Oh, yay me. I just got a call from a casting agency that never hired me before. This is always good, because the more people know you're out there, the better. Anyway, I'm doing 30 Rock on Friday! I would say, isn't that glamorous, but it isn't, actually, since I'm playing one of the denizens of a woman's shelter. Ah, well. I am, after all, a character actress...also, unless I miss my bet, from the questions on the phone about my sizes, I'm pretty sure it's going to be one of those lovely jobs where I just roll out of bed and get there and they do the rest.
Meanwhile, I have three lovely bits for all of you in the listening (reading?) audience.
The first is tiny, but it amused the hell out of me. You know my oft-repeated rant about nobody paying any attention to the English language any more. Well, the complete inattention to copy editing and proof reading paid off the other day in the NYPost in an article about a gentleman named David Pecker (which is a rather unfortunate name to begin with). He is the CEO of something called American Media and seems to be doing some sort of restructuring...which caused the article to be headlined: "Pecker's Package."
Secondly, I had the most bizarre experience last week. A friend was in town, and she and I were having a drink and chatting. Apropos of talking about my first marriage, I told her the story of being sort of engaged (I think we were sort of engaged) to another guy with whom I was sharing a room in a boarding house. This would be about 1967 or so. Anyway, the guy and I also shared this tiny room with Buzzy, who became my first husband. You see, Simon and I worked days and Buzzy worked nights, so we would get up for work as Buzzy was coming in to take over the one bed. This sounded a WHOLE lot more reasonable in 1967.
Now I have not thought of Simon in years, except very much in passing. And I certainly haven't laid eyes on him in a good 40 years. The morning after this conversation, I opened up my Facebook, and guess who requested me as a friend? Yup. I about died. How completely weird is that!
I'm going to have to start looking up all my old boyfriends...presuming I can remember their names.
Now I'm going to do something I rarely do, which is change the names to protect the innocent. You will understand why.
The lady I was talking with about the boarding house room I will call Mary. Mary has a boyfriend, call him Joe, who is an old pal of mine, which is how I met Mary, whom I adore.
So Mary told me that she had quite a lot of issues in her nether regions which had been bothering her for years, and she finally decided, oh, the hell with it. I've got the insurance, let me get this taken care of, finally (a botched episiotomy, among other things). Before the operation, since there was going to be a fairly decent bit of reconstruction done, her doctor told her to go home and measure Joe...length and width flaccid, length and width aroused.
The result is that they can never break up, because Joe now finds himself going with a lady with a custom-built crotch, just for him.
And you thought those monogrammed shirts were a great Christmas present.