The Frosty formerly known as Frosty-licious.

Last One. No Really.

2010-05-08T18:36:00.006-04:00

Months and months and months have gone by since I said I was going to take down this blog and I still haven't done it. Not because I'm too nostalgic, it's really not that, it's because I'm too lazy. I just don't want to deal with having to archive or download or copy-and-paste or whatever it is that's going to be required in order for me to not have Frosty-Licous up anymore. I just don't want to bother with it. And besides, I still dig this website. I dig the growing up I did when I was writing it, and I like to refer back to it once in a while when I'm writing A Serious Girl.

Which is why I've decided, once and for all, not to take down this blog. Also? You never know when I'll get the urge to post something supremely inappropriate on the Internet.

In case you're here for the first time, let me just warn you that what you'll find among these posts are the rantings of a Valley Girl in her early twenties, newly married, living in a tenement apartment in Hells Kitchen, Manhattan with her husband and four animals, and freaking the fuck out because she just moved three thousand miles away from everyone she's ever loved in her entire life. Of course she has her wonderful husband, so kind and gentle is he that he never even complained when she nicknamed him Poompy at one point, thank god she grew out of that. Anyway, that girl was me, and when I was thinking back over 2009 on the eve of 2010, I decided I wasn't that girl anymore and I wanted a new website.

Of course, as it turns out, I'm absolutely still that girl, I'm just that girl with a little bit more life under her belt, a better understanding of what she wants and enough confidence to finally go after it. You can read about my more recent antics on ASeriousGirl.com. Thanks for visiting!

One last time

2010-01-19T19:42:00.004-05:00

I guess I'm having a harder time letting go of Frosty-Licious than I thought I would. For one thing, I'm afraid you won't come read about all of my adventures on A Serious Girl. Many of you have asked me what will happen to my sense of humor over on "that new site" (I imagine you're squinching up your nose when you write that) and the answer is: I'm taking it with me! I hope. It would be awful to lose my sense of humor.

Secondly, I'm not going to have time this week to take Frosty-licious down. Actually I will have time but I'd rather spend it writing, so I'm not going to take it down this week after all.

Thirdly, just a little reminder that you can always read me at A Serious Girl, I'm really excited about what I'm writing there, come visit!

Fourthly, I just updated my profile on A Tail At A Time: The Blog and I've posted a few new entries in the last week, so swing by there too.

I may be giving up Frosty-Licious, but I have two new blogs in it's place! It's like what they say about doors closing and windows opening and all that.

Miss you.

Goodbye. For real this time.

2010-01-13T20:21:00.002-05:00

This is my last post as Frosty-licious. It's time to say good bye and move on for good. I just bought ASeriousGirl.com and that's where I want to be focusing my energy. (What little energy remains after I spend my days hauling a heavy suitcase around the five boroughs of New York City in the freezing cold.)

It's been fun, though, it really has. Good night and sweetest dreams.

I'll leave this up for one week and then au revoir! I hope you'll come visit me at www.aseriousgirl.com.

Welcome To A New Wiener, Outtakes

2010-01-07T19:24:00.006-05:00

I'm surprised no one has said anything about my fabulous new banner, but I'm not going to get upset about it considering the wonderful outpouring of support I've been getting for the new website. I am so thrilled that you've been reading it! Your comments have been wonderful and very appreciated.

But let's get back to wieners. I wanted to share these outtakes from the New Years Eve photo-shoot because, HOW HYSTERICAL IS THIS?

I would've shared these sooner but I didn't get the files until last night. Adam was the photographer, I was the stylist and Theo, of course, was the very tolerant model. These shoots are so much fun that I think I'm going to do one every month. Maybe you can even help me come up with tag lines. Like, how can one express a Valentine's Day message while cleverly using the word 'wiener'?

Be my wiener?

Happy Wiener's Day?

Be mine and I'll let you touch my wiener?

A million dollar prize* to whoever can come up with something really funny.

In the meantime, enjoy these outtakes!

*a million wiener dollars

Come play with me, come play all day

2010-01-05T07:55:00.003-05:00

A Tail At A Time's next opportunity to help save the homeless kitties of New York City. More info here.

Wet Hot Saturday Night

2010-01-04T23:00:00.002-05:00

While you may not think a financial meeting is a good way to spend a Saturday night, for us it was much hotter than a night on the town. All right, neither of us really enjoys nights on the town, we'd both rather stay in and watch a Law & Order marathon, I'll admit it. If we're feeling really crazy we'll pick up two different pints of Ben & Jerry's and swap flavors back and forth until both cartons are empty.

More here...

A Serious Girl

2010-01-01T17:36:00.012-05:00

Welcome to 2010! A shiny new year, a clean slate, a brand-new beginning.

Frosty-licious started in May of 2007. In the two years and seven months I've been writing this website I've shared hundreds of snippets from my life, dropped tidbits here and there, told stories and jokes, all the while hiding behind a mask I've worn my entire life: A Girl Who Is Pretty And That's All That Counts. The more I wrote the more I realized how I hide behind poop jokes, how I play dumb, that I'm the girl who proudly wears balls on her forehead. And frankly? I'm tired of it. I'm tired of being a cute-but-dumb joke. I'm tired of conforming to the image I think people want to see. Sure, I'll always laugh at my teabag photos, but I'm realizing there's a lot more to me than that. In 2010 I want to embrace my smart side. I want to grow up and become the role model I want for my daughters. I want to become the woman I know I can be.

This New Year is the year I will throw off the pretty little mask. This is the year I will explore and learn and wonder and fail and stand up again and be proud of what I manage to accomplish, whatever it is. This year I will let myself dream big, silly, wild dreams that could never come true because as much as I believe, unicorns don't exist. I will let myself dream sweet dreams and secret dreams and self-indulgent dreams and grown-up dreams.

This year I will stop saying mean things to the body I see in the mirror. I will feed myself and my husband healthy meals and I will exercise in ways that let me move and dance and feel good. I will love my body the way it is instead of wishing it would be different. This year I will cut out alcohol and caffeine, except for one cup of coffee in the morning and the occasional pint of beer with good friends. I will enjoy my life alone with my husband, so that when we finally have children we can say how much we looked forward to them while appreciating the time we spent before them. I will support my husband while he works and studies and I will do whatever I can to help him succeed.

This year is the year I will go back to school. My application is in, I'm just waiting to see if I am accepted and when I can start. I'm not sure what I'm going to study, but I'm leaning very far towards math and sciences. It turns out I really enjoy math, of all things, and Mike, who's been tutoring me, says I have an innate ability for it. And I've always secretly loved science, I just never thought I was smart enough to study it. I will also take a Spanish class this year, one that requires that I sit in a seat and practice with other students, out loud and in person. This year I will work and save money and we will pay off our credit card debt and start saving so that having a family won't feel like a financial disaster. This year I will go home at least once to spend time with my brothers and sisters, niece and nephews, cousins, friends, my Nani, my parents. I will fly to Seattle and spend time with my family there so I can remember where I come from.

In celebration of the new year and all I hope to accomplish, I have started a new website. A new blog. A place for me to stretch my arms without the superficial, saccharine-sweet label 'Frosty-licious'. I hated that name the moment I chose it and I've carried it around for nearly three years. I've been eager to shed that persona for a long time, I just didn't know how. Frosty-licious is too much the girl I used to be and not at all the woman I hope to grow into. She's too weighed down by the garbage I wallowed in the first two years I wrote here. It's time to clean house. Get rid of the clutter. I want room to spread out and explore. A bigger closet so I can try on different hats. A longer road for all the different shoes I walk in. An empty room so I can dance.

I'm really excited about the new website. I've been working on it for several months and I've had the opportunity to collaborate and receive guidance and advice from some wonderful people. It is an entirely new adventure and it is definitely a work in progress. I'm not sure what will happen with Frosty-licious. I may not be completely done here and the new site may turn out to be different enough that I could write regularly in both. We'll see what happens. In the mean time, I am very proud and very excited to introduce you to my new blog: A Serious Girl.

Thank you for being a part of my journey, for rallying with me, for reading my words. May 2010 hold blessings for you all. I hope to see you on my other side.

I've finally decided my future lies beyond the yellow brick road

2009-12-31T15:23:00.004-05:00

I've been thinking about my New Years Resolutions for several days, but try as I might I can't write about my resolutions without writing about all that has happened in the past year. How can we look forward without first learning from our past?

In another life I was a Certified Family Law Paralegal. I was really good at it and the certification was something I worked very hard to achieve. I wanted to be a lawyer. I studied for the LSAT. I worked for several years at something that I didn't really believe I was smart enough to accomplish and every time I reached a new milestone I wondered how I'd managed it. I figured I was just doing a really good job of fooling everyone. I felt like a fraud. Only one person in my life saw me as I saw myself. She was a lawyer in the office where I worked, a bitter woman who, whenever I asked her a question, would snort and say, "It's a good thing you're pretty." Like I said, she saw right through me.

It turns out she and I were both wrong. That's probably the most important thing I'm taking away from 2009. This was the year that I learned I'm smart. I've spent my entire life believing that I'm pretty, but I'm not very smart, so being pretty is the best quality I have. The very best thing about me is the way that I look. My favorite feature's are my eyelashes and my feminine little feet, but I also like how long my nail-beds are and the way my bellybutton is shaped. Never in a million years would I ever tell you that I like my sense of humor or that my favorite feature is the part of me that loves doing math problems.

That's kind of messed up, I realize. But this year I realized it. I became aware of it. That's pretty awesome.

This year I learned that the way I look doesn't actually mean anything. It doesn't matter. It's an accessory. I don't have to play dumb anymore. It isn't endearing or cute or funny and it doesn't feel good. I also learned a lot about my priorities. I learned what I will and won't do for my career. I learned that it's wonderful to make plans and it's wonderful for those plans to change. I learned that what I want will always grow and change because as I reach my goals they will undoubtedly shape-shift and that is the nature of the beast. That is being human.

This year was the year Mike worked his way onto the Deans List with a 4.0 GPA. He finished thirty-four credits and will be eligible for his AA by the end of summer 2010. He became a New York City Emergency Medical Technician. He unearthed all our art supplies and discovered a gift for painting and woodcarving. He spent twenty-one days hiking the JMT with his brother.

This year we learned how to be a family. We learned how to be our own, unique, special, crazy little family. We started talking about babies this year. It's still a ways off, for a variety of reasons, but for the first time in our six-year relationship we're on the same page about babies.

This year we began to explore parts of the City we'd never seen and in doing so, discovered a city we fell madly in love with. This was the year that I found space to stretch out and practice yoga. I rediscovered my love of writing. My blog went from being a place where I whined and ranted and wrote silly things I didn't really care about to being a place where I found peace and solace and comfort and joy.

This was the year I learned how much I love my extended family; my wonderful siblings and my parents, my niece, my nephews, cousins, aunts, uncles. I realized how important my roots are, and how much I have to learn about Michael's roots. I learned that I have a support group in my family; a pep squad and a team of coaches. That even when we make mistakes and hurt each other and get angry we still love one another and we are still a family.

This year I wanted a white Christmas and I got two.

The most memorable moment was when Mike said this is the year he's been happier than he's been in his entire life.

This year I fell in love with my life.

I'm really excited about the new year.

Hoarders

2009-12-30T11:21:00.002-05:00

These are just a few of the treasures I discovered when I cleaned out Theo's wormy crate today. The items I chose not to photograph included a gazillion dried out worms and several pairs of dirty panties Theo has apparently stolen from my laundry hamper. I'm thinking of writing in to the A&E Show, Hoarders. I'm worried he needs professional help I can't provide. Maybe he needs a support group or a professional organizer. Maybe he needs a therapist to help him uncover his feelings.

Have you seen Hoarders, by the way? It's amazing. I cannot watch it without immediately cleaning out and scrubbing my fridge. I now have a ridiculously clean fridge.

Good News and A Story About Scones

2009-12-29T12:42:00.005-05:00

The good news is that Theo doesn't have any parasites or creepy crawly's other than tape worm, which is apparently not a very big deal. We start his de-worming meds tonight and our vet said we don't need to worry about treating the other three animals since they are not exhibiting signs of tape worm (i.e. dropping worms out of their butts all over my bed) so it is highly unlikely that they have worms too. The other really good news is that Mike and I don't have to worry about de-worming ourselves since it is also highly unlikely that we contacted the worms. Even though they were in our bed.

Now to make up for yesterday's awful post, here is a story my mom sent me. It is true, about her, and may give you some insight as to where I get my quirks.

But first, let me preface the story by telling you that my mother loves scones. LOVES THEM. One of my happiest memories from childhood is of coming home from school to find that my mom had baked scones so that we could have a little tea-party, just the two of us. We spent the afternoon drinking pink tea and eating scones and even though I didn't like them as much as I liked marshmallow cookies, it was absolute heaven. So while my parents were in town for an early Christmas celebration, I baked a batch of raisin scones. At the end of the day there was only one scone left and I sent it back to California in a zip-lock bag so that my mother could enjoy it once she was home. This is what happened:

So, what does the Scone Lover do? What does she do, after she walks downstairs, makes a cup of tea, and turns toward her last scone (which she transported all the way from Sugar Hill, NYC)? What does she do as she turns toward The Scone with great anticipation?

And finds it, in it's plastic bag (where it was presumed to be Safe), Covered with ants? COVERED.

I'll tell you what she does. She curses, and then she puts it in the freezer. Freezes the many ant butts solid. Then takes it out, brushes the ant butts off of it, and puts the lovely scone in the toaster oven at 350. Then she Enjoys it (every mouthful), with Orange Marmalade!

I love you, Mama. Thank you for making me laugh with such a funny story! And I'm glad you got to enjoy your scone, ant butts be damned!

Theo's Christmas Gift

2009-12-28T18:42:00.006-05:00

The morning of Christmas Eve I woke up with Valentine curled against my back and little Theo in my arms. A perfect way to wake up, if you ask me. I yawned and blinked the sleep out of my eyes and Theo yawned and rolled over for a belly rub. I started scritching and scratching his belly and his chest and he wriggled all over with happiness. I reached down to scratch my favorite place on his little body - his teddy-bear bottom. I'm not talking about his anus, which is directly underneath his tail, I'm talking about the soft, padded, fluffy part behind his back legs. So I'm scratching that and then I notice what feels like four or five very small scabs. I can't see anything, but I make a mental note to keep an eye on the area in case he's chewing it raw. (When he's bored he chews at himself. I'm pretty good about keeping chews around to prevent self-mutilation-out-of-boredom, but sometimes he chews himself anyway, so I'm forever worried.)

Christmas morning I woke up the same way and gave Theo a similar rubdown. This time, I noticed more little scabs. I took a good look at the area and saw that some of the little scabs were hanging in his fur, so I plucked one out for a closer look. It didn't look like much and his skin didn't look irritated or anything, so again, I made a mental note to keep an eye on it.

At this point I should have asked my friend Val, who's home we were staying in, what she thought of the little scabs. Since she has both bred and rescued dogs, she'd probably have known. But I wasn't that concerned and by the time I'd made it into her kitchen for coffee I had forgotten all about it.

Fast forward to yesterday morning. We'd let the dogs sleep in bed with us again, and even though it was the third night in a row, it still felt like a special treat. Again I woke up with little Theo, sweet in my arms. I gave him his morning rubdown and made sure to check his bottom to see if anything had changed. The little scabs were still there, but no worse than they'd been. However, when I got out of bed I noticed that the bed was full of little scabs. Little scabs sprinkled all over my sheets like cookie crumbs. Did I mention that they were all over my sheets? The sheets on my bed where I sleep?

"That is very strange." I wondered out-loud.

"What is?" Mike asked.

"Theo is shedding little scabs all over our sheets."

