der apfel and me

laundry

2007-11-20T16:26:00.000-05:00

I hate it when I'm doing laundry and I have to remove the mister's dance belts from the wash machine in front of others. His are flesh-colored. Do you see what I mean?

toof devil

2007-11-07T17:57:00.000-05:00

I went to a new dentist 18 months ago for the usual. My regular Vancouver dentist had retired and lived in, well, Vancouver. Going to him was a lose-lose proposition and it was therefore time to move on. In any case, apart from having to pretend I was a Broadway chorus girl (he assumed I was because I had Actor's Equity coverage and I didn't have the heart to correct him when he repeatedly commented on how typical I was tooth and other-wise of a Broadway dancer.) Sooooo uncomfortable, so embarrassing. Over a few visits I managed to work in that I had moved on to writing but god, never again. Next time I'll immediately correct the dentist who takes me for a B'way dancer. All went well. Well enough considering I'm rather dentistphobic—meaning I got through what I needed to in terms of x-rays, cleaning and one filling replacement. I finally got a night guard to save my teef from my years of infernal grinding. Great, right?! Wrong.

The mouth guard, being soft, was like giving a dog a chewy toy. (The TMJ specialist's words). It made me clench and grind even harder and further back in my mouth until I fractured a molar. It was excruciating. I was collapsed and sobbing in public for days as I went to dentist to hospital and back; got sick off Vicodin; and finally experienced relief from the worst of it when the nerve died. It took more than six months for the fracture to be discovered. To make a long story short, I had to have a giant, beautiful molar extracted. Not fun! Now I can't chew on that side at all and won't be able to until I get an implant in four months. Not to mention I look like a hillybilly when I laugh loudly and widely. (Almost never because what's that funny when you're toothless? Nothing, that's what.)

Just to keep things interesting, I've developed a jaw joint (TMJ) problem that, apart from being very uncomfortable, caused me to break a filling on the other side, which led to a root canal two days ago. I've been to the dental clinic at Columbia University 18 times since the end of August. My bill is going to be around four thousand dollars ($4000.!!!) and I can't chew on either side now. I can only eat mush. Normally nothing kills my appetite but the mush has done what even abject misery couldn't do. The loss of appetite, by the way, is the only silver lining in this entire ordeal. That and the hot resident who tried to adjust my bite before the root canal and was so gentle and sweet when I was slumped over in his chair in pain. I ran into him today and he told me I looked much better than last time (which in my mind turned into a compliment on how good I look not just relative to the slumpy, pain-filled previous version of me) and said he could tell I have excellent dental hygiene unlike all of the other trolls who claim to have excellent dental habits but don't. I was very happy to know it's evident I'm not a dirty, dirty pig with a sporadic, distant relationship to my toothbrush. The TMJ specialist said I have very attractive teeth, too. Unfortunately, they're purely decorative and have no functionality whatsoever. You can't win them all.

Two compliments, no surgery, no pain! Today was a banner day dentally.

why can't we be friends

2007-11-05T17:46:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow I'll try to make a friend. I know. Wish me luck.

i miss my dad

2007-04-15T13:39:00.000-04:00

take it

2006-02-14T10:14:00.000-05:00

a little piece
Originally uploaded by kaylord.

26.9 inches

2006-02-12T18:13:00.000-05:00

big snow
Originally uploaded by kaylord.

Everybody thinks it's pretty. They were sold out of all but size 11 rubber boots. My feet got wet.

back from hell

2006-02-09T20:56:00.000-05:00

My apologies to anyone who's still been checking in. I've been sleeping at Vancouver General Hospital for the last few weeks.

I won't go on about it because it was too painful and terrifying. On a massively more positive note, he's home and miracle of miracles, in remission. I'm back in NYC and might even get back to blogging.

St. Nicholas Day

2005-12-06T11:28:00.000-05:00

frosty face
Originally uploaded by kaylord.

It's another frosty day but today is a day unlike any other. This morning I awoke to a homemade advent calendar (which I promptly dismantled revealing the guts filled with chocolates and Weinbrandtbohnen) and a jaunty, singing snowman.

The mister was none too pleased that I had taken apart his painstaking work and couldn't believe I didn't notice the numbers and mistook it for homemade wrapping paper with numbers on it concealing an egg carton thing filled with chocolates.

Oh well. Welcome to my world.

knit, purl

2005-12-03T05:13:00.000-05:00

scarf
Originally uploaded by kaylord.

I'm knitting my first scarf out of merino and cashmere in the seed stitch. It's really hard but fun, too. The best part is that I have a knitting partner. He chose the wool and pattern for me and started knitting to keep me company. More on C's hat soon.

My poor dad has pneumonia now but he is responding to the chemo. Poor thing. It must be so exhausting to be so sick and tired.

On Monday we're going to the preview of "Memoirs of a Geisha" (a friend of ours is in it), on Tuesday to Gypsy of the Year show and then to the lighting of the South Seaport Christmas tree to listen to the Roches, who are friends of friends.

I'm having insomnia again (still.) I hate it. I'm too stressed about my dad and other less important things to blog much. Sorry, Coco.

bowlmor

2005-11-23T07:55:00.000-05:00

vancouver

2005-11-12T10:34:00.000-05:00

I haven't blogged in a long time. Sorry, to anyone who's been checking in.(And a giant FUCK YOU to the comment spammers.) I was in Vancouver for most of October to be with my dad who started chemo. I didn't have easy access to a computer and was too stressed and anxious to really care.

The Mister came out for the last week I was there. The morning we left our rental van was hit by another car while he was turning left to move to the other side of the building. He was okay but the van was badly smashed up.

He's injured so he hasn't been working and he won't be able to finish the show. We will, however, be going to the grand closing party. Well. it'd better be grand because that's what I'm expecting it to be.

I finished most of my work for the soft drink giant. I'll be doing some more revisions in December before we head back to Vancouver for Christmas.

I've had so many celebrity sightings including standing next to the beautiful Isabella Rossellini.

I don't have much to say because of the giant cloud of my father's illness hanging over my head. Everything seems a bit meaningless in comparison and I've been so anxious. It's hard to concentrate. For weeks, I was crying all the time and had a permanent lump in my throat. I'm feeling a bit more stable now but I have bad days still. And I don't like talking about it because it makes me even more upset.

But I do have hope and as always, he's in positive spirits. He's enjoying the nano iPod I bought him and the leather lazyboy he bought just before I left.

room & bored

2005-10-01T09:33:00.000-04:00

I recently found out that HBO cancelled my favorite show "The Comeback". Why, why why!!??

At least there's still "6 Feet Under" and "Da Ali G show", right? And I'm finding "My Super Sweet Sixteen" riveting in a train wreck kinda way.

Anyhoo, yesterday C had to get up at 4:40 because he's in the new Julie Taymor movie. He does two different dancing parts and one in a cow costume. The cow scene was yesterday. Eddie Izzard's in that scene. Bono and Rachel Evan Wood are in the movie, too. Cow costume and all, C was thrilled to get to eat so much good food all day for free.

As for me, I was picked up in a fancy car yesterday at 9 am for my meeting with a soft drink giant (aka The Man). Their headquarters are absolutely gorgeous set in the midst of an outdoor sculpture garden somewhere in Westchester.

The meeting went fine enough but I was completely exhausted after a harrowing, sleepless night of anxiety over my father's health. His "dormant, super mild" form of cancer suddenly turned bad. He starts chemo in about a week and I'm going home to be with him and to just be there in case I'm needed.

I'll be able to work from Vancouver so, apart from desperately missing C, being away for a few weeks should be fine. I'm not sure where I'll be staying yet.

I blogged for J last week and as soon as I finish here, I'll do another. The poor thing is locked out and has no computer and no internet access.

goodbye sweet bike

2005-09-26T16:28:00.000-04:00

My bike was stolen on Thursday night at 5th Avenue and 16th Street. I believe it's the ninth bike I've had stolen. No joke. It was actually Sojo's bike but she bequeathed it to me when she left New York. I switched over to hers because it was better bike than mine and then I pimped it out big time. Today I rode my old bike and it sucked big time. It has an old seat that is too far forward and the proportions are all wrong.

On a similarly down note, I'm getting a cold. That means I didn't go shopping for my fall wardrobe as planned.

Instead, C and I went for a soup bowl at Hale and Hearty Soup. As we were leaving Glenn Close walked by and went into the drugstore at 81st. Naturally we followed her in to get a better look.

She was wearing boring but ok faded, tight jeans, a navy blazer and non-descript shoes. Her face looks exactly like it does in the movies-no surprise wrinkles or such-and she is quite short and a bit bootylicious, which surprised me. Her hair was a mess-all dry and root-y and in need of a cut and style.

Mine needs a cut and a style also but I'm trying to grow it out.

quick hello

2005-09-20T20:07:00.000-04:00

I've been busy for the past two weeks working for the Man. I can't really complain though, because it's beaucoup cash and I get to work from home and keep my own hours. Or lack thereof. Sssshhh.

It's still hotter than Hades and it's almost fall. Thank god. I'm just not ready to stuff my ass into jeans. Please lord, let me de-lard before the weather turns.

In the name of the...

Amen.

the beats

2005-09-13T19:43:00.000-04:00

On Saturday afternoon I was crossing a quiet, mostly residential street in the East Village while talking to Carrie over my shoulder, when suddenly she started screaming, "ohmygod, look out, look out!"

I looked to my left only to see a car backing up just two inches away from me. Time slowed for a split second as I simultaneously realized that the driver didn't see me, that I couldn't move because my bike was on my right, and that I was about to be hit by a car.

Sure enough, the car kept backing up, knocking me down and in what seemed like forever, stopping just short of running me over.

Next thing I knew, I was surrounded by people, including the driver, all looking down on poor, stunned, injured me.

Everybody was freaking out except Carrie who was uncharacteristically mute. I remember thinking, "Why isn't she saying anything?" since I knew she was standing at my head. Later I found out that she was so shocked and shaken up that she just couldn't speak.

An ambulance was called, and I was finally allowed to get up and confirm that nothing was broken. I toyed with the idea of lying about my age to the EMT's (just because I do it so frequently) and was frightened they would ask to see my ass which was feeling really sore (and sure enough is bruised in a horrid black and black) because, people, in case this has eluded you, I am fat, fat, fat. In short, in no condition to be showing my ass in public.

I declined to go to the hospital because I hadn't hit my head and could feel nothing was broken. Eventually, I got up and slowly walked to Starbucks where I met C to tell him about my accident.

He consoled me then rushed back to midtown for his evening show. Carrie and I walked around in shock the rest of the evening, feeling traumatized as hell.

For the last few days I've felt very fragile, overly cautious and very sore. I have, as mentioned, the bruised ass, but also bruised ribs, leg and arm. Otherwise, so far so good.

Oh, and the good news, Carrie heard the trendy woman who called the ambulance say that "a woman in her 20's was hit by a car". There really is a silver lining to every cloud I guess.

the hard truth

2005-09-09T22:41:00.000-04:00

Before I get busted for coming off looking like a picture of normalcy, I'd better come clean about the birthday spa day.

I didn't want to go. And I was even mad at C for booking the day. Why? Oh because I feel so obeast that I didn't want to get semi-naked in front of a stranger even for a massage. To anyone who knows me, that is some serious fat-feeling because I am normally a complete massage whore.

C reassured me that I needn't worry about being uncomfortable because he had gone ahead and met with the spa folks and told them that I feel fat, that they absolutely must NOT do anything that makes me uncomfortable, that they need to let me be in control and should stop if I decide I don't like something, that I seem to be more into a relaxing kind of massage and on and on.

