Today is the shortest day of the year in South Africa.

Since it also marks the official start of winter, my thoughts naturally turn to gnawing. Not just the suicidal gnawing of my own wrists due to Seasonal Affective Disorder (of COURSE I suffer from it – I suffer from every ailment under the sun except hypochondria, remember?), but the gnawing of actual food.

One of the things I’m pondering is this: If the saying ‘you are what you eat’ is actually true, and I like to eat bread, does that make me a loafer?

And don’t even dare to answer. Unless your answer was going to be a resounding: “Of COURSE not, Red!”, that question was entirely rhetorical.

If you’ve been one of my imaginary readers for a long time, you would know that I don’t cook. And putting it like that is still a gross understatement. Water? I can totally burn it.

In the good old days, when I lived in an actual HOUSE (as opposed to the tiny room I find myself in these days), that room which in other people’s houses is known as the kitchen, was known as my coffee maker’s private quarters. The stove was just a very large and potentially dangerous, decorative ornament.

Luckily for me, my sister cooks. Well, all of them do (see? It’s entirely their fault that I don’t. By the time my mother got ‘round to having me, the cooking gene had – thankfully – been depleted. As well as the looks, the talent, the charm, the intelligence, the bone structure… but that’s a sob story for another day), but the sister I’m referring to happens to live conveniently close to me.

She is married to an Italian. And in order to keep that part of the ancestry alive and well, she cooks almost exclusively Italian. She has become so good at it, it has spilled over into her personality, which has become increasingly feisty. And it must be from all that stirring of-a da Spaghetti, but she now can’t speak without gesturing wildly and passionately. Some people, like my brother-in-law and me, might even interpret the latter as an occasional slap in our general direction.

On the pantry door of this wholly Italian kitchen, the following has been written: “The trouble with Italian food is that five days later, one is hungry again!”

But since the Longest Night of the Year is about to descend leaving me no choice but to go to bed right now, some day soon (see? I’m so commitment phobic, I don’t even want to make a date) I’ll tell you why eating leftovers at that very sister’s house might just kill you.

My first love was a comatose guy.

And no, in this case, 'comatose' is definitely not a euphemism for 'laid-back.'

I mean, the guy was in an actual coma! In hospital!

No, of course he wasn't always in a coma. He was fully conscious when he asked me out, I swear! (Although yes, probably not in his right mind.) Because, believe it or not, even the likes of me has standards. A guy has to be at least breathing and conscious before I'd agree to go out with him.

If he slips into a coma after just a few dates with me, well... that really can't be helped, can it?

But just between you and I? I think he did it deliberately. He always did have a thing for nurses.

Anyway, of course I didn't stop seeing him just because he was in a coma. Because trust me, even in a coma he had more personality than some of the other guys I had gone out with before.

Every day, I went to the hospital, sat by his bed and poured my heart out. It was great! I made all sorts of plans for the two of us and for him ("You are going to learn to cook for me. And I'm going to enroll you in singing lessons so that you can serenade me. Besides, the speech therapist said your vocal chords will need a bit of work after the tracheotomy!") and he couldn't contest any of it.

And since the doctors reassured me that comatose people still hear everything that is going on around them, I have to say that he was one of the best listeners ever.

But, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end: He regained consciousness. Him waking up was a major romance killer for me and so I let him off gently and wandered off to see if there were any other strapping young bachelours lying incapacitated in I.C.U., just dying for someone to have a chat with them and to hold their limp hands.

And so, with my incessant chatting, I believe I cured an entire ward of single, male, coma patients that year. I think they woke up just so that they could tell me to please SHUT! UUUUP!

Seriously though, dating a guy in a coma really ruined me for other relationships. Here's why: A guy in a coma doesn't ever complain about anything. A guy in a coma doesn't mind which channel the television is on. A guy in a coma can't accuse you of being a harlot when your gaze lingers a touch too long on that new young doctor who is treating him. It was very touching to see how his heart rate spiked whenever I spoke to him. I've since begun to insist that all guys get hooked up to EKGs when they're on a date with me so that I can make a run for it if their heart rates increase. I'll run because an increased heart rate, when someone is sitting down, can only mean a few things: either he is having a heart attack, or he is developing deep feelings for me - which will make him way too clingy for my liking.

I won't say I'm commitment phobic per se. Besides, they say it's a predominantly male condition. So maybe I'm just a bit weary of commitment. But hey, my mom always said that a girl always has to make a guy wonder a bit. So the last guy who was foolish enough to propose to me is still wondering what my answer is.

Am I the only girl who suffers from commitment weariness? (Darn, you'll have to answer me via e-mail, because the comments are STILL broken!) But come on girls, even those of you who desperately long for an engagement ring on your finger will have to agree with me: Sometimes having a three course meal with a certain guy is simply too much of a commitment.

When the clock struck midnight on New Year’s Eve, I was surrounded by a group of naked men.

And I was the only woman present.

Okay, so they weren’t naked.

And when I say ‘a group of men’, I actually mean… three.

And they were all gay.

So although I was technically speaking the only woman present, I was certainly far from the only queen.

You see, those were the only men I could find in my new hometown of By George above a certain age who, like me, are unmarried, childless and therefore available to party the night away.

I was in bed by 1 a.m.

But actually, our low-key start to the New Year wasn’t the queens’ faults. I was simply knackered from old age a long year.

I was really not sad to see 2006 go. This is weird for me, because I’m usually such a sentimental creature, I can hardly leave a room.

I suppose when you’ve had as many New Year’s as I’ve had, the novelty is bound to wear off eventually. Besides, the entire holiday season brings out the annual performance angst in me. The pressure always seems to be on one to have to come up with something frightfully exotic (which by default happens to be frightfully expensive) to do in order to celebrate.

And if you’ve been a big enough sucker and you have been reading this blog for a while, then you should know that I’m not good under pressure. To put it mildly.

In South Africa, Christmas and New Year’s are summer celebrations. So unlike the wealthy Northern Hemisphere residents who tend to seek out the warmer climates to spend their holidays, the wealthy South Africans, I’ve learned, tend to head north in search of those magical White Christmases you northerners have been taunting our snow-deprived southerners with for years with your Christmas cards, movies and carols depicting and describing magical winter wonderlands while we stand by the barbecue under the scorching sun and sweat.

Hence I’ve had many recent conversations that went more or less like this:

Me: What are you doing for the holidays?

Other person: Oh, nothing special. We’re going skiing.

