*halp*

I'm in a funk, you guys.  I'm all like.... blah. Blah. Blah. I need a vacation. A week on some warm sand in fresh air, hot sun beating down on me while I wear nothing but a new bikini. Not that I have a new bikini, but I would definitely go buy one if I could wear it on a tropical beach somewhere.

I just feel..... gross. Bored and gross.

This is where you come in. Where can I go for a nice three days where I can just lay on a warm beach under the sun, napping and reading intermittently, for basically no money? Because I'm totally broke* and can't afford a real vacation.

Any thoughts?

______________________________________________________________
*My mother just flinched and thought to herself, "Don't say you're broke! You're not broke!" Ok, true, I'm not "broke" per se, but I certainly have no business spending money on frivolities like vacation. Not that vacation is a frivolity, I think it's a friggin necessity, but still. I guess maybe I feel like I don't really deserve a vacation. Don't you all feel like crying for me now?

Really can't get enough of these

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Happy Birthday, Dopey!!!!

And a Very Merry Christmas to all of you.

p.s. that little peice of coal in my chest got all Christmasied last night, thanks to my NYC friends and family. But to those of you elsewhere, I miss you SO!

Twas the Night Before Christmas

From my papa. I SO wish I had written this!!!

The Night Before Christmas (Legal Style)

Whereas, on or about the night prior to Christmas, there did occur at a certain improved piece of real property (hereinafter "the House") a general lack of stirring by all creatures therein, including, but not limited to a mouse.

A variety of foot apparel, e.g., stockings, socks, etc., had been affixed by and around the chimney in said House in the hope and/or belief that St. Nick aka St. Nicholas aka Santa
Claus (hereinafter "Claus") would arrive at sometime thereafter.

The minor residents, i.e., the children, of the aforementioned House were located in their individual beds and were engaged in nocturnal hallucinations, i.e., dreams, wherein visions of confectionery treats, including, but not limited to, candies, nuts, and/or sugar plums, did dance, cavort, and otherwise appear in said dreams.

Whereupon the party of the first part (sometimes hereinafter referred to as "I"), being the joint-owner in fee simple of the House with the parts of the second part (hereinafter "Mamma"), and said Mamma had retired for a sustained period of sleep. (At such time, the parties were clad in various forms of headgear, e.g., kerchief and cap.)

Suddenly, and without prior notice or warning, there did occur upon the unimproved real property adjacent and appurtenant to said House, i.e., the lawn, a certain disruption of unknown nature, cause, and/or circumstance. The party of the first part did immediately rush to a window in the House to investigate the cause of such disturbance.

At that time, the party of the first part did observe, with some degree of wonder and/or disbelief, a miniature sleigh (hereinafter "the Vehicle") being pulled and/or drawn very
rapidly through the air by approximately eight (8) reindeer. The driver of the Vehicle appeared to be, and in fact was, the previously referenced Claus.

Said Claus was providing specific direction, instruction, and guidance to the approximately eight (8) reindeer and specifically identified the animal co-conspirators by name: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen (hereinafter "the Deer"). (Upon information and belief, it is further asserted that an additional co-conspirator named "Rudolph" may have been involved.)

The party of the first part witnessed Claus, the Vehicle, and the Deer intentionally and willfully trespass upon the roofs of several residences located adjacent to and in the
vicinity of the House, and noted that the Vehicle was heavily laden with packages, toys, and other items of unknown origin or nature. Suddenly, without prior invitation or permission, either express or implied, the Vehicle arrived at the House, and Claus entered said House via the chimney.

Said Claus was clad in a red fur suit, which was partially covered with residue from the chimney, and he carried a large sack containing a portion of the aforementioned
packages, toys, and other unknown items. He was smoking what appeared to be tobacco in a small pipe in blatant violation of local ordinances and health regulations.

Claus did not speak, but immediately began to fill the stockings of the minor children, which hung adjacent to the chimney, with toys and other small gifts. (Said items did not, however, constitute "gifts" to said minor pursuant to the applicable provisions of the U.S. Tax Code.)

Upon completion of such task, Claus touched the side of his nose and flew, rose, and/or ascended up the chimney of the House to the roof where the Vehicle and Deer waited and/or
served as "lookouts." Claus immediately departed for an unknown destination.

However, prior to the departure of the Vehicle, Deer, and Claus from said House, the party of the first part did hear Claus state and/or exclaim: "Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!" Or words to that effect.

p.s. This is my 100th post, y'all! Let's party like Britney at the Four Seasons!

Too Busy to Poop

I miss all youse guys so so much and I miss posting - specially cuz I been wanting to post lots lately, but I'm just too busy to poop!!!!

So to whet yer lil appetites, here's a funny lolcat photo. Merry Christmas!


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Oh yeah?

If Christmas is a feeling in your heart, then my heart is a shriveled lump of black coal.

Now I Have A Belly-Ache

This is funny because this is my life. Times 4. Animals that is.

Did I say 4? He, he, he... that's weird. I meant 3. Seriously. I meant... 3.

Bah, Humbug!

Thank you, Uncle Ed!!

A Christmas Story for people having a bad day:

When four of Santa's elves got sick, the trainee elves did not
produce toys as fast as the regular ones, and Santa began to
feel the Pre-Christmas pressure.

Then Mrs. Claus told Santa her Mother was coming to visit, which
stressed Santa even more.

When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of
them were about to give birth and two others had jumped the
fence and were out, Heaven knows where.

Then when he began to load the sleigh, one of the floorboards
cracked, the toy bag fell to the ground and all the toys were
scattered.

Frustrated, Santa went in the house for a cup of apple cider
and a shot of rum. When he went to the cupboard, he discovered
the elves had drank all the cider and hidden the liquor. In his
frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider jug, and it
broke into hundreds of little glass pieces all over the kitchen
floor. He went to get the broom and found the mice had eaten
all the straw off the end of the broom.

Just then the doorbell rang, and irritated Santa marched to the
door, yanked it open, and there stood a little angel with a
great big Christmas tree.

The angel said very cheerfully, "Merry Christmas, Santa - isn't
this a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where do
you want me to stick it?"

And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the
Christmas tree.

Thrilling

This thrills my little blackened heart. I didn't know it existed until just now! How do I miss these things???

Little Sister

I have been a bad little sister. I have not stayed in touch with my siblings. That fact became blaringly clear yesterday when I was absent mindedly messing around on You Tube and I discovered this video.

Holy. Crap. I have no words. My big brother Frost is.... whoa. I mean.... dude. I can't even talk. The video - the song - the .... everything. I was crying. My hands were shaking. I can't believe this was made and I had no idea. See? If I kept in touch better than I'd have known. I'm a naughty girl.

Anyway.... I hope you enjoy this stunning music video by The Bangkok Five. And the Exquisite new song, too. (Doesn't my big brother Frost have the the most beautiful voice ever?) Album drops in Spring 2008. I AM SO EXCITED I CAN BARELY BREATHE.

I just fell

In love with this musician. Thank you, Girl-Who-Doesn't-Wear-Underpants-To-Auditions.

Listen to 'I'm Yours'. Also, check him out here and here.

We likes. We loves.

In case....

.....anyone was wondering what to get me for Christmas........

I mean, it totally takes you back to your childhood, right? It would just be soooo cozy.... sigh.

Click here, silly! To see what I'm talking about!

I wish I was him.

I am SO freaking jealous of this little boy. You have NO idea.

Then I made these!!!

These are dedicated to Thupancic, Dark_Osprey, Sebastian Budderhor (sp?) and Scotty Fergusen.

I made this!

Dedicated to my big brothers.

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I miss youse guys. Kinda. ;-)

Stupid Stuff Makes Me Happy

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www.icanhascheezburger.com

One Is The Loneliest Number

Poompy has been working for the last 11 days straight and we had to cancel our Pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving Party that I've so been looking forward to. It's horrid. 

On the flip side - without Poompy around I pretty much stop eating. Today I bought my Very First pair of size 1 jeans. I look totally hot in them.

I might be lonely, but at least I'm skinny.

This might ruin your day.

This made me cry. Really. Just Awful.

Didn't their mothers teach them manners?

I was on the C heading uptown today and the assface sitting across from me kept sneezing and coughing, really loudly, which, you know, fine, he's got a cold, but what's his excuse for not covering his mouth? For coughing and sneezing and spraying his saliva all over the people around him? Was he raised by cows? Cows don't have hands, they can't cover the mouths. PEOPLE DON'T HAVE THAT EXCUSE. Even though it felt like he was intentionally spreading his germs, I would have look passed it had he not also been hocking up loogies onto the floor of the train after every third cough.

