Friday, September 30, 2005

You rock! Yes, you!

Everybody please send a little note of encouragement to my dear, darling husband. He's embarking on a THIRTY-SIX MILE Avon Walk tomorrow and Sunday and could probably use all the good wishes (and foot massages) he can get.

(www.theblatantlyobvious.blogspot.com)

And thanks to you all. Because of your donations, we raised over TWENTY TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS! You'll be getting personalized thank-you cards in the mail as soon as I get off my butt and write them.

Motherhood is fun.

It was cotton-pickin' chilly out this morn! The cats smooshed up next to us in bed in a move that Matt and I like to think of as affection, but is probably closer to "It's cold in here, bitch!" (Sorry. Val curses a lot.)

Of course what chilly weather really signals is not the start of Fall; it's the start of SWEATSHIRT-SHOULDER TIME, at least according to Tinkerbell. Our littlest cat loves nothing more than to climb on my left shoulder (only the left) and pretend she's on a very sweatshirty tree. She lives for it, waits for it, prays for it, I think. As soon as you head toward the sweatshirts the squeaking begins. It starts out cute - a few hopeful chirps of "Remember me?". But if, say, you have to do something other than pick her up (like go to the bathroom) the squeaking becomes more insistant. One might call it demanding, even.

MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! MEW! (Just try to have a moment while that's going on outside the bathroom door. And don't think you can placate her by opening it a crack and speaking in comforting, "I'll be right out!" tones of voice. Like she's gonna fall for that!)

Say you decide not to pick her up after exiting the bathroom (perhaps you wish to make yourself some tea). Well then, my friends, prepare. You will be stalked. Stalked by a tiny calico nightmare. You will be cursed at in a small, squeaky voice for being so selfish as to keep that sweatshirt all to yourself. You will rue the day you ever decided to introduce Sweatshirt to Tinkerbell. You might even be tempted to gently kick the screaming fluffball in order to get her to shut up already! but then you risk the Look Of Disappointment from your husband and then you start questioning your maternal instincts and that's a spiral you don't really want to have this early in the morning so you pick the little cat up and pray she doesn't poop on you, which she occasionally does when she gets excited.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

Gawker isn't the only one who thinks I'm cool.

So's I'm getting published, yo. Yes, with much, much (much, much) help from Dan and Matt (and many phone calls from Nadia), I'll soon be featured the Capital-Journal. Hopefully this will be a semi-recurring sort of thing, so feel free to bombard the features editor with praise (once it runs, that is. Although I'm sure she'd appreciate general praise as well.) I feel a little behind the curve since at least one of you (and one of you's husbands) have already gone this route, but I'm exited nonetheless.

I'll let you know when it's coming out. In the meantime, I have to go pass out some food.



Good one, mom!

This is for all you actors out there.

My friend Stefanie sent me this today and it made me laugh long and hard. It's an industrial for, um, I couldn't make out what it was for actually, but it's full of ridiculously long words and intentionally difficult copy - the kind of nightmare all actors dread. The guy in it deserves a medal for simply memorizing the thing.

http://media.ebaumsworld.com/retro.wmv

*For those industry outsiders, an industrial is one of those little movies they show you at work. They're usually along the lines of "Don't Shoplift!" or "How To Be A Team Player!" but the medical/pharmaceutical community tends to do a lot of them. They're always the worst things to go in for because of the massive amount of medical jargon. This particular industrial is a spoof, but it's not that far off.

WWJD? (Hold his head and weep, most likely.)

Teaching Jesus through the sacred art of mime? Hell, I'd go to church to see that!

http://www.inkspirations.org/site/906529/page/348587

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

I'm a failure as a wife.

I'm catering on Friday.

While that may not seem like the most heinous offense, consider this: Serenity opens on Friday.

I know, I KNOW! How could I possibly forget the greatest movie opening of the year? How could I ignore the plans we made with friends? How could I forsake my beloved Captain Tightpants?!

But I did. I spaced it. (Woo - punny!) I'm sorry Kate and Keeley. I'm sorry husband-with-a-cold. I will be hauling chairs and spilling wine and slopping slop for eleven hours instead of munching on foodstuffs and enjoying the intergalactic fray.

But most of all, I'm sorry Cap'n. Your tightpants will have to wait until next week.

I lost my links.

