I hijacked this from Bon, who hijacked it from Beffers, who begat Shemshalot and Urachai, who begat...
1. How old will you be in five years?
Ahem. 35. (excuse me, I still had the taste of 29 in my throat)
2. Who did you spend at least two hours with today?
Me. But the day's still young. I spent at least two hours with Francesca and Alex yesterday, and that felt pretty good.
3. How tall are you?
5'8" Taller in shoes.
4. What do you look forward to most in the next six weeks?
Ooh, good question. Mostly just getting to the other side of the holidays. And recording my audiobook demo.
5. What's the last movie you saw?
Warm Springs, the Branagh movie about FDR's time in Georgia, trying to walk again. Actually quite good. And Cynthia Nixon wears fake teeth in it, which is prety awesome. Prior to that I saw 28-Up. Part of the Up documentary series in which they follow 9 or 10 kids from the time they're seven until most recently, they came out with 49-Up. Cool concept. (the films themselves tend to be a little long, if you ask me, so I have to sleep through some parts)
6. Who was the last person to call you?
Sadly, the word processing department, seeing if I can cover another attorney today.
7. What was the last text message you received?"Cousin Brian?" (of course the text I had sent out previously said "Guess who's at Yum Yum Bangkok?")
8. Do you prefer to call or text?
It depends on what my objective is. If I want to just pop someone a note to say hi, or I love you, or I'm down the street, I'll text. Or if I'm in the subway and have no cell service, I'll totally text. But to really connect with someone, I like the phone. And face-to-face. Email's good, too.
9. What were you doing at 8pm last night?
Eating Thai food (at Yum Yum Bangkok, surprise surprise). With Francesca and Alex (surprise surprise).
10. Are your parents married/separated/divorced?
My mom and dad are still together after almost 37 years. And they rock.
11. When is the last time you saw your mom?
Tuesday morning, when she drove me to the train station. I'm seeing her again on Saturday.
12. What color are your eyes?
Brown. With some brown highlights.
13. What time did you wake up this morning?
8:00 a.m. by the bedroom clock, 7:54 by the kitchen clock. (yes, I'm one of those people, but mostly because every time I set my alarm, the time moves forward a minute or two, and I can't be bothered to correct it. I don't let it get more than 10 minutes ahead, though, because that's just silly.)
14. What are you wearing right now?
Jeans! At work! (only thing I like about new year's is the casual dress today) And a pink sweater. And a belt that used to be the sweater ties, but they irritated me the way the bopped against my stomach, so I cut them off, made a belt out of them and now I call them my pom pom numchuks.
15. What is your favorite Christmas song?
The Christmas Wish from the John Denver and the Muppets Christmas Album. Makes me kinda weepy.
16. What did you fear was going to get you at night as a child?
The Thing Under the Bed.
17. How many computers do you have in your house?
Uno.
18. How big is your bed?
Big enough for me!
19. Do you have a laptop or desktop computer?
Desktop. I don't do a lot of computery stuff at home (since I spend 8 hours a day in front of one here) so I'm all good with what I've got.
20. Do you sleep with or without clothes on?
With. Definitely with. I mean, what if the house catches fire or something?
21. What color are your sheets?
They're supposed to be cream colored, but it's been a while since I've changed them. They might be getting kind of greyish. (makes mental note to change sheets this weekend.)
22. What is your favorite season?
Spring. (I don't have allergies)
23. Have you ever kissed more than one girl in a night?
One girl? No. One boy? No comment.
24. What do you like about winter?
SNOW! And Christmas. And my birthday. And being cozy.
25. What cities/towns have you lived in?
Lots of News: New Rochelle, New Snootyville, New Haven, New York City (Manhattan, Queens and Brooklyn).
26. Do you like Chinese food?
Not as much as Thai and Japanese.
27. Do you like coffee?
Does a bear shit in the woods (after drinking coffee)?
28. How many glasses of water, a day, do you drink on average?Not enough. I'd like to drink more, but the water fountain is so... far... away...
29. What do you drink in the morning?
Decaf.
30. Do you know how to play poker?
Sort of. I don't particularly enjoy it, though, especially when real money is involved. Penny poker I can get behind.
31. Do you like to cuddle?
See #27.
32. Do you have an addictive personality?
Yes. I am both addicted to things and addictive to people. ("Quick! I need me a Kate fix, STAT!")
33. Do you know anyone with the same birthday as you?
Yes. In addition to Katie Holmes (we go way back), I share my birthday with Ruth Wallman (who was in a two-woman show with me several years ago -- what are the odds that we'd have the same birthday?), Dana Syracuse (my friend at work) and Amanda Nelson (who could be any of these people. I lost track of her in middle school).
34. Do you want kids?
Do you?
35. Do you speak any other languages?
I can speak enough Spanish to get by, but I get really shy and nervous speaking Spanish to native speakers. My sister and I used to speak Spanish at the dinner table to discuss the regalos were giving to our madre para la Navidad. They thought we were all smart and bilingual.
36. Have you ever gotten stitches?
Yes. I have 13 in my chin, from falling on a steel railing and a bunch in my throat from my tonsilectomy.
37. Do you prefer a window seat or an aisle seats?
Window! Let me sleep leaning against something that isn't a fellow passenger.
38. Do you know how to drive stick?
That's personal.
39. Can you roll your tongue?
Yes, but I can't do that fancy clover leaf thing.
40. What is the main ring tone on your phone?
Oh, it's this lame funky beat. I've given the VIPs rings of their own, which is great because I know who's calling before I even get there.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
a little box full of soul
Strip off your main definition of yourself. You know, that part of you which has always made you proud and powerful. That thing about which you've always been passionate. The part of you that makes you feel interesting and different and, let's face it, special when filling out those godforsaken online dating profiles, or talking to the decidedly unartistic souls with whom you pass your work week. [not everyone -- just to be clear]
Go ahead and strip that off. Fold it carefully and put it in a little silk-lined box. Glue the little box someplace in your peripheral vision so you can periodically peek in on it and wonder if putting it away is the best idea.
Don't put it away yet.
Then tell some people you're thinking about redefining yourself. Maybe even show them the little box with your soul in it. Watch their eyes widen, or nod in appreciation and admiration, or watch them back away, taking their carefully-defined selves (not in boxes) with them. Listen to some of them drone on and on and on (god, shut up already!) and on about how they did it ten years ago and how it's the hardest thing you're ever going to do. How it's going to hurt and how it requires "a little bit of thought every day."
Try to ignore the box. Pretend it will all sort itself out. In the meantime, ignore the empty space that climbs up your limbs, tiptoes mockingly behind you and washes up on the shores of your desert island just to drown you.
Start to hear criticism in everything that everyone says. You're too needy. I don't want to talk about this with you because it's more than I can handle. I can't call you because you can't support me. You're a burden. [Nobody's actually saying that, but hear it anyway.]
Look at the box. Avoid the temptation to pick it up and slip inside the comforting warmth of your definition and rip the box to tiny fucking shreds.
Get completely lost. Don't bother asking for directions. Nobody has them for you (except maybe your coworker who wouldn't shut up about it, even after you sat, twitching in his office, checking your watch, twirling your hair, practically shreiking "LEAVE ME ALONE").
Try to be patient. Try not to take this fear and frustration out on other things, like boys who refuse to be there for you, or friends who love you and can't give you the answers you so desperately want them to provide. Try not to think of yourself in terms of negatives (not enough, not interesting, not worth the effort), and try to be ok with the unfilled hours that stretch out before you.
Mop your floor. [I'm not sure it helps, but it probably needs to be done.]
The box will always be there. God wililng, the itch inside your skin will not.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
The Holiday Schedule at Chez Surgeons
Welcome aboard Holiday Airlines Flight 2006 from Brooklyn, New York to Southern Connecticut, where you'll enjoy a four-day, four-night stay at the renowned Chez Surgeons, a five-star bed and breakfast tucked into the heart of snooty suburbia. Please review your itinerary for your stay:
Friday, December 22:
2:49 Hastily depart your office, realizing that you have no train ticket in your wallet and some large carry-on items (a suitcase, backpack and shopping bag). Run through Grand Central, knocking small, festively decorated children on their asses.
2:49 Hastily depart your office, realizing that you have no train ticket in your wallet and some large carry-on items (a suitcase, backpack and shopping bag). Run through Grand Central, knocking small, festively decorated children on their asses.
3:04 Arrive in the train, ticketed, to find an empty seat next to the snottiest lady alive. When you move her coat so you can put your suitcase in the luggage rack, resist the urge to punch her when she sneers, "could you please leave my coat where it was?" Instead tell her that you'll put her coat on top of your suitcase if she'd like (unless she'd rather sit on your suitcase...)
3:07 Train departs. Take a nap.
4:16 Train arrives in Snootyville. Greet your mother when she picks you up in a car you can't see because it's behind you. Right behind you.
4:17 -- 7:15 Hang out with your parents (the proprietors, no less) and eat far more from the tin of popcorn than you thought humanly possible -- especially because the popcorn will be stale.
7:15 -- 8:30 Wrap presents (a.k.a. hide) upstairs while your parents have cocktails with some family friends that you don't have the energy to talk to. In the same timeframe, your sister and brother in law will arrive home, so just when you think the party is leaving and you can go downstairs for a snack, everyone has another drink, and you're stuck in the office, starving (because everyone knows stale popcorn has no staying power).
8:30 -- 11:00 Hang out with your sister and brother in law. Try to sneak up on Scott while he is wrapping presents. Scare the daylights out of him. Break down laughing. Try not to pee in your pants.
Additionally, eat so much corn chowder that you actually have to lay down to feel better.
11:00 -- 11:30 Enjoy "Christmas Eve" with your family. Unwrap your Christmas Cuties (the nightgowns/pajamas your mother has bought for the family for the last 30 years so you look nice in pictures in the morning). Drag your popcorny/chowdery ass to bed.
Saturday, December 23rd
8:30 Wake up because your sister hocks a big fat loogie in the shared bathroom.
8:30 Wake up because your sister hocks a big fat loogie in the shared bathroom.
8:35 Sneak downstairs and hide behind a really big present and scare the pants off your mother and sister.