Me: Oh, fun! At Hartbeespoort Dam? (A lake near Pretoria.)

Other person (with disdain): Not WATER-skiing. SNOW-skiing. At the Swiss Alps.

And when they see the naked envy on my face, they ask smugly: And what are YOUR plans?

Knowing full well that I obviously don’t have any.

I hate the holidays just as much as a married man who is firmly in the closet must hate being with his wife: It’s just too much pressure to perform, to measure up to, to outdo…

So how did YOU all outdo me?

My beloved Doctor is revealing a chillier side, blowing an icy winter’s breath onto a world enveloped by fog and sputtering rain.

Apparently, this is a typical Cape winters day. Maybe it’s because I’m all cozy indoors, my fingers curled around a steaming cappuccino, but I find it rather appealing.

With winter finally here, it’s time for a wardrobe reassessment. Imagine my delight on a recent shopping trip when I discovered this.

Stellenbosch – In what can only be described as one of the most gruesome and shocking bloodbaths in recent history, Valentines Day was murdered early this morning right outside of Stellenbosch, a picturesque college town nestled in the heart of the South African wine country.

The alleged murderer, described as an embittered single woman in her early 30’s, has been arrested and is being held without bond in a local jail.

According to a witness, when the suspect, who was said to be covered in a sticky red substance thought to be blood (or a chewy, cherry-flavoured filling found in some popular brands of assorted chocolates) and bruised, torn rose petals, was frisked and handcuffed, she exclaimed: “Now this is the most action I’ve had in years!” The witness added that the suspect's maniacal laughter gave him “the heebie-jeebies.”

Mr. Mark Hall, President of Valentines Day’s multi-billion dollar empire, was too shocked to personally comment, but a statement released on his behalf reads: “We are deeply saddened by the loss of our dear friend Valentines Day.
Valentines was seductive, remarkable. Like true love, those are qualities that will withstand the test of all eternity. The murderer will therefore not be allowed to get her wish of eradicating Valentines Day, and 14 February shall forever remain Valentines Day’s Day, or Valentine’s Day for short.” (Hall’s PR people have never been big on grammar, and correctly inserting apostrophes has always been particularly tricky - Ed.)

The statement concludes with a bit of shameless plugging: “Commemorative cards shall therefore continue to be available during February of every year. My company will be personally responsible for distributing and selling those cards.”

This final and successful assassination was not the first attempt to take Valentines Day’s life.

In February 1999, a young woman who had been driven mad by unrequited love, shot at Valentines Day with a bow and arrow. An overexcited witness described the event: “The arrow flew by with a whistling sound! It narrowly missed Valentines Day, and instead pierced a member of the Valentines Day entourage, a half-clad elf named Stupid, or something like that, right in the buttocks!”

In court transcripts of the hearing that followed, the deranged suspect, when asked whether she had any remorse over shooting Cupid the Cherub, screamed: “I loved the way the fat and cellulite on his flabby butt-cheeks drilled and shook when the arrow went in! It was spot-on! Not bad for my first try, ‘eh?” (She was Canadian.)

The judge took her answer to be a “no” in the remorse department, and she was sentenced to 450 hours of non-stop Hallmark Channel viewing.

She committed suicide after serving only two hours of that sentence.

Single women were responsible for almost all the other assassination attempts on Valentines Day's life. Only in one case (of particular flair) was the emerging suspect a gay man, but like all the other attempted murderers, he was single too.

As news of the Valentines Day massacre has been rapidly spreading around the world, friends, fans and perfect strangers (the latter ironically often found to be married to each other) have been inspired to send messages of their grief.

A South African expat in Atlanta, GA, writes: “I am reeling at this news. However, I was not too surprised when I learned that Valentines Day was murdered in my crime-ridden homeland. I always knew that something like that would happen, which is why I packed up and left with my family in the late 90’s. Do you know that we never have to lock our doors here? In fact, we would sleep with it wide open, only my wife has been nagging me about the chill. I told her the chill had little to do with the mild Atlanta winters and far more to do with her own cold-bloodedness and frigidity. She’s filed for divorce.”

A South African psychologist (and self-described amateur meteorologist) replied: “It has been an unusually hot summer in the Stellenbosch region where the massacre occurred. Oppressive heat tends to do strange things to the human psyche, so it was definitely not the safest time for Valentines Day to travel to South Africa. It would’ve been better for Valentines Day to come in June and July, during the Southern Hemisphere winter, when people tend to want to snuggle more.”

Even U.S. President George Bush commented on the Valentines Day massacre. “Valiumtime Day was great.” And, further moved by the tragedy to display an unusual amount of eloquence, he added: “It’s very sad indeedly.”

During the news conference, he was seen passing a note to his Secretary of State and former National Security Advisor, Dr. Condoleezza Rice. It read: “Where is South Africa? If you also doesn’t know, ask Rove.” And: “P.S. May I please go to the bafroom.”

Valentines Day leaves behind devastated parents Channuka and Christmas, an adopted African brother named Kwanzaa, drunken Irish uncle St. Patrick, and French niece Bastille.

Funeral arrangements for Valentines Day are still unknown, but red roses, chocolates, diamonds, sports cars, romantic getaways for one, and wads of cash have been requested in lieu of donations to charitable organisations.

I had this whole thing planned out for Halloween, honest. I even LEFT THE HOUSE (yes, GASP! indeed) on Saturday and took pictures and EVERYTHING so that I could upload it today.

But, with me being The World's Laziest Blogger and all, which one can only successfully be if one is... well, lazy, of course, but also disorganised and a procrastinator and barely awake most of the time, there will be none of those carefully planned Halloween-themed pictures appearing on this blog today.

Instead, I'll be true to my nature and title of The World's Laziest Blogger and post the pics at an inappropriate time long after everyone's forgotten about Halloween. Like around Christmas time next year maybe.

I suspect that those of you who are aware that I was a journalist, long ago in a past life, are probably wondering to yourselves why and how (and who and when and where and what... see, I vaguely remember the gist of journalism) the likes of me ever picked and held down such a deadline-driven job if I have trouble keeping up this blog (which, I'll let you in on a little secret, not blogging often and never continuing stories is actually part of my duties as The World's Laziest Blogger. Why, thank you for thinking that I do it very well and for saying that I'm a natural at it!).

Truth is, when I opened up the career councilling/college course brochure and read: "Journalism: The ideal field of study and career for the individual who thrives on deadlines," my eyes got stuck on the "dead" part of deadline and I envisioned an office filled with dim lighting and comfy couches on which journalists are leisurely strewn about emulating the dead and quietly (or, in the event that the journalist snores, not so quietly) dreaming up stories. And I thought to myself, "Why, even I can do that!"