I lost my links putting up the picture of my inner child. As soon as I remember how to add them back, I'll do so.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Our mayor likes popcorn at all times, and that's a fact.


You know those political ads where they interview real people on the street and ask about their feelings about a particular mayorial candidate? They’re fakers. I know this because I just auditioned to play a "real" nurse for a political campaign.

For an attack ad, it was awfully half-assed. I was supposed to pretend that I’d been asked what I thought about Bloomberg. My response?

“Not bad.”

Not bad?! That’s the worst insult they could come up with? I don’t want to categorize Democrats as girly but come on - that’s not even a bitch-slap! All the characters had some wussy variation on the theme (“Okay”, “So-so”) but still the casting director kept telling us to “keep it gentle”. KEEP IT GENTLE?! Dude, if it gets any gentler I’ll be cooing in his ear. Seriously, if this is the best attack Democrats are willing to give, we are screwed, blued, and tattooed.

A plug for someone other than myself

Go to Bald and Effective right now and read Dan's post about armed and dangerous military dolphins. It made my toes twitch.

Monday, September 26, 2005

I'm on fire!

That's RIGHT! Two Gawker publishings in a week! The new editor clearly knows quality.

http://www.gawker.com/news/stalker/gawker-stalker-kevin-bacon-needs-better-health-insurance-127512.php

(You've already read the entry. I just like to post the address so I can admire myself.)

Help me out here, peeps!


I really enjoy reading "famous" blogs. You know, the ones where the author had some power of self-promotion or sexiness or children-chewing magic and managed to get their blog noticed amongst the thousands (nay, millions) of hunt-and-peck postings listed daily. I'm talking about the late, lamented Belle de Jour, or Mimi in New York ("40 countries, 12 boats, 37 flights, 46 assholes and 6 months later... Writing for The Village Voice, avoiding Bill O'Reilly and campaigning for immigrants whilst musing on anal sex and pissing off the religious right") or even I'm An Intern In New York ("My name is Andy, and I'm an intern in New York. This blog is a look into my subordinate soul, as I climb my way to the base of the professional ladder and experience New York City in general. You'll be here for the good times, the bad times, and of course, those situations somewhere in the middle, which I refer to as "bood" times.") but mostly these blogs just make me feel REALLY, REALLY COMPETETIVE. I mean, what've they got that I haven't got? Besides, like, talent and connections and... aw, crap.

I'm not alone in this, right? Right?! (Quiet, Dan.)

Saturday, September 24, 2005

Celebrity citings: A two-fer!

I saw the moon-faced Sarah Vowell (of NPR and The Incredibles) power walking over by Union Square yesterday afternoon. Later I saw Frances McDormand on the Upper West Side sporting some seriously disappointing turquoise pants.

Bands that RAWK

My husband is currently dancing around the bedroom to Rush's 2112 which, from what I've been able to gather from the potent combination of mime and sing-a-long, is the story of a young boy who discovers a guitar and overthrows socialism. All I know is that there is much awkward kicking involved.

Anyway, catering. Sometimes my day job is so ridiculous it borders on, well, the ridiculous. I spent most of yesterday in a parking lot in New Jersey following Donald Trump around with a Diet Coke. We were there for the groundbreaking of his latest building - TRUMP JERSEY CITY - which promises to be just as tacky and overblown as (*insert hair joke here). He arrived in a stretch limo to trumpet fanfare. (The fanfare ended before he'd completed his walk down the red carpet. Unfortunately the trumpeteers only seemed to know that one opening number so after a few seconds of awkward silence they just decided to play it a few more times.) I was armed with my Diet Coke on a silver platter but I couldn't get near the man - the press just swarmed. Like a big game hunter I followed The Donald around the tent, sidestepping middlemen and curious locals, but I just couldn't seem to find my moment. I was starting to get a little tense, between practicing what I was going to say ("Diet Coke?", "Would you like a drink?", "How's about a little refreshment?") and trying not to spill the precious carbonated beverage, but as the band played "You Are The Sunshine Of My Life" I corned him by the buffet. I managed to blurt out "WOULD YOU CARE FOR A DIET COKE MR. TRUMP?" He looked me right in the eye and said, "I'm alright right now".

It would've been better with some awkward kicking.

