Waiting for Waiting For Godot

Waiting For Godot is one of those plays I've always heard about but have never seen performed. I haven't read it either. All I know is that it's about two guys sitting around waiting for this person named "Godot" who never shows up. It's one long conversation about, well, life, the universe, and everything, from what I can gather. And there's this kind of play on the name "Godot" -- God, Godot -- get it? So. Very philosophical, very neat stuff. When it first hit the stage, people loved it. People hated it. People reacted. So when it turned up on my Artsopolis eSavers email, I had to go, didn't I. Plus, I thought it would be fun to take my son. I bought the tickets online, printed out the directions to this place I never heard of, and out into the dark we went.

It was a dark and stormy night. (No, really!) Could that have been the reason for my disorientation? It contributed to it, anyway. That and the flipping lousy directions. I'm telling you, people can't give decent directions, let alone a machine. Mapquest be damned. I don't know who's to blame -- Artsopolis, the Santa Clara Players, or Mapquest -- but I drove around in circles for an hour before I found the place. Sort of found the place. What I found was the Triton Museum of Art. The play was supposedly being held at the grandly titled "Triton Pavilion." My son and I walked around the grounds for 20 minutes before finally giving up and crashing what was an obviously high society party at the museum. Did anyone know where the so-called "Pavilion" was? Staff directed us out back.

There, across the dimly lit grounds, with little more than a hedgerow path to guide us, was the "pavilion" -- a set of squat hexagonal-shaped buildings more akin to an outhouse. And sure enough, posted there next to the door, was a sign the size of a postage stamp declaring the performance of Waiting For Godot. The play was already in progress. We were an hour and a half late.

Then, before I could even say a word, this ancient woman who could have passed for one of The Furies herself descended upon us and said, "You can't go in there! The play is already in progress!"

That, my friends, was the proverbial last straw. I lit into her and told her what I thought of the so-called directions available through their website. I also asked for my money back. She couldn't help me. The ticket guy had already packed up and gone home. So I grumbled, as I exited stage left, that I would be writing a letter of complaint. (Eventually, I will).

We went to a movie instead.

The irony of this whole experience is not lost on me, however; you see, I'm still waiting for Waiting For Godot.

Hey, Buddy... You got any Sudafed?

I wish I could breathe like a normal person, I really do. My allergies come and go as they please, my sinuses flaring up regardless of the time of year. They were bothering me so much one year that I actually went to the trouble of getting tested to find out what the main culprit is. It was not any kind of flowering plant or animal hair which I had previously suspected; instead I found out that my main allergen is common house dust, specifically the dust mites that inhabit said dust.

Basically, what this means is I'm allergic to just about everything in my house that collects dust. Finally, I have a legitimate excuse to avoid housework, and a reasonable understanding of why I hate it so much: It makes me sick. (Honestly, if I go to the trouble of vacuuming, I breathe like an asthmatic for three days; suffice it to say, I don't get much vacuuming done these days). My only recourse is to wrap everything in plastic, buy phenomenally expensive 300-thread-count woven Egyptian cotton sheets, and pay someone else to clean my house (yeah, like any of *that* is going to happen). My only *other* recourse is to find a drug that works.

Enter Sudafed, with pseudoephedrine. This is the stuff that works. And it's the only stuff that I can't get. You know why? Because pseudoephedrine is also the main ingredient of crystal meth. So to keep evil people from coming in and buying buckets of the stuff, this drug has been officially moved "behind-the-counter." You have to ask for it.

Now, I don't have a problem with this. I understand they need to control access to this drug. What I don't understand is why they limit purchase to two boxes per customer which does *not* equal a month's supply, if you are using it as the manufacturer intended. And do you know how they track this? They run your Driver's License through the computer to ensure you aren't sneaking around to other drug stores buy more. When I murmur my complaints about this, the pharmacist only shrugs and says it isn't his rule and directs me to the alternate. This drug, Sudafed with phenylephrine, is sold without restriction; however, case studies have shown that not only is it ineffective, it is little better than a placebo.

Well, *I* could have told them that! I have popped up to three of those things at a time and *nothing happens*!!!

It just burns me that because criminals are using this drug illegally, I have pay the price. I'm the one restricted from this drug. It's easier to buy this stuff on the street than to get it from your local pharmacy.

For the love of Pete, I am *not* running a meth lab in my home! I just want to breathe like a normal person!!!

R is for Rant

A curious and rather frustrating thing happened to me on Saturday. I came up against the cinema establishment's finest (insert heavily ironic tone) and came away with a bloody nose. It went something like this:

My son and four of his friends wanted to see the latest Resident Evil flick--cute girl kicks lots of zombie ass in post-apocalyptic Las Vegas--so I am volunteered as driver to above mentioned establishment.

I dropped them off at the door and pulled away, but within moments I get a phone call requesting that I return to "give my permission." Okay.

So I go to the ticket window and say to the ticket person: "They have my permission." Whereupon I am informed that unless I also buy a ticket and see the film, they cannot attend. Okay.

