If I Were a Grand Slam . . . (sung to the tune of "If I Were a Rich Man," just in case that didn't immediately pop into your head like it should have)

Spent the past two weeks doing so much work regarding last Friday's V-Day Extravaganza and this weekend's upcoming production of The Vagina Monologues that I hardly had time to sleep or breathe or any other such vital function. And then this weekend happened. And despite rehearsal from forever until the end of time on Sunday night . . . I suddenly had only time to sleep and breathe.

I don't think I'd ever been so bored in my life. Last night, I literally spent a half hour staring at objects in my roommate's possession. I was awake then, and I couldn't actually bring myself to sleep. (Funny how "after you get what you want you don't want it," isn't it? Who knew Irving Berlin songs could be so prophetic.) I could call this relaxing, I suppose. But relaxing is a term I generally reserve for reading in a hot bath or sitting in a spa or visiting the masseuse I don't actually have. Relaxing is not resorting to asking your roommates such questions as: "If you were a menu item at Denny's, what would you be?"

And just FYI, Jen is Cheesesticks, Heather is French Toast and I am a Milkshake. Raffi, when later asked this question, supplied me with the Denny's menu item in the title.