Friday, September 23, 2005

As I was saying -

So (heh-heh) it turns out that my cell phone was only accidentally stolen. The person who called was the casting director from the Vonage commercial. She picked it up because it looked exactly like hers and didn't think to check it when I asked her if she'd found a phone.

I definitely have to offer her money now. (Which is not at all a bribe for future castings! Not at all!)

I wonder if she found my $20.

A good samaritan. Maybe.


So my dad called me tonight to let me know that someone found my cell phone. The would-be good samaritan couldn't find my number (although I do have HOME programmed into the phone) and called dad to try and track me down.

At the risk of sounding cynical, my first thought was, "This has to be a scam". But hey, maybe it's not. Maybe some good guy really just did find my phone. If I found a phone I'd try to track the person down too.

Here's my question: Do I offer them reward money? I mean, is that expected? (I wouldn't expect money if I found a phone.)

If they really did find my phone, I think I might have to apologize for a few of the messages I left...

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Just real quick...

Damn that was a good episode of Lost last night...

The education system at work.

It's a known fact that subway announcements are impossible to decipher. Because of that, practically no one listens to them - myself included. But there've been some service changes lately so when this little nugget came over the loudspeakers, I paid extra special attention.

"All uptown D as in 'W' trains are running express."

If you don't get the hilariousness, just say it out loud.

And lest you think I misheard, he repeated it twice.

I just got published on Gawker!

Holy crap, I just got my Gawker Stalker posting, uh, posted! I'm embarrassed to admit how many times I've sent in postings (okay, three) but they've never chosen me. Man, that almost makes up for getting my cell phone stolen! (Go to Gawker and scroll down until you find the stalkings bit if you want to see it posted someplace far cooler than my blog.)

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

So THAT'S why I haven't booked a job!

I had an audition for Vonage today. (The same audition where someone stole my cell phone and $20. Dick.) Vonage is some sort of internet phone service thing that I'm far too technically unadvanced to appreciate but I can appreciate the value of insurance, of which I will have none of if I don't book myself another commercial soon. I'm supposed to be playing the 30-something wife of a breakdancer. In the copy I'm touting my love of internet phone service while my elderly husband breakdances in the background.

I'm not sure I get it either.

The room is full of thuggy breakdancer guys (I'm assuming they'll use prosthetics to age the guy, like the freaky Six Flags dude), 20-something tartlets, and late 30's character women. And me - I'm there too for some reason. The casting director is all like, "You're reading for the wife? Oookaayy..." in a tone that practically snorted. Then she tells me that they want it really natural, "like a real person" - as opposed to my android self. So I do the first take until she stops me - "Um, no. Less smiley, less cute, more nervous, less attractive."

Okay, here's what I heard: YOU ARE FAR TOO ATTRACTIVE TO BE IN OUR COMMERCIAL. We need to shoot a commercial, and your good looks are going to muck it up. Why-oh-why do you have to be so damned attractive? Damn woman, you are gooood lookin'.

I mean, that's what I heard.

I hope a safe falls on him.

Some dick-fuck stole my cell phone (and $20) at an audition today! I hate actors.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Welcome, husband!

Everybody give a warm welcome to Matt's new blog, The Blatantly Obvious! I'm sure he'll soon usurp my place in the cockles (cockles?) of your heart.

They don't have Big Macs where you come from?

Yesterday I watched a tourist take a picture of his wife in front of a movie theater. Now I have no problem with tourists taking pictures of random things. When I'm a tourist, I take all sorts of boring shots (just ask Nadia who had to sit through my Canada collection). Want to take a picture of a pidgeon? Fine. Pay $5 to get your butt squeezed by a Naked Cowboy? Hell, why not? Even getting your picture taken in front of a really cool movie theater wouldn't have fazed me. What gave me pause was the fact that the only thing they were taking a picture of was the glass door.

A door?

It didn't even have an ad on it or anything - nothing to signify why this particular glass door had meaning. I just imagine the couple sitting in their living room showing off their Trip To The Big City pics and then coming to this one. "Look Myrtle! It's a door made of solid glass!" Don't they know that a block away there's a guy in briefs and cowboy boots just begging for an ass grab?

I think the same thing when I see tourists from Wisconsin taking pictures of McDonald's. I want to pry the camera from their hands and send them to Chinatown.