So I say, "Alright, then, I'll buy a ticket." Whereupon I am asked, "Are you the legal guardian of these children?" "Yes, I'm their aunt," I said, lying *convincingly*, I thought. The ticket person repeated, "Are you the legal guardian according to the court of law?"

Here is where I lost my cool. I mean, how can they possibly enforce this? Even legal parents don't go around carrying some kind of "offspring" identification. It's not like they can card for this, you know? My driver's license does not read Hair: Red, Eyes: Blue, Offspring: 1 now does it?

So, according to the cinema establishment's finest, as a film goer, I have to put up with idiots bringing in their screaming babies because they have "legal guardian" status, but I can't bring five basically well-behaved teenagers?

I was spurred by my righteous indignation into a little research. It was my impression, based on the age and prim disapproval of the woman at the ticket window, that this was some attempt at enforcing some kind of moral code. But after reading into it a bit it turns out that most theaters are more concerned with the behaviour of unsupervised teens than anything else. Interestingly, the "rules" are all over the place. Some places require parent permission at the very least. Others require a parent to accompany the child. Still others set a limit at two children per legal adult. Others specify the adult must be 25 years or older. Some places refuse to allow children into adult movies starting after 7pm. Others use price as a factor and hope to discourage people from bringing their kids by charging adult prices only for the evening pictures. Others try to educate the masses, requiring parents and children attend "theater etiquette" classes together before the kids are allowed in on their own. However, most teens have observed that if they go to the big cineplexes, nobody really cares who is buying the ticket.

I think I just need to be a better liar. Nobody's going to believe I've given birth to five teens of the same approximate age, but I could try to swing this scenario: Mo and Curly there, those are my foster kids; and poor little Larry, I adopted him when my sister passed last year (may she rest in peace and pray don't mention another word I'm still grieving); Tom and Jerry here are my biological sons by three different possible fathers; and me? I'm the Whore of Babylon. Now are you going to sell me those tickets? Or am I going to have to break into your house some unspecified night, strap you to your sofa, and force you to watch High School Musical until your eyes bleed?

Cinema Etiquette 101

My son and I went to the movies last night--Ocean's 13. I haven't seen the first two, but that didn't seem to matter. I got up to speed fairly quickly and enjoyed the flick.

But that wasn't the problem. The problem was the rude teenage girls at the end of our row. One in particular kept talking on her cell phone and then running to the emergency exit. "Are you there yet? Is that you knocking?" She must have done this three times, letting in at least a half dozen or more conspirators.

The third time I leaned over and gave her a meaningful look. I think she got the hint, because she shut down her phone after that. But I was this close--*this close* I tell you--to going over there and giving her a piece of my mind. I'm not afraid of some twiggy little 15-year-old... with a dozen or so friends to back her up... I would have told her that if I heard another peep out of her or her friends or her damn phone I would tell the manager. I would have told her! Yeah.

Kids these days. [grumble]

You know, it's enough to make me want to stick to going out to Rated-R movies only, in order to avoid the adolescents. Unfortunately, they get in to see those movies, too. And then there are those *idiots* who bring their screaming babies.... Oh, and then there was some guy who was snoring--I mean *really* snoring-- about halfway through the flick. I am beginning to understand why most people just stay home and wait for the DVD.

Ocean's 13 was like ginger ale--sparkly, sharp, burns on its way down, with a nice gingery finish. Enough said.

35 Days to Lift-Off

When Good Tires Go Bad

Sounds like the subtitle to a Far Side cartoon, doesn't it? I wish I could see that one. I could use the laugh.

Last night, through the acute observation of the father of a friend of my son's, it was brought to my attention that my front passenger side tire is bad. Real bad. Like blow-up-on-the-highway-and-die-in-a-flaming-wreck kind of bad. My driver side tire is probably right behind it. So I think, Okay, I know what I'm doing tomorrow morning.

That was Saturday night. Today is Sunday. Nothing is open. And in one hour I have to go pick up a Russian pianist from his hotel and take him the theatre for his performance tonight.

Oy vey!

How can nothing be open? This is ridiculous! When you need a tire, you need a tire. This should be required to be a 24-hour/7-days a week service. I need assistance, dammit! Where are my minions! I need minions! I want this done NOW!

Oh, bother.

So. I'm going to stay off the highway. I'm going to drive really really slowly. And tomorrow morning, I will buy new tires.

Saints and Angels and Ministers of Grace preserve us. And Fairies. And lots and lots of Good People.

Keep your phone turned on. I might be calling you to come rescue me.

The Taxman Cometh

I'm so frickin' pissed off I can hardly type.

I completed my taxes and filed them online on March 2nd. March 2nd!!! I was done! Over! I was so proud I had done the damn thing early this year.

Today I get an email telling me that my taxes are *not* filed. Today.

Somehow, someway, I don't know how or why, the transaction was incomplete.

So I have to do this. Today.

What's more, I actually have to pay something this year to the tune of $415. So that means I have to have $415 in my bank account. Today.

Fuck.