do you have a minute for green peas?

last night, after i finished class at the Instititute for Integrative Nutrition (all day saturday and sunday. i'll write more about that later.), i met b. for dinner at our favorite italian restaurant. Don Giovanni's on 44th between 8 + 9th avenues. inexpensive, delicious pasta dishes (the gnocchi is worth the trip - little potato dumplings bobbing around in pesto or marinara, depending upon your preference or digestion), and waiters with that European-i-just-can't-be-bothered air.

the specials listed a number of tempting entrees, but this one really caught my eye:

GNOCCHI WITH MEAT SAUCE, PORTOBELLO MUSHROOMS, AND GREEN PEACE. $15.95

tee hee.

i didn't order it. rosy-cheeked, post-collegiate idealists give me acid reflux.

iced G

Gucci ice trays

2 for $70. hm. not so ridiculous...if they refilled themselves.

oh my darlin, oh my darlin...eh...you know the rest.

did martha mention THIS on her show?

Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be.
- Clementine Paddleford's mother (click her name to find out more about her. fascinating article about her at nytimes, but ya gotta pay, dammit.)

and dontcha just looove the name Clementine? reminds me of all things old-fashioned, and scrupulous, and honorable. she always brings a gift for the hostess. sprinkles White Shoulders into her unmentionables drawer. sleeps in pink sponge rollers and a chiffon nightie. owns a 12-serving set of Wedgwood egg cups and wonders why anyone wouldn't and how anyone couldn't, i mean, there is brunch after all. what do you do if you have guests?

and of course, i can't help but think of those little oranges...the bitter pith and the sweet flesh - quite the marriage.

'tis the season to go out and buy one of those charming little wooden baskets loaded down with their glorious little titian orbs. yes yes yes...you might have to peel them, but the fruit makes your tongue scream summer, and the best part? the scent that's left behind on your fingertips.

ahhhh.

they should bottle that stuff.

and our friend martha recommends using the boxes they come in to make a lovely clycamen gift box for Christmas presents. absolutely practical if you can find a use for 400 clems you'll have leftover. (mama stew suggested "making a delicious clementine sorbet." yes, martha, for who? your entire cell block?)

katrina's kids toy drop off day

maybe a better way to spend your money this year. i mean, does your dad really need another tie? view the evite.

Happy Holidays Y'all!

Transport Group is sponsoring a huge toy drive called Katrina's Kids. We are raising 3,000 toys for 1,000 kids in Lizana, Mississippi who have lost everything. TG volunteers will leave Dec. 18th, drive down to Mississippi, on the 20th perform a new play written by Chris Harcum at a Holiday party for the kids and then distribute the toys.

Stop by Manhattan Theater Source Dec. 11th, 11am to 11pm and drop off a toy! The Source is located on MacDougal Street between West 8th and Waverly (Washington Sq. Park North), on the West side of the street. There will be caroling, snacks, good cheer and lots of space for the 1,000s of toys we'll raise!

Manhattan Theatre Source and Barrow Street Theatre Company are public drop off sites so you can drop off toys there from now until Dec. 17th.

BARROW STREET THEATRE
home to Off-Broadway's long-running hit ORSON'S SHADOW.

Street Address: 27 Barrow Street (off 7th Ave. South)

Trains: 1 to Christopher St./Sheridan Sq.; A/C/E/B/D/F/V to West 4th

We need your help to make Katrina's Kids a success.

Here's what we need:

1. People/organizations to throw toy drives
2. $4,000 for a 26' truck ($3,121), gas ($550), housing, food and for volunteers (if not donated)
3. Two to Four more volunteers to drive the toys down to Mississippi.
4. $1,000 for toys not raised (i.e. emergency money)
5. Transportation back home for volunteers i.e. donated sky miles, donated car rental or $1,000 for car rental, housing on way home and food for volunteers
6. 20 people to help sort the toys (in NYC) on Dec. 17th and load the truck
7.One actress to perform the play and distribute the toys.

Checks may be made out to Transport Group (please write Katrina's Kids in the memo line) and sent to:

Katrina's Kids
c/o Monica Russell
233 East 21st St. #13
New York, NY 10010

What we already have:

1. 6 organizations throwing toy drives (we need more!! as of right now, we only have 400 toys)
2. $550 in cash THAT'S GAS!!
3. two volunteers to transport toys and execute play/party
4. a local school house in Lizana to hold holiday/toy party
5. local volunteers in Lizana to help cook and throw party

Other ideas!

