shut up and listen.

i went away this weekend for a few days to a farmhouse upstate that belongs to a friend of mine. i needed some time away from the chaos that is my apartment and life (does my apartment reflect my life? or does my life reflect my apartment?) to think, reassess and just be.

i've had some pretty shocking eureka moments in the past few weeks - chock it up to the holidays, the new year, the birthday, the new little gumptious gray hair that's shimmying out of my hairline (whom i've named Roxanne, by the way), whatever. i just know i needed to step away...shut up...and listen.

sounds easier than it is. i excel at many things. relaxing is not one of them.

i went alone. now, this worried a few of my friends. rightly so. they know me, or rather, they know The Isolationist Me from when my eating-disordered, self-destructive behavior ruled my days. when my 3 best friends were Girl Scout cookies, broccoli and obsessive exercise. you know what they say, don't you?

an addict alone is in very bad company.

i guess they thought i was gonna go up there and weep myself into oblivion while bathing in a tub of chocolate and then run 14 miles. still appealing at times, yes, but i also know that in spite of my reclusive-abusive past, i've always been the type o' gal who needs a little "alone time." a little QT time with the most fabulous/horrible (cuz it really depends on the day, right?) person i know.

as much as i'd love to fill my house with guests and feed them giant pots of chili and cocoa and suffer paroxysms of laughter; as much as i'd like to take my show around the country and save every pre-teen girl from stepping into the abyss that is an eating disorder; as much as i'd love to meet a boy and get married and maybe have a kumquat or two and slow dance to the din of the dishwasher (there's one of them fucking, inconvenient eurekas i was talking about) - i really do believe that in the end, the most important relationship that i have is with me. that sounds very self-help and Oprahesque, but if i'm not "okay" alone, i will never ever be okay with ______.

them's thar just the truth.

so...that's what this weekend was about. shutting up, listening, and just being with me.

between baking vegan cornbread and watching old Katharine Hepburn/ Cary Grant flicks, i spent a lot of time sitting by a waterfall, endearingly called "Buttermilk Falls," sunlight piercing through a lacy veil of trees. i just sat and tried to discern what it is/was that i really want in my life and what i can do about getting it or giving it away.

figure it all out dammit! and preferably within the hour!

funny. i was still tense.

finally, after an hour of agonizing over why an epiphany had failed to strike, it dawned on me to just quit fucking trying so goddamn hard.

novel.

there were no sweeping revelations. no booming voice from God. it was more of a faint whisper that naturally got louder as the screaming, judgmental thoughts got sucked away into the rush of the falls.

what'd it say? eh. a number of things.

be generous.

be loving.

be honest.

give dinner parties (seriously that was one.)

the biggest one was the quietest one. the eensy-weensy pebble that ripples the water and shifts all the others into the sunlight.

open, please.

in essence, be vulnerable.

ugh. i'd be more comfortable with be a bitch. that voice is absolutely right, though, and i know it. i think i've proven that i'm strong, but am strong enough to show that i'm weak?

we'll see...i'm just gonna keep shutting up and listening.

my brothers should be very pleased. ( ;

happy birthday to me.

pre-rollerskating birthday brownie courtesy of the urban family

went rollerskating last nite in celebration of my 31st birthday. 31! can you believe it?

me either.

have to say...i'm only happy to be getting older. you couldn't pay me to go back to the scared 25-year old i was six years ago. sure...i've discovered a wiry gray hair, i've got "expression lines" on my forehead and my knees don't handle running quite as well as they used to, but i (heart) myself sooooooo much more now than i ever have. i'm getting to that place of bien de sans peau or "comfort in one's own skin." i have bad days, of course. we all do. actually, today was sort of a "fat day," but the difference is i'm learning how to take care of myself on days like today. my journal entry this morning:

i feel chubby and round...how do i stop this feeling from affecting my entire day in a negative way? 1. i wear clothes that are comfortable 2. i drink a lot of water 3. eat wholesome foods and 4. no drinking tonight. ha. oh - and lipgloss - lotsa lipgloss. that's key.

i also got a massage unlike any i've ever gotten this afternoon. egads...the power of touch. we forget how important touch is especially when we don't have a siggy other to snuggle with. kinda sux, but ya gotta schedule that in and oftentimes pay for it. to save money, i think i'm just gonna start hugging random people as i walk down the street.

excuse me, i haven't had my daily dose of touch today. do you mind hugging me in an engaged yet non-threatening platonic manner?

anyway...my point is, i like this getting older gig.

last nite, i told my friend, r, that i remember lying in bed the night of my 5th birthday, spreading my left hand out like a starfish and whispering to myself in the dark as if i'd discovered something earth-shattering:

"wow...i'm a whole hand."

now i'm six whole hands plus an index finger (or a middle finger. depends on the day.)

ah well...the better to eat chocolate with.

for monique, wherever she is.

