— tapioca world tour

A series of unrelated sentences regarding Thursday:

I can’t wait to wear sandals again. Project management software is useless if you’ve no project management skills. Overbooking yourself for 4 after-work activities with 5 people in a 3-hour time period is unrealistic and, frankly, rather stupid. Does anyone know how to fold down the seats in an SUV? I can only tell how late it is based on the number of times I’ve had to pee at the office. We need a good plot, a decent writer and more actors for the film — We need it! We need them! The battery charger is lost. I wanted marinated tofu today but ate lasagna instead. Last night, I nearly threw a toasted English muffin in 6-year-old E.’s face in a moment of extreme fury; he demanded, in his OCD obstinancy, that I toast the muffin for EXACTLY three minutes and cut it symmetrically. I can’t figure out how much of my wrath is directed at him or at the recognition that I possessed the same obsessive traits in childhood. There were no organic Granny Smiths at the store today. Nick says kindness to me lasts like saffron. I love that metaphor. I have to go to MIT. I have to go now, I have to acquire vehicles and assistance and move to an apartment I may immediately love or hate. Such is life.

Every year since I was born, my mom hides an Easter basket for me and every year she includes a box of Luden’s Cherry Coughdrops. I don’t know when the tradition started; we just decided at some point that Luden’s tasted like candy and had about an equivalent medicinal effect, so why not include them in the Easter basket? So I just came from a night out with the Moms and she brought me not just a plant but an Easter basket of Philly Tastycakes and, yes, Luden’s Cherry Coughdrops. We saw “Born Into Brothels” at Kendall which was simultaneously uplifting and depressing, I ate some awesome pecan pie, Mom lost her glasses and put on too much perfume — it was a traditional Dougherty holiday, even though the holiday begins tomorrow. It’s good to see her, though. I love my mom.

I watched the quality Olsen Twins movie with Ry earlier this afternoon, before my crew’s super 48 production meeting in Corcord which went swimmingly, all things considered. Everyone on crew is so cool and funny and good. Blah blah blah, I love everyone, blah blah.

It’s true, though. I’m not even kidding. I should be more audible in my gratitude, cause these days I really am grateful for everything. ESPECIALLY the blue skies.

I stayed at work until eight tonight editing the band doc; had to set the alarm when I left because I was the last person out. Now I’m sitting in Baby-G’s house, listening to him cough sporatically in his crib through the plastic walky-talky here in the kitchen. If he cries for more than 10 minutes, I check on him. But he doesn’t, so I sit here editing video while my stomach growls.

Had a long talk with S. in England last night, courtesy of Skype. She’s debating what to do with her immediate future after graduating. Like the rest of us in days of yore, she’s still harboring a shred of hope that Real Life won’t suck her in, that she won’t get stuck in an overpriced apartment with a crappy day job, that she can hold on to her liberal life of international travel and jobs that maybe sorta pay the bills. I tried to tell her we all expected it would be easy at 21, we all thought we could have that lifestyle and even more…and we can; as long as we’ve saved up several thousand dollars before running around cowfields and cornfields and foreign cities for months on end, with nothing but a baguette and a stash of McVittie’s in our pockets…

but I digress.

My mother is in town. I’m tired. It’s Good Friday, though I see nothing good about the Christians’ wordwide celebration of Jesus’s death. I really don’t get that. Why not just focus on the resurrection? Wasn’t that the whole point? Everyone dies; not everyone rises again. Let’s dye some eggs, eat chocolate bunnies and think about that.

It’s so quiet here. I can hear several clocks ticking, the hum of the refrigerator and the disgruntled buzz of my external hard drive. I would love a large slice of pecan pie a la mode right about now — or baked Alaska, for that matter — but Oleana doesn’t deliver. Boo. On the up & up, E. from work just announced he’s buying a BMW motorcycle, and taking his golf clubs out of storage. Which means that, in addition to being taken to the opera regularly, I get to golf and ride around on a motorcycle all summer. My grandfather would be so proud.

Last night I watched the boys‘ video footage from their 6-week tour. Most of it. They did a very good job, shot it well, got some great scenes, gave me a lot to work with and made me very excited about finishing the whole doc in general.

On the second tape, there was a scene where they’re driving in the van and start to give personal messages to me. Keeping in mind these were four testosteroned boys stuck in a van together for over a month, their acclamations varied from “Ryan says we love you so I guess we do” to Jame’s “I feel a greater kinship with Audubon than with fried chicken” to a broader positive analysis of my body. Despite the borderline objective gender-based comments and playboy references, their individual monologues were kind enough to feed my ego for at least a week. Also it reminded me how much I love having so many guy friends. It’s way better than a harem of wimpy girl friends, but never better than an international network of tough female compatriots, thankyouverymuch.

(L-R: Ry, Jay, James, & Matty on top)
I would post a clip of some of their very funny tour footage, but I’m still in the capture phase so we’ll have to settle for this photo Jay sent from their trip. 48 comes before all other projects. And then summer comes. I can’t wait to jump on A.’s trampoline in the mornings, bike in the daytime, box at night. My bones have forgotten how to move. I am going to get back in shape or die trying.

Sometimes I have to remind myself what life was like a few months ago — how England was: the perpetual rain; the mad dashes home in drizzle to make a quick sandwich; the long, wet Tuesday night walks to the meetings of the Manchester Amatuer Photographic Society. The perpetual rain. The perpetual cloudy skies.

It’s been cloudless here for nearly a week. Cloudless and 50+ degrees. The true New Englanders wear shorts, t-shirts, flip flops even. Being not at all a “true” New Englander, I keep my jacket on, but at least I’ve eliminated wearing my hat and gloves, and not just because I left them in New York accidentally.

Last night Ry and I got burritos and ice cream and rented SNL’s Best of Christopher Walken DVD, which I highly recommend. I fell asleep so heavily afterwards I don’t remember anything, except waking up like clockwork to my own internal alarm at 9a exactly.

And by the way, don’t ever think Elvis movies aren’t important. Just now, I was in the kitchen here at work, eating lunch, when our IT guy tried toasting bread and the toaster oven caught fire. Real fire! Like flames! Quickly recalling a scene from Sunday’s screening of Girls! Girls! Girls!, I made like Elvis and grabbed a container of salt to mute the flames. Success! Which just goes to show Elvis movies teach you critical life skills.

My mother is driving from Philly to visit me this weekend, for Easter. I forgot to tell her I have a production meeting I can’t miss. She and I will be going to the Cape on Sunday, pretending to be rich, crazy ladies….or just pretending to be rich. She and I are like chemicals: you put the two together, you never know what you’re gonna get. Could be an explosion, could be the cure for dementia. I’m banking on a mild fizzle. For shizzle.