Celeb citing

Last night I saw Julia Stiles eating dinner at West Bank Cafe. I was dying to see what she ordered but my husband said I was embarrassing myself.

Saturday, September 17, 2005

Explaining Renee Zellweger's "fraud" claim

This from today's Yahoo:

When Renee Zellweger called Kenny Chesney a "fraud," she meant it only in the best way.
The Oscar-winning actress attempted to clarify Friday why her four-month marriage to the country singer all but ended this week when she filed for an annulment, citing "fraud."
In a statement, the Cold Mountain star called the term "simply legal language and not a reflection of Kenny's character."

"Oh, I beg to differ," Glen L. Rabenn, a family law attorney based in Seal Beach, California, said with a laugh when read Zellweger's words. "What is it then? She's saying the guy is a fraud. Doesn't that go to character?"

More stories:Explaining Zellweger's "Fraud" ClaimLove Avoids Jail, Not Rehab...or SuitTori Spelling: Splitsville, 90210Sheen Seeks Richards RerunRock Hall Snubs 1980 Attorney John Mayoue, an Atlanta litigator who has represented the likes of Jane Fonda, called the "fraud" declaration "very unusual for a high-profile case."

"Most celebrities who have a public name to protect would not make this kind of public allegation," said Mayoue. "When famous people call us, we try to find a way under the radar, so to speak."

In California, where Zellweger filed, annulments are rare, seemingly by design, among the famous and non-famous. The state that invented the no-fault divorce is a stickler on annulments. "You've got to prove your grounds," Rabenn said. "You've got to go to court."
In Nevada, where Britney Spears ended her 55-hour union to childhood friend Jason Allen Alexander in 2004, a bride can annul her marriage simply by declaring, as the pop star did, that she "lacked understanding of her actions." But in California, the annulment seeker must declare one of the following: That he or she was under age; that one of the parties was already married; that someone was of "unsound mind"; that the marriage was entered into by "force"; that one of the parties suffered "physical incapacity"; or, that "fraud" had been perpetuated.
"Fraud is a very high standard," Mayoue said. "For a court to accept this for fraud, it's going to have to be a very egregious situation."

Under California law, a fraudulent marriage means, in part, "the consent of either party was obtained by fraud." In layman's terms, Rabenn explained a hypothetical case this way: A newlywed couple checks into a honeymoon suite; the husband pulls out a document declaring that he's impotent; the wife, previously unaware of this situation, checks out--and calls her lawyer.

To Rabenn, the big question in the Zellweger filing is "Why?"--as in: "Why did someone bother raising the fraud allegation?"
In a joint statement released to Entertainment Tonight, Zellweger and Chesney said "the miscommunication of this objective of their marriage at the start of is the only reason for this annulment."

Zellweger, 36, and Chesney, 37, wed May 9 in the Virgin Islands. While their courtship proceeded at light speed, they'd met just five months prior, the ceremony was not exactly impromptu. Family and friends were present; an official wedding photo released.
Whispers of their demise were heard as early as the summer. The bad buzz got louder last week when Zellweger walked the red carpet at the London premiere of Cinderella Man without Chesney, who'd finally wrapped the tour that had kept him on the road for much of their marriage.

"I would personally be very grateful for your support in refraining from drawing derogatory, hurtful, sensationalized or untrue conclusions," Zellweger said Friday. "We hope to experience this transition as privately as possible."

In his own statement, Chesney echoed Zellweger's sentiment. "I just hope everyone can respect the privacy I know Renee has already asked for," he said.

Rabenn said he would expect the couple to have the matter handled privately, complete with a private judge. "It's very likely you will never know about this," he said.

Friday, September 16, 2005

I want a paper hat NOW, daddy! (And a golden goose, while you're at it.)



This from www.tequilared.blogspot.com. Apparently some guy is passing out paper hats on some train and I TOTALLY WANT ONE. I don't know which train it is (a sharp-eyed Nadia pointed out that it doesn't appear to be a subway) but once I figure out which one it is, I'm there.

IT'S MY MOM'S BIRTHDAY!

(Everybody wish her a happy birthday, 'k?)

One.

Two.

Three.

Happy Birthday, Cam!

(That was great!)

It's hard being married.