I pointed to the scattering of scabs sprinkled all over my side of the bed. Mike had no idea what they were either, but he suggested we collect them in a small container and bring them to our veterinarian, just to be on the safe side. Then we changed our sheets and decided the dogs could just go back to sleeping in their crates, that would be perfectly all right with us. I checked Theo's bottom several more times throughout the day because by now I was a little bit worried, but nothing changed. The scabs didn't look any worse, I never caught him chewing the area, it was a complete mystery. And then this morning he shit a pile of live worms.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Six Days of Christmas

2009-12-27T16:22:00.004-05:00

There are toys for girls and boys
Silver bells make merry noise
Yet, you should remember from the start
Christmas is a feeling in your heart

Lucky little me got to celebrate Christmas all week this year. From Sunday, December 20th, to Saturday, December 26th, Christmas was the feeling in my heart.

My parents attended a seminar in Massachusetts last weekend and so they swung into the city for two nights afterward. They showed up at the tail-end of a Nor'Easter that dropped more snow on the city than I've seen living on the East Coast for three years, their arms loaded with brightly wrapped gifts, as if they themselves were Santa's elves. It was a very merry White Christmas indeed. Mike made a turkey with all the fixings and we spent Monday and Tuesday eating, visiting, opening presents and basking in Christmas delight.

[Insert photo of Christmas merriment]

[Photo not taken because I was too busy enjoying the merriment to pause and take photos.]

Wednesday I had to work and catch up on chores and pay attention to my responsibilities, but I did manage to squeeze in a couple of hours to bake my traditional mutilated ginger-people:

By the time you read this, I will have eaten the last of them.

Thursday we packed up the dogs and headed to Esopus, New York to spend the holidays with some friends in their beautiful cedar house in the forest. Christmas Day included a real wood-burning fire, softly falling snow, eight Alaskan Malamutes, a herd of deer, and freely-flowing wine.

Saturday morning it suddenly occurred to me that our Christmas week was over and I hadn't taken a single photo. No pictures of my parents opening presents, none of Mike's turkey or my lemon meringue pie. No photos of the Malamutes or the wild turkeys roaming the woods or the beautiful stag and his herd of does. No photos of the perfect snowfall Christmas night or the look on my face when I ate my first oyster (which was a look of pure bliss, if you'd like to know). And I don't mind, actually. Most of the time the memories in my head are much more beautiful than anything my camera captures. But we did snap this, or tried to anyway, next time we'll at least drink a cup of coffee before we attempt any self-portraits.

Here we are Saturday morning, our eyes still full of sleep. What looks like a snow-field behind us is actually an enormous fishing pond that is apparently one of the best places for bass fishing in New York state. In January and February you can go ice fishing here. I'm much more interested in ice skating, but at this point in the season that would be a very unsafe idea.

Merry Christmahanakwanzika to you and yours. I'm off to bed, warm, sleepy, and thinking all about New Years Eve. Which is in four days. What, what? FOUR DAYS. Have you thought about your new years resolutions yet? Because I have. And they're really good.

Greenlit

2009-12-23T13:20:00.000-05:00

All signs point to GO!

Harlem, November 2009

Shameless

2009-12-20T10:14:00.000-05:00

News! News! News!

Vincent Lin, the director of the film I shot in September, just launched a brand new website for the movie. Check it out HERE!

It's not a merry season for all.

2009-12-18T11:20:00.007-05:00

I want you to meet some Bronx beauties. This is Gizmo:

This gorgeous boy is Mickey:

Here is Toby:

This funny girl is Lara:

Here we have Teddy:

And last, but certainly not least, is Elizabeth:

Every single one of these kitties was euthanized this past Monday morning to make more room at the shelter. Each cat was under the age of five, sweet, friendly, and perfectly adoptable. Their fates were sealed by the sheer number of animals stuffed into shelters on a daily basis.

I've recently started volunteering for A Tail At A Time, a no-kill animal rescue that pulls animals from the euthanasia lists at Animal Care and Control and takes in animals off the street. A Tail At A Time doesn't have a shelter location; instead we rely entirely on people willing to foster homeless animals in their homes. The rescue pays for all medical expenses; volunteers provide food and love.

If you're in the New York area and you have space in your life to give a temporary home to an animal who will otherwise be euthanized for space, please email info@atailatatime.org. If you're interested but need more information, you can visit the website at www.atailatatime.org or the blog, www.atailatatimerescue.blogspot.com. (This blog, by the way, is one of the ways I am volunteering. Since Mike and I have five animals, we are unable to foster. Instead I help out at fundraisers, adoption events, and this week I started writing the rescue blog. It was previously written by one of the lovely women who founded the rescue.)

Thousands of cats and dogs are euthanized in this country on a daily basis. Many of them are puppies and kittens born from animals who's owners didn't bother to spay or neuter. It never fails to amaze me when a pet owner doesn't want to neuter because they think it's cruel to remove their pet's testicles. I balk when I meet pet owners who think it would be "cute" to let their pet have babies because their pet is so cute! And the babies would be so cute! And it would be fun! It isn't cute. Irresponsible breeding results in the death of innocent animals, no matter how "cute" they are. Just ask the kitties pictured above. Oh, wait. You can't. They're dead.

No matter where you live, I urge you to think about ways you can help save animals in your community, whether it's making sure to have your own pet spayed or neutered, whether it's adopting instead of purchasing a pet from a pet store, whether you volunteer for a local rescue or petition for your local animal shelter to transition from kill to no-kill, do something wonderful before the year is out. Save a life.

Textures

2009-12-15T06:29:00.002-05:00

I am so excited about this.

Weeks and weeks ago Michael and I got a beautiful new sofa. We were all too happy to toss our sad old sofa to the curb. I mean, I loved the old sofa when we bought it, I did. It served us for four hearty years. Four years of claw-sharpening, accidents, sick-ups, party-fouls and even a cross-country move. However, as excited as I was to get it out of my home and replace it with something bigger, newer and more beautiful, I am not one to throw things away if they may still have some use. Since the majority of the damage done to the sofa was on the arms and back and the actual sofa cushions were in fine shape, I took an idea my mother gave me and I ran with it. I cut the seat cushions off the sofa and kept the back cushions, then I made it my mission to find beautiful fabric with which to make new cushion covers, so the cushions could be used and comfy floor pillows and throw pillows, respectively.

The sofa is a white and brown design that reminds me of an antique wood engraving. I was already in possession of a red fabric that I thought very cleverly clashed with the sofa, so my goal was to pick three more fabrics that would also cleverly clash; three bold designs in bright colors that would be edgy and classy, at the same time.

Valentine poses on the new sofa.

Draped behind her is the red fabric I already had.

I love the way the color and pattern looks

with the wood-print design of the sofa.

One recent Saturday, I spent several hours nosing around in a fabric shop in the garment district. As soon as I walked in I was immediately overwhelmed by the choices in the tiny shop. I poked around, looked at a few fabrics, and then my eyes fell on a blue swordfish pattern.

Valentine demonstrates the luxurious ease with which

one may recline upon the glorious swordfish

sofa-cushions-reincarnated-as-floor-pillows.

I was in love. The fabric reminded me of my father. The walls of his office bear antique prints of whales and massive fish and giant squid. They are beautiful and I remember the afternoon in Maui when he bought them with great fondness. I wanted that swordfish fabric.

But I wasn't going to buy the swordfish fabric. That would be silly. It wouldn't match anything else in the apratment. It would look stupid. Mike would hate it. It's too nautical. It's too fanciful. It's too expensive.

I wandered around the tiny, packed shop, sweating in my coat, trying to find something for the pillows. After nearly an hour of hopeless wandering, a sales girl came to my rescue.

"Can I help you find something?"

"Oh, yes. I am having such a hard time. I feel like I don't know how to match anything!"

"That's Ok! It can get frustrating with so many choices. What are you looking for?

I knew I wanted three contrasting prints in bold colors, but that somehow tied in together and tied in with the sofa. I wanted something wild and loud, yet chic and mature.

"Something edgy and classy at the same time."

She gave me a tight smile. Then she showed me dozens of paisley, swirly, polk-dot patterns that were pretty, sure, but not at all what I was looking for.

"Do you think I could match this with this?" I held up something with yellow and green grasshoppers, and something else with yellow, green and pink stripes.

"Um, no. Absolutely not. That's a bad idea."

"Really?"

"Yes. How about this?" She held up a green-on-green tie-dye and a solid green fabric.

I sighed. She didn't understand my vision.

I spent another thirty minutes wandering from one bright bolt of cloth to the next before I finally decided, Fuck It.

Fuck It.

I wanted the swordfish fabric, I was just going to buy it. The moment I decided to let myself have the swordfish fabric, I immediately found a second print I adored. This print was gold and blue, the same blue as the sword fish, but the print reminded me exactly of the print my mother used to paper the walls in the downstairs bathroom in the house I grew up in. I grabbed that too.

I may be able to cleverly clash prints,

but my sewing leaves something to be desired.

After that it was easy. The next print I pulled off the shelf tied everything together with gold, red, touches of blue, green and purple, and the same shaped flowers that are printed on the sofa and the red fabric pictured above.

Theo demonstrates how easy it is to be classy and edgy, at the same time!

Voila! Bright, bold patterns that don't quite match, yet look great. If I'd just let myself get what I wanted from the moment I walked into the store, an hours-long errand would have been a fifteen minute errand. The lesson to be learned? Ignore sales people.

Ghost Hunters

2009-12-14T12:49:00.000-05:00

My brother is lucky enough to be married to the hot blonde:

And also? Contrary to what the commentators (if they can be called that) are trying to say with their horrid spelling, punctuation and grammar, it's actually NOT fake. It's 100% real, folks. 100% real.

H1N1, The Sequel

2009-12-13T15:54:00.001-05:00

The funny thing is that I started this post last week just after I'd gotten over a stomach bug that had me hugging the toilet after every meal for seven days straight. But then I ended up writing this instead. And maybe I'm psychic or maybe it's because I mentioned it on my blog - could I actually will myself ill by naming a post after the swine flu? - but lordy lordy I haven't been this sick in ages. I mean, my throat is killing me. And my ears hurt and my head hurts and my joints ache and all I want is for Michael to fix me tea and pet my head and watch Meet Me in St. Louis with me. But he's busy trying to finish up a very special Christmas present he's making for his brother and so I'm left to whimper quietly on my own.

Speaking of Christmas, Crazy Aunt Purl just likened December to -- hold on, let me just quote her directly:

December is a weird month anyway, it's like one of those trick clocks that you wind up and it starts to go faster and faster until the hands are racing around the face of the clock, speeding up each day like a cartoon of anxiety until it pops all it springs and flops over dead.

Just as I was oblivious to the anniversary of when Valentine grabbed ahold of our hearts and made us take her home, I've been pretty oblivious to the Christmas spirit. It's not intentional, it's just that time has developed this relatively irritating habit of flying by so fast that I can barely keep up. Wasn't Halloween just last week? And Thanksgiving, that's still a few weeks away, isn't it? No? I'm not ready to get into the holiday spirit because I can't wrap my head around the fact that Christmas is less than two weeks away.

Every year I swear that THIS will be the year wherein I am finally on top of my game. THIS will be the year that I have all my shopping done by October, I will have all my gifts and cards sent out by December 1st, I will spend my evenings baking pies and decorating cookies and I will enjoy a holiday season that is relaxing and lovely and perfectly joyful. And every year ends up being exhausting, frustrating and anxiety-laden.

It's December 13th and not only am I not done with my shopping, which guarantees that I will not get any of my gifts mailed out in time, but I just received an email that the holiday cards I ordered TWO WEEKS AGO have been delayed AGAIN and probably won't arrive for AT LEAST ANOTHER WEEK.

Merry F-ing Christmas.

You know what? I'm feeling pretty grinchy after all.

This will be our third Christmas in New York, the third year in a row we've chosen not to chance holiday travel but instead to have a cozy little Christmas in the city. The first Christmas here was very hard. We didn't have the money or the space for a Christmas tree and I was so homesick I spent nearly the entire day in tears. Our second New York Christmas started out with my love and I fighting over whether or not a tree and decorations were wasteful and materialistic or necessary ingredients for a happy Christmas. Then when Mike surprised me with a beautiful little tree and spent a day helping me make decorations he ultimately taught me that it's not the stuff that matters: What matters is the feeling in your heart.

I went there.

This year I'm not very homesick at all. A little bit, sure. But my parents are coming to spend a few days with us and since last year was so lovely, I'm actually looking forward to our very own little Christmas. I even went ahead and suggested we substitute a tree for a lovely poinsettia, and Mike was so thrilled he brought one home that very day.

A few nights later we bought some eggnog, brought out our Christmas mugs, and spent the evening hanging lights around the apartment. It looks a little like a college dorm now, but I don't mind.

Then we decided to have a little fun:

Ta da! Christmas tomato plant!

Who needs a whole tree when you've got an enormous tomato plant? This, by the way, is the same tomato plant that was given to us at the beginning of the summer. She's grown, no?

And then there's Gavin:

Gavin Elfkin

Gavin left West Hollywood last year to try to make it on the New York Christmas Elf scene. He booked a job immediately, as the Frosty Family Elf.

Grinchy, distracted, busy and oblivious, the Christmas spirit has a way of creeping in and taking over, much like H1N1, which hopefully is not what I have.

I hope you enjoyed this very un-merry post. I'm going to go back to bed so I can hide under the covers until January. Until then, drink lots of fluids, don't go outside with wet hair and be sure to get plenty of rest!

It's catching, like H1N1, only funner

2009-12-10T19:38:00.006-05:00

How about a little vintage Valentine:

Christmas, 2005

Tuesday was Valentine's 4th Rescue Anniversary. I just realized that. Four years ago this past Tuesday, Michael and I were spending another afternoon at the Los Angeles Animal Shelter in Van Nuys. We had been fostering dogs from a local rescue group for about five months and we knew we were finally ready to adopt a dog of our own. We didn't want to adopt through a no-kill rescue because even though they are the rescues we support, we knew that those dogs were safe. A dog in a no-kill rescue is a saved dog. We wanted to go right to the source and find a city shelter dog close to the euth list*. Since all of our foster dogs had been large and cat-hungry, we wanted to find a dog small enough that if it tried to go after Toby or Amelia it would get it's little dog-butt kicked. We didn't care about the age, sex or breed.

We drove to the shelter on a cool Monday afternoon with the top down on the Mustang and Bing Crosby's White Christmas playing on the stereo while we held hands over paper cups of holiday coffee. We were in love and it was Christmas and we were adopting a puppy. Well, probably not a puppy, probably a fully grown dog, but still.

That afternoon we met lots of dogs who were sweet and terrified and each one broke my heart a thousand times. But I couldn't make a choice. They were all great dogs; how could I choose one and not the other? I fell hard for a ten-year-old blind three-legged chihuahua whom I wanted to name 'Scrappy', but Mike felt uncomfortable making a commitment to a dog that would clearly require medical care well beyond our budget. I couldn't argue with that. We went home that night with empty arms and heavy hearts.

The next day, December 8, 2005, we decided to try again, only this time we spent the drive to Van Nuys in silence. I was dreading the afternoon. I hated the cold corridors and full cages at the pound. I didn't want to have to wander from kennel to kennel listening to the terrified crying of hundreds of beautiful, discarded dogs. I didn't want to have to choose one and turn my back on the rest.

We hadn't been at the pound for very long when I found Mike squatting in front of a little, yellow, rat-like mutt. I had had enough. I buried my face in his shoulder.

"Let's go. I'm done here."

"What do you mean? We just got here." He looked surprised.

"I can't do this right now. This was a terrible idea. Let's just go home." I'd lost hope.

"Hold on. We can go if you want, but before we do, did you see this one?"

He was pointing at the little yellow dog, a scrawny thing with a terrible over-bite, big sagging nipples and a rat tail. She was stretched up against the chain-link, her paws hooked so that she looked like she was hanging on for dear life, but her tail wagged happily. There were eight other dogs in the kennel with her, every one cowering in the back corner.