The Problem We All Live With
by Norman Rockwell

Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.
Martin Luther King Jr., Strength to Love, 1963

in nutrition class a couple of weeks ago, we were asked to recall the first time we encountered racism, or rather, the first time we were made aware of its existence. i'm sure i was in the presence of it for much of my childhood but wasn't aware of it. my family, while loving and not openly discriminatory, has their "issues" surrounding race and religion. i like to think that i'm somehow exempt from that inheritance, but unfortunately, i didn't just get the good stuff: great eye-hand coordination, moody hazel-amber eyes that change colors when i cry and a mouth-watering flank steak recipe. nuh-uh.

me? i think i not only became aware of racism existing, but aware my own racist proclivities just before my 6th birthday. one helluva present, eh?

a few weeks before my birthday party, my mother sent me to school with invitations to hand out. she instructed me to be very careful because i hadn't invited every little girl in the class. namely, i hadn't invited monique. monique was the sole black student in my first grade class. i don't remember ever having viewed her as "different." i mostly remember being jealous of the numerous little pastel-colored barrettes she wore in her hair; she wore so many it was like her hair had been sprinkled with confetti. we played together in the schoolyard. we both had French names that started with an "M." we were the only girls in the class who could outrun the boys. i liked monique. i don't remember thinking of her as "different," but i must have thought something because i did not invite her to my party.

(25 years later, and i still feel a lump of guilt land in my gut with a resonant thump when i write/read that.)

to this day, i don't know why my mom didn't make me invite her. it clearly upset my mom that i hadn't. perhaps she thought she was letting me make my own decisions, giving me some sort of independence and ownership over my own party. whatever. i was six. i got a 25 cent/week allowance. i didn't own anything. i don't fault my mom for much, she was pretty damn near Donna Reed-perfect, but she should have made me invite monique.

inevitably, monique ended up finding out that i was having a party and that she wasn't invited. (we were six-year olds. six-year olds don't keep secrets.) what did i say? i don't even remember. i must have blocked it out because i was so absolutely and utterly ashamed. after all, i had absolutely no good reason for not having invited her. what could i say?

because you don't look like the other girls?

because your hair isn't silky like theirs?

because i can't see your freckles?

because your eyes are solid onyx in a setting of white, pupil and iris absolutely indistinguishable?

i often think about monique. i wonder how she is. did she ever leave milan? does she have children of her own? does she remember that party she wasn't invited to? i'm sure she's fine. i'm sure she recovered, had her own damn party, didn't invite me and wore 4,000 sparkly barrettes in her hair. i realize it's presumptious to think that i might have had some sort of lasting negative effect on her.

in retrospect (it only took 25 fucking years!), it makes me realize that racism is like any other disease, genetic or social...you gotta fight it, you gotta talk about it, you gotta expose it to the light so that seething, pus-filled wound can heal. one big reason i have fought my eating disorders so vehemently is because i don't want to pass them on; either to my own children or to my nieces and nephews. same thing goes for racism. it doesn't just go away, and "just not knowing any better" isn't a reason to let it hang around and fester. it's contagious.

so thanks for that lesson, monique. even if i don't benefit from it, at least some future generations will. i hope you're happy wherever you are and that you have never ever given me and my stupid party a second thought. i really don't deserve it.

still, i sure would like to say i'm sorry.

note to self: hang out with more drunk people.

drink up ladies...the boys get cuter, and i get skinnier.

i went to a farewell party for my friend, j., last night. j. designed and built all of the body forms for my show. sweet, talented lady. she's heading west to LaLa Land to pursue a career in set design. she's got a hot bod, flaming tresses and one helluva noggin. she should do smashingly well. she should probably keep the brain a bit of a secret in the beginning however.

anyway, i'm quite sober when i arrive. everyone else is...not. i'm chatting with a lovely inebriated lass, h. h. is friends with j. and therefore knows all about my show, blog, etc. in between sips, she slurringly praises me:

you're so funny! you're so talented! i love your blog. but wait! your show is called size ate? but you're not a size 8!

i'm thinking: no, not always. sometimes a 10. sometimes a 12. you're right. thanks for pointing that out. it's not like i'm that much bigger. sheesh. i hate drunk people.