8:45 Make noise so Scott and Dad wake up.
9:00 Start Christmas! 
(Scott didn't get a pair of kitty pants)
(Scott didn't get a pair of kitty pants)
10:00 Eat too much French toast.
10:30 Enjoy unwrapping too many presents, including several books, a new duffel bag, some lightbulbs (yes, I asked for them), a bunch of tights, muffin pans and a new can opener (no, I didn't ask for that, but mom thought I did). Whenever you open something you don't particularly like, feel free to say, "Oh, I have one just like this at home," and then hide that present in a pile you can't see.
12:30 Start cleaning up after Christmas. Eat too many candied pecans.
3:30 A guest arrives for dinner. This guest may look a lot like the guy you are dating. Try not to freak out. Stay cool. You have another seven hours together.
3:30 -- 7:30 Play games with the family -- most notably, the new game Apples to Apples that Polly gave to dad this year. Fun game. Win one round!
8:00 Dinner at the Country Club. Feel posh. Get drunk. Admire your guest as he converses with ease and grace with members of your whole family. Fantasize a little about what it would be like to actually count on him to be there. Then stop.
9:30 Go to the bathroom and have a weak moment, wishing you actually had a serious relationship with this guest.
9:32 Notice that your sister has flung her stall door open while still on the toilet. Let her cheer you up. (She rocks.)
10:30 Enjoy wheelchair rides from your sister in the coat check. 
10:45 Your guest departs. Go to bed. Don't think about it.
10:45 Your guest departs. Go to bed. Don't think about it. Sunday, December 24th
8:30 Wake up because someone in the house closes a door too loudly. (Don't forget, you're the lightest sleeper ever)
8:45 Go for a walk with your sister. Try to burn off the scallops, wine and chipwich from the night before. Oh yeah, and the guacamole, cheese and crackers, too. Did I mention the candied pecans?
9:30 -- 2:00 Laze around, working on the Sunday Times crossword, chatting with the family, and playing with new toys from Santa.
2:00 -- 4:30 Quake in trepidation as Lois goes into Party Mode, and strikes fear into the hearts of every family member. "There's an inch of dust on every surface in this house!" Prepare to dust, vacuum and clean up within an inch of your life.
4:30 -- 6:30 Cocktail party. Eat too many cocktail weenies, chips, mini-quiches and candied pecans.
Pretend not to notice when Polly and Scott slip out through the garage so they can spend Real Christmas Eve and Real Christmas with Scott's family in Vermont.
6:30 -- 7:15 Caroling on God's Acre (that's what the call the lawn in town that happens to be bordered by three churches -- what else do you want them to call it?) with the family and remnants of the cocktail party guests.
(Mom and Auntie Miriam)
7:30 -- 11:30 Pretend you're eating dinner, but instead, flop down on a couch and eat more hors d'eourves. Watch Warm Springs, the HBO movie about FDR. Watch the rest of your family fall asleep on the couch.
Monday, December 25th
8:15 Wake up because your dad doesn't know how to close a door quietly. Try not to be bitter.
8:15 Wake up because your dad doesn't know how to close a door quietly. Try not to be bitter.
8:25 Go running. Hell, you've eaten enough for a small country at this point.
9:15 Come home and eat a sensible breakfast. (twice)
9:15 -- 12:00 Do nothing. Really. Nothing.
12:00 -- 1:00 Play paddle tennis with your dad. Win the first set 6-1, lose the second set 6-2 and lose the third set 6-4. Swear like a sailor, but have a hell of a good fucking time!
3:30 Depart for your aunt's house to pick her up for the big family Christmas, more food, and regifting!
4:30 Arrive at your cousin's house, eat more food, drink more wine, and get rid of some crappy gifts you've accumulated over the year. Walk out with a set of floating candles (which you put in last year) and a Coach bag. Consider yourself totally the winner. Feel lucky you didn't get any of these: 
9:30 Step away from the cookie tray and chocolate box, and end the Christmas festivities. After all, you have a "flight" to catch tomorrow morning at 8:07.
10:30 Arrive home, and call your sister in Vermont. Let your mother tell her everything you've just spent the last half hour telling her.
11:30 Go to bed. It's been a long weekend!
Tuesday, December 26th
7:30 Get up.
7:30 Get up.
8:07 Get on the train.
8:10 Get depressed.
9:15 Get to work.
9:30 Start writing.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
laxmas
So I've got myself a tannenbaum, and I've sort of decked the halls (sans boughs of holly). I've had visions dance in my head, but they're of me on vacation, not of sugar plum fairies. I've been merry and light... sort of. But when the little drummer boy from the feast of Steven asks if I see what he sees, all I'm getting is three old guys smoking a rubber cigar.
It's beginning to look a lot like Halloween
Maybe it's the lack of snow (or even cold weather, for that matter). Maybe it's turning 30. Maybe it's because the flan is holding me at spoon's length. Maybe it's because I've been hearing christmas carols since Halloween, and I'm just not listening to them anymore.
Maybe it's just because I've got other things on my mind.
I'm celebrating a cross (forgive the pun) between lax-mas and ehs-mas.
Ho ho hum.
It's beginning to look a lot like Halloween
Maybe it's the lack of snow (or even cold weather, for that matter). Maybe it's turning 30. Maybe it's because the flan is holding me at spoon's length. Maybe it's because I've been hearing christmas carols since Halloween, and I'm just not listening to them anymore.
Maybe it's just because I've got other things on my mind.
I'm celebrating a cross (forgive the pun) between lax-mas and ehs-mas.
Ho ho hum.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
the suitcase
Here are a couple of photos from the short film I shot this fall, the Suitcase. They're not great shots (a little wobbly and fuzzy) but I like the way they look. Especially the second one.
You'd never know how cold I was that day. (well, at least not in the second one...)
You'd never know how cold I was that day. (well, at least not in the second one...)
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
day two of thirty: the afternoon of ugly cake!
Meet Ugly Cake:
You'll notice there are two forks here and half a cake. (And I don't even think the cake is ugly, but Thea dubbed it so after 1) having to shave it to make it the right shape and 2) having to carry it around the city all morning) Thea met me today, the day after my birthday, the day after my office holiday party -- the day I had off because I've worked at the law firm for (gulp) five years. (So far this being 30 thing rocks!)
The weather today was gorgeous, so Thea and I munched and strolled and said "happy birthday to me!" whenever anybody looked askance at two lovely women gorging on birthday cake in the middle of the afternoon.
I was all loosey-goosey after my visit to the spa (thank you attorney-bosses) and we talked about boys and being thirty and acting and everything important. We wended our way to the east village where we stopped at the Knit Cafe for a coffee, but decided just to head over to 7A for lunch instead. And post lunch? Thea gave me a palm reading -- and I don't mean she read my palm. She found me a professional palm reader (who worked out of a storefront with naked screaming children in the back).
Want to know my future? I'm going to live a "long life." I'm going to "be the mother of three children" (at which point I snickered) even though I find it "difficult to fathom" at this point. I'm very creative. And I'm very passionate and physical when I love someome. I've spent too much time with one person in the past, and I'm having a hard time connecting with the person I'm with now. I'm not necessarily holding on to the past, it's holding on to me. (whatever any of that means)
Oh, and I won't be doing Midsummer Night's Dream. (that wasn't the psychic, though. It was my answering service.)
I would like to publicly thank Thea for making my birthday extra-special! And to all of you who remembered, who called me, who sent e-cards, real cards or gifts. (especially tasty LUSH ones!) Who left comments on my blog. Who took the time on a special day to make me feel special. My birthday has always meant a lot to me, and it's because of you, the people who speak up to tell me you're happy I was born.
I think we should do more of this on a regular basis.
And so does ugly cake.
conversations with ugly cake
So, instead of sitting down and shoving the other half of it into my face to fill up the emptiness I periodically feel, I decided to sit down and have a heart-to-crumb with ugly cake. The following is a transcript of our conversation.
k8: Hey ugly cake. What's up?
ugly cake: Not much. I'm kind of bummed.
k8: why?
uc: Well, I'm kind of seeing this flan. And he's really great. Rich, creamy, fluffy, without being too airy -- he's got a lot going on. And the other muffins in my life think he's a stud. But I think he just isn't really ready to be in a relationship with me.
k8: what makes you say that, ugly cake?
uc: It's complicated. You know, it was my birthday recently.
k8: Really? I had no idea! Did someone get you a person?
uc: Um, yeah. You.
k8: Oh, right, duh.
(pause)
k8: ahem. go on.
uc: Well, on my birthday, there was this big party, and I invited the flan to go with me. And he agreed to go -- this was weeks ago, mind you, when I first invited him. See, we've been going out, I don't know, a month or two? And I realize that meeting all the other baked goods in my life might be a little precipitous at this point, but why not? It's a party, there would be all kinds of free nuts and frostings there, I thought he would enjoy it.
So, as the day of the party approached, I asked the flan if he would consider coming back to my pantry after the party was over. He immediately told me it wouldn't work. And didn't give a reason for it at first. (I mean, I know he's got this big dish, and there's alternate side of the cupboard parking in the pantry where he lives, so he probably had to take care of that. But there seemed to be more to it than that.)
k8: Oh, yeah, the guy I'm seeing has a car. Same deal.
uc: My feelings were hurt. Here it was my birthday, and the flan didn't want to share it with me. I felt like something was inherently wrong.
k8: well, did you ask him what was at the heart of it?
uc: Yeah. He said that he didn't understand why it was so important to me that we spend the night together.
k8: Oh that sucks. I mean, duh, it's your birthday. Of course you want to spend the night with the flan you're seeing.
uc: THANK YOU.
k8: No, I'm totally with you. So what happened?
uc: Well, we talked about it some more, after the party and after we had spent the night together and he told me that he wasn't sure what he had found so threatening in my request.
k8: well, it's good that he was thinking about it.
uc: Yeah. He said maybe it was the importance I was placing on our being together, maybe it was the assumption that we'd be together... I don't know. He said he was uncomfortable with my depending on him.
k8: Ooh, that sucks. Sounds kind of like he just hasn't decided whether or not he's ready to be in a relationship yet.
uc: I guess. But then why is he acting like my boyflan?
k8: What do you mean?
uc: Well, he calls me almost every night, talks to me about what's going on in his crumbs, invites me over one night and then balks about having me over two nights later... why is he doing this?
k8: I don't have an answer for you on that one.
uc: What can I do?
k8: Well, I certainly don't know. I think all you can do is give him the space he needs to make a decision like that. It sounds like it isn't you, ugly cake. It sounds like you're doing everything you can to be clear and communicate what you'd like.
uc: I know, but I feel like I'm failing.
k8: Listen here, cakey-poo. This has nothing to do with you. You are a charming, loving, adorable (albeit ugly) cake, with rich frosting and cute sprinkles. Your flour and eggs stayed together and gave you a seriously chocolatey base. Not every cake is as lucky as you. Sure, you sometimes feel like you're not enough --
uc: TOTALLY.
k8: -- but we all feel that way sometimes.