Renee Zellweger and Kenny Chesney broke up after three months of wedded something-or-other. (Clearly it wasn't "bliss".) Seriously, what goes wrong after three friggin' months? The gifts stop coming? You realize that one of you likes cowboy hats just a little too much or is a sweaty, puffy, coke-whore? (Thanks to Kathy Griffin for that description of Renee. By the way, Kathy Griffin - who was never, ever funny on Suddenly Susan - is seriously hilarious on her Bravo show, "My Life on the D-List". Her stand up special made me laugh way too hard. She made me spit out my food.)

Anyway, I was really pulling for those two crazy kids. Well, you know, sort of.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

It's all about the accessories

The importance of fashion in this city cannot be underestimated. Yesterday while standing in line at Food Emporium I watched the woman ahead of me get turned away for insufficient funds. She was using a food stamp card to buy a loaf of generic bread that cost $1.19 but she didn't have enough money to cover it. It broke my heart - hey, we've all been there - and I was about to lend her the $2 until I noticed that she was carrying a Coach handbag.

Over the weekend I was nosing around our local block sale, sifting through a cute little Asian girl's clothing pile when a woman in a full burqa (you know, the black shroud-like thing worn by Muslim women) came up to the table. She was completely enveloped - all I could see were her eyes (which is super creepy, by the way) - but she immediately picked up a bright pink pleather purse. She eventually bought it (I was dying to see where she kept her money but I didn't want to stare) and floated off. It was so incongruous, like seeing a Hasidic jew wearing nothing but pasties. I like to imagine the Muslim woman going home, throwing off her burqa, grabbing the pink plastic purse and dancing around the apartment to "Billy Jean".

CNN finally got it right!

Step away from the edge...

There's one coming, I swear. I SWEAR!

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

And another thing

Here's one thing I've learned - you have to keep sandwich cookies away from me. Particularly Newman O's. Particularly the mint and/or ginger ones. Oreos I can resist because they have partially hydrogenated oil which nasts me out but those delectable Newman O's are healthy (well, "healthy") AND he donates his profits to charity. Seems to me I should be able to write them off on my taxes...

We're doomed.

I catered this morning at Radio City Music Hall. There were roughly 500 people there for some "Spend Money In New York" conference and two of those 500 were Rudy Guiliani and (rumor has it) Bill Clinton. There were two of us working the VIP room where Guiliani gave a press conference. Throughout the whole thing, I was roughly 5 feet away from the guy.

This is why we're doomed: Not once was I checked. Even at the security desk they didn't ask for ID. Hell, there wasn't even a list of waiter's names! The guy just got on the radio and asked if there were supposed to be caterers there. Then he gave me an all-access pass and no directions on how to get anywhere so for the next 15 minutes I wandered around Radio City, peeking into engine rooms, wandering onstage past a ton of crew people who never once stopped me. Now I realize that a short little red-headed girl doesn't exactly set bells a-ringing and I know it's impossible for everyone to be checked and I know I'm a hypocrite because I hate it when people DO check me, but still - shouldn't somebody have at least looked in my bag?

Same thing happened yesterday, working a lunch for the Prime Minister of Australia. Nobody checked nothing.

It is (not) my pleasure to serve you.

For those of you who missed it the first time, my L&O SVU is airing again tonight (Tuesday) on NBC. My line happens towards the middle of a rather boring episode, so if you want to watch something else for the first bit, I understand.

My blogging is going to be sketchy this week. I'm about to slit my wrists from early morning catering jobs (I should be asleep right now) but I'll write when I can.

By the way, I served Kenneth Starr today. I wanted to lick his salmon, just to make him eat my spit.

Monday, September 12, 2005

Don't mess with a woman who has to pee

I saw the best thing ever on my way home from Ellis Island Friday night. It was one o'clock in the morning and Walter, Latrice and I were sitting on the train at South Street Seaport trying to get our butts home. Unfortunately this drunk guy showed up and decided to park himself in the middle of the closing doors. The doors shut, pinning him between them, but instead of moving he just continued to stand there. The doors closed again ("YOU! IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TRAIN! THE TRAIN CAN'T MOVE UNLESS YOU STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS!") but the guy wouldn't budge.