"Can we just go? Please?" I turned to walk away.

"Wait, wait, wait. Let's just take her out and say hi."

I turned back to him. The little dog cocked her head to one shoulder. I took a step closer and knelt down. She was kind of cute. Kind of ugly, but kind of cute. One of her little cellmates crept up beside her, tail wagging, looking for some love. She whipped her head around, bared her buck teeth and snapped at the perceived intruder.

"Whoa. Did you see that? She's all, Keep away, Bitch! These are MY people!"

Mike grinned at me. "You want to take her out?"

I did.

That was how we met Valentine. All we know about her life before us is what we read on her kennel card: She'd been picked up off the street on October 26, 2005. No tags, no chip. No one had claimed her, no one had come looking for her. She was an unaltered female, one to two-years-old. In bold red ink the card warned, "To be handled with CAUTION."

She hasn't changed that much. She looks less like a buck-toothed rat and more like a dog, but I'd still recommend handling her with caution. Why we chose her over all those other dogs? We didn't. She chose us. If you've ever adopted a pet, you know exactly what I mean.

Please note the rat-tail.

But actually, I didn't even mean to tell you that story, this was supposed to be a post about Christmas but then I sat down to write and found that photo of Valentine and remembered what day it was** and I ended up writing this. The title of this post actually refers to the post I intended to write, only now it doesn't make any sense at all.

Anyway, my point is that there's been a lot going on lately and time is passing so quickly that I cannot even believe Christmas is in less than three weeks. It's not that I'm feeling grinchy or scroogey, I just don't feel like it's Christmas yet. It can't be. It was just summer YESTERDAY.

Only it wasn't. Yesterday it was freezing and I had to wear six layers of clothing under my heavy wool coat and I was cold anyway. Yes, I'm completely exaggerating, but it is in the low thirties and even though Mike, who was raised in Michigan, keeps telling me that it's not cold out, I grew up in the San Fernando Valley where it is currently seventy-five and beachy and I say that it is VERY COLD OUT.

So apparently Christmas is going to be here in a minute and I'm completely unprepared. But I am getting into the holiday spirit anyway, and even beginning to enjoy it, as you can see with my new holiday header.

Isn't that great, by the way? That would have been our Christmas card this year, but Mike was worried about offending people, so instead our Christmas card is completely benign and completely boring. My dream Christmas card would be all of us at Frosty-licious doing the nativity. Theo could be the baby Jesus, Mike would be Joseph, I'd be Mary, the cats would be the angels and Valentine would be pooping in the corner***. Wouldn't that be great?

This post is now so full of random segue's that if I don't sign out soon I'll start writing about the audition I have tomorrow for my favorite show ever and I wouldn't want to do that, so I'll say good night.

Coming up next: A post about why Christmas is like the Swine Flu!

*Euthanasia list

**We don't actually do anything in celebration of the pets adoption days, it's just nice to take note.

***In case you didn't know, in Catalonia, Spain, it is traditional for the nativity to have a little pooping man. His name is El Caganer and here is a blurb from Wikipedia if you don't believe me.

Spain
El caganer
In 2005, the city council of Barcelona, Spain commissioned a nativity scene which did not include the region's traditional nativity figure, elcaganer, a red-capped defecating character which is not a part of the nativity narrative but simply an expression of the irreverent scatological humour of southwestern Europe.^[51] The council claimed the character set a bad example as sanitation laws against public elimination had recently been passed.^[52] The council's decision was viewed as an attack on Catalonian tradition, and, following a campaign against it, el caganer was restored to the nativity scene in 2006. In addition to the traditional caganer, other characters have appeared assuming the caganerposition. In 2008, a "pooper" of Barack Obama was made available just days after his election as the President of the United States of America.^[53]

Contemplating a blank canvas

2009-12-09T08:38:00.000-05:00

A very merry wiener, outtakes

2009-12-08T21:56:00.004-05:00

Sometimes my wiener falls asleep when I'm playing with it.

Toby Toes

2009-12-07T08:22:00.000-05:00

The wall is not on fire

2009-12-06T08:38:00.000-05:00

Autumn, 2009

Jewel in Central Park

2009-12-05T08:34:00.000-05:00

Saturday Afternoon

2009-12-03T08:20:00.000-05:00

Working on the headboard he's making me...

City dogs experience unadulterated joy

2009-12-02T08:37:00.001-05:00

Yeah... pretty much no one should ever visit Harlem.

Wouldn't want to experience a serene city park, would you?

I figured it out.

2009-12-01T23:01:00.004-05:00

This blog started long ago, on a misty, grey afternoon in May of 2007. Back when I still had hopes that "the rainy season" would end soon, when I was cutting my bangs too short and when I thought I looked good in puffy-sleeved dresses. The first post was a flippant one-liner, something I agonized over because I had no idea what I was doing or why I was doing it. What was a blog? I had no idea. I read a few blogs, blogs written by close friends, and they were all kinds of different. I decided that blogs were a little like online journals - journals you wouldn't mind everyone and their dog's mother having access to. So I started writing a little online journal. I did not censor myself at all.

I don't believe in censorship as we think of it in regards to great literary works and newspaper articles written by educated journalists and things like that. But when it comes to self-censorship? Let's just say that blogging taught me a little about not writing everything that just pops into my head. Because what you say is what you say. But what you write? It's there forever.

So that was a good lesson.

In the last year or so, this blog has almost become ... I hesitate to say it because of how much it will sound like I'm squeezing it out of a velveeta bottle, but this blog has become my friend. And the fact that you read it once in a while? That you come back and read after I've taken off and disappeared for weeks on end? And you only ever say nice things. It's kind of amazing. I wish you knew how grateful I am to you. You bring me a tremendous amount of joy. Your comments put a smile on my face for hours.

All that being said, for as long as I've been writing here I haven't really known what I was writing about. It was actually a lot easier when I was in the obnoxious-wussy-whining stage because it didn't take any time or energy, really. I'd just open my blogger page, type something like, "as;lkdfjiouwe;LKEJ; ROIU WALEKRFJ;S LKDFJ A;SOID FU;LSKDFJ S;LKDFJ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" then write, "That's me screaming in type," and that was that. (Ah! Remember the good old days?) But since I've actually started caring about what I write and whether or not you'll like reading it, this writing has become something I'm really proud of. And don't say that I shouldn't care whether or not you like what I write because, Damnit, I am an ENTERTAINER. I LIVE TO ENTERTAIN. IF I AM NOT ENTERTAINING YOU THEN AS;DLKFJWOPIURELW K;AEJRA;SLKDF J;ASIODFUAOPSI EFJA;KLSDFJ!!!!!! I WILL JUST SCREAM IN TYPE ALL DAY LONG.

But I do care. And so I vow to never again subject you to that kind of mind-numbing irritation ever again.

So what am I writing about? Most of the blogs I read are mommy blogs written by young mom's raising little kids. Dooce is my favorite because she has the same sense of humor I do, and I like Girl's Gone Child's whole alterna-mom thing, but my blog isn't a mommy blog because I don't have kids. It isn't a blog about dogs, even though I talk about the crazy mutts a lot. It's not a blog about being an actor in New York because out of over 400 posts, only 30 are about acting. It's not about cooking or baking, electronics or photography, so what's it about?

It's a blog about family.

Did you figure this out ages ago and I'm only just now catching on?

Last year I tried to read this book my dad lent me, about managing one's time. I gave up in the first chapter because the book asked me what I would do if I found out I was going to die in six months. I didn't like my answer so I walked away from it.

Would you like to know what I would do if I found out I only had six months to live?

I would do whatever it took to spend every waking second surrounded by my family. I would move back to Los Angeles and I would spend every moment possible with the wild and beautiful clan that I was lucky enough to be born into. And of course, every private moment I'd spend in the arms of my wonderful husband.

Moving to New York taught me about family, and how to be a family with Michael. I don't know how to explain it except to say that until we moved to New York, until we went through that fucking awful year together and came out of it stronger and happier and more in love than I ever imagined was possible, we weren't really a family. Before we moved, he was my boyfriend, my partner, my team member, blah blah. We got married and that was great and relationships take work but are totally worth it. We spent years in couples counseling and had epic arguments and a storybook romance to keep it all worthwhile. We had all this great, awesome, important stuff. But now? Now he is a part of me. He is my family. Even though a forensics guy would never say so, Michael's blood beats through my heart.

This blog is about family.

Part 3 of That Nasty Post

2009-12-01T08:08:00.005-05:00

I took a deep breath. The moment of truth had begun. One at a time, the head judge called the contestants to the stage. Each contestant was required to bring their entry to the stage, hold it up for the audience to view, then give a short speech about their work. The first person who came out was a woman who'd brought an eagle her dad's best friend's brother had killed and stuffed himself. She'd grown up dressing the eagle in baby clothes and pushing it around in a pram. She loved this eagle because she thought it was really funny that her dad's best friend's brother killed the eagle and stuffed it.

Not quite what I had expected.

The next woman works as a professional bug-pinner for the Natural History Museum. She'd brought four tiny diorama's she'd created, anthropomorphizing various South American beetles. She mentioned how she keeps the beetles in her freezer next to her roommates Skinny Cows until she's ready to use them. Based on what she said about her work, I am certain that those diorama's were beautiful and compelling, but I couldn't see them. I couldn't see them because the stage upon which the contestants work was displayed was lit for a sweaty band of boys playing bad renditions of Iggy Pop hits, not for the art I was hoping to see.

The next guy was a short, round, sweaty, fast-talking Japanese guy with an accent so thick I could hardly understand a word he was saying. He used his own taxidermied skin to create squid-baby, two-headed baby and mer-girl. He tried to explain his process - I understood that "summer is best time peal skin" but I'm still not sure if he was actually skinning himself or just using flaked sun-burnt skin. Either way, it would have been really great if I could have actually seen his sculptures. But I could not.

I also couldn't see the eight-hour old yorkie puppie that had been given to the taxidermist by a devastated breeder who'd never lost a puppy. I could kind of make out the plastic skeleton being sold off as Mickey Mouse's actual skeleton and I did not think it was funny or clever or interesting. I was also not amused by the woman who entered into the contest a skull she found on a trip to New Mexico but she wasn't sure what it was, a shellacked alligator-head she bought at a Rite-Aid in Louisiana and a "really cool rock" that she alleged might have a dinasour fossil in it, but she wasn't sure, and she'd love to know if the judges thought so. I was even less interested when the same woman proceeded to read aloud an ad she'd found on the internet for a stuffed piranha from Japan. The ad was obviously written by a person who did not speak English as a first language, yet this "really cool rock" woman seemed to feel that making vicious remarks about someone's ability to write in a language not their own had some relevancy to a rogue taxidermy contest. However, it wasn't until a woman who's contest entry was a bottle of deer's urine and her entire talk was a sales pitch for a particular brand of deer urine that her father manufactures, I decided I'd had enough. Sure, Rabmer, the soft-mounted under-sea jack rabbit was incredible, but it was after ten o'clock and we had an hour ahead of us on the train and I just couldn't take it anymore.

The evening was a crushing disappointment. I haven't been that disappointed in at least four hours, but if I learned one thing, it was this:

DON'T MAKE EYE-CONTACT WITH THE HIPSTERS.

