Meet Mr. Artsy Hotpants

A very very drunken cab ride in the snow after a good play and a fun after party with one of the best gay boyfriends a girl could ever dream of...what more could a girl ask for?

Details of the play and party along with much name dropping to follow tomorrow, when I'm not quite so inebriated. For now, enjoy mocking my incoherent drunken ramblings and listening to the slightly more sober but very tired yet kind of butch voice of Mr. Artsy Hotpants as he sends a special thank you out to the fabulous Vixanne while I giggle at nothing and everything in the background. I am not usually this giggly; it must be the wine. I'm surprised I didn't fall in the slippery snow attempting to get home in my impossible heels; I will undoubtedly make up for it tommorrow and fall flat on my face in snow boots...such is the way of the synge.

Laundry Night - Part 2

The excitement of found treasures is just too much to keep to oneself.

I was walking briskly while posting and had just carried a not-so-light table up 5 flights of stairs, hence the somewhat breathless quality that could be misconstrued as some sort of weird laundry fetish panting. Which it wasn't. Really.

I also have to add the disclaimer that I am in no way a neat freak; I, in fact, tend to sway far more towards the slovenly side of the spectrum. But my roomate just happens to be far more severe in his lapses of cleanliness than I, hence the need to get rid of the crusty food particle laden dish drainer that really had little to do with the story at hand.

Notice the self-consciousness included at the very end - I was clearly aware of my penchant for tangents and my stunning ability to make any story ten times longer than it ever needed to be. This is why I do much better with a script; improv has never been my strong suit.

Laundry Night - Part 1

The injustice is overwhelming.

So is my hatred of laundry.

Messy Brain Explosion on a Creative High or My Pretentious Fuck Post

I operate best with a certain amount of stress in my life. This had always been true for me, and I've always found that the busier I am, the more I get accomplished. However, I do have to watch myself, as if there is not that little edge of stress to instigate forward motion, I can sometimes tend to create volcanic drama; while this makes for perhaps more interesting blogging posts, its not exactly a healthy habit to have (though neither is smoking, and I never claimed to be all that healthy). So naturally, I am thrilled to be again off and bounding away at breakneck speed, fully absorbed in artistic endeavors rather than expending massive amounts of energy on mini-dramas of my own creation. This is what I live for and how I am my happiest and best self.

Although the Vagina Goddess is producing and in charge of the project, I am going to be rather heavily involved with helping out on the production siode of things as well. I am in charge of researching and coordinating with the donation aspect of the production; something I'm honored to do and something that will enable me to familiarize myself with many local womyn's organizations that I will undoubtedly continue working with beyond this project. I'm also working with My Little Vidipookikins on the blog/vlog we will be setting up. I just had a meeting with her in fact, and my excitement and energy is renewed after a bit of a sedentary weekend thus far.

The Vagina Vlog will be a documentation of process from start to finish of the whole project comprised of video of the meetings and rehearsal process as well as interviews with all those involved, and text written by the awkward bumbling hand of yours truly. In the end all the video clips will be assembled into a "the making of" kind of a short. I'm incredibly excited about this idea, as there's something fascinating about charting the creative process. On an entirely different level, I also think it makes for good publicity; a different and new approach to drumming up interest.

My brain is reeling with all the possibilities we discussed. It's incredibly exciting.

I'm also working on putting together a possible project of a one woman online work that will be filmed in very short segments that the viewer will be able to assemble in different ways, thus altering or perhaps in a way creating the story to a certain extent. I have an incredible writer in mind that I want to pitch the project to, and would be collaborating with My Little Vidipookikins on this as well.

Our whole long term goal is to create a template to get a grant for an online artistic community replete with its own servers and resources. It would be a virtual artists commune with archival abilities that would enable all sorts of creative collaboration and mixed artistic mediums....something I've been interested in for a long time, but never considered the possibility of using the internet for until quite recently. It is already the largest and most powerful venue reaching the widest and most diverse audience and is changing and challenging the art world as we speak. I'm fascinated with how the disconnect alters and affects interpretation, and how it affects the collaborative process. I have been thrilled with the work of the three artists whose studios I have links to, and am especially interested in how they take work from eachother to use in or inspire their own work.

There are moments where you feel like the world has suddenly cracked open and you are privy to the endless open doors of possibility that somehow become masked by the daily grind of obesessive minutia. These are the moments to cultivate and hold in an iron grip of ever accessible muscle memory lest they be obliterated by the contant jostling of bumpy living. These are the moments of living and why I do what I do and am wholly incapable of doing anything else.

The creative high is a very addictive but incomparably thrilling drug.

And no, I'm not a pretentious fuck, I just sometimes get carried away and write like one.

This Is a Test of the Emergency Blogging System; This Is Only a Test.

This is a test of the Emergency Blogging System; this is only a test. Were this a real emergency situation, the voice you hear would not sound like such a freak and might actually have something interesting to say. But as this is only a test, and its almost 4am, disregard the incoherent babble and go back to your regularly scheduled programming.

And god do I hope my voice doesn't really sound like that!

Good Things Come to Those Who Get Their Heads Out of Their Asses

I love it when life turns around. You change one little moment- one tiny perspective and suddenly everything shifts and changes along with it. I forget that all too often. It's hard to make that initial shift; its hard to stop wallowing in self pity once the wallowing has begun. Even the word is kind of fun in a hopelessly self absorbed sort of way....wallowing. Say it 25 times fast in row and it becomes this weird jumbled garbled mess...kind of like your life when you are in wallow mode.

But I'm not in wallow mode. I'm in celebratory mode. I am a one woman party in and of myself; that's how much of a celebratory mode I'm in (streamers not included).

Why, you ask?

A show, of course! Silly reader, what else in the world could make me so giddy? No, the answer is not stupid boys, they are distractions during the in-between times without work; something to focus on other than my slowly eroding identity when I am not acting. But I have a show! I have something to throw my talent and hard work and entire being into; I am once again a whole and complete human being in and of myself! I am a working (for peanuts) actor, hear me roar!

What's even more exciting is that the show is The Vagina Monologues, which has become an international event to stop violence against women for many years now. Its an amazing an important work on so many levels, and what's more, its stipulated in the rights to the play that any and all proceeds from the production are donated towards various charities and organizations that help stop violence against women. Its something I am thrilled to be a part of, as it combines my political activism with my art. It's a cause I firmly believe in, and the play itself is a very important and amazing feminist work. I have seen several productions of it and witnessed 50 and 60 year old women changed and liberated by it. I have seen teenage girls enter the theatre obsessed with external ideals of who they are and who they should be, only to leave the theatre confident in loving who they are as womyn. And I love that its a play that not only talks about, but glorifies and celebrates vaginas. Penises are celebrated every single day in our culture, but rarely do we ever talk about, much less celebrate vaginas. I love that this play challenges that notion. I love that this play celebrates women. And most of all, I love that this play helps women in so many ways.

So I am absolutely thrilled at the opportunity to perform here at home, thrilled with the woman who proposed this project to me, and thrilled at the opportunity to do a play I've loved and respected for many many years now. I'm excited about getting to work with the diverse group of womyn involved in this production, and certain that the collaborative energies will be an incredible positive force in my life. It will undoubtedly be a beautiful healing experience. In fact, it already is.

The project organizer, I'll call her The Vagina Goddess, and I got together last night to brainstorm ideas and talk about things we wanted to do and explore with this production. We ended up going to this tiny cozy bar in the West Village called V Bar; I thought this was prophetic, and marked a great beginning.

In the next week or so, we're going to get a Vagina Monologues blog up and going that details our rehearsal process and is all about this particular production; I'll post the link here as soon as its up. We're actually going to try to solicit My Little Vidipookikins' help in perhaps making it a Vlog, and I'm hoping to put a paypal link on there so that people can contribute to the production if they feel so moved. And if any of you readers would like to be involved in any way or feel you have something to contribute to the production, please don't hesitate to speak up; any and all kinds of talent are welcome and needed.

So that is my thrilling celebratory news, and the cause of much rejoicing here in Synge land. It only goes to show that when you finally get your head out of your self-absorbed self-pitying ass, you will find wonderful things in the world outside of aforementioned ass.

Yay for me!

My Surprise Easy Money Day

Today my attenpts to be a totally irresponsible slacker were foiled by a wake-up call (at what pathetic slacker hour I will not divulge) from The Comedic Chameleon. This wake-up call, however, involved easy money earned somewhere other than the horrifically boring and tedious stupid day job, so I decended the loft bed and 20 minutes later was running out the door headed for Chelsea TV Studios. Upon arrival, I found out the particulars I had not been informed of; I was an audience member stand-in for rehearsals for a taping of a comedy show pilot that will be done tonight. What this meant was that I received $50 to sit in various chairs for about two and a half hours. Strenous work, I tell you. I'm utterly exhausted.

I'm thinking, why haven't I explored these avenues before? I made in two and a half hours more than I make in 5 hours at the stupid day job after taxes...and I was paid in cash!

I'm forming a new resolve to find alternate and more lucrative moneymaking endeavors while still holding on to the ideally flexible but low paying stupid day job.

I then took a little more time away from the stupid day job to go have coffee with The Comedic Chameleon; we talked for a very long time about work stuff, the hell that is self-marketing, the idea of eventually writing my own one woman show, and the magical yet elusive beast called the agent. Then we talked about stupid boys. Of course. But hey, at least work took precedence, right?

