for that next office birthday party

dig in. you never know what you might find.

spam cupcakes. i kid you not.

now, i understand that they're savory, but puhleezzz...all things with "cupcake" in the name must be sweet. am i right or am i right? i mean really. what's next? potted meat eclairs? vienna sausage biscotti?

but here's a plus according to hormel: they're low in carbs!

i've never been bulimic, but after eating one of these, i might have to give that dysfunction a whirl.

a wishful thanksgiving

next year i'm wearing a costume.

how many pieces of apple ginger upside down cake i wish i'd eaten: 1

how many pieces of apple ginger upside down cake i actually ate: 3


how i wish my nasal passages felt: free and clear and clean like a York Peppermint Pattie commercial.

how my nasal passages actually feel: as if a sorority of Upper East Side girls have moved in and are tittering about in their Jimmy Choo stilettos reupholstering everything in last season's Prada mucous green.


how i wish my abs looked post-second-helping of stuffing and 3rd piece of apple cake: sleek and sexy like Keira Knightley's

how my abs actually look post-second-helping of stuffing and 3rd piece of apple cake: in the family way.


how i wish my obligatory Thankgiving telephone call home went:

Me: Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thankgiving, honey! So great to hear from you. How are you? I've heard you've been sick. How are you feeling? We sure do wish you were here. We're all positively on the verge of tears missing you. Oh, wait...hold on. Everyone's clamoring for the phone here dying to talk to you.

how my obligatory Thankgiving telephone call home actually went:

Happy Thanksgiving!

Who is this?

Uh...Happy Thanksgiving. You get 3 guesses.

(Silence...followed by a series of clicks and squeaks and fumbles...I have been speakerphoned.)

Here's your stepmother.

Happy Thanksgiving, Dad.

what am i thankful for?

better than tryptophan.

Nyquil.

actually the generic version available at Eckerd Drug. Nighttime Cold Medicine.

the taste makes me want to vomit, but i'm asleep so soon afterwards it doesn't really matter.

reason to have a second helpin' of stuffin...in memoriam.

Ruth M. Siems, Inventor of (Stove Top) Stuffing, Dies at 74

The secret lay in the crumb size. If the dried bread crumb is too small, adding water to it makes a soggy mass; too large, and the result is gravel. In other words, as the patent explains, "The nature of the cell structure and overall texture of the dried bread crumb employed in this invention is of great importance if a stuffing which will hydrate in a matter of minutes to the proper texture and mouthfeel is to be prepared."

who knew?

mouthfeel. weird word.

i've been slimed.

i suppose my body is seeking revenge for not having given it quite enough rest and respect in the past few weeks, as i am now just one big dripping, stuffy-nosed, gravelly-voiced, hacking hunk o' misery who cannot move outside of a 6 foot radius from my couch.

i've been fighting the arrival of this virus for the past few weeks, but now that the show is over my immune system has relented and allowed it to move in and sprinkle it's mucous-inducing potpourri all over my susceptible little insides.

i'll probably be a bit mum on the blog for the next few days. no energy. but i shall not despair. i'm still being productive...in a way...the amount of goo my body is producing in it's kaleidoscope of colors and textures is certainly worthy of some sort of phlegmatic pride.

trust me. you won't find these colors anywhere...even in the Crayola box of 64.

after a show

so, of course it's nice when people bring you flowers and brownies and tell you you're great.

but it's something completely different when a dewy-skinned, wispy girl of 16 or 17 whom you have never seen before, stands before you and says, swallowing tears, "it was great...and i think its message is very important."

because, of course, this is the reason you did it to begin with.

you can, after all, buy flowers and brownies for yourself.

so being moody isn't a bad thing after all.

there's an excellent article in The New York Times today on Iris Apfel, socialite and personal style renegade, and the new show "Rara Avis: Selections from the Iris Barrel Apfel Collection" at the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. lots of lovely little bon mots, she's a brave and snappy 84 years young, but my favorite comes from one of her style predecessors, Isabel Eberstadt:

Her style places her squarely in the company of a long-vanished breed of socially prominent style-setters of the first half of the 20th century, women whose authority in style matters was absolute. Ignoring the dictates of the runway in favor of a personal aesthetic in those days were maverick spirits like Millicent Rogers, a debutante of the 20's; Nancy Cunard; and Isabel Eberstadt, a society fixture of the 60's. They counted themselves among an influential minority for whom, as Ms. Eberstadt told Marylin Bender for a 1967 book, "The Beautiful People," "looking pretty is not so important as creating a mood."