(ugly cake blushes)
k8: The question you have to ask here is one that Thea asked me earlier, while we were eating you. Why are you in it? It shouldn't be all about him. Why are you sticking around?
uc: Well, I'm hoping that it will get better.
k8: And is there any indication that it will?
uc: That's hard to tell. (thinks) Well, he says he's acting in a certain way to achieve a certain end result, one that won't be as fucked up as his last few attempts at relationships. He says he's not 100% sure he's doing it the right way. Maybe if he didn't try so hard, maybe if he just relaxed and trusted me... I don't know. (sniffs)
k8: Hey, it's ok. (patting ugly cake with a fork) You don't have to have an answer right now. Just keep an eye on whether or not you're getting what you want out of this "relationship," whatever it is.
uc: I just want him.
k8: I know. Trust me, I know. But can you live with what you're getting, just as it is right this very second?
uc: (begrudgingly) no. I don't think so.
k8: So, I'd say you should get through the holidays, focus on your family and friends, your potential new career as a... what?
uc: half-eaten birthday cake.
k8: Um, right. (confused look) Just see how it is in January, and don't forget to keep something for yourself.
(pause. ugly cake dries her tears)
k8: You know, I'm having a hard time thinking about eating you anymore.
uc: Phew. I was starting to get nervous.
k8: Hey ugly cake. What's up?
ugly cake: Not much. I'm kind of bummed.
k8: why?
uc: Well, I'm kind of seeing this flan. And he's really great. Rich, creamy, fluffy, without being too airy -- he's got a lot going on. And the other muffins in my life think he's a stud. But I think he just isn't really ready to be in a relationship with me.
k8: what makes you say that, ugly cake?
uc: It's complicated. You know, it was my birthday recently.
k8: Really? I had no idea! Did someone get you a person?
uc: Um, yeah. You.
k8: Oh, right, duh.
(pause)
k8: ahem. go on.
uc: Well, on my birthday, there was this big party, and I invited the flan to go with me. And he agreed to go -- this was weeks ago, mind you, when I first invited him. See, we've been going out, I don't know, a month or two? And I realize that meeting all the other baked goods in my life might be a little precipitous at this point, but why not? It's a party, there would be all kinds of free nuts and frostings there, I thought he would enjoy it.
So, as the day of the party approached, I asked the flan if he would consider coming back to my pantry after the party was over. He immediately told me it wouldn't work. And didn't give a reason for it at first. (I mean, I know he's got this big dish, and there's alternate side of the cupboard parking in the pantry where he lives, so he probably had to take care of that. But there seemed to be more to it than that.)
k8: Oh, yeah, the guy I'm seeing has a car. Same deal.
uc: My feelings were hurt. Here it was my birthday, and the flan didn't want to share it with me. I felt like something was inherently wrong.
k8: well, did you ask him what was at the heart of it?
uc: Yeah. He said that he didn't understand why it was so important to me that we spend the night together.
k8: Oh that sucks. I mean, duh, it's your birthday. Of course you want to spend the night with the flan you're seeing.
uc: THANK YOU.
k8: No, I'm totally with you. So what happened?
uc: Well, we talked about it some more, after the party and after we had spent the night together and he told me that he wasn't sure what he had found so threatening in my request.
k8: well, it's good that he was thinking about it.
uc: Yeah. He said maybe it was the importance I was placing on our being together, maybe it was the assumption that we'd be together... I don't know. He said he was uncomfortable with my depending on him.
k8: Ooh, that sucks. Sounds kind of like he just hasn't decided whether or not he's ready to be in a relationship yet.
uc: I guess. But then why is he acting like my boyflan?
k8: What do you mean?
uc: Well, he calls me almost every night, talks to me about what's going on in his crumbs, invites me over one night and then balks about having me over two nights later... why is he doing this?
k8: I don't have an answer for you on that one.
uc: What can I do?
k8: Well, I certainly don't know. I think all you can do is give him the space he needs to make a decision like that. It sounds like it isn't you, ugly cake. It sounds like you're doing everything you can to be clear and communicate what you'd like.
uc: I know, but I feel like I'm failing.
k8: Listen here, cakey-poo. This has nothing to do with you. You are a charming, loving, adorable (albeit ugly) cake, with rich frosting and cute sprinkles. Your flour and eggs stayed together and gave you a seriously chocolatey base. Not every cake is as lucky as you. Sure, you sometimes feel like you're not enough --
uc: TOTALLY.
k8: -- but we all feel that way sometimes.
(ugly cake blushes)
k8: The question you have to ask here is one that Thea asked me earlier, while we were eating you. Why are you in it? It shouldn't be all about him. Why are you sticking around?
uc: Well, I'm hoping that it will get better.
k8: And is there any indication that it will?
uc: That's hard to tell. (thinks) Well, he says he's acting in a certain way to achieve a certain end result, one that won't be as fucked up as his last few attempts at relationships. He says he's not 100% sure he's doing it the right way. Maybe if he didn't try so hard, maybe if he just relaxed and trusted me... I don't know. (sniffs)
k8: Hey, it's ok. (patting ugly cake with a fork) You don't have to have an answer right now. Just keep an eye on whether or not you're getting what you want out of this "relationship," whatever it is.
uc: I just want him.
k8: I know. Trust me, I know. But can you live with what you're getting, just as it is right this very second?
uc: (begrudgingly) no. I don't think so.
k8: So, I'd say you should get through the holidays, focus on your family and friends, your potential new career as a... what?
uc: half-eaten birthday cake.
k8: Um, right. (confused look) Just see how it is in January, and don't forget to keep something for yourself.
(pause. ugly cake dries her tears)
k8: You know, I'm having a hard time thinking about eating you anymore.
uc: Phew. I was starting to get nervous.
Monday, December 18, 2006
happy birthday to me!
Dear Future Parents of America,
If you're thinking about having sex at all in April, please don't. It will be better for your children down the road not to share their birthday month with Jesus. He tends to hog up all the attention. (Whatever, Mr. I-can-walk-on-water. I can do cool things, too.)
Your pal,
Kate
I'm trying to lay low this year, as in years past I have gotten myself all bent out of shape about my birthday and how nobody pays attention to it. (which isn't really true, but it feels that way when you are really excited about it and act like a seven year old) And you know what, the less you focus on it (you being me in this case), the more positive response you get to it.
For example, today I went on a third callback for a production of Midsummer Night's Dream. I told them I was 30 and they gave me a check!
(Ok, it didn't happen in that order. They gave me a check because you're not supposed to have three rounds of callbacks with Equity actors without paying them something, and I told them it was my birthday as the audition wrapped, and they told me they would prefer to work with actors in their thirties, so it's a good thing I didn't lie and say I was 29!)
Tonight I'm slated for an office party, which I'm calling my birthday party. I'm telling everyone they should come eat and drink heavily, that everything's on me! If nothing else, maybe I'll make more friends at work!
See? Thirty's already looking great!
Saturday, December 16, 2006
a bad patch
So, I know this is supposed to be "Kate's guide to just about nothing" but I actually have some good advice today.
If it's the Thursday before your 30th birthday and you're premenstrual, considering an enormous career change, and it happens to be a week and a half before Christmas (which you're doing on the 23rd this year, thanks to your sister's in-laws… more on that later), don't go out with an exceptionally decent guy who, for whatever reasons of his own, doesn't feel like he can commit to a relationship with you on your terms immediately, and then drink half a bottle of wine. Or, if you do, make sure you have at least $50 in your wallet so that when you freak out (like I did), you have enough cash to get back to South Park Slope.
Wait, there's more.
When this same man tells you that he has to take things slowly so he can change old patterns that have, over time, proven not to work, don't nag him and poke him and threaten him, thinking that by doing all that you can get him to do what you want. Not only will he be resentful of your (outlandish) behavior, all you'll succeed in doing (if you're not as lucky as I am) is getting him to go back to the pattern that didn't work the last six million times.
Wait, there's even more.
If you do freak out, and end up leaving the upper west side at around 11:30, (a) make sure your phone has enough battery to keep you on the line with at least one of the three best friends you have at any given time, (b) try to find a cab that isn't blaring the Jesus Channel, c) try to pick a guy who is understanding and won't judge you for losing your mind so badly that you can't even tell your friends (from (a), above) what you said, what he said or how you left things, and (d) make sure you can call in sick for at least two hours the next day. You'll need that time to replenish your fluids, de-puff your eyeballs and sleep it all off.
One last thing:
If this happens to you, don't worry. It's normal. You've got a lot on your plate, and it will take some time to handle it. Relish your friends, who love you and worry about you. Eat sushi with someone who knows you well enough to say, "do you want me to distract you with my own problem for a minute?" Don't bother going to see the gingerbread houses in Chelsea Market (more in another post). And if you're my friend, and this happens to you, call me. Day or night, I don't care. You're not alone, you're not the stranger you seem to be to yourself. You're just having a bad patch.
If it's the Thursday before your 30th birthday and you're premenstrual, considering an enormous career change, and it happens to be a week and a half before Christmas (which you're doing on the 23rd this year, thanks to your sister's in-laws… more on that later), don't go out with an exceptionally decent guy who, for whatever reasons of his own, doesn't feel like he can commit to a relationship with you on your terms immediately, and then drink half a bottle of wine. Or, if you do, make sure you have at least $50 in your wallet so that when you freak out (like I did), you have enough cash to get back to South Park Slope.