That was his reassurance. Can you even imagine? What a poor, sweet naive fool.

More about my reaction and the staff's reaction to me another time.

Time to rest my smashed up elbow and magnesium-ravaged innards.

birfday

2005-09-09T20:58:00.000-04:00

Just under 2 weeks ago I enjoyed a most excellent birthday.

The day before my birthday, I received a parcel from J and C that included a slather of fantastic age-defying face creams, lip balm, my beloved Purex, chocolate sparkles, my favourite Marsior Lindt chocolates and the cutest dog card replete with hand-drawn pictures by a young illustrator and C.

On the morning of, I awoke to a fantastic homemade card and a new waffle iron. The Mister made me waffles (from batter he sneakily made while I was sleeping), and frothy mimosas with Veuve Cliquot.

Then I was whisked away to a spa in the West Village for a massage, pedicure, bikini wax and facial. Well, actually, not whisked, but escorted on bicycle because I didn't want to take the fancy car service that C had reserved for me.

Carrie met me afterwards and then C met us shortly thereafter and they surprised me with dinner at Perry Street, Jean-Georges Vongerichten's new restaurant.

If you're able to access the NY Times review online, you'll read about the tasty gazpacho and grilled peach and frisee salad heartily enjoyed. It was truly fantastic.

I also got tickets to go to C's Broadway show with Carrie. And I got to chose the theme for the improvised section. I chose grizzly bears as homage to Werner Herzog's new documentary Grizzly Man and let me tell you, it was a thrill a minute.

I ended up getting a bit sauced after the show which I guess is par for the course, right?

Oh, and I got a pile of sweet gifts from C, too. Lucky.

smokin' skirt

2005-08-19T20:42:00.000-04:00

Today ten minutes after C left to do class at Hubbard Street, I heard blood curdling screeches coming from the hallway.

I heard Grace come out of her apartment asking what was going on. I quickly changed out of my shameful 1:30 pm outfit of flannel pajamas and whipped on my new denim skirt, silver high heels and my green cloud t-shirt. Then I opened my door to chaos in the stairwell--people running downstairs and yelling about god knows what. I couldn't make out what was going on.

I thought maybe something had happened to our elderly shoe thief neighbour but she was nowhere to be found. I heard someone say "fire" right as I smelled acrid smoke.

Pleased that I had changed out of my schleppy outfit into something more than presentable, I only needed to grab my cell phone and bag and head out as the rest of the neighbours emerged from their apartments.

Within moments five fire trucks arrived one by one. All of us were huddled under the awning trying to stay out of the rain. Many people were barefoot and clutching pets, several women were crying. Black smoke was billowing from an apartment one floor above our apartment.

The tiny (4'7"?) birdlike, elderly French lady who lived in that apartment was crying and clearly in shock. Her entire left shin was burnt in a horrible black and yellow patch that was flaking off. Her hair was singed all over and her face looked like it was severely sunburned. A mystery man who doesn't live in the building had carried her down the stairs and then disappeared.(!?!)

I tried to hold my umbrella over her while a doctor in the building tried to calm her down. We eventually got a blanket and then a firefighter brought her a chair while we waited for the ambulance.

She didn't want to go to the hospital and kept saying her money was in the apartment. Needless to say, she was taken away by ambulance. I called our slum landlord to find out whether she had any family members for us to call and to inform them their building was on fire.

It was all very tense as we looked on, fearful that the fire would spread to other apartments and that there were people or pets still inside the building.

The first firefighters went through the side entrance which, as usual, was blocked with heaps of garbage and discarded furniture. They hurled it all out of the way while another fireman broke down the door of the building next door to approach the fire from that side. Yet another fireman climbed the ladder and busted into Judy's apartment through the window. There were probably thirty firemen on the scene.

When it was finally over, we went in to make sure our apartments were ok. All were fine except the little old lady's place, which was completely destroyed. The hallway on her floor was still smoky and the walls, ceiling and floor were black with thick soot.

The owner showed up and was angrily pulled into the lady's apartment by the fire chief. Several workmen along with our normally absentee superintendent started cleaning the building immediately. Floors were being washed throughout the building, all the garbage in the hall and stairwells was being hauled out, inches of water from the hosing were mopped up and several men were washing the third floor walls and ceilings. All of their washing didn't even make a dent so the third floor will obviously have to be repainted.

Most of us stayed around, too shaken up to go in our apartments, and complained to the firefighters and police about our landlord, the blocked hallway, the lack of superintendent. He suggested we call 311 which we've all done on several occasions.

When one of the cops overheard what we pay in rent, he told us we should check out his nearby building and/or management company. That got us talking about the size of our apartments and led to a few of us touring each others places. Ours is one of the smaller one bedrooms but I'm pleased to report our layout and interior decorating are superior.

I went home to shower and then remembered the lady was worried she had money in her apartment so I went back upstairs to tell the police. They found her stash and gave it to her neighbour, Christine, who is our unofficial building manager.

I heard Christine outside with her children after my shower and hung my head out the window to crassly ask how much money was in the envelope. She said she didn't look which shows who is and who isn't the investigative journalist type in this building, for god's sake.

Speaking of which, I ran into Bernadette, a writer who works at CNN, on her way in to check on her apartment. When she said she got a call at work telling her about the fire, I said, "Speaking of which...can we talk about work when this all passes?" I really am a shameless piece of shit. Or desperate for work. Or both.

Finally C came home to hear about the horror and excitement he'd missed. Truth told I think he was a bit jealous that he missed the biggest thing to happen in our building since Judy got into a fight with the Russian whore. Nothing too earth shattering happens here unlike the old days. Judy has dozens of horror stories from before the renovation. I shudder to imagine the scene when a tenant was found dead for more than a week in her apartment. Or the uproar when it was discovered that the previous super was running a prostitution ring out of vacationing tenants apartments and on the rooftop. Or the stench in the building from the lady afflicted with severe OCD who suffocated to death under the piles of garbage she couldn't bring herself to throw out.

In any case, we decided the best way for me to wind down was to go to the movies. We saw "The 40 year old Virgin". One of our neighbours was there trying to add some levity to her day, too.

It worked. We all gave it two thumbs up.

The little French bird lady is in critical condition and is heavily sedated. Her nephew from Buffalo is coming down to see her tomorrow.

Firemen have been coming by all evening to see what they can learn from this fire--and much to the delight of the single ladies in the building, to flirt like crazy.

I can still smell the smoke.
the outfit

title-free

2005-08-17T14:27:00.000-04:00

Carrie was robbed at gunpoint outside her place on Monday night. She's okay, but good gravy! She didn't report it to police so on Tuesday I took her to the Times Square sub-station to do so.

The cop was a rude, condescending pig and basically accused her of making it up so she walked out. Now she won't report it.

On a happier note, C auditioned for Hubbard Street and they like him and want him to go to Chicago in September to do a trial run/audition with them.

I won't move to Chicago.

it's raining men

2005-08-14T19:50:00.000-04:00

wet tshirt
Originally uploaded by kaylord.

It finally stormed and rained after the millionth heat wave. C and I put on our bathing suits and flip flops and went out.

I came in early to photograph him singing in the rain.

gangsta

2005-08-12T16:23:00.000-04:00

Today at the pool there was a black gentleman in his 30's with puffy, pigtails and a plastic prosthetic foot. He was wearing a wifebeater and sitting on a bench surrounded by his homies.

I felt like I was in East LA.

They turn off the showers in the ladies' change room at 2:30 because the pool closes from 2:45 until 4 pm. Fortunately, one of the guards let me shower after I begged and begged.

I felt like I was in prison. Again.

NYC needs to allocate more money for city recreational facilities. Then they can re-paint or re-finish the bottom of the pool. The paint is peeling and chipping like crazy.

sheesh!

2005-08-12T10:12:00.000-04:00

prettyanisa, originally uploaded by kaylord.

Earlier this week, I finally met C's friend Anisa and I absolutely adored her.

You would too because she's down to earth, fun, creative, smart, stylin' and pretty to boot. We went out until way too late on Tuesday to QT and then to eat tasty chicken kebabs.

Did you know that shish, as in shish kebab, means lamb? We learned that the hard way that night thanks to our russian waitress who thought it was hysterical C ordered a chicken shish kebab and went around the restaurant telling all her co-workers so they could point at us and laugh and laugh.

Somehow it just didn't seem that hysterically funny to us. At least she had a story for her roommates when she got home, right?

hotter than the devil's drawers

2005-08-05T15:04:00.000-04:00

freckledafterswimming, originally uploaded by kaylord.

Today is Day 5 of the heat wave. After a lovely breakfast at Fairway Cafe, we went for a swim at Lasker Pool in Central Park.

We wanted to take photos of our incredible aqua-gymnastic tricks but you're not allowed to bring anything but a towel and sunscreen outside of the change room.

In fact, getting into Lasker is like boarding a flight just after 9/11.

Thorough bag searches, endless questions and rules barked at us like we're prisoners and get this, inspection of our bathing suits. C has been wearing his trunks to the pool and has had to show that they have a lining each time.

A tourist with his family was denied entrance for some reason and stormed off saying, "You're just gratuitous!".

I'm not sure what exactly he was trying to say but, I'd like him to know that I feel his pain, man. The pool guards are a nightmare.

As though the numerous guards weren't security enough, there were several police in uniform patroling the edges of the pool. What the hell?!!

I asked the guard today what exactly he was searching my bag for and he said weapons. Apparently there have been several incidents involving weapons but he didn't elaborate.

Aaaah, the carefree joys of summer.

In any case, here's my sweating freckle face as soon as I got home from the pool. Next time I'll post a bathing suit photo. I promise.

people have the po-ow-er

2005-08-05T09:51:00.000-04:00

I took my sad self to see Patti Smith in Central Park last night. Despite the sweltering heat and hoardes of bad dancers, I had a great time and felt human for at least 45 minutes.

Patti Smith isn't remotely diminished by age, unlike say, the Rolling Stones. Her voice was clear and beautiful, her between song banter was real and even wise, and her music kicks ass.

it's not my bag, man

2005-08-04T18:21:00.000-04:00

People want the bag searches on the subway stopped. Well, at least the NYCLU and drug dealers do. I don't care that much because I almost always ride my bike.

I do, however, object to having my bag searched when I go INTO the library.

I just don't understand what they're looking for.

Today I'm feeling very down about everything and it's not PMS. I just cried like an infant and I still don't feel better.

Maybe I'll brave the yumidity and go see Patti Smith in Central Park. I don't have anyone to go with, as usual.

high roller cat festival

2005-07-28T08:37:00.000-04:00

highrollercatfest, originally uploaded by kaylord.

S made this painting and offered it to me for my birthday.

Lucky!

david hasselhof

2005-07-25T12:24:00.000-04:00

ready set, go!, originally uploaded by kaylord.

We went to Jones Beach yesterday for some fun in the surf and sand. Undeterred by the bomb threat that forced us out of Penn Station, we soldiered on to Brooklyn where we caught the LIRR at Pacific Station.

It was fun, fun, fun... and I remained unruffled (aka connected to Source) even when the mean, bossy manager at the concession violently hucked the cashews I decided not to take into the trash and told the cashier not to sell me anything.

In the evening we had dinner at Robin du Bois with Franck and two 6' tall ladies from Brazil. I had diet spinach salad and not much else. Like Oprah said, "Nothing tastes as good as being thin."

Amen to that.

poor thing

2005-07-23T10:47:00.000-04:00

hitinface, originally uploaded by kaylord.

C got a head-butt in the face last night during the show. Ooooowwwwww!

blotched

2005-07-21T07:32:00.000-04:00

blotched, originally uploaded by kaylord.