Ha! Imagine the unpleasant surprise I received when I showed up on the first day of the job at the newspaper and there was NO COUCH in sight!!!! Just very upright, uncomfortable office chairs (well, being upright IS a very uncomfortable position for me to be in), and desks, with notepads and computer monitors and keyboards on which we were expected to furiously type away stories which had to be in YESTERDAY.

And just the horror of that awful memory has completely drained and exhausted me, so it's time for me to immediately take what I hope would be a nightmare-free nap.

I wrote that long title because I'm avoiding other Issues.

From the how-to be a writer books in my collection I gather that it's usually the other way around: Writers sometimes resort to doing other things, things that are normally far more heinous to do to oneself than having to will fiction out of thin air, just to avoid writing. This condition sounds really terrible, because some of those poor, tortured, masochistic souls will even do... GASP!... the laundry!!!! instead of their writing.

So I suppose my last slender hope of ever becoming a real, authentic A*U*T*H*O*R has just evaporated, because I can't even get the procrastinating right! (Well... at least not in this case.) You see, when I procrastinate writing I honestly don't feel the need to cover it up with productivity. (How else do you think I manage 206 hours' of television per week? WHADOYOUMEAN THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE?!? The fact that there is only 168 hours in a week, you say? Well, that just makes my weekly television viewing achievements all the more remarkable, doesn't it?)

And I've almost forgotten that the reverse was possible... until last night.

Let me explain: The boy has been out of town since last week.

He finally came back at midnight last night.

Unfortunately he walked into a disastrous house... looks as if a tornado's twirled through here.

Alas, despite the funky weather we've been having these past few days, nothing more serious than me has hit the place.

You see, I really did have every intention of cleaning the house for (and before!) his return, honestly I did!

I even tackled the job with an unusual amount of enthusiasm. And that word right there, the one that says "enthusiasm"; that alone is a sure sign that my career of unemployment and television viewing, however impressive, has officially driven me into the flailing arms of delirium.

So I cleaned, but being the focused, highly disciplined creature that I am (stop laughing like that! You'll wrinkle!), I got side-tracked and started unpacking closets.

But instead of doing it like I suspect a normal person would (which means none of you will be able to tell me either, har har) - possibly one closet/room at a time, I suppose - I became possessed by the eager Spring Cleaning Fairy (she's a manic depressive who's stopped taking her lithium because it 'stifles her creativity and besides, she's been feeling MUCH more balanced these days, thankyouverymuch', and so she happened to breeze through here during the peak of one of her maniacal highs. Unfortunately her high was brief) and before I knew it, every cupboard, cabinet, closet... had its contents strewn on the floor.

The sight was overwhelming to my sensitive self... It's a war zone: a gigantic explosion of clothes, papers, food (yes, I got my paws on and in the kitchen cupboards too) EVERYWHERE.

What's even funnier... when the boy called me from the road last night to
tell me that he was on his way, and before I even had a chance to warn
him about my "little" on-going project, he informed me in a very
wistful tone (and this will speak volumes and will give you a big hint
as to the kind of housekeeper I normally am): "By the way, I dreamed
that I came home to a clean house."

Oh, how I laughed!

Hey, at least I had the best of intentions! Pity that I decided to
take a coffee break just as I had thrown everything on the floor, though.
'Cause as soon as I sat down with the coffee, I grew very, very tired. The fairy had vanished and she'd taken my strength and will with her, the cow.

I finally devoured a path out of the kitchen (which, in this house, is
better known as The Coffee Maker's Private Quaters) and now I'm going to rest my weary head on a stack of how-to be a writer books.

Hopefully, when I wake up later today, I'll be a real writer. And hopefully, by then, the boy's dream of a clean house will have miraculously come true as well!

In honour of Earth Day, I've written the following bad poem.

Today is supposed to be filled with mirth
As we say: “Happy Earth Day, Mother Earth!”
So I promise not to be a naysayer
And point out the hole in the ozone layer
Or how Bush is going to drill for oil
Right in the middle of the arctic soil
(One would think that he, with a surname like “Bush”
Would give environmental issues a push)
And I refuse to tell you ‘bout urban sprawl
Or its land devouring friend, the shopping mall
I also won’t tell you about SUV’s
Or the rainforests’ fast disappearing trees
Won’t breathe a word about carbon monoxide
Or lead, or smoke, or soot, or sulfur dioxide
No, I will not mention the disgrace
Done to you by the human race
Instead I’ll wish you a Happy Earth Day
And say thanks for allowing us humans to stay

In case you're wondering where I've been (or even in case you're not wondering where I've been. Not that I've been anywhere, mind you, I just like to fantasize that you think about my whereabouts at all times. Which, yes, I realise, sounds very tragic and desperate indeed), I haven't been blogging because the clocks have thrown me off.

Yes, the clocks.

The clocks in the U.S. jumped ahead by one hour on Sunday morning at 2, so I've been asleep for the past three days to try and make up for that lost hour.

My biorhythm is a fragile thing. In fact, I've told you before how I have no rhythm at all, and sadly, that lack of rhythm affects my biorhythm too. So twice a year, when Daylight Saving Time begins and ends, my entire schedule derails and for three months following the time change, I find myself craving lunch at 4 (a.m.) and dinner at 11 in the morning.

I solve this problem by simply eating all the time.

Daylight Saving Time is just one of the many things I find strange about living in the United States. (And yes, I realise that it's practiced in a lot of other countries too, but I've only lived in one of the countries that adhere to it, and that's here in the U.S.) That and the fact that those elusive entities called Green Cards are actually pink, but I'll talk more about that ONE DAY WHEN/IF I FINALLY GET MINE!!!!!! (Pardon my shouting. It's a touchy subject.)

You see, in South Africa we don't have Daylight Saving Time. It's a good thing too, because if someone did decide to implement it there, I think there's a great possibility that South Africans who are as biorhythmically challenged as I am would probably demand overtime wages after showing up for work hours late. As it is, African Time is a dimension all its own. So it's best not to add to or subtract from it!

Back to Daylight Saving Time in the U.S.: As if it's not enough to live in a country where there are already so many different time zones (see why I've not dared to take my biorhythm and venture off the east coast yet?), someone decided that it would be a really great idea to confuse people like me even further by throwing in this twice annual ritual of setting your clock one hour fast in the spring and then moving it back again in the fall.

