I'm paying an awful lot of attention to my underwear lately.

In my current show, I play seven roles. And in those seven roles, I have seven costumes.

So during the rehearsal period, I spend much of my time standing in my underwear in front of ten or twelve people whilst they fit me for costumes.

And that leaves me a lot of time to worry about what they think of my underwear.

I mean, I know it's clean, but is it FASHIONABLE? The last thing I want is an intricate discussion of my undergarments after I leave.

And in case you were wondering, seven costumes means precisely six costume changes in a span of about twenty minutes. Too many costume changes always means that there is a slim chance that you will go onstage naked at some point and then, of course, be required to justify your nudity.

"Oh, I was just taking a shower and all the towels were dirty. So I thought I'd just come out here to the disco. Maybe all the dancing will dry me off."

Yes yes.

Underwear gives me a headache.

I'm leaving today for the far-off land of Buffalo-And-Theatre.

But before I go, I must tell you this:

While I'm sitting in front of a campfire enjoying s'mores after having told a lovely Princess Jill story, I shall look up at everyone else and say, "Any comments?"

And I shall think of you guys.

If you ever pondered, "I wonder if Jill Twiss is a terrible singer or possibly an adequate singer that sometimes records songs at her voice lessons and, after a couple of glasses of wine things it might be a good idea to put them up on the internet," then boy do I have the link for you.

Also if you've ever thought, "I am a musical theatre casting director and could use a quirky, yet sweet star for my next Broadway show who can, every once in a while, sing on pitch and plays a hell of a good carrot," then this link will work for you too.

It's here.

Just push play.

Well, you probably knew that.

Oh, go listen to it before I get all embarrassed and take it down.

Sigh....

I am a giant ball (yet still slightly adorable) ball of stress right now.

If "stress fractures" come from actual stress, I think I'm on the road to several broken bones.

I have approximately seventeen-million Important Things that must be done before I leave town in five days or I'm fairly sure the world will explode.

I have exactly enough time to do nine Important Things.

That is a deficit of 16,999,991 Important Things.

Brace yourselves.

I think if I were going to become a stripper, here's what I'd do:

First I would gain a bit of weight and put on some fairly unattractive clothes.

Also, I would squint and wear glasses.

But only hold them over one eye.

My stripper name?

Monocle Lewinski.

See, after that you'll be GLAD I'm leaving for two months.

Yes.

At the end of May, I will be leaving for two months for a far-away-possibly-internet-free land.

So if your life depends on my posting brilliant blogs on a regular basis, you might be in a bit of trouble. But let's be honest, if your life depended on me writing regular-brilliant-blogs, you would already be dead and not reading this at all. I hope it was painless.

If my blog posting was my digestive system, the doctor would tell me that I need to eat way more fiber.

If you know what I mean.

Where am I going, you ask? I'll be off doing summer stock theatre in the middle of a state park. I'll be appearing in the first three shows here.

Now, middle-of-nowhere-in-a-state-park-whilst-working-twelve-hours-a-day maybe isn't the ideal place for internet access. But I shall try diligently to write whenever I can.

And I'm not leaving yet. So you have a while to save up your laughter in a neat little laughter-bank so you can make withdrawals while I'm gone.

That's all.

Further proof that I am the living example of entropy:

Today, I finally decided to clean up the scads of shards of glass on my kitchen floor. They were pretty and sparkly but more ouchy than not, overall.

The cleaning felt good. It felt so good that I decided to just keep right on cleaning.

"Cleaning is fun," I thought. "And I've always wanted to move in right next to godliness."

I went to the bedroom next. Cleaning merrily with zeal-and-joy.

And the first thing I did in this joyous-cleaning-frenzy was toss a lovely blouse in the general direction of my closet.

As luck would have it, on the way to my closet, the shirt stopped for a glass of wine. And by "stopped for a glass of wine," I mean, "knocked over a wine glass."

Said wine glass promptly exploded into four-point-eight million bright, shiny pieces.

Thusly I was left with, you guessed it, scads of shards of glass on my floor.

It was a productive day.

I have a whole day off tomorrow (or, rather, today by the time you're probably reading this.)

Here are the things I should do:

1) Clean my kitchen. I actually have shards of glass on my kitchen floor. They have been there for four days. I have not cleaned them up because my dustpan is in my car. It is in my car because I used it to shovel four feet of snow off my car. I had to shovel four feet of snow off my car with a dustpan because I do not own a snow shovel.

Also my refrigerator has something smelly in it. I have easily resolved this issue by vowing never to open my refrigerator again.

2) Buy a snow shovel.

3) Write jokes that people will laugh at. You'd think that the "that people will laugh at" part of that sentence would be sort of a given. But I have a great tendency to write jokes that only *I* will laugh at.

4) Figure out how to write my blog while I'm away from internet access for two months. Er, did I mention that I'm going away for two months?

Those are the things I should do. But let's be honest, I would rather hit a pinata full of scabs than do any of those things.

So what should I do? If you have any good suggestions, I shall do them and perhaps even post pictures.

