Sometimes young girls do get weary. . .Gotta love sitting at your desk late late in the Friday afternoon, knowing your staying until after 6 pm will render you one of the last souls in the office and asking yourself riddles to the tune of "When is a weekend not a weekend?"

Do we answer ourselves? Yes, with hallowed-under eyes we reply, "When you will be rehearseling four times, performing twice, audiencing twice and auditioning once."

Oh, for an entire day of sleep and no expectations. . .sigh.

What's the buzz?. . .Wow, apparently I fell off the planet there for awhile. I'd say I'm lucky. . .Morgaine wandered with the fairies for several years, I was only gone for just over 2 weeks.

OK, I wasn't _really_ gone, but the effect is the same on the blog, so what the hey? I've been involved in training, both job exity and entrancing, which has kept me very occupied. However, in consequence of having my blog deemed evermore boring, I have vowed to return and blog again. Hi ho, silverwear, awaaaaaaaaaay!

Oh God, save me from your followers. . .OK, so, besides the terrorism stuff, the Taliban is apparently bad because they oppress women, don't allow men to shave their faces and don't allow unreligious music or dancing. Does this mean if we could get the Catholics, Amish and Baptists to hide together in a bunch of caves in the desert we could start bombing them too?

whew! A lady just walked in here wearing a light turquoise mock-turtleneck under a hot pink wool blazer. Wait, let me see how far the damage goes.....black pants, ok, someplace for the weary eyes to rest.

Tell me if I've gone overboard, and I'm begging you to forgive me, oh, in my haste. . .So, 3 a.m. accidents are yet another of the fun aspects of grown-up car ownership. Yea! And now I get to talk to the Insurance Adjustors.

I think I'd feel a lot better if they had some more helpful-sounding name, like the Fair Witnesses, or the Observers or the Justice Pursuers. I mean, what exactly are they adjusting? The facts? The terms of my policy?

My last (and first) accident involved my getting screwed over by a little old lady who wasn't wearing her seatbelt and was digging through her purse as she drove along. This was every bit as unpleasant as it sounds and resulted in a lovely new duct tape racing stripe for one of my doors. I niavely thought my insurance company was being paid by me to protect my interests when in fact they are apparently paid by me to roll over and play dead. . .then ask me to pay them more for all the trouble that I caused. I am not so innocent or optimistic this time.

Oh, on and on and on and on. . .In a vile, vile mood, I find myself not having much to say. But post I must, for there have been template updates which I wish to see and test.

Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew. . .Despite my general disturbedness at the recent Changing Candybars Trend, I have to put in a good word for the new Snickers Crunch Bar. It tastes a lot like a Whatchamacallit. Then why not just get a Whatchamacallit?, I ask myself. Because they are a little rare in vending machines and such and nobody in my neighborhood was handing them out on Halloween.

And here the degeneration of society is working in my favor. When I was little or, more accurately, younger, if someone my age had gone about trick-or-treating without a small child they would not have received any candy. Instead, they would have a pillowcase full of scorn to take home and sleep on. In fact, once when I was 12-ish and Halloweening dressed as an old lady, I almost didn't get candy at several houses because my make-up job was too good.

This year? Candy, lots of it, handfuls, . . . and I was out with a bunch of 18-year-olds who are really too old to be candy-panhandling themselves. My theory? Fewer and fewer actual children are allowed to door-to-door it anymore (and many who were out were being driven house to house in minivans), so those who have candy are relieved to see anyone t'all.

I've finally found someone who eats the Nasty Black and Orange Wax Paper Wrapped Peanut Butter Kisses of Death. . .so, if you have any left over that you haven't thrown at something or used for sculpting, send them my way; boss lady loves 'em.

When someone calls downstairs and asks you to answer the questions "Chocolate or White?" and "Blue or Yellow?", cooperate politely; they are trying to bring you a cuppycake.

What makes me think I can start clean-slated?. . .If you can forget about the cranes, it's odd how much new construction looks like ruins. Especially at night.

Now, this story has something to do with. . .Here is one of the irritating aspects of my job which has gotten more irritating recently in a very odd way: I'm on display. The reception area where I sit is big and open and bordered on both sides by glass walls. My desk is low enough so I can be seen by anyone who happens by unless I am actually hiding under the desk, an activity which is frowned upon by the management. This makes it difficult to scratch myself, work on my quilt blocks, sing "Oh Brother Where Art Thou" songs, make faces at the people who call, sleep, and any number of other things which we do when believing ourselves unobserved.

Tangentially, some people seem to think, because I am an actor, this should not bother me. They use the same reasoning to suggest I should be good at lying. First of all, unlike some of the Drama Freaks for whom all the world is truly a stage, I do try to make a distinction between real life and theatre; at this I have varying success. Second, even if I were to be always "on," being on-stage usually involves a script, which is one of the many things I like about it; improv is not so much my gig. Third, if they wanted to pay me my actor's rate per hour, I would gladly behave actorly.

So the other day I was concentrating on a document in Word rather intently (I think it may even have been work-related), humming the harmony to "I'll Fly Away" and, life being as it is, I probably had my finger in my ear or my nose or up my a...nyway, I glance up and am startled, to the tune of jumping in my seat and making a little "aaah" noise, when I see 2 people standing on the other side of the front door glass, just staring. They found my startlement amusing. Now they make a point of waving and knocking on the glass every time they go by. This is incredibly annoying.

When they start throwing peanuts, I will stuff wet paper towels into their office lock.