Americans have to remind themselves which season goes with which time change by memorising this little phrase: "Spring forward, fall back." (Personally I think "Spring back, fall forward" is far more poetic what with the alliteration and all, but don't mind me.)

Now, although it's admittedly quite tiresome to lose one hour of sleep, I don't actually mind the springing forward in spring part all THAT much. The extra sunshine makes me giddy with delight and it appears to have the same positive effect on most other people too.

It's that hour of daylight we lose in the fall, when the days are already getting noticeably shorter and we suddenly, all at once, lose another full hour of daylight due to the end of DST... THAT is when I want to gnaw my wrists off!

I see that I'm not the only one who has this love/hate relationship with DST. For example, in Indiana (a state which already has two time zones to begin with), some counties adhere to DST and others do not, and the issue is up for debate at their state legislature again.

I think DST should become a matter of personal preference, like religion. People who choose to gain an hour in the afternoon/early evening in the spring (when the days are getting longer anyway), and then to speed up sunset in the fall, should be allowed to stick to DST. (I do realise that moving the clock an hour back in the fall means that people who get up at 7 or 8 in the morning do not have to get up before sunrise, but since I'm officially NOT a morning person, this little bonus is wasted on me, and so I'd much rather take my extra hour of daylight on an autumn afternoon, thankyouverymuch.)

The rest of us who do not wish to move our clocks in the spring should be allowed to take that extra hour and save it in a vault somewhere until we feel ready to use it. Like, say, in the autumn, when you can reverse the process by "falling forward" and sticking the extra hour onto your day. Imagine how envious those spring savers will feel in October when their sun sets at 4:30 in the afternoon and yours only a full hour later! (Don't get argumentative and tell me about what logistical nightmares this will create in the work force. I don't care about logistics! Besides, since when have you ever taken me for the logical type?)

If you don't want to move your clock at all, you should be allowed to take your hours and spend it on a bonus vacation day.

Or you could simply move to Arizona or Hawaii, where residents are blissfully free of the burdens and confusion of DST.

In the mean time, please excuse me? It's 3 a.m., which means it's almost time for lunch!

Limesick, definition: A limerick composed by an ill person in an attempt to amuse herself. The result is that the limerick also suffers greatly, and therefore ends up being quite lame.

A girl named Red once had the flu
It made her cough and wheeze and achoo
This ailment so strained her
From colour it drained her
Even her eyes are no longer blue

A musical girl suffered a curse
She said: "I really ought to see a nurse."
She coughed a cadenza
Nurse said: "Influenza!"
"Don't call the ambulance, call the hearse!"

And lastly:

In bed, watching television. Temperature is 103F, but it feels like at LEAST 150F. Must remember to wear sunscreen, even though it appears to be raining, because everything is damp.

Zoning in and out of The Today Show (thank you, NBC, for giving us a break from Katie Couric on weekends. How can ANYONE be that chirpy this early in the morning?! She's a robot, I'm convinced).

Suddenly, a strange, yet very melodic song begins to play. Then there's this little boy on a tricycle. He is riding so fast, his chubby cheeks are wobbling in the breeze. His lips are pursed with concentration. There's a strange look in his eyes.

The camera pans down to the pavement just as the tricycle's front wheel makes an easter egg go "splat!"

We see that the whole length of the pavement is lined with chocolate Easter eggs. And a bunny! There's a real, live, white bunny with a trembling nose at the end of the line of easter eggs. The camera zooms out. The boy is heading straight for the other easter eggs AND THE BUNNY! HE IS GOING TO HIT THE BUNNY!

The other Easter eggs go "Splat!" "Splat!" "Splat!" as the boy rides over them. This is a little serial killer in the making. He is enjoying this far too much!

A little girl screams somewhere off camera.

The bunny is frozen... The only sign of fear in its little pink triangle of a nose, which is trembling uncontrollably.

There are only three Easter eggs left before the bunny...

"Splat!"

Two...

"Splat!"

I think I'm going to scream!

One...

Abruptly, the tricycle stops, not even an inch from the last Easter egg and the bunny.

If bunnies could look relieved, I'm sure this one wouldn't have looked it, because it was still too shocked to move anything but its trembling nose.

A few voices begin to chorus something about an Easter parade and trying Mary Sue (or something like that) candies today, bringing home the fact that the music had never stopped.

Words flash across the screen: "Some traditions are worth saving."

I zone out.

The boy brings water and medicine.

"I just had the most absurd dream," I croak through chapped lips. "There was a bunny, a real one, and this little boy on a tricycle was trying to kill it!"

The boy looks worried, leans close and feels my forehead. "You are burning up! Here, sit up and take this." He holds up the glass. I'm about to take a sip when I hear something familiar.

"THERE IT IS! MY DREAM! LOOK!" I point at the television. The excitement nearly brings on a coughing fit, but I drink the water and the boy manages to see and hear "my dream" without any interruption.

"Oooooooh!" he groans at the part where the little demon child is heading straight for the bunny.

At the conclusion, he doesn't know whether to laugh or shake his head, so he does both. "Now that must go down as one of the worst commercials I've ever seen. Did they really think that nothing will say "Easter" better than a devilish toddler on a tricycle mowing down Easter eggs and heading straight for a bunny?"

"That's probably why I thought I was hallucinating the whole thing!"

We decided that the copy writer must have dreamed up the concept while suffering from a very high fever, because honestly, since living in Maryland I've seen some rather awful commercials, but that one takes the cake... or rather, in this case... the Easter egg.

Perhaps feverish copy writing can be my new career. I don't think I'm ever going to get better anyway, so I might as well start planning my flu-ridden future.

Don your greens, lads and lasses! St. Patrick’s Day is here!

What a fine excuse to attend authentically Irish establishments outside the emerald isle, such as this fine place. Do yourself a favour: if you ever find yourself in D.C. and you happen to be in the mood for a few pints and a great time, go there!

I really like this day. And no, not just because it calls for - no, BEGS for - the consumption of large quantities of green beer! What do you take me for? Never mind... please don't bother to answer that!

I like it, because it's the ONE time of year that I find my red hair to be a somewhat useful accessory. I pretend to be Irish and usually get away with it, even though my South African accent doesn't even come CLOSE to sounding like the beautiful Irish lilt. Luckily, after a few beers, most people don't know the difference. Or if they do, they simply couldn't give a damn!