The kayaking was mysteriously cancelled on Sunday so we went straight to Sarabeth's for a delicious alcohol-free brunch (we both decided we are lightweights on the booze front and would end up sleeping away the day if we drank) and then to play foosball and darts in a local pub.

C and I learned that our family trees have strong parallels so we now feel like we're committing incest. We both have ancestors that emigrated from England (hence the sudden urge to play darts in a pub?) to neighboring counties in Massachusets around 1640. I'm a direct descendant of the Thayers and C, of the Waleses.

Another branch landed on Ellis Island--mine before 1890 from Germany and what is now Poland, and his from Poland about 30 years later.

Both of us have great grandparents and grandparents who were pioneers and trailblazers in Western Canada. Mine are written up in numerous books about homesteading in southwestern Alberta and for owning the mineral rights to land in Aberta. It's probably the only piece of land which hasn't yielded oil. C's great-grandfather, CW Drysdale, is famous for exploring the Kootenay mountains on the border of B.C. and Alberta. Mt. Drysdale is named after him.

Finally, I've been looking at sculptures and altars made by my ancestors in Germany, too. It's really fun and gives a vicarious sense of accomplishment, something I need as I struggle with finding work and battling depression in my isolation.

C and I started listening to Dr. Wayne Dyer recordings yesterday over morning lattes after several friends recommended them as a way to stave off hopelessness and negativity. So far, so good.

Last night as I was chatting online with J, I started to get itchy, red blotches on my forehead. I got up at 6 am to itch and scratch and to repeatedly examine the mysterious blotches in the bathroom mirror. The only thing I can think of is that maybe I put grapefruit/mint lotion on my hands and then rubbed my face. Since last night, the blotches have spread to my cheeks.

get my ball!

2005-07-15T19:41:00.000-04:00

get my ball!, originally uploaded by kaylord.

Yesterday we rode our bikes to Queens to check out the Socrates Sculpture Park and the Noguchi Museum.

Then we rode to Williamsburg to eat and have a look at the vintage stuff and home.

My head was sweating like a wild animal.

On Sunday, in celebration of C's first free Sunday in ten months, we're going to go for a free kayak by our house and then we're going to drink like pirates at brunch.

Then we'll throw up all day and night. I can't wait.

shifty-eyed

2005-07-15T19:39:00.000-04:00

IMGP2083, originally uploaded by kaylord.

fideen cent

2005-06-29T21:42:00.000-04:00

I passed Caroline Kennedy near Lincoln Centre on my way home this evening. It was a bit thrilling considering she is related to Edie Beale, one of my favourite people ever.

C found $20. today--something he does every three months or so. (!!!?!) Then he found out he might be out of a job September 1st. Yikes!

I found a nickle and then, a few hours later, a dime.

schlaff

2005-06-14T14:22:00.000-04:00

schlaff
Originally uploaded by kaylord.

deep throat

2005-06-14T13:04:00.000-04:00

I've had a throat infection for two weeks. It's the most painful, sore throat I've ever had in my life. It feels like there's a shard of glass lodged deep in my throat (my tonsils?) and then a regular raw, red sore throat on top of that.

I'm feeling lethargic and on and off feverish. I don't have medical coverage and I want to avoid antibiotics if I can but this is getting ridiculous.

Today is supposed to be the hottest day of a sweltering two weeks. It'll feel like 100 to 105 degrees Fahrenheit with the humidity. I might not leave the house although I do want to go for a pedicure.

I don't feel like blogging because I'm not getting enough feedback or comments--or readers? Leave a comment or a hello please and then I might blog more.

"Grey Gardens" is the best thing in the world. I'm completely mad about Edie Beale. I think she was the coolest person ever.

night terrors

2005-05-31T10:10:00.000-04:00

I haven't been sleeping well since we got back. Oddly enough I slept better in Vandot. Odd, because the bed, sheets and pillows were unfamiliar, it wasn't dark enough in the room and I had a very hectic time running around to appointments and obligatory visits.

I still had some insomnia but only in that I woke up too early in the morning a few times.

Last night I repeatedly had nightmares, woke up, obsessed about every negative thing under the sun, fell alseep, had another nightmare, woke up, worried and worried and...

I worried about all the things that could go wrong when I renew my green card, about how to get out of the apartment in the event of a fire (we're not that high up but if I jump I might break a leg, most definitely I would further injure my dropped metatarsal or stress fracture). If I had time and threw out all the pillows and duvet and jumped on them would it make a difference? Would it be crazy neurotic to get a giant rope with a hook on the end and keep it by our bed? Should we get fire insurance? What if C and I were to break up one day? What if I can't get pregnant? What if I get pregnant and my body never recovers? What if C can't find work after the show closes?

I dreamt I was watching parachuters floating past my high rise apartment. I noticed two Japanese girls clinging to my balcony. I figured they were just resting but ten minutes later they were still there so I invited them in. They were desperately cold because they hadn't dressed for the higher altitude. I had them get under my duvet and made them tea. I gave them warm clothes to wear.

Later I noticed a ring and a pair of earrings were missing. The earrings were borrowed from a friend and when I went to check if they were at her place she was already acting annoyed with me. I couldn't find the girls, I didn't even know their names and they were probably already on a flight to Japan.

I'm so tired. I still have a sore throat almost three weeks later. Last night C found white powdered drugs folded into a $20 bill. We dumped the powder and bought some food at Picnic. Today I have to buy Birkenstocks for my injured feet.

high as eight kites

2005-05-25T15:36:00.000-04:00

in calgaria, originally uploaded by smartiedog.

We went to a party where everyone was dressed in black except for me (I'm the one in the ice cream cone outfit) and a woman in a red, sparkly top whom I recognized, but from where? I think I had an altercation with her once when I lived in vandot. I was hating her all night as I puzzled over who she is.

finn&us

2005-05-25T15:34:00.000-04:00

finn&us, originally uploaded by smartiedog.

Finn is from Calgaria and was thrilled to learn that C. was also from there-the northern part, in fact.

Note his traditional head dress.

back from vandot

2005-05-24T20:36:00.000-04:00

Henceforth, Vancouver will be called Calgaria.

new skirt

2005-05-09T11:44:00.000-04:00

new skirt, originally uploaded by smartiedog.

My blog is turning into a fotoblog, and a boring one at that, but I've been so busy with visitors and—get this, work—for the past six weeks. It's hard to believe, even for me, but I've been writing for money again—and making a pretty penny, I might add. I'm now in the six figure bracket myself and have this new Marc Jacob skirt to show for it. For all of you who are wondering, the rich aren't so different. I'll keep you posted on what it's like in the next while.

poosh! shtink!

2005-04-22T20:28:00.000-04:00

theshoescameback originally uploaded by smartiedog.

I got my skull vans back two days ago and man oh man did those bad boys stink. They have an eau de homeless aroma that just can't be captured in words. Hopefully, the photo says more than enough.

For the record, I immediately (well right after this photo session) tossed them in the wash machine with tons of detergent and hot, hot water.

And, in my defense, the old lady's caretaker had already hidden them on her ages ago. That would also explain why I haven't seen her wearing them for awhile. I didn't snatch the shoes off her feet--the caretaker brought them over.

Let it also be known, I have yet to wear them although they look completely clean. After a hydrogen peroxcide dousing and a second wash, I may be ready to try them. Maybe not.

I'm prepared to give them back or to have her come after me, thinking that I stole them from her.

I'll keep you posted either way.

on the south jersey shore

2005-04-20T14:25:00.000-04:00

true love, originally uploaded by smartiedog.

2005-04-17T12:55:00.000-04:00

flying high above the hudson river

2005-04-17T12:54:00.000-04:00

black like me

as the world turns

2005-04-13T10:39:00.000-04:00

While I was galavanting around upstate New York at the Dia, (well, in all honesty, I was being pushed around the museum in a wheelchair due to my stress fracture) partying (read, introducing myself and gushing over) with Twyla Tharp and strolling down Elfreth's Alley in Philadelphia (more of a furtive duck down the alley while the car was illegally parked with emergency lights on), Britney has announced she's pregnant and J has moved into her deluxe new digs!

Who can keep up with all of the news when there are so many fun things to do right here on the east coast?

the x-file

2005-04-06T21:28:00.000-04:00

C's grandma and cousin are in town until tomorrow morning. This is my first time meeting them both and I'm craaaazy about grandma! She's 84 and truly doesn't seem a day over 64. What a dame! She zips around town, has interesting stories about New York City in the 30's and 40's, is generous, good-natured, independent and smart as a whip. What more can you ask for in a grandma? Nothing, I tell you.

Cousin Allison is a sweet-natured teen so there's no downside there either. C's best friend, Tiffany is also in town and she also seems like a good egg all in all.

And now as we speak, both of my most recent exes are landing at JFK. One is staying with us and the other is in town on business. He called me on Saturday to say he'd be here Wednesday. As soon as he said Wednesday, I figured they'd be on the same flight and sure enough, a cellphone call from Vancouver International confirmed it.

Work Ex has some very bad feelings toward Staying-with-us Ex (SWUX) so I feel nervous thinking of them at the same baggage carousel. Needless to say, I'm not going to pick up SWUX so I get to avoid that scene. Been there done that, lemme tell you!

chaat & chew

2005-03-30T17:43:00.000-05:00

Yesterday we went to Sukhadia's and had chaat, India's favourite snack. It's salty, crunchy, sweet, spicy and mmmmmmm so tasty.

Get thee to thine closest Little India joint and order up a chaat! But be carful--it's highly addictive.

owwwww!!

2005-03-25T16:35:00.000-05:00

On Wednesday night I went to emergency with a sore foot. My main fear was that it was a blood clot, in fact a massive DVT, which I've had some experience with because I couldn't flex my foot as often happens when you have a DVT.

My other fear was that I would be stuck with the bill because you never know what your emergency travel insurance will cover until it's all said and done. I had to call them first to open a file and obtain permission to go to emergency. The deductible was $300. but it turned out to be money well-spent.

C accompanied me in the howling, stormy weather and he brought along mineral water, a book, an apple, some almonds and some Hob Nobs. We were expecting a long wait but surprisingly, shockingly even, I was in and out in an hour. We wondered if this was because you get what you pay for in the U.S. of A, but no, the doctor said this hospital is unusual in the entire country for processing their sick so quickly.

The doctor, who was so cool, came up to me in the hallway and I thought heard her say, "Dr. Coleman will be by to see you soon."

Then she asked if she could see my foot. "Do I have to show you my foot?" I asked, thinking it was pointless to show her when Dr. Coleman was going to have a look shortly.

"Well, yes you do," she answered.

"I thought maybe I could wait for Dr. Coleman," I explained while C and the doc looked at me in puzzlement.

"I am Dr. Coleman," said the doctor.

I was so confused because I really heard her say something else. All in all it was quite funny that I didn't want to show the doctor my foot. Thinking she wasn't the doctor made it seem like I was some sexist throwback who couldn't comprehend that a woman could also be a doctor.

The truth is I couldn't take in anything because I was so panicked about the blood clot.

I was given an injection of anti-coagulants and told to come in at 9 am the following day for a leg ultrasound. The high point, what made it well worth the $300, was when the nurse complained I didn't have enough fat for the injection. Although I can assure you I have more than enough, I was thrilled she thought me skinny when I've been feeling so gross.

After a pain-filled sleepless night, I went back to the hospital the next morning for the ultrasound. It was quite funny because hospital rules dictated that I wear a gown and be pushed around in a wheelchair. Funny.

While I was registering, who should walk in but one of C's co-workers with his wife. They were there to visit one of the lead dancers in the show who was admitted with stomach pain.

