How Low Can You BOLO?

That doesn't make any sense, just go with it.

My friend Zarah is in town for the week with her two kids and I'm blogging lazily with sun-addled senses and usually after a drink or two. We've decided to eschew cultural events this year, not because the kids don't like them - they're chomping at the bit to hit some museums - just because this week we DON'T FEEL LIKE IT. So we convinced the kids that this year we'll just eat ice cream every day. And walk around the market. And eat fistfuls of baby carrots. And play in the sandbox. And get pedicures (we gave Alex Eve's ipod touch to make the wait less arduous). And watch Angus hit home runs over the fence (in his first game of the season, thank you very much). And drive go karts.

The kids have retaliated against our museum moratorium by making a truly dreadful horror/comedy film, consisting of Alex shooting both girls with a nerf gun and Eve saying "oh my gosh" a lot - Quentin Tarantino it ain't. Angus vacillates between remaining slightly aloof by virtue of his slight age difference - Alex is only seven months older than Eve and Sophie is a bit less than two years younger - and joining wholeheartedly in the goofy, nerf-dart, video-game-playing, fake-crying festivities.

Zarah being here this week means that, unexpectedly, she gets to come to BOLO with me. The inestimable Turtlehead has organized a night of blog-reading, photo-viewing, carousing and general merriment for the - well, I don't know for how many years, I only started going last year, check the website, what do you want from me, I'm drunk. This year, because of the increased demand for performance time, half of the entries were juried and the other half were picked by lottery. I waffled on whether I was going to submit something, because I didn't read last year and I was happy to just listen, but despite how I struggle against it, this stupid voice in my head keeps telling me I have to PUSH THE ENVELOPE and TRY NEW THINGS and STEP OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE and EXPERIENCE PERSONAL GROWTH. Mostly I try to drown that annoying little prat of a voice with carbs and hour-long tv dramas with a supernatural bent, but every now and then I throw it a bone. So I emailed something to Lynn on the last evening. I had my gracious response for when she told me I was rejected all ready: I was going to say it was a win-win because hey, I tried, it wasn't my fault I wasn't selected - credit for personal growth without actually having to risk public humiliation.

I still think I was probably safe from the jury. Because I never win anything, I hadn't reckoned on the bloody lottery.

It's all good. I have a peerless group of people who will be there to supply me with a wide selection of sincere support and false courage. I reread my post tonight and I don't hate it. Lynn's letting me go first, partly because she's nice and partly because she's afraid that if she makes me wait too long I'll drink too much beforehand and barf on the microphone. If nothing else, it will be an interesting experience in how well tequila mixes with ativan.

Personal growth, here I come.