that katrina girl is a bitch.

if i could, i'd buy luxury hotel rooms for everyone
down there and put chocolates on all their pillows myself.

God and i don't talk that frequently. i mostly talk to my mom. she probably bakes her homemade french bread and whips up a batches of her cheese fondue for Him regularly, so i figure he's more inclined to listen to her than to whiny ol' me, but today is one those days when i just feel the need to talk to the Big Guy himself.

so, say a little prayer, send good vibes, warm fuzzies, whatever works for you to the people down in alabama, louisiana, and missisippi. they need all Love they can get. pronto.

and, if you're as frustrated as i am about not being able to do anything, but watch the devastation grow with every click of the channel changer, every refresh of the CNN web page, every turn of the radio dial....don't just sit there. click here and pick an organization to donate to. it's far more helpful and far less self-destructive than what i'm inclined to do when feeling so helpless and anxiety-ridden - devour the 6 leftover Hershey bars in my kitchen cabinet.

chocolate, apparently, is not prayer. 'tis a shame. could've saved the world by now.

sangria + s'mores upchuck, er...i mean, update.

my kinda man.

had another fundraiser for my show size ate on saturday nite out in the so-hip-it-hurts borough of w'burg, brooklyn. sangria + s'mores were served...devoured...slurped.

still recovering from mild sugar coma, but for those of you that have asked, the evening could certainly be deemed a success. why, thank you for asking, sweethearts.

no rain...

a nice cooling breeze on the back patio...

plenty of lovely peeps that make my heart buzzzzzzz with gratitude...(some i expected, some i didn't, and some i expected to show but didn't. but i'm over it....really...i am...i swear. sniff. sniff.)

crisp, refreshing red wine sangria with a confetti of apples and oranges be-boppin' around in your glass...gets you drunk without you knowing it...

shake yo' booty music from my pals benicio + the del toros...i love these men.

some slammin' original poetry from some amazing, brave women...

an abundance of hershey chocolate squares and marshmallows roasted over an open fire melted and shmooshed in between crunchy graham crackers...almost better than camp. not a single solitary kumbaya round was sung.

someone said i looked "clean and pretty." amazing what a little shampoo and body spray'll do for a girl. (oh, don't get excited. he's married and happy, dammit.)

i only discovered one red wine stain on my white blouse when i got home that night: a record evening. (gotta love the clorox bleach pen.)

and most importantly, we raised some moolah! yippee! now we can buy programs and toilet paper for the bathrooms.

tee hee hee.

see you in november! buy a ticket!

a conundrum

mom taught be how to beat down bread and by default how to beat down you, so please...keep the comments to yourself.

if one more ogling man comments on my body (as i am walking down the street, minding my own friggin' business) as being "strong,""muscular," or "big-boned like the German track star i used to date" i'm going to turn around and punch them in the face.

but then, i guess that would sorta prove their point.

fudge.

a much belated reading list

i have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.
jorge luis borges

a hundred years ago...actually, more like a month and a half ago, L. asked me to suggest some books:

in a recent post on here you said that you fill your time with things you love, rather than filling your mouth. this struck a chord with me. while i definitely agree with this, i have trouble putting it into practice. do you have any books that you recommend or resourced that help with emotional eating??

better late than never, i suppose. here's an abridged list (amazon only lets you list 25 - impossible!) of books and dvd's that aren't all necessarily geared towards dealing with emotional eating, but in one way or another make me feel good about me and my place in this world...without the nausea, guilt, and phlegmage that comes from devouring a pint of Ben + Jerry's Phish Food. score!

so, here you are, L. hope these help even just a little bit. click the link below.

books to feel better by...

here's a poem from hafiz's the gift, a book of sufi poems on my list:

YOU'RE IT

God
Disguised
As a myriad things and
Playing a game
Of tag

Has kissed you and said,
"You're it -

I mean, you're Really IT!"

