Good lord. This weekend. It didn’t really break ME, but it surely broke some of my friends. The play I was stage managing went up this weekend (burtle flur by jacky silvertoe) and that was CRAZY. If any of you saw two lanky sophomores carrying pitchers of yellow liquid through the servery last week, those were my assistants stocking up for our stage beer. Turns out green tea is a very convincing substitute for beer, as proven by all the LOOKS they got during dinner rush. Closing a show always has its own sort of ~catharsis~ but OH BOY did that catharsis take a turn Saturday night post-cast-party (classic theatre kid bullshit, sorry, but also not sorry at all). Now let’s keep in mind that Senior Soiree was occurring at the same time that night. But I guarantee that the belligerent little boy I was supervising went unparalleled to any senior drunk off the school’s dime. But do not fret, he got tucked into bed at the end of the night, perfectly safe, albeit near tears about how beautiful Catcher in the Rye is. That was basically my whole weekend, but here’s my high/low/buffalo anyway:
Family weekend. Always *such* a treat here at Clown College: College for Clowns. This campus truly transforms with the influx of capital-A-Adults. The traffic patterns in Peirce somehow manage to get worse. You can’t get Wiggins. You can’t get a parking spot. You can’t get into Ascension without weaving around middle aged women marveling at the architecture. You can’t get a seat at an acapella concert (?!?!). You can’t even get into your scheduled office hours without having to wait for some parents to finish talking to the professor who hasn’t had their kid in class since Quest for Justice, 3 years ago. And of course, it’s prime time for anything that needs an audience. Nothing like a full audience of people who may or may not have any opinion on whatever they just saw, other than “well that was fun!” or, “my, that was sad.”
It is written in the contrails of airplanes slicing through the sky. It is written in the frown lines on your professor’s forehead when you ask a stupid question (yes, there is such a thing as a stupid question). It is written in jacuzzi bubbles rising to the water’s surface, breaking, releasing their hot air. Chris Raffa. Chris. Raf. Fa. Three perfect syllables. One perfect man. I’m here to wipe his record clean. He DOES think women are funny. It turns out he thinks I, specifically, am not funny. Fair point Raffa. How was your weekend?
“Terrible now that you brought me up again in a Catchup.”
“Chris it’s only because I want your attention.”
Spring has sprung, and I’m coming to you live from the hot hot hot beaches of Playa Del Carmen in Mexico. I’m not happy. Not only did I get a big sunburn on my chest this morning, but I’ve noticed that there is some serious warming happening. Why else would the beaches be so hot hot hot in MARCH? We know what happens from here. For one, I can see at least six category-five hurricanes on the horizon from my beach perch. Their respective names are: Andrea, Barry, Chantal, Dorian, Erin, and Fernand. Chantal is my favorite. Much to my chagrin, the warming has also caused an earthquake right here; a rift in the ground is forming between my legs. The longer I type this, the longer a deep, searing sensation emanates from my burn and the more I think about how I should really jump to one side. I’m having a hard time deciding between the right half of the beach and my family. Now I’m doing a split over a 50-foot wide fissure, and my pants are probably gonna rip. Hello, doctor? I’m gonna need some medication because I’ve got a serious case of the Mondays. How was your weekend?
“Well it was spring break, so really it was more of a break than weekend.”
This catchup is about rare, strange, and special things that come about once in a lifetime, like this catchup and oxford commas. It’s also about other rare things I know about, like beauty, love, and your weekend. I know about beauty from when I looked in the mirror for the first time. I thought, “I need a word to describe the opposite of what I am seeing.” I learned about love when I looked up the word “lope” in the dictionary while writing a diary entry about when I saw a tall, thin dog running. Life is mysterious and fun that way. I learned about your weekend by asking, “How was your weekend?”
“Mid-week weekend was great! Actual weekend was a bust.”
As you know, I am a biologist. As a result, I am all about science. That’s why, before I get into the meat of this catchup (which is chicken breast, because according to science, it is full of protein and makes us think of God’s gift to us all — human breasts), I want to address the question that’s been on the minds of biologists, philosophers, and Chris Raffa for centuries: Are women funny? I know what you’re thinking. “I can’t believe you’re buying so heavily into the gender binary, Mia. Come on.” I know that you’re also thinking about something else. “Damn. Mia is funny and ~attractive~.” Moreover, I know that you are wondering why my ex dumped me. All these questions and concerns are being addressed by scientists like me. For now my response comes in the form a question: How was your weekend?
“I prepared for doomsday.”