she accidentally picks up my drink to take a sip:

you're not a size 8! you're like a size 4!

i love drunk people.

i always did like "friends"

68%. yeah. i wish.

i'm working on a really profound, earth-shattering post, but in the meantime check this site out. you upload your picture and it tells you what celebs have similar bone structure to yours.

here were my results. not the most scientific i don't think, but it's fun anyway.

for the hell of it, i decided to do my Great Grandmother Ruth.


my dad sent me this photo a few weeks ago. i don't remember much of her. she died when i was around 6 years old, and at the time she was living in Florida, so my memories of her are restricted to a single visit to her condominium one Easter vacation when i was around 4. i imagine i spent most of my time doing what most kids do at their great-grandparents' house, raiding the Depression glass candy dish and trying to figure out why everything smells so strange...now i know, a combination of Emeraude eau de toilette and vienna sausage.

apparently she was quite the party girl in her time. ruth, they say, was (gasp) a flapper as much as a girl could be in the eensy-teensy town of milan, michigan. rumor has it she used to sneak cigarettes (contraband in their household by her husband - my staid, bank manager great-grandfather Grant), hastily hiding them in the freezer when her grandchildren (my dad and his brothers) paid her unannounced visits. my dad would open the freezer to get a popsicle, ice cubes, whatever only to be overwhelmed by ribbons of smoke swirling out from behind the frozen peas where a bed of butts lay dying.

okay...that was a tangent.

so, here are gramma ruth's results. funny.

66% - Emmeline Pankhurst

64% - Tori Amos

64% - Therese of Lisieux

60% - Hugh Grant

59% - Jennifer Connelly

58% - Matt LeBlanc

new year, new word

i was going to post a pic, but it just felt too bitchy signaling anyone out.

i'm coining a new word...prettiful.

no no no...not full of pretty. but a combination of pretty and pitiful.

oh, c'mon...you know the people i'm talking about.

those peeps that never really developed a character or intellect b/c he/she figgers he/she can coast on "he/she's pretty" for the most of his/her life.

but then, who am criticizing? i think enlightenment might lay in a pair of glittery false eyelashes.

they do, right?

a poem for the new year

look...very...hard.

if i'd repeat the last 4 stanzas daily, i swear i'd be more present and awake in 2006 than ever before...or even just one word: Look!

Hummingbird Pauses at the Trumpet Vine
by Mary Oliver

Who doesn't love
roses, and who
doesn't love the lilies
of the black ponds

floating like flocks
of tiny swans
and of course the flaming
trumpet vine

where the hummingbird comes
like a small green angel, to soak
his dark tongue
in happiness - - -

and who doesn't want
to live with the brisk
motor of his heart
singing

like a Schubert
and his eyes
working and working like those days of rapture
by van Gogh, in Arles?

Look! for most of the world
is waiting
or remembering - - -
most of the world is time

when we're not here,
not born yet, or died - - -
a slow fire
under the earth with all

our dumb wild blind cousins
who also
can't even remember anymore
their own happiness - - -

Look! and then we will be
like the pale cool
stones, that last almost
forever.

it's twinkies!

c., a friend of mine from high school, just gave birth to twins - a boy and a girl. what makes this particularly amazing is that she has struggled with serious eating disorders since the age of 13. she hasn't had an easy time of getting pregnant, but then i guess it's not that surprising when you don't feed your body properly for years, your body isn't going to trust that you're going to feed your body enough to support a child. but she did it! once with her son who's about 3, and now with a pair of sweet little twinkies - in pink and blue, such complementary colors. not surprising actually, c. was never one to do something half-ass - valedictorian, student council president, homecoming court and now...Mommy of three.

these are the onesies i made for them. cute, huh?

janie's birthday

my mom was born today.

she'd be 61. she was 30-years old when she delivered me, and i will be 31 in january. (her third child. i am sooo far behind. i just gave away a cat - too much responsibility.) it always made it easy to figure out her age - "just add 30." determining dad's age was always little more difficult for me - 32 years older. could involve carrying over a one, and everyone knows how frustrating double-digit addition can be for a first grader. in some ways, these little calculations would become fitting analogies for the dynamics of our relationships:

mom and me = easy
dad and me = ehhhhh...a little more complicated

i don't normally get nostalgic and weepy on The Big Days - the day she died, November 19 - and her birthday - December 28. they usually just pass right on by. i usually don't even notice until the next day:

oh goodness, yesterday was Mom's birthday. i guess i should have done something to mark it.