1. If you are throwing a holiday party invite guests to bring a toy!

2. Ask your local School, Church or Synagogue if they would hold a toy drive.

3. If you know of a toy drive going on, ask them if Katrina's Kids could have the toys.

Thank you again. Please feel free to pass along my information to anyone who is interested in helping out!!

Happiest of Holidays to you all!!

Monica Russell
Transport Group
Outreach Program Director
212.473.6794
917.842.4947

concession smells a bit like jolen cream bleach

yeah, yeah, yeah. it's cute when you're a kid.

it's 9 am and i'm sitting here sipping a hazelnut coffee trying to keep my giant fuzzy white mustache from slipping into my java.

no, not taking hormones, i'm bleaching my 'stache a.k.a femustache, and my eyes are watering from the fumes.

why the early morning torture? i'm going to visit my aunt and grandmother down in baltimore tonight.

now, i know they love me unconditionally, but loving me unconditionally does not, apparently, extend to the slight shadow on my upper lip and my calloused, un-pedicured feet. The Feet are always mentioned on my visit, if they manage to catch a glimpse. if they're pedicured and polished and pretty, it's as if i've won the Nobel Peace Prize:

wow! your feet look really nice. did you do that yourself? look at her feet, grandma. don't they look pretty? she got a pedicure.

i try to fight the urge to pant and drool, wag my ass and bark.

if they are not pedicured and polished and pretty, they try to arrange for me to get a pedicure while i'm there, in what they think is a sly, stealthy way:

oh, you know, margrocks, your cousin c. just happens to be going to get a pedicure. do you want to go? i mean, you don't have to, but you could. we're not really doing anything around here, it might be fun. here, here's some money.

they forget. i'm the actress.

i could fight it. i could not bleach the 'stache out of defiance. it's really not that bad anyway. if i just kept out of the direct sunlight, they'd never even notice, but what the hey. i present so many challenges to them in accepting who i am - a liberal, new yorkified, single and unmarried 30 year old woman who doesn't clean - i figure i can concede the 'stache bleaching. no go on the pedicure this time though. no time. so i guess i'm keepin' the socks on all weekend.

have a great weekend, gotta go shave.

-----

an article in favor of a female five o'clock shadow.

a radio show in favor of the female five o'clock shadow.

how ya like them apples?

have you all seen this blog?

now, if you're not a foodie, you might not dig it, but it's run by (who i think must be, as i've never actually met her) a lovely lass named Molly out by Seattle-way. i go to her blog every day in hopes that she's posted something new...a recipe always scrumptious and a little story to go along with it, all writerly and charming and absolutely devoid of the seething, bitter sarcasm prevalent in so many blogs these days.

ahem.

i will never be like Molly. i get the impression that she is one of Those People: her kitchen always immaculately clean, her measurements always precise, her thank you notes always written in a timely fashion. she would never even consider devouring the entire pan of brownies that she just baked, much less actually doing it. i, on the other hand, in my less aware days, have been known to make an entire pan of brownies at one in the morning merely for that purpose - eating them all...alone. when i say she's like this, i mean this all in a good way - not in a hoity-toity-i'm-better-than-you-neurotic-mean-way like Reese Witherspoon in Election.

anyway...in typical moi fashion, i've wandered off on a tangent. again, something Molly never would never do. her writing is always on point and grammatically correct.

she posted a recipe for an Upside-Down Ginger Pear Cake a week or so before Thanksgiving.

eureka! i thought, there's my Thanksgiving dessert!

now, i love pears, but it wouldn't quite feel like Thanksgiving without an apple dessert (and who can ever find pears that are actually ripe anyway?) i asked Molly if she thought i could substitute apples for the pears. agreeable young lass that she is, she said (i paraphrase) sure, just be sure to cut the apples into thinner slices so that they soften sufficiently.

not a problem, moll.

so, i gave it a whirl, and like a proud mama, i am now showing off the pictures to you.













a little busby berkeley line up of apples...

she's a little thinner and shorter than intended. she was supposed to be baked in a springform pan, but since i had to toss the one i had because i'd let my last cheesecake sit in my fridge at work until it developed an autonomous mold that then seemed to swallow the actual pan, i had to bake it in a regular round cake pan. so, i only needed half the batter, and ended up making two layers. one avec pommes (for Thanksgiving), one sans pommes (in my freezer awaiting a dinner party or binge - kidding). i almost like it better this way as the ratio of apples to cake is greater, and everyone knows that cake, no matter how moist and nostalgic, gingerbread-y and delicious, is merely a conduit for the topping.

either way, she's my baby, i love her unconditionally, and so did everyone else. some of us 3 or 4 times. ahem.

merci, molly.