I think I'm headed into a new phase full of rediscovered motivation. I was talking with the other actors in class last night, and every time the question of how they got this gig or that was answered it was always with "Bcause i knew somebody." So I said that I felt like I had been in the city for a year and a half already, and hadn't stumbled upon opportunities like that, and felt that a year and a half was a long long time. Everyone in the room laughed hysterically for a good 5 minutes before unanimously voting that a year and a half was nothing, and that it takes a good 5 years before you start finding the really good opportunities. Believe it or not, this was actually infintely reassuring to me. Now I just have to find a way to survive the next 3 and a half years of sporadic work without distractly obsessing over a parade of men who are wholly and unequivocably bad for me.

I was glad the day took such an unexpected turn away from the mundane routine. It was a surprse day, and those always make me happy...even if one of the surprises was a massive amount of snow being randomly dumped on this city on a day when I wore the most impractical of high heeed boots. Speaking of which, I have to go slip and slide my way to the undoubtedly slushy gross wet subway now.

I Am A Hiddeously Deformed Troll Gargoyle Who Should Not Be Allowed On Camera

I am so in love with my new commercial class; the teacher is absolutely wonderful and the class is one of those rare instances where it is a completely safe environment to explore and thus fall flat on your face in. I've actually been learning a lot, and have found acting in commercials to be surprisingly challenging. First of all, the copy reads like a damn stupid commercial, but you have to make it seem like you're not trying to sell something - like you're just so bowled over by this incredible thing that you're dying to share it with your best friend...but not sell it. You have to make it personal and totally honest and believable or it won't work. The writing makes it seem like a commercial, you shouldn't. Then there's the fact that half of the time the copy is a story of some sort, but you can't make the story about you and your life, as we in the theatre are used to doing; it must always be about the product. It's really harder than it sounds to balance all of these factors in, and then you have the added stress of reading these fucking illegible cue cards while trying to remain in constant contact with the camera the whole time and not look like you're trying to read these fucking illegible cue cards. Sounds incredibly fun, doesn't it?

Last week I had copy that was an epic Ikea novella more about wanting to settle down with a husband, kids and a dog than furniture, but I nailed it on the second take. I was sick as a dog too; evidently that helps (note to self...). The teacher, who is a casting director, was really happy with it, and it just started to kind of click for me. I realized that its still acting- the one thing in this world that I know I can do really well- and to get the hell out of my head about it. One of my classmates told me tonight that had that been an audition I definitely would have booked it. This classmate is also one of those very actory types who likes to only talk about themselves; to make matters worse he lived in L.A. for a bit of time, which tends to propel the natural solipsism of actors to epic proportions. I was rather shocked to hear him utter a sentence that did not contain the pronoun "I", but the shock wore off quickly as he then launched into some story about some audition that I didn't really care about at all. Last week he was given toe fungus medicine copy to read and I was secretly happy. I am a mean mean person.

Tonight's class was a one on one mock audition then working session with the teacher, followed by a class review of the taped takes. My copy was for Diet Ocean Spray cranberry juice, and was all about some guy I was dating who worked for Ocean Spray. The teacher keeps giving me copy that has to do with boys and boyfriends and stuff, as noted by other classmates as well as myself. My teacher noticed tonight too, and remarked on it when I entered the room; I replied that he must clearly be reading my blog. The first two takes were the audition and then you discussed and worked through other takes. My first take was a little too commerciall-y and my second was too much in the exact opposite direction, honest but not excited. Had that been my audition, there would be no callback in sight. But I knew what happened and the teacher seemed surprised at my self awareness of exactly what went wrong. We worked through very well, and the last take was exactly what he wanted. I said, "So what's missing from it? What's needed now? He laughed and said "Had that last take been your audition, I as the casting director would be very happy to send that off to the client. That last take was a really good audition. The rest happens on-set. Stop trying to overcomplicate it and trust yourself."

Ah yes, the magical words that I seem to have such difficulty digesting, both in work and in life. Trust Yourself. Much easier said than done, but every time its said to me, its proven to be a very wise phrase indeed.

Then we watched the tape. God do I hate seeing myself on tape. I looked like a fat ugly grotseque troll with a huge odd shaped head, one eye bigger than the other, and this damn snaggle tooth that my Mom long ago predicted I would come to despise and rue the days when I wouldn't wear my retainers after my braces came off. I have to go to the gym and lose 500 pounds immediately! I have to get braces again! And my nose did not look this huge onscreen last week -it suddenly inflated and became the giant Jewish schnoz of the entire American side of my family (not that the French side was blessed with tiny noses either)! I did not look like this moments before in the bathroom mirror. I had suddenly transformed into a gargoyle whose hiddeousness was worthy of Notre Dame; it was truly frightening, not to mention depressing.

This is why in week one of the class we don't use the camera.

But this is week three, and its only getting worse. Or maybe I was too sick to notice last week. Either way, I'm terrified.

I also got an e-mail today from the director of the independent film I shot last summer; its finished and there's going to be a screening next month. I'm terrified to see it, especially after watching my hideous troll gargoyle self on camera tonight. My mountainous lump of flesh that is referred to as my body is unclothed in some scenes; I get drowned in a bathtub for chrissake! Now I'll have to see how misshapen and deformed my whole body looks on camera, not just the torso up.

I am really regretting those two pieces of chocolate I ate today at the stupid day job. They are taunting and mocking me to no end in my mind right now.

I'm also secretly terrified that the film is going to suck. I think that the hardest thing about transitioning from stage to film is giving up control of the final product. You just have to shoot and then let go of it; its in the director's hands after that. Editing can completely make or break a film and a performance. What if he broke me?

On the positive side of things, at least I'm obsessing over my troll gargoyle appearance rather than stupid boys for once. And at least I am a very talented troll gargoyle, whose talent was affirmed by both my teacher and the film's director. So while I may be a hiddeous creature on camera, I can take some comfort and solace in the fact that I am a good actor, if not a marketable one.

Though speaking of stupid boys, I do have to share that there was a voice mail message tonight (I always forget to turn my ringer back on) from Mr. Emotionally Unavailable. He said he was calling because he was going to bed early tonight, before midnight (there was a no calling after midnight rule put into effect a long time ago due to my little drunken dialing problem), so he wanted to make sure I wasn't drunk somewhere in his neighborhood and unable to make my way home; he wanted to preempt any 2am calls if possible. I knew I was going to get shit for that.

I Am An Idiot Whose Cell Phone Should Be Taken Away When Drunk

I am a self detructive idiot currently dealing with things in the way that I deal best - making an ass out of myself.

Last night was veggie nigh and My Little Vidipookikins was horribly sick (we share a half share of the veggies), so I picked them up and hauled them to her house and then got her popsickles and seltzer water and stuff. I left her apartment at about 10:15, ready to make it an early night and head home for once. This was not to be. Mr. Saucy Funnybuns (his buns aren't funny, he is) called and was about 20 blocks away having a vodka cranberry emergency that he desperately needed my help finishing; never one to refuse to help a friend in dire need (or a vodka cran for that matter), I rushed over, veggies in tow.

Mr. Saucy Funnybuns has cancer and recently decided to stop his chemo treatments; he is a very close friend and I love him dearly. Needless to say, his cancer makes me quite sad.

So Mr. Saucy Funnybuns, his friend Mr. Chutzpah Eventster, and I proceeded to get rather inebriated. I'm not quite sure how it happened, new drinks just kept appearing magically before me and I wasn't paying the bill. We headed towards Mr. Chutzpah Evenster's apartment where we played with the dog for a little while before I deposited Mr. Saucy Funnybuns in a cab for home and made the fateful erroneous decision to go by Abar (not its real name) for just one more.

Okay, we all know why I went to Abar. It wasn't for just one more, it was to see if Mr. Mama's Tatoo of All Trades happened to be there; a stupid drunken decision. But wait, the idiocy does not end there. I had 2 more at Abar, where Mr. Mama's Tatoo of All Trades was not to be found, and in between the 2 I stepped outside for a smoke and called him. This was at 1:00am, and I got his voicemail. I must interject here that I have a little problem with drunken dialing; I always have. I should not be allowed to carry my cell phone with me on nights like these, or there should be some kind of a sober test built into the phone that I would have to take before being allowed to dial. Especially on nights where I am feeling rather fragile and don't want to spend the night alone. I did not leave a message asking him what was going on, as I had fully intended to earlier in the day. No, instead I left some inane long winded message saying I was calling him to see if he wanted to join me for a drink, like some clueless desperate dumbass who just doesn't get the message. I should erase his number.

But wait! It's not over, the night of shame continues like some bad movie that just never ends.

I left Abar and was stumbling towards the subway somewhere around 1:30am, and decided that I didn't want to schlepp all the way home this drunk and with a huge sack o' veggies, so I then called Mr. Emotionally Unavailable to see if I could platonically (yeah right) crash there and left the second long winded idiotic message of the night. Luckily with Mr. Emtionally Unavailable, we've been through so much in the last year that humiliation doesn't really exist between the two of us so I'm not all that worried or upset about it. Still, its a call I'd rather not have placed, especially after our conversation Monday morning.

Tonight is my commercial class and at least I know I will be coming home afterwards with no opportunity to be self destructive and stupid. Of course, that's what I said last night. I think this phase will end soon though, I can only be self destructive in short spurts, thank god.

My Own Personal Version of Wasting Brain Matter on TV

I'm sitting here at the stupid day job totally unable to focus at all and trying to pretend like I'm not online by shrinking the explorer window to miniscule eye strain producing proportions so that I may add total blindness to the list of bodily injury my accident prone and irresponsible self has inflicted upon my person. I'm listening to Cathie Ryan croon in that sorrowful but lilty Irish way and obsessing over stupid boys. Of course. Why is it that with every half-assed diary I ever attempted to keep, the one universal theme that would motivate me to take pen in hand was stupid boys? I have a lot of other very important things in my life, yet this is the subject I choose to obsess over? It makes me feel hormonal and shallow, even though I know its generally avoidance. I guess its kind of like my own personal version of watching tv.