THE TIME I ROUNDED UP BUFFALO WITH THE GOVERNOR
(for realsies this time)

Once upon a time there was a girl named me.

I am the hero of this story.

Some of the supporting characters in this story are the former Governor of South Dakota, some cowboys, my dad, and a gaggle of buffalo.

It sounds a lot like a Kevin Costner film but it's not

A background piece of information in this story (which, if it WERE a Kevin Costner film, would be printed in white letters at the beginning of the movie, perhaps superimposed over pictures of some sad-looking Native Americans) is that my father was sort of friends with the at-that-time Governor of South Dakota.

It's not so impressive, really. Since there are like eight people that live in South Dakota, the odds of being friends with the Governor (or being the Governor) are essentially as high as owning a pick-up truck, or listening to country music, or not being allowed to have an abortion.

Back to the story: It's hard to remember how it all came about, but I do remember my father approaching me and saying, "How would you like to go to the buffalo roundup?"

Two thoughts immediately entered my head:

1) I would LOVE to go to the buffalo roundup.

2) What is the buffalo roundup?

My father explained that every year, some charming cowboys round up all the buffalo (thousands) in Custer State Park and put them in corrals so that they can brand them (now presenting new Calvin Klein buffalo) and test them for diseases.

And yes I would like to go to that, thank you. Who wouldn't want to watch lovely and talented cowboys round up lovely and talented buffalo?

"No one" is the correct answer to that question.

But here is the part that would, if this were a movie, be referred to as the "plot twist" . You know, the part where the attractive but fairly grouchy ice-skater gets paired up with the also-attractive yet pushy hockey star with no experience and, together, they must win the Olympic gold medal?

That part.

You see, a key thing that my father forgot to mention is that *I* would be expected to help round up the buffalo. I, Jill Twiss, a girl whose hobbies include reading, playing the clarinet, and not-rounding-up-stuff.

There is a video of the buffalo roundup here.

See those crazy people in trucks driving beside the buffalo? Those people are me. Well, no. Those exact people aren't exactly me. But they are me-esque in that they are riding in cars amidst the buffalo trying desperately to sell them on the idea that corrals aren't such a bad place, really.

That was my job.

I was informed that my mission was to lean out the window of the truck and yell at the buffalo until they ran toward the corrals. Which led me, not a yeller by nature, to the natural question: What does one yell at a buffalo? I tried, "Excuse me, but could you move a little to the left, sir" and "Perhaps you'd be happier if you were running full speed ahead into that corral over there," but apparently I just don't have a gift for yelling at buffalo.

Now on that particular video there is not a certain truck that is driving faster than all the other trucks, directly into the gaggle of buffalo. A certain truck that is driving full speed ahead toward a cliff. A certain truck driven by no other than the Governor of South Dakota.

That was the certain exact truck from which I was yelling at aforementioned buffalos.

There are moments in your life where you say to yourself, "Well, I don't want to die. But if I have to die, dying in a speeding car driving off a cliff into a herd of buffalo is certainly a fascinating way to die."

On a side note, you know that song about buffalos roaming? Well, I'm here to tell you they don't so much roam as run at you at 40 miles per hour and try to stomp on your car. But "stomp on your car" doesn't rhyme with "home," you see. Neither does "stick their horns through your sternum." So probably "roam" was the best choice given the rhyme scheme.

We're almost to the end of the story. Don't worry, it has a mostly happy ending.

I didn't die at all nor was I gored by a buffalo. And all the buffalo got put in the corrals and became brand-name buffalo instead of generic ones.

THE END

p.s.1. Have you noticed that all my stories have really long beginnings and terribly short middles and ends? I have noticed that too and I shall work on it.

p.s.2. If you know which PARTICULAR Governor of South Dakota that I'm talking about, you'll probably also know that his crazy drivingness didn't end quite so happily for him as it did for the buffalo and for me.

I feel in my innermost being that my readers are wishing and clamoring for another story from the life of me.

And who am I to deny them such joy? I am no one at all for joy-denial. So a story it is:

THE TIME I ROUNDED UP BUFFALO WITH THE GOVERNOR

I know what you're thinking.

"'Rounding up buffalo with the Governor' sounds like a euphemism for masturbation. Is this a story about masturbation, Jill?"

Although I agree with you about the excellence of that euphemism and encourage you to use it regularly until it catches on, the answer to your question is no. This is not a story about masturbation.

"But if it were a story about masturbation, would it be about a boy masturbating or a girl masturbating?"

While I must insist that this is NOT a story about masturbation, I will say that if it were a story about masturbation, it would definitely be about a boy masturbating.

That is because I feel sure that a girl would never refer to her lady-parts as 'The Governor.' '

She might refer to them as The Senior Senator from Oklahoma.' But never 'The Governor.'

So now that we've clarified that this is definitely a story about a boy masturbating.....

Oh no, wait. You guys are very tricky.

Sigh....

I'm getting confused now. I think I'd better finish this tomorrow.

TO BE CONTINUED....