Sitting across from us were three big, beautiful black women on their way to a club - tight little miniskirts, gold strappy stilettos, Beyonce hair weaves, the whole nine yards - and were clearly not in the mood for drunk guy bullshit interrupting their night. (The three of us were pretty pissed off too, since he was the only thing standing between us and our beds.) The women started shouting at him to get on or get off, but the drunk guy (who was obviously too inebriated to realize who he was dealing with) just stared at them and slurred, "Fuck you!" Needless to say, this was the wrong move. The ringleader, a Queen Latifa type goes, "WHAT did you just say to me?!" and the idiot gestured for her to bring it on. I'm not entirely sure what happened next (as Walter put it, "All I saw were assholes and elbows") but all three women immediately swooped up, closed in on the guy and shoved his ass right onto the station platform, just as the doors closed.

The three of us were just there with our mouths hanging open (I was saying a silent prayer that the doors wouldn't open and let the guy back in) but the women were hooting and hollering, cracking themselves up. Latifa kept saying, "You gonna call me out? You gonna call me out?! Don't fuck with me when I gotta PEE! He's lucky I didn't hit him with my damn shoe!" (It was lucky. A gold stiletto to the crotch wouldn't have been pretty.) She had quite a rant going ("I could'a cut his ass! I gotta pee!") and didn't seem at all bothered by three sweaty white folks dissolving into hysterics across the car. It totally made our night.

Friday, September 09, 2005

My husband had better notice, that's all I have to say.

How is it possible that I've spent over an hour cleaning my apartment and yet it looks exactly like it did before I started? I broke a sweat cleaning this thing. I want some kind of reward, goddammit. I want my toilet bowl to glow or say "I feel Fresh and New" or something! I deserve that. I am also going to shave the cats. It's summer. They're indoor animals. There's no logical reason for them to need fur. (Especially the one who gets extra, extra nervous and sheds like a BIG SHEDDING THING and makes me have to sweep and Swiffer just to get all her hair up off the floor. I'm talking to you, Tinkerbell.) By the way, the person who invented the Swiffer should be kissed. Seriously. The thing is a wonder.

Oh my aching abs!

I went to my first pilates class the other day. I was a little nervous about it because it was level II ("A more advanced Pilates Class combining yoga with western calisthenics") and I tend to suck at anything with the words "yoga" or "advanced" in the description. So I called the gym to see if I was qualified and the guy interrupts me with "Honey, there's people in that shouldn't be walking, much less doing Pilates. Trust me, you'll be fine."

Dude was right - the average age was roughly 102. One woman had a walker. (Imagine the people in level 1...) I mean, bless them for doing it! They had to keep asking if the instructor could speak louder but nobody passed out or anything so I'm assuming they kept up. It wasn't a very vigorous class, just a good, solid stretch and strengthening class. I was sore the next day, but overall, fine.

Today I decided to check out the Level 1. I knew I was in trouble when I looked around and noticed that every single person in the class looked like a professional dancer. Where were all my old people?! Everyone was all flexible and stretchy and buff - and then there was me. People, it was a solid hour of ab work. Hoooo-ly fuck. Crunches with arm pumps, crunches with leg pumps, crunches with this rubber circle thing they gave us, crunches sideways, crunches with our hips in the air... I thought I might have to vomit right there in the middle of class, just to escape more freaking crunches. I think my stomach is bulletproof now. I'm still quivering.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Thursday in the Park with Nadia

My friend Nadia and I had a really nice time in Central Park today. We went to see Janet Cardiff's art excursion, "Her Long Black Hair", which is this audio tour/art thing that's attracting quite a crowd. There was an hour wait when I got arrived but because so many people took off (who wants to wait an hour on a beautiful day like today?) we only waited a few minutes. I wasn't sure what it was about but I love walks and Nadia tends to have her finger on the pulse of interesting things (to mangle a metaphor), so I figured I'd give it a go.

I give it an A+ (105%!) for concept, a C for execution. You're given a CD player, some headphones and a packet of pictures and you just follow the directions on a tour around the park, listening to the narrator/artist ramble on about this woman in the photos. Sounds cooler than it was. It was really fun to walk through areas I'd never seen (some I pass without noticing almost every day) and she points out some interesting stuff (there's this ancient, amazing tree that's so old that it's roots have grown directly into a boulder. Really, you have to see it to believe it.) but after awhile we both got a little bored and decided that it was more fun just to look around than listen to her go on and on.

Did you know there's a memorial grove in the Park planted for the soldiers who died in WWI? All the trees have little plaques.

