I’m not sitting on my ass resting enough, but I prefer to think my body is a little more proactive than that. So. It’s time to start up. The juices are there, the desire is there, the only problem has been the whole distraction thingie.
I mean, really. Between Robin Hood at the Paramount, BANG treasure hunts, labor history walks, folk music hootenannies, road trips, garage sales, new guys… There’s just been too much fun in town recently. And I’m just a girl who cain’t say no.
So my body started talkin’ louder. “Enough. You’re not actually a social animal, though I’m impressed you put forth the effort. You are, in fact, a scribbling loner that prefers to sit in the corner of a dark bar and type away. So get back to it!”
I’m a gettin’, I’m a gettin’. Armed with my chloraspetic spray and homemade seltzer, ignoring the micey little squeeks from the bathroom that tell me that my holiest of holy places, the immaculate bathtub, is being violated, I’m a gettin’.
Tomorrow and the next day I am ignoring the Rubik’s Cube National Championships (free), an outdoor Kamikaze Girls screening (free), the National Women’s Rugby Championships, Hit and Run Hula, and the goddamn Anarchist Olympics, all free. Helluva fucking weekend for my body to remind me I’m a writer, not a socialite. Damn it.
America, The Strange 
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