Wait, there's more.
When this same man tells you that he has to take things slowly so he can change old patterns that have, over time, proven not to work, don't nag him and poke him and threaten him, thinking that by doing all that you can get him to do what you want. Not only will he be resentful of your (outlandish) behavior, all you'll succeed in doing (if you're not as lucky as I am) is getting him to go back to the pattern that didn't work the last six million times.
Wait, there's even more.
If you do freak out, and end up leaving the upper west side at around 11:30, (a) make sure your phone has enough battery to keep you on the line with at least one of the three best friends you have at any given time, (b) try to find a cab that isn't blaring the Jesus Channel, c) try to pick a guy who is understanding and won't judge you for losing your mind so badly that you can't even tell your friends (from (a), above) what you said, what he said or how you left things, and (d) make sure you can call in sick for at least two hours the next day. You'll need that time to replenish your fluids, de-puff your eyeballs and sleep it all off.
One last thing:
If this happens to you, don't worry. It's normal. You've got a lot on your plate, and it will take some time to handle it. Relish your friends, who love you and worry about you. Eat sushi with someone who knows you well enough to say, "do you want me to distract you with my own problem for a minute?" Don't bother going to see the gingerbread houses in Chelsea Market (more in another post). And if you're my friend, and this happens to you, call me. Day or night, I don't care. You're not alone, you're not the stranger you seem to be to yourself. You're just having a bad patch.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
have a holly jolly christmas, damn it!
I'm so busy at work I can't see straight.
But I'm taking this opportunity to give you some christmas song lyrics that Brian and I concocted over Thanksgiving, while we were sitting in a crepe shop, listening to ultra-sappy christmas music, feeling like The Man was watching over us, forcing us to be merry and light.
We called it State Sponsored Christmas.
Now sing along. You MUST. There will be penalties for NOT SINGING. (you'll have to sit here, do all my work and listen to the inane blatherings of the yayas behind me, which the other day included (I kid you not) "That song by Celine Dion? That's really good to work out to." And that was from a guy!! Anyway... sing, if you know what's good for you)
Have a holly, jolly (state-sponsored) Christmas;
It's the best time of the year
Don't be sad, it makes us mad,
Drink up your cup of cheer (here's a straw).
Have a holly, jolly Christmas;
Or we'll punch you in the face
It's not cool avoiding Yule
Hang décor all o'er your place.
Oh, bliss, the lights on fifth
Hung before Halloween;
Wouldn't want to miss Christmas;
That would be obscene.
Have a holly jolly (state-sponsored) Christmas,
and in case you didn't hear,
the State wants you, Christian or Jew,
to have Christmas this year.
Did everyone enjoy that? Well, here's another one. Sing it. SING!!!
Have yourself a merry fucking Christmas,
Shop until you cry
If you don't,
Your troubles will be so sky-high.
Have yourself a merry fucking Christmas,
Max out all your cards,
If you don't,
We'll make you hang out with the 'tards.
Here we are in November days,
Like December days of yore.
Radio, it will croon to us
Make us swoon, and thus, shop more.
Through the mall we all will spend together
All the stores we'll plow
"Ne'er again!" you'll hear weak shoppers start to vow.
Ignore them and keep shopping for your Christmas now.
You may all go back to work now. WORK! Or you can repeat both songs from the top. Your choice. (See? We're not a dictatorship. We give you choices!)
But I'm taking this opportunity to give you some christmas song lyrics that Brian and I concocted over Thanksgiving, while we were sitting in a crepe shop, listening to ultra-sappy christmas music, feeling like The Man was watching over us, forcing us to be merry and light.
We called it State Sponsored Christmas.
Now sing along. You MUST. There will be penalties for NOT SINGING. (you'll have to sit here, do all my work and listen to the inane blatherings of the yayas behind me, which the other day included (I kid you not) "That song by Celine Dion? That's really good to work out to." And that was from a guy!! Anyway... sing, if you know what's good for you)
Have a holly, jolly (state-sponsored) Christmas;
It's the best time of the year
Don't be sad, it makes us mad,
Drink up your cup of cheer (here's a straw).
Have a holly, jolly Christmas;
Or we'll punch you in the face
It's not cool avoiding Yule
Hang décor all o'er your place.
Oh, bliss, the lights on fifth
Hung before Halloween;
Wouldn't want to miss Christmas;
That would be obscene.
Have a holly jolly (state-sponsored) Christmas,
and in case you didn't hear,
the State wants you, Christian or Jew,
to have Christmas this year.
Did everyone enjoy that? Well, here's another one. Sing it. SING!!!
Have yourself a merry fucking Christmas,
Shop until you cry
If you don't,
Your troubles will be so sky-high.
Have yourself a merry fucking Christmas,
Max out all your cards,
If you don't,
We'll make you hang out with the 'tards.
Here we are in November days,
Like December days of yore.
Radio, it will croon to us
Make us swoon, and thus, shop more.
Through the mall we all will spend together
All the stores we'll plow
"Ne'er again!" you'll hear weak shoppers start to vow.
Ignore them and keep shopping for your Christmas now.
You may all go back to work now. WORK! Or you can repeat both songs from the top. Your choice. (See? We're not a dictatorship. We give you choices!)
Monday, December 11, 2006
sugar headache
At around 2:00 on Sunday, Sarah said, "I already have such a sugar headache, and I've only had two cookies." I scoffed at her, thinking "sugar neophyte, I'll never get a sugar headache." And wounded, I hung my head and moaned around five hours later, while my brain writhed in agony, awash in a sugar sea.
I had a christmas cookie decorating party yesterday, which was an outrageous success, and involved almost as much fun as it did powdered sugar. I had three gorgeous elves over, Sarah, Thea and Ruthann, and they plied themselves at their trade as if not finishing all six hundred cookies would land them in Christmas Jail. Here they are in a post-sugar-rush/pre-sugar-coma state:
It was pretty brutal. We started out slowly, creating masterpieces and intricately designed cookies. Thea created Mr. Bahama (you'll see him below), complete with flip flops and sunburn. Ruthann rocked it hardcore with the black frosting and lightbulb cookies. And Sarah brought out the iconoclast in all of us with her camouflage colored candy cane (the "camo-cane" (below)) and her American flag christmas tree, not to mention Long Island (also below).
I love these women. I love these cookies. I love that these women came to my house (from far-flung Queens, and even the Bronx!) to spend the day with me doing Holiday Homemaking.
I hate that I didn't get any pictures of Sarah at work. However, I did get this one of her taking pictures:
(please note that the coat rack has been re-hung)
Here are some of the trays of cookies we made. Imagine six times as many cookies, on every conceivable surface of your kitchen:
(camo-cane is on the left, and note Ruthann's tie-guy on the right, complete with a nut belt buckle! Also, right next to camo-cane is Sarah's Gingy Penis Guy. I'm going to try to smuggle him to work and see if anyone notices they're eating an anatomically (semi)correct gingerman. Also at the top is Sarah's second cookie, the candy cane failure, which, while very pink and somewhat non-specific looking, will still be exceptionally tasty!)
Here's Thea, diligently working away:
By the end of the party, we decided it was important to document the winners in three separate categories: 1) Best Non-Traditional, 2) Best Traditional, and 3) Ugliest.
May I present, best non-traditional:
Left to right: Mr. Bahama (Thea), Black Lightbulb (with filament) (Ruthann), Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini (Sarah)
Best Traditional:
Left to right: little happy tree (Kate), big happy tree (Kate), shiny candy cane (Thea), and friendly Wal-Mart tree (because it's white) (Kate)
Yes, some of us were decorating things our mothers could serve at her Christmas parties... (and some of us have been doing this for the last 25 years -- my mom used to have us "help," which really meant she gave us each a cookie, we'd frost it, lick the frosting off and then frost it again. My sister and I are very helpful!)
And my favorite category, The Ugliest:
Left to right: Gouty Hand (Thea), Long Island (Sarah), Trilobite (Sarah), and Bizarro Religious Guy (who-wanted-to-be-shirt-and-pants-with-zipper-guy) (Kate)
I hope I can turn this into a tradition. Because I had so much fun with these women. I feel so lucky to have them in my life!
Merry Christmas (a little early!)
I had a christmas cookie decorating party yesterday, which was an outrageous success, and involved almost as much fun as it did powdered sugar. I had three gorgeous elves over, Sarah, Thea and Ruthann, and they plied themselves at their trade as if not finishing all six hundred cookies would land them in Christmas Jail. Here they are in a post-sugar-rush/pre-sugar-coma state:
It was pretty brutal. We started out slowly, creating masterpieces and intricately designed cookies. Thea created Mr. Bahama (you'll see him below), complete with flip flops and sunburn. Ruthann rocked it hardcore with the black frosting and lightbulb cookies. And Sarah brought out the iconoclast in all of us with her camouflage colored candy cane (the "camo-cane" (below)) and her American flag christmas tree, not to mention Long Island (also below).
I love these women. I love these cookies. I love that these women came to my house (from far-flung Queens, and even the Bronx!) to spend the day with me doing Holiday Homemaking.
I hate that I didn't get any pictures of Sarah at work. However, I did get this one of her taking pictures:
(please note that the coat rack has been re-hung)
Here are some of the trays of cookies we made. Imagine six times as many cookies, on every conceivable surface of your kitchen:
(camo-cane is on the left, and note Ruthann's tie-guy on the right, complete with a nut belt buckle! Also, right next to camo-cane is Sarah's Gingy Penis Guy. I'm going to try to smuggle him to work and see if anyone notices they're eating an anatomically (semi)correct gingerman. Also at the top is Sarah's second cookie, the candy cane failure, which, while very pink and somewhat non-specific looking, will still be exceptionally tasty!)
Here's Thea, diligently working away:
By the end of the party, we decided it was important to document the winners in three separate categories: 1) Best Non-Traditional, 2) Best Traditional, and 3) Ugliest.