Click here for Part 1

Click here for Part 2

Happy Belated Thanksgiving

2009-11-30T08:16:00.001-05:00

Thanksgiving Apple Pie

Created from scratch,

by yours truly

~~~

And how was your Thanksgiving?

That Nasty Post, Continued

2009-11-28T19:19:00.004-05:00

And the answer to last week's Question Of The Week is:

C) You'd let a Very Boring Woman give a Very Boring Speech about a Very Boring Book she wrote, follow it with a psychedelic movie about a deer's butt and then let random people come up from the audience to show whatever the fuck they felt like showing, while they yelled into a microphone about how their dad's friend's brother was a taxidermist who preferred stuffing eagles he killed over all other creatures.

---

The contest started at nine and it did not begin with an introduction to the rogue taxidermists who's work would be on display, no it did not. Instead, it started with The World's Most Boring Woman giving The World's Most Boring Speech. Who was this Boring Woman? A taxidermist? No. She's an author trying to sell the book she just published about taxidermy. Maybe I'd buy the book, maybe if she had cared enough about her book to make a smart marketing decision and hire someone to play her, because the real and actual her was so boring that if I had to choose between having hot needles shoved under my fingernails or listening to that Boring Woman give another speech, you can bet I'd go for the hot needles.

Next, there was an art film. It's too bad I can't accurately type out the sarcasm with which I use the words art film. They played a psychadelic art film about an endangered creature known as the "rumpape". From what I gathered, a rumpape is a face made out of a deer's stomach and placed into his butt. It looks a little like a monkey, but not really. The most surprising thing about the movie was that it actually succeeded in offending me.

You read that right.

The rumpape movie offended me. Me. Me, the woman who has planned to have Valentine freeze-dried and posed as if she's humping a pillow, because that is how I will want to remember her after she dies. I was slightly offended by the rumpape.

It was then, in the after-sting of slight offendedness, that the contest finally began. At nine-thirty. A full two hours after the show was scheduled to start.

To Be Continued...

By now you think I'm lying

2009-11-27T13:25:00.006-05:00

Taxidermy? What? (It's coming, I swear.)

I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving. I had an absolutely lovely Thanksgiving. It was nearly ruined by a carton of half-and-half, but luckily for me Archie is a quick thinker.

As long as you came here looking for the second half of The Nastiest Post Ever and didn't find it, would you do me an enormous favor? Mike is working on a paper about the Healthcare Reform for his Critical Thinking class and he has to have as many people as possible take a survey. It's short and sweet and takes less than five minutes. Also? You'll win a free ice cream cone, which you will receive upon your next visit to New York City.

Click here for ice cream!

Phone Blogging - Not the same.

2009-11-24T19:26:00.002-05:00

Hi friends! Blogging by phone cuz my internet is down. Next post is so great, too - all about a guy who taxidermys his own skin. Check back soon! xo

This may be the nastiest post I've written

2009-11-23T08:53:00.005-05:00

tax*i*der*my

noun

the art of preparing, stuffing, and mounting the skins of animals with lifelike effect.

Last week I was flipping through Time Out New York --

It just occurred to me that most of my readers are related to me, live in Southern California, and have no idea what Time Out New York (TONY) is.

It is my belief that at one time, TONY magazine was a great vehicle for finding interesting things to do in the city, great places to shop, the best places to eat, et cetera. Unfortunately, the TONY that I know is a giant wad of advertisements with four pages at the end detailing all of the places to go if you want to get spanked, poop on someone's face, find someone to watch you have sex with your stuffed panda and which porn shops specialize in celebrity look-alike movies with matching dolls.

Last week I was flipping through TONY because, I don't know, it was there and, ALL RIGHT I'LL ADMIT IT. I like reading about the people who think it's hot to wear butt-plugs shaped like horsey tails. It makes me laugh. So I'm flipping through TONY and I come across an ad for:

Drumroll, please.

......

A ROGUE TAXIDERMY CONTEST.

IN BROOKLYN.

......

I almost freaked out. My first thought was, Mike will never go. And it's in Brooklyn. That's like, eight hours away.

My next thought was: IT'S A ROGUE TAXIDERMY CONTEST AND IT'S IN MY CITY.

Do you know what rogue taxidermy is? I didn't either. But I started having these visions --visions of incredible, beautiful, enchanting, bizarre creatures, sculptures made of once living flesh, two-headed rats and four-nippled snakes. I did a quick little internet search for "rogue taxidermy" and read about these artists who use donated pets, roadkill, and other animals who've died of totally natural causes or met with accidental disasters, and they create these incredible works of art using dead flesh as their medium.

Is that not absolutely right up my alley? It absolutely is!

In reality, I wasn't very impressed with the pictures of dead-things art that I saw online. They were all right, but the stuff I was seeing in my head was so much cooler. I just knew that those photos weren't even important. The photos were barely the tip of the ice berg. This rogue taxidermy contest? It was going to be the zenith of my fantasies. It was going to be the end all be all answer to my questions about life and who I am and what I should be doing and what my secret dreams are. This contest was going to change me, forever.

Do you remember when I wrote about how big my expectations get? I'm just saying.

*Weird coincidence: I talk about roadkill in that post too.*

So I get all these ideas in my head. And before I know it, I am more excited about this rogue taxidermy contest than I can remember being about anything in ages, except maybe when I booked that Life On Mars episode. (But I won't mention how that was almost a year ago, because I wouldn't want to make myself feel bad or anything.)

By last Friday I was more excited about a rogue taxidermy contest than I had been about anything in a really long time. Saturday felt like the longest day of my life. Sunday I was practically hysterical. I was showered, dressed, had walked the dogs, had my shoes on, my purse packed, ready to walk out the door by ten o'clock in the morning, a full six-and-a-half hours before it was actually time to go.

I trust you understand the weight of that small detail.

We arrived at the venue at seven-thirty on the dot, and proceeded to wait around for an hour-and-a-half because although the contest was scheduled to begin at seven-thirty sharp, it did not begin until nine. NINE. Nine. They were running an hour-and-a-half behind schedule. They might as well have ripped out my heart.

Question: If you were hosting a rogue taxidermy contest, what would be the first order of business after making your excited audience members wait an hour-and-a-half for your contest to begin?

A) You'd introduce the evening's contestants to the audience.

B) You'd give a short talk about rogue taxidermy and then introduce the contestants.

To be continued...

Like a pretty little weed

2009-11-19T20:44:00.008-05:00

Whoooeee. It's been, what? A week since I posted? Yeah... I've been putting it off. Avoiding it. Procrastinating. Deliberately delaying.

It's because I'm afraid y'all are going to hold me accountable for the fact that you gave me such fabulous advice recently (see here and here), and while I've tried out your suggestions, I'm still engaging in naughty behaviors.

I really did try your suggestions though. I want you to know that. They were excellent suggestions and I am eternally grateful for your advice. In fact, it is because I reached out to you and because you answered that I was able to finally come to the realization that I really just enjoy taking my sweet-ass time to get ready in the morning. I like the ritual in brewing my morning coffee and then sipping it while I wander around the apartment, imagining what kind of floor lamp I'd want to put there and how nice a little table lamp will look once Mike builds that custom dog crate he's been talking about building. And oh! (sips coffee) Look at what Mike did with the shadows on that mountain landscape! The mountain actually looks different in the morning light than it did last night. (sip) I think I'll just curl up on the sofa for a minute and rub Amelia's belly. Oh yes, (sip) this is lovely.

Do you see?

Last week there was a morning where I was forced to get ready to go in an hour and IT WAS AWFUL. I felt weird and disconnected and my scalp itched all day.

The mornings are when I want to stretch out, practice yoga, write, and dream. It's when I think I can't afford the luxury of spending my mornings how I want that I end up spending four hours wandering aimlessly, not doing anything at all.

This is a problem. Luckily, it's a problem I think I can fix.

I think it's time for me to start setting aside an hour or two every morning to do whatever I want to do before I have to get ready to go. As it is, I'm spending two hours every morning fucking off and feeling bad about myself, I might as well use that time to do something I enjoy. Maybe some people can wait all day to have their special hour of relaxing or poetry writing or exerciseing, but I need mine first thing in the morning.

I just realized I don't know how to spell the word "excersizeing". Excerisixeing. Excerising. Esxerciing. Exercising.

As for lateness? You guys would be so proud. I've now been five to fifteen minutes EARLY for three consecutive appointments. THREE TIMES IN A ROW.

Do you know what the secret it?

(Yes, I know you do, considering you helped me figure it out, but let me tell you anyway so that I can gloat over myself for a second.)

It's in the planning.

Save Booger

2009-11-13T13:26:00.002-05:00

Booger is a friend's dog. She's heartbroken, as you can imagine. If you can't make a donation, can you take a minute to forward this video? Twitter it? Send some positive energy?

Imagine if Booger was your dog... What would you do?

Valley Upbringing: Cons

2009-11-13T08:55:00.000-05:00

Me: John Quincy Davis is on the new gold dollar.

Him: Who's John Quincy Davis?

Me: (Scoffing loudly.) Um, the sixth president of the United States.

Him: ...

Me: Wait. Did I say Davis? I meant Adams.

Him: I'm sure you did.

An ugly, hypocritical little bird

2009-11-12T09:20:00.003-05:00

All of your comments on that last post have been incredibly insightful and helpful and, um, the crazy thing? You helped me learn some stuff about myself. Some stuff I didn't want to know, and some stuff that is incredibly enlightening. I'm even working on a post about it, but in the mean time, how about another situation I could use some advice on?

How do you like that? Y'all are my personal team of Dear Abby's and Anne Landers!!

Dear Internet Friends:

I am always late. I am embarrassed to admit it, though if you've ever had occasion to spend time with me, you already know that I am one of those people who is ALWAYS late. My norm is about fifteen minutes, but on a bad day I can be anywhere from twenty to thirty minutes late. A really good day has me arriving only five minutes late, which as far as I am concerned is absolutely the same thing as being on time. I have friends who routinely lie to me, telling me something starts at six if it really starts at six-thirty, just so that I will be on time. It works. I have other friends who just plan ahead and arrive fifteen minutes later than we agreed, so that they aren't waiting around for me. That works too.

Though I may be someone who is religiously late, I cannot stand other late comers. It drives me crazy. I think it's rude and disrespectful and irritating. Clearly, I am a chronically late hypocrite. Why? I don't know. What I do know is that being late everywhere gives me such anxiety that I end up with stomach pains and headaches and itchy rashes. But does that make me more understanding of others who are habitually late? Nope. Does that make me a big fat asshole? I suppose so.

But it gets worse.

Not only am I chronically late, and not only do I find other late people irritating, but I also do not like those people who are always three minutes early. Or always on time. Because I am always late, if you show up three minutes early or right on time, you are simply highlighting my deficiency and reminding me of my shortcomings.

So here we have it, folks. I take four hours to get ready in the morning. I'm always at least fifteen minutes late. I am a hypocrite who resents other latecomers and I cannot be made happy by those people who have the courtesy to be on time.

What to do?

Like an ugly little bird

2009-11-09T09:28:00.000-05:00

I have a confession.

It takes me four hours to get ready to go in the morning. Even when I wake up at 6 a.m., I'm still not ready to leave for work until ten.

I've recently considered starting my days at 4 a.m. so I can be ready to go by eight, which is when I'm supposed to leave, instead of two full hours later at ten when I usually leave. (My boss doesn't read my blog, so he'll never know.) (Famous last words.)

The thing is, it's this four hour block of .... primping? that is causing a lot of the major time-suckage I've been ~~complaining~~ talking about lately. I thought maybe if I wrote about this phenomenon here, we could, together, as a team, help me find new strategies to becoming a person who can wake, eat, shower and leave in a more reasonable amount of time, like, say, one hour. One hour is reasonable. Four hours? What, am I being tied into my corset by my nursemaid every morning? Seriously.

So. What am I doing with four hours every morning: I spend about thirty minutes preparing my coffee and breakfast, then eating. I spend another thirty minutes doing yoga (or reading mommy blogs, depending on the day.) (OK, usually I'm reading mommy blogs.) It takes me fifteen minutes to shower and condition my hair, then thirty minutes to apply the various moisturizers, creams and lotions I use, another fifteen to twenty minutes fixing my hair and ... that's it. That's everything.

But that's only two hours and five minutes, tops. Where are the other two hours? Where? What do I do with them?

Yes, I realize that two hours and five minutes is a really long time to get out of the house, I know. You don't have to make me feel bad about that. I am perfectly willing to work on narrowing that down, AS SOON AS WE FIGURE OUT WHAT ON EARTH I AM DOING FOR THAT EXTRA HOUR AND FIFTY-FIVE MINUTES.

Because I have no idea.

Animalia Chordata Amphibia Driedoutada

2009-11-06T15:05:00.006-05:00

"She was, in a word, weird."

-- Robert McCammon

When I was a little girl, my parents took me to Kauai, Hawaii for a week. I wasn't sure whether or not to be excited about it, because all of the cool kids were going to Maui or Honolulu or Palm Springs. Kauai? None of my friends had ever even heard of Kauai. But then I realized that they had also never heard of Molokai, the Isle of Lepers, or Kaho'olawe, the Isle of U.S. Military Practice Bombing, so I decided to reserve judgment.

Kauai was incredible. A tropical paradise dreamed up for a hungry suburban child, thanks to the total lack of tourism. We visited a ranch where ducks and geese and chickens ran free and where I spent the whole day trying to catch a duckling I planned to smuggle home. We went to a luau, ate kalua pig, watched dancers swallow fire and learned how to put a chicken to sleep by twisting its neck. We snorkeled and hiked, we drank coconut milk from the actual coconut and slurped freezing shaved ice. The week was idyllic, but the very best part wasn't any activity or attraction. It was the frogs. They were everywhere. Beautiful fat brown frogs with slick, cool bellies. Their croaks were a chorus that lulled me to sleep then guided me from dreams in the morning. I could step off any road into jungle, and at my feet would be a carpet of wet, belching frogs. At night when we walked to dinner I chased frogs along the road, and in the morning as we walked to breakfast I used a long stick to pop their flattened bodies off the road. Lord, if the roads weren't paved with hundreds of their pancaked bodies. I'd never seen anything like it in my entire nine years of life.

When it came time to pick a souvenir, I wanted one thing.

"No."

"But WHY?"

"Do I really need to spell it out?"

"Yes."

"Because it's dead and rotting and filthy. No."

A couple of years later my parents sent me to horse camp for a week. It was heaven. In addition to riding and jumping, I learned all about taking care of a horse. I learned how to braid the mane and tail for shows. I learned how to feed them and muck out their stalls, something I actually thought was fun. One day, a farrier came and let us watch as he removed the horse's old shoes, trimmed his hooves and hammered new shoes on. While the other little girls ran around collecting discarded horseshoes to hang in their bedrooms for good luck, I ran around collecting hoof clippings for my own little collection.

I hadn't even been home from camp for a day when my mother came sniffing around my room.

"What is that?"

"What?"

"That smell."

"I don't smell anything."

"I do. It smells like something in here is rotting."

"No it's not."

"Where's your suitcase?"

"I haven't unpacked it yet."

"Open it."

That was when I flung my body across my suitcase and cried, "But it's for my collection!" Then I pointed to the shelf where I displayed my deer jaw, the mouse vertebrae I found in coyote scat and the leg bones whose previous owner I hadn't yet identified.

"We agreed. Nothing that rots. Open your suitcase."

I thought the hoof clippings smelled wonderfully gamey, but Mama said no, they were rotting, they had to go.

A few years ago my parents went back to Kauai. They called me after their trip and we had a nice visit. They asked if I'd gotten the gift they'd sent. I hadn't, but I'd definitely keep a lookout for it! They told me all about how the island had changed, how tourism had exploded; there were more hotels, more paved roads, more mosquitoes, and they only saw one frog the entire time they were there.

The next day I checked my mail and found a small padded envelope addressed to me in my father's neat hand. Along the bottom of the envelope my mother had scrawled, "This was your father's idea. I give him all the credit."

I carefully tore open the end of the envelope and right away got a good whiff of something fishy. The smell wasn't unpleasant, just surprising. "I think they sent us some fish jerky!" I called out to Mike, who was in the next room. I shook the contents of the envelope out onto my kitchen table, wondering why the jerky wasn't in some sort of packaging. And then I realized it wasn't fish jerky. It was a frog. A perfect, beautiful, flat Kauai frog.

I finally found the right display case for him. Isn't he lovely?

If these dogs could talk

2009-11-05T18:40:00.001-05:00