So today's obsessing is centered around wondering what the hell is up with Mr. Mama's Tatoo of All Trades and what the hell happened there. I think I'm just going to call him tonight or tomorrow and ask point blank if he's still initerested in hanging out or not. I generally prefer to just lay it out on the table rather than play the guessing games. What's been said is that he didn't want a relationship but wanted to date and get to know me (which I'm thinking is a fine idea since I don't want a relationship either with someone I just met). Then he never calls for a date, and never called this weekend to go see The Gates (which he did explain last night that he worked doubles all weekend and it was a totally flexible if you're free kind of thing). But last night he kept coming over to the table to talk, followed me outside for a cigarette, and I caught him looking at me on multiple occasions. So what the hell does he want? If he's interested why is he sitting on his ass, given the fact that I'm the one who asked him out in the first place so my interest shouldn't be a question. If he's not interested, than why is he looking at me, reading my blog over my shoulder, and following me outside?

I think its penile confusion.

Not that I ever know what the hell I want either, but I have no qualms about bunglingly attempting to state that out loud, thus thoroughly confusing everyone around me including myself, exponentially.

Peniscapism

I'm at Abar (not its real name) with My Little Vidipookikins for our regular Sunday, Monday or Tuesday night blogging session, aka "You sunk my Battleship!" dueling computers. I actually really needed this tonight; I didn't want to be at home blogging alone, but I also didn't want to attempt to be all that social either. I'm feeling very fragile and everything is pretty surreal right now. I know this landscape well...it's the fog. The fog is good territory though; it blankets everything in a dreamlike stoned kind of other world reality that is wholly secure and protective. Being as lost and small as I feel at present, the fog is a comforting disconnect that I hide in. It's stoned without the munchies.

I have a confession to make. I spent the night with Mr. Emotionally Unavailable last night. Lest you think I have descended into truly self destructive depths, let me say that he was exactly what I needed last night. Despite being emotionally unavailable in the long run, he's actually wonderful when the shit hits the fan. We were also in the thick of round 2 when I first found out from The Martyr about the suicide note he was evilly hoarding; he knew the backstory and was wonderful about it then, so naturally I gravitated in that direction for the nonthreatening balance of comfort and escapism I was seeking.

I have to also mention at this point that Mr. Mama's Tatoo of All Trades just came over and sat down and read the preceeding 2 paragraphs over my shoulder. Mr. Mama's Tatoo of All Trades and I had a lovely beginning, which seemed to totally stall out, prompting this post. He seems quite happy to see me whenever I see him at Abar, but I evidently gave him some sort of impression somehow that I wanted a relationship because he has felt the need to repeatedly tell me that he wasn't ready for one despite my assertion that we were totally on the same page there. I must have accidentally worn my "desperate for a relationship" hat (packed god knows where from select college days) when I meant to wear my "let's enjoy the moment" hat. He also, as Mr. Artsy Hotpants reminds me every time he is mentioned, picked my nose. Yeah, I know. Where do I find them, right?

So back to the comfort/booty call. (Would that be a Cootie Call?)

I'm not sure if it was more helpful or harmful in the long run, because Mr. Emotionally Unavailable gave me exactly what I needed last night...he was so caring and tender and well, emotionally available. Go figure. It made me remember exactly why I tried so hard round after round. The second I got there, before even telling him what had happened, he took one look at me and lifted me up in a huge bear hug that I clung to for dear life. He also reminded me to laugh while never belittling what I'm feeling. He was the perfect mixture of humor and compassion without ever traversing anywhere near the path of pity. This morning he ran the shower for me and took me to breakfast and we talked about how heartbreaking the last time we tried a reunion was. I asked him where we go from here and he said we continue to give eachother advice about the men and women in our lives, get together for coffee and soup once in a while, and hold eachother up as impossibly high standards for anyone else to meet....meaning no new round is beginning.

I didn't expect it to when I decided that was what I wanted to do. I went there for comfort and connection, and that is what I got.

Still, it was sad. Sad because when we do connect, we dance so beautifully together. It makes me wish we could find that on somewhat of a regular basis; that we could make it work.

He loved my Superman adult underoos as much as I do.

While I'm on the subject of sad stories, I finally spoke with Captain Resistance Friday night, after an unfair but badly needed distancing silence of several weeks. I always need distance to find perspective; when I had a car, I used to run away on spontaneous road trips when I needed to think things through. I had arrived at a place where I felt that what was supposed to be a casual thing had become far more serious than I ever intended and I felt trapped and panicked. We were never supposed to have a relationship; I stated so from the get-go. What it turned into was far more like a relationship than I was comfortable with, and I had guilt over the inequity of feelings involved. He introduced the L word into the equation, and whether or not we had different definitions and whether or not he believes in unconditional love, it was an introduction that I was wholly uncomfortable with.

I explained all of this to his very respectful ear, which did not begrudge me any of my feelings or the right to have them no matter how alien or nonsensical they seemed to him. The whole conversation was incredibly sad, because I realized that I missed talking to him and that we do relate well. Still, it became something that was not a good thing for me and at this point I don't trust that we could rediscover that ease without it inevitably veering off course again.

Funny how I have been switching roles in the same play. With Captain Resistance, I am the emotionally unavailable one. The universe seems to love irony, especially with those slow to catch on to it.

Funny how I can make these adventures into man territory of such vital importance.

Penis escapism. It's healthier than drug abuse.

Letter From the Dead Delivered 6 Years Late or What I Have NOT Been Writing About

Last summer my brother's best friend, I'll call him The Martyr as that is the role he loves best, came to visit me in New York for a week. I've known The Martyr since I was 16 and thought I was such a bad ass for hanging out with college kids in my brother's artsy mountain college town, and when my brother killed himself The Martyr took it upon himself to take his place. Since that time I have struggled with a love/hate relationship with The Martyr; I resented his attempts to insinuate himself into my life as if he were my brother, but I also desperately wanted the forgiveness from him that I couldn't get from corpse fragments. There have been many times that he pushed the boundaries and made me quite uncomfortable, such as when he was helping me move to New York and told me that he told all of his co-workers that he was moving his sister to New York. I also know him to be an almost pathological liar, and my parents and I have caught him in many an untruth before. However, I welcomed him into my humble (read tiny) home, and was actually happy to have him there and to see him. We spent the week talking more honestly than we ever had before about my brother, his suicide, and many of the truly fucked up complexities surrounding his death and my experiences with him before that. I felt it was really good for me to talk through a lot of the things we talked through; it was healing.

Then he dropped a bomb on me that I have not quite been able to forgive him for. He told me that he had the suicide note. My brother's suicide note that he had stolen from his apartment before we ever got there and held on to out of protection for me and my parents. No matter his intention, which I do question, this was a grievous wrong against my family on so many levels. That was never his call to make and he had no right to steal that away from us and decide whether or not we were allowed to know of its existance. He had no right to hold onto it for 5 and a half years until he finally determined that I was evidently ready, according to his emotional scale of measurement. I can't even begin to put into words how angry and hurt I am by this. He also waited until the last night he was here to even mention it, promising he would mail it upon his return.

The Martyr did not mail the promised letter upon his return as he was almost immediately hospitalized for depression; a horrific deja-vu for me as he had called upset the night before and I did not return his call because I was still so angry - when my brother killed himself I was not speaking to him, for very justified and healthy reasons, but have wholeheartedly regretted that with every fiber of my being since. I spoke with The Martyr a few times after his release from the hospital and have had no interaction with him since. I often wondered if the note was another of his manipulative lies, and did not expect to ever recieve it.

About a month ago, I recieved an envelope in the mail with the stationary of my brother's university, where The Martyr happens to work. My stomach dropped down into my knees, and I hesitantly opened it. Inside I found a torn scrap of paper with the unmistakable illegible handwriting that could be no one else's but my brother's; I cried just to see that handwriting. The note makes no sense; it is the psychotic disconnected ramblings of a mentally ill man's brain running on overdrive. It is fragments of thoughts compiled haphazardly on a torn scrap of paper that so accurately illustrate the frantic scramble of my sick brother's mind that it is heartbreaking to read for that reason. It is heartbreaking to imagine being trapped in that brilliant mind gone haywire.

But I don't think it was intended to be a suicide note.

It begins with the line "Suicide Poem Because of What I've Done", but what follows is so disconnected that I think it was him just writing out his thoughts. A suicide note is written for an intended audience, and I don't think this was; I think this was my brother trying to relieve his tortured mind by purging his thoughts as they came onto the nearest scrap of paper he could find. I mean one of the lines reads "Tirade against ESPN", and I doubt seriously that ESPN was a factor in my brother's suicide.

Still, it is gut wrenchingly heartbreaking to read and to see. It is heartbreaking to read the first line. It is heartbreaking to read "Poem about Synge, innocent Synge". It is heartbreaking to hold in my hands a torn fragment of paper, written by a torn fragmented shell of a man who's life was such a searing hell that he will never write another illegible word again. Most of all it is heartbreaking knowing the hell it will put my parents through.

I told my parents about it as soon as The Martyr told me; to keep the information to myself would be committing the exact same crime that I condemn him for. My mother was livid with scalding rage. My father wrote him off. I remained torn and guilt ridden.