This afternoon a woman came into the spa and stood at my desk, leaning over me, and started coughing all over me. She also did not put her hand over her mouth, but let her mucousy spittle spray all over my face and neck. I jumped backwards to get away from her and she screeched out in her old-lady-probably-been-smoking-for-50-years voice, "Oh, don't worry sweetheart. I don't have a cold. That's just a tickle in my throat." Then she proceeded to cough all over me some more.

THIS WOULD NEVER HAPPEN IN LOS ANGELES.

Dopey, This One's For You

For Georges

Got this from Sibley and am posting it here specifically for Georges' enjoyment. Click here. So he can keep his dirty monitor clean.

UPDATE:
For some reason that link no longer works. But it's not because I posted it wrong. Seriously. It's like, the websites fault, or something. So here is something NEW to make up for the fact that Georges' special post is defunked.



2nd UPDATE: SIBLEY!!!!!!! I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU ARE MOVING!!!!!!!!!!!! Why do you like to make girls cry?

People Are Gross

I just watched a perfectly normal looking woman, well-dressed and attractive, with a beautiful toddler in a Burberry pram, do The. Grossest. Thing. Ever. They were in the deli and the little toddler, a boy, told his mother that he was hungry. In her lovely English accent she asked him if he'd like a nice big green apple. He clapped his hands enthusiastically. She chose a round, shiny green apple from the apple bin and then said, "But wait, darling, Mummy has to wash the apple first," Then she proceeded to lick her palm and smear her saliva-coated palm all over the apple, then wipe the apple on the seat of her pants. Then she licked her palm again and repeated the whole procedure seven more times. Then she handed the apple to her baby and cheerfully said, "All clean now!" and she watched, smiling, as he took a nice big bite.

*gag*

Happy (Almost) Halloween

Do you love re-cut trailors as much as I do?? Well check out these:



This one is my favorite - I'd be way too scared to go see it.

Sans Underpants

I recently found out that one of my friends goes to auditions without her underpants.

I don't know about you, but when I think of a girl who doesn't wear underpants, I think of Britney Spears. I mean, come on. A lady doesn't not wear underpants. Right?

That being said, I want you to know that this friend of mine happens to be one of the most lady-like women I've met in a very long time. This girl is highly educated, has an IQ of 160; she's beautiful, poised, classy and demure; she's a gifted artist with a strong work ethic and more integrity in her little finger than most people manage in a lifetime. Seeing as how I have always turned my nose up at the kind of girls who would run around without panties on, when she told me she sometimes doesn't wear them, I responded by gasping and crying out in horror, "WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU??"

"Panty lines." she said, matter-of-factly. "Panty lines and, well, it's very freeing. You should try it some time."

And so I did. One week later. Trust me, I hadn't planned on not wearing underpants that day. It just happened. I was changing in the bathroom at the audition site and I had brought a pair of underpants that claim to not show panty lines but they totally lie because I could definitely see them under my little black dress and not only could I see them, but I could see where they were cutting into my butt and waist and it was not flattering. So I took them off. Just like that - just to try it out. And I couldn't deny that the dress definitely looked better without underpants. I walked out of the bathroom and looked around at the other actors. My heart was racing. Could they tell? Was it obvious? Am I trashy? Are people staring? But no one seemed to notice. No one even looked up at me. So I walked over to an empty seat and put my stuff down and goodness! Sitting became a whole new adventure. As did crossing my legs, standing up, walking. However, I was determined to give this a fair shot. My name was called, I walked into the audition room - Oh God are they staring at me? Can they tell? Are they gonna think horrible things about me? But everything seemed normal. I mean, I was unbelievably self-conscious but I sang really well because I wasn't thinking about singing. It turned out to actually be a pretty great audition.

Last week I tried it again. At my Marilyn Monroe audition. I wore The Dress Called Sin*. And Sin just, well, really the main reason I've never worn Sin is because underpants are so obvious and it always looks like The Dress Called Sin With Bad Panty Lines which is so not sinful. So I wore Sin and I skipped the underpants and it was kind of wonderful. Sin looked utterly sinful, I looked utterly gorgeous and I felt .... free. 

There are lessons to be learned here, kids:

1) Never judge a person by their decision to or not to wear underpants;
2) Underpants don't determine one's level of trashiness;
3) Not wearing underpants is kind of awesome.

(My mother is probably cringing right now. I don't blame her. But to that I say, "You should try it sometime!")

*Sin is this incredible red dress that is so clingy and so sexy and so completely H-O-T that it really, really should have some kind of license requirement. And you just can't, I mean, you really cannot wear anything under it because it is that clingy. It kind of looks like it's been painted on. I don't know what I was thinking when I bought it, which is why I've never worn it, but now that I can wear it without underpants and not feel trashy, well. Watch Out New York. And a special Thank You to my classy, gorgeous, poised, under-pants-free friend who taught me that it's OK to go without.

Overheard in New York

You must click here. Now.

Happy Monster

I thought it was time to give y'all a little Emotional Update. You'll be glad to know that things are a-changing. I mean, really. We knew that would happen, right? You knew it for sure. I knew it deep down, even though I acted like I didn't. But it's happening. Things are a-changing.

I'm feeling more and more at home in this city. More and more I am feeling like I did the right thing moving here - if anything simply because of the experiences I'm having. I mean, even if I were to give up theatre tomorrow (which, by the way, I would rather stick hot needles in my eyes than give up theatre) this would still have been and continue to be an incredible learning experience. Something changes when you leave your family. When you leave what's comfortable and familiar. I knew that would happen, but I didn't know to what extent. I feel as if I'm getting to know myself better because I have more freedom to be myself because I am not bound to what I think is expected of me. I am not playing the role that has been prescribed to me by the people from my past. Does that make sense? (Georgie, I know you understand this.) I mean, I'm still me. I'm still fucking shy, I'm still afraid of strangers, I'm still nervous and self-conscious. But I'm not as shy or as afraid or as nervous. I'm a little bit tougher, I'm a little more selfish, I think I'm beginning to develope that kind of stereotypical New York Fuck Off attitude. I take a little less shit from people. I stand up for myself a little more. And I'm a little desensitized.


I used to walk past homeless people on the street with wide-eyed wonderment - sometimes with fear, always with pity. Now I walk past them and don't even blink. I used to feel terrible if I walked by a panhandler without giving them money. Now they ask for money and I bite my lip so I don't tell them to go get a job like the rest of us. I walked into a Starbucks yesterday to treat myself to a latte on my way to class (I never go to Starbucks, it's too expensive, so this really was a major treat and I was excited about it and in a huge hurry) and laying on the floor in front of the order counter was a man undergoing life-saving procedures by six EMT's. It was only at that moment that I noticed the ambulance and the fire truck parked in front of the Starbucks with flashing lights. I'd walked right next to them without noticing. And do you know what went through my head as I stood there, in front of this possibly dying person? "Damn it. This is the only Starbucks within 10 blocks!" And then I walked out and went to a deli. I was standing in line at the deli before I realized I hadn't even given a thought to the hurt human being lying on the floor of a Starbucks. Six months ago I would have been reduced to tears. I would have stopped and prayed. Now I'm just irritated that they disturbed my coffee run. That's maybe a little messed up, no?

And yet, in all honesty, I'm kind of relieved. I'm sick of carrying the weight of the pain of the world on my shoulders. That guy was being taken care of, there was nothing I could do about it, move on. Why get upset? In this constantly moving, bustling, whirling, over-whelming city, I've seen so many messed up things. A teenager with his head bashed in and blood running down his back. A young woman ODing on a subway platform, screaming incomprehensibly, fighting off the EMT's. A man bragging to a group of his friends, "Man, she told the cops I raped her! I didn't rape her. The bitch wanted it." I watched a man collapse on the street in the middle of on-coming traffic. But these things are nearly every day occurrences, certainly weekly occurrences, so they barely even touch me. It's like I turned something off - as if there was a little Empathy On/Off switch and I just flipped it off. I'm not proud of this - part of me thinks, "What kind of person have I become?" And part of me is just really relieved.

There are too many people in this city, too many personal tragedies on a daily basis, we are too exposed to one another in every moment. I cannot allow myself to be enveloped anymore. I just don't have the energy. I think that's part of why I was so miserable this summer - I was carrying around every sad thing, every mess, every tiny disaster I came across. Now I don't notice the shit and the stains and the stink and the tears and I'm happy. Maybe that makes me a monster, but at leat I'm a happy monster.

Did I Mention?

That I made my peace with the rain? Ever since the night of the magical thunderstorm.

It's raining today. It warms my heart. I want to curl up on my sofa with Poompy and the hellhound and the fuksticks* and drink spiced tea and eat fresh baked cookies. But alas, I have to earn an income instead.