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.

confessions of a 30-year old drama queen

have a breakdown, but by God, look fabulous doing it...

difficulties show men what they are. epictetus

i wrote this on a post-it in purple metallic marker and stuck it on my computer monitor last week when i was weathering one of the many mini-breakdowns about my show that has, in the past week, seemed to be falling spectacularly to pieces...3 or 4 or 5 times.

if what epictetus says is true, i are a drama queen who weeps first, eats chocolate second, and then feels like a big ol' dork when everything turns out just fine.

the aforeblogged projector breakdown is just one example in a long line. i suppose i must accept this as just one of the (many) flaws of my character. i am a drama queen who does not clean, does not write timely thank you notes, and has not committed her neighborhood recycling schedule to memory. this drama queen business can be awfully taxing but it sure makes for damn fine entertainment. makes for damn fine pre-40 heart attacks and stomach ulcers too.

today's drama: who woke up with a stuffy nose and sore throat this morning?

the same person whose show opens saturday night who never gets sick.

brilliant. i couldn't write this stuff.

turns out...

it wasn't the projector, it was just premenstrual me.

it works. it works just fine. persnickety in the sense in that the correct plug must go into the correct outlet in order for it to operate.

details, details, details...

a premenstrual me and a projector

Tears, Snot, and Self-Pity on the prowl.

the projector is not working, and i am trying not to explode. the projector that is absolutely essential to my show for the 100+ projections does not seem to be recognizing the "signal" from my computer. is it a Mac/PC thing? i do not know...i am too busy trying to not completely lose my merde.

too late...i already did.

Tears, Snot, and Self-Pity arrived at around 10pm last night in a flourish - skirts bustling and freshly spritzed perfume in the air, they greeted me with an aggressive kiss-kiss, bruising my cheeks with bright red Revlon Cherries-in-the-Snow lipstick, and settled down for the night. they drank all my vodka, ate all my chocolate, and used up a whole roll of toilet paper. Tears and Snot snuck out in the middle of the night, but Self-Pity is hanging on for one last hurrah. (she suffers from that same sense of self-importance all double-namers do. i was named twice, therefore i must be doubly divine and deserving.) she likes to sit around and gloat in the morning light, pointing out my puffy eyes and recounting the details of my self-created drama like a teenager might those of of The O.C. damn her.

she's a real pain in the ass, but if she can figure out how the hell to work this projector, she can stick around as long as she likes.

a man who can idolize my thighs, is a man i can love.

run, (or whatever the equivalent of running would be online) don't walk...to singer/songwriter ethan lipton's website and download my new favoritest song i like your thighs:

i like your thighs in the fatty position
sitting upon a wall
spread out so wide and all
they touch
i know you do not think it's flattering
but it really rings my bell
i like your thighs in the fatty position.

ISN'T THAT GREAT!

then, once you've started to feel better about your dreaded "thigh spread," click on let's go to mars, and just feeeeeeeeeeeeel good. makes me want to take my sleeping bag and a big thermos of almond tea out back and sleep underneath the stars.

let's go to mars
let's fly away
let's build a new hoome
this one is rotting. shhh...

let's go to mars
children can pay
they get allowance
at least i know i did.

and jesus will meet us with chili and a spoon
and take us on side trips to the moon.

his music is the best kind...at first you giggle to yourself and think,

oh, this is funny and light and silly.

then after you let it settle and sit for a sec you think,

oh, this is profound and pretty and probably true.

sorta like some boys i know.

anyhoodle...check it out.

just because i wanted you totally creeped out with me.

i wonder if she does Brazilian?

blue mascara lovingkindness

what? don't you think it looks natural?

i rec'd this email in response to one that i sent out about my show from my absolutely fabulous friend, mother, wife, and woman in posession of the most symphonic snorting laugh on the planet, r.

