In case you were wondering-

It's 830ish in the morning. I'm listening to Crosby Stills & Nash (Marrakesh Express is on now, surprisingly bouncy). I'm drinking a lovely cup of coffee with that silly but tasty vanilla soy creamer. My tonsils feel like they are the size of golf balls and the heat of the coffee seems to tame the wretched soreness a little bit.


East Village FAIL

Saturday I thought I'd have a little solo picnic-in-the-park outing. So I walked over to Tompkins Square, where the breadline is sadly increasing, but the usual array of old bums was fairly chipper. What irritated the fuck out of me - just as it did 15-20 years ago - were the young bums, junkies and posers, wearing leather jackets and pricey tattoos, walking large fluffy dogs. They sat or stood around with large lumpy backpacks, asking for change. How hip! Right about then the weather changed from sunny, clear and dry to cloudy, chilly and damp. I passed a police car, the officers chatting with the bums while the new playground lay locked up and unplayed with. I stood by the Temperance statue, grousing like the neighborhood crank that I am, in search of a free bench. I parked myself next to an inoffensive couple, away from the glaring yet skittish elderly folk, and plugged in my ipod to drown out the blaring of lesbian beat poetry from the park's stage. Vagina, vagina, vagina, and limericks galore. Cranky limericks. Then, my battery died.

Today in the Key Food were three new-in-town models anxiously huddled over the self-checkout with three boxes of Frosted Mini Wheats, looking blankly at the employee trying to help them scan bar codes.

While this isn't a neighborhood FAIL, this made me severely embarrased - I was chatted up by a decent-looking gentleman caught staring at my 'got pierogies' shirt. He was highly complimentary and not at all creepy; however, I knew that I had crummy hair and not a small bit of Neutrogena zit cream left on my face, and I was mortified. More like my Fail.


Proust by way of Costco.

Our secretary bought snacks for the office at Costco (promptly dispatched by the bored, hungry and piggish). They included these gems:

Note that these cookies are not particuarly large, nor particularly chocolatey. They're nice and crumbly though, with a perfectly nonthreatening amount of flavor.

My idea of the perfect lunch, circa 1984 or so:

- one package Lindens cookies (or one Drake's Peanut Butter Wafer bar)
- one bag Andy Capp cheddar fries, or hot fries if I felt daring
- one pint Sun Dew fruit punch or iced tea (which I perversely thought was better for me).

I lost a lot of weight that year.


Notes on The Duel 2 and my crappy legs

First off, my legs. I have been limping for weeks on a shin-splinty right leg, only to completely dislocate my left knee last weekend in Baltimore. My ankles are weirdly swollen, there's a bunch of bruising on my knee (I didn't fall on it), and it's not getting better. I lent my crutches to a friend and I think that I haven't reclaimed them because that would mean I should use them. I wrap them in neoprene, I take illicit Motrin (thinning my blood to the consistency of acetone, no doubt), and I fret.

Oh yeah, I also do improv, run a few standup shows (running back and forth to the stage 20-odd times), take lots of stairs, and generally behave like an idiot, apparently.

But I don't want to be injured.


In the meantime....the Duel 2!

1 - Mark is at least 37 and is kicking ass. I'd do him.
2 - Could Evan be more irritating? And surprisingly doughy?
3 - What's the deal with Katie? Is she sedated? Medicated? Or just menopausal?
4 - Ruthie is cute but a mite creepy.
5 - If someone else uses "myself" improperly again, it's on. It's on.
6 - Evan is a moron.
7 - The 'tribal' opening is bizarre, vaguely offensive in several ways (mostly because half the girls look bored, half the guys lurve being fake warriors.)
8 - Davis's cast picture makes it look like he has boobies.
9 - Yes, I read the cast bios. Shut up.
10 - What the hell kind of a name is Diem?
11 - Ha ha Evan's in the duel!
12 - Shut up.
13 - What the hell kind of a name is Brittni?
14 - Why do they keep letting Eric back on the show? Last time he had freaking arrythmia. Srsly?
15 - Did I just type "Srsly?'
17 - Shut up Evan.
18 - What the hell kind of a name is Landon?
19 - Srsly?
20 - I need some sleep.


A heart full of rock salt.

Oooh! Blogging about my feelings! It's rare these days, I'm too busy ignoring them.

