Natalie Hall is Hailing the Chief [Fierce Anticipation]

Fiercely Anticipating: Presidents’ Day weekend.

It’s here! That glimmer of hope right in the midst of our seasonal affective disorder*! The Federal Holiday that no one remembers! The perfect little blue balls-inducing holiday weekend: too short to merit a vacation, but long enough to keep us from realizing we should stop slaving away for our corporate overlords and open a cooperative beet farm in Oregon!

This is a nice one because we don’t have to deal with all the tediousness that marrs our other three-day weekends. I don’t have to be proud of my country, I don’t have to remember anyone, and my facebook feed won’t clog with inspirational misquotes and do-gooder cyber shaming. (Our first President was as boring as he was wooden-toothed, and as such, he is not remembered for his pithy sayings. “Bad seed is a robbery of the worst kind: for your pocket-book not only suffers by it, but your preparations are lost and a season passes away unimproved.” Pull that one out on Monday and see how many likes you get.) There are no parades to block traffic, no fireworks to pretend to care about, no enforced group meat-charring to attend. This is perfect for me, because I hate mandatory fun and I strongly dislike pool parties.

As you can probably guess, I have big plans for this weekend. The idea is to drive up to San Francisco, hang out with friends, see Pina in 3-D, and while lingering over artisanal beers, meet a 6 foot tall Indian architect who loves Shakespeare, sandwiches, and casual relationships. What’s going to happen is this: on Friday evening I will don some soft, non-binding sleep wear, open a bottle of wine, and peruse the photo albums of my facebook friends who mysteriously have husbands, babies, 6-pack abs, the time to do yoga in the middle of the day on Tuesdays, and the funds to take week-long vacations to the goddamn Bahamas every other month. I will then lip-synch to youtube videos of Sunday in the Park with George and cry, and think about the Cold War. Rinse and repeat, add in a 4-hour trip to CVS, and you pretty much have my holiday weekend. Needless to say, I’m excited.

*Ha! Just kidding, I live in California. We don’t have winter. Suck it, East Coast.

Kind of (Not) Looking Forward To:  Tuesday

Three days off is the scientifically proven amount of time needed to completely forget you ever had a job and start believing that you are actually landed gentry and have never had to work a day in your life.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. I’m lucky enough to work in a beautiful theatre in Carmel, I spend my days doing fulfilling, quasi arty things or at least enabling said arty things to occur, and by all accounts I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing to earn my pay. But lets not mince words. If I were independently wealthy I wouldn’t be an underpaid arts administrator in a town full of old white people. I would move to Paris and produce my chamber musical about Erwin Rommel! I would open a theatre facility/gastropub inside a villa in Tuscany and commission Philip Seymour Hoffman to perform a one-man Hamlet for me and me alone! I would live-blog The Bachelor! (There’s some REALLY troublingly condescending cultural tourism going on in that show, and guys, it’s racist. Also that girl’s hideous denim romper. Do you think he’s going to pick Kacie B? Is she cross-eyed? And why does she always look like she’s about to fall asleep?)

Inevitably, the disappointment of my messy desk, stack of invoices, and 4-page To Do list will hit hard come Tuesday morning. I guess there’s always Memorial Day.

Wouldn’t Go If You Paid Me: Your Presidents’ Day barbeque pool party

OK, fine. I’ll bring beer and veggie burgers. Did you invite your friend Praveen?

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featured image credit: Louish Pixel
messy desk image: MrE-PL2