This House Ain't Big Enough for the Both of Us

I love Stella and she loves me, but I think we're getting a bit sick of each other. Because of the weather (mostly stormy and rainy, we've been under a flash flood watch all week), and our shared sickness (snotty with some dazed light headed-ness), we haven't left the house much. And to make things even more exciting, Stella chose this week to give up her morning nap. So she's down to one nap, kind of mid-dayish, at least for yesterday and today, which means she's fussy late in the morning and fussy late in the afternoon. Really, let's just call it what it is: Stella is a Festival of Fussiness this week.

Festival of Fussiness is mercifully asleep right now. We've got a showing at 2, so I've got the house all sparkly (well as sparkly as I can be bothered to get it these days). Your enthusiasm for showing off your house declines as the house is on the market longer and longer. I still don't feel like it's been that long, 3 and a half weeks, but I think our real estate agent is getting antsy. He said we should give it "another week" and then think about dropping the price. I totally feel like I am in an episode of Buy Me. Drop the price? Wha? I don't wanna' do that! Especially since he himself said that no one has said a WORD about the price. But enough about my real estate woes.

We got the scripts for Little Murders from Samuel French today! They are Real Scripts, like the type I used in high school plays, as opposed to copies that we usually use because we write our own scripts. It feels like we are going to do Real Theatre. Not that we haven't been doing Real Theatre for the past 9 years, but hopefully you know what I mean. This also gives me a chance to vent about people who don't pay royalties. You Know Who You Are. As a writer, I think that it is morally reprehensible that you would put on a play, which you are going to make money off of, and not pay the writer of the piece you are doing. Just despicable. I hope you are found out and Samuel French puts you in a special jail where you are on display for writers to write about your disgusting self and your empty soul. Like the nudes in art classes.

Well, enough fantasy punishment, Stella's cries are getting loud enough for me to hear them all the way in the office, so I better get her up. She made an hour nap today. Whee!