I was surprised to learn that this celebration was a religious holiday first. It only turned into a raucous drunken brawl much later. How lucky for us that it did!

Here, in VERY loose limerick form is a brief history of St. Patrick's Day. Please keep in mind that just because I like to compose limericks (I DO! Especially when I've had a pint... or two) does not mean that I am any good at it. In fact, I'm REALLY BAD at it, but since when have I allowed slight technicalities like that to prevent me from doing something? Huh?

Exactly...

So here goes. As the orthodontist said to the crooked teeth: Brace yerselves! (See? It's already lame, and I haven't even gotten to the limerick yet! You'd better have a pint first!)

The year was Three Eighty-Five AD
When Welsh lad Maewyn the light did see
His kin was poor and tough
He himself was quite rough
And hardly well-behaved or saint-ly

A band of thieves and marauders
From Ireland crossed several borders
The boy’s home was raided
Slavery awaited*
He spent six years answering orders

It was then that Fate came a-callin'
Told young Mae to convert the fallen
"No you can't be a drunk,
You must become a monk!"
He was Bishop before he was baldin'

Mae kept that gig for thirty years
When he died there were many tears
There at his Irish wake
He got another break
Sainthood and a day of green beers

So on this fine St. Patrick’s Day
Party all your sorrows away
Don your far greenest frock
Pin to it a large shamrock
And play Irish for one whole day

*"Awaited" can only rhyme with "Raided" if you say it with an American pronunciation. Besides, you ought to be drunk by now, so it shouldn't really matter!

That then was the brief (inaccurate?) history behind the March 17th celebrations. Of course, I've omitted some stuff about snakes and leprechauns (the little green men you'll see after a night of heavy drinking). I had no choice, because I wanted to keep it short in case you read this when you're not feeling so well.

Not to worry! Coming tomorrow: a haiku on how to cure a hangover.

But, what the hell, since it's St. Pat's and I'm on a roll (albeit a very bumpy one), I can't resist writing just one more.

Last one. I promise!

Andre Agassi’s a tennis pro
He saw Steffi and said “Why, hello!”
She said her name is Graff
And they hit it right off
Do their children have tennis elbow?

UPDATE: Dedicated to all the Irish (be it by birth/drunkeness or sheer imagination), but especially to her.

(The following ditty is brought to you by this contest, which I don't stand a chance of winning.)

Before I begin, I have to confess that I'm by NO means an expert on romance.

Sure, I'm a girl. (So to all of you who until now have been led to believe that I'm a fat, bald guy in Ohio: I'm sorry for the let down!) And like most girls, I'll admit to stealing an occasional glance at one of those sappy, made-for-Sunday-night-T.V. Hallmark movies.

If no one else is in the room, I might even allow myself to get sucked into the predictable plot of girl meets boy, they both fall for each other, but of course one thinks the other is not interested; or the conflict comes in the form of an ex-lover, or class difference, or mean parents; and then, just when you think things can't get ANY worse for the poor souls, one of them falls victim to cancer or a near fatal car accident, which in turn leads to tearful deathbed confessions about their feelings before there is a miraculous recovery and a wedding while the final credits roll.

Bah to Hollywood and their into-the-sunset-and-happily-ever-after endings! I say keep the cameras rolling for that first quarrel, or for the expression on the heroine's face when she walks into the bathroom a few months after the wedding and sees the toilet seat up and the dirty socks on the floor directly NEXT to the laundry basket. Zoom in when the gleaming light in her eye (you know the one. All new lovers have them) is slowly snuffed out as she realises that this is what she's let herself in for: dirty drawers 'til death does him in!

I'm just kidding! Let's face it: we love our partners, flaws and all. And honestly, ladies, if an upturned toilet seat is your guy's worst offence, then you are an incredibly lucky girl. Besides, people who lose their loved ones often say it's those same annoyances that used to drive them up the wall that are sorely missed once their partner is gone.

If that is true, and my sweetie outlives me, then he is going to miss me a LOT, because I certainly have my share of ... eh... shall we say, quirky habits.

At a few minutes before midnight on Christmas Eve, in what can only be described as a major mid-air scuffle, Santa Claus and his team of faithful reindeer were intercepted by the Tooth Fairy in the moonlit (or was the glow caused by the blinding holiday lights decorating the houses below?) and cold, clear skies above Hampden, a somewhat quirky neighbourhood in Baltimore, Maryland.

According to riveting eyewitness accounts of the event, the Tooth Fairy (who was described by one very puzzled witness as a gravity defying, large, hairy man with a tiny wing span, and wearing a torn but frilly, pink dress. The police took this description with a grain of salt, calling it "preposterous!", "inaccurate!" and "highly unlikely!", and saying things like "we all KNOW the Tooth Fairy is a dainty and very aerodynamic little girl". At first police ascribed the inaccurate eyewitness account to the witness suffering from what is clearly a case of Post Traumatic Stress disorder (a common affliction among eyewitnesses), but the department quickly retracted most of the above statements (it's hard to tell which ones) when a few other eyewitnesses nervously came forward, one even delivering a very grainy and blurry but undisputably credible (even though it had no sound) video tape recording - which shall henceforth be known as Exhibit A - of the whole affair)... now where was I?

Oh, yes. According to the wildly different (but variety is the spice of life) eyewitness accounts, as well as the blurry but soundless images amateurishly captured on Exhibit A, the Tooth Fairy (who from that angle did indeed look very much like a large man in a dress) in a shrewd (but despicable!) manoeuvre, derailed the reindeer from their high speed gift delivery path by spanning dental floss across it, thereby causing the first two reindeer (Rudolph, Dancer and Prancer. Yes, I know I wrote "two", but the eyewitnesses swore that Rudolph, Dancer AND Prancer were the two reindeer in question. Apparently eyewitnesses don't have to be highly skilled in mathematics) to trip over it. This resulted in an unpleasant chain reaction crash and dominoe effect topple of the whole lot of them.

Poor Santa was tossed from his wrecked sleigh, catapulting through the sky as if he was a weightless entity, and gifts of various sizes were scattered everywhere, the wrapping torn to shreds and the bows askew.

"It was utter carnage!" The police spokesperson declared in a solemn tone. (Even though there were no known fatalities among the victims.)

According to more conflicting eyewitness reports, the Tooth Fairy then ransacked the gift bags, looting several home dental care and tooth whitening products.