I have been very busy lately. Very busy and very tired. As a result, I've been cutting a few corners here and there. Not major corners, just like -- ok, here's an example: Dinner for the dogs. Normally, dinner for the dogs is raw chicken on the bone, which is great for them, but a holy mess to clean up for me. The other night I was just too, too tired. I mean, my own dinner that night came out of a cereal box, so if those dogs really thought I was going to do anything special for them, they had another think coming. They were going to eat kibble, and they were going to like it.

"Valentine! Theo!"

Two little dogs came running into the kitchen, tails and tongues wagging.

"Sit!"

Two little dog bottoms hit the floor. I scooped kibble into each little bowl.

"Bravo!"

Theo dove right in, chomping happily. Valentine didn't move. She looked at her bowl. She looked up at me. She thumped her tail on the linoleum. She looked at her bowl, up at me, thump, thump, thump. Down at her bowl, up at me ...

"Fine! Jeez." I opened the fridge and grabbed a tub of cottage cheese. Theo paused mid-chomp. His tail twitched. Valentine did a little happy dance and then sat nicely in front of her bowl. I opened the cottage cheese tub. Theo's nostrils flinched and he huffed. I reached for a spoon. He took a long step away from his dish and sat down, a perfect little dog, waiting patiently for his supper to be served, just like I taught him. I dipped the spoon into the tub and dropped a teaspoonful of cheese into Valentine's bowl as both little tails began a rhythmic thump, thump, thumping. I swirled the spoon in Valentine's bowl, kibble rattling loudly as it rolled, sweet cheese coating each crunchy morsel. I rapped the spoon on the edge of the dish, knocking off the last bits of cheese, and stood. Theo's eyes widened and Valentine's tail froze.

"Bravo!"

Valentine leapt for the feast and dove in. I slapped the lid back on the tub, flung it into the fridge and shut the door. I washed the spoon, dried my hands and dragged myself back to the living room where I crumpled onto the couch in a heap of exhausted limbs.

If you belong to the school of thought wherein dogs are stupid creatures who act soley on instinct, I would like you to tell me why, after finishing the last of his cheese-less meal, Theo lifted his leg and urinated in his bowl. Was that just instinct? Because it seems like a pretty well thought out statement to me.

discombobulated

2009-11-02T17:25:00.000-05:00

I'm really tired, you guys. I'm really really really tired. All of the time. No, Mom, don't worry, I'm not pregnant. That's not even an option on the scan-tron.

It's kind of an adjustment to go from working eleven hours a week to a gagillion hours a week. I don't mean to exaggerate here, but it really feels like I work a gagillion hours a week. And as a result, I don't get to do anything BUT work.

I mean, there are other hours in the day, sure. But after my 8 hour day, I reeeally don't have the energy to do anything other than slosh onto the couch and sit there drooling until about 10 p.m. when it's time for bed.

This is horrible.

I am not complaining. It sounds like complaint, but actually it's sharing. I'm sharing. Things would be just fine if I could just be awake enough in the evening to do something other than watch TV. That's the thing. I'm just so tired. I could be happy if I weren't a vegetable at the end of every day. Maybe if I worked only five days a week instead of six, maybe if I could spend two days in a row recharging my little Ish Battery I could plow forth on Monday morning and be a super-star of productivity. But that hasn't been the deal lately. And there are just SO MANY THINGS I love, that I am ignoring.

Let's make a list, shall we? In no particular order:

1. Yoga/Exercise

2. Photography

3. Writing

4. Doing Married Things With My Husband (Because We Are Married And It's Allowed) (Side note: Have you ever noticed that on Trojan condom ads, the couple is ALWAYS wearing wedding bands? Simple, barely-noticeable gold wedding bands. Very interesting, no?)

5. Playing With My Dogs

6. Spending Time With Friends

7. Laundry

8. Balancing my checkbook

9. Data Entry

10. BEING AN ACTOR

Sad face, Dopey!

And look. How weird has my writing gotten since I stopped? It's all jiggedly-glop all over the screen. It's not even writing. It's just words piled upon words piled upon words that barely make any sense at all. Is this even cohesive? Does anyone understand me? HOW DO I FIND BALANCE IN THIS ONE LIFE OF MINE?

That is the question for the day.

Done Dirt Cheap

2009-10-28T18:28:00.005-04:00

Yesterday I wrote in my journal again.

I only bring it up because it's kind of a big deal.

Sometime last June I bought myself a 9.5x6 inch notebook. Just a regular notebook from the drug store, nothing fancy. I picked blue because it reminds me of the ocean. I vowed to carry it around with me every day and write down all of the things I overheard or thought of or was told or read and thought were funny or awesome or deep or ridiculous. My first several entries include the following lines:

"I'm so hungry I'm afraid my stomach is going to climb out my mouth and start digesting peoples shoes."

"For the first two years I lived in New York, I felt like my friends and my family were in Los Angeles, living my life without me. And I was trapped in the city with no life at all."

Us: She looks like a
(Together)
A: midget.
T: someone who's had a few kids.

A: We're going to hell in a big yellow school bus. You're driving, I'm holding the map.

And my personal favorite:

"Is my eye twitching? Because that's how I feel about that."

I loved my little journal. I carried it every day and I wrote in it constantly. I often started blogs in the journal, finishing them online. I knew the little notes I made would be used at some later date, little treasures tucked away for safe keeping, the way a quilter might stash bits of pretty cloth for a quilt she hasn't thought of making yet. Then, about four weeks into my journal-keeping, I wrote in it for work.

You're probably thinking, So? So what? You wrote in it for work, no big deal.

But it is a big deal. Because then it became a "work" notebook and I started using it exclusively for work. I could no longer separate my personal thoughts from my work thoughts and so I had to dump it. I replaced it with my sales book, something I absolutely cannot be without and am able to take notes in.

Yesterday I took it back. I took my journal back and I wrote it in and I wrote dirty things that would make your eyes pop out. I wrote about dogs who vomit and dogs who eat vomit. I wrote about taking photographs of dead animals I find on the street. I even wrote about ... MY PERIOD. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote.

And it felt. So. Good.

An Open Letter

2009-10-27T17:33:00.004-04:00

Dear Project 365+:

I just want to apologize to you for dumping you like a stinking piece of poo. I hope I didn't hurt your feelings. The thing is, I still really like you. I mean, I like you, like you. I think you're the coolest. It's just... I've been really busy. And, I know, I know. You'll say, "But it only takes about five seconds to take a photo and write a blurb about it!" The thing is, it takes way more than five seconds. It takes at least thirty minutes to write the blurb, and if I want a photo to write about then I have to haul my camera around all day, and as it is, I'm already breaking my back with all the other stuff I have to carry around for my j-o-b. Did you know that part of my j-o-b requires that I drag around a heavy suitcase and carry a heavy shoulder bag too? In addition to my purse? And since it's gotten cooler, I'm dragging the heavy suitcase, the shoulder bag and the purse either while wearing a heavy coat, or carrying a heavy coat because I got too sweaty to wear the heavy coat.

It is EXHAUSTING.

As a result? I've had to ditch unnecessary items. And I'm sorry, Project, but a camera is unnecessary. As are the following treasured items that have been dumped because of all the heavy shit I have to carry every day:

1. Chap stick

2. Hand Lotion

3. Pocket Mirror

4. Good Luck Charm

5. Extra Pair of Panties

So, basically, I didn't dump you, Project. I love you. I just dumped your baggage. Maybe one day we'll be together again, but that one day? Only God knows when that will be.

Love,

Mash-Up

2009-10-23T21:42:00.007-04:00

Michael is making me sit here. He's forced me to sit here and type. I tried to come up with some really good excuses, reasons why I'm too tired, it's too hard, I don't remember any of the stories I wanted to write, I have nothing to say, it's not like anyone is going to read this anyway. But he sat me on the couch with the laptop on my lap, just the way I like it, a cat on one side of me and a cup of tea at my elbow. Then he said: "Just START."

This sucks so much I can't even tell you. I'm just typing words here so that I don't have to look at a blank page because looking at a blank page is worse than typing a random string of words that no one gives a fuck about. Including me.

I think I might be a little depressed.

Or maybe it's just writer's block.

Or it's writer's block caused by depression. Or maybe depression caused by writer's block.

Did you hear about the 7 year-old-girl in Florida? It's terrible. And whatever happened to the woman who ate her three-week-old infant's brains? And that 23 year-old who was accused of murdering her 3 year-old daughter? What really got me about that was when the little girl first disappeared, her grandmother, the 23 year-olds mother, told the cops that her daughter's car smelled like rotting meat, as if there'd been a body in the trunk. Then, when the little girl was found dead, Grandma changed her story and said that what she'd meant to say, what the car really smelled like was rotting pizza.

Rotting pizza? Really?

My neighbor died on Tuesday morning. She was a lovely woman, very sweet and cheerful. I was planning on making her a pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving and a peach pie for Christmas. She'd lived in the building since the 1940's. She raised her children here. Her husband died three years ago and she'd had several heart attacks in the last couple of years. Tuesday afternoon the neighbor across the hall, a 50-something woman who grew up on the block, noticed that Mrs. Washington hadn't picked up her paper that morning. Mrs. Washington never left the paper on her welcome mat because she always met the delivery man downstairs. The paper on the mat at 5:00 p.m. was a bad sign. So Alice called Mrs. Washington. And called her again. Then Alice called our neighbor Janine, and Janine called Mrs. Henry and Miss Lawrence, and the four of them kept calling Mrs. Washington who did not answer her phone. So they called her son who lives in New Jersey. Then they called 911.

Even when someone has had a wonderful life and lived to a ripe old age and then died peacefully in their sleep, it's still sad to know they're gone. Or maybe what is sad is seeing the people who loved them, left behind. I didn't really know Mrs. Washington. I always enjoyed chatting with her on the elevator and we always smiled and visited for a minute when we saw each other in the hall, but we didn't really know each other. And yet, I feel an ache whenever I open my door and see hers and am reminded she's gone. And then I'm knocked out by the realization that I live in a building where people notice if you don't pick up your paper. They get to know your routines and your schedule. They keep an eye out for you.

While Mike was on his hiking trip, one neighbor in particular won my heart when he realized I was walking my dogs alone after dark. "You make sure I can see you from the stoop. You make sure you're in my eyesight so if anyone messes with you I can be there." I baked him cookies for his birthday last week.

I'll never forget the Christmas right before I moved to NYC. I was doing massive amounts of holiday baking and I'd made huge batches of decorated sugar cookies and decorated gingerbread cookies. I bought 15 of these really cute little felt gift bags and stuffed each one with cookies. Then I hung one on every front doorknob of each bungalow in the courtyard. When Mike and I came home from my parents house on Christmas night, our stoop looked as if Santa had paid us an extra visit. Fresh cut flowers and homemade tamales tumbled over cakes and cookies and handmade holiday cards. It was incredible. I was so touched I cried. Three months later I moved across the country and into a building where even if a girl screamed bloody hysterical murder in the hallway at 3:00 a.m., not a single person poked their head out to see what was going on.

But now? Now I live here and maybe I'll stick it out long enough so that when I leave? I'll have the pleasure of leaving a bit of my heart behind.

P.S. Mike's trick worked, you guys! I wrote a post!

A breath in the middle of it all

2009-10-08T09:02:00.000-04:00

Oh my gosh it feels so good to be here again.

I have been away for far too long and let me tell you, it has hurt. I'm sorry about all the snake-eats-mouse photos. I fell off The Project wagon a few weeks back and kept thinking I'd be able to pick it up again and so had all these photos laying around, photos I'd taken all on the same day, of Meph eating these four mice, and I just set them all to scheduled posts because I didn't want to disappear completely. But I disappeared anyway.

I have so many stories I want to write and so many things to tell you that I don't even know where to begin. And yet? I have no idea when I'll be able to write them all down. But it is a priority, it really is, I am terribly in love with this thing called writing.

I'm also really in love with our fabulous new apartment, which isn't so new anymore, we've been here for exactly six months now and I cannot believe how our life has changed since we've changed our space. I think it is not a coincidence.

Mike has become completely consumed with school and it is one of the most wonderful, exciting, beautiful things I've ever watched happen. I don't use those words lightly, I really don't. It really is exquisite how hard he is studying and how much he is learning and the relationships he's developing with his teachers. He's turned being a student into a career and he is advancing beautifully. He consistently earns the highest grades in his classes and sets the curve for the rest of the students. He has real conversations and debates with his teachers that cause them to ask him to stay after class because they want to talk to him more, know more about him, why he's in school, what he did before, what his plans for the future are. The other students email him and call him asking for help and advice and he tutors them happily because it helps him learn. I imagine that he is the kind of student that makes teachers glad they are teachers.

There's a story I need to write about the time I nearly killed Meph by loving him too much and how it set a red flag for Michael, the way I love by smothering. It's kind of funny and very scary and something I need to watch. It turns out there is some obsessive-compulsive in me and while it isn't a joke, it is manageable.

And that leads into a story about how I move about my home arranging and decorating and dusting and scouring how I feel as if I am moving not in my body, but my mother's body. Or Aunt Sue's body. How much I see them in me, the women before me, and how happy I feel in those moments.

I want to write about how I'm figuring out that all the things on my to-do list will eventually get done, maybe not on my timeline, but eventually. There is no need to worry. And I'm not talking about my laundry to-do list. I'm talking about my life to-do list.

I want to update you on the worms and the dog's raw diet and our CSA and our new furniture.

There are so many things I want to say.

And also? I need to catch up on what's going on with you.

I get between 30-50 unique hits a day on this website. I can only account for about 20 of my readers. That means that there are between 10 and 30 people checking out this site and I have no idea who they are. Of the 20 people I can account for, 15 have their own blogs, which I usually read consistently. But I have been a bad internet friend. I haven't been able to read anyone. But please don't feel bad because I've been an even worse personal friend.

I'm working on that.

I love you all.

Goodnight.

Two-headed snouse

2009-10-05T08:11:00.000-04:00

Finir!

2009-10-03T08:05:00.001-04:00

Two Headed Boy

Michael Frost, 2009

Acrylic, dog hair, pencil on canvas.

Hand-carved frame, built and carved by the artist.

Nomnomnom

2009-10-02T07:54:00.004-04:00

Tastes like pasghetti!

Waitin', hopin', dreamin'.

2009-10-01T08:14:00.002-04:00

Anybody who says that dogs aren't brilliant creatures with thoughts and wants and needs and hopes just like ours, has never actually spent time with a dog.

Theo nearly always finishes his food or treats or whatever we're feeding him before Valentine. As soon as his meal is done, he'll slowly, quietly creep up behind her. He'll creep and creep, closer and closer, until he gets just close enough that she lifts her lip at him. Then he'll take a small step backwards, and sit. And wait. And watch patiently, hoping, just hoping she'll walk away and leave a little bit for him. And sometimes? Sometimes she does.

Also? Don't judge me for letting my dogs slobber all over my yoga mat. I know it's gross, but it happens. Luckily those rubber mats are washable!

Evening: INT

2009-09-29T19:02:00.003-04:00

Check it out! The trailer for one of the films I shot over the summer:

If you have a minute, click on over to YouTube and give the trailer some love.

xo

I will love him, an squeeze him, an call him George!

2009-09-29T08:41:00.001-04:00

Husk cherries.

2009-09-28T07:44:00.000-04:00

They make me believe in a higher power.

Sidewalk Art

2009-09-27T08:04:00.000-04:00

Somewhere in the East Village

Feet shoulder-width apart.

2009-09-26T09:23:00.001-04:00

I want to do this every day. Right now I'm lucky if I squeeze in thirty minutes every three days, but I want to quit drinking coffee and start spending an hour every morning doing this instead. I think it would change my life.

But I'm scared shitless.

Sometimes his eyes turn blue

2009-09-25T08:13:00.003-04:00

He has a moon cycle too. Every month he sheds his skin and for a few days before, his flesh turns dull and thick. His topmost layer of skin is drying and tightening against his body. You shed your skin a little bit every day, but he sheds his all at once. It's not comfortable. He becomes irritable, his belly becomes red and inflamed looking, and his eyes turn a milky blue. During this time, he is virtually blind and does not want to be messed with. He won't eat, he won't drink, he'll sit under his rock, curled tight until he can't bear it anymore. And then one night while we're sleeping, he'll uncoil himself and slither from under his hiding spot. He'll rub his body against rocks like a bear scratching his back on a tree. And little by little his skin will peel.

You can always tell if your python is happy by the way he sheds. Does his skin flake off in little pieces? Then his environment is not suiting him. Does he leave his skin behind him, like a dirty old gym sock? That is the sign of a happy boy.

It's just occurred to me that there will probably be a whole lot of snake themed pictures coming up on this blog, so I think it's time I add a Mephistopheles label over there on screen right, and also maybe tell you a little about the real Mephistopheles, whom my beloved python is named for.