Now
It does not matter
What you believe or feel

For something wonderful

Major-league Wonderful
Is someday going
To

Happen.

how can you not feel good after reading a poem like that? doesn't it just make you're heart buzz with anticipation?

i think hafiz and i would've had one helluva time together. he totally would've dug my red velvet cake.

so readers, tag you're it. add your suggestions. i'm always in the market for a good book, bluestocking that i am.

super aunt, or thinly veiled bragging

warning: annoying aunt bragging and pictures of children you don't know to follow.

really, people. i should be offended.

i mean, not even one suggestion for my super power character. okay, not true. ONE, from prissy/pissy missy. Self-Orgasmo was her suggestion which, while witty, is not precisely the kind of supernatural moniker i was hoping for. (i appreciate the attempt at verisimilitude the name suggests, but puh-leeez...i can't spend the entire party blushing.)

i should be offended. i mean, i know people are reading this bloody blog. why, i'm not so sure, but i know you guys are out there...reading, snickering, tsking.

anyway.

i should descend into an abyss of self-doubt:

do they really think i have no talents worthy of accessorizing with a cape?

do they think i am incapable of doing anything in "a single bound"? (they obviously haven't seen me man a xerox machine.)

all signs point to self-pity, self-phooey, self-pfffffft.

but i am not. i will not.

know why?

cuz...

i got a brand-spankin'-new, glorious nephew on friday morning at 3 am.













grant mitchell laskey

and i'll bet he'll think i'm super when i make him mac 'n' cheese 'n' franks someday and teach him how to cuss in french.

so there.

besides, my niece maddie has a far better idea for a costume than any of you could ever think of (see below). perhaps i can wear it around my calf.


















i love that she's not holding her stomach in.

probably not what anna wintour had in mind when she said red velvet was "back"

vogue editor-in-chief anna wintour
is hungry for a little red velvet lovin'...
or maybe she's just hungry.


take a peek inside my fake Coach duffle last friday before i left for my weekend getaway and you would have discovered an odd pairing:

a copy of the latest fall fashion issue of Vogue (numbering 600+ pages) and a box of Duncan Hines red velvet cake mix* nestled side-by-side.

oh, the irony of my dysfunction startles even me sometimes.

*yes. a mix. sue me. i couldn't travel with my entire baking impedimenta. besides, it's the frosting that counts. make that from scratch and you can fool the world! mwahahahahahaaaa!

it's a bird, it's a plane, it's...it's...(fill in the blank)!

a cape is what you make it.

my friend g. is throwing a super-powers party. now, it's not what you think. there won't be a bevy of supermen (although i do hope there's a slew of straight men in tights) or xena-the warrior princesses, or jem doppelgangers.

remember her?

jeeeem is truly outrageous, truly truly truly outrageous....ooohhhh, jem!

god, i loved her pink rock star hair.


i wonder if she wore contacts.
that eye makeup would be a bitch.

anyway...g is throwing this party and the rule is, you're supposed to come as your super-power. the super power you already have. for example, g. is planning on going as Metamorpho because she's blossomed from a bowl-cut, Jersey suburban nerd with glasses the size of tire rims to a successful, sexy textiles designer with choppy-chic hair, luminous skin and a passion for opera and Amaretto on the rocks. get it?

so, i'm thinking...what can i be?

my first thought was to go as The Self-Deprecator - a strong, beautiful, powerful woman capable of reducing herself to a sniveling, soundless sap with one word, one thought, one glance in the mirror at her chubby face or one look at her calloused, peeling feet.

her mantra? her battlecry?

I AM NOT ENOUGH. mwahahahahahahaha....waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!

she carries with her a pink-sequinned whip with which she self-flagellates when the words just aren't getting the job done and always, on hand, a pint of ice cream which always makes her feel worse after ingesting it.

no.

no.

no.

that sucks. besides, what cute boy is going to hit on The Self-Deprecator? that dried chocolate ice cream crust forming around her mouth like a bad case of cocoa-flavored ringworm is so...well...unattractive. and the eyes, swollen and red from constant weeping...shockingly...not a turn-on. yes, yes, yes - perhaps the well-known superdicks, The Says-I'll-Call-You-But-Won't-Asshole or The Co-dependent Poet Alcoholic will hit on me, but i'm not interested in them anymore. i've got my eye on the Christopher Reeve lookalike in the corner...who is he?

The Lover?

The Baker?

The I'll-Bring-You-Cappuccino-in-Bed-in-the-Morning-Man?