I brought the note home with me when I visited them last weekend, but selfishly could not bring myself to ruin such a wonderful weekend reunion. Ever the procrastinator, I waited until yesterday to call and finally alert them of this. I spoke with my father first, who said I shouldn't tell my mother. I responded that I could not make that decision for her and to withold this note from her would be unforgivably direspectful; it would create an unbridgeable chasm in a very close relationship that I treasure. He then requested that I wait until after the Ides of March - the anniversary of his death - because Mom was incredibly depressed and had just put our dog to sleep on Friday (which was news to me). I agreed to do this as long as he would take full responsibility for making that call; he agreed to do so. I asked him if he felt it was wrong of me to tell him and he said "No, I'm strong. I can handle anything". I told him that I worried about him because his sadness is so deep it radiates forth in giant waves. He said of course he was sad, and that he wakes up every day with an unbearable sadness but he keeps busy and that's what you do. My father never talks about feelings and just hearing him say how sad he was, hearing him admit to it, tore my gut apart.

I hung up the phone and cried for hours and hours in that weird fog place you get to when things are just too much and you shut down. I haven't wanted to really talk about this; I've avoided talking (and writing) about this with iron stubborness. This weekend it all finally hit with a surprise left jab to the ribs and I went down. Then I proceeded to get rip-roaringly wasted last night, as alcohol is always a wonderfully self-destructive way to deal with emotional stress. I got home at 6am and slept much of the day away before wandering about the apartment like a ghost for the last 3 hours.

The fog will lift, the emotional shock will pass, and I will be okay; I know this and have faith in this. It's just been a shitty hard weekend that has not been the restful respite I needed.

Tomorrow I will probably return to writing about innocous and inane boring subjects, such as my bladder.

Being Synge Bleu

It's incredibly weird that Vixanne posted a comment about me not getting pregnant for a year, because last night I wrote a very long comment on her blog about a dream I had last weekend that I was pregnant. The comment, however, never posted due to frustrating stolen wi-fi that is moodier than me on pms (which is quite moody, to say the least). I even double checked this morning when I saw her comment. It's kind of eerie. It's like Being John Malkovitch...she's in my head.

My dream was actually more of a nightmare, really. And I pretty much never remember dreams, especially not nightmares. Perhaps it was the alien quiet of my parents' house, or the gentleness of being woken up by my mother...whatever the reason, I remembered little fragments of the dream.

I was at a beach somewhere...kind of like hatteras island in that it was very undeveloped, fairly pristine. I was with friends, but I don't remember who was there. I remember for some reason I knew I was pregnant, and I couldn't get away to go take a pregnancy test. Then it kind of cut to the next scene where I was in some kind of a public bathroom peeing on a stick that showed a very clear positive almost right away. I felt utterly panicked and my first thought was not about how am I going to take care of a baby alone, it was "Oh my god! Vixanne's going to kill me!". In fact that was all I could think about. Then it cut to some kind of a clinic in what was like this dorm or boardinghouse place where I lived. The matron of the house was Kristoise's mom, Spunky J, and the second I saw her i started sobbing and all I could say is "Vixanne is going to kill me! What am I going to do? Vixanne is going to hate me!". And that's the last thing I remember.

I had that dream Saturday night, and I had seen Vixanne, her husband Mr. Funky Microchip, and Kristoise that very day for most of the afternoon, so it really kind of makes sense that I would have that dream. When I told my Mom about it though, she was sure it either meant that I was pregnant (I'm most definitely not...not only have I been careful, but I received confirmation to the contrary just yesterday) or that someone was going to die (birth=death in dreams), which is not an unusual fear in my family. I also just got off the phone with Mr. Artsy Hotpants, who remarked how strange it was that Vixanne made the comment about me getting pregnant. I then explained to him the whole dream and comment not posting, and he said it was almost like she knew anyway. Then he said he thought that meant I'm going to get pregnant...creepy.

I think the dream means that I'm really happy about reconnecting with Vixanne and that I don't want to lose the newly rediscovered closeness. That, or it means that deep down I'm really afraid of incurring the wrath of Vixanne, but I don't think so. Been there, done that early on in our friendship when she was mad at me and didn't talk to me for several months because I had dated and kind of fucked over a good friend of hers; it was well deserved and we got past it.

Actually, I think it means that I had too much to drink at my birthday dinner the night before.

Potty-Mouth Post or More Than You Wanted To Know

I am cursed with the worlds tiniest bladder; a fact known all too well by anyone who's ever met me. I used to run by Feisty RebelMom's office door shouting "Super-Bladder!" with my hands raised in the air on a mad dash to the bathroom; this occurred about every half hour when drinking coffee. It's actually a pretty inconvenient and rather sucky problem. In fact, when I decided to move to New York, everyone's first comment was "What about bathrooms? What will you do?". You see, in my fair city people are very bathroom stingy; you usually have to buy something in order to use the bathroom, which is not an ideal proposition for a penniless actor in huge amounts of credit card debt. I learned how to bypass this technicality early on, by telling restaurants and businesses that I was pregnant and really really needed to use their bathroom. Most of the time it works.

So tonight My Little Vidipookikins took me to see this awesome show which was a very humerous collection of dance performances called Dance Off and I made the mistake off having a huge cup of coffee before the performance; not a good idea for someone with TB (tiny bladder). The show (which was awesome and hysterically funny) had no intermission. I had to run in between 2 pieces and sneak out before I leaked out, and we were unfortunately seated way way down near the front. Instead of subtlely sneaking, as planned, I rather noisily clumped in my heavy high heeled boots up the stairs and back down again. Both were in between pieces, as I am a very very consciencious audience member, but I still felt awful about it. At least my cell phone was turned off, that's a far worse crime in my book.

Then, coming home from the East Village, where we went for a beer afterwards, I got stuck waiting forever for the train and it was really cold, and well...it was a miracle I didn't wet my pants on the train. I was totally doing the pee dance the whole trip back, and I probably knocked over 2 people as I bounded from the train and up the stairs in desparate search of the closest bathroom. I was, of course, refused permission (customers only...par for the course) and instead of giving the usual story about being pregnant, I just started crying. It was that bad. Talk about humbling!

So now you have two highly successful ways to gain bathroom access in Manhattan restaurants...something I'm sure you were all dying to know about.

I'm actually quite concerned about having TB (tiny bladder), as I fear the hell pregnancy and old age will inflict upon me. My mother has some bladder problems and said that she wasn't anywhere near as bad as I am when she was my age. Great. i'm going to be wearing adult diapers by the time I'm 40! Of course, we are talking coffee and beer here...two known diuretics. Still, there are nights when I curse myself for having moved into a 5th floor walkup, as I make a mad dash up the neverending stairs.

I'm sure your lives are all so much more enriched now for having read all about my tiny bladder. I don't know why the hell I chose to write about this when there are far more important things on my mind. Avoidance, I suppose. That and the fact that I have to pee.

So does writing this post mean I have a potty mouth?

I Am One Snotty Woman

The whole city has turned into a giant island o' snot, with everyone perpetually trading colds. On the subway I sat next to a man making very bubbly liquidy kinds of sounds every time he inhaled, kind of like how I would imagine boiling water would sound from inside the pot. He was sitting right beside me, which in a New York subway car means practically on me, and he kept wiping his nose with his hand and I could see the thick rope of mucus on the backside of his hand just sitting there ready to fly right onto me with the next lurch of the train. I tried to make myself suddenly become about 6 sizes smaller, but to no avail. Luckily, I was not attacked by stray projectile mucus...this time. I was lucky. Very very lucky.

I myself am valiantly battling the snotmonster; the snotmonster is winning. I have been taking my Emergen-C dilligently this time around, determined not to get as sick as I've been getting recently. Sleep would help, I'm sure, but hey...don't expect miracles here okay? Rest assured that I am not sounding like boiling water from the inside of a pot, nor am I terrorizing fellow subway passengers; I'm just feeling pretty crappy.

Tonight my friend, the Movies & Meals Maven, took me to see a movie for my birthday. I haven't hung out with the Movies & Meals Maven since she and Vidipookikins accompanied me to get my clitoris pierced last spring (real quality time, as you can imagine), but I've known her since I was 17 and she was my roomate in my first apartment ever. We've grown apart since I've moved here, but tonight we reconnected and it was really nice. Plus I only go to the movies about once a year, so it was quite a treat.

After much deliberation, we chose to go see Bride and Prejudice, partly because it worked well with the timing and locale, but I love Bollywood cheese and I love Pride and Prejudice so it seemed a perfect choice. It was great! It was hysterically funny to the Movies & Meals Maven, who hadn't read the novel, and even more so to me being that I just finished listening to it on tape a couple of weeks ago. Bollywood films are sublime in their inherent self consciousness and self mockery, and this was no exception. There was even one part where the characters end up in a movie theatre playing a Bollywood film, and a great love scene montage completely making fun of love scene montages. And its a musical to boot, full of super cheesy pee-in-your-pants funny numbers with huge crowds dancing in the streets. It's from the same director as Bend It Like Beckham, which I loved. It's just a good fun movie, perfect for a cold dreary snot battling tired kind of a day.

Now I must go sleep and dream of Mr. Darcy; I'm pooped.