Anyhoo, the good news: I don't have a blood clot and the dancer is fine, too. The bad news: I have a stress fracture on my left foot.

I'm so tired of being injured and now this. I already have dropped metatarsal on my right foot, a pulled groin, a hyper-mobile right SI and some weird pulled arm socket thing on both arms.

You try going to dance class in that condition! Speaking of which, I probably won't be able to go to dance class for a few weeks, which really sucks. I've been doing class with my limiting injuries for months but this one might ground me.

Maybe I'll get a neck-to-knees bathing costume and hit the pool in the meantime. Or I'll use this time to stretch and develop an addiction to painkillers. I'll keep you posted either way.

thanks, jeff

2005-03-18T21:57:00.000-05:00

Today I went to Macy's determined to buy new bras. I've bought and returned about thirty bras from Century 21 in the last few months because there's nowhere to try them on there.

So I figured at Macy's, I would take thirty bras into the change room and would get exactly what I want before I left--no returns.

(An aside--I dreamt last night that I was apologizing to my non-existent boss for not wearing a nice bra. I was mortified because I always have the prettiest bras and have had a bit of a dry spell in dreamworld and in real life. Clearly it is time to get some new bras!)

What a nightmare! It was as bad as bikini shopping and I am most emphatically in no shape for this kind of self-abuse. What was I thinking?

I couldn't find anything that fit properly or looked good and had to get way too cozy with my reflection. Ugh. It was very damaging to my self-esteem. I feel so fat and unattractive and despite what friends and C say, I am definitely a good five pounds too fat. That might not sound like a lot but it's a hefty amount when you picture it on a little red wagon (remember that Oprah episode?) or more accurately, slap it onto my body and into my jeans. Needless to say, I left empty-handed.

To make matters worse, my Marc Jacobs boots were killing me, I had to pee like crazy and the bathrooms were filthy. And to add insult to injury, as I was obsessing over my fat, all I could think about was eating. I was famished and getting lightheaded with hunger so there was no way I could go anorexic.

So, off I went to our favourite sushi joint. It was a bit too early to meet C but I couldn't wait.

As soon as I walked in I ordered an avokyu roll to eat at the bar and told them that I was going to the bathroom first.

Jeff Goldblum, who unbeknownst to me was already eating at the bar, turned around when he heard my voice. There's no reason he'd recognize my voice, obviously, so I guess he was just curious to see who came into the mostly empty restaurant.

As I walked back from the bathroom he said hi and how are you. I sat in my usual spot (we go to this place a few times a week) and he was sitting in the same place we saw him in before. I thought I felt him looking at me although I'm willing to consider it was my imagination. But he was in fact looking at me every time I let my gaze go to his direction, (which was hard to avoid because he was in my line of sight), and he smiled or nodded at me every time our eyes met. (It sounds romantic but wasn't.)

I felt super self-conscious eating my enormous avocado-cucumber roll. Each piece was literally the size of three normal-sized rolls and impossible to eat in bites due to the chewy seaweed wrap, so I had to stuff each giant roll into my mouth.

So attractive.

I could barely find room to move the food around my mouth in order to chew. I was starving and just felt like ducking under the bar to stuff those fat, tasty fuckers into my mouth.

In any case, Mr. Goldblum came over to me after he paid and asked me if I worked in the area, what my name is, (twice to be sure he had it right), if I lived in the area, etc etc. It was so nice to get some male attention after my traumatic Macy's experience.

More details: he asked if I was an actor, I told him I was a writer, he told me all about the show he's in and I told him my husband was on Broadway and he loves C's show and said he must be a great dancer, which of course he is, and he asked me how long we'd been together (?).

I wouldn't be surprised if he hits on every woman who crosses his path, but hey, I'll take what I can get in these hard times.

eternal sunshine of the seamless whisk-away

2005-03-14T20:29:00.000-05:00

I just got back from the most wonderful, romantic second anniversary jaunt to Montauk at the Sunrise Inn.

I went to pick up C from the theatre after his Sunday matinee and had to wait and wait and wait until he pulled up in a shiny black car to whisk me away for a lovely getaway.

I am really hard to surprise but I was completely surprised. C had been planning it for weeks and somehow I was clueless!

The B&B was gorgeous--a huge suite with fireplace and oceanview and there were flowers and a card waiting for me.

We got up at 7 am and went for a long walk on the beach. It was so pretty--all white sand, blue sky and vast, open ocean. We walked into town and had a huge breakfast at John's Pancake House, drove to Montauk Lighthouse, explored all the Hamptons and Sag Harbour and went for another walk on the beach.

It was so relaxing and fun and we even managed to not get stressed out sitting on the L.I.E. with the deadline to return the car looming.

I'm the luckiest lady alive. Sigh.

the city that never sweeps

2005-03-08T21:04:00.000-05:00

No, I don't have a lisp, I have a beef--with nyc. And really, who doesn't--especially when it comes to dirt, garbage, trash, filth, waste, pollution...?

I've christened New York the new Paris--rude or non-existent service, arrogant people and sidewalks covered in doggy-do. Walking through this city is like walking through a minefield. If the poo piles and pee puddles don't get you, the plastic shopping bags swirling around your feet or phlegm patties in between the dog dirt, will.

Recently, there was an article in The New Yorker about a group of friends who remove plastic shopping bags from trees in their free time and have invented a plastic bag removal device. These bags aren't dropping out of the sky, rather they've been dropped on the ground, to trip you up as you walk, wrap around your ankles and then fly up past your head, sometimes brushing your body with their filth before they get snagged on a branch. Ugh.

Judging by the waist-high mounds of garbage covering over half the sidewalks, New York is in the midst of a perpetual garbage strike. Keep in mind there are no alleys, so the garbage is never hidden and as soon as it's taken away, there's a new monster pile if not on your block then on the next block. It's unbelievable that an average-size building can generate that much garbage--until you get inside and see how many tiny apartments have been fit into said building.

Our apartment is a 435 square foot one bedroom (including closets) and the majority of the tenants in our building live in even smaller apartments. And this is NOT ghetto living. We live on the Upper West side and pay $1800. for our little rent-controlled gem.

And speaking of garbage, the closets that house the garbage chute and recycling can on each floor are overflowing with garbage all the time. Follow the chute to the garbage room on the first floor and you'd think you were in an indoor dump. That is if you can reach the room for all the abandoned furniture clogging the halls, creating a fire hazard and waiting to be put out by the super.

The abandoned furniture is something I can't really complain about because several of those items have found their way into my apartment including a chair that sells for $250. in miniature at the MOMA store! In that regard, this city is more gold mine than minefield.

The other problem in our building are the filthy hallways with dust hippos floating everywhere and garbage piled under the stairs (for $1800. a month!!). When we have visitors, we always take the elevator and our neighbours have confessed they do the same so that the visitors can't see the full extent of the filth.

Even worse is the inability of the tenants to grasp the function of the recycling can despite the numerous signs and explanations that the can is for empty glass bottles and jars, juice or milk cartons and #1 and 2 plastic containers and that the garbage chute is for garbage. It's all to no avail--the recyeling bin is always filled with garbage.

New Yorkers in general seem to have a problem with the whole excess waste/recycling concept. When you order a deli sandwich they wrap it in wax paper or, if it's hot, wax-lined foil paper, then it goes in a plastic container which is then put in a paper bag along with a two-inch stack of napkins and a plastic knife and fork, and this is finally placed in a plastic shopping bag which is then thrown on the ground.

Even a cup of coffee is always bagged and served with at least three napkins.

If you tell them, no bag, or I can use this cup for a refill, they say they can afford it as if that were the issue. It's incomprehensible to them that waste would be the concern as opposed to whether they can afford it. And really who can afford to keep dumping garbage all over hell's half acre? Are they kidding? No, they most emphatically are not and they (I can't bring myself to be part of them) have the garbage piles and rats and roaches to prove it.

Boo hiss to you NY!

the curse of columbia presbyterian hospital

2005-03-08T11:48:00.000-05:00

When I first moved to NY, I signed up to be part of a study on PMS at Columbia-Presbyterian hospital.

"It's really simple," I explained to C. "I just have fill out a form every night to rate the severity of any typical PMS symptoms I might have experienced during the day and at the end of the study, I get $700!" "And I don't even have PMS!" I added with a laugh.

"Um, yes you do." remarked C, sober as a judge.

"Not really. Not real PMS." were my famous last words.

First, the study wasn't that simple. I had to undergo a two-hour interview with a psychiatrist to make sure that I didn't have some existing mental disorder.

"Have you ever felt depressed?" asked the shrink.

"Never." said I. And so it went.

Then another interview. And piles and piles of forms to fill out and so many blood tests I thought I'd never recover.

It wasn't that hard to fool them and I was entered into the study.

Then, the hard part. I had to do two or four five-hour sessions in the office. I don't remember how many because I dropped out after the first session. It almost drove me crazy.

I was forced to sit in a tiny room doing computer tasks for five hours while being monitored through a two-way mirror. I had a brief lunch break where I had to eat some gross, processed food from their menu. I ordered canned soup, a slice of processed cheese and a mini can of tuna with one tablespoon of mayonnaise and four crackers. I wasn't allowed to skip lunch in case it caused low blood sugar. I wasn't allowed to eat my own food because ....they wanted to ensure I didn't enjoy lunch? I don't know.

In any case, I was pulled out of the computer closet every half hour for a balance test. I had to stand on one foot with my eyes closed for one minute per foot. I have no idea what the point of this was but was thrilled to leave the closet and pleased to show off my impressive balance to my keeper.

However, the worst part, the thing that pushed me over the edge, was following a tiny dot with the mouse as it moved around the screen. The closer I followed, the faster the dot moved. An "x" would suddenly appear on the screen and then I would have to click the mouse. I think the task must've been to compare my ability to multi-task before and after my period.

The dot wouldn't stop! I had been following the speeding dot for two minutes and it wouldn't stop! I jumped up and opened the door to tell my keeper that the program was malfunctioning.

She came running from the other side of the mirror when she saw me leave the room without permission.

"It won't stop!" I told her. "The dot won't stop!"

She sent me back to the computer to finish the task and explained that this task lasted five minutes which was why the dot hadn't stopped yet. And that I would have to repeat this task every half hour.

I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. I tried to not follow the speeding dot as closely so that it wouldn't zip around as quickly. Matron saw what I was doing from the other side of the mirror and came in to scold me.

The dot was my undoing.

After I recovered from the five-hour ordeal, I called the matron and told her I'd found a job and couldn't complete the study.

So I was free again. Free to watch bad tv for hours on end, free to sleep until noon, and free to wander the city alone and lonely supposedly looking for work. Free, in short, to be my usual NY depressed self without interference from the speeding dot or the matron.

Then came the curse.

Or more to the point, the time before the curse.

In the last year I have had the worst PMS in my life. "Not real PMS" indeed!

I could write a book about the backaches like back labour, the bloating to the tune of 5 lbs, the insomnia, the insatiable food cravings, the mood swings that have brought C to his knees... But I heard the hospital will be coming out with their book any day now, so why bother.

And I've got bigger fish to fry right now; like getting bundled up so I can make my way through this snowstorm to Beard Papas for a half dozen cream puffs.

The PMS Beast's cravings must be assuaged. Offigit.

proud member of the chain gang

2005-02-22T19:49:00.000-05:00

I am OBSESSED with my friend's brilliant line of clothing and am thrilled to report that it's completing my faux indie rocker look. It's classic and edgy at the same and looks a thousand times better in real life. The chain link pattern is screened-on foil and looks fantastic.

