Pansy on the Run!

So, I had been at Thong World long enough to have (gasp!) settled in. I was no longer even Pansy Tham- that email account had been closed, and I was officially tmp00@thongsrus.com. Brimming with joy? Not I. Add into this was the fact that the holidays were coming up, and in a very un-thonglike display of largesse, the thong queen declared that the offices would be closed on the Wednesday holiday, as well as the two days after. Great if your paycheck came from Thong World, disastrous if you were paid as a temp.

Luckily, a friend of mine was producing a show that was moving from it's venue in Hollywood to the Seattle Rep. A major piece of the show was a particular sofa, shaped like the front end of a Buick. Said sofa absolutely, positively had to be in Seattle by a certain date, or the show couldn't go on. Pansy to the rescue (and vice-versa)! I told my thong boss that I would be off that Monday and Tuesday, my friend and I made a deal on my fee, we went to rent a minivan (from an odd, random house on the edge of Hancock Park) loaded the sofa, and off I went.

Well, that's the short version. First of all, I had to pack.

I have a friend who has the amazing ability to pack for weeks in what most people would consider something ample for, say, mailing one's cable bill. He'll show up for the week with his dopp kit and envelope (as my friend Bitsy calls it), merrily pulling out of this tardis-like pouch magically unwrinkled shirts, sharply pressed chinos, perkily creased socks; all manner of clothing so fresh and crisp you wonder if that damned bag is a wormhole directly connected to a drycleaner.

He bugs me.

I am not he. I am seemingly unable to pack for a simple weekend without bringing more stuff than most expeditions over the Antarctic. Somehow, somewhere in the deep dark reptilian part of my brain I am unable to comprehend that there is no place in the world (that I'd go to, anyway) where all-cotton socks, Calvin Klein t-shirts and soft boxers with humourous patterns are not readily available. I could be going off to an extended stay in a maximum-security psych ward and still I'd have to pack a nice pair of pants, a blazer or two, and a couple of shirts, all with at least three choices of ties, 'cause you know, Trembling Acres might have a mixer or something. If I had one, I'd probably pack a ball gown, just in case I was faced with an underdressed dinner partner, or some strange local custom of enforced drag. Oh, and the toiletries? Imagine half of Sephora crammed into a small Burberry duffel. Not to mention, cell phone, computer, various waters, sodas, supplements... well you get the idea.

In any case, laded with all of my stuff and a giant sofa, I left Hollywood for Seattle. I drove and drove. For those of you who have never driven it, the 5 freeway through California practically begs you to speed. Not just 75 or 80, but 100. Hell, 300. Once you've gotten over the "Grapevine", there's not much to see. Huell Howser might beg to differ, but I didn't see nuthin. Oh, Sacramento, but really, the less said about that... Sacramento seems like California's punishment on politicos.

I did drive through a lovely snowstorm at the Oregon border, though, and with a few hours nap on the famous sofa at a rest stop, morning saw me pull into the Seattle Rep's parking lot to deliver my wares.

Next: Pansy Parks it in Portland!