I am sitting at a very dull receptionist job, and because the firm I'm working for is clearly insane, I'm not allowed to read. I can do anything I want on the computer, but I can't read a book. This strikes me as entirely bizarre, but what the hell.
The result of this is that I was looking through FARK.com, which is one of my favorite sites. It's a compendium of weird news from all over, and they had an entry today which just charmed the pants off me.
There is an English magazine called The Guardian, and they have a columnist named Charlie Brooker. I don't know what he usually writes about, but this particular column is a description of various flavors of Walker's Crisps (in American, potato chips). Walker's is the Lay's of the British Isles.
Mr. Brooker proceeds to absolutely hate almost every one of the new crisp flavors, but he gives his impression of the haggis flavored chips (no, of course I don't know why - or for that matter, HOW - one would flavor potato chips with haggis - haggis, by the by, is a Scottish "delicacy" which is ground sheep entrails mixed with oatmeal, among other things, and sewn up and boiled in a sheep's stomach) as follows:
"It's like a small piece of fried potato failing to recall a repressed abuse memory while sitting on your tongue."
Now I submit to you that that is the most wonderful piece of prose in the world. You could spend hours mulling the philosophical ramifications of this. You could begin, perhaps, by attempting to figure out what would happen if the piece of fried potato had actually been able to recall the abuse memory. Would this affect the flavor in any way? What would happen if the piece of fried potato was sitting on someone else's tongue? Would it still fail to recall? You could actually build a whole dinner party conversation around this - presuming, of course, that, like mine, all your friends are clinically insane. Personally, the first person I'd invite to such a party would be Charlie Brooker, because I feel anyone who could come up with that sentence would be a more than worthy addition to my little circle of deeply disturbed inebriates.
In other news, life really is beginning to resemble a jigsaw puzzle - every morning I wake up and try to figure out what piece of what I'm supposed to be doing that day.
Today I got up at 6:30, climbed into actual pantyhose and a skirt (and a blouse, naturally) and trotted off to the Steiner Studios in Brooklyn for my Mildred Pierce fitting. You know, I'm convinced that HBO just wants me to look lousy. I had high hopes for something more attractive than my latest Boardwalk costume. But no. They've got me tricked out in pantyhose with seams, a pantygirdle, the omnipresent sports bra (my own), a full slip, a green house dress, a green striped jacket, black lace-up Oxfords with what used to be called a Cuban heel - about 1-1/2" high - black purse, beige gloves, and a truly ridiculous looking straw hat. I'm supposed to be a restaurant patron in a chicken and waffle house on Christmas. Dora Dowdy Does the Diner. I look like a superannuated Girl Scout. Bleaaah. On the other hand, the shoes are reasonably comfortable (I guess by the 30s, women had wider feet), and the restaurant part means that I'll be sitting down indoors, which I think is an excellent idea. I mean, they're shooting on April 23rd (not the 19th), so you never know...I'm still trying to get warm from Friday.
By the way, as I pointed out to the costumers, pantyhose with seams are the last things you want to wear with a pantygirdle (this one is the kind without a crotch - sort of an extended garter belt). The reason is that girdles have garters attached to them, and the way this works is that you have stockings, and the garters attach to the stockings, and the whole thing together keeps the pantygirdle from riding up to your waistline. It also makes it WAY easier to keep the seams in your stockings straight because you don't have to undress to do it, you just run to the ladies' room and unhitch them for a minute. But unfortunately, I'm told, stockings with seams and tops are now made almost exclusively for the sexy lingerie market, and are therefore not useful, since they're WAY too fragile. Damn. I can't wait to get a role in something set in the 60s so I can just go commando - and braless.
And right at this very moment, Richard the realtor is showing some people my house again...and he wants to have another open house on Wednesday, which is fine with me.
But you see what I mean about the jigsaw - a desk job here, a fitting here, a shooting day, an open house...