Thanks Dougie and Amy for making my life better. You're the best!

come fly with me

2005-02-20T17:25:00.000-05:00

On Friday I had to deliver a giant cheque for $5 million to the Mayor's Alliance for Animals. Basically, I had to go five minutes out of my way and for my trouble received $40 dollars plus subway fare.

But things are never that simple, are they?

An insane gale-force wind blew in and the cheque, wrapped in billowing plastic, acted like a sail. (Hence the expression "to kite a cheque"? No, that can't be right.) In any case, it was really frightening. I was lifted onto one tippy toe and slammed into a building. I pressed my body and the cheque flat against the wall while having visions of my accidental death being reported on NY1.

Thank god I was spared that indignity. But I know beyond a shadow of a doubt there are unimaginable, untold humiliations awaiting me that could make me wish death by giant cheque had been my fate.

I know, I know, ever the optimist. But that's just what I've learned so far at U Life. And I defy Life to prove me wrong. Any takers? I knew it! Oh Life, you big yellow chicken!

No, Lisa. I am Grunge.

2005-02-11T17:28:00.000-05:00

there is an old lady who lives in my shoes

2005-02-03T22:39:00.000-05:00

C and I have been leaving our shoes on the doormat outside our apartment for months now. Last week I realized that my Vans with the pink skull pattern were missing. C and I puzzled over it for days and decided it was either some drunken visitors to the building or a delivery person.

It's kinda creepy and dirty to steal someone else's shoes. It's such an intimate thing to wear from someone else, like used underwear almost.

Then two days later, we discovered that C's brown Gravis were missing too! Surely the delivery person wouldn't fit into my size 8 and C's size 12. And the odds that he and his lady were the exact same size seemed unlikely too. Hmmmmm? Who could it be?

Well imagine my surprise when I walked out of my apartment today only to see the elderly, slightly senile, Hispanic lady who lives on our floor in my pink Vans!

I didn't have the heart to bring it to her attention so I just said hello as if everything was normal. But ohmygod!

C and I have come to the aid of this very dear lady several times. She frequently gets confused and tries to unlock the wrong apartment door. Or wanders around outside the building without a coat in the freezing cold asking where Broadway and her apartment are. She's always very upset when we explain to her she got mixed up as we bring her home. She cries a little and mutters admonishments at herself in a heartbreaking way.

So it would be very awkward and mean to ask for my shoes back when she obviously doesn't know she stole them. Although I have to say, the fact that she didn't take the old, dirty white trainers that C's been meaning to throw out might indicate the crafty devil knows exactly what she's doing.

But--here's the thing--when C and I ran into her caretaker she told us that the old lady is very dirty and smelly but she makes her shower whenever she can.

So, do I really want my shoes back? Maybe not. And I have to admit it was really funny to see an old lady kicking around in skull-patterned skate shoes. The sly, stylin' bitch.

I'm clean!

2005-02-01T01:17:00.002-05:00

Every time I go for a bikini wax in New York City I feel like I'm having a back alley abortion. Even at some of the nicer nail/waxing salons the waxing is done in a dirty, closet-size room with a door that doesn't shut properly.

The waxer always come right into the closet with you and watches while you change. Invariably there is a mirror to give her and anyone else who happens to be passing by a well-lit view of your bare or thonged ass. The waxer then wraps up the front of your underwear with a kleenex and ties a tight knot thereby exposing your genitals to the mirror and of course, to her.

She always does a 'better' job than you asked for and you end up feeling violated or date-raped, even. Then you tip her.

Today the waxer slapped me on the inside of my upper thigh and with a chuckle, pronounced me clean. Actually it was more like "crean!".

One time because there was so little room I had to put one foot high up on each of the walls beside me so I was spread-eagle pushing against the walls with my feet. I felt like I was getting into position to give birth. It was even less dignified than lying back with my feet in the stirrups.

Another time the waxer dropped wax on my underwear and cleaned it off with baby oil. Oh, great idea! Oil doesn't stain at all. No, no pour some more oil on my new underwear, for sure. Then they'll be really crean.

jean-georges' coat

2005-01-31T15:19:00.000-05:00

Today C and I had lunch at Nougatine @ Jean-Georges in the Trump Tower at Columbus Circle. It was fantastic!

C was uncomfortable because he felt he didn't belong because he's not rich or famous. I felt fine and I'm not rich and famous and I tried to reassure him that nobody else there was rich and famous and I think I had him convinced. Then Mike Nichols walked past us.

We had a lovely time with a view of sunny, snowy Central Park and C did actually relax and get comfortable as I asked the waiter questions and nobody threw us out for doing so.

At first C wouldn't ask for more bread and panicked when I did. They gave him the bread without so much as a scowl. Imagine that.

I wanted to ask what the flat spoon/thing they gave us with the entree and he didn't want me to. I did and learned it was a sauce spoon for spooning the sauce over the fish/meat. The waiter told me this while rolling his eyes in a it's-pompous-but-i'm-not way.

As an appetizer I had a delicious beet, orange salad with paper thin radish slices, tiny tasty sprouts, and goat cheese in a grainy mustard dressing. C had a cauliflower, crab soup with apricots pieces and almond slices. Fortunately he had read a review that mentioned the soup was "made" at your table so he knew what was up when his soup bowl arrived with only a tiny pyramid of crab meat and little pieces of apricot and almond. Moments later the waiter re-appeared with the soup which he proceeded to pour into the bowl. It sounds mildly pretentious but the idea, to let the customer instead of the kitchen enjoy the aroma, is actually quite earthy --and smart!

My entree was a delicious fish on a mattress of mashed potatoes with the tastiest fresh basil oil drizzled all around and topped with tiny, tasty black olives slices. It was a perfect blend of tastes and textures. C's pork tenderloin in a chick pea cassoulet with Meyer lemon pieces and chili oil was very good, too but not as good as mine.

Both desserts were tremendous. C had homemade milk chocolate ice cream and hazelnut whipped creme with melted chocolate cake. I had poached pear with the tastiest chevre cheesecake.

The only downside was asking for mineral water and getting a 750 ml bottle of Fiji water instead of some Italian sparkling water for $10. Ouch.

The waiter told us that many people spend $1000 per meal in the fancy room and leave half-drunk bottles of $700 wine, that yes, the wait staff drink the remainders, that they don't make much in tips because they all share the tips and have to tip out, and that we don't have to tip the coat check girl but can because she's nice. We wanted to tip her, or at least felt we should, but she didn't have a tip jar or anything. C handed our ticket that said "Jean-Georges #30" on it and said "I'm here for Jean-Georges' coat." The lady had a laugh and did in fact seem nice but it just felt weird to try to hand her a few dollars after getting my H & M coat.

The front staff told us that they don't get to eat for free and also told me where to go to get a rubber half-sole put on my Marc Jacob boots. (Yes, they're stretched out and I'm keeping them!!)

As I sat with my stockinged feet resting on a brown paper bag at the shoe repair place, I felt pleasantly full but it only lasted for about two hours. As I'm writing this I have eaten a handful of sunpsire smarties and a slice of bread and butter. Oh well, You can't win 'em all.

N.B. Jean-Georges, unlike other fancy restaurants in New York, allow women and people of colour to wait tables. Good news but as friendly as the staff was I don't`think working there is a treat considering the tips aren't great and they can't eat for free, right?

booty call

2005-01-25T20:22:00.000-05:00

I found the perfect Marc Jacob boots two days ago. They were marked down from $750. to $119. and they are gorgeous, buttery soft, bone-coloured, chic and slightly indie rocker-ish. Coincidentally, that is the new look I'm going for! If it sounds too good to be true it's because it is.

I found Amy a size 39 and let her buy them because I am a kind person and good friend. Or someone who regrets being taken advantage of while in a charitable mood. Amy has longer feet than me but mine are super wide loaders so I could've used the 39 pair.

The boots have been calling out to me. In fact, they haunted my sleep. So today I went back and bought the 38 1/2. When I stand beside them it looks like a giant person standing next to Barbie shoes. I can get them on and am trying to figure out if they will stretch out. Will my feet hang over the sides? Yes. Do I care? No. As long as they don't torture me I will wear them. The jury is still out and now I have J the vulture, breathing down my neck with her shorter, narrower feet.

I am so upset! I feel like Life, God, whomever, played a nasty joke on me. I'm a fine-boned person with obeast feet and it's challenging for me to be comfortable in anything but a Birkenstock. I want to trim my feet down or bind them, comfort be damned but i can't! I'm already hobbling around with a dropped metatarsal and can't even releve on my right foot in dance class. Oh what to do?

let go and let god

2005-01-18T18:27:00.000-05:00

I am trying to eat healthy proper meals instead of dinners of chili lime corn chips with red pepper humus or toast and cheese. I'm finding it very time-consuming even though I've only made a salad and boiled some pasta thus far. The clean-up, even with a dishwasher, is tedious. Even grating parmesan and dressing ready-to-go greens makes me feel tethered to the kitchen.

Today I ate:
bowl of oatmeal with raisins and nuts
small latte
1/3 small container of low-fat yogurt
small amount of potato chips
big green salad w. broccoli, carrot, red pepper & chicken breast
tiny helping of leftover thai veggies w. chicken & rice in red curry
bite of salmon
more than a moderate but not a huge amount of lindt milk chocolate w. hazelnuts

My hands are chapped from washing the oatmeal pot and wooden spoon, the salad bowl, espresso maker, frothed milk pot, cutting board and knives, saucepan that the thai food was heated in, and from rinsing numerous cups, bowls, plates and cutlery for the dishwasher. See what I mean?!

The real challenge however, is the emotional aspect.

Healthy eating feels a bit boring and unsettling like when you quit smoking or boozing or such. Everything feels empty, seems lackluster and a restlessness verging on anxiety starts to swell inside me. I feel like I should go to an Overeaters Anonymous meeting and talk about 'stuffing down the feelings' but what I really want to do is eat crispy, salty, sweet, salty, crispy snacks. Delicious.

I'm not banning chips and chocolate or anything like that--everything is allowed in moderation. Very smart and sensible of me, right? But there's no eating after 8 pm and only one booze can is allowed per day if/when I am drinking. The drinking won't be a problem. Not eating past 8 pm is a bit difficult when C. comes home to eat at 10:30 every night. If I have a proper dinner, I should be fine though.

I'm going to grow my hair into a two inch longer messier indie rock configuration, lose weight and start biting my finger nails to achieve a complete indie rocker chick look.

I must keep my eye on the prize: pipes for arms and a stomach that will shred your fine washables! And an emaciated super cool look to rival Vincent Gallo's & Co.

happy new year!

2005-01-01T13:28:00.000-05:00

Remember don't make any resolutions. You're just setting yourself up for failure.

wait a minute, mr. postman

2004-12-23T20:25:00.000-05:00

As I was leaving the building this afternoon to meet C I ran into my neighbour/former pet employer, another tenant who once called me a liar in the laundry room (I am one, but hadn’t lied about the incident in question) and Leon, our postman. I said a general hello and then Leon thanked me for the gift. “You’re welcome,” I mumbled in a panic and then started telling Petlover how I was feeling sick to my stomach and babbling about drinking sparkling water and not eating. It was hard to focus on Petlover because although Leon thanked me for a gift, I hadn’t gotten him one. God! I was dying to get away from my lie and the awkward situation. Could he tell I hadn’t gotten him the gift from the way I mumbled my reply to his thank you?

I called C as soon as I got away from the building to share my panic and shame but he didn’t pick up. J. did and assured me she would’ve done the same. That was reassuring but now I needed to give him a gift so I wouldn’t feel like a liar, a fraud and a cheap, ungrateful mail recipient. I decided I would leave a gift on the lobby table tonight and tomorrow pretend to Leon that I didn’t understand why he hadn't taken his gift when he'd already thanked me for it. As I made a plan and spun my web I actually started to feel indignant about the insult of Leon leaving the gift behind. Was is not sufficient for Leon to bother?! How ungrateful!