May I present, best non-traditional:
Left to right: Mr. Bahama (Thea), Black Lightbulb (with filament) (Ruthann), Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini (Sarah)
Best Traditional:
Left to right: little happy tree (Kate), big happy tree (Kate), shiny candy cane (Thea), and friendly Wal-Mart tree (because it's white) (Kate)
Yes, some of us were decorating things our mothers could serve at her Christmas parties... (and some of us have been doing this for the last 25 years -- my mom used to have us "help," which really meant she gave us each a cookie, we'd frost it, lick the frosting off and then frost it again. My sister and I are very helpful!)
And my favorite category, The Ugliest:
Left to right: Gouty Hand (Thea), Long Island (Sarah), Trilobite (Sarah), and Bizarro Religious Guy (who-wanted-to-be-shirt-and-pants-with-zipper-guy) (Kate)
I hope I can turn this into a tradition. Because I had so much fun with these women. I feel so lucky to have them in my life!
Merry Christmas (a little early!)
Friday, December 8, 2006
can I see some ID, please?
I was wading through the utility drawer in my kitchen the other day (so-named because it's full of utile things, like my crack torch, mailing tape (three rolls), wine IDs, vacuum belts, paper clips, ribbon, balloons, a hammer, jewelry cleaner and a Crystal Light container from when I lived with Christina in 1996, among other useful things) and I came across a photo insert that used to be in my wallet, when I had one of those Mom-sized wallets. You know, like the one your mom carries.
This one wasn't full of pictures, though, it was full of outdated IDs.
The first is my student ID from 1998, when I went to Ireland with my college boyfriend as a graduation present. (While it was a great present, it wasn't a great trip: just weeks before we were set to graduate together, my college boyfriend cheated on me with a woman he was in a show with. I was heartbroken and completely devastated, but didn't have the strength of character to imagine going through the end of college all alone. So I forgave him. And we went to Ireland together. And then we moved in together in NYC. And then I moved out. And then, a year or so later, he married the woman he cheated on me with in college. But I didn't know about any of this at the time this ID was created. Or maybe I did. Hard to recall. Looking at the picture, I think I might have known.) 
(yes, it's almost my birthday again.)
After that, the 1996 student ID from when I lived in London for a semester. I was studying Shakespeare at the British American Dramatic Academy (aren't I smart?) and having a great time. I met my best friend of many years there -- we were roommates and completely inseparable. Until a few years ago, that is. We had to break up. It's weird when you think of breaking up with your friends. Men, sure, they come and go. But you expect the women in your lives to stick around. Our relationship was pretty toxic, though, and I had to let it go. I didn't know any of this at the time, either. We hadn't even met yet: 
And, digging even deeper, my high school ID. (the "permission" sticker meant that I had permission to go off campus over lunch if I wanted to.) No stories of great desperation here. Just bangs. Lots and lots of bangs. (Forgive me, I was 16 at the time)
And last, but not least, my fake ID from college, which was my sister's actual expired license, which in those days was still legitimate ID. I never really had to use it. Once I grew my bangs out, nobody really asked me for ID. And I didn't really enjoy going to the bars that did. But my sister used to talk about us going out together when we were on vacation with my parents, and I'd say, "We can't, Polly, we're both you!"
And, digging even deeper, my high school ID. (the "permission" sticker meant that I had permission to go off campus over lunch if I wanted to.) No stories of great desperation here. Just bangs. Lots and lots of bangs. (Forgive me, I was 16 at the time)
And last, but not least, my fake ID from college, which was my sister's actual expired license, which in those days was still legitimate ID. I never really had to use it. Once I grew my bangs out, nobody really asked me for ID. And I didn't really enjoy going to the bars that did. But my sister used to talk about us going out together when we were on vacation with my parents, and I'd say, "We can't, Polly, we're both you!"
Thursday, December 7, 2006
much like dave matthews, I have so much to say!
It's been really busy at work lately, and I have a great number of things I want to address, but I have to keep switching back and forth between writing and, oh, I don't know, copying, filing, answering phones, stuffing holiday cards and otherwise generally schlepping for the man.
So I'm breaking it down into bite sized chunks.
1. First Flight
The reading series went really well. The first piece I was in was a great deal of fun, being that it was a black farce that played to a great number of my favorite acting chops. The second piece was a lot harder for me to get into -- it was an extremely stylized, meticulous piece which was really beautiful, but not my favorite style of acting. I almost wish I could have seen it instead of been in it; I think I may have enjoyed it more from a viewer's perspective. And as such, I don't think I was a particularly helpful collaborator. I was defensive, lumpish, and embarrassingly not very easy to work with. (Sorry Greg, I wanted to be so much more)
This was some interesting fuel for the fire. I'm thinking a lot about the kinds of theatre I want to do. I don't sing and dance, so musical theatre's out. I find that children's theatre can be painfully cloying (if it's not written by Noah Smith). I don't want to tour. I don't want to do movement-based pieces. I'm not so good with the multi-media. I need a very concrete character and through-line to feel like I'm participating in something I can really sink my teeth into. So, basically, I like very narrative straight plays, and classics. Just like all the other white 20something girls out there.
Which segues nicely into...
2. Other things I've been thinking about doing:
I hesitate to say these outloud, only because I don't want anyone to think that I'm committing to them. (i.e., don't go home, tell your mom that I'm going to be a teacher and then have her call my mom and say, "How's Kate's teaching career?" It could be awkward.)
In no particular order, I'm considering (ok, the first one is actually first, and all the others are in no particular order) audiobooks, teaching, coaching, public speaking, tour guiding, and being queen of the world.
I've been examining and evaluating what I love about acting, and it all come back to Connection. Really being with another person, and trying to impact them in some way or another. And while acting was the obvious choice for me (ever since second grade), there are other options out there that require far less sacrifice and provide far more psychic feedback.
3. An article that caught my eye:
Minority Actors Struggle: Casting calls might violate federal anti-discrimination laws.
The article says that "69% of available acting roles are designed for white actors, either explicitly or by unspoken consensus, and that minority actors were limited to no more than 8.1% of jobs, depending on the ethnic group." It goes on to recommend that producers not put race or gender specifications in their casting calls. While I understand the idea behind this whole line of thinking, it's a waste of time. The entertainment industry is one of the only industries where they can reject you based on the size of your butt. If they want a white actor in a role, they'll find a way to make it happen. Producers (and by that I mean the apocryphal, capital P Producers in the sky) can be very unimaginative and stubborn. Just ask casting directors. Getting them to think outside the box can take a minor miracle.
And the other thing the article doesn't consider? How many minority actors are going out for the 8.1% of roles? Because my guess is that it's not the same actors to parts ratio as you'll find in the 20something white girls category...
4. Vox, by Nicholson Baker
I read this dirty little book for the first time in high school, and was seriously tittilated by the explicity of the writing. I re-read it this week, and while it's still a filthy little book, it's very funny. Right up my alley, as I like to joke around while I make out. Anyone too serious would not enjoy me. (or this book!)
5. Weather Inappropriate Jacket Guy
So, when Brian was here, he bought this great new coat at Old Navy. But on the day he was leaving, it was 95 degrees in New York. So he was sweating his butt off, wearing this fantastic jacket.
We actually wrote a great song about it. Kind of a soft shoe, actually...
Weather Inappropriate Jacket Guy
Weather Inappropriate Jacket Guy
Wears his winter coat when the temp's sky high, he's
Weather Inappropriate Jacket Guy
or
Sweatin' so damn much that he wants to die, he's
or (my favorite)
Dresses for Alaska when he's in Mumbai, he's
So I'm breaking it down into bite sized chunks.
1. First Flight
The reading series went really well. The first piece I was in was a great deal of fun, being that it was a black farce that played to a great number of my favorite acting chops. The second piece was a lot harder for me to get into -- it was an extremely stylized, meticulous piece which was really beautiful, but not my favorite style of acting. I almost wish I could have seen it instead of been in it; I think I may have enjoyed it more from a viewer's perspective. And as such, I don't think I was a particularly helpful collaborator. I was defensive, lumpish, and embarrassingly not very easy to work with. (Sorry Greg, I wanted to be so much more)
This was some interesting fuel for the fire. I'm thinking a lot about the kinds of theatre I want to do. I don't sing and dance, so musical theatre's out. I find that children's theatre can be painfully cloying (if it's not written by Noah Smith). I don't want to tour. I don't want to do movement-based pieces. I'm not so good with the multi-media. I need a very concrete character and through-line to feel like I'm participating in something I can really sink my teeth into. So, basically, I like very narrative straight plays, and classics. Just like all the other white 20something girls out there.
Which segues nicely into...
2. Other things I've been thinking about doing:
I hesitate to say these outloud, only because I don't want anyone to think that I'm committing to them. (i.e., don't go home, tell your mom that I'm going to be a teacher and then have her call my mom and say, "How's Kate's teaching career?" It could be awkward.)
In no particular order, I'm considering (ok, the first one is actually first, and all the others are in no particular order) audiobooks, teaching, coaching, public speaking, tour guiding, and being queen of the world.
I've been examining and evaluating what I love about acting, and it all come back to Connection. Really being with another person, and trying to impact them in some way or another. And while acting was the obvious choice for me (ever since second grade), there are other options out there that require far less sacrifice and provide far more psychic feedback.
3. An article that caught my eye:
Minority Actors Struggle: Casting calls might violate federal anti-discrimination laws.
The article says that "69% of available acting roles are designed for white actors, either explicitly or by unspoken consensus, and that minority actors were limited to no more than 8.1% of jobs, depending on the ethnic group." It goes on to recommend that producers not put race or gender specifications in their casting calls. While I understand the idea behind this whole line of thinking, it's a waste of time. The entertainment industry is one of the only industries where they can reject you based on the size of your butt. If they want a white actor in a role, they'll find a way to make it happen. Producers (and by that I mean the apocryphal, capital P Producers in the sky) can be very unimaginative and stubborn. Just ask casting directors. Getting them to think outside the box can take a minor miracle.
And the other thing the article doesn't consider? How many minority actors are going out for the 8.1% of roles? Because my guess is that it's not the same actors to parts ratio as you'll find in the 20something white girls category...
