Rough Day

Some days at the Walmart

are classier than others.

Today my back hurt

so I took refuge

on a lonely bench

by a Mexican.

My nose started to bleed.

So as I sat there

moaning in pain

with my head held back

and blood in my throat

next to a Mexican

I found myself thinking

I should avoid the Walmart.

And that was that.

The Joys of Maidonhood

I feel like hell.



It's snowing outside in massive amounts and truthfully the dreary gloom usually appeals to my inner goth but for some reason today it just makes me cold.





And then hot.





And then cold again. Damned viscious cycle.



If I didn't know better I'd think I was pregnant. Or going through menapause. Or becoming a man. Considering the liklihood of any of these three happening is slim-to-none, I don't think I'll panic yet.

Fattie fattie two by four

Have you ever had a dog that was too fat to jump on the bed? We do.

When she jumps it's as if she has no concept of height or effort necessary and instead she smacks into the sideboard shoulders first and looks at us as if we've done this to her on purpose.

We have not.


She's on diet food and limited to small portions. But the other dog (the gay boy) often forgets that he has to eat to live and in his absentmindedness he becomes an enabler, allowing her to eat herself to miserable extent.

I find it humorous. And sad.

But when she tires walking from the kitchen to living room and has to pause (coochie to carpet) to take a breather, I'm more amused than sad.

Does this make me a bad mother?

Sometimes I feed her the dog food one piece at a time JUST to make sure she has it in her mouth long enough to chew it, thus prolonging digestion, or so I've told myself.

There must be something else we can do for her.


Is there a Jenny Craig for dogs? Weight watchers? Nutrisystems?

I'll hire Richard Simmons.

Necessary Ratings

Deep down I've always known I was a bandwagon girl.

Posting only to an unknown and nearly foreign blog in attempts to protect myself from public scrutiny has grown old. I guess you could say I long for the types of attention even my poorly written acquaintances get. So here I am...jumping on board and attempting a PG 13 version of that thing I do best...

Mind speaking.

Here's hoping the result is readable.

I give no guarantees.

Ought Eight

There are quite a few things I've learned from UFOC Summer of 08. . . but I'm pretty sure that not many of them have to do with Opera.


Peacock feathers shouldn't be mailed in a poster tube. They come out looking like a more colorful version of "Flock of Seagulls." Birds scare me and yet I've just mentioned two.


If my postage options are old man and chair OR hornet and goat and the decision plagues me for more than one minute, my time is not well spent. The ONLY person who'll notice is me And to make matters worse the damned pearl is going to fall off anyway.


Even if I lock the puppies in the pink room in the basement to try to sleep past 6 am, I wake at 6:01. The deamons inside, it seems, are louder than deamon dogs.


Stepping into a show at the last minute requires the following actions in order: outright refusal….crying…too many people crammed into a piano room for embarrassed singing…kingly kindness…more crying…guilt trips…disapproval from fellow cast members….tears….acceptance. And MUCH further down the line…faint applause.


As has always been the case with me, "I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at." But understand, dear sirs, that leaving it there may cause you to grieve just as much as I.



I can no longer go to Pines parties. The things that used to draw me there have been poured out or poured upon and this pirate is no longer prepared to don patch, toga, or prom dress without feeling like she's taken a step down. High and Mighty? Nah. Just old.



Tricky things get sticky when I'm suddenly the boss. My stolen ruse of smearing the office with pitch may have worked brilliantly if I weren't the one to have gotten stuck.


Choosing to wear a white wedding dress comes as a surprise to some of my less than doting admirers.


Painting a bathroom yellow is a bad idea that should have registered long before the paint dried. Painting it blue makes me want fishes on the wall and, surprisingly, I've matured past the age of four. Painting it any other color has yet to cross my cluttered mind.


Keeping your friends close and your enemies closer is a flawed idea. Why would I want my enemies closer when the problem is wanting my friends?


One can never have too many spice racks.


Running a season, planning a wedding, buying and fixing a house all at the same time may SOUND like a fun summer but what I wouldn't give for a few days off.


The few in this world who love me keep the earth on its axis and me on mine.


"Though this be madness, yet there is method in it."

He Said, She Said...

He Said...

78 days, 9 hours, 5 minutes and 6 seconds
Or 2 months, 16 days, 9 hours, 5 minutes, 6 seconds
6,771,906 seconds
112,865 minutes
1881 hours
11 weeks

Included in that time is;

The few seconds it took for us to meet outside a theatre in Logan on 7/7/7, and for me to act completely nervous and awkward, (otherwise known as typical Ben to those who know me well).

The single weekend it took for me to wear a dress to impress a girl at a birthday party, and to finish falling in love with someone I only just met that day. (Don't ask me how wearing a dress impresses a girl)

The weeks that followed that proved to me that she is everything I ever wanted.