Margrocks,
I have thought things through and decided that b/c you were the first person to put blue mascara on me, I owe you.

Seriously, I need to get away so my sister and I are planning a trip to NYC to see your opening show. I have an Uncle and Cousin in the city so I'm all cared for I just wanted to make sure I got to hug your neck and buy you a drink or something. I'm sure it will be a crazy weekend for you so I plan on being a very low maintenace friend. Anyway, things are not set in stone just because my sister has not purchased her ticket yet. I will email when our plans are final. Love You and praying for you, I know the show will be amazing! r.

first of all, i'm not sure that she owes me. i think i might owe her. blue mascara? yikes. but then, that's the thing about r. she is one of those people that is just good, sees the good, does the good. i have to try to be good. r. doesn't. she just is unconditionally good and kind. it oozes out of her pores, this goodness, and even when she was woopin' it up, sneakin' out, drinkin', drivin', and doin' other dirty deeds in high school, that goodness was apparent b/c of course, goodness is not really about how many wine coolers you drink or what you do with the boy in the treehouse, it's how kindly you treat the skinny kid with the lazy eye who smells like canned tuna.

she told me then (i think we were drunk and waxing philosophical) that what she really wanted was to be "when she grew up" was a mom, wife, and Christian counselor.

whaaaaaa??? i thought, as i took another sip of my bourbon and coke. (we were in college at this point so we'd graduated to the hard stuff. mine being in mississippi; we all drank bourbon.)

i thought she was crazy, but who's the doof? here she is 10 years later: mother, wife and Christian counselor. don't roll your eyes, you cynical pagan, you (and i can say that b/c i'm a cynical pagan too). she's not one of those poseur Christians who espouse to be, but clearly do not act as if. i personally don't do the whole Christian bit; i celebrate Christmas, i get teary-eyed whenever i hear Silent Night sung by a chorus of 5-year olds, and i dig a church potluck as much as the next gourmande, but beyond that i'm not buying the whole Jesus is the Savior ad campaign. i do, however, respect and am maybe even a little bit envious of the faith that r. so strongly believes and lives in. r. gives Christianity a good name. it's just a shame that it's Tammy Faye's face that is emblazoned on our minds like a Mary Kay Shroud of Turin.

to give you an even better idea of how highly i think of r: whenever it came time to nominate people for Homecoming Court in high school, i always nominated her. every year, without fail, i'd scribble her name on a little piece of paper and pass it up to the front of homeroom. i desperately wanted to be on the court myself, but figured if anyone deserved a tiara it was her. a tiara is a kind of halo, after all. better, i think. it's more sparkly, and it has those little combs that hold it in place.

so glad you're coming r. i'll prep the mascara.

thanks be to jesus...

...beignets are back!

the south shall rise again! (and so will their cholesterol).

a hairy, i mean, happy family

the 70s was all about hair...bad hair.

my dad, mom, and brothers circa 1973 P.M. (pre-moi).

not sure who the animal perching on my mother's head belongs to, but i will never again feel guilty about letting my roots go for a few months.

addendum to a little (okay, a lot) bubbly

how do you think they made the bubbles?

someone, a fella presumably, anonymously commented re' the previous post about my recent bout with indigestion:

Well there goes my romantic notions...

in reponse:

1. first of all...it takes zero cojones to post anonymously. show your face, little man!

2. if you're that easily put off...good riddance. who needs a guy who's so squeamish? if you can't handle gas, whaddya gonna do when she births a watermelon-sized child through an orifice that's roughly the size of a lemon?

3. you have these issues too, i'd imagine, and i'll bet you've woken up past girlfriends with your little odiferant symphonies in the middle of the night. did she say anything? nooooo. she may have even found it charming in a very endearing, oh-look-how-comfortable-he-is-around-me, human way. you know that little bottle of Gas-x that serendipitously appeared in the medicine cabinet right next to your unromantic nose-hair clipper? not serendipitous - a fully conscious act of unconditonal love and concern for your digestive health.