*Fuksticks are small, fuzzy creatures that sleep on your couch all day long, leave copious amounts of fur wherever they go, urinate on your favorite rugs, and spend their nights meowling and screeching like banshees, while tearing around your apartment as if being chased by demons. Oh, and they are fond of jumping onto high shelves and using their strong, flexible forepaws and tails to knock off and oftentimes break picture frames, candlesticks and other various items you've carefully displayed and artfully arranged on said shelves.

I miss...

Georgie Peorgie Puddin and Pie
Kissed the girls and made them cry
When the boys came out to play
Georgie Peorgie kicked their asses, spit in their wounds and then humped all the girls' legs!

I miss you, Georges.

p.s. how's my punctuation and grammar?

Bitchen

Poompy set my bathrobe on fire. It's not really his fault, though. I mean, I was the one who hung it next to the stove.

Why would I hang my bathrobe next to the stove, you ask? Well, it's because of the bitchen. You know, the bathroom/kitchen combo. The bitchen. The only place I CAN hang my bathrobe is on the towel bar in between the stove and the toilet. And, well, the belt of my robe was draped over the stove, by accident, and... it caught fire when Poompy tried to boil some water for tea.

Luckily he noticed pretty quickly and managed to put it out before my bathrobe was completely ruined. Just one end of the belt was fried. The rest of it is ok. But I'm certainly not going to hang my bathrobe there again. From now, it will just have to stay in the ballway* next to the bedhole**.

______________________________________________
* Bedroom/hallway combo.
**the small space in our apartment designated for sleeping.

Birds Are Freaking AWESOME

Thanks to John Sibley - who, by the way, is linked to the right under 'For Your Entertainment'. He posts TONS of awesome stuff. We like him. So watch this video. The end is the best part.

Un-Freaking-Believable.

Thanks to John Sibley - when he posted this, the post title was 'Democracy In Action'. Seriously. I couldn't say it better.

I'm In Love

Thanks to George for introducing me to this brilliant comedian. I was DYING LAUGHING during this video I found today - because he perfectly describes my life. Up until the part when he starts talking about putting a foot in the tub - nothing after that really applies to me, but it's still hysterical.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers

Courtesy of the BBC:

Stowaway

When Tanya Andrews returned from a recent family holiday in Costa Rica, she had no idea she had brought back a gruesome souvenir.
A month later she developed an extremely painful lump on her head.

At first, she thought she had an abscess, but then it wriggled.

At the Hospital for Tropical Diseases they recognised the problem straight away - it was the living maggot larva of a botfly.

While Tanya was enjoying her holiday a mosquito had delivered a tiny botfly egg onto the surface of her scalp.

The egg hatched into a maggot and burrowed deep inside. Incredibly, this happens to thousands of people every year.

As we travel to ever more exotic holiday destinations, we are at the mercy of a whole range of bizarre parasites just waiting to colonise us.


Strange nosebleeds

Soon after travel writer, Broughton Coburn, returned from Nepal he began to experience regular, inexplicable nosebleeds.

They continued for three weeks until an embarrassing encounter in a teashop made him realise that something was seriously wrong.

As he was being served, the waiter took one look at him and fled in horror.

Broughton chased him down the street urging him to tell him what was wrong. But the boy would only point, wordlessly, at his nose.

Broughton returned home and sat in trepidation in front of a mirror.

His patience was rewarded when a brown worm-like creature emerged from his right nostril and looked around.

"I swear it had two beady eyes on it. And it came out two or three inches, looked around and then retracted. I thought it was a dream, a vision of some sort."

In shock, Broughton rushed off to his doctor who tried to remove the mysterious creature.

But it wasn't going to give up its home easily.

"He had this thing pulled out eight or ten inches and I'm looking at it cross-eyed down the end of my nose, and he's looking at it, he has a look of absolute horror on his face. And the thing came off. And there was this leech."

Broughton had been invaded by an aquatic leech. It made its move while he was drinking from a mountain stream.

These thirsty bloodsuckers can drink three times their bodyweight at each feed and inject an anaesthetic so their victim feels nothing.


Welcome visitor

As part of a University of Salford experiment to develop a diagnostic test for beef tapeworm, biologist Mike Leahy volunteered to grow this gruesome parasite inside his own gut.

Mike swallowed the immature tapeworm cyst with a glass of red wine and the worm started to grow at an initial rate of four centimetres a week.

Twelve weeks later he had to call a halt to the unusual experiment because he was getting married!

After a dose of anti-worm pill Mike passed out an intact tapeworm three metres long.

Disgusted? Well according to Dr Val Curtis, an expert on hygiene, this reaction is a natural survival mechanism.

"In the same way that you have an immune system which helps to protect you from parasites we also have a behavioural system.

"When you feel the emotion of disgust it is a driver of your behaviour to make you keep away from or drop the thing that might be about to make you sick."

And, it seems, we need all the protection we can get. Every living thing has at least one parasite and many creatures, including humans, have far more.

In fact, parasites make up the majority of species on Earth.


Bodysnatchers was transmitted on BBC One on Wednesday, 26 November, 2003.

Grow Yourself A Penis

I'm serious. Check it out. Mr. Bobbit would've LOVED this... though I hear he's doing all right now.

And I'm sorry.... but I couldn't help it. That article put me in a situation wherein there was nothing I could do except google "rabbit penis". And this is what I found:



I know. I have a problem. It's called 'Curiosity'.

And then THAT happened.

Well. It's been, um, a little while since I've posted. And my last post was pretty bleak, I know. But something kind of incredible happened as a result. There was this beautiful outpouring of love. And remarkably, not just from those of you who read my scribblings, either. I got phone calls from people I haven't heard from in months. People who don't even know I write this thing, so had no chance to read my self-loathing rant, but had called simply because I was on their mind. It made my little blackened heart grow red and warm and fuzzy again.

And once I started opening up, really speaking honestly to the people I care about, all my misery and anxiety started melting away. So I just want to say THANK YOU to George, 'cita, Dopey, Schmadam, 2-9, D, C, J and J for the phone calls and the incredibly sage advice and the reminder that not only am I not alone, but I'm actually lovable.

Also, thank you Poompy, for reminding me how important it is that I take care of my body - he encouraged me to start taking yoga classes again, something I love almost as much as my art, but that I had let slip away from me these last four months because of time and money. He helped me find an affordable studio just four blocks from our apartment and though it isn't my beloved Golden Bridge, it's pretty frickin cool. I wasn't 15 minutes into my first yoga class this week before I was suddenly falling in love with my body. And when I love my body - it's intricate workings, the strength of my limbs, the flexibility and suppleness of my muscles and tendons - I can't help but to begin to love all of me. Even the inside junk.

So. Nearly a month of gloominess is under my belt and I'm pretty ready to shake it off and start laughing again. But I would like to share some of the wonderful and wise advice I received while I was in the Pit of Despair last week.


From George:
"Its a good thing that you are miserable. that's half the reason you're in new york. consider that you didn't go to new york to be happy. you went to new york to be uncomfortable and to struggle and to claw and scratch and writhe around. all of this that you are going through right now is designed to put the fight in you, to make you stand up and scream and holler what you want and what you believe in. to stop being a pushover and start being a fucking hardened champion who earned every bit of everything you will get in your life. Without your struggle your future means nothing."

That made me cry - in a good way. Because I knew he is right.
Then he said:

"stop doing the same shit you always do it doesn't work. don't be the person who keeps pushing the red button and getting shocked and then pushes the red button again cause its all they know. start taking new approaches to your life and to your auditions and to the way you look at money and life etc. Think about the thing in your head that says "wouldn't it be crazy if I..." but then you decide not do to and go back to doing it the typical way. go into the next audition in a fucking clown suit and shoot ping pong balls out of your ass cause that's what you gotta do. doing the same thing you always do will get you the same thing you always got. and for the love of god, stop pretending to be perfect, its the fact that you aren't perfect, that you wake up sometimes hating the world and hating everyone that you know, that makes you human and makes you worthy of being loved."

That made me cry too. Again, in a good way. I am going to give George the BIGGEST hug the next time I see him.

Then, one of my beloved mentors sent the below quote in an email to all his former students and friends and it shocked me how perfect it was for my immediate situation...

ELIZABETH KUBLER-ROSS, 1926-2004:
"You will not grow if you sit in a beautiful flower
garden, but you will grow if you are sick, in pain,
experience losses, and if you do not put your head in
the sand, but take the pain and learn to accept it,
not as a curse or a punishment but as a gift to you
with a very, very specific purpose."

And from my sweetest Dopey, though I'm not sure who originally said it, can you tell me, Dopey?

"I am not my mistakes. I can't do this alone or pretend any more. The illusion of comfort in denial or sacrifice is no longer mine. There is no shame in my suffering - no healing in silent self-torment. It is here at the surreal crossroads of the "soul search" where dawning truth meets the anguish of overwhelming resistance in mind over matter that I can finally wake up, change my mind, let go of what no longer works or own my losses or choices. I am empowered by intense acknowledgment or epiphany and my virtue is gratitude or relief in recognition."