I told C what happened and he thought it was weird I didn’t tell Leon the gift wasn’t from me. Koko had the same reaction. Polling a couple more people revealed all three men would've pointed out they hadn’t left a gift and all three women (me included) would’ve done as I did and said “you’re welcome”. Not all the women would’ve backtracked by leaving a gift, though. Only me.

It seems obvious to me that this is another case of we woman being socialized to go with a lie or worse, just to make sure the other person doesn't appear wrong or feel awkward. Better that we feel awkward than someone else.

The men on the other hand have no such hang up. Set the record straight and not give it a second thought, is the level-headed way they'd deal with this.

I so envy this ability to be so normal. My liar-ly reaction was automatic and I truly couldn't have dealt with it any other way without pre-meditaion. I feel like such a loser. Oh well.

So I bought Leon a tree-shaped case of Ferrer Rocher this evening, wrapped it up and am going to put it on the table as soon as I finish here.

Merry Christmas, Leon! Merry Christmas, fellow liars! Merry Christmas, fucntional, sensible men!

stars in my eyes

2004-12-12T18:34:00.000-05:00

Last night I got to sit in Conan O'Brien's chair, walk through the door that the the SNL guest hosts walk through, and go to the SNL after-party at Compass where the likes of Colin Farrell, Lindsay Lohan, Tina Fey, Debbie Downer, Adam Sandler, Deuce Bigalow, Mercedes from last years' top model, Lorne Michaels and so on partied and drank alongside yours truly. How about you??!!!

A photo or two to come.

Another Modest Proposal

2004-12-06T23:35:00.000-05:00

The day that hunger is eradicated from the earth there will be the greatest spiritual explosion the world has ever known. Humanity cannot imagine the joy that will burst into the world… – Federico Garcia Lorca

Like almost every woman I know and many I don’t know, i.e. Oprah, I’ve spent a great deal of time obsessing about food, fat, and hunger. I’ve concluded definitively that the root cause of overeating is anything from a genetic imperative to eat everything in sight, to an inability to follow “The Zone” diet, depending on which day you ask. In other words, I have no idea. But the most persistent theory is that it has something to do with a kind of mental malaise and spiritual hunger. Even I’ve been known to eat more bumbleberry pie, Callebaut chocolates, and cool ranch tostitos than you can shake a stick at, for every reason except hunger. And I’m slender and apparently don’t have an eating disorder.

If it is in fact an existential issue—and I’m currently convinced it is--then the question of how to finally put down the long-handled parfait spoon and break these miserable patterns can only be answered by some improbable, life-altering transformation. Easier said than done, you say. Well, maybe a visit to the Hunger Site can be that first easy step on the path to a meaningful and skinny existence.

The hunger site, www.thehungersite.com is a United Nations-endorsed website where with just a click you can feed a starving person every day. Thanks to the website sponsors who pay for the food in exchange for advertising, the internet has taken a giant step forward in eradicating world hunger.

Every 3.6 seconds a country on the world map posted on this website turns black to signify one of the 24,000 deaths from starvation that occur every day. The good news: 24,000 are still 11,000 fewer deaths per day than ten years ago and 17,000 fewer than twenty years ago. Still, that means about one tenth of the world’s starving - 8 million people - die every year because they can’t get enough to eat. Scroll around this site and you’ll find other hard-to-ignore facts. For example, with just a few quality seeds, access to water and appropriate tools the hungry can become self-sufficient. It seems so simple that you can’t not do something. Keep scrolling and you’ll find a guest book with poignant messages like this one: “I live in Brazil. Here in the north a lot of people are hungry, there some people eat just the same plant that the cows eat. Help them.” It’s difficult to refuse a plea like that when all you have to do to help is click.

I now begin my day by logging on and feeding the hungry. As a woman hurtling towards 30, with no children to cajole out of bed each morning, no dog to walk and not even a fish to feed, I’ve started waking up with a sense of purpose. I know that if I don’t log on, someone doesn’t eat. Without becoming a mother I learned what mothers have known forever: if someone needs you, you get out of bed. Visiting the Hunger Site every morning hasn’t cured my Weltschmerz but it’s definitely been a step in the right direction.

However, I realized it was time to leap in that direction when I saw the headline “World’s overweight numbers match underfed for first time”. According to the Worldwatch Institute, there are now 1.2 billion underfed and 1.2 billion overweight people in the world today. There’s something obscene about that statistic--although in fairness to people with medical conditions, voluptuous bodies, and those forced into fattening diets because of poverty--not all those overweight people are soullessly chowing down on bagfuls of ripple chips nightly. But more to the point, while reading that headline the solution to the world’s most urgent problem virtually jumped out at me: By billeting the hungry with the overfed of the world, we could simultaneously cure world hunger and overeating.

Cost objections are easily overcome. If you re-allocate the money spent on weight loss programs, books and special foods, to your starving person’s modest needs, it’ll undoubtedly translate into savings for you. The cost of the starving peoples’ health problems would be offset by the eradication of the obesity-related medical conditions that currently strain our health care system.

Airlines could donate the flights to First World countries through the Kreber Hunger Initiative (well, it is my idea) by filling existing empty seats with starving people. It could be one of the cheapest emergency airlifts ever. All the bureaucracy and bother normally associated with such an endeavour could be simplified like this: Do you live in a poor country? Do you look underweight and malnourished? There’s an empty seat, get on.

No need to ready the guest room—or even have one. These people are unaccustomed to the most basic necessities so even if they sleep on your floor it’ll be a step up. And as my dad likes to say, there’s always room enough for one more person.

Now as to your overeating. Every time you’re tempted by one more helping of pasta just because it’s there, or because you’re bored or anxious, remember it’ll be one less helping for your starving person. The only cost to you are those unwanted pounds! How could you even want to overeat in their presence? And they would be in your presence constantly.

No need to worry about incompatibility with your starving person either. Until they get some strength, they’ll do nothing but stare listlessly into space too hungry to get on anyone’s nerves. By the time they have enough energy to let their personalities show, it’ll be a clear sign that they’re sufficiently well fed to be sent packing.

But we’ll have to get moving on this quickly. Remember, with each passing day 24,000 starving people die, leaving us 24,000 billets short. So, I’ll get going on the Kreber Hunger Initiative and we’ll be shedding those unwanted pounds in no time. In the meantime, to make sure there are enough starving people alive for you to get your billet, get clicking.

I fought the law ...

2004-11-15T10:50:00.000-05:00

Except for when I reported each of my seven bikes as stolen, I have never had any contact with the police. Since moving to New York a year ago, I've had three run-ins. Three!

I. joining forces with the NYPD
I was walking up 7th Avenue around 47th Street at 3 pm on a weekday thinking about how I should get some fake I.D. so I would have NY state ID when I applied for our marriage license. Suddenly someone to my right said, "I.D. Any kind of I.D.! Get your I.D. here. All types of I.D. available!" What a coincidence! But he seemed shady so I kept going. Still it was like god had read my mind and made him appear. Who was I to snub god? I must've hesitated a little bit because in a normal voice he said, "Miss, you dropped something from your bag." I turned around to look and saw nothing as the I.D. hawker started in on me with a harder sales pitch. I kept going four more blocks before I decided to turn around and at least find out how I could get I.D. I knew that if I tried to get legal N.Y. State I.D. I would have to have proof of residence that would be hard to provide without months of hassles while I updated the address on my green card. So, I went back.

I was nervous and had that don't do it feeling that you ignore at your own peril but I did ignore it and returned to ask how I could get a fake driver's license.

I really just wanted information but in no time I was haggling over price. I got him down to $40. when he called out to a friend passing by, asked me to hang on a second and walked over to say hi. Suddenly the friend came over and said, "So you want to pay $50. for a driver's license. Okay, let's go."

"No, no, no!" I protested. "I told him $40. and that's all I'm paying. I can't pay anything more and I'm not going to!"

"Do you have the $40. on you. No? So let's go. We'll go to the ATM in the deli up here. C'mon."

I was getting nervous that I was being swept up in an illegal transaction without meaning to, being handed off to someone else, and taken to an ATM to get money, no less. I explained that I needed to find a WaMu so I wouldn't be charged ATM fees but somehow he had me in the deli in no time, taking $40. from the ATM. I kept looking over my shoulder nervously to see if he was trying to steal my PIN but he was waiting outside alone the entire time. I quickly stuffed the money into my pocket and headed back outside.

"Okay, you have the money?" he asked. "Yeah," I replied. "Can we get the I.D. now?"

"Yeah, let's go," he said walking further uptown quickly. We kept haggling about the price all the way. He insisted I pay $50. and I refused to pay more than $40. In the midst of the price talks I explained to him that I felt nervous being alone with him, a strange man, and that maybe I should come back another day with my boyfriend.

"Does he need I.D.? Can we go get him now?" he asked. "No, he's working." I said. "But maybe I should come back with him and then I won't feel so nervous. I mean no offense, but I don't know you."

On we walked across 51st toward Broadway me babbling nervously while he tried to keep the focus on money. I repeatedly asked if what we were doing was highly illegal then answered myself because he wasn't, by saying maybe it was just post-9/11 fear that made this a suspect activity but it couldn't be really illegal, if at all. I asked myself aloud whether I should wait for my boyfriend over and over. He suggested I give him $50. up front to give to the I.D. man and then be reimbursed $10. out of his pocket later. Huh? I wasn't that dumb!

On we walked. I didn't understand where we were going and kept nervously asking again and again where this place was, how it worked, whether it was in this building we seemed to be heading toward or that place or where?! for heaven's sake?!!

We headed into the Cosi at 51st. "The I.D. man is in here?" I mumbled. I was so nervous and confused and babbling a mile a minute.

"Listen," he said. "You need to chill out. Just chill out! You gotta be cool with this other guy or he won't do it. Now, I need to write down the serial numbers on the bills and get your name."
He pulled out a dirty scrap of paper and handed it over. I wrote my real name on it and asked what else he needed me to write down. Again I answered for him explaining he would need my height and weight and birthdate. So I added them to my name and handed the paper over.
He asked for the two twenty dollar bills and then wrote down their serial numbers and said, "Let's go."

The Cosi flanked the entrance of an office building and so I assumed that's where the I.D. office was. I didn't think that about the fact that he was leaving with my money.

"Are we going in there?" I asked. "Not yet." was his answer. "Just stay there and I'll be right back," he said and headed over to the Duane Reade drugstore on the other side of the building entrance.

"Does the guy work in there?" I asked. He just nodded and kept walking away as I watched him enter the drugstore.

Then BAM!! suddenly seven men rushed me, seemingly out of nowhere, all talking at the same time, asking me whether I gave 'that man' money, shouting to each other directions to go to the back exit, to cover the office entrance, etc. I was frozen with terror.

"Police." one finally said, flashing his badge. He could see I was frightened and reassured me that I wasn't in any trouble. "Did you give the guy some money?" "How much?"

I related exactly what had happened as two plainclothes officers led my conman out of the Duane Reade in handcuffs. The police explained that my man was a well-known con artist and that he was going to run out the back exit with my money, that there was no I.D. place and that they had been following me since the deli ATM.

As the conman was led to the cruiser I shook my head with disgust and mouthed the words, "you lied to me" at him.

Before I was free to leave I asked the police to retrieve the piece of paper with my name and particulars on it and asked if they could get my money back. They told me to call the D.A.'s office the following day and she would explain how I could get my money back. It would be entered in as evidence along with the scrap of paper. The officers took down my name and address and wondered why, when I was of legal age, was I getting fake I.D.

