Wednesday, April 24, 2013

So. Much. Work.

I am being (slightly) crushed by the volume of work I have on my plate these days.  Big project + impending (nay, looming, tsunami-like) deadlines = crushing.  I only wish I were as cool as Giles Corey.

But I'm not.

So, instead, I've been fantasizing about winning the lottery and/or my husband getting a promotion that would net out the differential in our income loss if I were to stop working.  Neither of these things is likely to happen this year.  End result? I will keep plugging along, 60-hours-a-week-style, 'til this thing is behind me.

Oh, how I yearn for the days of theater, when I knew opening night would be the end of my pain. The rough spots would appear in front of the audience, and would either be buffed out OR earn us some, ahem, interesting reviews.  Even with criticism, though, the thing would be DONE, released.  Not something to be refined and reworked ad infinitum.

Thank the sweet Lord we booked our vacation.  I can cling to that while I'm feeling overwhelmed.  Ah, the soothing, clarion call of the beach in July....

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

How I Spent My First (Real) Writing Earnings

"I would love a pisco sour," I answered our blade-thin waiter.

"Let me see," he looked up and to the left, almost rolling his eyes to the back of his head to possibly examine his brain for the information, "if we have everything we need to make that."

"Sure thing," I turned my attention back to my dining options. Our waiter cut through the dining room, heading for the bar area.

"Of course you order a drink they can't make," my husband snickered, his bright blue eyes twinkling as he glanced at me over the edge of his menu. "What exactly is a pisco sour?"

"It's a cocktail made with pisco, sour mix, and egg white.  I know there's something else in it, but I can't remember what." I shrugged, trying to evoke nonchalance.

No big deal, right? Except, this is one of the myriad stupid ways in which I judge myself. I think a girl should know the recipe for her cocktail. And since I don't know how to make any mixed drinks (at least, not well), I typically find myself ordering wine or beer. Or shots. But I got carried away because we were in a fancy-pants restaurant where we were about to drop three hundred dollars for a single meal. Which, come to think of it, means, it's pretty reasonable to expect that they'll have sufficient expertise and ingredients to craft a pisco sour.  Right?

A few minutes later, after we'd perused the menu, our waiter circled back around.

"It turns out," he grins, " that we didn't have everything we needed, so we sent someone down the street to one of our other restaurants to pick up a bottle of pisco. It should only be another couple of minutes."

"That's no problem," I said, happy they were able to work out a solution.

"Oh, you didn't have to do that," my husband said.

"Not at all," the waiter countered, smiling. "You should have the cocktail that you want. I just wanted to explain the delay."

"Thank you so much," I said, and the waiter disappeared again.

"They had to go to another restaurant!"

"I know," I laughed. "because I am a PRINCESS!"


That pisco sour?  She was STRONG.  And probably the best pisco sour I've had to date, and I have had FOUR of them.

Anyway, date night at Charleston was the ideal way to kiss (most) of my hard-earned writing dollars goodbye.  There was so much deliciousness involved...  amuse bouches, crawfish bisque, arugula and blood orange salad, pan-roasted tilefish, grilled squab, and a lemon chess tart.  And the company was unparalleled.