She's a brainiac! Brainiac! On the floor.

I just want to mention that I got 105% on my Excel test! That's the highest score in the class! I was about to celebrate myself when the teacher added, "Yeah, I'm definitely going to have to make it harder next year..."

Tinkerbell

My littlest cat does this thing - She goes in the litter box and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches until I start to go batshit. So I give her a warning. (Tinkerbell...) This doesn't make her stop scratching, she just scratches a little softer. So I give her a sharper warning (TINKERBELL!) which makes her stop just long enough to make me think she's done. But then she starts up again. I start heading for the litterbox and she begins scratching furiously, like she's got to get it all out of her system and she only has eight seconds left and right when I reach the closet door she dashes out, trailing kitty litter and shame.

We do this routine roughly three times a day. And you thought I had OCD.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

You learn something new every day.

I can't look into the bathroom mirror in the middle of the night. I suspect this fear comes from watching Poltergeist at an impressionable age (I never saw the man's face peel off but I know it did). I refuse to dangle my feet off the edge of the bed. (Again, Poltergeist.) I also have to step on and off a plane with my right foot. I get very antsy when the people in front of me put their left foot first. And I have to make the sign of the cross when I walk underneath ladders.

Uh, anybody else have this?

Bring on Powerpoint!

I would just like to put it out there that I now know how to link an Excel spreadsheet to a Word document. Will I know how next week? Maybe not. But today, I know.

If only I had a button: "Ask Me About 3-D Formulas!"

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

I'm too sexy for my shorts

I saw a woman in the subway today wearing assless shorts.

Okay, they weren't assless per se, but they were close enough to make a person stop and go, 'Hey, I can see her ass!', which is close enough in my book. The "ass shorts" were denim cut-offs that landed right below the bottom curve of her butt cheek, so that when she walked a scoodgen of bootie flesh peeked out below.

That's not what made them assless, though.

Not content to stop at flashing what God (and a few bags of Cheetos) gave her, there were large gaping slits cut across the back. Actually the word "slits" seems a little modest here - SHE WAS WEARING ASSLESS SHORTS. She was like Prince!

But the best part is that she kept pulling them down like she was self-conscious. Because god knows, having them ride up would be tacky.

There will be no blog before its time.

No posting until I finish and (hopefully) pass my Excel midterm tomorrow night.

CHARTS, FORMULAS, NESTING FUNCTIONS! AAARRRGGGGG!

Excel makes me grouchy.

If there was ever an impetus to book a job, this is it.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Guide me celebrities! Guide me!

From the desk of my friend Stefanie. Did anyone catch this?

Ah Larry King... The Barbara Walters of tragedy.

Did anyone else happen to see Celine Dion's tearful plea on CNN's "What you can do to help" Special last night? Genius. . . No one needs to see Medea (oh the Outrage) or Uncle Vanya (oh the flying, yes literally, FLYING tears) or Norma Rae (stand up women and speak your mind) or anything, EVER again.

She was interviewed because she is French Canadian, and New Orleans has/had French Culture. And she grew up poor. It was the most fantastic display of live emotion I've seen from a star since Roberto Benigni won an Oscar. She was mopping the tears off her neck. Then Larry asked her if she had a song that might fit the situation. She brushed the tears from her face, all her emotion disappeared, and she went right into an a cappella rendition of Prayer. (the worst of the worst of her "hit songs" that featured her with Andrea Bocelli.) She is either the fakest of the fake, or takes professionalism to a whole new level.

Over all, I was grateful for the programming, because if it weren't for a glassy eyed Teri Hatcher or the dim-witted Magic Johnson, I would never have thought to call the Red Cross and donate money.

The bad news: Sparkly tank-top clad Richard Simmons made it out of New Orleans alive.

Good news for Larry: He's good at crying too.

Saturday, September 03, 2005

God is no match for drunks!

My friend Ted has a great post about Katrina on his blog today. It's the first funny commentary I've read.

www.retracted.blogspot.com


I love that song.

Another hilarious McSweeney's.

THIRTY-NINE QUESTIONS FOR CHARLIE DANIELS
UPON HEARING
"The Devil Went Down to Georgia"
for the First Time in 25 Years.
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2005/8/16moe.html
It's even funnier if you listen to the song first.