So I was having a minor meltdown tonight (complete and inefficient overload in many areas of life, some of which I thought were reasonably under control.) Hosting, a couple of cocktails and some pleasant chat about butt sex kept me going for awhile, until I came home and started shaking uncontrollably like my neighbor's adorable sweatered Chihuahua. Well, I was having an attack of the feelings (source confidential at this time, thank you), and it was a mighty one. And once I had a couple of traumatic/thereapeutic/crushing conversations, I laid on the sofa, watching my legs cramp and my knees twitch under my heavy opaque tights. Tights removed, i flipped on the TV and fell upon Kill Bill part 2 (one of my top five favorite movies of all time, the others being Caddyshack, All that Jazz and a few others that do not include Indiana Jones). Michael Madsen (hot! in that beat-up way I adore) plugs Uma Thurman (hot!) in the chest with a double barrel's worth of shells filled with rock salt.

So that's how I felt.

I enjoyed the rest of the movie. I especially enjoy the Five Point Palm Exploding Heart Trick.

I made 2 psychotic-looking lamb-shaped cakes, a large and fragile cheese paschka, several kulichi (except the little ones were burned), and 4/5 of the recipe of Ambrosia Salad (sour cream withheld until the day of service). Now I will nap, then pack for my trip, go back to my office and get my flash drive, and I'm outta here.

A heart full of rock salt.

Christos Voskres, yo.


You're so different! I'm so different!

Hey guys! I have a rare disease. (It's the first one! It must be the BEST one!)

I've known about for quite a while but didn't realize there was a club!


(actually I mostly try not to think about it. Rats! Or rat poison.)


Crap! There really is a club!

Now I'm really depressed about the whole thing.

Bloggity bleah.

Too many things! Too much writing! Writing and crocheting make my carpal tunnel kick in. I'm sooooo old.

Random thoughts for the three remaining readers:

1. Feeling like a squishy slug, I decided to walk like mad all last week, which I did. Sunday night I walked home from a show and had to use the bathroom really badly, so I ran home along 4th street. I can't run. I have a shin splint and already lost one Ace bandage clip. I am a moron. A moron with overly large sneakers.

2. What's the deal with Ace bandage clips? Why don't they sell them in packages for us loose-jointed klutzes?

3. At Whole Foods, I spent $70 on Passover goodies and yeast.

4. Tomorrow! MTV! The Dule II! Whoo!

5. ANTM makes Make me a Supermodel look super edgy.

6. I like dresses.

7. I can't Facebook at work. Huzzah!

8. Want to get inspired to write? Don't read the classics. Read a shitty yet compelling book. This will keep you engaged in it long enough to realize that if this trainwreck can get written AND printed, I can write a book too!

9. Maybe.

10. Happy Springtime Holidaze!


Auntie Maim

I don't know if it was the most appropriate present to get a six year old, but it may have been the best:

Human Anatomy Coloring Book

My nephew just had a tonsillectomy and was kind of fascinated by the process. I was his first post-surgical call to tell me he was OK and loved learning all about science. He was coloring tonsils, arteries and veins.

My brother may or may not remove the 'r-e-p-r-o' pages, but I may have talked him out of that.

Am I a cool aunt or what?



Now I understand why little kids scream. I am FAR too old for an ear infection, and even post-surgery it is making me completely miserable. More miserable than the surgery. Crap!


If food were christmas packages

I would be unwrapping the following tasty treats:

- a crispy potato latke
- an order of sashimi or chirashi (white rice, PLEASE)
- a white Russian
- spaghetti carbonara
- some kind of cheese. Just because. As long as it's not fontina or muenster, the tofu of cheeses (in a negative sense). Is there any cheese that sucks worse than muenster? I'd rather eat Laughing Cow or, heaven help us, Velveeta (which if applied to white bread and toasted to high heaven, creates magic. I defy you to refuse that sandwich.)


Things you realize when you watch too much Food Network, continued.

1. Here's the formula for every episode of Chopped:
- the foreigner
- the meathead
- the culinary student with no experience or the experienced chef with no formal training
- the girl
- three far more qualified judges (both in terms of sheer culinary skill and ability to snark up the joint). Alex, Scott, I hope you are doing bong hits or jager shots on commercial breaks.

