“Sometimes the beauty is easy.
Sometimes you don’t have to try at all.
Sometimes there’s poetry written right on the bathroom wall.”
- Ani Difranco

 

There is no poetry on our bathroom wall.  I know this because I’ve spent a goodly amount of time there since Monday.  Since that fateful Monday, when I blamed McDonalds for the upheaval in my bowels; but after four days of the same, I am thinking that ominious Quarter Pounder (with cheese) was not at fault.

Don’t get me wrong; I am still avoiding the golden arches like the plague.

And on my third visit last night to Our Only John in the House, I sat in the silence of a sleeping household and thought, “Man, I am SO excited to be having out-of-town guests in this weekend.  This will be SO much fun!”

I am tired of being sick.  I miss food.  I am eating tonight at Chef’s Table, damnit.  And I SO wanted to do something Christmasy for the extended Coven dinner, little memories and whatnot, but I have just been so exhausted and can’t wander far from a bathroom for longer than 30 minutes at a time.  My gift to the group tonight will be to keep all of my bodily fluids to myself.

I am sipping an A&W Root Beer today.  Why?  Because it sounded good.  I really wanted a Red Rock Gingerale, but they had NO ginger ale to be found.  I’ll deal.

Last night, this little boy was at rehearsal (his father is in the show with us, and was most apologetic to have this extra child with him.. we were all like, “Yeah, welcome to Fantasy.  We raise your kids for you.”), and he was SO sweet.  He was four, and I couldn’t help but look at him and remember little boys I’ve known when they were four.  It was just fun, all the giggling, and the wide-eyes (because you know everything), and the hugs.  He climbed into my lap and pointed to my Coven necklace.  “That’s a very beautiful necklace,” he said, wide-eyed.  “It must have cost nine dollars.”

I shrugged.  “I don’t know how much it cost,” I said.  “A really good friend gave it to me.”

“What is her name?” he asked.

“Ronda,” I said.  “She’s a very good friend of mine.”

“She must be,” he said, nodding.  “You think it cost a thousand dollars?”

“I don’t know,” I said.  “Maybe more.  Do you know any number bigger than a thousand?” He shook his head.  Then he asked me what the biggest number I knew was.  “A baZILLION,” I said.  Then I turned to Rankin and said, “Rankin, isn’t a bazillion the biggest number you know?”

On cue, he barely lifted his eyes.  “A quadra-bazillion,” he said, matter-of-factly.

The little boy nodded.  “A whopper-bazillion,” he said, in awe.  “That must be a lot of zeroes.”

So I love you all.  A whopper-bazillion.