Free plug

Hidden the upper floor of the Signs Of Life Christian bookstore in Lawrence, KS is one of my favorite galleries. The owner has a great eye for up-and-coming Kansan artists and he does a great job putting pieces together. The prices are relatively reasonable (for original works, at least) and most of the artists are spectacular. (It's worth visiting to check out the gorgeous loft space he's created. It kills me a little not to live there.) My favorite artist is a young woman named Heather Smith Jones. I'm saving up to buy something of hers, but if anyone's at a loss for what to get me this Christmas (and want to go in on something together - I won't mind!) pick any one of her pieces and I'll be happy. (I'm particularly fond of "To End A Drought" and "More Than Gold".)

www.signsoflifegallery.com

She has a show up now, "Unfolding", which isn't my favorite. Scroll down to her last show, "SIGNS OF WONDERING AND KNOWING". (While you're artist hunting, google "Rodney Troth", "Holland Berkley", and "Kim Casebeer" for some of my other favorites. )

One more thing about Katrina and then I'll stop

Swiped this from my friend Valerie's blog (who swiped it from a Canadian woman's blog) and I thought it summed things up nicely.

"I just want you to know--I don't know if the American media is covering this at all, and I suspect it isn't--but I just want you to know that this is the news in Canada right now. Whatever beefs we have with the American government with softwood lumber and the war in Iraq and all the rest, the vast majority of us don't confuse the American people with the American government--and everyone I've talked to is shocked and horrified that the response is taking so long, that more hasn't been done yet. I will never forgive a government that can so quickly send in troops and guns to protect property, and doesn't think to send those troops along with a few bags of sandwiches and some fucking blankets. There's no excuse. Many of us are outraged on your behalf."

Amen, sister.

(Thanks to Val. http://home.earthlink.net/~vekann/. By the way, her office is making matching donations to the American Red Cross so if you plan on donating, do it through her and the money will be doubled!)

Friday, September 02, 2005

Who's a pretty baby?

Okay, I totally swiped this from Kate's blog (www.diaryland.com - look up KT Buffy to check her out) but it's so freaking funny I have to have it.

www.mcsweeneys.net/2005/8/29silver.html

I laughed long. I laughed hard.

Getting Baked (for those who've already read this, it's twice as nice!)

Dude, I totally wrote most of this. (Except the OC part at the end.)

Appearing today in Shecky's Daily E-Byte:

Move over, Magnolia. Believe it or not, some people have better things to do than wait in line for a cupcake. Located just a block from Hell’s Kitchen’s fabled “Restaurant Row,” OC Bakery and Café offers more deliciousness per square inch than should be legally allowed. Using only the finest European butter and chocolate, the bakery's chocolate tart ($2.75) packs more scrumptiousness than Wonka’s entire factory, cream-filled French donuts ($3) sell out fast, and the mixed berry scones ($2.25) go down nice and smooth accompanied by an expertly pulled espresso ($1.50). There’s seating in the back for heartier fare (sandwiches, etc.), and the crowd seems perfectly content to stay awhile. In case you're wondering where Marisa and Seth are, be advised that the "OC" stands for owner Chester Osaka, formerly of Le Pain Quotidien—not spoiled Orange County teens. OC Bakery and Café, 451 W. 46th St. (9th & 10th Aves.), Hell’s Kitchen, 212.247.0127

From MSN

NEW ORLEANS - An explosion jolted residents awake early Friday, illuminating the pre-dawn sky with red and orange flames over a city where corpses rotted along flooded sidewalks and bands of armed thugs thwarted fitful rescue efforts.

What the FUCK is going on?

OH! I'm the...

The Naked Cowboy is out again. For those who don't know, the "Naked Cowboy" is a guy who stands in the middle of Times Square wearing a cowboy hat and tighty-whities with NAKED COWBOY scrawled across his ass. He occasionally strums his guitar and wails his Naked Cowboy song, which goes exactly like this:

I'm the Naked Cowboy!...
I'm the naked Cowboy!...
OH! I'm the Naked Cowboy!...
I'm the...
You get the drift.
Mostly he just poses for pictures with Japanese tourists. He always places their hands on his tush (oh the giggling!) and charges $5 a shot. One day I heard him say, "I make roughly a grand a day". A grand a DAY! It's just... it's... oh man!
There's a moral here, I'm sure of it.