this year seems to be a little different. i feel the need to recognize it. bend the corner of the page. highlight this excerpt. maybe i'm getting more sentimental as i get older. i am getting closer in age and mentality to the woman she was and further from the girl i was. i am shocked to find myself having moved from a Ms. magazine-reading college girl who's terrified of slipping into a trapped life that's exactly like hers - wife, mother and homemaker - to being a Martha Stewart-reading woman who's terrified that she will slip into a life that's absolutely nothing like hers - wife, mother and homemaker. surely there is some sort of delicate balance. (can't just be a coincidence that Ms. and Martha Stewart are the same initials!) i just haven't figured out how the hell to make that even out just yet.

so today, for the first time since her death 18 years ago (holy shit - that long? and why do i find myself tearing up when i write that?), i find myself marking it albeit accidentally by doing very Janie-like things:

i started the day by doing a load of laundry. i will listen to Mozart's violin concertos. i will go to the bank. i will go to the post office to mail belated Christmas presents. i'll look in the mirror and bemoan the landscape of my belly. i will write thank you notes. i will heat up leftovers for dinner, and i will fall asleep before finishing the first chapter.

not so different after all, i guess.

----

and then just when you think you're alone, your brother goes and sends you a picture like this. he put yellow roses on her grave this morning - her favorite. thanks, L.

holiday (over) eating

on the phone this evening with r. she's at her hometown airport, waiting to board the plane to come back to the city:

"...i've been eating six meals a day. not the six small meals they say you should be eating. no. six full-size meals. i swear i'm like 40 pounds heavier. seriously."

"40 pounds heavier? yeah. i'm sure. 40 pounds heavier, r., in 5 days. totally plausible."

"oh, okay. then five. five pounds heavier."

"there ya go, that might be a bit more realistic."

"i've eaten so much since i've been here; i swear that's all we've done. today i decided i was going to eat light. yeah...so at lunch, i ordered the ribeye."

ahh...the comfort of kindred spirits.

happy holidays, y'all.

put your napkin in your lap...ahem.

ah...no time like the holidays to polish up your napkin folding technique.

i'm sorry, but the candle? can you imagine approaching a dinner table dotted with 8 of these linen phalli?

then there's the rosebud and the atrium lilly...positively o'keefian.

my mind...in gutter.

this transit strike is making me feel fat.

i had to go buy some new clothes today. i don't have anything else. my entire wardrobe (minus the one change of clothes and a pair of pajamas that i had the foresight to shove into my backpack before i left the house yesterday morning) resides in astoria, new york. for me, this means a earlobe-numbing 4.6 mile walk in the dark on a bridge suspended over the East River.

not gonna happen. so, i've been crashing at friends and will continue to do so until this @#$%!&* strike ends...

this explains why i was forced to go to the Gap at lunch today and try on a few pairs of pants and shirts lest the ones i am currently wearing start developing opposable thumbs and accosting my co-workers.

here's the thing: i don't recommend trying on anything in front of a full-length mirror when

1. you're menstrual

and/or

2. you ate sushi the night before. as you know, sushi is normally accompanied by a sodium-laden condiment called soy sauce that i adore, but causes me to bloat and swell like a...a...a...flesh-colored Michelin man.

ah well...i tried my damnedest to look at myself objectively and not judgmentally:

do the pants fit, margrocks?

yes, but look at that muffin top squish...ohmigod, i think i need a bigger size. i am so fff...

zip it! not what i asked. do the pants fit, margrocks?

yes.

excellent. buy them, and let's get the hell out of here.

so i did.

but still...not a pretty sight in that Gap dressing room.

i guess i could toss myself into the East River and float home.

brownies for breakfast...and dinner.

where the hell is the menstruation badge?

1. brownies taste better when you're sober.

2. brownies taste better when you're premenstrual.

3. brownies taste better when you don't eat a quarter of the pan.

how do i know? because...

1. i tried them both ways.*

2. i am.

