I threw a rib out of place this morning while squeezing oranges for Monty, who is home sick from school for the seventh day in a row counting the weekend and the Lunar New Year. Ironically I was supposed to go to the chiropractor today, which I would have had to cancel anyway because of the aforementioned child home sick from school, but would have had to cancel if he was in school because I can not move because of the aforementioned rib out of place. It took everything I had to lower myself onto the couch and then the rest of me to lower myself onto an ice pack. I also can't take a deep breath, which I'm calling the cause of my flipping out at Monty and telling him I was going to send his guitar back to Santa if he doesn't start playing it soon. He cried that he couldn't follow the instructions on cord fingering because he didn't know which finger his middle one was, so I held mine up at him... I am ravenously hungry.
Thank the fake lord above for Broadway Babysitters, who sent an angel over to watch Monty. She sat on the floor with him, and somehow got him to do a school project that I have been fighting with him about for days.
I am not the world's greatest parent.
In my defense, I always apologize to him.
I got tremendously good news yesterday, the details of which I can't fully disclose, but suffice to say, the TV show I did a bunch of episodes of last season is having me back for a bunch for season two. My first date is less than a month away and of course, it shoots in L.A.
This is where I admit that Kurt and I have been seriously talking about moving back to the west coast. He wants to buy a place, but our budget is quiet small. We can't afford much in New York that isn't garbagey, and honestly, we are sick and tired of living somewhere garbagey. He came home from work after it had snowed and made a bitter joke about someone experiencing their first NYC snow and how magical it seems until they slip on frozen vomit. I think we could all survive without ever experiencing another polar fucking vortex again. And this is not the NYC I grew up in. I know every generation says that. And NYC in the 90s has nothing on NYC in the 80s, 70s, 60s, 50s, etc. But at least in 90s NYC wasn't a luxury mall that smelled like pee in the summer. And unless I manage to inherit my parents' row house in south Park Slope before March 1st, it looks like we're pulling up stakes (again) and moving back to California.
I know it sounds crazy. Or maybe it just sounds crazy to me. We just moved to NYC in 2015. And poor Kurt and Monty already moved to Seattle and back here since then. I told my therapist that my career only took off (again) once I moved back here, though, ironically, 97% of the work was not in NYC, and my therapist, in that annoying therapist way she has, reminded me that actually I took off (again) since I moved back here. And, as the old saying goes, where ever you go there you are.
She also said maybe I threw my back out because it was the only way I would slow the fuck down for a minute. She didn't say fuck. God, she's so annoying. I love her.
And since I wrote that last paragraph, I spoke to my manager who was like, "Uh...We're really gathering speed here. You're going to move now?" And he's got a great point. And it highlights the many bad decisions I've made career-wise.
So, here we are at the end of the day. Monty is in the bath crying that his mama and papa are mean to him because Kurt took the Nintendo Switch away for five days because he rolled his eyes at him twice. I still can't breathe. I have a potential job, which is awesome, but as per usual, my immediate future is one, giant question mark. I have an audition for a pilot tomorrow for which I'm going to have to be like, "Hey, so, imagine this performance, but I can move and breathe like a normal person." Which not to say that people who can't move or breathe aren't normal. I mean, people who can't breathe are...dead. But certainly people who can't move are just as normal as people who can. Some are even normaler. Certainly normaler than me, even when I can move. But, I have to be able to joke or I'm going to throw myself on to the garbage pile my landlords have collecting in the backyard.