3. newsflash, guy...GIRLS FART. we also do far more disgusting things, but i won't go into that now. don't want to topple all of your female fantasies in one day...just keep believing that we're odorless, hairless, non-excretory, all-natural blondes, whose morning breath smells of honeysuckle, and who really do enjoy hearing all about your fantasy football games and listening to you play "stairway to heaven" for the 400th time on the guitar you've had since college.

a little (okay, a lot) bubbly

a saturday repast of seafood quesadilla + sugar-free taffy (saccharin-sweetened rubber the body understandably does not recognize as food)= 24 hours of bloating and yes, gas. someone popped a cork of champagne in my bowel.

yes. yes, i did. i went there.

happy sunday.

cinnamon-flavored charity drizzled with icing

World's largest cinnamon roll baked for charity

wanted: fun

are we having fun yet?

"i'm boooooooooored."

"then you must be a boring person."

such was a frequent dialogue between my mother and i as a child. i'm sure i was surrounded by a bevy of toys, 8,000 books, and 200 computer games, but i still managed to be booooooored frequently. a case of saturation, i guess. it can come across as somewhat Mommy Dearest-est, but i assure you my mum was as unlike that arch-browed, hanger-wielding nutjob as anyone could be. she meant it in a pull-yourself-up-by-your-rainbow-mork 'n' mindy suspenders-ya-gotta-make-your-own-sunshine-kinda way.

it certainly worked. holy shit! i don't want to be a boring person! let's sell my art work on the street corner!

i kinda feel that way now. booooooooored. ironic, isn't it? considering how much i have going on...work, show, work, show, work, show....hm. but see, them's there the problem, i think. see the variety? work, show, work, show, work, show. of course you don't. there isn't any. more variety in a plateful of macaroni sans poudre du fromage*.

i need a little variety. a little balance. a little tabasco. a little sumthin-sumthin'. i need human connection. i need to laugh so hard vodka martini comes flying out my nose. i need to dance and swing my head around and around so many times while live music thumps in the background that i'm sore in the morning. i need to kiss someone i'm not sure i like, but definitely think is cute on a street corner in the rain. i need...i need...i need...FUN, goshdarnit!

does anyone have a good recipe?

-----

in an effort to create a little of my own fun this fall/winter (b/c apparently, Fresh Direct does not deliver), here's my list of things to do this fall:

1. read every eensy bit of poetry i can get my paws on and go to poetry slams. i realize, that to some of you, this is tantamount to Hell on Earth, but poetry makes me feel connected in a way that nothing else can. to read a Jane Kenyon or Sharon Olds poem in bed, by candlelight, is to know that you are not alone. and yes, smartass, i find it FUN.

2. go to at least one barefoot boogie a month. yes, there are a bunch of new agey folks in batik pants, wavin' their underarm hair proudly, and that's not quite my scene, but the music is diverse and you can dance yourself silly. i'm sort of anonymous there, so i can be as bizarre as i like, which is always a plus.

3. once i catch up on rent (ugh), i shall procure myself a pair of Dansko red patent leather clogs. fun...on your feet, and comfy to boot!

4. i shall have a people over for a chili dinner (Havana Moon Chili and a veggie version), we will carve lascivious designs into unsuspecting pumpkins, drink beer, and nibble on ginger chocolate chunk cookies.

that's about all the fun-planning i can handle for one day...please, suggestions welcome.

say cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeese.

my favorite pic

took publicity shots for my show this past saturday. i know i'm a performer/attention whore, but i actually hate getting my picture taken. not true. i don't mind getting the photo taken, it's the looking at it afterwards i abhor. i have this strange fear that i'm going to discover some flaw in my body or visage that i've failed to notice during my daily grooming process, and here i've been walking around thinking i'm perfectly normal, when really, no one can stop staring at my giant hump back, whispering...does she know she has that? she can't possibly know, otherwise she'd be wearing a burka.

you know what i mean tho. those times you've looked at photos of yourself, and sometimes, you're pleasantly surprised:

wow. i don't have a double chin.

that new lip venom gloss does make my lips look like Claudia Schiffer's.

but then, there are those other times, you've looked at photos of yourself, and you are horrified:

why didn't anyone tell me my new dye job makes my hair look like cotton batting?

cottage cheese...good with strawberries and bananas. not so good on thighs in a swimsuit.

but then, i guess that, in and of itself is a healthy process. if you can, of course, look at yourself, pseudo-objectively, see the imperfections (the slight, skewed underbite that my braces didn't correct that shoves my chin a little to the left, my ample belly that looks practically pregnant, my father-was-a-pro-linebacker shoulders) and love yourself anyway. okay, let's be realistic. accept yourself. loving myself is sometimes just a wee too ambitious. like certain people. i might not loooove them, but i accept them. hating them just takes up way to much energy.

god...what could i have been, done, etc. if i hadn't spent so much energy on this body perfection obsession?

sheesh. that's a whole other post, and i just don't have the energy.