Actually though? Why don't you just click here and find out?

A Express

2009-09-24T19:16:00.003-04:00

Imagine that you are on the subway on your way home from a long day at work. Lucky you, you have a seat. However, you've forgotten your book, so instead you are looking around at the weary people in front of you. You can do that, because all of the people's faces are far above yours; they won't notice that you are watching. You are below their eye level. And, you tell yourself, people-watching is harmless anyway.

There is a woman standing in front of you. She's pretty, she's young, she's wearing a wedding ring. She has a black leather purse over one shoulder, a canvas shoulder bag over the other, a coat draped over her left arm which holds a book just below her chin. She is engrossed in the book. Her right arm is stretched up, over her head, and she is holding onto the rail. She is surrounded by people. The car bumps and you notice that her right knee just barely touches your left knee. She must have noticed too, because she takes a small step away from you, a very small step because really, there is nowhere for her to go. She is pressed into the crowd. You are grateful that you've got a seat, you've got breathing room, you are below everyone's eye level. The car jumps again and you notice that the man behind the woman, probably somewhere in his forties, 6 ft 2 or 3, around 240 lbs, is moving his hand, barely, but he is moving his hand and he places it on the woman's bottom. No, no, he isn't actually touching her, he's half a centimeter away from touching her, and then, with just his thumb, he touches her. He slides his thumb along the slope of her bottom and she flinches, slightly, but before she can look up from her book to see what's happened, he's turned his back on her. The car comes to a stop, the doors open, a flood of people pour out, a flood of people pour on, the man has backed away from the woman, there are several people between them now. The woman has buried her nose in her book. You aren't even sure if you saw what you saw. Maybe you imagined it. You must have imagined it. Of course you imagined it. That wouldn't have happened, how silly! You look over at the man. Has he moved? He's closer than before. Yes, yes, he's making his way through the crowd, he is standing behind the woman again. Maybe they know each other. That must be it. He's an old boyfriend or something, and when she finally notices him it will be a happy reunion. Of course. New York is full of random reunions like that. The man is doing something with his hand, something with his hand but he is behind the woman, so you can't see what it is. He closes his eyes. God, it looks like he's masturbating! Isn't that funny? Or, no, he's probably fallen asleep. My, you have a dirty mind! Yes, it must be that he's just exhausted and barely falling asleep, his eyes are closed and his head is nodding, his head lolls forward and the car jerks and you see the man's penis.

He has his penis out and he is fondling it and now he is stroking the woman's bottom with the tip of his penis. You look up at the woman. Her brow is furrowed. Does she feel him? Does she know what's happening? Or is she so engrossed in her book that she doesn't notice? Of course she notices. How could she not notice? Why doesn't she say something? Should you say something? Should you?

YES. YOU SHOULD. YOU SHOULD FUCKING SAY SOMETHING.

The woman flinches and takes a long step away from the man, pushing into the person beside her, who sticks out an elbow and shoves her back into the man. The car stops. He's put his penis away. He gets off the car with the flood of people who pour out. The woman's face is flushed. Her eyes are watery. She has not looked up from her book, not once. You lean over and tap her hand.

"Excuse me, Miss? You need to go home and wash."

"What?"

"You need to go home and wash. That man was doing something very bad. Very inappropriate."

"What? What? What was he doing?"

You shake your head. "Just go home and wash." And then you look away.

You don't look at the woman again, not once. She rushes off at the next stop, but you don't look up to see if there are tears on her cheeks or stains on her dress. You look away. You always look away.

Tricia's Famous Chicken

2009-09-21T21:32:00.003-04:00

So, it's really Tricia's Only Chicken, but who's counting?

The herbs, (thyme, oregano and sage) are fresh from my pseudo-herb garden. I'm a little bit proud of that.

Houston? We have a problem.

2009-09-18T07:50:00.001-04:00

Meet Miss Mouse:

Once upon a time, when I was but a wee teenaged girl, my friend Dave came to pick me up for a play date and introduced me to his new pet mouse, Meaty. Having just been purchased, Meaty Mouse was crouched at the bottom of a small brown paper bag, similar to a child's lunch sack.

I was not easily fooled.

"You got a pet snake!" I asked, excited.

"Uh.... no. I got ... a pet mouse." He grinned sheepishly.

"You got a snake. This is totally snake food."

"Uh.... no it's not."

When we arrived at his house it was clear that little Meaty Mouse was indeed snake food. In Dave's room was a brand new tank and in the tank was a bright red corn snake.

"Sweet!" I shrieked. "Can I feed him?"

Dave frowned. "Doesn't it freak you out?" He'd been looking forward to scaring me.

"Why would it freak me out?"

And then I explained to Dave how it was probably safest for his snake if we killed the mouse first, otherwise the mouse could injure the snake trying to protect itself. "How do you kill the mouse?" he wanted to know.

Dave was a kid obsessed with horror films. Monster movies, slasher flicks, psycho thrillers, didn't matter, he loved it all. We spent our weekends covered in red karo, bellies layered in raw ground beef, screaming our heads off at his dad's camcorder. The walls of his bedroom, from the carpeting to the popcorn ceiling, were literally papered with monster movie posters, photos of zombie-bite victims, psycho clown killers, blood, gore and festering wounds. I never could figure out how he slept in there. I was a girl who slept with the lights on in her pink flowered bedroom for six weeks after seeing Bride of Chucky.

What I did next made Dave grimace.

I took the paper bag, Meaty Mouse still inside, and whacked it over the top of Dave's dresser. And then I dumped the dead mouse in the snake tank and watched, with wonder, as the snake whipped it's lithe body around the rodent and began the arduous task of swallowing it whole.

You think you know where this is going. You think this is a story about how Meph has come home and Miss Mouse pictured above must be one of my latest mousetricide victims.

Actually? This is a story about a mouse who wandered into my bathtub and then found herself lovingly transported to a nearby park, while my neighbors screamed and yelled and begged me to drop her in the incinerator.

A mouse. In my bathtub. Did you get that?

I don't kill anything anymore. I can't kill spiders, which I loath and despise, let alone small fuzzy mammals. I grew up to be so opposite being able to kill small creatures that this one time, Meph rejected a rat and when it gave birth to ten babies the very next day, I decided to keep them all as pets. I just couldn't feed an entire family to the snake. One grown rat, fine. But a mama and her babies? Couldn't do it.

Also? I had no idea the rat was pregnant when I bought her. She looked awfully fat, but I didn't think anything of it. The babies came as a huge surprise.

Do you think animals give birth and then think to themselves, "Whoa! Did that just come out of my VAGINA?" I guess not. I guess animals don't call it a vagina.

Since I didn't have the heart to feed an entire family of rats to my snake, I bought an enormous "rat condo" (god forbid we use the word "cage"), kept the mama well fed and watched her babies grow. When the babies grew into full-grown rats it became very clear very quickly that my sense of smell could not live with eleven rats, I ended up driving them back at the pet store where I bought the mama and making the sales girl promise to sell them only as companion animals. Companion animals for somebody's boa restrictor, I'm sure she thought as I walked out of the shop.

So the other morning there was a mouse in my bathtub. I don't know how she (I looked) got there, but there she was. Not a purchased-from-a-pet-store-as-snake-food-that-somehow-escaped mouse, but a wild-New-York-City-sewer-mouse.

One time? I sublet a studio at 8th Avenue and 14th Street for one thousand dollars a month. I shared it with another girl and our only window faced a brick wall. I could actually put my hand out the window and place my palm on the wall, it was that close. There was absolutely no natural light in that dank little apartment There were also no closets. Instead there was a terrible mouse infestation, thanks to the bakery we shared the building with. I used to lay in bed at night listening to them scurry and scream. They were so loud I was sure they were rats until I actually saw one one night. Before making coffee in the morning, I had to scrub the kitchen counter with bleach, after I'd wiped away all the mouse shit and dried pools of mouse urine. But hey! Our rent was only a thousand dollars a month! (Each.)

Here's this little mouse trapped in my bathtub, and I don't know what kind of diseases she may be carrying, but she's small and fuzzy and adorable. Killing her is simply out of the question. I also don't want to feed her to the python because if she is carrying disease, I don't know how his system will handle it. However? I have two cats. And cats always eat city mice, that's the point of cats in the city, hey! I've finally found something the cats can do to pitch in for ALL THAT KIBBLE THEY EAT.

I grabbed Toby and put him in the bathtub. He was instantly .... bored. He cocked his head to one side, leaned down, sniffed the mouse, looked up at me disdainfully. I thought maybe he just needed some privacy, so I shut the bathroom door and went to the kitchen to pour myself another cup of coffee. When I poked my head back in five minutes later, Toby was sitting regally in the tub, his tail twitching gently, eyes fixed on me, Miss Mouse running circles at his feet.

I switched him out for Amelia who took one look at that little mouse and nearly clawed my eyes out trying to get away. You'd have the thought the tub was full of boiling acid, the way she fought me. Sure, there was the time I bought her the battery-operated mouse-toy and she cowered behind the sofa when I turned it on. But I'd always believed in my heart of hearts that she was a killer. I couldn't have been more wrong. That was the day my cats won the award for Worst Cats In The Entire History Of Cats.

Ultimately I decided to do what I do with spiders. I trapped Miss Mouse under a plastic container, slid a piece of cardboard under her and gently flipped the container over. After I fed her a piece of cheese and made sure she had some water*, I poke a whole in the lid of the container and snapped it on. Then I walked her to the park for her release, amid my neighbors vehement cries of protest:

"Just put it on the ground! I'll stomp on it!"

"Drop it in the incinerator!"

"MAIL IT TO THE LANDLORD."

After I'd released her, I couldn't help but think of what my mother would say when I mentioned I'd found a mouse in my bathtub:

"Oh God. You didn't decide to keep it, did you?"

*I don't usually feed spiders cheese and water. I usually just dump them out the window.

If I were a painter

2009-09-17T07:34:00.003-04:00

This would be my still life:

So beautiful. A parade of soft pastel, iridescent lavenders and pinks and blues. Gorgeous. I want to paint this.

On set

2009-09-16T08:58:00.005-04:00

The shoot for Chase Thompson tops my list of Most Wonderful Acting Experiences. It is a real treat to have the opportunity to work with a group of people who are professional, organized, thoughtful, talented, collaborative and joyful. The entire cast and crew of Chase Thompson, the film by Vincent Lin that I worked on over Labor Day weekend, was a dream. Each day of our three day shoot was long, but not once did I wish to be somewhere else. When my alarm went off at 3:00 a.m. I leapt out of bed, excited to head to the set. I kept my cellphone off for three days because I did not want to be interrupted from my work. I hid from time pieces because I didn't want to be reminded of the time. I did not want to stop. I just wanted to stay put, in the moment, with those people, working on that film.

That is what movie making should always be.

I needed that. I had begun to feel frustrated and wary, twisted up with negative thoughts, tied with a bow of self-disgust.

Thank goodness for wonderful artists who remind me why I'm an actor, why I chose this non-conventional lifestyle and why I'm in New York.

9/7/09

From another place

2009-09-15T08:52:00.000-04:00

Mephistopheles is home!

Now I gotta find a pet store that sells feeder rodents.....

Maybe I should ask this guy?

After I took his picture he totally tried to eat my brains.

And I was all, Dude! Back off! Your zombie flesh smells like rotting farts!

The end.

Little Wolf

2009-09-14T10:50:00.001-04:00

Um, Valentine? You've got a little breakfast stuck between your toes.....

9/5/09

Meat Eaters

2009-09-13T10:21:00.000-04:00

This was too good for a photo:

You're welcome!

9/4/09

Z0mBie hUntErZ

2009-09-12T08:12:00.002-04:00

Costume and make-up test for Z0mBie hUntErz, a film by Chase Thompson.

And also Chase Thompson, a film by Vincent Lin.

haWTneSs

9/3/09

How much?

2009-09-11T10:41:00.001-04:00

How much do you love my new fall jacket?

9/2/09

P.S. Let's each do our best to wish peace for our world today.

1/1555

2009-09-10T10:35:00.001-04:00

Mike and his brother took 1,555 photos on their backpacking trip. That's 2.5 GB of information. I haven't even come close to looking at all of them yet, but this one popped out at me. And I've decided that despite the lack of restrooms, showers, malls and restaurants, the next time they go, I want in.

Downtown Local C

2009-09-09T10:21:00.002-04:00

This whole starving artist thing? Sometimes it's AWESOME.

8/30/09

If I could live anywhere in Manhattan, I'd live on the Lower East Side. People there clearly just get me.

8/31/09

I'm telling it to SHUT IT.

2009-09-08T10:09:00.001-04:00

8/28/09 - FAIL

8/29/09 - FAIL

That's what I hear in my head when I realize I haven't kept up with The Project for a few days.

Sometimes I am just too in the moment to try and take photos because, have you ever noticed that the minute you hold a camera up to your face, it's as if you've just slapped a filter on life?

Sometimes I am just too busy to try and take photos.

Sometimes I remember (and I'm telling myself this more than I'm telling you) I remember that the point is not just to take photos. THE POINT IS TO BE CREATIVE.

And then there are the days when I wake up in the morning, eat, shower and go to work. And then I come home, eat, brush my teeth and go to bed. I seem to be having a lot of those days lately.

And yet? All this work that is keeping me so busy? It includes the following:

1) I've been hired to sing on the demo of a brand-spanking-new musical. Even better? I'm singing the Leading Lady role. And the music is so great I can't get it out of my head.

2) I've been hired to play the lead in an independent film by a director who's previous work has been on the festival circuit, and it's crazy because I honestly don't think I've ever worked on an independent film that felt this professional and this well put together. It's kind of surreal. And absolutely wonderful. And a lot of fun.

So all this work I'm doing? It's pretty awesome.

And to that little voice in my head? SHUT THE F UP.

8/28/09 - WIN

8/29/09 - WIN

The Unveiling

2009-09-07T09:53:00.002-04:00

Of course, as soon as I took these and got permission to post them, he declared them both unfinished and went back to work. And then he made them even better.

I am very proud of him.

I wish you could see them in person. Much of the detail is lost in the photograph. But you get the idea.

Two headed boy

Don't take those pills your boyfriend gave you

I urge you to click on the photos so you can see more of the detail. Look closely at the boys face. The detail is incredible. And the dresser on the right in the second painting - that open drawer seems alive to me. Also, check out the reflection in the mirror. It's ghostly!

8/27/09

Trois

2009-09-06T09:51:00.001-04:00

I hope you were eating when you saw this.

8/26/09

So good to have him home.

2009-09-05T09:49:00.001-04:00

Perfect.

8/25/09

Good morning, Sunshine!

2009-09-05T09:04:00.003-04:00

Me: Can you explain why it is that you feel the need to use your feet to shove the covers off of your body all the way down to the foot of the bed where they get all tangled up and make it nearly impossible for me to make the bed?

Him: Is there anything I do that I've been doing for my entire life that doesn't irritate you?

He thinks roadkill is good eatin'

2009-09-04T09:14:00.004-04:00

I always have these grand imaginings. Adam says that my life is like that part in (500) Days of Summer where the audience sees the split-screen of Tom's Expectation next to his Reality and it's so awful because his Expectation is SO HIGH and Reality is. so. average.

Speaking of that movie, who's title I don't feel like typing out again, have you ever seen a movie so brilliant, that while you are watching it you alternate between wanting to call everyone you know to demand that they see it and feeling like your life is a worthless mess because you could never create anything so beautiful? That is how I felt when I watched that movie. And then it ended. And the ending was so awful, so lame, so cheap, so insipid... that I finally understood why my dad is always talking about the third act of movies and why they're so important. The ending actually offended me. I was actually offended. Because of the ending, and only the ending, I would recommend that you spend your $12.50 on a different movie. Or, at the very least, that you leave the theatre at the 1 hour 20 minute mark. I mean it.

So anyway, I have these grand imaginings and I'm frequently disappointed. (Right, I should probably work on lowering my expectations. But the fantasy is so fun.) I really thought I would write a big beautiful heartwarming post about my husband's return from the JMT, and my experience of not being able to see him or talk to him for twenty-one days. You know, I'd write all about how much better my life is when he's around, yet how much I learned about myself from being on my own for nearly a month, blah blah blah. Because it's a kind of a big deal to be out of communication with your spouse for twenty-one days.

But I didn't write a thing. This post was written eight days after his return. Eight! Because when he came home and it was time to write the big heartwarming post, I just couldn't tear myself away from him long enough to write. And then? When I finally could tear myself away? By then he was leaving dirty socks on the floor again, so... you know.

I'm kidding. He is leaving his socks on the floor, but it's also so wonderful to have him home, even with the dirty socks, that sometimes I just sit and stare at him, like when he's in the middle of doing something or whatever, and I just can't believe he's sitting there. Home. Mere inches away.

