We're all about the home care here at the Museum.
Home care is like home-schooling, with a lot more white wine thrown into the mix.
Never met a home-schooled kid who wasn't just a little bit off.
Sorry, Bri, but it's true.
Spitfire is hanging tough, healing, starting to bitch about the little things, so we're getting back on track.
Some things I did during the month Walsh was Inside:
1. Patched the rug that got burnt.
2. Made the bed every morning.
3. Spent thirty bucks a day on cabfare.
4. Lost three checks that I should have deposited.
5. Found them a week later in my wallet.
6. Found the way to write the opening to my textbook on Acting, something I've been taking notes for for two years now.
7. Went to the gym every weekday except for the days Nan was getting worked on in the shop.
8. Memorized the hallway leading to 8 South, got to master that hallway, owned that hallway.
9. Drank a lot of good Scotch whiskey.
10. Read and actually understood half of A Thousand Plateaus.
11. Cried like a man (suddenly, explosively, full-on for about fourteen seconds and then a quick twist of the waterworks and shut it back off)
12. Got board-certified as a Burn Nurse in the State of New York.
That last one was only in my mind, but I believe it counts.
And I didn't really cry, of course. Not me, Bud.
I'm made of iron.
And hydrogen, or something. Can't remember.
Now we're getting ready for the Grand Re-Opening of the Dime Museum. Blowing up the balloons, dusting off the dioramas, teaching the old horses the new tricks.
We're going to have hot dogs.
Spring is busting out all over here in Rat City. Flowers blooming and the garbage has that springtime smell to it. People in short sleeves yelling at each other, as opposed to all of that winter hat-wearing shouting that gets old after four months.
We've got shows to rehearse and theaters to build and meetings to fall asleep in and many words to write down and polish.
Back to bidness, by god.