The excruciatingly long time it took for me to finally get down to meet her parents and ask her father, (who by the way is an avid hunter), for permission to marry her.

The most fun I have ever had on a road trip. (including the wild boar we ran over in the dessert)

The time it took for me to ask her the question that I wanted to ask after only two weeks of knowing her.

And most importantly the word Yes that followed.

After approximately 78 days on September 23rd 2007 I am officially engaged to Cassandra Orr.

I love you Cassandra, you mean more to me than anything in this world, I have loved you since we met, and I will always love you.




She Said...

An independent woman, I've always thought, was a necessary thing. A necessary thing for me that is. And in thinking this I was certain that I doomed myself to a fate of loneliness and ignorance of such. Who could possibly love a woman with such a loud mouth and slightly (understatement) overbearing personality?


Turns out I know someone who can. He seems to think it's fun.


It's strange how it feels as if I'm missing a part of me that is currently somewhere near Salt Lake. Surprisingly enough I' not referring to the several pounds of breast tissue I left in a HazMat receptacle at McKay Dee Hospital four short weeks ago (classy mention I know) but instead I speak of the 6'4" blond hair, blue eyed, perfectly chiseled masculine masterpiece of a man who has the power to melt me with a look, a kiss, a touch, and the ability to take my heart off my sleeve and hold it in his strong and capable hands. He takes care of me when I'm broken or sick, thinks I'm beautiful even when I'm swollen and scarred, constantly impresses me with his knowledge and ability to teach, looks great in everything from a tux to a dress (long story) to the real Levi jeans he wore on the ranch to meet my family, and always makes sure I know how much I am loved.


I call him mine.


And as of this past Sunday night I also call him my fiancée. Yes people, the rumors are wonderfully true! I'm going to marry the man of my dreams and I can honestly say that beside him I make sense.


Knowing that someday I'd amount to something big ( a great writer, great actress, great inspirer, great novice, great grandmother, etc.) I'd always focused my goals on doing things to get me there and usually that required solitary independence. And yet, in the past three days the only thing I seem to be accomplishing is the fact that I am a great emoter. I can quite magnificently emote.


In fact it seems that I've been crying for days. Not tears of sorrow mind you but the kind that fill your eyes and sit there peacefully on your lids until you smile wide enough for them to race down your cheeks, the kind of tears that cover your contacts in such a thick layer of salt that you can't see to drive home, the kind of tears that multiply each time you even think a loving thought, the kind of tears that arrive only when you are wonderfully, surprisingly, and indescribably happy.


So here I sit atop my big squishy bed alone (mind the dog), covered in tears (obviously), and not even attempting to wipe this giddy grin off my face as I switch my bedside lamp on and off repeatedly just so I can look at my newly acquired piece of jewelry in every light and I can't help thinking that it's wonderful being such an independent woman in love with an independent man who makes me the happiest woman on earth.

So here we are: short courtship, long engagement, followed by the wedding of the year and the kind of life they write books about. In fact maybe someday I will.


Benjamin Gordon Coulam I love you today, tomorrow, and everyday of the rest of our lives!

You Call it Tomato, I call it A.D.D.

I like to daydream. I do it not as a mental escapism to avoid my real everyday life (because Lord knows it is anything but mundane) but it's more of an opportunity to live out my Cancerean fantastical ways without having to give myself actual multiple personalities or sci-fi friends. I blame my mental torpor tendencies. I simply can't be bothered with maintaining focus for any lengthy amount of time, that requires the kind of effort I'm just not willing to put forth.

Today while sitting in on some auditions with my boss I drifted. Somewhere between Popagana's suicide and the third Figeroan Count I ended up at "Sam's Club."

"We need more oil for the popcorn machine," I thought to myself, "I wonder if the ice cream maker is still on sale.

Why do I care if it is, I bought one last week and what would I possibly do with two?

Well what if someone you know has a sudden need to make gelato and yet they can't seem to find an affordable mixer and when they ask you for advice you have none to give simply because you didn't pay attention while you were at Sam's?"

At this moment I become acutely aware that the conversation internally is about to send out an external signifier in the form of an "HOLD MY BABY" so I quickly snap back into reality.

The notes I'd been scribbling (in attempt to look like I'm paying attention) read something like this…

"Eyebrow acting is not really acting. Why is his face so red, I'm afraid he might explode. Help me I'm drifting….Sam's Club."

I laughed out loud. Fortunately the singer thought I was digging his pig-latin version of a Little Mermaid song. I swear to God this happened people, I couldn't make this up.

Focus Cassandra, this is business. But musical auditions have never been my bailiwick and the opera patois is quickly lulling me into rapid recidivism.

See audience, even now I've stopped to admire my own ability to use three big words in a sentence. I then moved to a mental debate over whether I should have added the words "cogitate over" in place of "admire" in the previous sentence.

I am a nut case. I should be medicated. I think I have to stop now. I need to go to Sam's Club.