I explained the passport situation, got advice on how and where to get legal I.D. and was told to go straight home and have a nice, quiet evening in tonight. No kidding. I was very shaken and just wanted to hide in my bed for a long time.

The next day I called the D.A. and asked if I could get my money back. I also expressed my fear that the conman's friend would recognize me because I often walked home that way and would try to retaliate thinking I was to blame for his friend's arrest. I was hoping for reassurance but instead she suggested she get an order of protection from a judge. "That's not necessary," I told her. And it wouldn't be because I was definitely not leaving my apartment for a long time except to buy with my passport as proof of age, booze to numb the fear and anxiety I was feeling. Then she told me she was going to fax me an affidavit to sign that would be used as evidence.

The affidavit referred to me as the Informant! "Please tell me this is a legal term and that the conman won't think that I'm a police informer, a stoolie, a rat, a snitch."

The attorney assured me it was a legal term and that they had enough evidence to put away the conman for a long while so I needn't worry about him coming after me.

Over the next two weeks my fear abated and I did leave the apartment. C re-visited the ATM and the Cosi and Duane Reade with me as a form of therapy. It didn't look so benign anymore. I could see con games and criminal intent in every word and gesture. Even when the trial ended with a guilty conviction I still worried that the friend might see me.

Finally, I got a phone call telling me I could pick up my scrap of paper and a cheque at "Stolen and Retrieved Property" at Police Headquarters.

I stopped by the D.A.'s office to get the release form and then went over to the police station. When I signed in they asked what I had been arrested for. I was indignant. I was a victim not a criminal for god's sake!! When I went to the waiting room in the basement I realized that I was probably the only one there that hadn't been arrested. As I waited, I eavesdropped on people's cellphone conversations and sure enough, this was old hat for them. Someone at the desk needed to know the phone number for the midtown precinct which apparently handles drug charges and four or five people rattled it off automatically.

When my name was finally called I received my scrap of paper and a cheque for $43. They obviously had made a mistake and I was $3. richer for it. I didn't correct them though. I considered it a bonus for my help in bringing down a criminal and menace to society.
I signed the release and walked out into the mean streets of the city considerably wiser and ready for anything.

II. the forbidden 50 mls
At about 6 pm in May the day before C and I were leaving for Vancouver. I decided to get a mini bottle of sambuca in the hopes that it would knock out the cold I was fighting before I got on the plane. (aka the German Schnapps or Equivalent Cure All Theory) I knocked it back quickly like a dose of medicine. while C daintily sipped the mini vodka I had treated him to. As we made our way across 9th Street toward 2nd Avenue he was openly drinking his microscopic bottle because we were under the mistaken assumption that this was legal in NY. In fact, the August we moved here we often drank beer walking back to the b&b after a long day of apartment hunting congratulating ourselves on being smart enough to move to a place where this was legal. After being in the West End of Vancouver a few weeks earlier during the fireworks, this was especially liberating. I asked C for a sip of his vodka and right after I passed it back we heard a police voice behind us ask, "What are you drinking?" "A mini vodka," I replied, thinking he was just curious. Boy was I wrong. He wrote us up a summons and sternly lectured us about breaking the law. The good cop explained apologetically that we should not ignore the summons or we could get thrown into the slammer on a bench warrant. He also said there was an excellent chance the fine would be reduced when we went to court as this was our first offence. We were incredulous and explained why we thought it was legal and how many times we've seen people drinking openly. I asked the good cop if I could take a photo to show the folks back home and he acquiesced. I'm not a big drinker so the sambuca had my head swimming as you can see by the photo.

under arrest

The hearing was set for a Saturday in June which seemed odd until we considered that mail is delivered on Saturday and banks are open on Sunday. We arrived at the courthouse prepared to have the judge snort in disgust when she saw the amount of alcohol we had consumed but there was no judge. The courts were closed and the following Monday when they were open the charge was thrown out on a technicality.

III. to serve and protect
C and I were riding our bikes up 6th Avenue last week on our regular route. Just south of 33rd there was a police van with two cops in it parked between the curb and the bike lane. There was a plainsclothes cop standing in the bike lane by the passenger door looking north. Without warning, he opened the door causing me to swerve. In a polite voice as he passed, C asked if there wasn't another door he could use. The cop went ballistic calling him every manner of name from inside the van. I was a couple of bike lengths ahead and all I heard was "No, I fuckin' cant!" and "*#@**& dickhead!".

As we waited at the light on the north side of 33rd, we heard a voice on the bullhorn inside the van say, "I hope you get hit by a drunk driver."

Can you even believe that!!

A few days later we reported the cop to Internal Affairs by giving them the van number and a description of the cop (balding, redneck, fat, wearing a hoodie, leather jacket and faded, powder blue levis).

Now I'm terrified that he is going to break down our door or somehow retaliate. I mean we're possibly dealing with a loose canon, right?

Yikes! The doorbell just rang and there wasn't anyone there! Would he ring first so there was no sign of a forced entry?

False alarm. I think it was V. but now she's gone which is just as well because I'm busy. Regardless of whether the psycho cop would or wouldn't ring the bell, I'm safe for now. At least I think I am, which is half the battle in this city.

bare legs in november

2004-11-15T09:41:00.000-05:00

brooklyn by bike

movin' on

2004-11-12T16:44:00.000-05:00

Last night may have been the last time that I'll see "Movin' Out" for awhile. Now that I've put that in writing I feel the need to retract it. I have to see the new dancers at least once. One has abnormally small hands and gay-looking boy band spiky blond-tipped hair circa 1999 and the other one has what I can only describe as a hillbilly accent, long, long jet black hair, crooked teeth and a shifty, drug-dealer manner. I need to see both with new haircuts and as M.O. characters for sure. But apart from the odd special occasion such as the aforementioned one, I'm starting to get over the show and whatever I'm not over I'm going to force myself to get over. I've become an obsessive fan and it's just not very becoming. But it is funny. At least to me, and maybe to J. Fir, as well. Whether the theatre staff and cast of the show find my constant presence in and outside of the theatre hilarious is a mystery. And shall remain so.

It all started when C. landed a job in the show. The first time we saw it was just before he signed his contract and we both thought it was not so great somehow. C. signed despite his negative impression because it was Broadway and Twyla Tharp, after all. In order to learn the show, C. had to watch it every night after daytime rehearsals. I walked in with him the first night and the ushers just assumed I was in the show too. I kept going because I had nothing better to do. (I still don't. Can someone please give me a non-pet-related job?!) At the same time, I started going to C.'s fittings at various shoemakers and tailors around the city. That was interesting for me too because these tailors and shoemakers (all men, mostly from the old country) are the top craftsmen in the country. C. got seven or eight pairs of $700. custom-fit shoes and boots made by shoemakers who work for all the Broadway shows and superstars like Jennifer Lopez. So, it was quite a satisfying, big-league albeit vicarious, thrill.

Back to the actual show. Which is what I did in real life, went back again and again. Each time I saw the show I liked it more. And enjoyed the catchy Billy Joel songs more and more. I hadn't even seen C. on stage yet so I knew it was only going to get worse.

Part II The Show Goes On
He made his debut two weeks before he was supposed to in a role other than the one he was rehearsing. In fact, he had only eight hours of rehearsal in the new role--without the rest of the cast, without being on stage. Needless to say, I was a nervous wreck and all I could do was stand by, hope for the best and...well, watch, of course. He was fantastic. I could tell he was nervous but I doubt anyone else could.

About ten shows later I got caught going in through the stage door and was escorted out like a common criminal. It was so humiliating. Although like a pro, I had a convincing lie at the ready. Here's what happened: one of the bosses, whom I had never met, came up to me just before the show started while I was surveying the theatre looking for the best possible seat. She confirmed I was C's lady and then asked if I had a ticket. "No." said I. "Then come with me," she said. So I followed her out and when we got to the end of the lobby she said with disgust, "I am really angry at C. for lying to me. He told me you had a ticket." And, here comes the lie. I said, "Well that's because I'm supposed to have one. I got a voice mail from a friend who apparently has a ticket for me. I think she went into the theatre because she couldn't find me so C. let me in under the assumption she's in there. That's why I was standing there looking around."

Impressive, huh? I don't think she bought it, though. You'd think that would be deterrent enough, right? Think again! I got right back on the horse and at intermission asked someone I had exchanged pleasantries with before the show if she would let me use her ticket to go back in. Shameless. The usher at the door informed me she was told not to let me in under any circumstances. It was hideously embarrassing yet at the same time I felt idignant. What if I had found my friend with my $100. ticket and the usher wouldn't let me in. It was so wrong.

In any case, I went back to Vancouver for two weeks and came back ready for more. There were definitely a few clear signs that I was getting carried away during those two weeks and even after. I talked incessantly about the show with everyone and even explained the narrative song by song. I dreamt that I, not C., was in "Movin Out" and was very modest when offered congratulations by the folks back home. I asked my new friend to include "river of Dreams" and "Innocent Man" on the cd she was making me. The highlight apart from feeling like I was in the show after my dream? Taking the "Movin' Out" workshop taught by a cast member at Steps. SShhh, don't tell anyone but I made C. find out what would be taught and then watch the video so he could teach me the choreography before the workshop. Sadly, I wasn't the best even with the extra help.

At my request, I got a ticket to the show for my birthday and discovered after intermission that I only needed a playbill to get into the second act. I've since seen the second act approximately twenty times. And thank god I haven't stopped. If I had I would've missed Billy Joel's surprise appearance at the second anniversary show, a dancer's early entrance during someone's solo and C.'s pants split wide open on stage for a good three minutes.

I've even managed to attend the first act on numerous occasions like when one of the leads escorted me in, when the cop who walks the beat in front of the theatre asked the manager to let me in, when I snuck in with C.'s mom's ticket, when they gave the cast free tickets because of slow sales during the RNC and last night. A nice man and his two friends had been stood up by their wives and weren't interested in going alone so he gave me his ticket. Throughout the show, I was wishing and hoping one of the big bad bosses would demand to see my ticket but no such luck.

I was going to say no to the ticket to stop the madness but in the end I couldn't refuse a free $100. ticket with a view of the band. I wanted to watch the whistler whistle and sing solo at the beginning of "River of Dreams". I really like watching the band now because I've only had seats with a view of them maybe a dozen times. It's really enjoyable to watch the horn section doing their little choreographed swaying, snapping and clapping.

But that's it for awhile. I'm going to pretend to anyone who noticed I was always there that I'm too busy to obsess about a Broadway show. Instead of movin' out I'm going to move on and find some tv show to obsess about every night.

oh!

2004-10-29T16:22:00.001-04:00

I can't stop watching Oprah whenever I'm home but I actually find her incredibly self-satisfied, smug, self-righteous and self-obsessed. Too bad there's already a magazine called "Self". Although, I suppose calling your magazine "O" amounts to the same thing if your name is Oprah. She clearly believes she is the Second Coming and her hordes of adoring fans seem to agree. On today's show they're talking about home decorating so hopefully I'll be spared her self-styled new age guru drivel.

Oh, I spoke too soon! Already she's pontificating about how wrong it is that anyone have a home that doesn't reflect who they are, like we all have the income to decorate how we want. Most people I know have second hand things from their parents, mixed with Ikea, with a dash of Salvation Army and futon. Oprah's now bragging about how great her house is. I also hate her white, middle america, middle-aged 'tasteful' style. It's beautiful, classy and timeless. Ugh.