The I-Think-Renee-Zellweger-is-Too-Thin-and-You're-Just-Perfect-Here-Have-Another-Chocolate-Guy?

yeeeesssss...that's the one.

but what will i go as? this is a call for suggestions. name me. christen me. stitch me a metaphorical cape. funny. serious. clever. whatever. if i use your suggestion, you win a batch of homemade cookies, your choice. if i don't know you, i'll send them to you, if i do know you, i'll invite you over so we can share them. by then, superman and i will be dating, and i hear he makes one hell of a kryptonite cocktail.

how to take a compliment.

thank you.

and, if you can bear it, smile genuinely.

do not flinch. do not turn away. do not say nooooooo, no, no, no, no, no, noooooo, bat your eyelashes and hide behind your chantilly lace fan. do not react as if complimenter has just hurled a baker's dozen of rotten tomatoes at your face in rapid succession.

why is that so hard to do?

dunno.

but i'm workin' on it.

i think maybe if they change it to accepting a compliment as opposed to take. take seems so, well...er...greedy.

thank you.

and i'm smiling. really. i am.

ouch.

i (heart) surveys.

sucker for online surveys + quizzes? i am.

try this one.

quiz

it's amazing how accurate it is.

*har di har har. i don't care. i'll still fill out the surveys if you send them to me. i like thinking about what color Crayola crayon i'd be (kelly green) and when the last time i cried was (yesterday). so there.

and everywhere that margrocks went, a diet book was sure to follow.

i wonder if she has to pee.

as i was walking back from the post office on saturday, i happened to pass a thrift store that had a couple of tables outside the store, heaving with boxes of books.

Mecca!

Medina!

Mount Saint Michel!

i cannot, try though i might, pass by any BOOKS FOR SALE sign without stopping to rifle through them. even if it's just to run my fingers over their dusty spines. you never know when the Thrift Store Goddess will choose to sprinkle your noggin with a little luck and direct your fingers to the "right" bin, the "right" book.

and so She did on saturday, God bless her.

my fingers alighted upon this little Knox Gelatine Modern Gel-Cookery (eww) Silhouette Recipes (copyright 1960) pamphlet between a couple of dusty 'n' lusty romance novels. you know the cover art - inflated breasts pressed against inflated pecs, rippling hair flowing in the wind, lips moist with passion. her female body round and fecund, bursting with vitality, wild - uncontained, uninhibited. you get the feeling she may have just devoured a healthy slab of steak au poivre and a bowl of fresh peaches drowning in heavy cream and honey.

and then...this.

scary Silhouette lady. strapped in. contained. cinched waist. pursed lips. boobs lifted and sculpted to resemble torpedoes. and, of course, she's not smiling. how could she be? she lives off of a diet of tomato aspic and jellied meat salad. hurl. (jellos should not, as a rule, be savory. nothing that is shiny and wiggles should ever taste like chicken. i don't care what the ladies who lunch say.)

it includes recipes for Cucumber and Grapefruit Mold, Tuna Fish Mold, and the piece de resistance - Silhouette Salad which counts 1 (10 1/2 oz.) can condensed cream of chicken or mushroom soup as one of its ingredients. no wonder they lost weight. vomiting will do that. nowadays we call it bulimia.


feast your eyes upon silhouette salad - yummy to your tummy!

not unlike many of the diet books today, it promises:

Eating for FUN While Keeping the Waistline Trim

If you like good food, here are some secrets that make eating more fun --and also make weight-control far easier.

Modern Gel-Cookery Silhouette desserts salads and main dishes give you light, non-filling textures.

And fresh, real flavors.

They are good, wholesome eating.

Completely satisfying to the whole family.

i just found this little book fascinating...and alternately, nauseating. i guess we all know that there have been quick fix 'diet plans' since, what seems like, the beginning of time, but it was interesting to see how things have changed...and of course, how they haven't.

protein drink, anyone?

barf bag standing by.