So. To each of you - Thank you for standing by me in what proved to be a very cold and dark hour. I LOVE YOU.

Welcome to New York, folks!

You should come visit. Really. Because cool things happen to people in my neighborhood. That's right, kids. My neighborhood.

Because I'm Not Scared Enough

This happened on the very train that I ride EVERY SINGLE day. Awesome.

Square

Last week I auditioned for the role of a 19 year old street-walker. When I originally saw the audition post, I thought to myself, "Hey! That's totally me! I'd make a great street-walker!" Because I thought a street-walker was just, you know, a hard-core rocker chick who's run away from home or something. I never ran away from home, but I did go through a hard-core rocker chick phase. Remember? I call it my Black Period. You don't remember? Come on, we all remember the days of the shaved head and spiked dog collar, right? Back when my wardrobe consisted exclusively of ripped fishnet and vinyl? Remember that? No? Well, here's a little photo reminder:

The night before the audition, Poompy informs me that a street-walker is not a hard-core rocker chick, but in fact, a prostitute. But since I've never been a prostitute, and have no interest in dressing like one, I decide to ignore him and stick with my original idea of what I think a street-walker is. You know, the kind of girl you'd see cadging change on 3rd St. Promenade (Santa Monica, CA, folks.) Besides, I think to myself, since I'm such a little rocker chick myself, it'll be easy to find an outfit!

The next morning, I'm getting ready for my audition and I'm feeling fairly confident* when I suddenly realize I have nothing to wear. Now, this is not the Nothing To Wear realization that comes after trying on 17 outfits before I stomp my foot and whine out for the world's pity, "I have nothing to weeeeeeeear!!!". This is the Nothing To Wear when I actually do not own anything appropriate for the event in question. I've managed to scrounge up an old vinyl mini-skirt, but the only fishnets I can find are brand-new and from Victoria's Secret and I am so not about to rip holes in them. I found a black t-shirt, but where on earth is my spiked dog collar? And the worst part? The girl who once owned thirteen pairs of heavy, steel-toe, rock and roll, motherf$#@ing Ass Kicking boots now owns none.

And it suddenly occurs to me. I've become a total square. I'm digging through my closet and there's nothing but dresses! And skirts! Gone are the ripped fishnets, the vinyl pants, the studded belts and home-made t-shirts with such witty phrases as "Fuck Bush" scrawled in sharpie across the front. I'm surrounded by pinks and floral patterns and gauzy, girly thingies. My shoes are all ballet flats. I have twenty pairs** of ballet flats and not a single pair of boots. And I'm suddenly horrified.

Since I obviously have no business doing so, I decide not to go to the audition after all.

Two minutes later I'm breathing normally again and pulling on my most tattered jeans (which actually aren't tattered at all), my red chuck taylors and my ratty old sweatshirt which, if you look closely, still reads "I'd rather be dead" across the front in faded Sharpie. I pull my (girly, shiny, blond) hair into a very messy ponytail and smear on a ton of black eyeliner and briefly consider painting my nails black before I decide I don't have time, and I'm out the door. I've decided it would be better to show up for the audition looking like a homeless teen runaway, than not go at all just because somewhere inside of me that little rocker chick has been buried beneath a pile of pink dresses.

Now, a couple of interesting things happen. On the one hand, there is a little voice in my head laughing at what a square I've become and telling me that 1) I have absolutely no right going to an audition for a 19 year old street-walker 2) I'm about to make a terrible fool of myself and 3) I am much better off auditioning for pretty blond girl-next-door types. On the other hand, I can't help but notice how damn comfortable I am walking down the street in my chucks and tattered hoodie, my eyes haloed in black. Not just that I'm comfortable, but that if feels really good to be wearing what I used to consider my "uniform". I expected this girl with the collection of pink dresses to feel like a poseur walking down the street dressed like a hooligan. But instead I just feel like myself.

When I arrive at the audition, it is clear that I stick out like a sore thumb. But not because I'm too square. Quite the opposite, actually. Every single other girl auditioning for the same role is wearing a pretty, flowy sundress with color-coordinated cork wedges. They've all got their hair perfectly coiffed and their makeup applied flawlessly. I look like a drowning puppy in comparison. I notice one girl who has made an attempt to dress for the role, but it's obvious she bought her outfit at Hot Topic the night before and she just looks ridiculous. I, on the other hand, look like a genuine homeless hooligan.

I take some comfort in the fact that, despite my apparent square-ish ways, I still managed to be the most genuine hard-ass chick at the audition. I suppose that's just it. It isn't the clothes that make us who we are. It's the way we feel in them. Or something. Fuck it. I don't know. I'm gonna go paint my nails black and put on some more eyeliner while I prance around in a dress and ballet flats. I might be a square, but I look damn good when I wear too much eyeliner.

*I haven't been able to bring myself to go to an audition since I didn't get that last job. Remember? I've been in sort of a grieving period and I've been too depressed to go out. PLEASE refrain from lecturing me on how I'm only hurting myself and I'm being self-defeating and blah blah blah. Trust me, I've been lecturing myself enough for all of us. But hey! I scraped myself together for one audition last week! And I didn't bare my ass to the playwright or trip and fall on my face, so Rock and Roll, right?.

**Serious exaggeration.

The Age of Aquarius

My mama sent me my LAWeekly horoscope for this week. It's so fabulous that I wanted to make sure to remember it and I figured the best way to remember it would be to post it in my blog. So here it is:

'You may already sense that you're headed for an artistic breakthrough. Thank energetic Mars in your Gemini house of recreation and creative risk-taking for sending supportive vibes to inspirational, impressionable Neptune in your sign. During this particular trine aspect, the first in two years, you might discover that envisioning your goal can really help you achieve it. I'm not suggesting you daydream the hours away, simply that you work out the steps that'll take you where you want to be.'

Rock and Roll.

It's Not the Rejection... Or Is It?

Going out for a job you really want, in my case an acting job, is a little like dating.

Two weeks ago this past Monday, I went on an audition for this off-Broadway play. It was kind of a throw-away audition, in that I was going because I had some spare time that afternoon, and I'd already had another audition that morning. I didn't know anything about the show and I wasn't sure if I was going to get in to the audition or not because I didn't even get there until nearly 3 p.m., but I figured I'd give it a shot and if I couldn't get in, I'd just go shopping or something instead. I mean, I was going to be right in Union Square and I had an hour to kill until my voice lesson, so I might at least window shop, right? But there was room on the appointment list so I put my name down. They were asking for a brief comedic contemporary monologue and despite the fact that a very-important-casting-director-whom-I-really-respect has told me that my comedic contemporary monologue is a piece of crap, I haven't found anything else I like better yet, so I was just going to do that. The monitor calls my name, I go in and introduce myself and trip and fall face first on the stage. I stand up, laughing, and ask them (the director and casting director) if they want me to stand on the stage or maybe fall over again. They laugh and tell me to stand center stage. I do my little monologue, they laugh during it, thank me and I leave. I don't even think about it again.

It's like the first date with someone your best friend set you up with. You don't really have any expectations. You aren't interested or disinterested. You're pretty much just looking forward to going home and curling up with your cat. "Did it go well?" your best friend is dying to know the next day. "Uh.....sure... yeah, it was fine..." you haven't really thought about it much. I mean, it was only dinner, right?

Two days later, the phone rings and it's a number you don't recognize. And it's him. The blind date. He wants to take you out again. And suddenly, perhaps just because someone is finally showing interest, you are jumping up and down on Oprah's couch, shrieking with excitement.

Tuesday afternoon, my phone rang. I'd just gotten home from two disheartening auditions. I was feeling sad and depressed and under-appreciated by the New York World of Theatre. "Hello?"
"Hello, Frost?"
"Yes?"
"This is Name-Changed from Name-Changed-For-Privacy-Purposes Casting. You auditioned for me yesterday -"

My heart literally leaps into my throat and I look over at Poompy, eyes wide, and start waving my hands frantically, gesturing for a pen or something to write with. I start mouthing "CASTING DIRECTOR" and he trips over his own feet trying to get me a pen.

"Anyway, we really loved you and we'd like to see you tomorrow for a call back. Can I email you the script?"

Deep breath - I'm hyperventilating at this point so I have got to take a deep breath before I start talking. 