That's usually when I reach out and pinch him, really hard. And then he gets upset and yells about how violent I've become. But at least he's home.

I didn't take any photos the night he came back, and I only took a few the next day. I was too busy staring at him with awe and adoration to take a lot of photos. But, and aren't you lucky, I did take photos of his scary weight loss and his mountain man beard:

Escada is doing a whole Mountain Man look this fall. Just wait.

I'd like to point out that in this photo, Mike is wearing the jeans that were giving him muffin-top the day he left for his trip. If you ever want to lose fifteen pounds in three weeks, all you have to do is hike 15-20 miles every day while wearing a fifty-pound backpack. It's way better than that maple-syrup-lemon-pepper diet. (We're not going to comment on the farmer's tan though, ok?) (Update: Mike has corrected me. It's a hiker's tan. My sincere apologies.) (Weirdo.)

We spent his first day home whispering over our pillows, catching up on life over the last three weeks, going through the photos from his trip and eating. A lot. I cooked for him and fussed over him and rubbed his feet, he read all my blog posts and exclaimed over my new cooking skillz, and then he took me to see District 9 which was brilliant. Loved it. LOVED it. Including the third act. GO SEE IT.

Also that day? We shaved off The Beard. Which we really should have named, by the way. That thing had developed it's own personality.

The first cut

A young Colonel Sanders.

If Michael were a Civil War reenacter.

Or a hipster.

P.S. Look closely at his shoulders. Do you see the red scabs on both shoulders? In the shapes of backpack straps? Gnarly.

8/24/09

Splish, splash, I was takin' a bath, all alone on Saturday night!*

2009-09-03T18:45:00.003-04:00

August 21, 2009. It was a bad day. The weather sweltered. I couldn't use my AC. I worked all day. I sweat all day. I missed Mike all day. Luckily for me, Theo is a good kisser.

Sweat-Soaked Self-Portrait With Dog Tongue - 8/21/09

That's Valentine in the background, nibbling my ear.

August 22 was a great day. I got a lot done, I was giddy knowing Mike would be home the very next day, and I had friends over for dinner. Then? THEN I COOKED. And you know what? I didn't set anything on fire. Not a thing! I mean, the stove, yes. But that's supposed to be on fire. I didn't set anything else on fire. I harvested my basil plants and made fresh pesto and served it with pretty little noodles, roasted chicken seasoned with thyme and oregano from my herb garden, ricotta and asiago cheese, and then, just for fun, I topped it off with Cherokee Purple tomatoes from our CSA. I completely invented the recipe, just threw things together as they seemed to fit, and it was delicious. I was so thoroughly impressed with myself that I took this photo:

I made that garlic bread, too. I used a gorgeous french loaf that Josie and Johnny brought over, drenched it in olive oil, threw on some chopped garlic and doused everything with a hearty helping of shredded asiago. Heaven in my mouth. Seriously.

And this was the early morning of August 23. The very early morning. The very, very early morning. In fact, we were still awake from the day before! And? We're sweating! Because it's sweaty! At 3 a.m.! (Though The Valley may thoroughly fry it's residents all day, AT LEAST IT COOLS DOWN AT NIGHT.)

We spent this ~~evening~~ early morning on my fire escape, talking ab --

Hold on. I've got to interrupt myself for a minute.

As a Valley Girl growing up in Southern California, whenever I fantasized about living in New York City, I imagined myself spending a lot of time on my fire escape. I imagined that I would sit out there and read. I would sit out there and sketch. Sometimes I'd sit on my imaginary fire escape and compose poetry, play my lute, and have long, impassioned dialogues with the handsome Puerto Rican boy who lived across the alley. It would be grand and romantic, this fire escape of mine.

And then I moved to New York and realized that fire escapes are filthy, cramped and difficult to get on and off of.

Still, in the very early morning hours of August 23rd, Adam, Joe and I sat on my fire escape drinking red wine, talking about life and friendship, romance and babies and it was every bit as lovely as I could have imagined.

Joe breaks glasses when he drinks. It's why we love him.

And why we switched to plastic.

*You're all, what? I know. Totally.

Let us begin a game of catch-up, shall we?

2009-09-02T14:30:00.001-04:00

Self Portrait on Doorknob While Pooping

I kid. I kid. I'm just sitting on the toilet seat. But I have some family members who would be REALLY offended if they saw this, regardless.

8/18/09

Boutonniere in Vintage Ashtray

The boutonniere is the one my mother bought Michael to wear on our wedding day on April 16, 2006. The ashtray, circa 1950-ish, belonged to my beloved great-aunt Suzanne. Who deserves a blog post. (I'm getting there.)

8/19/09

Goodbye, kid.

2009-09-01T08:22:00.004-04:00

Taken seconds before he left, the Super Shuttle guy standing right in front of us, waiting to take John's bag and hurl it into the back of the van.

All week I worried over whether or not he was having a fun time. I worried about whether or not he was too hot while he slept, if I was feeding him enough and if he liked my cooking. I worried over whether or not I listened well while he spoke. I worried if he was disappointed by how much I was working and leaving him on his own. Then I worried that he had more fun on his own than he did with me.

And I'm only saying all of this because I am starting to believe that it is perfectly normal to worry and that most people just don't talk about it as openly as I do. Or else they won't admit how much they worry. Right now I'm worried that you're judging me for being such a worrier.

My point is that when he hugged me goodbye, I knew right then that the week had meant as much to him as it did to me. He might have had a lot of aloof teenager moments while he was here, but when he hugged me goodbye, for a split second, he was two again. And he didn't want to let go.

Neither did I, baby. I love you forever. (That's a long time.)

8/17/09

Ornithischian Dinosaurs

2009-08-31T08:19:00.006-04:00

The American Museum of Natural History, Hall of Fossils.

(I just pooted.)

8/16/09

Highline Park

2009-08-30T08:10:00.004-04:00

Ever since the city opened Highline Park, Mike and I have been trashing it. With our words, not with actual trash. I mean, really? It's just kind of amazing that millions of dollars are poured into turning a neighborhood "eyesore" into a park, when that neighborhood is THE MEATPACKING DISTRICT. There are so many parks in Harlem and it's surrounding neighborhoods that are in terrible disrepair and really need some love, but no one is going to put any money into those parks because those neighborhoods aren't "hip".

Now I'm going to step down off my soap box and admit that Highline Park is actually pretty badass. The views alone are breathless. But it's also planted well. I loved the natural grasses, flowers and other plants that are growing along the edges.

Sweaty faces are a theme this week.

I mean, how often do you get to take a photo of your nephew standing that close to the back of a billboard? Without doing something illegal?

And also? I got to take this cool photo of one of those stacking parking structures. FROM ABOVE.

8/15/09

Three

2009-08-29T08:04:00.009-04:00

Ooooooh. Looky who forgot to take any pitchers on August 14th. You're gonna get in trr0-UH-ble!

This marks the THIRD time I've forgotten to take photos since I started Project 356+ in June.

But you know what? IT DOESN'T MATTER. The whole point of the project was to get me to be a little bit more creative every day. And it's working. I haven't written this consistently EVER IN MY WHOLE LIFE. And I love it. I love writing. When I can't write because I have chores or work or other things I have to do, it pains me. Literally. It hurts. I am very in love with the writing.

And so I refuse to feel bad for missing another day of photographs. Instead, I will post a photo I took the following day, August 15, a photo that I am actually quite pleased with:

I think Ty would be proud.

My first dead thing in a while, I found this beauty while John and I were wandering the East Village on Saturday. At first glance I thought the mass of flesh on the ground was a pile of dead leaves. And the maggots? I thought those were a pile of little flower buds.

I'm not kidding.

Imagine my surprise when I realized I'd just walked through a pile of live maggots.

But the squirming, writhing maggots were not enough to deter me from photographing such a luscious dead thing. Nor were the many people who passed me, a look of utter disgust on their faces, as I crouched on the filthy sidewalk and snapped photo after photo.

Know why else John is cool? He took as many pictures of that rat as I did.

Attractive. At least he is.

2009-08-28T08:01:00.002-04:00

At South Street Seaport.

Note the sweaty faces. It was hotter at 5 p.m. than it had been at noon. Lame.

8/13/09

Song Against Sex

2009-08-27T22:16:00.003-04:00

I'll admit I've never been too much of a manic music buff. I love books. I'm obsessed with books. I find an author I like and I suck up every word that person ever scribbled afterwards and before. Music? Yes, I love it, I enjoy it, I listen to it every day. But I have a thing for books.

As a result, I have very few musical relationships. These are relationships with bands that you love and adore and are loyal to. Many people have lots of musical relationships and they brag about all of their different favorite bands. I have these relationships, these favorites, with only a handful of bands, less than the fingers on my hands, actually. The only reason I have these relationships at all is because I spent a lot of time in college holding the CD jackets in my fists, reading the lyrics and singing along, pretending I was The Rock Star In Question. (Usually Danny Elfman, Trent Reznor or Sinead O'Connor.)

Now that I purchase all of my music on iTunes, I no longer have the option of spending Saturday nights alone with the cover art of my latest CD purchase. Now if I want to learn the lyrics of a song and sing along, I have to try and figure out what the singer is saying, which often results in my singing at the top of my lungs, "Livin' collect!" to Prince's Little Red Corvette.

It's not pretty.

Tonight Michael sat me down in front of the computer and said, "Listen to this while you read this."

I don't know if it's because of the experience of reading along with the lyrics as I heard the song, or if it is just because they are that brilliant. But I just found a new band I am willing to have a musical relationship with.

I urge you, out of a fondness for the memory of the CD, which has gone the way of cassette tapes, records and 8-tracks, to click here. Then, when you're here, using the bar on the right side of the webpage, you'll scroll down until you find the little orange play button on the far right. It looks like an orange circle with a white sideways triangle on it. The triangle is pointing to the right. Got that so far? Ok, then you click on that button and hope that the speakers on your computer are on, and then you listen to that song while you read the lyrics. You must do the two things at the same time to glean the full experience. Trust me.

Also? Dopey loves this band, she claims to be "obsessed" with them. And Dopey is a Real and Actual Published Writer, so there.

Tuesday's with Johnnie

2009-08-26T23:57:00.005-04:00

Picnic lunch at The Cloisters, then a few hours wandering the museum.

He just added Columbia to his list of colleges to apply to.

8/11/09

Little John with nose so pointy

2009-08-25T20:39:00.008-04:00

Little John

with nose so pointy

anoint your pants.

Anointy, Nointy!

Trish and John, circa 1993

Aw, man. I bet that right now he's praying none of his friends read my blog.

For the next week, my nephew John is staying with me. It has become a tradition of sorts: My sister flies John to NYC to spend a week with me every August. And every time he visits, it ends up being one of the best parts of my year:

The kid is just so cool. I mean, he's fifteen and he's working on at least one novel and at least one screenplay. He's writing a scene to perform with his friends as part of a competition for school. He can quote any line from any movie EVER. He likes Rocky Horror. He loves watching terrible B zombie movies. He's really good at drawing. He's practically perfect! Oh, wait. He doesn't like chocolate. That's a pretty big deal.

Anyway, we spent our first day together flying across the country, and then I put him in front of a movie while I scrubbed my apartment. He wanted to help, but seriously? This was supposed to be his vacation. The next morning we slept late, had a leisurely breakfast, talked about super heroes, and then headed down to Union Square. Me? I had to go to work. But he's 15 now, 16 next month, so I showed him where my office was and he was off on his own. He took the subway down to Times Square, poked around in some comic book shops, and then came back to Union Square. And that's when he experienced what he later said was one of the most interesting things he's ever experienced in his life: A religious nut preaching against homosexuality to a crowd of NYU students. And singing bible hymns. And I won't go into too much detail because I want him to write about it, but someone ended up saying something so brilliant, John and I were both floored. And I wasn't even there.

"If we are made in God's image, than God must also have a prostate and an anus with thousands of sensitive nerve endings to promote pleasure."

Or something to that effect.

Only better.

Also that night? John brought me dinner:

An apple and a peach, because he didn't know which one I'd like better, and a super-wonderful spinach salad that he fixed from the salad bar at Whole Foods. And blood-orange soda. It was awesome.

8/10/09

Just now

2009-08-25T11:55:00.003-04:00

Me: I can't believe I have a man in my life who I'm so crazy about.

Mike: Me neither! You're so hard to get along with!

(But then he kissed me like Patrick Swayze kissed Jennifer Grey, so I didn't smack him.)

In flight

2009-08-25T08:38:00.001-04:00

8/9/09

I took a hundred photos today. I'm only posting three.

2009-08-23T08:57:00.001-04:00

Good morning, Mama!

Dopey's back seat. That pizza? It's three days old.

(She's going to kill me.)

Homecoming: August 7, 2009

Back from left: JD, Andrew, George, Chris, Arthur

Front from left: Dori, Kev, Me, Kelsey

8/7/09

Late Night

2009-08-22T08:27:00.000-04:00

And then there are these guys:

Best friends since childhood, the two I haven't lost track of. Seeing them again was like grabbing hold of a piece of my past, clutching it to my chest, burying my nose in old memories and breathing deep.

Like no time has past at all, we reunited and laughed and told stories and opened our hearts and still, despite all that has changed in our lives, they are my brothers.

(The gorgeous blonde on the right is Kevin's girlfriend. She's funny, smart, beautiful, wonderful. He's a lucky man, he is. And he knows it.)

8/5/09 - 8/6/09

A Thursday in The Valley

2009-08-21T08:42:00.004-04:00

An all girls luncheon. The first one in nearly ten years.

We pretended to have a beach day in the jacuzzi

that I grew up pretending to be a mermaid in.

A hawk at rest. That morning, while practicing yoga in the yard,

I watched as he flew lazy circles in the sky.

Me, my childhood hero, his legacy.

In the bedroom I grew up in, we had a slumber party

that made me feel like I was sixteen again. In a good way.

8/6/09

Because August 5th was a big day

2009-08-21T08:30:00.002-04:00

I spent Wednesday afternoon with my dear friend Michelle, but Wednesday night I had the privilege of joining my brother and his lovely wife, along with our parents, for his birthday dinner at a great little sushi joint in The Valley.

It's been bothering me that I haven't written anything in honor of my brother's birthday. I wrote a story for my dad's birthday this month, then I wrote a special post for George when his birthday rolled around. I've written birthday posts for Mike, Adam, even Jesus*. But nothing for Ty's birthday. And it's not because I value him any less, oh goodness no. He's one of the most important people in my life. It's because I feel shy.

Growing up, Ty was my idol. He'd walk into a room and I was instantly start-struck. He was so handsome and smart and kind. He protected me, spent time with me, taught me things. When I had something to say, he listened as if what I was saying was the most important thing in the world. He was a teenager and he would let me, his 6-year-old kid sister, hang out with him and his friends and they treated me like one of the gang. He made me feel like the most special kid in the entire Universe.

Ty protected me and took care of me. He fixed my toys when they broke, he stood up for me when I was made fun of. If I woke up from a nightmare, it wasn't my parents I went to for comfort, it was my brother. His room was my favorite room in the house, despite the fact that his room was full of things that would terrify most little girls. He had floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with things like snake shed and monkey skulls, live reptiles and taxidermied animals. But he had taken the time to teach me about what they were and where they came from, why they were beautiful. So instead of being afraid of these things, I loved them as much as he did.

Ty taught me the difference between spiders and daddy longlegs, he introduced me to pincer bugs and caterpillars, took me fishing and taught me the lyrics to his favorite Oingo Boingo songs, explained why Blondie was cooler than Madonna. He gave me my love of reptiles, dead things, Blue Grass and rodents. When Mike and I planned our wedding, we asked him to officiate because I couldn't think of anyone else in the world I wanted standing with us when Mike and I said our vows.

I adore my big brother, but he keeps his cards close to his chest and so I feel like I should too. Though many of my most treasured memories are of times I've spent with him, I'm too shy to tell him.

That's why I haven't written anything for his birthday. I worry it would make him feel awkward. I feel embarrassed. So instead I cross my fingers and hope he knows that even though I'm grown up and I don't need to knock on his door when I have a nightmare, he's still my hero.

8/5/09

*I'm lying. I haven't written anything for Jesus. But maybe I should.

Lunch with babes

2009-08-20T08:34:00.007-04:00

Meet Michelle and Noah:

Michelle was one of my closest friends in high school, but because she was two grades above me, she was also my mentor. She's still a friend and mentor, she has given me career advice countless times, she's referred me to voice teachers and pianists, she's the reason I decided to focus on theatre in college, in fact, she was a big part of why I moved to New York. She has always inspired me and encouraged me. She cuts a path and I follow behind and a little to the left, tramping on my own weeds along the way.

Michelle is the first of my high school friends to have a baby.