4 random thoughts

1. hmmm...got my toenails painted sunday. purple. can't decide whether they remind me more of grape kool-aid or a corpse. seeing as how i'm trying lately to live by the philosophy that "happiness is a choice," i'm gonna go with grape kool-aid. if you catch me sucking my toes later, you'll know why. thirsty.

2. had the best latte ever yesterday. available at joe. expensive as all hell...$3.95 for a large (what starbucks would call a "tall"), but absolutely worth it. they even drizzle a little fleur de lis type thingy on top w/ the foam. then, walk to union square, buy a scone at the farmer's market, and enjoy it while soaking in the delightfully chilly autumn air. if you're feeling particularly indulgent, get it made with whole milk. fatty fatty fatty (five weight watchers points!), but winter's coming. gotta stay warm somehow...

3. from a profile on Joan Didion in the New York Times Book Review this last Sunday:

In a commencement address at the University of California, Riverside, in 1975, Didion offered a general imperative that still illuminates her own disposition, even in the darkest times: "I'm not telling you to make the world better, because I don't think that progress is necessarily part of the package," she said. "I'm just telling you to live in it. Not just to endure it, not just to suffer it, not just to pass through it, but to live in it. To look at it. To try to get the picture. To live recklessly. To take chances. To make your own work and take pride in it. To seize the moment. And if you ask me why you should bother to do that, I could tell you that the grave's a fine and private place, but none I think do there embrace. Nor do they sing there, or write, or argue, or see the tidal bore on the Amazon, or touch their children. And that's what there is to do and get it while you can and good luck at it."

4. getting publicity for a show is hard when you want to remain true.

a silly, glittery autumnal reminiscence

yesterday, i had to pull my purple rain slicker out of its summer hibernation. it was the first unofficial rainy fall day in nyc. thanks be to jesus! it's gettin' chilly, the leaves are a changin', and i have an insatiable craving for chili and cableknit wool sweaters. (not eating the sweaters, wearing them, silly.) yippeee!!! autumn is my season.

i slipped my hand into the side pocket. my hand discovered a smooth plastic container of banana-strawberry flavored lipgloss...with sparkles. i immediately remembered when i bought it: two novembers ago, at the beginning of what would prove to be a very short-lived, though fire-in-the-belly-movie-moments-are-made-of-this, romance. at the time, i thought it might be funny, charming, reminiscent of junior high Lip Smackers moments, for him to discover that kiddie candy sweet on my lips. tee hee hee. i don't recall him ever noticing the taste, but i do remember looking up from one of street corner embraces, and discovering that i had littered his face glitter.

funny. he didn't seem to mind.

there are worse things, i suppose.

tee. hee. hee.

strange fruit

i ain't gonna lie. i've been a big ol' honkin' ball of stress as of late. tension ooooooozing outta my pores...manifesting itself as zits and a sallow complexion. my left eye a throbbing sunburst of pulsating twitch and redness. this little reptilian o' angst slithers down my neck and latches on to my left shoulder blade and squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeezes with all its might 'til i am reduced to tears in my shower bathing with Johnson & Johnson lavender-scented baby bath "for fussy babies." ahem...fussy adults, thank you very much.

it's fun!

but here's the thing i realized the other day - Yours Truly is the creator of all this hooha. this perceived stress is just that...perceived. i'm just fine. the show's in just dandy shape for where we are (one month out). i have a fabulous publicist. i have an amaaaaazing director. i might have a donated LCD projector (I LOVE YOU GARY SILBER and LAVONNE BRUCKNER!!!). i've got a sound designer, and you no doubt saw the body forms that are slowly taking shape, stuffed and wrapped and fortified by my rock star set designer. i'm fucking blessed. my sweet, generous friend A. is sending she a scheisseload of sparkly MAC products too. so why all the stress? why all the angst? why all the drama?