2. Dear Guy Fiertrtrti,

Go away.

3. Dear Sandra Lee,

Soft focus just makes it worse.

Go have a drink and then go away.

4. Which Travel Channel show is Jeff Corwin ripping off - No Reservations or Bizarre Foods?

5. Top Chef this week made me realize that I miss Emeril. Poor Emeril, kind of. A talented person. Mugging and catchphrasing all those years, only to be replaced by Paula Deeeeeeeen and Guy Fietrtrtrtrti. Then again he's probably a bazillion aire with a slew of restaurants and such.

This may be a whole lot funnier considering how little food I've eaten in the past month. Or not.

Things you realize when you watch too much Food Network

1. Ingrid Hoffman is like Rachael Ray with a stupid accent, a stereotyped soundtrack and ugly velour sweats. She reminds me of these twin girls I prosecuted in Family Court; one was smart and angry, and one was batshit crazy and dumb (and looked just like her mom). She's the dumb one.

2. Anne Burrell is the chicken lady from Kids in the Hall. However talented a chef she may be (I don't doubt she is), and I'd love to go out drinking sangria with her, she has absolutely no screen charisma.

3. Bobby Flay. Too much. Talented and screen-savvy, but three less shows would do you fine.

4. Ellie Krieger. Not enough! But keep it that way, Food TV, and avoid turning her into a shrieking whole-wheat harridan....

5. Like Paula Deen and her creepy sons. She's become a parody of a stereotypical crazy Southern lady party host. Please, stop.

6. Wouldn't it be awesome if Kendra got a cooking show? Probably not. Just a thought.

Things you realize when watching too much "Platinum Weddings"

1. Words and phrases you never want to hear again are 'very unique,' 'most unique' and any mispronunciation of 'Swarovski.'
2. Cocktails shall all be known as 'stupid name-tini' forever more.
3. Why would you want to dance on a lit-up floor projection of your own name?
4. It's Swahr-ahf-ski.
5. Okay, the photo booth is a neat idea.
6. Morphine withdrawal makes you tear up at the slightest provocation.


It's amazing what occurs to you at 3 AM.

Impulse control. I realize that, on both sides of the fam, we are severely lacking. That explains, perhaps, why I am bingeing on cran-grape juice.

Juice. When you're off solid foods, you exercise your badness in any way possible.

Juice, indeed.

Not to mention vitamin water, propel, and an odd combination of soy milk and Fox's U Bet.




Benign neglect

I have been shamefully neglectful of this blog, and lazily tumblin all over the place. (To my #1 cousin who thinks I have endless free time, posting stuff on the tumblr is way, way easier than using thought and typing about things!)

In other news, I am striving to be memorable, lovable and fit. In some sort of order. I may or may not have given up on incredibly wealthy.


Bloggity blog!

Yet another place to see my stuff (hooray!)

I Can Bring Home the Bacon

for women in business for themselves!


Dreams revisited.

I am lucky to have such good friends, even those who are yaks.

This deserves reprinting in its entirety (a comment on the previous post) because it says much about the writer and the writee, as it were. Who may be the only people to whom it makes sense, which is fine.

Thanks. Keep on trucking, dogsledding and skateboarding.

I would say that you have what others call dreams, but you just don't call them that. Perhaps "don't consider them that" would be more accurate?

Here's a game. First solve for X in

I want to _____X______

Now solve for Y1 or Y2:

I want to X because I want to Y1 or because of Y2.

Now solve for Z1 or Z2:

I want to Y1 because of Z.

The reason Y2 affects me is Z.

Once you get to Z (or perhaps a few more iterations), I think you may be on to something.

On the other hand, if it takes getting to Z (or a few more iterations to ZZZZ...), doesn't that mean sleeping, which counterfeeds back into the title of the post?

Off to sleep myself ...


Dreams are for people who sleep.

It is horrifying to wake up at a rather advanced age and realize you don't have a life's dream.

Watching too much fair-to-middling reality TV will bring this home.

I wish I was blissfully ignorant enough to think that I could just pick up and 'make it' in New York, Las Vegas, LA, wherever.

Unfortunately, all I see are broken plans and downsides and struggle and unanswered phone calls and three-AM sweats.

What, I say, the fuck?