"Sure! That'd be great!" I am impressed with myself for sounding so calm and relaxed. We exchange info. I check my email and The Script has arrived. I spend the rest of the afternoon reading the script and falling madly in love with it. I memorize my sides. I disect them. I study them. I work on them all night. I am perfect for this role. I am the only girl for this role. I have already been cast in this role because I am meant to play this role, I tell myself. I spend hours chanting, over and over to myself, every positive thing I can think of. Poompy gets up with me the next morning at 8 a.m. and helps me run lines, gives me notes, discusses character choices. He makes me coffee and breakfast, he walks me to the subway train. I'm a half hour early to the audition. I'm calm and collected. They call my name. I walk in. The minute the director sees me, his entire face lights up. I do my audition and I FUCKING NAIL IT. I AM AMAZING. The director hugs me afterwards. "YOU ARE SO WONDERFUL!" he gushes. The casting director, who up until that point has been totally blase, stands up to shake my hand. 

"Are you in NYC permanently?" He asks.
"Yes... of course. Why do you ask?"
"818" he replies.
"OH! Yeah, I haven't lived here long and haven't changed my number yet.* But I am definitely here permanently." I reply.
"Good," says the casting director who casts for BROADWAY, by the way, "Because you are really wonderful."

I leave the audition walking about four feet above ground. As blissful as a girl who's just been kissed by her dream guy on the second date.

For the next 24 hours I'm checking my phone compulsively. Every time it rings, my stomach turns over. Will he call? Will he call? Why hasn't he called? When's he gonna call? It went so well, he should call, damn it!

About 4 p.m. the next day he calls. "Frosty! Hi! It's Name-Changed... listen..... we'd like to see you again...."

I take down all the info, unbelievable because my hands are shaking so much. I call Poompy and it's all I can do not to start screaming. I'm at work so I have to keep it together. But if I was at home I'd be leaping around crying with joy.

I read the play three more times that weekend. I study the new sides. I memorize them. I work on other scenes from the play because I think it will help deepen my character. I research stuff I don't understand. I work my ass off. I feel, for the first time in over a year, like an Artist. 

The second call back is Monday. (A little over one week ago.) Poompy gets up with me again, we have the same sort of morning we had for the first call back. I'm superstitious so I want to try to duplicate the morning as much as possible. But I'm ready. I'm ready to nail it.

I show up, again half hour early, totally prepared, calm, thrilled. The guy that has been called back for the role of my brother actually looks like me. I am thinking this to myself when the woman whose been called back for the role of the maid says to us, "You two really look like brother and sister!" I so have this job.

They call my name. I walk in. The director's face lights up again. He introduces me to the writer who is also starring in the show, and the producers. We do the scene we did last time, I totally nail it, they are laughing in all the right places, I feel great. We do the new scene. I did it exactly the way I'd worked on it. I am feeling really good. When I finish.... nothing. They smile, thank me, that's it. Over. I leave.

That was nine days ago. No calls. Nothing. I thought they liked me? Is it because I didn't perfectly duplicate my morning ritual? Did I somehow sabatoge myself? Is it because I spent too much time working on the script as a whole, and not working on the actual scene? I had made some pretty strong character choices - maybe they didn't like the choices I made? But then, why didn't they ask me to do it a different way? Did they just decide to go with someone who has a "name"? Is it because I've never worked in NYC before? Did they think I looked too old? Couldn't they at least call me and tell me why I wasn't good enough?

It's like when the dream guy never calls again after the third date. And you spend days analyzing what it is you must've done wrong.

It'll happen one day. I found my dream guy, right? I'll get the job, too.

*I'm going to be changing my phone number, shortly after Sept. 7. I can't do it before Sept. 7 because... well.... WHAT IF THEY CALL???

The Sweatshirt.

I have this sweatshirt. I bought it at the Salvation Army in 2002, while I was in college. I think it cost $3.00. I bought it to cover up my body, because I was a little bit chubby at the time and I was ashamed. It's dark heather grey, a pull-over with a hood and a pocket in the front, the kind you can put both your hands in at once. A kangaroo pocket. I called it my "fat shirt". It's big and baggy and I wore it religiously, every day, no matter the weather, because I thought no one could tell how fat I was underneath it.

Shortly after I bought it, because I thought it would be funny, I wrote "I'd rather be dead" on the front of it in very small letters with a black sharpie. It caused a huge controversy at school that led to one of my teachers calling me on a nightly basis to make sure I was alright, as well as practically mandatory counseling sessions with the school counselor. (All right, to be perfectly honest, it wasn't just the sweatshirt that caused this. It was also because when asked what I was grateful for in a class exercise one day, I said I was grateful that "suicide is always an option" but I was only trying to fuck with my classmates, whom I loathed. It worked. A little too well.)

"I'd rather be dead" has faded now so that one can hardly read it. Some time ago I ripped holes in the cuffs so I could hook my thumbs through, almost like the sweatshirts sleeves turn into little mittens at the end. Fingerless mittens. There are bleach stains all down the left sleeve, from the time Jackson caught Parvo and we had to bleach the whole house. The pocket is torn on the right side, it's ripped halfway off, but I don't care. In fact, all the seems are frayed and pulled apart. There are holes in several places too, but I barely notice them. It's my favorite sweatshirt. Still. Even though it is no longer necessary to hide underneath it, it still feels like the coziest thing in the world to pull it on. It's not even soft anymore. It's been washed so many times the inside of it is scratchy. But I don't care. I ignore that. If I was a teenager, my mother would beg me to throw it out, but I would refuse. If I was a dude, my girlfriend would beg me to throw it out, but I would refuse. I'm certain that the only reason Poompy hasn't asked me to toss it is because he has a t-shirt that is in similar condition, which he wears almost as often as I wear my sweatshirt. It's long since lost it's aesthetic appeal, but I love it still. It's just so comforting. It's like slipping on an old friend.

But I wonder.... what is it exactly that I'm holding on to? I own several other sweatshirts, all much nicer, softer, very comfy. It certainly doesn't look cool or fashionable or even cute. It looks like a fucking disaster. But I wear it anyway.

How often do we find ourselves holding on to things that we don't really need? What about relationships? How often do we stay in friendships that we don't really belong in anymore? Do I hold on to things and people that I should really let go of? Is it possible to grow out of a friendship, but fail to be aware of it? The way I've grown past this grimy old sweatshirt, but refuse to part with it? What do you do when the only thing holding you together is a hidden stash of dusty old memories?

What do you do when you suddenly realize that someone you've grown up with isn't who you thought they were? Or you realize that you are no longer who they think you are? And for the first time, you notice all the little ways they have boxed you in, refused to see you changing, refused to believe that you may not be the child you once were. All of a sudden it's glaringly clear that this person's expectations of you are so low, it's actually insulting? How do you continue in a friendship with someone who absolutely cannot see past the past?

At least I still feel comfortable and safe in the sweatshirt. In the friendship, I just feel trapped.

Sigh.

Sometimes I just want to start over.

F#$k Irony

The casting call for one of my auditions next week states that the casting director is looking for:

"Versatile actors with great comedic chops and a strong sense of irony."

I am most certainly versatile. I'm a freaking chameleon. And I definitely have great comedic chops. I mean, you all know I'm like, one of the funniest people ever. Right? Totally. I mean, just read any one of those blogs I post after I've had a bad day where I write 8,796 overly-emotional words on how miserable I am and how sad my pathetic little life is. That's some seriously funny shit, right? But as for a strong sense of irony. Well. I don't even know the definition of irony.*

So I ask Poompy.

"What is irony? I mean, I know that it's not 'ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife,' even though that's what Alanis Morisette said. And I know it isn't 'meeting the man of your dreams and then meeting his beautiful wife,' either. Because after she came out with that song everybody ripped her apart for calling things ironic when they really weren't. So what is it?"

Poompy pauses. 

"Well...." he begins, "it's difficult to explain. It's better if I give you an example..." another long pause.

"Is it like, when the guy who's always been too afraid to fly but finally gets on a plane for his first time ever and kisses his wife and kids goodbye and then the plane crashes and he dies?" I ask.

"No, that just sucks. It'd be more like if he got on the plane and then had a heart attack and died. But the plane landed safely." is his reply.

I'm not satisfied. So I pull out my trusty dictionary and read aloud to Poompy:

Ironic:
1. the use of words to convey a meaning that is opposite of it's literal meaning;

2. Literature.
a. a technique of indicating, as through character or plot development, an intention or attitude, opposite to that which is actually or ostensibly stated.

b. (esp. in contemporary writing) a manner of organizing a work so as to give full expression to contradictory or complementary impulses, attitudes, etc., esp. as a means of indicating detachment from a subject, theme, or emotion.

3. an outcome of events contrary to what was, or might have been, expected.

4. the incongruity of this.

5. an objectively sardonic style of speech or writing.

6. an objectively or humorously sardonic utterance, disposition, quality, etc.