habit, my lovelies. pure habit. i mean, there certainly are legitimate stressors in doing this show, but truthfully, i think most of my stress isn't even coming from the show, but other crap...personal things, silly personal 12-year old things that i shouldn't even be entertaining right now. and the stuff that does have to do with the show is the schtuff i can't control so, of course, by my very nature, i'd like nothing more than to tackle it, wash its mouth out with soap, and send it to its room.

ain't happening.

so...the other night, as i lay in bed, begging for the morning to come b/c i just couldn't bear another sleepless night, mind racing, a prepubescent troop of Boy Scouts practicing their knotting technique at the base of my neck...i recalled reading about something called "treeing." here's the deal - a tribe in africa has a "worry tree." whenever anyone in the village is worrying about something - particularly something they can't control - they hang their worry on the tree to let the gods take care of it. a kind of prayer. a release. a "i really cannot fix this right now. do you mind? thanks a bunch. i'm off to go do what i really need to do. ta!"

i 'treed' a few things:

money
money
money
and, oh yeah...money.

...a few people...

that one...
that one...
and oh yeah! that one.

a few self-destructive ideas...

you're getting fatter by the minute, lookit them cheeks.
no one's gonna come to this show.
no one's gonna "get" this show.
you're wasting all of your time on this show.

them's some doozies, but i did it. know what? i slept better than i have all week. now, you should know that a couple of those monkeys kept leaving their perch and hopping onto my back throughout the day, but i just continued to ever so gently toss 'em back up into my imaginary arboretum overhead. tho there was one that i had to shackle to the branch.

i'm building wings, people, i'm building wings.

If we listened to our intellect we'd never have a love affair, we'd never have a friendship, we'd never go into business, because we'd be cynical. Well that's just nonsense! You've got to jump off the cliff all the time and build wings on the way down. ~Ray Bradbury

i like this one much better.

http://www.planetdan.net/pics/misc/georgie.htm

tuesday morning dose of misogyny

http://www.planetdan.net/pics/misc/tetka.html

disturbing as all hell, but i can't. stop. watching.

i was shown this by a guy at work. funny - our different reactions.

me:"oh my god! this is so disturbing! she's clearly dead! what does this mean? it's some sort of misogynistic commentary on women by some asshole who's girlfriend just broke up with him. this is her dead...bouncing through eternity. oh, my god. it's awful. (meanwhile, eyes still glued to the screen as she slips through another pair of bubbles.)

guy: "i just thought it was cool."


btw, you can use your cursor to toss her around. doubly creepy.

sunday serendipity

salvaged this mirror on the way home from a long afternoon walk. perhaps a leftover from a closing irish pub? don't know. found it a eerily appropriate directive after the weekend of moping and self-pity i've indulged in.

make it. sometimes it's just that simple

friends. above and beyond the call of duty

do you know what good friends do?

they spend their entire saturday night in a NYC studio apartment listening to the concert version of Les Miserables alternately wrapping others or allowing themselves to be wrapped really really really tightly in duct tape from just below their bum up to their neck. not just once...twice.

breathe.

then, having a pair of cold scissors edge their way up from the base of their bum, snip-snip-snipping through the cast, uncomfortably close to the skin. the cast then peeled, tugged, wrangled away from their oxygen-starved body. any tape that may accidentally snag the skin leaves big blue-red welts, and baby hairs that once delicately floated above shoulders are unmercifully ripped out when the cast comes off.

wouch!

not some strange weight-loss ritual, no. we were making the dress forms for my show size ate. which, of course you're going to come and see it so you'll know what i mean when you see these suckers on stage, riiiiiiigghhhht?

it's an interesting thing to see your form 3 dimensionally, hanging on a hanger in the doorway of a kitchen. we're always used to seeing ourselves in one dimension - in the mirror. so when you see your body there, suspended in midair next to your friend's, you can't help but have a moment of "so that's what i look like."

ehhh. not so bad. not so great either. human maybe?

it wasn't an altogether harrowing experience. probably helped that i was in a room with all of my friends going thru the same thing and, like me, their bod's are imperfectly perfect too. all different shapes and sizes - r's charming petite hourglass; k's abundant bosom; j's eensy weensy waist and perfect breasts; my broad, strong shoulders narrow waist, and even narrower hips. (i look like mary lou retton, if mary lou retton were about 2 feet taller.)