The "Dear Synge" Column

Anonymous said...
Dear Synge,

I agree this is one of your finer posts. Indeed anything referencing fucking or a vibrator will assuredly elicit a response from me. I'm the proud owner of 3, count 'em 3, vibrators. One for every mood, ostensibly. But I agree with you, I'd rather have a real live boy than any toy. My sister says I think like a man when it comes to sex. And if she read your post, you'd fall into that category as well. That should start another argument here. While sex with someone I care about is better, sometimes I would settle for just getting laid. Historically this has been true for me. But since C broke it off with me, I'm having trouble getting off with just anyone, vibrators included. I know you're not dear fucking abby or Dr Fucking Ruth, but I would kill to get back into the fuck it mode. How much time do you think it will take before I can go back to the Pre C days? Maybe Vixanne could comment. I hope I haven't reached the point of no return. But if I have, I hope there is life after love lost. I'm actually going to a psychic not a shrink about this. Next Tuesday we'll have a look at that aura and see if I can get back my love 'em and leave 'em/ use 'em and lose 'em self. Fire away. P


Dear P,

Were I Dear Abbey, I would probably say go for the chastity belt, and were I Dr. Ruth, I would probably be posting with a funny accent and give you odd suggestions on how to use all 3 vibrators at the same time; be glad you're stuck with me. However, I would like to say in the way of a brief disclaimer that I'm probably the very last person in the world you should be asking for romantic advice from...have ya read this here blog? Plus I only own one vibrator; I am clearly inferior in the ways of battery operated toys. I hang my head in shame.

That being said, I now want to spend a few moments addressing your sister's really fucking annoying habbit of perpetuating outdated traditional gender stereotypes. My whole point in putting something like this out here in blogland for the world to see is to acknowledge that womyn can approach sex from a myriad of different angles (super cheesy punning, I know). Why do men get to hoard all of the casual (but safe! always safe!) sex for themselves and womyn have to get emotionally involved (and often emotionally trampled by the hoarding men)? The mere notion of it instantaneously flattens me into a 2 dimensional cardboard cut-out, which I do not care to be. Womyn...and men too, I suppose, are individuals; each individual has different needs and different ways of looking at sex. As long as the individual approaches it from a healthy angle and is not intentionally destructive to themselves or others, they should be allowed to have sex with whomever and however they want to. Mindsets are not the exclusive domain of one gender or another. According to your sister, P would stand for penis, which is something you do not posess.

I'm not saying all womyn should go out right now and have tons of one nights stands and meaningless empty physical contact (though if that's your choice, I see nothing wrong with it as long as you are truly be healthy and honest with yourself and your partner about your needs); I'm just saying let's stop with the stereotypes and the idea that merely because we are womyn, we can only view sex as a highly emotionally involved thing. Sure, emotional involvement adds so very much to it; this stands true for both genders. But sometimes raw animalistic pleasure's good too; men no longer get to have a monopoly on this merely because its been viewed in that regard for years. The clitoris was once used as evidence condemning a woman as a witch because she had an odd sort of teat in a rather private place; imagine had that idea not changed!

P, the reason you're having trouble enjoying sex (whether solo or not) is because you are choosing to withold pleasure from yourself for some reason or another. Perhaps you don't want to enjoy sex if its not with C? It's a way of choosing to hold on rather than move on. You'll be able to get back into a more relaxed mode when you choose to let go, and that's just something that takes time and self awareness and a great deal of honest introspection. You talk of getting back to the pre-C days, but you can never go backwards. You have been changed, as one is always changed with relationships; you can choose to see this change as merely a loss, or you can choose to view it as growth. My guess is that if you want to be able to have an orgasm ever again, the latter might be a better choice. Loss is never easy, and we all have different ways of dealing with it. Allow yourself the healing time and forgiveness you deserve and for chrissake stop punishing yourself!

There is life after love lost, you just have to claim it. If there weren't, we'd be even more of a fucked up and repressed society than we already are...if that's imaginable.

Now whether you want to return to a love 'em and leave 'em mode or explore what other options are out there for you is entirely your choice; just remember to be honest and respectful to your partner and yourself whatever you may choose. I definitely don't advocate using anyone...that implies malevolent intentions and then we're no longer talking about sex, we're talking about sexual manipulation, which is an entirely different thing. I'm also not entirely convinced that a love 'em and leave 'em approach is really what you want and keep in mind that if you go out seeking only that, it is all you will ever find; be careful what you wish for. Yesterday's post wasn't about closing myself off to anything per se, it was about not having my wants and needs prematurely defined by someone else; a rant against predetermination.

As for the psychic...save your money. My neighbor, the psychic I would always chat with on my way home at night, actually asked me if she could borrow $200 from me in the same conversation that I mentioned I couldn't go to the doctor because I had no health insurance and couldn't afford it...not very psychic if you ask me. Actually more like stupid and rude. But I did have my auras cleaned the other day during an awesome rakke session from an incredible friend I met shooting an Indy film last summer and it felt amazing. Just run if the psychic starts talking about his/her financial woes.

Good luck getting off and getting over. At times, neither can be easy, but both can be pleasurable if you allow it. Thus concludes my pretentious bullshit response to you question...you asked for it.

Valentine's Day Post or Just Because I Spread My Legs It Does Not Mean I want a Relationship!

When I was in college, I used to be a slightly bitter woman. I'm sure you find that so very hard to belive, but its true. And come Valentine's Day, a day designed to make single people feel like shit about themselves even if they're single by choice, my little Vesuvius of bitterness would erupt. I used to throw an annual "Fuck Valentine's Day" party; the decorations were construction paper hearts torn in hapf or ripped to shreds and only bitter woman music was played. It was actually quite fun, and pretty damn empowering in a weird way. I have long since abandoned my meager facade of bitterness, but I have never lost my hatred of the holiday.

This year I had a hot date for Valentine's Day...with my parents. While it doesn't get much more pathetic than that folks, I actually kind of revelled in the mock spinsterhood and all its glories. Mom and I cooked dinner together, she gave me a stuffed bear and we laughed at my father's expense for much of the night. What could be more romantic than that? I was actually glad to be away and have an excuse for not being with some boy du jour in my ever complicated wreck of a dating life. Not that it stopped everyone at home from asking about boys (aka war stories from the front lines); my answer was generally a wry smile accompanied by a deep loud sigh. Hey, that's better than a primal scream, which is how I generally want to respond to the question.

So in honor of stupid fucking commercial holidays, I ask a very important question: why do guys assume that if you spread your legs you must want a realtionship? Is that in some outdated guy manual from the pre-sexual revolution days or something? I thought we were supposed to all be sexually liberated and able to fuck sans class ring/wedding ring/pin or whatever the hell the jewlery du jour is. Evidently not. Evidently you have one of two options: A) Men fall in love with you or believe they are in love with you or convince themselves they are in love with you. Choose your poison. or B) They assume you have a vagina and must therefore want a relationship immediately; they believe the strings are not only attached but have somehow woven a web they must wriggle free from before they are somehow ensnared and colonized by the evil army o' twats. There is no Sudentenland. You must either be rescued by a knight in tin foil on a hobby horse or be burned at the stake as a witch. Sorry single ladies, those are your only options. And while both are quite comical to my fellow spunky independent single womyn and myself, neither are exactly appealing or the stuff of teenage feminist dreams.

I'm sorry, I never ever read owner's manuals...is it verbotten to enjoy the moment and have a little simplicity? Or is this only possible when wearing a chastity belt?

Men love to say how complicated women are, but I'm sorry, I would have to say that's a crock o' stinky ass horseshit. It's quite simple. What we spunky independent single womyn want is to be able to get laid while getting to know you and seeing where things lead. My little Vidipookikins and I were just ranting about this on the way to Abar (not its real name) tonight. It is not necessary to fast forward or rewind; let the fucking video play for chrissake...if you don't like the ending return it and rent another, but don't assume all movies are formula crap that you can call from the first 5 minutes. There are really awesome independent films, you know.

Oh, and if you happen to be reading this and have seen me naked (excluding in a play), don't take it personally; I'm talking about you as a gender collective okay? Sheesh, you guys are so sensitive. Go take a motrin or something.

Home Away From Home That Used to Be Home

So while in a way its really kind of nice to be disconnected for a couple of days, the problem is that upon returninjg there's so many different things I find myself wanting to write about that it becomes this jumbled cacauphany of thoughts in my head and I can't even figure out which one is shouting the loudest.

I had a wonderful but hectic and slightly scrambled trip home, ostensibly to see the follks though as usual I ended up seeing far more of various friends than I did of the folks. I think one of these trips I need to call a n official family cocooning and see no one else. I always feel terribly guilty about spending time there away from them, despite their many assurances that they want me to see my friends.

Saturday I finally got to see Vixanne and the Schmoopster, which was one of my number one priorities. Vixanne had a stillbirth (I copmpletely fucked up and called it a miscarriage Saturday and am still beating myself up for that one...doh! I even knew the correct term...it just flew out of my mouth) about 2 and a half months ago and has been on a journey that I know is incredibly hard. Grief is something that completely fucks with your perception of everything...it alters your entire existance and it feels like each stage will never end and any other existance is wholly unimaginable despite it being exactly what you long for. So I wanted to just spend some time with them and be with them, whatever that might mean in the moment. I got an extra prize in the crackerjacks box, as Kristoise happened to be in town that very weekend (she lives in the Rockies...literally) and so we all made a lovely day of it. What I noticed, besides the fact that we are all indeed getting older (gracefully!), is that I found Vixanne to be changed. Not a bad change...just changed. Marked. It's kinds of unavoidable, and I don't think its a bad mark..I don't know at all how to explain it except that suddenly she's more complex...there are more layers. And I found her and all her layers to be so very beautiful and powerful. I feel like I don't even want to write about it because I can't do it justice.

My Mom and I also had a really interesting and very detailed conversation about sex Saturday night (after a very long dinner and much wine). It was both scary and really affirming all at the same time. We were excitedly gossiping and giggling in great detail, as I've done with friends...but never to such an extent with Mom before. Out of respect for her, i'll refrain from posting any details, but I did discover she and I are far more alike in the sack than I would have ever thought! Evidently sexual tastes are somewhat genetic. Hmmm. Be very scared.

