It was wonderful to reunite with my workshop peeps yesterday. I hadn't seen them for an entire month, mainly because they demanded a break. "We can't take any more of those store-bought cookies you pass off as your own," they said in a signed affidavit. Hurtful? You betcha. Oh, wait. That didn't happen. I was the one who demanded a break. Theater junky that I am, I needed to jet off to NYC, see overpriced Broadway shows and come home with an egregious cold that left me sofa-bound for days. Days, I tell ya. On Tuesday, it was gals only in the conference room, only because our lone guy somehow caught my egregious cold, long-distance. "You had a cold, then I got a cold. Do you see the connection?" he emailed me. "No," I said. "There's only so much blame I'm willing to take in one lifetime." That put him in his place. He stayed home and the five us laughed our tushes off over the strangest assortment of what some might call disturbing topics, including an urn with a lid that couldn't be pried off (we hate when that happens) and the scattering of un-urned ashes in unlikely, most likely illegal locales. Sure, it gets a little morbid when we're Laughing At Life (copyright pending since 1958), but a shared sense of black comedy is so useful, don't you agree? Of course you do. So ends my Wednesday blog. If anyone has an urn story that can rival the aforementioned lid incident, please keep it to yourself. Thank you.
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