Even after hearing this, (and Santa's Elves later confirming the conspicuous absence of those objects from the salvaged gifts) the police maintained that there was still no known motive for "what can only be described as a very unfortunate accident." (Even though the Tooth Fairy was captured in close-range on Exhibit A and can be clearly seen (it was actually the only bit on the whole video tape that was in focus) mouthing the word (and this was later confirmed by a hearing, lip-reading expert) "Sabotage!"* while sporting a wicked and - as can be expected - toothy grin.)

* The lip-reading expert would later reluctantly admit - but only after increasing pressure - that there may have been a teensy tiny, itty BITTY chance that he could've misunderstood, and that what he had interpreted as "Sabotage" may very well have been "Open the Garage" or "See That Mirage" or, in the unlikely event that the Tooth Fairy is French Canadian or even just French, he may have an accent and so he could've said: "Take out the garbage", because his pronunciation would've caused "garbage" to sound more like "gar-baaaaaahge", thereby rhyming with "garage" and "mirage". The moral of this bit of the story is that one should really never trust in a hearing lip-reading expert. Unless of course you have absolutely NO other alternative.

Anyway, the police claim that they are still working hard to solve the case, but - if you will forgive me editorializing for just a moment - I think they're only saying that because the Elves have been withholding all the gifts that were supposed to go to all the members of the Baltimore City Police and their immediate families, refusing to hand it out until the case is solved and the stolen goods recovered. So the police are much more interested in appeasing the Elves in order to get the gift embargo lifted, so that "our poor kids and wives can finally get their presents and stop driving us crazy. You can't blame them though, because it's almost January!*"

* Of course, that was said on December 31st. So then it WAS just almost, but not quite yet, January. Of course, now it IS January.

But all of that aside...

Back to Christmas Eve, when Hampden children small and a bit larger (like me) were fighting sleep while eagerly awaiting Santa's arrival, oblivious to the pandemonium carrying on in the skies high above their neighbourhood.

I myself was drifting off when I was suddenly jolted awake by a loud bang on the roof of our house.

I bravely ran downstairs (away from the sound). Honestly though, I wasn't just going to cower in a corner, I was really going to cower and peek out from behind my teddy bear (tightly clutched and held up in front of me like body armour) to investigate.

It was during this time, as I was peeking out from behind my teddy, that I happened to look out the window and see something flash and fall from the sky.

(To be continued...)

I really hope that you are all doing/feeling/looking much better than this today:

"Cheerio-ho-ho-ho!"

To be continued...

Remember how I was telling you about my sleep deprivation due to the blinding Christmas lights in the neighbourhood?

One would think that I would be used to it by now, because in my previous neighbourhood, I also found myself caught in a perpetual twilight zone from Thanksgiving until after New Year's.

In fact, one of my former neighbours was the Nazi of year round decorating.

Okay, I know I've been quiet, but I've been making Christmas cards.

It sure took me a long time to make Christmas cards, you say? Well, I bet it would've taken you just as long if YOU were hanging upside down.

Plus, I'm a forgetful procrastinator, and that's never a good combination of traits for one person to posse... Hang on. I'll finish this in a minute.

(An hour passes.)

Point taken?

Wait... what point again?

Okay, okay... just sort of kidding. Forgive me, I've only just now managed to get a hang of typing while hanging upside down. And as you can probably tell, the only thing that has been steadily draining through my ear canals is my brain.

Anyway, back to the time-consuming upside-down crafting of the Christmas cards.

Yes, I do indeed try to make cards - "try" being the operative word here. I'm not really any good at it, but it's something that I've been doing year after year for as long as I can remember. Besides, my family pretends to like it when they receive homemade cards from me, so I consider it part of my holiday duty and tradition to make cards and send it to all of my relatives.

One year, however, my homemade Christmas cards managed to cause quite a scandal within my family. And I didn't even draw my own likeness on it!

Oh, no... my unfortunate choice for cover art was considered to be a little bit worse than my face. Just a little bit, mind, but still...

Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself.

One recent day – I must’ve been looking the other way – Christmas arrived as quietly and as understated as a John Waters movie on the street in Baltimore where I live.

Well, actually, since you’ve come to expect the factual journalism that I’ve been known to display on this blog (why the sudden outburst of hysterical laughter?), it is my duty to come clean: Christmas really arrived in a blinding burst of flashing lights and with an army of inflated Santas and a herd of mechanical reindeer and flags and bows and tinsel and gigantic candy canes that glow in the dark and tons of other potential fire hazards (Bah HUMBUG!), about a week before Thanksgiving.

But I’ve been sick. And before I became ill, I was startled by all the lights. You know, like the proverbial deer in the Christmas lights? So I’ve been frozen by this hypnotic glare, unable to write and tell you about it sooner. (It’s your choice, factual journalism or up-to-the-millisecond-but-hopelessly-lacking updates. I’m sure that you’ve already learned from watching the news and reading most papers that you most certainly can NOT have both.)

So we have been enveloped in permanent twilight ever since the arrival of Christmas. Dark nights have become a thing of the past, and therefore, so has sleeping.

But maybe the inability to sleep is not such a bad thing. Well, this light-induced insomnia might have a lot to do with my slow recovery, but I think even if I WAS able to sleep, I would’ve fought it with all my might.

You see, those mechanical reindeer and the way their wired eyeless heads seem to follow my every move as I stumble to and from the house at night absolutely FREAK ME OUT, especially after a few too many sips of eggnog. It’s a nightmare just begging to happen, and should I dare to doze off, I just KNOW that those wires will spring to life a la Chucky and chase me down the streets of Baltimore and pounce on me and tie me up with strings of Christmas lights…

I'm alive.

Still congested in every single head cavity (even in my mouth, which is stuffed with comfort food. Does that count?), but there is some life left in me yet.

Just wanted to surface quickly and thank you all for your well-wishes and for the attempts at sending soup.

Of course, I realized in retrospect that I never would've been able to receive the soup in time for it to still be hot, because I have dial-up.

And I think you'll agree: that awful fact alone is more than enough to make ANYBODY ill.

For some reason (like, um, my own stupidity?) this entry was never posted on Thanksgiving Day.

Can we pretend that it was because of some serious technical difficulties and not just due to my stupidity though?

PLEASE?!?

Oh, fine. Who was I going to fool anyway? The 'technical difficulties' were caused mainly by the fact that I forgot to press 'publish.'

But please keep in mind that for someone like me, who has been known to remotely blow up computers by merely sending out a few e-mails, things could have been far, far worse.

Anyway, so here, especially to speed up your post-Thanksgiving digestion, the Post That Almost Wasn't And If It Wasn't You Would've Been No Worse Off For It I'm Sure.