4. Vox, by Nicholson Baker
I read this dirty little book for the first time in high school, and was seriously tittilated by the explicity of the writing. I re-read it this week, and while it's still a filthy little book, it's very funny. Right up my alley, as I like to joke around while I make out. Anyone too serious would not enjoy me. (or this book!)
5. Weather Inappropriate Jacket Guy
So, when Brian was here, he bought this great new coat at Old Navy. But on the day he was leaving, it was 95 degrees in New York. So he was sweating his butt off, wearing this fantastic jacket.
We actually wrote a great song about it. Kind of a soft shoe, actually...
Weather Inappropriate Jacket Guy
Weather Inappropriate Jacket Guy
Wears his winter coat when the temp's sky high, he's
Weather Inappropriate Jacket Guy
or
Sweatin' so damn much that he wants to die, he's
or (my favorite)
Dresses for Alaska when he's in Mumbai, he's
There's more, but now I have to copy some agreements.
BARF!
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
too busy to be deep
I'm too busy to get into all the good, deep, juicy stuff, so instead, I'll tell you a couple of brief stories.
Last night, I was asleep in my bed when I heard a big THUMP. I figured it was my mop tipping over, behind the refrigerator where I keep it (because I only have one closet, and I'm sure as hell not going to waste it on my mop!) and went back to sleep. If it was a marauding intruder (or an intruding marauder) it would have to make another noise, and when I heard that one, I'd get scared.
I woke in the morning to find that no, it was not my mop, but in fact my coat hooks, falling off the wall YET AGAIN.
It's nice that I've ended up with a big pile of black coats on the (oh-it's-not-obscenely-dusty) floor.
Unrelatedly, I've been Christmas shopping online (shhh, don't tell the bosses) and, while I can't reveal why I went to this site, I can show you a fabulous picture of an alpaca:
I have comments from the reading series this past weekend, thoughts about how lovely it is spending time with someone you like, questions about what christmas really means (and state-imposed christmas lyrics) but they'll all have to wait.
Stay tuned...
Last night, I was asleep in my bed when I heard a big THUMP. I figured it was my mop tipping over, behind the refrigerator where I keep it (because I only have one closet, and I'm sure as hell not going to waste it on my mop!) and went back to sleep. If it was a marauding intruder (or an intruding marauder) it would have to make another noise, and when I heard that one, I'd get scared.
I woke in the morning to find that no, it was not my mop, but in fact my coat hooks, falling off the wall YET AGAIN.
It's nice that I've ended up with a big pile of black coats on the (oh-it's-not-obscenely-dusty) floor.
Unrelatedly, I've been Christmas shopping online (shhh, don't tell the bosses) and, while I can't reveal why I went to this site, I can show you a fabulous picture of an alpaca:
I have comments from the reading series this past weekend, thoughts about how lovely it is spending time with someone you like, questions about what christmas really means (and state-imposed christmas lyrics) but they'll all have to wait.
Stay tuned...
Friday, December 1, 2006
"you're an actor?"
I've worked at this law firm for five years now. It's way too long, and I'm definitely starting to feel the strain. But I've been a fairly integral part of the Intellectual Property department now for half a decade, supporting almost half of its partners. And this morning, one of the litigators (who I don't work for) came by my desk while I was discussing the reading I was in last night, saying, "well, I do readings mainly just to remind myself that I'm an actor." And this litigator turned to me and said, "You're an actor?" as if I had just said I was an alien with advanced knowledge of physics and a fleet of Mercedes that I park on the street in Brooklyn. I said, "Yes. I always have been." And he said, "How would I know? You look like a normal person to me."
Awesome.
I've been thinking a lot lately about Acting (yes, capital A Acting). About why I do it. About whether or not what I love about it outweighs what I hate about it. About whether, should I miraculously find myself with the perfect career, I would even like the lifestyle.
I know that art (and, as such, theatre) matters in the world (and New York in particular), but does not-getting-the-chance-to-act really have an impact on society? It's an odd look at the "does art matter" question; it's "does what I do even count as art, and therefore does it matter" question. And I'm not asking from a personal perspective. I know what I do matters to me, my friends and family (and probably my plants). I'm wondering if the thousands of us out there (and there are thousands of us) looking for acting work, waiting tables and answering phones... does what we do really change the lives of anyone else?
Being a legal secretary (which is what I've done for the last six or so years), while it matters to the four people I work for, and the firm as a whole, doesn't have much direct impact on society. Sure, I'm not a burden on society; I pay my taxes, I pay my rent, I even give money to the NYPL. I am merely one of the millions of cogs in the machine that makes up Corporate New York. But that's not what I set out to do. I came here to move people. To touch them. To inspire them and tell them stories. I came here to create something. And all I seem to be creating of late are fedex slips and photocopies.
Has the time come to move on? It's a heartbreaking question, and not one that any actor ever takes lightly. It's like contemplating leaving a boyfriend who's held onto you for years, but only sporadically ever told you he loves you. I've defined myself as an actor since second grade (when I played Alice in Alice in Wonderland and mispronounced the word "deny" because I had never seen it in print before and was so mortified I still remember it over 20 years later), and am petrified to think of how I would define myself without it.
Which might be exactly why it's time to move on.
Luckily, the question of moving on is not one I view in terms of "selling out." I see nothing wrong with leaving a situation if it makes you miserable. My friend Lisa finally realized (a few years ago) that she hated auditioning so much that the process was no longer worth it to her. And while I miss seeing her act, I respect her decision immensely. And have never once thought she sold out. In fact, I still consider her enormously brave.
I have, however, worried about the damage I would do to myself by viewing my departure from acting as "quitting." I hate (HATE) those people who wax poetic about their years as an actor, and how great they would have been... if only... if only. And I know part of me would feel that way. I am an exceptional actor. I have the skills, the passion, the dedication, the dues paid, the groundwork, all of it. But I'm still not acting. And truthfully, I don't know how much longer I can keep rolling this boulder uphill.
My other problem (ah, were it my only other problem) is that I can't, for the life of me, think of something else I want to do. I know there are a lot of jobs I could do, that I am qualified for and smart enough for, but honestly, very few of them even appeal to me. And the real danger is that I make enough money at the law firm that taking an entry level position somewhere might actually mean taking a pay cut. At thirty. Making less in the real world than I did as an actor.
Hmmmmmm.
Anyway, it's not a done deal, it's just something I've been thinking a lot about lately. Things change when you turn thirty, and I'm just 17 days away from it. Someone said to me recently, while discussing approaches to relationships, "I'm not 25 anymore," and that threw me. Because I think part of me still sees myself that way. And maybe now's a time to move on from that.
I'm not sure. I do know, however, that something's got to change. I'm just not sure what.
Awesome.
I've been thinking a lot lately about Acting (yes, capital A Acting). About why I do it. About whether or not what I love about it outweighs what I hate about it. About whether, should I miraculously find myself with the perfect career, I would even like the lifestyle.
I know that art (and, as such, theatre) matters in the world (and New York in particular), but does not-getting-the-chance-to-act really have an impact on society? It's an odd look at the "does art matter" question; it's "does what I do even count as art, and therefore does it matter" question. And I'm not asking from a personal perspective. I know what I do matters to me, my friends and family (and probably my plants). I'm wondering if the thousands of us out there (and there are thousands of us) looking for acting work, waiting tables and answering phones... does what we do really change the lives of anyone else?
Being a legal secretary (which is what I've done for the last six or so years), while it matters to the four people I work for, and the firm as a whole, doesn't have much direct impact on society. Sure, I'm not a burden on society; I pay my taxes, I pay my rent, I even give money to the NYPL. I am merely one of the millions of cogs in the machine that makes up Corporate New York. But that's not what I set out to do. I came here to move people. To touch them. To inspire them and tell them stories. I came here to create something. And all I seem to be creating of late are fedex slips and photocopies.
Has the time come to move on? It's a heartbreaking question, and not one that any actor ever takes lightly. It's like contemplating leaving a boyfriend who's held onto you for years, but only sporadically ever told you he loves you. I've defined myself as an actor since second grade (when I played Alice in Alice in Wonderland and mispronounced the word "deny" because I had never seen it in print before and was so mortified I still remember it over 20 years later), and am petrified to think of how I would define myself without it.
Which might be exactly why it's time to move on.
Luckily, the question of moving on is not one I view in terms of "selling out." I see nothing wrong with leaving a situation if it makes you miserable. My friend Lisa finally realized (a few years ago) that she hated auditioning so much that the process was no longer worth it to her. And while I miss seeing her act, I respect her decision immensely. And have never once thought she sold out. In fact, I still consider her enormously brave.
I have, however, worried about the damage I would do to myself by viewing my departure from acting as "quitting." I hate (HATE) those people who wax poetic about their years as an actor, and how great they would have been... if only... if only. And I know part of me would feel that way. I am an exceptional actor. I have the skills, the passion, the dedication, the dues paid, the groundwork, all of it. But I'm still not acting. And truthfully, I don't know how much longer I can keep rolling this boulder uphill.
My other problem (ah, were it my only other problem) is that I can't, for the life of me, think of something else I want to do. I know there are a lot of jobs I could do, that I am qualified for and smart enough for, but honestly, very few of them even appeal to me. And the real danger is that I make enough money at the law firm that taking an entry level position somewhere might actually mean taking a pay cut. At thirty. Making less in the real world than I did as an actor.
Hmmmmmm.
Anyway, it's not a done deal, it's just something I've been thinking a lot about lately. Things change when you turn thirty, and I'm just 17 days away from it. Someone said to me recently, while discussing approaches to relationships, "I'm not 25 anymore," and that threw me. Because I think part of me still sees myself that way. And maybe now's a time to move on from that.
I'm not sure. I do know, however, that something's got to change. I'm just not sure what.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
please listen to the following announcement
We interrupt your regular programming for a brief moment of self-promotion.
Remember how I'm a literary manager? Well, I finally read all those scripts. And I picked a bunch. And now we're doing readings of them this weekend. And I'm in a couple of them. So if you're free at all this weekend, you should come by.