As a hot drink: sprinkle 1 envelope Knox Unflavored
Gelatine on 1/4 cup cold water to soften, Add
1 bouillon cube and 3/4 cup boiling water. Stir
until gelatine and bouillon cube are thoroughly
dissolved.

growing old, ungracefully.

i went to the dermatologist yesterday for a little mole check up (you should go annually by the way. it's painless and it takes about 5 minutes max. plus...free samples!) i just wanted to make sure that the mole on my arse that is slowly beginning to resemble the girl on trucker mudflaps isn't cancerous. her breasts keep getting larger...

nope. all is well.

i figured while i was there, i'd ask dr. s. about my skin care regimen...you know...am i doing everything i can to prevent skin cancer and aging? what cleanser do you recommend? is it true that margaritas, when ingested daily, act as natural exfoliants, from the inside out? etcetera. he told me the skin on my face and body was "no great tragedy" (i'm sorry...is that a compliment? please advise.) then he gave the me the typical schpiel...

stay out of the sun. if you are not a vampire, and therefore can't/won't do that then wear big wide-brimmed hats a la camilla parker-bowles and loads of sunblock. i told him i prefer Barbie sunblock. "it goes on purple, slowly blends in, and it smells like grape kool-aid!"

he ignored me.

"the most important thing you can do is stay out of the sun. if you want to start using a cream, i can recommend something as well."

of course i want you to recommend something! i'm a product whore, dr. s. have you seen my bathroom cabinet? furnished by ikea and duane reade.

"there's an excellent new product called Expensive-as-All-Hell that clinical tests have shown, in addition to preventing sun damage, reverses it as well."

"but doc, i say. do you really think i'm ready for a cream like this?"

meaning: am i really old and droopy enough to need this stuff? surely, i am not. surely, he's suggesting i should start using this stuff in another 4 or 5 years. not now.

right, doc?

doc?

doc?

he smiles a benevolent smile.

"of course you're ready."

i remained calm.

sort of.

*this little vignette reminds me of a quote from Olympia Dukakis's character in Steel Magnolias when Shelby, the ingenue in the play, reports having discovered crow's feet:

"Shelby. Time marches on, and eventually you realize it's marchin' right across your face."

would it be rude to ask Mr. T to wear slippers? these combat boots are killing my complexion.

breaking up with martha

i'm in love with an older woman.

i mean martha. martha stewart. she's 64 today.

i love her. i do. i am not ashamed. ankle bracelet and all.

how could i not?

she provided me the recipes for two of my favorite cookies - black and whites and aunt dillon's pralines. she taught me how to properly fold a fitted sheet. she has shown me the importance of maintaining good hair in the face of all sorts of tragedy - culinary, marital, felonious, or otherwise.

her magazine is like high-falutin' arts and crafts porn to me. i used to have a subscription. oh bliss! my heart would practically skip a beat when i'd arrive home to discover the glossy little mag on my doorstep. i'd pore over it for hours, making mental to-do lists of all the crafting and pastry-making and redecorating i'd be doing in the coming weeks.

never happened.

well, i wouldn't say never happened. i'd make the occasional almond meringue sandwich cookies filled with dulce de leche. i even attempted hot cross buns one easter weekend in my sweltering ozone park kitchen (their tooshes were burnt, but the frosting was lemony, sugary delicious - slurp!). i made handmade greeting cards and matchbox advent calendars trimmed with ribbon. i spent several hours painstakingly covering a styrofoam wreath with real cranberries (only to have it fall from my door and break in two pieces about 5 minutes after i hung it). so i attempted, and accomplished quite a few Martha projects. i realized one day, however, as i sat surrounded by stacks and stacks of MSL magazines (and the prospect of having to lug them from one apartment to another yet again) that they were actually taunting me:

look at everything you're not doing!

page 104, the little monogrammed tea kettle cozy screamed:

make me! make me! you don't drink tea, but you should! it's so much better for you!

page 64, the spread on sterling silver victorian serving spoons beckoned me:

helloooo! don't you need an asparagus fork?

page 145, special weddings issue, the 4 story wedding cake with iridescent fondant icing topped with bluebirds sculpted out of marzipan and dotted with crystallized blueberries and violets scoffed:

you couldn't make me anyway. i'm too complicated, and you couldn't even afford my ingredients.

i realized, as i sat there in the center of this MSL fortress that these bitchy ladies had to go. this magazine and the life it represented was not my life nor the life i wanted, really. the idea of it was lovely, but the reality was impossible. to get all psychobabbly on you, i was 1. trying to hold on to my mom (a kinder, gentler version of Martha who died when i was 12) and 2. avoiding taking steps towards my own goals and dreams...goals and dreams that had nothing to do with flower arranging, whipping egg whites to glossy peaks, and collecting antique jade bakeware. there was (and is) no glossy magazine that will tell me how to live my life. no recipe for success. no exacting measurements that will ensure a Rumi-esque "well-baked loaf."