"Right!" Poompy is excited. "Totally. It'd be like if I met this great girl and we fell in love and got engaged and showed up for our wedding day - "
"And it rained???" I gasp.
"No, that would just suck," Poompy says, aggrieved. "If we showed up for our wedding day and the girl's ex-boyfriend was there and she locked eyes with him and married him that day, instead," Thoughtful pause. "No. No, that actually isn't ironic either,"

We sit in silence for a moment. Then Poompy tries again.

"If I told you that you are really ugly, that would be ironic. Because you aren't ugly."
"So, then, it's like sarcasm?"
"No. It's different. It's ironic when you say the opposite of what you mean."
"Isn't that sarcasm?"
"No....," he sighs. "OK. If a person went in to have surgery on a massive brain tumor and the doctor's weren't sure if the person would survive the tumor, but they did, and then a week later they died of a heart attack,"
"Oh, OK. So, as long as there is a heart attack involved, then it's irony?"

Poompy just stares at me.

"If I told you you were a bad actor, it would be ironic." He tries again.
"That would just be mean," I say. I am exasperated now.
"No, it would be irony."
"It would be mean."
HUGE sigh. "Ok, so.... if a guy was afraid to drive because he'd recently had a bad car accident, but then he decided to drive one day but he had a heart attack behind the wheel and crashed."
"So then it does have to do with heart attacks!" I am triumphant.
"No.... fine. He doesn't have a heart attack, he has a stroke."
"Um.... is this why I've known a lot of people who have secretly confessed to me that they don't understand what 'irony' means?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you obviously can't explain irony, and no one else can either."
"I've been explaining it, for nearly the last hour! You just don't understand!"
"I understand Perfectly. I understand that you can't tell me what it is to be ironic!"
"I'm done talking to you."
"No, I'm done talking to you! Hmph!"

And with that, we cross our arms over our chests and sit there in frustrated silence.

A few icy moments pass. And then, from Poompy, "You wanna order pizza?"
"Totally!"

And with that, the subject of irony was forgotten completely. Until this morning. When I woke up and realized I still hadn't figured out what irony is.

So..... I ask you this: Is it, or isn't it ironic that, try as we might, neither of us could truly define irony? I think it is. Of course, I may be wrong. After all, there were no heart attacks involved.

*I can just hear some of you now: "She doesn't know what irony is?" laughs condescendingly, "that's unbelievable. Everyone knows what irony is," And to those people I say, "Then Give Me A Decent Example of it, Jerkface!"

People Watching

I like to watch people.

I think everyone likes to watch other people, but for some reason it feels really taboo. Doesn't it? I mean, everyone likes to do it, but we're all terribly afraid of getting caught.*

I've gotten very good at staring at people discreetly. On the subway, I watch people by staring at the windows of the subway train and watching their reflections. I know. Super clever. The rest of the time I just watch out of the corner of my eye or I pretend I'm reading something but really I'm staring at someones feet and listening in on their conversation. That's the best. Listening in on people's conversations.

Last Sunday morning (afternoon) Poompy and I had brunch at this diner that claims to be The Best Diner in Manhattan, but actually isn't. We were all ready to have a wonderful, relaxing, leisurely brunch. Our first brunch in nearly two months. We settled in, ordered coffee (warm pond water) and were happily engrossed in a gushy young-lover-esque conversation that was going something like, "I love you!" "No, I love you!" "Well, I love you More." "That's impossible, silly face! I love YOU more!" when three people and a baby stroller entered the diner and were seated at the table next to ours. We didn't really think anything of it at first. I mean, I really only noticed them because of the baby stroller.** They were a mama and papa, probably in their early thirties, with a tiny sleeping infant in the stroller, and a girl who might have been the mama's little sister. She looked kind of like the mama and she was probably only about 20. At least I hope she was 20. If she was any older than that, she ought to be sent to Mars. And not because she was really smart and insightful and you know, capable of creating a new world on Mars or anything. But because she was so awful and stupid and obnoxious that she shouldn't exist on earth at all. Except saying she shouldn't exist is mean, so I am saying she should be sent to Mars. At least if she was only 20 I could chalk up her behavior to youthful ignorance. But if she was older than 20, someone needs to go. And by "go", I mean "away". And by "away" I mean, "put to a slow and painful death". Oh. Did I just say that? Total type-o. I meant, "sent to Mars". But I digress.

This girl was so awful she made me want to stick my fork in my eye. What could possibly have been so bad about her? you ask. Well. For starters. Her voice. Imagine the sound of a thin sheet of metal being bent in half. Add a half a cup of 78 chickens in a hen yard, a tablespoon of screeching tires, and a dash of fingernails on a chalk board. Oh, and turn the volume up as loud as it will go. That's what her voice sounded like. And she completely dominated the conversation at the table. She dominated the conversation at her table and my table. She was the only one of the three adults at her table who said a single word during their entire meal. Even Poompy and I couldn't talk over her. And she didn't shut up once. Here's an idea of what we got to listen to during our relaxing brunch:

"....so, he's really cute and everything, but I just don't think he makes enough money. I mean, he drives a Jag, but it's like, from like, 2003. The guy I went out with last week hadda '07 BMW and it was nice an' everything, but like, I really wanna go out with someone who like, drives a Bentley. I mean, that would just be the best. Cuz I look really pretty in a Bentley. And besides, like, he only spent about $100 on the dinner and then he wouldn't even buy me - oh I forgot this part. I saw these really cute Manolo Blahnik's when we were walking to dinner - can you believe he wanted to walk? I totally can't stand people who walk. Like, what losers. Anyway, so I saw these Manolo's and I was like, 'oooh, they're so cute! You should totally get these for me!' and he was just like, 'we should get to the restaurant so we're not late for our reservations,' or something. And I was like, 'just let me try 'em on, we can cab it to the restaurant,' and he was all, 'we should really get going,' or something. I was soooo mad. I totally deserve a new pair of Monolo's. I work so hard! I have to have a man who will recognize how hard I work and buy me Monolo's. I mean, can you believe he wouldn't even let me try them on???"

At this point, the baby in the stroller wakes up and starts whimpering. The girl pauses, with a disgusted look on her face, leans into the stroller and:

"Awwwwww! Why is he so sad? Why are you sho shad widdle baby? Are you teeving?" To the mama, "I bet he's teething. Have you ever gotten him a teething ring? Do you know what a teething ring is? My friend's aunt had a baby and she got him a teething ring because he was crying. I think it like, hurts them or something. And like, having something to put in their mouths makes them feel better, or something. You should totally get him a teething ring! Maybe after this, we can go shopping and I'll buy him a teething ring! He would look so cute with a teething ring! You have to make sure you keep it in the freezer. I don't know why, but it's like, because they like cold things. Babies like cold things. It's really good for them. Especially in the summer. It's sooo hot outside! He should have like, lots of cold things. Do you ever give him bottles with like, cold water in them? I bet he'd really like sparkling water! If I had a baby, I would only let him drink Perrier. Because that's like, the best water. Perrier and Evian. I would totally give my baby Evian. Oooh! Do you breast feed? That is SO gross. Are your boobs all saggy now? That is so nasty. I would totally never do that....."

And on. And on. And on. And on. Poompy and I watched in horrified wonder as the mama and the papa spent the entire meal staring at their plates, quietly eating, carefully restraining themselves from reaching across the table and punching her in the mouth.

You know, now that I think of it, when Poompy and I first sat down, there was this pleasant looking couple at the table across from ours. They got up and left pretty abruptly after we ordered our coffee. You don't think it had anything to do with the whole, "I love you," "No, I love you MORE," conversation do you? Because that's cute, right? People enjoy listening to that kind of thing, right? Don't they? Not so much?

*Except for those people who have absolutely no shame and choose to openly gape at me, despite the fact that they are clearly giving me the creeps. And I say "clearly" because they continue to stare at me even after I've given them a withering look and told them to fuck off.

Well, maybe by then they feel like they have a right to stare at me since I've just behaved like a crazy person and we all know that it's perfectly alright to stare at crazy people.

**When I see a baby stroller, or a baby for that matter, my uterus starts doing cartwheels. I can't help it. It's biology. I don't even really have to see the baby or the stroller. It's as if my uterus can sense there is a baby near before I even see it, let alone hear it. If the baby is crying, it's all over. When a baby cries my uterus practically crawls out of my body, trying to go lend comfort to the wailing infant.

Death to Cookies

I love my Poompy. I really believe I have the best Poompy in the entire world. This morning, my Poompy got up at 8:00 a.m. - on his day off, mind you - and followed me around the house while I got ready for my audition, to help me run lines. Then he packed me a lunch to take to work. Then he walked me to the subway station, carrying my ginormous bag the entire way, so that I wouldn't be tired and sweaty when I got to my audition. He actually offered to do that for me, that is how much he loves me. He's unbelievable. I'm unbelievably lucky.

However.