Remember how I'm a literary manager? Well, I finally read all those scripts. And I picked a bunch. And now we're doing readings of them this weekend. And I'm in a couple of them. So if you're free at all this weekend, you should come by.
presents
WHAT ABOUT THE BONES?
by Sean Michael Welch
(starring me!)
Thursday November 30th at 7pm
When the host of your dinner party suddenly keels over dead, and nobody wants to be accused of murder, what do you do with the body? And when you've done that, what about the bones?
This piece is HILARIOUS. And I don't say that about everything I do. Ok, well, I kind of do, but this one is really funny, I swear!
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL LULLABY YOU'VE EVER HEARD
by Greg Romero
(also starring me!)
Saturday December 2nd at 5pm
Guided by a blind Narrator, The Man and The Woman journey through their broken pasts, broken futures, and broken skin to find the beautiful place inside of the knives.
This piece is awesome. I can't say that I fully understand it yet, but maybe that's not the point. The writing is really beautiful and funny and gut-wrenching and experiencing it will be better than my telling you about it.
PARKING LOT LONELY HEART
By Colin McKenna
Sunday December 3rd at 2pm
Mickey, middle-aged, unemployed and an alcoholic, stands in front of the ruins of his marriage, when he suddenly finds himself a millionaire. It seems like life has given him a second chance. But the demons of his past catch up and the little family spirals down deeper than they could ever imagine.
This piece is really well written. Good pace, hard choices, good characters. I recommend it. (and I'll be there if you want to sit with me)
HEADS
By E M Lewis
Sunday December 3rd at 4:30pm
A British Embassy worker, an American engineer, a network journalist and a freelance photographer are held captive in Iraq. As the threat of death draws closer, hidden agendas emerge - and each hostage must decide what he is willing to do to survive.
I'm really fond of this piece as well. It's very topical, intense, without being too melodramatic. It's human and epic at the same time. Kind of a Two Rooms meets the current administration.
THE SYSTEM
By Isaac Rathbone
Sunday December 3rd at 7pm
Ray Werner's paycheck is wrong. When he questions Payroll, they send him to Human Resources... who direct him to Accounting... who transfers him to Processing... who encourages him to talk to the Head of Operations... who blames it all on The System.
I dig Isaac as a playwright (and a person, too). If you've ever worked in an office, this play will speak to you. And you'll laugh. And then you'll cry, because it's so true. But then you'll laugh some more because it's funny.
FIRST FLIGHT 2006 will be held at
The Arthur Seelen Theater at The Drama Book Shop
250 W 40th Street, NYC 10018
Suggested donation: $3
For more information, visit us at http://www.boomerangtheatre.org/
waking solo (han's cousin)
This morning, after nigh on two weeks of continuous company, I finally woke up alone in my own apartment. And let me tell you, it was heavenly!
If you'll recall, I live in a railroad apartment, with the bathroom just off the kitchen. So while Brian was sleeping in my living room, any time he had to use the bathroom, he had to walk through my room (and scare the pants off of me). One night, on his way through, I shot up in bed and shouted at him, "OH MY GOD! I FORGOT YOU WERE HERE!"
I'm a very light sleeper -- just ask the doorslammers next door. So sharing my house (or my bed) takes a lot of adjusting for me, especially if whoever I'm sharing with isn't on my same sleep schedule. Sure, I'm super-fond of having a warm body to snuggle up to. And of course I like waking up to a kiss. And I like the intimacy of just sharing a bed -- it reminds me of having sleepovers as a kid, just talking and talking until we couldn't keep our eyes open any longer.
But there's something about the serenity of an empty bed, an empty house (hell, an empty building) that makes me feel so much more empowered. When I wake up alone, the day is mine. I don't have to share it with anyone (until, of course, I walk out the front door). I don't have to coordinate showering or coffee-making or commuting. There's an independence to it that truly makes me feel like I own my life.
And mostly, I like that nobody scares the crap out of me before I wake up. Nothing makes me grouchier than waking up before I have to. And being such a light sleeper... well, let's put it this way: you have to be pretty worthwhile for me to share my house or bed with you.
That's all I'm saying.
If you'll recall, I live in a railroad apartment, with the bathroom just off the kitchen. So while Brian was sleeping in my living room, any time he had to use the bathroom, he had to walk through my room (and scare the pants off of me). One night, on his way through, I shot up in bed and shouted at him, "OH MY GOD! I FORGOT YOU WERE HERE!"
I'm a very light sleeper -- just ask the doorslammers next door. So sharing my house (or my bed) takes a lot of adjusting for me, especially if whoever I'm sharing with isn't on my same sleep schedule. Sure, I'm super-fond of having a warm body to snuggle up to. And of course I like waking up to a kiss. And I like the intimacy of just sharing a bed -- it reminds me of having sleepovers as a kid, just talking and talking until we couldn't keep our eyes open any longer.
But there's something about the serenity of an empty bed, an empty house (hell, an empty building) that makes me feel so much more empowered. When I wake up alone, the day is mine. I don't have to share it with anyone (until, of course, I walk out the front door). I don't have to coordinate showering or coffee-making or commuting. There's an independence to it that truly makes me feel like I own my life.
And mostly, I like that nobody scares the crap out of me before I wake up. Nothing makes me grouchier than waking up before I have to. And being such a light sleeper... well, let's put it this way: you have to be pretty worthwhile for me to share my house or bed with you.
That's all I'm saying.
Monday, November 27, 2006
turkey-lurkey time!
Everyone says their family rocks at thanksgiving-time (probably to get more presents) but mine really does (and you can keep your presents, especially if you're my brother-in-law, Scott, who likes to give me porcelain crap gifts) (in his defense, I give them as well as (or better) than I get...)
So here's a little photomontage (or filmstrip) of the events of the weekend:
My sister (Priscilla) hosted:
My brother-in-law (Scott) also hosted:
They have this great house in Boston, with beautifully painted trim and walls (courtesy of my sister) and brand new floors (courtesy of Scott). And after a week with my cousin in a railroad apartment, it was kind of exciting to sleep behind a closed door. (I secretly walked around naked for about a minute -- they don't keep the heat up really high, though, so the delight was short-lived)
My brother-in-law (Scott) also hosted:
They have this great house in Boston, with beautifully painted trim and walls (courtesy of my sister) and brand new floors (courtesy of Scott). And after a week with my cousin in a railroad apartment, it was kind of exciting to sleep behind a closed door. (I secretly walked around naked for about a minute -- they don't keep the heat up really high, though, so the delight was short-lived)
We ate ourselves into a coma, and then played a card game called Ninety Nine, which devolved into a cheating contest, with me stealing quarters from the "bank" to give to players who were losing. My mother made me do it.
We also, much to the dismay, disgust and utter fascination of the one guest not related to the family (Amanda) perfected the Burp-A-Word game. We started with simple words, like Dirt or Ugly, and progressed to bigger words like Gertrude, Ursula, and eventually, The DaVinci Code. My cousin tells me that if I walk into a bar in my glasses and start burping movie titles, I'll have to beat the men off me with a stick. Since I don't have a stick, I'm not ready to test this theory. I'll warn you well before I get one.
We engaged in some Black Friday Shopping Activities. Like wig-demonstrating:
And Comb-Over Creating (out of the discards of Priscilla's brush)
And then on Saturday, we had to take a picture for the Christmas Card. Recall, if you will, that I have been blessed with two large cold sores on my face. And Priscilla had a zit or two that she didn't want displayed in a Yuletide fashion. So we insisted on the photos being taken from far away. Which only sort of worked.
And Comb-Over Creating (out of the discards of Priscilla's brush)
And then on Saturday, we had to take a picture for the Christmas Card. Recall, if you will, that I have been blessed with two large cold sores on my face. And Priscilla had a zit or two that she didn't want displayed in a Yuletide fashion. So we insisted on the photos being taken from far away. Which only sort of worked.
We took tons, and most of them are good, but these are my favorites:
Two cute sisters
Two cute sisters
The whole Fam Damily:
Stern Christmas:
And SPOILER ALERT
This is the picture we chose! So if you don't want to see it too soon, don't look!
After the Christmas Card Festivities, we went to a hair salon, in case Brian wanted to cut all his hair off (turns out he didn't):
Then, when we got back, I went out and got myself a stupid haircut, which I affectionately call Mushroom Head:
(the color's off b/c I had to take the picture in the bathroom -- and I forgot to lock the door to the handicap bathroom, and this poor guy barged in on me while I was trying to take a self-portrait. I blame Mushroom Head)
And other than last night (watching football and doing the Sunday Times crossword puzzled balanced atop a Comsopolitan Magazine) and sending Brian off to the airport (sniffle) that's pretty much how I spent Thanksgiving.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
gifts from the city
Last night on my way home with Cousin Brian, we were waiting on the platform at Atlantic/Pacific when we saw a service change advisory poster. You know, those dreaded little announcements that tell you the local trains won't run tomorrow morning (when you and your cousin will both have suitcases) or that service on the L train has been suspended until hell freezes over. Rarely are they good news.
Until last night.
that's right. Salad bar fish. (salad barfish)
Until last night.
Brian thought that perhaps this was a sexist poster, telling men to get up out of their seats for women. And while that is always nice, it's (for me) never expected. How I interpret "seat hogging"(and I believe the Lesbian Avengers would agree) is when you sweet, lovely gentlemen somehow manage to SHOVE YOUR KNEES INTO MY SEAT! Why do you insist on taking up twice as much space than your seat allows for? I don't care what you've got in your pants! Unless it's a nuclear bomb with a detonator on your nuts, get your knees out of my seat!
If you don't believe this happens, get on any given train during rush hour and you'll see two large men, spread eagle in their seats, with one tiny little woman squished in between them, like Jack Sprat stuck between the cheeks of his wife's monstrous fanny.
So please, Seat Hogging Men, please heed the Lesbian Avengers' advisory.
But if you can't, maybe you'd like to think about what you're doing. Perhaps even maditate a bit about it:
I can only imagine someone sitting alone in a dimly lit room, candles burning, yoga pants on, breathing in, breathing out, sipping his maditation tea.