So please, just for today (and it's not like I ask it of you EVERY day. Just every time I post. So that would be like only every other day), pretend to humour me. Besides, how often is it that someone wishes you a Happy Thanksgiving five days after the fact?

Exactly.

So here goes:

To everyone in the United States: Happy, happy Day of Overindulgence... I mean... Thanksgiving!

This fine day on which you commemorate what must be one of the biggest real estate bargains of all time: The Pilgrims swapping a few bottles of liquor with the Native Americans and getting a miserly bit of land in return. (I mean, really. They could've at LEAST thrown in a bit of Canada as well, but... oh, never mind.)

JUST kidding! Of COURSE I know that the Native Americans received only one bottle of liquor as payment for the country! (But, what the history books so callously omit is that, dammit, it was GOOD liquor!) And then a turkey was caught, plucked (and the feathers used by the Pilgrim women to sew what ended up being very fashion forward headdresses for the Natives), divided and amicably devoured by all around a rock somewhere in Massachussetts, before they proceeded to eat each other.

And voila, Thanksgiving was born.

But luckily this post isn't really about me sharing my very accurate (so accurate it's almost deadly, isn't it?) knowledge of American history.

Alas, no.

But if it IS something historical you're after, fear not, for I'm about to delve into my very own sordid past to explain to you why I don't particularly care for turkey in any form, be it dead, stuffed and covered in gravy, or very much alive and making that alarming sound.

Yeah, I didn't dub it the turkey bastard for nothing.

Ah, but before all of you turkey lovers out there get all defensive, consider this: My first encounter with the Meleagris Gallopavo (Thank you, Google!) species took place during my fragile formative years on my maternal grandparents' farm where my sisters and I were mercilessly stalked and chased by a roaming flock of turkeys (or rafter of turkeys. Specify, Google! Specify!) whenever we dared to leave the confines of the house to play out in the sprawling gardens.

The turkeys would have none of it, though, and in what ended up being a horrifying role reversal, we, the innocent human children, ended up cooped up in the house while the turkey bastards continued to strut around, their wattled necks jiggling with every smug step.

Ghastly birds! Foul fowl! They don't call bad movies "turkeys" for nothing!

In conclusion, I leave you with the following anecdote received from her. She sent this to me after I wrote this.

I want to share it so that if some of you happen to belong to the same CTbT group (Children Terrorised by Turkeys), I can only hope that you find some comfort in this story, if only it is to know that you are not alone in your trauma:

"Another friend of mine told me that his uncle owned a turkey farm. He described, one time when he was about 8, walking across the farm and realizing that a whole herd (flock?) of turkeys was following him. He stopped, and whirled around to look at them.

Because turkeys, like many birds, have their eyes on the sides of their heads, they all stopped and turned their heads to either side. They, of course, were trying to see him better, but to him, it looked like they were pretending that they hadn't been following him and were pretending to not see him. "Nope, no one here was following you, doo-dee-doo.. just out looking for some seed... nothing to see here... just keep walking" Each time he continued walking, they'd follow him again, and the cycle was repeated over & over, making him completely paranoid." - Maggie.

P.S. Once again, I'm wreaking havoc elsewhere.

Updated P.P.S. I see that I'm not the only one who sometimes forgets to press "publish". Shall we start a Bloggers Unable To Blog support group too?

"Whether the weather be fine,
Or whether the weather be not,
Whether the weather be cold,
Or whether the weather be hot,
We'll weather the weather
Whatever the weather,
Whether we like it or not!" - Author Unknown.

The above is titled... wellwhaddayaknow?... "Weather." (And yes, you're very welcome! I'm always happy to plant things in people's heads that they'll want to mutter repeatedly for the rest of the day much to their own delight and to the great amusement of their co-workers, families and friends.)

But really, it should've been called "Oath of the Television Meteorologist." And they should've replaced a few of the lines with: "We'll force the viewers to like it too, whether they like it or not."

And no, I'm really not a meteorologist hater. REALLY. (And by the way, shouldn't there be a word for people who DO dislike meteorologists? 'Cause, you know they're out there, and I know we're they're out there. Yes, I think so too, thusly I would like to offer the following rather luke warm nominations to the dictionary: Meteoracists, or, in keeping with the variation on the same theme and... okay, simply because I don't have any worse/better ideas: Meteorolocists. Sounds like a really large lump somewhere on a person where it would be most uncomfortable, doesn't it?)

It's just that I suspect that all the meteorologists that I see on local television stations here in Baltimore are a tad possessed. (And, coincidentally, more so when it's full mooooooooon, and I hear them howling through the night (except between the hours of 10 - 11:30 pm) from up there on Television Hill, their ominous figures silhouetted darkly - except for every few seconds when they're briefly illuminated by the red glow of the flashing lights on the transmitter towers - against the bulbous moon.)

For one, their hair, in the typical fashion of the television anchor person, is always so... so... annoyingly in place! It's as if they're completely excempt from the weather related bad hair days (frizz brought on by tropical humidity; limp uncooperation and a dusting of dandruff courtesy of the dry winter air) that seem to befall the rest of us, the non-television-meteorologist population. Even when they're reporting outside of the safe confines of the hair friendly studio, directly from the front, their hairstyles seem to remain unscathed and bizarrely intact.

Like when they're barely hanging onto the side of an airborne building as hurricane strength gale force winds assault them from every angle... the hair remains UNRUFFLED.

Or when they're out in the mid-summer smog, hacking up bits of lung because the air quality is worse in Baltimore than on sulphuric Venus, and they're barely visible on camera through the haze of pollution... except for their hair, which, once again, is SHINING LIKE A BEACON!

But, really, the perpetually perfect hair is NOT the main motivation behind this little outburst of mine. (I did warn you though that I tend to lose my mind ' a bit' when I'm deprived of the sixteen hours of continuous daylight required to keep me sane.)

Oh yes, dear reader, this is not over. There is more!

Aaah, yes pumpkins.

It's that time of year again.

That time of year when I can move freely and virtually invisibly outside, my large orangey-reddish head sufficiently blending in with the fall foliage and the carved pumpkins.

Also, thanks to her foresight, I didn't even need a special Halloween blog skin for the occasion with this orangey goodness that she designed for me back in May. Thanks, Joelle! I still think you're a genius.