3. i did.

but here's the coup - i didn't despise myself as much as i thought i would the next day.

why?

chock a lot of it up to just an increasing self-acceptance, but i've also decided to allow myself a little 'extra' nish nosh when it's (whispered) that time of the month. i read in Some Very Reputable Publication that you should allow yourself a bit more in the mangia department when you're riding the crimson wave. i guess it does make sense that your body would need additional nourishment. your body, ladies, is doing some pretty amazing things; your uterus is essentially doing a Jane Fonda workout for 3-7 days. in order for it to perform as it needs to, it needs a bit more fuel (and a slammin' pair of leg warmers).

now, i realize that a quarter of a pan of Scharfenberger brownies is probably not what these Very Reputable People had in mind, but i know that a few years ago, i might have devoured the whole pan, so this time, by allowing myself some, i only ate what i truly wanted which admittedly, was a pretty hefty chunk and probably more than my necessary caloric and fat intake for the day, but hey...it's all about baby steps.

so...think about it ladies. i suggest allowing yourself a few little indulgences when Mama Moon visits next time. truly allowyourself though. no, "oh my gosh, this is so bad, i shouldn't be doing this." FOOD DOES NOT HAVE MORAL VALUE. hitler was evil. chocolate is not. buy yourself the best damn piece of chocolate (or whatever your poison) you can find. light a candle. slip into your comfy velour pants that make you feel skinny. slap on a heating pad. pop a midol or two (or ten). cry if you want to. rip open your indulgence, and feed your Aunt Flo. she's got one hell of an inheritance, and she's lookin' to leave it to you.

*for concerned friends and family that might be reading this blog, i should note that i was not drinking and binging on brownies alone. i was in the company of my dearest friends for our annual Urban Family Christmas. the rules are as follows 1. drink too much 2. eat too much 3. buy too many presents for each other. it was a very successful evening. i got many goodies, but my fave might very well be the blush pink silk pillow case from r. meowwwwwww. and the brownies were homemade by moi.

because i am a big ol' christmas dork

and this always makes me cry...but in a good way.

but then, i used to like to watch myself cry in the mirror as a kid. mom said she used to walk into my bedroom after a tantrum and catch me weeping, huffing, puffing, and red-faced while staring at myself in the mirror.

drama queen? yes. since birth.

Dear Editor,

I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say that there is no Santa Claus. Papa says "If you see it in the Sun, it is so." Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?


Virginia,

Your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except what they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds.

All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to our life its highest beauty and joy.

Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus? You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your Papa to hire men to watch all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove?

Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see.

Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders that are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, or even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernatural beauty and glory beyond.

Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else as real and abiding.

No Santa Claus? Thank God he lives and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, maybe 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the hearts of children.

Written by Francis P. Church in 1897

How this editorial came to be...

sausage balls + an ode to paula deen

absence makes the heart grow fonder.

b + s just moved in together, and in the frenzy of their lovey dovey bliss, decided to throw a combination housewarming and christmas party on saturday night. my attendance was requested, required, and absolutely wholeheartedly given, despite the fact that i'd spent 8 hours at IIN class and would be spending another 8 hours the next day in the same situ. sitting, sans caffeine, in a cavernous auditorium listening to and trying to assimilate the benefits of various diets as proclaimed by their impassioned advocates is exhausting. (the vegan was all to thin for my tastes. i so wanted to invite him over for some meatloaf with gravy.) i was, i thought, to be too pooped to participate.

nah.

amazing what a little green eyeshadow and a festive plaid mini with jingle bells on the hem can do for a girl. instant holiday cheer! just add green glitter! (everyone on the subway thinks you're an absolute loon, but i've discovered how to deal with the attention: put on your ipod fullblast and move through the car with absolute confidence. you can't hear the jingles, thereby making it so much easier to ignore them and your co-straphangers' envious stares.)

i was revived. thank heavens i made the trip - b. made paula deen's sausage balls just for me!

why? he knows how much i love that jolly woman.

when i was sick and hacking on my couch, i did almost nothing but watch Food TV. it was then that cupid struck. i even found myself seriously considering buying her set of 8 dvds for $99.99, but thought better of it after the nyquil wore off. other things were more pressing...rent, for one.

paula, paula, paula...oh, heavens. she is 100% pure southern lady. she does her hair. lipstick is not an option, but a necessity. every recipe requires a cup of mayo, and a cup of butter, and a cup (at least) of sugar. this makes some people nauseous, but i adore her unabashed extravagance and indulgence. her toffee cackle-giggle makes me want to spend the rest of my life in her Savannah kitchen, mouth agape, like a pink, featherless baby bird, squawking for her down home looooove. i'd just sit at her counter, and let her feed me and fatten me and call me "darlin." how could i do anything but just melt into her floor like pecan (pronounced PEE-kan, please) praline?

i'm tempted to write her a letter asking her to adopt me - if only for the holidays. i couldn't do it forever, but i could fake the Southern Belle thing for that long. i'd even roll my hair. 'course, after about 3 weeks, 3 pounds of mayo, butter, and sugar, that vegan diet might seem like pretty good idea.

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.