I also got to see my super-cool suburban radical mom friend who I had not seen or talked to in a while, Ms. Fiery RebelMom. Ms. Fiery RebelMom went with me to protest in the pouring rain the day we began this travesty in Iraq. Ms. Fiery RebelMom and I used to spend all day at work writing e-mails and running to eachother's desks laughing hysterically. We still laugh hysterically. And talk about the important stuff in life too in our roundabout way. She drove 10 hours to come see me do a play last fall, and we spent a blissful 4 hours afterwards just talking about everything. She has the best stories ever, and understands my wacky sense of humor and weirdness and yes, even my dark spots, better than most people. Although she already has a twin, we must have been in past lives. I hope she's an inkling of who I will become as I grow through life, because she's one hell of a woman and our friendship never ceases to surprise me.

While I want to tell all the fabulous details of my wonderful birthday weekend. I've just now decided that I want more to write some kind of a Valentine's post. So I think I will.

29 Feels Icky the Morning After

Evidently at 29 your recovery time increases from a crazy long night out. Ugh.

But I had a wonderful birthday night, the end of which is a little fuzzy perhaps. I went from the stupid day job to a ladies of liberty rehearsal for a V-Day performance at Hunter College that I somehow thought was to be today, but is in fact Monday. I'm entirely unclear now as to how I arrived at that conclusion, because V-Day id Monday and I knew that. I'm supposed to be at my parents' on Monday. I don't think they'll let me change the ticket, but I'll try. This discovery was quite comical; there I am at at a rehearsal for the event we all supposedly know the date of, and they someone says something about Monday so I ask "What's Monday?" and then they look at me as if I am an alien and explain. Once in a while my brain, usually my ally, becomes my foe and malfunctions on me. But I'm glad I went to the rehearsal and it was really nice. Now that I'm over being about 5 years older than most of the ladies, I'm really enjoying having this womyn time and kind of enjoying being around "the youth" too. I've always been the baby wherever I go, and suddenly I'm not at all anymore and I have no idea when that change came about.

From there I went to Otto's Shrunken Head, this weird wacky fun little tiki bar on 14th between A and B (chosen because its really fun, not a scene and right off the L and I was coming in from Williamsburg). I love the unpretentiousness of it; those always seem to be the places I gravitate towards...I'm definitely not about any kind of a scene and have little patience for hipsters. At the bar I met up with Mr. Saucy Funnybuns, My Little Vidipookikins, and Ms. Laughing Wild Mountain Treasure, a wonderful friend from college who's recently moved to Jersey whom I'm so glad to have living near me once again. They proceeded to buy me many drinks and I proceeded to get sloppy with my old and dear close friends. I can't think of a better way to spend your birthday than with close friends who love you for your stumbling drunken faux pas. The gaggle slowly dispersed and Mr. Saucy Funnybuns and I made our way down the street to Nowhere. It's a bar, not a turn of phrase. We had one more drink and he went home and I went wandering and weaving in search of the club where my very oldest friend Mr. Spacey Guitar, whom I've known since I was 1, was playing a gig and promised to sing me a birthday song.

Mr. Spacey Guitar's band Turbine, is kind of musically uncategorizable. I guess it would be considered a jam band, but I'm not always the hugest jam band fan and I love going to hear them play. They kind of seem to be more than that, you know?

It took me a very long time to find the unmarked club...and that was with the e-mail with the location in hand. I know I called Orphannie and got overly mushy gushy to her; luckily she's quite used to my drunken dialing after many years of friendship. I love when you know you've drunken dialed in a good way and not an embarassing or dangerous way.

I finally found the club and my friend and a little weed as well, so by the time they started playing I was pretty freakin trashed in that "Fuck it it's my birthday!" kind of way. I danced with my beer and enjoyed a beautiful Happy Birthday song dedicated to me and even including a little part where they actually sang Happy Birthday to me. How cool is that? To have a band sing Happy Birthday publically to you! It made my eyes tear up in a good way.

Mr. Spacey Guitar is kind of the closest thing I have to a sibling, as we've totally grown up together and his family is the very reason mine moved down South soon after returning to America. His parents are my parents' oldest friends; they all met in Tunisia when both of our Dad's were in the Peace Corps and met both of their Francophone wives (his mom's Algerian, mine is Fench). We speak a mixture of Fench and English to eachother at all times in the way that only those raised with both languages tend to do. And since my brother died, Mr. Spacey Guitar, who's used to be notoriously updependable but is totally not anymore, has stepped up to the plate and made every effort to be like a brother. He gets worried when we don't talk for a while, and calls to check up on me. It's always really comforting to see him and provides that familiarity of family because he pretty much is. And he sang me a birthday song publically. It was awesome.

I don't quite remember getting home; I know I split a cab with one of their friends. I almost never take cabs because they're so freakin expensive, but since other people bought my drinks all night and frankly I was really not in any shape to take the subway (I'm not sure I could have found the subway at that point) I splurged. According to the evidence found this morning, I then proceeded to eat everything in the apartment when I got home; luckily the cat is still here. According to my phone I also drunken dialed Mr. Mama's Tatoo of All Trades at 3am, but I don't remember it. That would be an example of not-so-good drunken dialing. Oops. Luckily he's a bartender and was at work, so I know I didn't wake him up. I hope I didn't tell him I was eating the cat or something.

And that, folks, was my messy 29th birthday evening with some of the most wonderful people on earth.

The next morning is not quite so fun.

But I am surrounded by gorgeous flowers- tulips from Captain Resistance and a coloful bouquet from my supervisor at work who felt so bad that she didn't know it was my birthday until I mentioned it. And while that doesn't help my grumbling body, it at least makes the sterile stupid day job environment much more pleasant.

One more emphatic "Ugh!" and moan for the road.

Pin the Tail on the Donkey (or Ass)

My birthday totally snuck up behind me and shouted "BOO!", startling the hell out of me. Not scaring, mind you, just startling. Birthdays should never be a scary thing, and I like the idea that its my last year in my 20's...its kind of a nice little opportuinty to wrap up the decade. I do think, however, that birthdays should never shout "BOO!" at you; it's just not very nice and I almost wet my pants. I mean, I just saw my birthday the other day! There's no way it could've been another year. I think my birthday might be cheating...maybe it's got some calendar months up its sleeve...you know, that old fuck with time trick.

But on this day, I decided to look inward and what I've found amidst the veggie curry and wasabi peas of yesterday is that I'm happy. Sure, there are the occasional crise-du-jours, as my brother used to call it, and every day and moment is not perfect, but I'm happy with who I find myself becoming and that's something I never ever would have imagined myself saying in my wildest hopes and dreams. I'm so very proud of that growth; its a beautiful source of strength for the not-so-happy moments.

I like 29. It's going to be a great year, even if my birthday just taped a kick-me sign to my back and put my bra in the freezer at the slumber party because I was the first to fall asleep.

The McMedia has Condescended to Pay Attention? (or Too Little Too Late)

Finally someone in the mainstream media has somewhat stepped up to the plate and written an article about the unlawful arrests at the Republican National Convention last summer and the repercussions since. It's not the world's best article, but its pretty good and I think does come across illustrating how the city, the NYPD, and the Secret Service (who is the top authority for security at national security events such as this) trampled upon the civil liberties of many. As you can see, I'm not the only one who chose to fight rather than accept an ACD, and many of those who did accept it did so only under misinformation and sleep deprivation after being held in filthy conditions under duress for days...clearly a situation ideal for important legal decision making, no?

The quote from the police about quality arrests is clearly false; the Bloomberg administration and the NYPD stepped into a huge pile of horse shit with this one and are desperately trying to cover the stench with cheap perfume. It stinks like Jean Nate and horse shit...a new perfume, called "Eau de Bloomberg". Of course the city cannot prosecute successfully- not because of the sheer number of arrests, as they claim, but because of illigitimacy of the arrests to begin with. Duh. You sweep the streets with giant orange nets indiscriminately, blatantly breaking the law yourself (to say nothing of several incidents of police perjury proven in court creating some of the dismissals) and of course you can't prosecute. That's not to say they're not trying their damnedest, and at least getting the satisfaction of making us schlepp endelessly to and from 100 Centre street.

I'm actually pretty excited that its being brought to light, though funny how no one would touch it before the election or inauguration isn't it? At least this is one article that doesn't make protesters sound like crazed dangerous troublemaking loonies, like most tend to.

Not to say that I'm not a crazed loony, I'm just not dangerous.

My First Day at School (aka I Pray for a Nice Beefy Tampon Commercial)

Tonight is my first day of school and as always, I'm a little nervous...feeling a little shy. What if my lunchbox breaks open on the bus? What if the teacher hates me? What if all the other kids look like freakin barbie and are all thin and plastically perfect and infintely more marketable than I am?

Tonight is my first class in a six week intensive commercial class, reccommended to me by an actor who had just booked a national spot for Wendy's. I've never taken a commercial class before; the closest I've come is the commercial unit in my acting for the camera class in college where I did some insurance commercial for my final project that was about puppies and babies and all other sorts of cutesy crap (the cheesiest copy imaginable, picked because I thought it was funny but I actually surprised myself with the sincerity I found). This marks yet another departure from my safety comfort zone of the stage with all its glorious economic non-viability, and a tenuous step into the terrifying lion cage of commercialism and marketability and all the insecurity it represents for me. It's also a renewed commitment to my career, as its a proactive affirmation of my complete willingness and want to whore out my talent.

I'm thinking if I could get some commercial gigs, I might actually be able to pay my rent; can you even imagine it?