there was, of course, the requisite body bashing you'll find in any room of women standing around in their underwear:

oh, i have a sway back.

ugh. i hate my belly.

ew. my butt is huge. can you make it smaller with tape?

but, all in all we were pretty gentle on ourselves, and for all the welts, ripped out hair, and oxygen deprivation, it was a fun evening. definitely surreal. i can honestly say i'll probably never spend another saturday night in nyc, underwear-less, turning like a jewelry box ballerina as i'm being wrapped in white duct tape by one of my best friends, zero circulation in my legs, sipping a vodka gimlet, and singing along with Jean Valjean.

God on high, hear my prayer...

GET ME THE F**K OUT OF THIS THING.

mostly, i think the evening made us exceedingly grateful that the corset has gone the way of so many other painful beauty conventions - foot binding, leeching (for that lovely pale color the Medieval maidens dug so much), the feathered bang.

margaritas + mary tyler moore

sometimes i wonder what all the work is for. i mean, i work, i struggle to change my "bad habits" that are keeping me from growing and living fully. i think i've done so much work. i think of come so far. i feel, for a very brief moment, like Mary Tyler Moore tossing her 70s chapeau into the air, carelessly, fearlessly, but with a strong sense of certainty that that hat is going to come down precisely where i want it to - into my well-manicured little hands. it's not gonna veer off all willy-nilly and smack some unknown bystander in the face or land in a pile of poodle doo. no. for a second, i feel in control.

then, i don' t know what happens.

i...revert.

i...regress.

i...retard.

i eat the chocolate in the work candy dish even though i know it will not reduce my stress, but only exacerbate it, my skin, and my I.B.S. gurgle, gurgle, gurgle...blech.

i still....can't....speak....to Certain Person...the same Certain Person i talked to freely and easily the day before, goddammit...now, (why!?! i do not know.) i am rendered mute. cat-got-my-tongue, hairball in throat, can't even look person in the eye. helen keller had better social skills than i. i will end up old, alone, toothless, surrounded by cats, and little cut crystal bowls of 14-year old Brach's hard candies, watching my Latin soaps with the closed-captioning on while listening to Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On.

i continue continue continue to look for approval outside of myself. will the boss approve of my work? will He say "hi?" will The Other One call? will They like the show? will my jeans fit the way i want them to? if the answer, on a particular day, to any of these questions is a "no," whoa, nelly. get thee away. i descend into an abyss of self-hatred and goo that i thought was reserved only for Really Bad People...people like saddam hussein or people who wear stirrup pants or people who shop at Wal-Mart.

i find myself at midnight on a Friday night, post-Margaritas, sitting Indian-style on my kitchen floor, weeping, hating myself so forcibly i think i might vomit, and maybe, i think, this is the answer. getting It out. vomiting it out. the bad stuff. but i don't. no bulimic will be born tonite. there's another voice inside me that's countering The Fran Drescher Hate Voice, and since i've "done all this work" The Toni Morrison Love Voice has gotten a little louder, (or maybe i'm just listening now?)

growth is not easy, chickadee. you're gonna fail. you're gonna trip. these dance steps are new. it's gonna take a little while for you to catch on. you've been doin' the waltz for years. it'll take some time to perfect the watoosie.

dammit. "i want it NOOOOOOOW, daddy!"

mom always said, "you'll feel better in the morning," and of course i do. i sorta feel stupid now about Sobfest: September 2005, but i also know i needed it. i've been holding It in all week, i needed to get It out, and with the aid of two very tasty frozen margaritas, i did. and, The Truth is so much more visible in the morning light. The Truth is...i have grown a lot...i have done a shitload of work on myself...i have come a long way, baby...but that doesn't mean, Margrocks, that it's gonna be a flawless execution every time. life is messy. i mean really...how many takes do you think it took for Mary T. to get her hat thrown juuuuuust right?

my guess is many.

----

4:35 pm addendum...i feel like such an ass...a bombing in bali, and i'm whining about my weeny little probs...ugh. my apologies. on an up note, i bought a new bra. i might not be able to lift my spirits, but the least i can do is lift my breasts.