I met Noah in May of '08, when he was only a few weeks old. When I saw Mich this month, she told me that of everyone in her life, my reaction to meeting Noah was the best reaction of all. Mike and I had gone over to Michelle's for dinner and as soon as her husband opened the front door and I saw her with a baby in her arms, I burst out in loud, hysterical sobs.

I ugly cried.

Face contorted, snot pouring down into my mouth, the whole thing. I cried so hard I was practically screaming. The kind of crying where you can't catch your breath and so make horrible, terrible, choking, gasping sounds. Mich started laughing and Mike was completely stunned and Mich's husband, Tim, went and hid in the kitchen. Which is fair, because I was acting like a lunatic and he'd never met me, so for all he knew my head was about to explode all over his living room walls. He didn't want to get any blood on his sweater and I respect that.

I immediately excused myself, ducked into the bathroom, pulled myself together, washed my face, and tried again. I walked back into the living room, took one look at Michelle and Noah, and started sobbing again.

Why? It's hard to explain. It's just that she looked so beautiful. And Noah was so small and perfect. And the whole scene was so surreal and incredible and one of those moments when you know life is changed forever in a wonderful, miraculous, mind-blowing way. And also? I want a baby so bad I spend all my time watching live birthing videos on YouTube.

Let's pretend I did not just write that on the Internet.

So Michelle and Tim had me over for lunch on Wednesday, and this time I did not bawl like a madwoman. But when Mich asked Noah, "What sound does a snake make?" and he put his little tongue between his little teeth and went, "Ssssssssssss", I choked back tears. He's incredible. Even when he threw a temper tantrum my uterus did back flips. I just wanted to squeeze him and bury my face in his neck and eat him. I spent the whole afternoon with my hands over my mouth so that I would not lose control and bite into one of his scrumptious little thighs.

Mmmmmm. Babies.

8/5/09

Max the Dog

2009-08-19T08:14:00.002-04:00

My friend B.J. (his last name is Serviss. I'm not joking.) has a dog named Max:

B.J. and his wife, Kat, adopted Max from a local adoption group. They were in love with him before he even came home and they made sure that he had all the accouterments he could possibly need to live a comfy, suburban life. They bought him a dog bed for every room of their house, installed a doggy door, bought plenty of toys and raw hides, got him a water fountain drinking bowl, even a food dish that automatically fills at 8 a.m. and 6 p.m. every day, so that no matter what they were up to, Max would always get fed on time.

About a week after they adopted him, B.J. and Max were out for a walk when a neighbor decided to use his leaf-blower. The sudden loud noise frightened Max and he reared back, pulling his head out of his collar. Before B.J. could grab him, Max ran off down the street. B.J. took off after him, calling frantically, but the dog was too fast. My friend watched, horrified, as Max darted across a heavily trafficked street, dodging cars. And after that? There was no sign of him at all.

B.J. ran back to his house and loaded his pockets with treats and squeaker toys, called in sick to work, then went out again to canvass his neighborhood. With his heart in his throat he walked the streets calling out to Max, begging him to come home. After more than three hours of fruitless searching, B.J. went home to make the dreaded 'Lost Dog' flier. As he sat down at his computer he heard Max's dog bowl ding, then the soft shuffle of kibble being dropped into the bowl. The realization that his sweet dog wouldn't be home to eat dinner was too much for him, and he burst into tears. Then he heard the doggy door slap shut. He held his breath. It must've been his imagination. But then - the familiar click-click of Max's nails on the kitchen tile. B.J. rushed into the kitchen and there was Max, snarfing down dinner. Damn dog knew it was time to be fed and didn't want to miss a meal.

B.J. Serviss, Kat, Me

P.S. Max wears a harness now.

8/4/09

LACMA

2009-08-18T08:47:00.002-04:00

Papa played hookey from work on his birthday, Monday, August 3rd, to take me and Mama to LACMA* for the day. It was an especially special treat because we had spent the day before at The Getty Villa and LACMA is currently hosting Pompeii and the Roman Villa. I now know more about Roman Villa's than I could have ever hoped to know. But really? It was incredible. Even though there weren't any dead bodies.

I didn't bother taking any photos inside LACMA because my camera is terrible without a flash. And I get yelled at by museum security guards often enough without trying to use a flash. (I am always setting off the alarms for standing too close to the art work/artifact/etc. One time? One time I petted the mane of a sculpture of a lion at The Met, a sculpture made a billion years before Jesus. Mike made me keep my hands folded behind my back for the rest of the day. BUT IF THEY DON'T WANT YOU TO TOUCH IT, WHY DO THEY PUT IT RIGHT THERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FLOOR?)

This is my mama** and me playing around in a Frosty-Friendly art installation by Choi Jeong-Hwa, called Happy, Happy. And it is aptly titled, because it sure made me feel good to be able to run around in it and touch all those wonderful, brightly colored plastic bins. I wish I'd taken a photo of the whole thing, it was quite incredible, and if you live in Los Angeles, I suggest you go check it out.

Just for kicks, here are photos I found when I google-imaged "Happy, Happy art at LACMA"

Happy, Happy

The artist and his work.

8/3/09

*Weren't expecting THAT were you?

**How gorgeous is my mother? A total knockout at 67 years young.

The Getty Villa and Mephistopheles

2009-08-17T08:18:00.002-04:00

If you live in Los Angeles and you have not been to the Getty Villa in Malibu, you really ought to go. I'm not sure what it is, maybe it's that I'm lazy, or maybe it's because I have no soul, but I never really want to go to museums. I'm going to be perfectly honest here. I know that I should want to go to museums, but I'd actually rather sit at home with a good book, or a movie, or a cup of tea and someone I love to talk with. However, when I force myself to go along with those I love to museums and what not, I always end up having a wonderful time. The Getty Villa was no exception.

The Villa houses Greek and Roman antiquities, and it is built exactly, to scale, in perfect reproduction, like the Villa dei Papyri, which was partially excavated in Herculaneum, a city buried under ash when Mount Vesuvius erupted in AD 79. While much of the Getty Villa is reproduced work, many of the items are actual antiquities. And everything is stunning. J. Paul Getty built it to house his collection of antiquities, and because he wanted modern people to have the opportunity to spend time in, and understand, what an actual Roman Villa would have been like.

Detail on a fountain

A very small example of how the walls

in an ancient Roman villa would have been decorated.

An actual lily pad excavated from Herculaneum.

(Lie.)

The day was sunny and breezy and perfectly lovely. It helped that the company was so fantastic.

Most of the kids and all of the grand kids. (So far.)

Then, of course, no visit home would be complete without some snuggle time with my favorite reptile. Meet Mephistopheles:

If only he knew how much I miss him.

Oh! How unrequited love burns!

Mephistopheles was the very first gift ever given to me by my husband. Only at the time, he wasn't my husband, not even my boyfriend. It was the fall of 2000, and Mike knew I'd dreamt of having a pet ball python for years. When he gave me Meph, the snake could barely curl 'round my neck. Now? Now he's over five feet of gorgeous, scaly perfection. We could not figure out how to safely bring him across the country to New York, so we left him in the care of our very dear friend Cade. And Cade has taken wonderful care of him! And, hey! If you ever feel like taking a road trip across the country and bringing Meph along, I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE HIM BACK. (And I think Cade would love to give him back.)

Have you ever seen something so

gorgeous in your entire life?

8/2/09

Hodge Podge

2009-08-16T09:43:00.000-04:00

I am married to this guy:

On a scale of 1-10, how offensive is that photo? And would you believe me if I said it came about in an entirely innocent manner? Because it did. It really did.

Moving on! Saturday, August 1st, I kissed my husband good-bye while wearing very large sunglasses so that he would not be able to tell that I was crying. And then I hopped in my sister's car and she drove off quickly as I sobbed like an idiot in the front seat. And then we ate Thai food.

Back in The Valley, it was time to get down and celebrate my father's 70th birthday and my brother's 35th.

My handsome brother and his gorgeous daughter. They look a lot alike:

Clearly, I frighten her:

These two?

He proposed to her on Valentine's Day, in such a movie-romantic way I couldn't even believe it, who knew he was so romantic, but now they're getting married and the family couldn't be happier.

8/1/09

Rancho Palos Verdes

2009-08-15T08:42:00.004-04:00

This is where I begin to attempt to tell you all about my trip to California. I've been trying to figure out how I can write about this trip without being that person who invites friends over for dinner and then locks them in the den, shuts off the lights, and forces them to sit through the slideshow of their trip to the Grand Canyon, but I don't know how to manage that. And yet? I have to write something. My mom wanted to know why I needed to write something, she suggested I stick to The Now, but, um, what about Project 365+? I'd love to stick to The Now, really I would, but I took nearly 300 photos for Project 365+, and I've got to do something with them. Bare (bear) with me. I will try not to make you so bored that you want to shove hot forks of displeasure into your eyes.

*****************************

A family reunion of sorts, Mike and I spent our first two days home with his brother, sister-in-law and their children. We made sure to soak up as much culture and art as possible, spending hours at museums, galleries and concerts.

Or else I'm lying and we sat around visiting, eating, catching up, playing video games and completely relaxing. Either way? It was lovely.

The gorgeous guy on the left is Mike's clone, otherwise known as his nephew Alan. The gorgeous guy in the middle is nephew Chris. The hairy beast on the left is hippie Mike.

And here I am, holding on to him for dear life, thinking of ways I can trick him into stuffing me into his backpack so I can come along for the hike.

Also a lie. I was invited on this trip, he actually at one point kind of begged me to go (I may be exaggerating), and I was all, "Are there showers? Malls? Restaurants? I'M NOT GOING."

7/31/09

Toby

2009-08-14T08:24:00.000-04:00

The best part of the photo, other than Toby's beautiful face, are the tufts of Valentine-fur that are wafting across the floor. I'll have you know that this photo was taken about twenty minutes after sweeping. That bitch sheds so much I can't believe she's not bald.

7/30/09

Ass-balls and other news

2009-08-13T08:11:00.003-04:00

About eighty million months ago I posted this post about a onesie I was stitching for Adam's sister's fetus. That fetus is now a fat happy baby and I just finished the onesie today.

Only today is 12:20 a.m. on Wednesday, August 12 and I actually finished this onesie on Wednesday, July 29, and said fetus/baby was born on Tuesday, July 28. We all know I'm behind on my posting, but seriously.

I ought to be in bed right now, only I CAN'T STAND GETTING INTO MY COLD AND EMPTY BED WITHOUT MICHAEL.

I'm not co-dependent. I just know what I like. And I like sharing my bed with that big handsome bear of a man.

Sometimes, if I can see the moon, I will look up at it and wonder if he's looking up at it, too. And then I feel really stupid for being such a cheese curl.

It's really kind of amazing the ache I feel with him gone. I miss him so much. So much. SO MUCH. Have I mentioned lately how much I miss him?

Also, I'm really jealous of my sister-in-law because she is getting phone calls from her husband just about every other day. While I? I get a call from her saying, "The boys are doing great!"

And it's my own fault. Because I told Mike, DO NOT CALL ME. IF YOU CALL ME I WILL THINK A BEAR ATE YOU. (Apparently he listens when I talk.) Why did I tell Mike not to call me? Because I thought I was being all supportive and wonderful and giving him space to have uninterrupted magical man-time with his brother. And I hope he is. I really hope he is.

I am in New York and my wonderful nephew is visiting me and if I ever catch up on my posting, you will hear all about my visit to Los Angeles and my wonderful nephew's visit to New York.

If I ever catch up on my posting.

So anyway, would you like to see some close-up shots of my stitching? I took all the photos before I washed the onesie, so not only is it coated in a fine layer of cat hair, like the rest of my life, but the pattern is still showing through. C'est la vie.

7/29/09

Where did the day go?

2009-08-12T00:15:00.007-04:00

I seem to have forgotten to take a photo on July 28. I'm not really sure how that happened. But the worst part? I can't even tell you what I did that day. Did I work all day? I don't know. Did I hang out with friends? Highly unlikely. Did I spend the whole day drunk? A possibility.

Ha, I kid.

Or do I?

Anyway, here's a photo I took in March of 2007, of my sweet and beloved husband taking a bath in our first bitchen. Did you know we've had two bitchens? We've had two.

My beloved is hiking the JMT, as I've mentioned, and has no phone or Internet access, so it will be several weeks until he realizes that I've posted a photo of him in the bath on the Internet.

I am so glad I'm not married to me.

George affectionately named this bathtub the 'bounter', as in 'bathtub/counter', because that ugly slab of wood you see on the wall behind the tub? That is the underside of the kitchen counter. It folded down when you needed to use it, and then folded up and latched to the wall when you needed to bathe. And I only spent $1500 a month on my rent! Have I mentioned lately HOW MUCH I LOVE MY FABULOUS NEW APARTMENT?

7/28/09

Singles Ad

2009-08-11T07:26:00.001-04:00

Meet Morris:

Morris is a single worm living in Manhattan. He likes long walks in the park, gardening, reading the paper and making breakfast in bed. He's looking for a woman to cuddle and love forever.

7/27/09

I'm back from The Valley and my head is still spinning from the busy wonderfulness of it all. I have so many chores to catch up on, so much writing to catch up on, so much work to catch up on, I'm not sure how I'll ever manage it. But I'll try, a little bit every day, just like everything else in my life. I'm big on baby steps. Have you noticed? Also, is that an oxymoron? Big on baby steps?

Good Morning, George! Happy Birthday!

2009-08-11T01:16:00.003-04:00

Georgie Porgie, puddin' and pie

Kissed the girls and made them cry

When the boys came out to play

Georgie Porgie ran away

That is what I used to say to my friend George whenever I called him or saw him or hugged him. Until about a month ago when I thought about it for a second and realized it actually isn't a very nice nursery rhyme. That Georgie Porgie guy is kind of douche nozzle. And my friend George? He's anything but.

George and I have known each other since the 3rd grade and I like to tell people that I spent a lot of time that year bouncing basketballs off of his head. For fun. But actually? I did that in 7th grade. When I knew better. My next memory of George is when he showed up on the first day of school in tenth grade with a present he'd brought back for me from his summer abroad in Greece. It was a t-shirt with dirty words on the front. My father hated it. I wore it to school once and got in trouble. I wish I still had it because I could totally get away with it now.

George is the kind of friend who, when you are ill with food poisoning, will drive over to your apartment with 7-Up and toilet paper and feed you chips of ice and hold a cold cloth to your feverish head and assure you that you are actually not dying. If ever you feel like you're losing your shit and you think the world is caving in and you are ready to give up, George is the friend who will firmly tell you to calm the f*ck down because you are not losing your shit, the world is not caving in, and when all is said and done you will be stronger and happier than you've ever been. And you believe him because he sounds so sure of you. George is the kind of friend who brings you souvenirs when he goes on vacation and burns you CD's of your favorite songs and lets you put labels on all of his belongings, just because he knows it makes you laugh. He's the kind of friend who will plan a birthday party for you that involves a trip out of town to a place you've never been, all your friends in tow, and money to spend while you're there. And he'll even invite your jerk-off boyfriend who he (rightly) can't stand. George is loyal and kind, funny and smart, and he stands up for himself. When things go wrong, he makes you talk it out and if you lie and pretend like everything is ok, he knows you're lying and convinces you that he will still love you, love you even more actually, if you'll just tell the truth.

George moved to New York in 2005. When I moved to the city in 2007, he met me at the airport, even though he didn't have a car and had to ride twelve different trains and spend a million dollars to do it, he met me at the airport and spent my first weekend in the city with me, so I wouldn't be afraid. I can be a big scaredy cat sometimes, but George is the kind of person who encourages bravery. So he met me at the airport and spent the weekend with me and bought me a subway map and showed me all around town. We rode the Staten Island Ferry and said hello to Lady Liberty. We wandered around the East Village with a freezing wind that blew like hot sand in our faces. He took me to Grand Central Station, made me keep my eyes closed until we were standing in the very middle of the action so that I would be surprised when I saw the gorgeous lights and constellations on the ceiling of that truly grand train station. He spent the whole weekend with me despite the fact that my bathtub was in the kitchen and the toilet was in a small closet next to the bed, the door nothing more than a set of venetian blinds. (YAY FOR NEW YORK APARTMENTS.) On subsequent weekends he took me to see live bands and he showed me around Long Island and took me to dinner and when I went back to Los Angeles to get my husband, George stored all my crap, ALL MY CRAP, in his bedroom for two weeks until I could move it into my new apartment, so that I wouldn't have to pay for storage.

These things are but a fraction of the things George will do to show his love. He is a remarkable man. A man who goes above and beyond to take care of the people he loves. If you know George, if you have the opportunity to become his friend, you are blessed.

I am blessed.

George, Happy Birthday. I love you forever.