After a weird weather week (ooh, look! Alliteration!) during which Baltimore was shrouded in fog (how Edgar A. Poe-esque!) and the moon was eclipsed, leaving the neighbourhood dogs confused ("Do we howl? Do we bark? Growl?"), and the cats clawing the furniture (oh, right. They always do that), the sun decided to reappear with glorious warmth and force, leaving us with a very beautiful and very unscary day.

(Unscary. Is that even a word?)

I'm soo delirious and high from all the alcohol and Halloween candy, this beautiful spell of weather (pardon the attempt at a Halloweenish pun) feels positively tropical to my warm-weather starved South African system. I'm so happy about the weather, that I'm going to postpone the ritual I reserve for this time of year, this time when the clocks in almost every United State move back one hour, depriving me of an hour of daylight and leaving me no choice but to gnaw my wrists off in a fit of sunlight deprived depression. (Yeah, yeah, don't tell me that this allows the sun to come up an hour earlier. I'm not a morning person, OR a farmer, OR a school kid, so that morning sun is wasted on the likes of me.)

But like I said, the gnawing will commence tomorrow. For now, happy delirium abounds.

So drunk and delirious am I, in fact, that while scouring the news on the internet this morning, my "disleksickness" kicked into high gear yet again and a headline about the election, just like the weather, took an unexpected tropical turn and I read the following:

"Dreadlocked Bush and Kerry Hit Swing States Hard."

Oh, man... can you IMAGINE? How I wish I was prolific in Photoshop!

Update: Luckily for all of us, the boy happens to be very Photoshop savvy, so here, for your pre-election viewing pleasure (cue the reggae tunes):

Because during last night's performance, every possible thing (and things that I had never even considered!) went wrong for me. Yes, including the bloody television and remote.

And it was a packed house.

What can you do? The show must go on. And so it will. Tonight. And I will. And I will probably survive it, yet again. Albeit not in the least bit unscathed...

After reading how one critic described me as "an English woman who looks like she's about to give birth to a basketball," she tried reassuring me that my fake basketball belly can't possibly look worse than that of one of the female characters on Days of our Lives whose fake belly apparently got squished during a dramatic rescue scene or something.

But alas, that just reminded me...

That would be another casht... I mean, cast...party.

Oh, yeah... and yet another performance too.

No lines forgotten, dropped or stolen from or by my leading man. And, best of all...

So the first review is out.

And not that we care what the critics think or anything (riiiiiiiight), but in this case the guy liked it. (Phew!)

Therefore we all like the review. Even I like the review. Despite the fact that the reviewer described my character as:

I actually survived my first night of performing. (And please note: I use the term very loosely when describing my own on-stage shenanigans.) And I only had ONE major flub. (Which, if you want to get technical, was 20 minutes long. Which is the whole time that I'm on stage.)

Anyway, so, that's one "performance" down. Leaving us with (and here the terror overcomes me again) FIFTEEN to go... ugh.

I was mistaken. The media wasn't at last night's performance. Which means they could show tonight. Or tomorrow night. Suddenly (and here she brings a trembling hand to her brow) I feel... a... bit... faint.

Perhaps it's the understudy's time to shine, no? Besides, this whole in-the-spotlight thing is really very overrated, especially if no multi-million dollar movie deal contracts are being signed and no paparazzi are lurking in the shadows to document my every misstep graceful move.

Off to the chaaarmin' city of Charleston South Carolina today until Friday on an impromptu, pre-birthday surprise trip, courtesy of the boy.

Depending on the computer situation over at the hotel, I will try and blog from there. I've so much to tell anyway!

Off to pack and to work on my draaawl, y'all!

(Can blog entry titles be this long? Should it be allowed?)

Do you remember how I went completely batty with spring (hay) fever and thus managed to get myself cast in a summer theatre production?

Well, if you don't remember or didn't know, I did and ... alas, I did.

Despite the fact that I've no talent for acting and no memory for remembering lines (which, I've discovered much to my dismay, is a crucial and mandatory skill for actors (even for amateur actors like me!) to possess!); and despite a brief encounter with a rodent, I've been having - dare I even write it? - fun.

Well, "fun" in a nerve-wracking sort of way.

And a few frenzied and unexpected events surrounding the production occurred this past week.

So this weekend Stacy made the mistake of unleashing me on her blog.

Since it's weekend and I'm too lazy to write anything else, here's what I bored her readers with.

(Update: I'm having computer glitches, so Stacy's since returned from her trip. Oh, you were thinking that I'm merely posting in African time, did ya? Anyway, so now you can safely go and visit her site, without the risk of running into me. The best author of Stacy's blog is Stacy. She is very funny.)

Anyway, here's my second-hand post:

A recent encounter with a crew from a racing sailboat docked at Baltimore's Inner Harbour took me back to my own - somewhat reluctant - international sailing debut a few summers ago in Norfolk, Virginia.

My reluctance stemmed from my nautical skills, which were (and still are) naught.

I've learned a few things during this long weekend.

After several years of living under the same roof, I've made a new discovery about the boy.

(Yes, I'm awfully quick and observant, aren't I?)

For this summer, I’ve kissed any possibility of ever having a social life goodbye when I was cast to be in a play and when I, in a fit of ongoing insanity, accepted the part.

Rehearsals began just this past weekend, so I have been lustily procrastinating (ignoring?) the idea of being in the spotlight - albeit a very tiny, very dim and at times even a flickering, spotlight – because well, for a girl who hardly leaves the house by day, it’s difficult to fathom such a concept without wanting to hurl and break into hives.

So imagine my unpleasant surprise when I was told at last night’s rehearsal that we were going to be photographed this evening!

First rehearsal down... but plenty more to go and therefore ample opportunities for things to go awry.

Yes, indeed. My glass is not only always half-empty, but it's chipped as well. And Murphy (the one from Murphy's Law fame) is forever breathing down my neck, so I have every right to my (justified) paranoia.

But I've survived the first one! Yay! And more than that, I even had some good old-fashioned fun.

Now for the gossip.

While you will all (hopefully) be kicking up your heels and relaxing this weekend, I will be kicking off intensive rehearsals for an annual summer theatrical event: The Baltimore/D.C. Playwright's Festival.

Aye, the girl is a drama queen wannabe thespian.

In case you haven’t yet managed to derive it from this blog’s title, I’m a redhead.

But I’m not all peaches and cream and cuteness like fellow red Emily. Oooooh, no. Not me. Pasty, yes. Glow-in-the-dark white, yes. And not in that Nicole Kidman translucent way either, make no mistake. My pallor is more… well… corpse-like.

Attractive, ‘eh?