I have to say that from the many e-mail correspondences and one 2 second phone conversation with my teacher, I already know I will absolutely adore him. He seems so very friendly and funny and open that I can't imagine the class won't naturally be a "safe space" - one of the most important things for any acting class to have, as without the necessary freedom to humiiliatingly fall flat on your face, you can never really fully go out on a limb and take huge risks. Even better is that I think he likes me too already; he remarked on my humerous e-mails and said that I sounded fun (thank you blog for helping me learn to come across as far cooler than I am through written word- I knew I started this blog for a reason other than boring all my old friends and the occasional passerby). This is great, as I already feel like perhaps I won't be the awkward nose pickinging geeky girl in the corner on the first day of school (what I always feel like internally); I'll be the fun awkward nose picking geeky girl in the corner with a wacky sense of humor! Yay!

Speaking of which, i'd better go hop in the shower so that I'm not the weird stinky girl in the corner.

I Am Loved! (and stressed)

Okay, so my fragile ego has received its necessary coddling and my rampant insecurity has been assauged for now from all the lovely comments proving that people are still reading about my boring life. And yes, I do know that some of you have been commenting and I thank you for it; that post was not intended for you. It was a post to the silent majority to raise their voices in...ummm, well, praise.

I'm in a weird fog of extreme exhaustion after having received about a sum total of 3 hours sleep last night and have a long evening ahead of me as I have to run now to swing by the library before it closes, its veggie night, and then I'm meeting My Little Vidipookikins at ABAR (not its real name) where I will brainstorm internet media collaborations with her and her tap teacher (on less than a quarter of functioning brain mass today) and exchange the veggies. It's that kind of week all week actually; even on my own birthday I will have to run for a Ladies of Liberty rehearsal, as we're performing at Hunter college Friday afternoon for V-Day. The weekend with the folks is shaping up to be no less hectic as well. Oy! Can you tell I'm feeling slightly stressed? (the clue would be me listing off my schedule, as if you cared to know it)

Okay, it's 7:25, and my starting gun just went off. Time to race.

I Need My Comments Fix To Help Me Through My Horrifically Boring Stupid Day Job Day!

I have noticed a comment drought on this blog as of late, leading me to several possible conclusions as to why:

1. My writing skills have been in a sudden fatal car accident and this blog is now a chore to read.
2. I am, as I have always secretly suspected, intensely boring.
3. I should go back to detailing the oh-so-pathetic but funny ins and outs of the trauma that is my dating life, as the Bad Boys Post seemed to elicit the highest response yet.
4. You people have much more of a life than I do, and actually do work at your stupid day jobs.

I'm not really bothered by the lack of comments- I am a strong independent kick ass woman, and I don't need your stupid comments to validate me! But a little slanderous epithet here or there really wouldn't kill you, would it?

If You Combine the Words Flirting and Blogging You Get Flogging. Hmmm...

Sunday or Monday night blogging with My Little Vidipookikins at ABAR (not its real name) has become enough of a tradition of sorts that the incredibly sweet and friendly doorman (who always IDs me, giving endless pleasure to my aging fragile ego) even stopped by our booth to remark upon it. Its kind of silly looking, I must admit...two old friends sharing drinks and quality time, only the quality time appears to be with their Macs only. We sit in a booth across from eachother, dueling computers back to back, likened to a game of battleship by the doorman, Mr. Mama's Tatoo of All Trades. We decided on the walk here though, that it was actually really nice to be able to spend time with someone but doing your own thing; its kind of like what we'd want from a boyfriend if both of us weren't slightly fucked up when it comes to men. We in fact said "like a boyfriend" quickly followed by "not that we need a boyfriend! no! we don't! right!" and so forth.

This weekend has been very much about not talking about what's bothering me, so tonight's activities fit in perfectly with my master plan of avoidance.

ABAR (not its real name) has the best Wi-fi connection in the East Village, fairly cheap beer, and you can camp out all night. Further reccommendation comes from the fact that the chalkboard outside tonight read "we don't give a fuck about the Superbowl"...my kind of place indeed.

Mr. Mama's Tatoo of All Trades has provided much friendly flirting and many smiles and laughs for the evening; comedy stemming from being polar opposites in many regards. We ordered food, and when he asked what I like I responded that I don't east meat; when asked what he liked he responded meat and that's pretty much it. He was also very very into the Superbowl in that very testosteroney kind of a way that somehow involves screaming at the tv, which I cannot comprehend except during the World Cup, but that's very special indeed and soccer is just so much more interesting anyway. However, its been a really nice night and I've enjoyed all the non-threatening attention to the point that I'm blogging about it but trying to sound quite cavalier. And he just offered to buy My Little Vidipookikins a beer (he had already bought me one), which was really sweet.

Now My Little Vidipookikins is making not-so-subtle remarks about Mr. Mama's Tatoo of All Trades and how nice he is etc, thus forcing me to suddenly become a middle school girl saying things like "grody to the max!" and "barf me out the back door!". Flirting in the vicininty of one of your closest friends that you've known since you were 3 is never a good idea; second only to flirting in the vicinity of your Dad who keeps saying things about how you'll find a good guy one of these days.

Sometimes its really good to feel like you're in middle school (or college- the two are somewhat similar, especially if you major in theatre) again, and sometimes an evening of flirting and blogging and flirting is really exactly what you need; good for the ego and the spirit all at once.

Happy Days With Mr. Artsy Hotpants

Tonight I went with Mr. Artsy Hostpants to see Samuel Beckett's Happy Days at Classic Stage (courtesy of my union...one of the perks are the free tickets offerred to union members when companies need to pad the house); I won't dissect the production as Mr. Artsy Hotpants will undoubtedly blog about it himself, and in a far more forgiving manner than I. What I do want to mention, however, is how very thankfuk I am for Mr. Artsy Hotpants; tonight was exactly what I needed and I thank you wholeheartedly for it.

Mr. Artsy Hotpants is the kind of person who you respect to the point that a compliment from him is something to stow away and treasure for years to come; not that he is witholding of compliments, but he is so refreshingly honest and his opinion so worth seeking and respecting that you can't help but eagerly seek his approval without being fully aware of even doing so. He is incredibly intelligent and incredibly empathetic all at once without ever transgressing into any territory remotely resembling pity, which makes him a wonderful person with whom to share many intimate details of your life. He is the sort of friend you can tell it like it really is to, without fear of judgement (bad) or pity (far worse); for that I am infintely thankful.

I am cocooning a bit these days, as I am sometimes prone to do. Mr. Artsy Hotpants is the only person I've spoken to or seen (aside from a few very quick moments spent with my roomate filling me in on a few life details and me halfheartedly listening) today. And he was quite the perfect choice indeed. I mentioned very briefly some of the things on my mind and we talked no further on them; there was no need to. I don't withold from him and so deeply appreciate the ability to just be myself with him, whatever that entails, without worrying about having to discuss things I may not want to. He lets me be whatever I need to be in the moment, no questions asked. That's incredibly rare and infinitely comforting.

Thank you Mr. Artsy Hotpants. I drunkenly but happily and sincerely thank you for giving me the exact evening I needed, and for being such a thoughtful and loving friend in so many ways. I'm not talking about your efforts on my behalf to garner me evening waitstaff employment (which I do thank you for- you are ever the loyal promoter); I'm talking about the strength and love and support you constantly provide, as well as the freedom of complete honesty without judgement or any attempt at changing or "fixing" me. You are not only my favorite person to see theatre with, but also one of my very favorite brilliant people to talk with as well. Plus you're really witty and fun to boot.

You also looked really sexy in your wonderful new Chicago shirt and leather jacket (may your stupid ugly rude poophead ex eat his heart out!)...gay men beware, he's quite a catch!

I must go sleep, although I have volumes more to write; its now 4am and I'm more than a bit drunk. I just wanted to post my accolades and thanks before retiring, as I do count myself unimaginably lucky and was thinking so all night. From the moment I entered the theatre lobby onward, I felt comforted and smiled and laughed genuinely; you are a wonder to behold and a true joy to be with MAH.

(And did I mention I love the new shirt and leather? H-O-T!)

Cancerous Tears and Fears

Let me take this opportunity to emphatically state how very much I wholeheartedly adore and heavily rely upon my two gay boyfriends; each one is so very different from the other and both fill such vital roles in my life. They are each in their own way such incredible individuals that amaze me on a daily basisand from both of them I find such superhero strength as we laugh at ourselves and all the monsters lurking under our beds. I cannot imagine my life without them.

One of them is very sick with the big C right now -his second bought with the obstinate melanoma...notoriously unresponsive to treatment with a mere 5% effective rate with chemo and not much higher with radiation. Melanoma can basically only be combatted through full surgical removal from the body; Mr. Saucy Funnybuns has melanoma that has migrated throughout his entire lymphatic system thus rendering this option obsolete. I have known this since last spring, and spent every Friday night of his first round of chemo with him pretending not to hear him vomitting, trying desperately to make "Chemo Night" something other than what it was and trying equally as desperately to make sure he enjoys himself and his life as much as humanly possible; not an easy feat between job loss, apartment upheaval and some incredibly fucked up luck at times. Through it all, I have tried my best to keep the laughter flowing forth amidst the tears and smiles alike; my number one priority is and always has been that he feel as loved and supported as humanly possible and have as much fun as humanly possible. He deserves all the love and support of 10,000 Synges.