dammit.

so, i sadly cancelled my subscription. sniff.

i miss her, i do. i'm not sure that i'll ever get over her completely. whenever i'm at a bookstore, i always pick up her latest magazine, and my heart still does flip flops when i turn to the table of contents and catch a glimpse of all the crafts that could be mine - mwahahahaha! who knows. someday, maybe, i'll have the time to really indulge my inner martha. someday, maybe, when i have tykes of my own, and someday, maybe, when there isn't a show to be written or a song to sing or a line to memorize or a martini to sip.

for now, though, i'm improv-ing. no recipes. no how-tos. no monthly calendars detailing when i should trim my shrubs or can my orchard peaches. i think i'm at my best that way...doing things 'off the cuff'...in the kitchen, in the art supply closet, in life. my mother always said, "an artist never makes a mistake." her point was not that you couldn't mess up, quite the contrary, but that a true artist, will make a "mistake" into art. with a little flourish of paint, a little sprinkle of glitter, a little dash of salt, a mistake could become a masterpiece. hm. kinda sorta how (i hope) i'm living my life.

and that, as martha would say, is a good thing.

_____

send martha a bday greeting! http://www.savemartha.com/

life's a beach, then you cry.

duh... why didn't i think of this? i even had my ipod.

i'm experiencing post-big-event depression. times like this i wish i had an embroidered hanky so i could weep into my monogram.

sniff.

sniff.

sniff.

dab a tear.

sniff.

sniff.

sniff.

dab a tear.

i just got back from a long weekend in block island, rhode island where i managed to don a swimsuit, sip mudslides (basically chocolate milkshakes laced with rum - yum!), and "practice random acts of cartwheels" in the sand without experiencing the bouts of extreme self-hatred i'm accustomed to in such situations. wowza. growth doesn't always have to hurt. it can actually, egads, be fun sometimes. eventually, after all the unsightly nobs and buds and growing pains, a flower actually bloooooms:

oh, look! it's pink, it's pretty, and it has no thorns!

i digress into some sort of free-verse poetic reverie...pardon.

so, yes, i had a lovely time, but i have to say...i was jealous if only a weensy bit. jealous of the people i was hanging out with. why? b/c they romped about on the beach while i laid there, supine and looking decidedly literary with my New Yorker magazine because, let's be honest, i felt less...er, exposed. (laying down, i don't look skinnier so much as i look well, flatter, which seemed preferable.) now what made me so different from the others? the group i was hanging with was mostly male, and there was not an Adonis among them.

now, don't get me wrong, i love these boys. they are cute, handsome gents. they dress well. they behave well. they open doors and let me steal sips of their pina coladas. they are disgustingly talented. great catches all of them, but let's just say that none of them will be starring in the next Bowflex commercial. (and, for my part, thank God. i don't trust nor am i attracted to any man who wears that much body oil and that tan? puhleez. screams tanning bed.)

here's the thing though...

they

don't

care.

the fact that they don't have a six-pack to rival Marky Mark's or biceps comparable to crazy-wack-job Tom Cruise's doesn't keep them from having fun and fully enjoying their life. some of them may well have 'body issues' of their own, but they manage to enjoy their beers, french fries and whiffleball matches anyway, damn them.

one could go into why poor body image affects men less...cultural standards...they differ for women. women are supposed to be The All - thin, attractive, and beautiful - plus smart, intelligent, talented and able to hit the whiffleball just as far as the boys, blah di blah di blah di blah...we've heard it all before on Oprah, read about it in Oprah magazine, talked about it with friends during the commerical breaks of Oprah...

now, i loooove me some Oprah, but i don't really want to do that anymore. conjecture. analyze. not while i'm on the beach, anyway. i mean all of that Socratic introspection is fabulous and useful in it's own place, but sometimes ya just gotta put down your floral cloth-covered journal and dive in. life is too short, and so, unfortunately, are beach trips. it's not like the sunlight, the sand, or the sea feels any better on a "perfect" body than it does on an imperfectly perfect one anyway.

so watch out, fellas. because next time, i'm gonna kick me some whiffleball ass.