When he packed my lunch, he included a white-chocolate-chip-with-dried-cherries cookie that is the size of my head. Did I mention that the cookie was huge? I'm using the past tense here because.... well.... it no longer exists. Because I ate the entire thing. I want you to know that the cookie was only in our house because I was saving it for him. For Poompy. There had been two cookies - they were free with our first order from Fresh Direct* - and I had already eaten one of them. I saved the second one for Poompy but he thought it would be nice to put it in my lunch today and then I ate it. The whole damn thing. And now I feel like a beached whale and I'm blaming him.

I went to the gym this morning at 7 a.m. But alas, it was for naught. For now I have eaten The World's Largest Cookie. It's kind of like I didn't go to the gym at all. Except I did go to the gym. I just ruined it all by eating that detestable cookie.

Death to cookies.

*Fresh Direct is a gift from God. You order all your groceries online and then they bring the groceries to your apartment! They carry your groceries up your three flights of stairs! It's wonderful. Does this mean that Poompy and I are real New Yorkers now? Because we have our groceries delivered? Before you know it we'll be eating at Pastis on Wednesdays and swearing at Cabbies.

Wait. I swore at a Cabbie yesterday. He started turning right on my walking signal and nearly ran me over. "FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!" I screamed, "It's MY FUCKING RIGHT OF WAY, DICKWAD!" I guess I should go to Pastis tonight.

My First Tornado

Check it out - Poompy and I survived our first tornado! Actually, Poompy may have lived through other tornado's. I've never asked him. But this was definitely my first one!

A Scream in the Night.

When I first came to NYC I was absolutely certain that I'd be on the look-out for my life on a regular basis. I had heard endless stories about muggings and stabbings and all sorts of wonderful things. We've lived here for nearly six months now and I am surprised to say that I think it is the safest place I've ever called home. Which is why it was so shocking to be woken up at 12:30 a.m. to the sounds of a woman screaming absolute bloody murder. 

I had just begun to doze off when I heard what sounded like a dog or a small child screaming. It was quiet and far off at first. I strained my ears to determine if it was human or animal. It began to get louder and closer. The chiremlin's ears perked up and a low whine began in her throat. The screaming got louder and closer. About a minute had passed since I'd first noticed it - a constant, throbbing, high-pitched scream. 

Poompy sat up in bed and said, "What the fuck is that?" 

"I don't know. Is it a person?"
"I don't know. Where the fuck are my glasses?" We have filthy mouths.

I hand him his glasses but he's already out of bed. He's scrambling to put on his clothes. The screaming is much louder now. It sounds like it's coming from the courtyard below our apartment building. It's definitely human. A woman. Screaming. Not even stopping to breathe. Just screaming, endless screaming. A horrible, gut-wrenching, gurgling sound unlike anything I've ever heard before. I grab my cell phone. My hands are shaking. The dog is growling deep in her throat. I dial 9-1-1. The dispatcher answers.

"I think someone near my apartment building is being stabbed or something horrible - something horrible is happening - a woman has been screaming for about 2 1/2 minutes now. I don't know where she is - "

And suddenly the screams move. They are no longer coming from outside. They are coming from underneath me. They are in the hallway below my apartment.

"Oh my god! It's in my building!" I am too scared to try to stop the sob that is climbing out of my throat.

And then, before I can stop him, Poompy tears the phone out of my hand and he's out the door.

"DON'T GO OUT THERE!" I cry at him. But he's gone. He's in the hallway. Shirtless, shoeless, he's down the stairs. I throw on a robe and before I even tie it closed I'm in the hallway. I'm down the stairs. There's no way in hell I'm letting him go out there alone.

The screaming is moving down the hallway, it's on the first floor, it's out the front door. I can hear Poompy on the phone with the dispatcher, giving our address and cross-streets. Then he says, "I see her! She's... she's screaming and she's with a man, he's trying to quiet her down... no it looks like he's comforting her. I think... I think she's just drunk. The guy looks embarrassed - no, I don't know them. They're leaving. They're - they're walking away. They have their arms around each other and they're walking away. I think everything is OK."

And with that, the screaming fades away into the hot August night. And then, and only then, every door on the first floor opens and our neighbors poke their heads out and ask, "What's going on? Is everything OK? I was too scared to go out there, I thought someone was being murdered!" Our super comes up from out the basement shaking his head, it was just some friend of one of the guys who lives in the basement. She was drunk and threw a fit. It was nothing. Everything is fine. Go back to bed. Strange how a sound in the basement can seem to come from outdoors.

I checked my phone to see how long we were on with the 9-1-1 dispatcher. Nearly three minutes. I didn't call 9-1-1 until the screaming had gone on for nearly two minutes. That woman screamed like that for almost five minutes and we're supposed to believe that nothing was wrong? But she's gone now so what can we do?

Poompy and I go back upstairs and I immediately start in on him. I'm furious. 

"How could you have gone out there? What if someone was being stabbed? You could've gotten hurt! That was so stupid, how could you -" 

But he cuts me off with a look and the fire in his eyes tells me I had better shut up and he says, "If you were being attacked inside our apartment building and not a single person came out to help you -- yeah it's great if they sit in their apartment and call the police, the police would be there in minutes, but that's minutes more you'd be getting attacked without help -- if NO ONE tried to help you -" he's shaking his head and his eyes have filled with tears but he doesn't have to finish the sentence because I've already wrapped my arms around him. He's my hero. I tell him that. "You're my hero."

We crawl back into bed and I lay there thinking he's right. Not a single person in the entire building bothered to come out and see what was going on until they heard Poompy's voice in the hallway. Until they knew everything was OK. Poompy's the bravest man I know. And then I hear him chuckling to himself. 

"You're the bravest girl I know," he says, smiling.
"What?? ME? I begged you not to go out there! I was terrified!"
"Yeah, but you followed me out there. You ran out after me! If someone had been stabbing someone and they'd tried to hurt me, you'd have gladly jumped on their back and ripped out their eyeballs, wouldn't you?" He said it like he already knew the answer. It wasn't even a question.
"Well... yeah. I learned how to gouge out eyeballs in self-defense class in 8th grade. It's not like it's a big deal or anything." I'm grinning.
"It was stupid for me to go out there. I could've put you in danger."
"No way. You were right. If it was me in the hallway, if I was being attacked, I'd be forever grateful to the guy who was stupid enough to try and help me. You're a hero."
"You're my hero. You'd stop at nothing to protect me. You're like a lioness watching out for her cub."

"Does that make you my cub?" I'm really grinning now.

"I guess so. Lioness."

If I'm his lioness, he's my lion.

I love you, Lion. Forever and ever.

I won't whine about it anymore. I'm serious this time.

Last night I witnessed an unbelievable, completely insane, stunningly gorgeous summer-time thunder storm. I've never felt rain pounding the earth like this. I've never heard thunder so powerful. I've never seen so many lightening flashes, over and over and over again. Poompy and I spent a good portion of our night running up and down our street, twirling and whirling with our faces upturned to the furious storm. Laughing. We couldn't stop laughing. We'd gone outside to watch the lightening storm - we'd started out with umbrella's and a faint determination to be grown-ups and stay dry but within minutes both of our umbrella's had turned inside-out and collected pools of water in their tops. And by then we were soaked to the skin and we didn't care. It was lovely. Simply lovely. The air felt so cool and fresh. The thunder sounded like movie sound-effects. Lightening flashed six or seven times in a row before allowing the sky to grow dark again. It was absolutely magnificent. A gift from the heavens.

I am the unlicked cub.

Excerpt from Four Dogs and a Bone by John Patrick Shanley.

Bradley: I'm gonna tell you a little story.
Victor: Oh, please don't.
Bradley: Once there was a great big pregnant bear.
Victor: Are you really doing this?
Bradley: And after a painful labor, she gave birth to seven baby bears.
Victor: Seven.
Bradley: So she was very tired.
Victor: Sure.
Bradley: And she looked at her seven babies, and they were all gooey and slimy with afterbirth. And in that miraculous way that Nature has built the bear, she felt in her heart a tremendous welling up of material feeling.
Victor: Maternal feeling.
Bradley: Right. And this maternal feeling filled her with strength, so she licked and licked and licked her babies, one after the other, rendering them clean and fresh and beautiful. That is until she got to the seventh little bear. Right then, she ran out of gas, hadda seizure, and dropped dead. Muerto. And the six, well-tended little bears, with their beautiful brown coats, shed a tear, a tender tear, and bounded off into the woods. To have wonderful lives. And the seventh cub, the unlicked cub, went into show business.