I have suspected and quite honestly hoped for some time now that he was headed toward a decision to stop undergoing chemo treatments. Knowing full well the minimal effective rate and having borne witness to another beautiful friend's battle with this particular illness, I felt strongly that the question of quality of life needed to be addressed. I never made my feelings known, other than to say that I wholeheartedly supported any decision he might make; it's his illness and needs to be his fight and his decisions all the way. I never offered up information, merely passing along various resources that he might do as little or as much research as he wished. Tonight, he informed me of his decision to stop treatment.

It's so odd- this is a decision I clearly support and am in a way happy for, but I wasn't expecting it to be so very hard to hear uttered aloud. I guess that's the difference between considering something in the abstract and facing a concrete reality. He said we would have a long talk very soon about it all and I felt so lost and panicked, praying that the talk would not be tonight. I thought I was ready for this, and have known it was coming for such a long time...yet it still slapped me in the face in the coldest and cruelest of ways as only fear can do.

Although he would try feebly to dispute this fact, he's a mere baby and it completely breaks my heart that he's going through this and even faced with these decisions. When I first met him, he was so very lost, and just when he began to find his way the ground suddenly turned to quicksand. Were I one to believe in the notion of fair and unfair, I would be quite vexed and cry most foul and unjust at the top of my lungs; I learned a long time ago that fair and unfair are demons of our own creation and all that exists is life and its many surprises. Still, this surprise makes me cry when I leave his apartment to return home at night.

Mr. Saucy Funnybuns and I make things an adventure. We often act like an old married couple, and sometimes it seems like we are. We have wine and laundry nights and fold eachother's clothes to the background music of discussions about everything in life. We usually drink too much and lose any sense of decorum, even at brunch. He talks in a not-so-quiet voice, sometimes about things he should probably not say in such a not-so-quiet-voice. He makes me snort when I laugh and I try to make him laugh so hard he shoots beer out of his nose (which happened once). He's always trying to feed me and always worried that I'm not eating enough, even when I pig out. He gets all my jokes and calls me on all my shit, sometimes knowing me better than I'd like to admit (to which he would undoubtedly respond "sometimes?"). He spent my mother's birthday with us at their house and on the last night we stayed up with Mom crying and talking all night honestly about illness and death and it was a beautiful journey for all of us. He vacuums more than anyone I have ever met in my life but still loves me despite my slovenliness. He barged into the ER of St. Luke's Roosevelt Hospital at 1am and searched everywhere for me when I had mono the 3rd time (which by the way I do not have now, thankfully) so that I wouldn't have to walk home alone and sick. He laughed at me but tried to arrange it so that we were always taking cabs when I broke my toe having sex. He sent flowers to me opening night of my last show half the country away, which somehow got delivered to my apartment where he was staying and disappeared into the clutches of the super causing us endless giggles. He sings like a god and holds me like an angel when I am sad. He is afraid of me when I have PMS. I am afraid of him dying.

No matter how I may accept and deal with death and no matter how many people I love die way too early, it remains ever gut wrenching and heartbreaking.

Now would be a great time to discover I had suddenly aquired superpowers....if only...

Auditioning is Almost as Much Fun as Having Food Poisoning!

It's been years now since I've posted; I have nothing to say in my defense save a busy social calendar since my return to the land of the living, combined with my shitty new seating arrangement at the stupid day job and the fact that my stolen internet connection at home seems to be on heavy drugs. I think it took an hour to get to this page.

I have thankfully taken a leap back into auditioning with renewed commitment despite the fact that most of the time the EPAs (Equity Principle Auditions- any company that wants to hire union actors is required to have open auditions for the entire membership, which usually tends to be a bit of a farce as these auditions are only held because they are required and most casting occurs through casting agents and directors) are for shows already cast. It's frustrating, but I try to regard it as a sharpening stone for auditioning skills...it certainly takes away any and all fear, between the sheer number of auditions attended and knowing they're somewhat worthless. I've gotten wonderful feedback from a lot of casting directors, but no work thus far. While wonderful feedback is incredibly gratifying for the ego, it unfortunately does not get me out of stupid day job hell.

So yesterday I schlepped off to an EPA for Theatre for a New Audience, of course hoping it would miraculously lead to Work for a Desperate Actor, and was shocked to find that the actual casting director was in the audition room. Usually one finds people a bit lower on the food chain in these EPAs- assistants, assistants’ assistants, the janitor, etc. The Equity lounge, dubbed "losers lounge" for its mass collection of out of work actors by my director friend and general career motivator/kick-in-the-seat-of-my-pants-provider Saint Slick, was all abuzz with this thrilling news seemingly equivalent to an Elvis sighting. I bravely trudged in (and it does take bravery, as the reception in these tiny studios ranges from huggable warmth to boredom to being looked at as if you had cat vomit dripping off your head) with smiles and friendly "you really want to hire me!” energy, and found a rather unintimidating though clearly no-nonsense woman seated behind the table. It’s always a toss up as to how to interact, as each casting director (or assistant et al) has a different preference as to the level of interaction they really like to engage in. She asked rather quickly what I was going to be showing her, so I announced my piece and began.

The audition itself went rather well; I took my time with the piece, and although it was different than usual, it worked for the role I would be eligible for and was honest, simple and powerful. I felt pretty good about it. She then thanked me, and caught me off guard by asking me about having lived in France (my resume states fluent in French and dual citizenship). This was a prime opportunity not to be squandered! Yes, yes...this is what I had been hoping for, a mini-interview of sorts with a top casting director; a chance to show off my sparkling personality and great wit and charm! I opened my mouth to let the wit and charm flow forth and found that what spewed forth from my pre-coffee useless stump of a brain was instead 2 tiny boring useless sentences giving the appearance of one utterly devoid of any semblance of a personality. She smiled and thanked me again, and I stumbled out of the room feeling like an utter ass. Fucking up an interview opportunity is far worse than fucking up your monologue. I can only hope that my useful Eurodentity and fluency in French will override my apparent idiocy and garner me an audition opportunity in the future. I wrote my follow-up postcard immediately and put "(the French woman)" after my name, just to remind her of my marketability despite the seeming lack of personality.

Ah yes, the fun of this career never ends. I begin a commercial class quite soon, hoping that if I could perhaps get a little cash flow in from commercials, then I wouldn't be so exhausted all the time from trying unsuccessfully to balance the need for rent with pursuing my career and having a social life. Balance has never been my strong suit (actually its been more of an elusive ideal I can't seem to get anywhere near) despite much effort to the contrary; I am a person of extremes. Right now, I am extremely in need of an acting job, before I become completely (as opposed to partially) insane. I need to get out a round of agent mailings sometime before my 65th birthday (a tough goal at the rate I've been going with these mailings) and all sorts of other fun and exciting marketing crap that gives me a giant migraine to think of.

I luckily just received a call from one of my gay boyfriends, Mr. Saucy Funnybuns (his buns aren't funny, he is), and we are to have wine and laundry night tonight- a welcome relief as my pile of laundry is about as tall as my sawnky new loft bed at this point and I found long ago that drunken laundry with a friend becomes far less of a chore than schlepping it to the corner laundromat where the angry asian woman yells at everyone and the homeless guy is always being kicked out for trying to wash his shoes. I love when I am able to combine socializing and actually get crap done; it makes life a tiny fragment less stressful.

I did manage to score free Equity tickets to Beckett's Happy Days for Saturday night for Mr. Artsy Hotpants and myself, which is infinitely exciting as its been forever since I've seen a show. Mr. Artsy Hotpants is my favorite person of all time to go see theatre with; although we usually have very similar opinions, the spirited discussion afterwards is always incredibly interesting and rewarding. I need to remember to check the Equity board more often for free tickets, though usually if they're offering free tickets it means the production isn't selling that well and one has to wonder if there isn't perhaps a reason for this. We'll see, and I'm sure Mr. Artsy Hotpants will blog about it, whether it’s good or bad.

I now have to drag myself to the horror of the stupid day job, where I will finish listening to Pride and Prejudice on tape and bemoan the hours wasted on managed behavioral healthcare (aka we deny everything). If I'm incredibly lucky I will be able to return an e-mail or two, but the cavalier days of internet freedom seem to be sadly long gone.

Congratulations and Birthday Wishes and Other Similar Crap

Congratulations are in order, as Sarachkah has bravely ejected a baby from her loins - a beautiful little girl adorably named Ruby Magdalene! Yay Sawachkah! Way to dialate and push without drugs! You and Raoul have done well, Ruby is perfect in every way.

A very Happy Birthday/ Joyeux Anniversaire to Vixanne, who turned 29 yesterday; may this year bring you intense happiness and the realization of all your dreams. I am wishing on every star that this year brings you the healthy beautiful baby of your own that you yearn for.

Happy almost birthday (next Thursday) to Sarachkah as well; the only birthday in the world I can't forget as its the same as my own. We are not old, nor all that wise yet, but we've got spunk, great strength, brains and beauty (well, at least you do) and we will live the last year of our 20's accordingly!

Many congratulations and loud exclamations of "Wow!" to Queen Artsy Vlogger on her fabulous new artistic residency with the program whose name I can't remember that's affiliated with the 96th street Y. Despite my non-existant short term memory, it's really a huge deal and will undoubtedly open many doors for this incredibly talented artist. You rock Queen Artsy Vlogger and I will be at your opening drunkenly shouting yuor brilliance to the whole world until they kick me out.

While I'm at it, Congratulations to Orphan Annie and her fiancee (typed with a French accent because I know that irks her) J on their recent engagement; although you have left me behind as the only single woman left of our childhood group of friends and I am desperately abandoned to life as an old maid, I am sincerely happy for you and think J. is super cool.

If you're lurking and I've forgotten to shout out much kudos where they're due, I apologize. I am forgetful and self-involved and may need a little reminder.