"Please, universal spirit, bring me enough anger to rip my boss a new one."
"Ohmmmmmmm. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh. Ohmmmmmmmmmmm."
"All new maditation tea. Now with 50% more anger!"
And you know what goes well with tea don't you?
that's right. Salad bar fish. (salad barfish)
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
i am a crappy tour guide.
Don't let the peppy exterior and the love for New York City fool you. I am officially a Crappy Tour Guide.
My cousin Brian is visiting from Iowa, and we haven't really had a chance to hit the town together, since I was shooting a film over the weekend. So this morning, I took a couple of hours off so we could hang out, see some NYC sights together and hit the Brooklyn Museum (since they have some cool exhibits I want to see).
Yeah, the Brooklyn Museum is closed on Tuesdays.
So we made an alternate plan: we'd take the Tram over to Roosevelt Island and check things out over there, then take the F train back to Manhattan. We hopped on the train, got to 60th Street, climbed up the stairs to the tram station... only to see the tram pull out. And the next one? Not for another hour.
So we made an alternate plan: we'd walk over the 59th Street Bridge (singing Feliz Navidad the whole time, thanks to the tunes blaring in the coffee shop at the foot of the bridge) to Queens and then take the F to Roosevelt Island and then catch the noon tram back to Manhattan. Except that I'm not all that familiar with Long Island City, and it looked on the map like the foot of the bridge was not particularly close to the F train station.
So we made an alternate plan: we turned around and walked back to the foot of the bridge. Then strolled down first avenue to 50-somethingth street, where I turned so we could walk through the park that borders the FDR. Except that the street I picked had no access to that park.
So we made an alternate plan: we walked to the UN, turned right, and I went to work.
I hope that the next time Brian comes to visit he doesn't think twice and then make an alternate plan!
My cousin Brian is visiting from Iowa, and we haven't really had a chance to hit the town together, since I was shooting a film over the weekend. So this morning, I took a couple of hours off so we could hang out, see some NYC sights together and hit the Brooklyn Museum (since they have some cool exhibits I want to see).
Yeah, the Brooklyn Museum is closed on Tuesdays.
So we made an alternate plan: we'd take the Tram over to Roosevelt Island and check things out over there, then take the F train back to Manhattan. We hopped on the train, got to 60th Street, climbed up the stairs to the tram station... only to see the tram pull out. And the next one? Not for another hour.
So we made an alternate plan: we'd walk over the 59th Street Bridge (singing Feliz Navidad the whole time, thanks to the tunes blaring in the coffee shop at the foot of the bridge) to Queens and then take the F to Roosevelt Island and then catch the noon tram back to Manhattan. Except that I'm not all that familiar with Long Island City, and it looked on the map like the foot of the bridge was not particularly close to the F train station.
So we made an alternate plan: we turned around and walked back to the foot of the bridge. Then strolled down first avenue to 50-somethingth street, where I turned so we could walk through the park that borders the FDR. Except that the street I picked had no access to that park.
So we made an alternate plan: we walked to the UN, turned right, and I went to work.
I hope that the next time Brian comes to visit he doesn't think twice and then make an alternate plan!
Sunday, November 19, 2006
campho-phinique anyone?
I have the plague.
again.
only this time it's different.
worse.
uglier.
and on my face.
as if one cold sore's not enough, I have two.
they look even better now, but I can't bear to take another picture of them. that would be like feeding a gremlin after midnight, I'm afraid.
I actually feel like that old ad for campho-phinique, where the woman does the whole commercial from behind her hand.
makes it hard to shoot a film...
again.
only this time it's different.
worse.
uglier.
and on my face.
as if one cold sore's not enough, I have two.
they look even better now, but I can't bear to take another picture of them. that would be like feeding a gremlin after midnight, I'm afraid.
I actually feel like that old ad for campho-phinique, where the woman does the whole commercial from behind her hand.
makes it hard to shoot a film...
Thursday, November 9, 2006
Wednesday, November 8, 2006
set your tivos (or vcrs, if you're like me...)
That's right ladies and gentlemen, the time has come for me to be on TV! (if you can't remember why, go here for some backstory)
I got a call from Richard (who says the clip of the show makes him look bad, which I disagree with) that our show is going to air on Monday, on the FOX network. It'll be on at 10am in NYC, 1pm in LA, 12pm in St. Louis, 9am in Des Moines and if I haven't covered you, check here, and find out for yourself when it'll air locally.
Wanna see a clip? Go here! Do it now! (Warning: you won't see me until the actual show, but it'll get you revved up and excited to tape it for me. Somebody will do that, right?)
I got a call from Richard (who says the clip of the show makes him look bad, which I disagree with) that our show is going to air on Monday, on the FOX network. It'll be on at 10am in NYC, 1pm in LA, 12pm in St. Louis, 9am in Des Moines and if I haven't covered you, check here, and find out for yourself when it'll air locally.
Wanna see a clip? Go here! Do it now! (Warning: you won't see me until the actual show, but it'll get you revved up and excited to tape it for me. Somebody will do that, right?)
how wasabi peanuts are like guys
If you've never had a wasabi peanut, you're totally missing out. They're these little balls of fire that explode in your mouth, obliterate your sinuses and head straight for your tear ducts. Kind of like a really good date.
1. Wasabi peanuts make you doubt your preconceptions.
You think you know what you're going to get when you purchase wasabi peanuts. You think they'll be tasty, crunchy, hot -- but not too hot -- and fun to snack on. Except that's not true for every nut in there. Some are so hot you have to get up and walk it off. Some are duds. Some make you search for a glass of milk; others, you're fine with just water. Just when you think you've found the perfect balance of salt and peanut, BAM! You're smacked in the sinuses. Or, conversely, you're munching on a bland mass of peanuty goodness, when all of a sudden, enough heat kicks in, and you're in love!
You think you know what you're going to get when you purchase wasabi peanuts. You think they'll be tasty, crunchy, hot -- but not too hot -- and fun to snack on. Except that's not true for every nut in there. Some are so hot you have to get up and walk it off. Some are duds. Some make you search for a glass of milk; others, you're fine with just water. Just when you think you've found the perfect balance of salt and peanut, BAM! You're smacked in the sinuses. Or, conversely, you're munching on a bland mass of peanuty goodness, when all of a sudden, enough heat kicks in, and you're in love!
2. Too much is not always a good thing.
It's almost as much fun to think about eating wasabi peanuts than it is to actually eat them. Especially when you first start eating wasabi peanuts, it's important to find the balance between the fun of the crucnhy saltball and the pain of busted sinuses. I like knowing they're in my desk, taking them out every couple of hours and popping one in my mouth. When I have four in a row, I kind of want to die a little.
3. Neither belongs up your nose.
4. It's fun talking about wasabi peanuts with your friends.
Especially if your friends have tried eating wasabi peanuts. Then they know the secrets -- like how inhaling through your nose can actually decrease the pain of a wasabi burn. They can teach you some tricks, like using your hand to fan your face (it both dries your tears and gives you enough fresh air to stay alive).
5. Wasabi peanuts are entertaining.
Ok, so you can't talk to them or send them emails, but wasabi peanuts can make you chuckle when you're all alone at your desk. That's worth something.
6. Wasabi peanuts are not a meal.
A girl cannot subsist on wasabi peanuts alone. She must eat a balanced diet which is accentuated and enlivened by the occasional wasabi peanut.
7. They look so disarmingly cute, it's easy to forget how hard they kick.
Just because it's been a few days since your last wasabi peanut and you've forgotten what it was like, don't expect it to be the same this time. They can always surprise you. Nonetheless, you should be prepared, just in case it was like last time (when you ended up sticking your nose in the sink thinking it would help).
8. You either love them, or you don't.
And, boy howdy, do I love them!
Tuesday, November 7, 2006
a few scattered thoughts
1. Remember this? 
Now it looks like this:
Yes, I have some very important pear eating to do later today. (and yes, in the interim I've acquired a really cool magnetic wipe-off board which current reads, "Kate Rocks? Yes!"
Now it looks like this:
Yes, I have some very important pear eating to do later today. (and yes, in the interim I've acquired a really cool magnetic wipe-off board which current reads, "Kate Rocks? Yes!"
2. Chocolate cupcakes, while delicious, do not make a good breakfast.
3. Has everyone voted today? If not, go and do it! And, while you're there, consider voting the working families party line. They back the democratic candidates in all the major NY offices, so you're essentially voting democrat, but giving a smaller and lesser known party some important backing and support. More about them here. And over at procrastinet, RJ has some really good political writing (go here).
4. So they're trying to move the Intrepid from its mooring at 42nd Street, except that it's totally stuck. The museum is a client of ours, so one of my bosses went there yesterday for the big removal party, and she called early to say that things weren't going well, but that she wanted to stick around to hear the really big suck sound that the ship was likely to make after all those years in the mud. If that had happened, how utterly gratifying would it have been??
5. I'm a day late and a dollar short, but yesterday was Christina's birthday. Drop by and send her a happy birthday note. And check out her photos. She's super-duper hot. Moreso now that she's not bogged down with all that garbage about being in our 20s. (right?)
6. I wanted to do a whole photo essay on the geriatric pumpkins in my neighborhood, but I've waited too long now, and most of them have been sent off to the Great Pie Factory in the Sky, but this guy was along my route to work this morning. 
Maybe next year...
Monday, November 6, 2006
the Prospect Park Synchronized Dorking Team!
I like to think that I'll be one of those parents who doesn't embarrass her kids. But I'm pretty sure that's just a delusionary notion on my part. Witness the rehearsal of the Prospect Park Synchronized Dorking Team:
Lisa and I decided that two dorks swinging as one would be more entertaining than one dork swinging alone.
We were right, of course.
Lisa and I decided that two dorks swinging as one would be more entertaining than one dork swinging alone.
We were right, of course.
However, one dork swinging solo can be exceptionally entertaining.
So much so that the cameraman (her husband, RJ) may have laughed himself off kilter (he was already cursed with a bum knee and a cane, which was constantly being taken from him by his clearly cane-deprived three year old)
See? I'll never be a source of grief, shame or utter misery for my children!
Right???
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