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/11/17/fashion/thursdaystyles/17IRIS.html

if this is true, what mood does a black turtleneck with a hole in the neckline, scuffed, black Dansko mules, no makeup, and the same pair of jeans the third day in a row create?

apathy. stuffy-nose, sore throat apathy.

readin', writin', 'rithmetic 'n' godiva.

i think i was sick this day...

got this via email today...if this were on the SAT, i would have done so much better...

CHOCOLATE MATH

1. First of all, pick the number of times a week that you would like to have chocolate
(more than once but less than 10)

2. Multiply this number by 2 (just to be bold)

3. Add 5

4. Multiply it by 50 -- I'll wait while you get the calculator

5. If you have already had your birthday this year add 1755 ....
If you haven't, add 1754.

6. Now subtract the four digit year that you were born.

You should have a three digit number

The first digit of this was your original number
(i.e., how many times you want to have chocolate each week).

The next two numbers are

YOUR AGE! (Oh YES, it is!!!!!)

THIS IS THE ONLY YEAR (2005) IT WILL EVER WORK, SO SPREAD IT AROUND WHILE IT LASTS.

my kinda cardio

This Is My Life, Rated
Life:	6.1
Mind:	5.7
Body:	7.3
Spirit:	6.8
Friends/Family:	3.7
Love:	2.1
Finance:	6.8
Take the Rate My Life Quiz

yes, yes, yes...my life may very well be lacking in romance these days, but i totally disagree with the friends/family rating, and i don't know how the hell my finances got such a decent score...they have clearly not seen my checking account balance. perhaps they believe in the less is more principle?

love and romance is such a tricky thing. one wants it, but one can't very well make it happen. i mean, you can put yourself out there, open up your crooked little heart, and welcome a little lovebird to alight itself upon your shoulder, but beebee guns and nets don't work. i mean, they do. you can shoot the poor sucker down, but if it survives it's liable to be mighty pissed off and not charmed by your wiles...no matter your new Bath and Body Works Vanilla Love body spray or Maureen Dowd-ish witticisms and well-blown-out hair.

but i saw something today that quenched my parched little 2.1-rated heart with a new Gatorade flava called Hope:

first day back at the gym in a week (or two?), i'm jogging along on the treadmill, my earbuds firmly nestled into my ears, the typical Treadmill Treatise coursing thru my brain:

hold your stomach in.

move from the core.

don't let your legs go slack, you'll hurt your knees.

egads, how much longer?

hold your stomach in.

i'd kill for a cup of hazelnut coffee with half and half.

move from the core, dammit!

bagel...please...now.

jesus, this is boring.

can i do this and sleep at the same time?

why aren't i outside in the sunlight doing this?

because you are a creature of habit comforted by the droning safety of the treadmill.

please don't let your legs go slack. tendonitis is a beeatch.

then, in a split second, i was charmed. taken right outta my Cardio Coma and thrust into the Present Perfect.

directly across from me was an elderly couple. she on the stationary bike. he on the treadmill. i see them at the gym frequently, but we've never spoken. they must be in their late 70s/early 80s. she moves with a difficulty and extreme caution that hints at her having had a stroke in the recent past; he does not. he's quite spry and trudges along on the treadmill beside her with an enviable pounding enthusiasm, proof positive that youth is, in fact, wasted on the young and miserable.

today, she sat on her bike, winded and a bit piqued after her workout. she turned to look at him, and between a huff and a puff, he kissed his fingertips and blew her a kiss. a soft, slow smile spread across her face, and then as if on cue, his lips did the same. oh, thank heavens! romance isn't dead! it's alive and well at the Astoria Sports Club in two perfectly matched smiles, and one stranger's heart going pitter patter...mine.

tee hee hee.

oh joy. i think my rating just went up a notch.

wearing my dirty laundry

*this is not actually my laundry. this picture is hyperbolic for artistic effect.

sorry i haven't written more lately. between the show, asthma attacks, and exhaustive treks over the volcanic terrain that has become my apartment, i'm just plum "too pooped to participate" (to quote my mum).

the laundry situation is bad. very bad. turning the underwear inside out bad, or just none at all bad.

oh, please. like you've never done it.