I am not sure why, but somehow I am the unlicked cub. Not just because I chose to go into show business (well, let’s be honest here. I didn't really choose to go into show business. I mean I did, but seriously, my other option was an early death and since I seem to be some kind of a survivor or something, I chose show business) but because I am terribly self-defeating. It’s a daily struggle. Not to be self-defeating. It’s much easier to trash my self-worth than, you know, feel good about myself. (In case you haven't noticed) I've been really negative lately. That’s the unlicked cub in me. The good news is that I’m pretty aware of it, so I’m trying to counter the negative crap with some positive, flowery, butterflies-and-rainbows crap. Sometimes it works. Other times, not so much.

We all remember the miserably humiliating audition I had a week and a half ago. I was still so shaken up from that experience that I managed to completely sabotage my audition this past Monday. Let me take you back to Monday morning so you have an idea of how I treat myself. I got up that morning and I started to get ready for the audition. I ate a nice breakfast. I warmed up my voice. I took a shower. And then I looked in the mirror and I said, “You are so ugly. Your face is disgusting. What’s wrong with you? You’ll make a complete idiot of yourself if you go to that audition today. You’re pathetic. Moron. Idiot. You’re fat too. Just so you know. Ugly and fat. And disgusting.” Meet my inner-monster, Dip Shit. Dip Shit is the one with the vocabulary of a sixth-grader who says all those mean things to me whenever I look in the mirror. She isn't even creative about it. I hate her. But she managed to keep me in front of the mirror for over an hour, rambling on and on about what a disgusting, ugly, nasty, worthless-piece-of-human-flesh I am. By the time Poompy woke up, I was a tearful lump on the bedroom floor and I refused to go to my audition. Picture this: Poompy standing over me while I crouch on the bedroom floor crying that I can’t go to my audition because I’m too fat and ugly. Reading that as I type it, I see how ridiculous it sounds. But our words have a lot of power and I let myself ruin my day. However… an interesting thing was in the works. Is in the works.

I recently had a dream about Sandra Oh, who is an actress I have a lot of admiration for, where she sees me in a play and comes up to me afterwards to tell me that I, little old me, am her favorite actress, that she has all kinds of respect for me, and that I inspire her. And then she promises to always be in the audience for any performance I ever give, every time, ad infinitum. It was a truly fantastic dream. I tell my mom about it and then forget I ever had it. Then I get an email from Mamacita and she p.s.’s “What do you think that dream about Sandra Oh is about?” and I don’t answer her. But it gets me thinking.

Tuesday night Poompy met me at work to walk me home, just for fun. We decided to walk across and down through Central Park, even though it is longer, because it is so lovely. Walking through Central Park is heaven. It strips me of any sorrows or stresses or frustrations. We held hands like young lovers as we walked. We stopped at Turtle Pond and watched the turtles. We stopped at Bethesda fountain and sat beneath her and talked. We marveled at Cleopatra’s Needle. By the time we were back in Hell’s Kitchen I was totally relaxed and comfortable. So Poompy asked me what was going on and why did I sabotage my own audition the day before? I couldn’t answer. But I told him about my Sandra Oh dream. He asked me what Sandra Oh means to me and I told him he’s turning into my father. (My dad is wonderful at dissecting the meaning of dreams. But that’s always his first question when you tell him about a dream: What does [insert subject of dream here] mean to you?) Poompy ignored my smart-ass remark and reiterated his question.

When I think of Sandra Oh, I think of Dr. Christina Yang from Grey’s Anatomy. Dr. Yang is my favorite character on the show. She’s f-ing awesome. She’s a total hard-ass. She doesn’t let any personal crap get in her way, ever. Being a surgeon is her number one priority. Nothing gets in her way. Nothing. She fights tooth and nail to make sure she gets in on all the best surgeries, all the best cases. She’s a total Lion. She knows she’s a brilliant surgeon. She knows she’s the best intern at the hospital. She knows she’s got more talent in her little finger than 99% of the world’s best surgeons. And she’s not afraid to tell people exactly that. She’s all like, “Screw you! I’m the best surgeon in this hospital! Blah!” She’s not pompous or self-absorbed, she just knows these things about herself because they are true. And no one second guesses her because they know she’s right. She’s honest about everything, too. She’s not afraid to tell people Exactly What She Thinks. She doesn’t give a shit about what people think of her. She doesn’t cover up her feelings out of politeness. She doesn’t bend over backwards to please other people at her own expense. If she were auditioning for Broadway shows, she would not even think about letting an accompanist tell her to change her audition piece just as the audition was starting. I envy her. I envy everything about her. She’s my secret-fantasy of myself.

So I tell Poompy all of this. And he gets this very serious look on his face. And he says, “You know that Christina Yang is you. In the dream. Every one in your dream is you. So, there is a part of you that is just as strong and forward and honest and hard-assed and confident as Christina Yang. And that part of you came forward in your sub-conscious, while you were asleep, to tell you that she admires you. That she thinks you’re talented and wonderful. That you inspire her! The part of you that is Christina Yang has just promised you that she will never leave you. That you are so captivating that she must be present for every single one of your performances.”

It’s kind of thrilling to think that there is a part of me that is Dr. Christina Yang. And even more thrilling to think that that part of me actually admires the rest of me. So maybe there is a part of me that is a little monster, a nasty little monster with a tiny vocabulary and nothing nice to say. But if I know that there is also a part of me that is Dr. Christina Yang, I think I can survive this. I know I can survive this. I will survive this. I will survive. One day, all these little trials will make for some awesome chapters in my biography. I just have to remember that.

I think she might be a little near-sighted.

Poompy was walking the chiremlin through Central Park the other day when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, she starts to freak out. Growling, snarling, pulling at the leash, foaming at the mouth - she went from Sweet Mutt to Rabid Beast in under five seconds. Now, we are used to having to keep a tight rein on her when big dogs are near. She loves small dogs, but she always tries to start fights with bigger dogs. She's an instigator. But Poompy couldn't see a single dog anywhere. He couldn't figure out what she was so upset about until he noticed a life-size statue of a sled dog. He let go of her leash then and she raced at full speed toward the statue, shackles up, teeth bared, fierce as fierce could be. Just as she was about to sink her teeth into the bronze throat, she skidded to a stop and began sniffing the air. And then she walked away. As if nothing had happened.

And just for that, here are a couple of photo's of the little bitch looking particularly fiendish.

She's GOOFY

You'd never guess this is the same hellhound who's After Midnight photo I posted just a few days ago.... would you?

Ouch

Tonight was supposed to be the first meeting of the study/support group I'm starting for actors. I sent out the email invitations a week and a half ago. I invited all of the (12) actors I've met in this city, whose work/work ethic/character I admired. I invited them to each invite an actor friend whom they admired. I asked them all to bring a monologue they'd prepared, to share with the group. I have been looking forward to this for weeks. I had been looking forward to this for weeks before I even invited anyone. I even came up with the perfect name for the group - Actors Study and Support, or, A.S.S. It's perfect, right? Just imagine it. Wouldn't you like to be an A.S.S. member? 

All but four of the actors responded that they'd be in rehearsal or on vacation or otherwise unable to attend, but that they thought it was a great idea and wanted to participate in the future. Four people said they'd definitely be there. I was pretty thrilled. Four people is a pretty good start, I thought. Poompy and I went shopping on Tuesday and bought a beautiful baked brie and some lovely crackers to go with it, a gorgeous bunch of grapes, soybeans in-the-pod, cherries, soda and sparkling water. I raced home from work today and I baked chocolate chip cookies and brownies and made iced tea. Then I set everything out using all my lovely serving ware that I got as wedding gifts. And then I sat and waited. And waited. The meeting was to start at 8:00. I was ready at 7:30 in case anyone showed up early. But no one did. Finally, at about 8:15 I checked my email. Three of the four people emailed me after 2 p.m. today to tell me they couldn't make it. There was one more possible guest. I called her. I got her voice mail. About five minutes later she called back, very apologetic, she'd forgotten that it was tonight, she was at a bar with some friends, but she'll definitely be at the next one!

I feel like the nerdy girl in the movie whose mother throws her the beautiful Sweet 16 party, and then not a single guest shows up. I know, I know. I get my expectations all worked up over things that are beyond my control. But even still. I shouldn't have gone to so much trouble. Without being aware of what I was doing, I tried to turn this into a little party - a celebration of what it is to be an Actor in NYC. But no one else wanted to celebrate.

I guess the thing to remember is that at the end of the movie, the nerdy girl always gets her Dream Guy. So if this were a movie, and I was the nerdy girl, Broadway would be my Dream Guy. So fuck it. A.S.S. doesn't have to be important to you because no matter what, it will always be important to me. I love A.S.S. I can get A.S.S. all by myself. I don't need a group of people to get something important and meaningful out of A.S.S. I can do it alone.

One day, I'm going to be a Broadway Star and when I am winning my 7th Tony, you'll be telling your kids, "I used to know her! She invited me to be a part of her A.S.S. and I never showed up to the meetings......"

So there.

A.S.S. is for winners.