Smelling Nuggets

I have been missing for 20 days, approximately. I did not go anywhere new, I actually just went to my delicious postmodern lit class and my Living Prophets class that is taught by the nicest member of the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

I went to a job interview.
I signed up for a free Barbie catalogue.
I went to a movie that reinforced my undying girl crush love for Rosamund Pike.
I went to McDonald's once, at 10:30 PM, and got ten chicken nuggets. Any loose cash in my car will surely always be traded for either McDonald's' chicken nuggets or an In-N-Out synthetic strawberry shake.
Eight of these late-night nuggets I gobbled in quick succession, dipping and driving all the way down state street. The extra two golden blobs were still waiting all nuggety in the wide bucket passenger seat for me the next morning when I was on my way to class. I ate both of them. Protein.
Is that rumor about McDonald's having their own secret Coke recipe true?

At nights I went to my show, which has exactly fourteen performances left. If you didn't attend one of the first 47, I don't think you have an excuse, unless you were at one of the 47 wedding receptions that I was missing eating some of the 47 servings of free food that I was missing.
Two nights ago, after our Friday show, an audience member asked my partner and I if we'd been dancing together for years. I felt like an ice skater, and asked my partner to pick me up by my waist and hold me in the air like Swan Lake. He didn't want to.

There was an old lady in the audience yesterday matinee that felt the need to define everything that came onstage as soon as she saw it. And she pointed. "COWBOYS" "HIS HANDS ARE TIED WITH ROPE" "SPARKLY TABLECLOTH"

Last night, after our second show, when we were lined up outside the theater, a man who'd been sitting in the front row came out to shake hands.
He nonchalantly handed me a giant pink jewel covered in gobs of dried hot glue that had popped off my prop tray of wealthy jewels and rolled over the stage to his feet. I thanked him and picked the hot glue off with my fingernails. And promptly lost the jewel five minutes later.

Then he moved down the line to our lead girl. They matched kind of because she was in her final costume of black-and-white zebra stripes and leather pants and spiked heels that look like armored cars. He was entirely white-haired, and it was spiky, and he was wearing a tight black t-shirt and tight black pants over his can-shaped frame. It was like the final scene of Grease.
He proceeded to ask her,

"Can I smell you?'

Blink blink.
We all waited, in our zoot suits/sundresses/sparkly imitation jewelry, to see what she would do.
She tugged anxiously on her Britney wig. The beautiful 60-degree wind fluttered by.

Then it got even creepier.
"He wants to smell you!!" peeped his little brunette wife from behind him, with their two teenaged children in tow.

Graciously, she let him smell her. He bent to a spot near her left armpit, just below her shoulder. (Boob area).
And he asked her what perfume she wore, and she told him, and then they left. The keen-sensed man and his wife and two almost-grown children.

Benefits of sitting on the front row: besides getting your knees repeatedly kicked, and lap dances from me, and loads of flying enunciated spit, you're apparently accosted with all kinds of smells, too. Wonder if he could smell the baked ziti we ate in between performances. Or Carson's Listerine, or how the armpits of Greg's vintage brown suit smell like the curry-scented insides of a sweaty Thai restaurant.


Postscript: If you break the Great 75-follower Complacency, I will give you a cookie.