(oh god. i forget co-workers are now reading this blog. ah well...verisimilitude is not always redolent of Tide Spring Breeze, sometimes it reeks of 3 week old yoga clothes.)

oh my ipod!

the opening of size ate went fantabulously...one of my major props broke on stage within the first 5 minutes of the show, but luckily it wasn't absolutely essential. ah...the thrill of live theee-AY-tur.

i'll write more in the next few days about the opening, in the meantime, get your fill of my mindless while occasionally charming chatter by going to http://www.smallworldpodcast.com and listening to my interview with Bazooka Joe about the show. you can download it to your ipod, but ya don't have to...if you have media player it works just dandy too...

it's weird to hear yourself...you never do sound quite like you imagine. i think i sound like i eat way to much cheese...

you can also download it directly from http://www.smallworldpodcast.com/mp3/smallworld110305.mp3

a rose by any other name is still a betty

check out this interview avec moi. i can't believe they printed the whole thing. verbose is an understatement...
http://www.newyorkcool.com/archives/2005/November/theater_3.html

sophia, dorothy, rose + blanche

there is something incredibly freeing about dressing up as Rose from The Golden Girls for a pre-Halloween saturday night - complete with white blond wig, old age make-up, robin's egg blue polyester parachute pants, and v-neck t-shirt embroidered with peach flowers. you go out with your friends (and co-stars blanche, dorothy, and sophia) to a bar in the East Village that is postively teeming with young, lithe girls who normally don pantsuits from Express and Barami. here, tonight, they are indulging their inner tarts by dressing themselves up as more provocative (read: slutty) versions of childhood toys - Rainbow Brite, Strawberry Shortcake, Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, Mary Bo Peep, etcetera ad nauseum. i get the need to indulge that inner Jezebel, but sheesh it looks awfully exhausting and oh-so-uncomfortable.

for you, though, it is fabulous. the Long Island boys leave you alone. you can drink your vodka gimlets in peace. snickering and pitying the young 'uns teetering about on their stilettos, tugging at their eyelet bloomers, and re-stuffing their wonderbras, you hold court on the edge of the dance floor with your other Golden Gals in your comfy Nikes and a Playtex bra that could withstand 24 hours of C-cup Jazzercise. two, eh...or three gimlets later, you hop onto the dance floor to display your very best geriatric Janet Jackson impersonation:

It's Rose, Miss Nylund if your nasty.

of course, the best part is when a look of recognition sweeps across the nubile 20-something faces as they take in the whole glittering tableau of elderly bombshells:

OH MY GOOOOOOOD! THE GOLDEN GIRLS! I LOOOVE YOU GUYS!!!!!

of course you do, my dear. now let's have some cheesecake.

home...sick

i'm pretty happy living alone. i like my privacy. i love my solitude. i indulge in a number of idiosyncratic habits, disgusting and otherwise, that would not be excusable if i were living with a siggy other (not if i wanted him to stay anyway) but being sick, at home...alone with no one to bring me my childhood home-sick-from-school snack - cheez-its smeared with smuckers natural peanut butter and ginger ale - is pretty depressing. i'm trying to piece together some sort of comforting snack from the pathetic contents of my pantry and fridge. fiber one and edamame? wilted spinach and veggie hot dogs? ginger jam and gorgonzola?

ugh...i think i'm getting more nauseous.

so, for today, i'd love a boyfriend to keep the Schweppes and Cheez-its coming, force feed me my dose of absolutely vile, gag-inducing cough syrup (Tussin Expectorant: Temporarily relieves chest congestion and loosens phlegm to make coughs more productive. A productive cough? blech.), and lie to me -

Honey, you've never looked more beautiful. Really. Here's a Kleenex, you have a string of yellow snot hanging from your left nostril. I didn't know that color existed in nature. You really are miraculous.

ah well...must weather this little snot storm alone, i'm afraid. the upside is that i have complete and total control of the channel changer. i can watch Martha's cooking show, The Wedding Story on TLC, and Oprah! in between naps. mwahahahahahaha!

oh! i just spied a box of graham crackers in my kitchen hidden behind the chickpeas. hot tea...graham crackers spread with a little peanut butter and maybe drizzled with a little clover honey...comfort on a cracker...and no one to complain about the crumbs in between the sheets.