The Plaid Pladd

I’m glad that Houston is just like I remember: nearly unbearable. But in a way I’ve grown to love. I love the ridiculous traffic, the sweltering heat, the overzealous mosquito population, the two stars. I also love the now-completed building that was outside my window all of last year. Its roof now looks like a ship’s prow that has accidentally careened into the med center. And, yeah, I walked by the new gym and it consumed my soul with jealousy. Other than that, though, I managed to pretty well avoid getting hit by the nostalgia truck. Because my shower doesn’t scream.

Probably the most surprising part of the weekend came on Saturday when I was expecting to collect my pieroyalties, the amount of which increases in increments of one pie yearly. I was promised three, but since both Anna (director) and Jacob (producer) assumed responsibility for this, I ended up with six. Jacob gave his long suffering Jacob sigh, said they would tip me one more, and keep two for the cast party. I assumed this was just his way of covering up a failed attempt at winning my affections. Because nothing says “Let’s make out after this play” like extra pie. It’s maybe a universal signal.

Anna also felt the need to tip me, specifically for this part of the play:
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