The life expert on today's show says you should ask yourself which room in your house you would most like to hide. When you describe it, i.e. dirty, unfinished and cluttered, or empty, no personality, and dull, you will realize you are describing yourself. This means I should have a fat room that I am hiding but I don't. I'm not hiding anything in my house and happen to think my home is perfect right now. I guess that means that like Oprah, I am perfect and am probably enlightened. It's funny, I always felt different and now I know why. Maybe it's projection that makes me hate Oprah. I hate other enlightened people because I am enlightened. This is exciting breakthrough stuff! Who needs therapy when Oprah is on?!

my life as a boy

2004-10-21T20:44:00.000-04:00

"I'm not a boy!" That was my clever retort to being called "son", "boy", and as a 21 year old, "that guy". An equally snappy one said with great indignation: "I'm a girl!" In fact, that was my bi-monthly response to my landlady who, when I'd answer the door, would ask if I was a boy or a girl because she "sure couldn't tell". She even informed other tenants that my sister/roommate was living with a "weird-looking guy". If I can find some photos to post, you'll know I didn't look weird or like a guy. But for now you'll have to believe me.

I wish the thug who slammed me into a building late at night on a deserted street had realized I was a girl a bit sooner. Better late than never, I suppose. He offered to fight me for my leather jacket. Needless to say, I declined. I took off my jacket to hand to him and when he saw my tight sweater and breasts underneath, he started apologizing like a madman. "Oh fuck! You're a girl! Ohmygod I'm sorry!" It took me a minute to realize that he was going to steal my jacket because he thought I was a skinny little homo. What a gaybashing, snoutass pigturd!

A few weeks later, he actually jumped and I mean jumped, in front of me at the mall scaring the life out of me. "Hey, remember me?!" he asked like I was going to say "Yeah, of course! How are you?" and give him a warm hug or maybe have a chuckle over how he slammed me around and almost mugged me.

The final assault on my femininity was a double whammy. First, when I was taking the train from Montreal to Vancouver two different porters called me son several times. "Son, you can't sleep there." (I was on a student budget trying to sleep on the baggage rack.) "Son, step back inside the train. We'll be pulling out soon."

Then when I got to Vancouver and was out at a nightclub some jerk clapped me on the shoulder in a nasty, aggressive way and said "Shove over, buddy and make some room." I almost started crying because of the mean way he manhandled me.

The odd thing about all of this is that during my childhood and in my early 20's, I mistakenly went into the men's bathroom more times than could be excused as mere befuddlement. I don't know what to make of that but it seems relevant. Whatever gender confusion issues I had then have been resolved by growing my hair long, always wearing tons of makeup and perfume and regularly wearing frilly, pink clothes . Just kidding.

But seriously, after that I did grow my hair long, pierce my ears , and for awhile, always wore mascara and perfume and...no more leather jackets.

Now my hair is shortish again but not boy-short. Never again, I tell you. Never. Unless of course I have a midlife crisis and decide that I'm really a dyke. Then I'll chop it all off and grease it back and my life as a boy will suddenly make sense. God forbid. Not that my life should make sense but that I should become a dyke with greased back hair.

top dog and queen cat

2004-10-19T20:35:00.000-04:00

Company has come and gone and with it my will to blog. Or maybe my will went missing between 7 and 8 am last Saturday. That's when I was making my way to the Feral Cat Conference for another long, long day. Yes, sigh, it's true. I am still ensnared in the world of cats--much to my chagrin, I might add.

Some very sweet, slightly eccentric (is it even necessary to say that?) people who had read about the conference in the New York Times stopped by to get some guidance on how to care for feral cats in their backyards and neighbourhoods. It was embarrassing for me this time because so many volunteers and speakers asked about my cats. "Um, I don't have any." I said. I explained that I had just moved to New York and where I lived before it was hard to find an apartment that would allow pets. I thought it sounded convincing but I was looked at askance more than a few times. These people go hungry so stray cats can eat and I don't have a single cat at home. I felt so out of place. I really am not a cat person but it was hardly the place to bring that up.

I learned all about TNR (Trap, Neuter, Release) and the politics and controversy behind the Feral Cat scene. I also listened in on a guided visualization lecture where everyone was supposed to imagine being a kitten. I.e. "Where's my mom?" "I can feel my whiskers brushing against the wall." I didn't stay but I think the point was to imagine what kind of food you'd want as a kitty. This woman's thing is feeding your cats an organic, real food diet so presumably that is the conclusion you reach in the visualization. I'm not even going to make fun of that, it's just too easy.

Finally, on Monday night I worked what I hope is my last cat event. It was called "Cats & the City" and was a fund-raiser for Neighbourhood Cats. Tickets cost $125 dollars. Included in the price was the most basic, third rate open bar, some meager hors d'oevres and entertainment by the "Veg Kids". They were horribly obnoxious vegan and vegetarian insufferable child actor types.

It was so boring and irritating. Thank god for Melissa and Elizabeth, fun volunteer ladies with whom I could mock the entire event.

On the way home, my bosses drove too far north and thought the upside was that I got to see the huge Botero cat sculpture. Seriously. I couldn't make up an ending like that.

Jesus, etc

2004-10-14T19:29:00.000-04:00

Jesus, don’t cry
You can rely on me honey
You combine anything you want
I’ll be around
You were right about the stars
Each one is a setting sun
Tall buildings shake
Voices are scared
Singing sad sad songs
Two two chords
Strung down your cheeks
Bitter melodies
Turning your orbit around
Don’t cry
You can rely on me honey
You can come by any time you want
I’ll be around
You were right about the stars
Each one is a setting sun
Tall buildings shake
Voices are scared
Singing sad sad songs
Two two chords
Strung down your cheeks
Bitter melodies
Turning your orbit around
Voices whine
Skyscrapers are scraping together your voice
It’s smoking
Last cigarettes
Are all you can get
Turning your orbit around
Our loveOur loveOur love
Is all we have
Our loveOur love
Is all got is money
Everyone is a burning sun
Tall buildings shake
Voices are scared
Singing sad sad songs
Two two chords
Strung down your cheeks
Bitter melodies
Turning your orbit around
Voices whine
Skyscrapers are scraping together your voice
It’s smoking
Last cigarettes
Are all you can get
Turning your orbit around
Last cigarettes
Are all you can get
Turning your orbit around
Last cigarettes
Are all you can get
Turning your orbit around

Girl I didn't know you could get down like that!

2004-09-30T12:54:00.000-04:00

I need to be more vigilant to avoid becoming dependent on C. I'm accustomed to doing things on my own and I want to maintain that self-reliance--not to prove anything, but because I truly think it's a slippery slope from getting C. to call the phone company to straighten out a wrong charge to being a dependent, lifeless, no-personality wife. Ugh. I hate the word wife. It has such negative connotations of subservience, asexuality and self-abnegation. Not for me, thanks.

It's so much easier to get him to to do things that I hate doing although admittedly, I might be better off in the long run if he refused. I wish he could make me do things I want to avoid. In fact, I'd like it if I had a team to help keep me on track--a personal trainer, dietician, therapist, and personal assistant would be a great start. Whenever I ask C. to be my taskmaster it feels really forced and wrong and actually backfires. I just feel annoyed, bullied and do whatever I want anyway.

I guess I need to make myself do a lot of those things I don't want to do, like talk to people I want to avoid, go to dance class, write in my blog, etc. So much of my life feels like I'm forcing myself to do what I don't want because these days I often don't want to do anything at all.

I will forge ahead. Or lie in bed and read and eat sunspire sundrops. Hmmm, I already did that today. Oh well.

broadway blues

2004-09-25T13:18:00.000-04:00

The star of the the Broadway show that C. dances in is smitten with him. I'm supposed to be tickled for him, right? And amused because after all she's in a lesbian relationship. But she seems very straight and last night told C. that he was turning her straight. She saw his bare ass and declared it 'very cute' (which it is), said she was falling in love when she found out he can do origami, and kisses him on the mouth in a big smoochy way on stage. Fun, fun, fun!! I'm not so amused because I have nobody to flirt with, no job to go to, nobody but C. to talk to. Not to mention: nobody applauding wildly every time I turn around, no fat pay cheque, nobody asking for my autograph.

What I do have is a big, button acne on my face, bad anxiety over my father's ill health and a fat feeling around my stomach. Yeah, I'm on fire. And I'm about to set New York on fire with my charm.

I woke up in the middle of the night feeling a bit annoyed with all of this. Poor C. thought maybe he shouldn't have told me because I'm already stressed out. The truth is he shouldn't be in this situation because he shouldn't be talking to other people, shouldn't leave the house without me and when he goes out with me he should wear a burqua. Of course everyone would think he looked cute and had a hip, ironic sense of humour (which in fact he does.)

six figure man

2004-09-23T20:37:00.000-04:00

We're very excited that we have enough money to buy a sofa. For the past year, we've watched TV sitting on hard wooden chairs like monks, with a guest mattress leaning against the bed frame that's leaning against the wall. Classy. We decided we want the rpm sofa bed because it's not too bulky for our 400 sq. ft. home and it has a tasteful modern Danish look. We're going to go for broke and get two Lomen dressers from ikea so we can unpack our clothes from the cardboard boxes that the mini-stereo sits on. It's all a bit nerve-wracking because it means we're making a commitment to being here, firstly, by buying things and secondly, by spending the tiny bit of moving-home money we've stashed away. Yikes! I still can't believe we live in NYC and we've already been here for a year. I'm willing to stay for awhile longer to get a New York career boost. (No smart comments about the pet fair, please.)

Yes, we're moving up in the world. Maybe we'll splurge and send C. to the dentist to get his cavity filled.

poor, sick me

2004-09-23T19:02:00.000-04:00

I'm just now well enough to blog. Remember I got caught in a downpour the morning of the pet fair? I had soaked, squelchy shoes for hours until C. brought me flip flops. Well, for the rest of the day I froze to death in aforementioned flip flops, short skirt and bulky hoodie with t-shirt over it. Despite my best attempts to jazz up my men's XL pet fair t-shirt with cutout neckline and new 80's belt, I ended up with bulky, Michelin-man silhouette. Hideous but a bit warmer. Anyway, not warm enough and I came down with the flu/cold thing right after C. did. Fortunately, I wasn't sick until after he was so was still able to take care of him (changing his t-shirt, boxer shorts, pillow cases, towels, sheets etc FIVE times in the middle of the night when his fever finally broke). It was tag-team nursing of the finest. I had a fever too but barely broke a sweat. My forehead was a bit damp when C. came to bed and as a joke, he asked if I wanted him to change my pajamas and the sheets etc.

I'm still too tired and weak to venture far from home but I managed to go on a cleaning rampage this morning and later went to the bookstore to buy Dry by Augusten Burroughs. I returned "The Nanny Diaries", read but unblemished and put the money towards "Dry". SShhhh, don't tell but I have a bad habit of buying and reading books (or wearing things) and then returning them. In fact, I've bought $1000. dresses to wear to parties or weddings, carefully removed the tags, worn them, carefully put tags back on, and returned them. The book one is actually more difficult because you can't obviously break the spine. I find myself reading by peering into the dim, barely open wedge of book. I guess I can afford to buy books now but I have no desire to have a library. There are so few books that I want to re-read or own and I hate having things for no reason. Hence my criminal ways.

The man just got some teaching work at $100/hour. Now he has two jobs and is making six figures working a mere 23 hours a week. All I have under my 80's belt from the last seven months is the pet fair. He's convinced that wheelbarrows of dough and exciting work are just around the corner for me. We shall see. In the meantime, prime time trash tv is starting. Gotta run.

petlover-hater

2004-09-19T22:18:00.000-04:00

I worked at the Natural Pet Fair for eleven hours yesterday and am alive to tell the tale. First, I got drenched in the Hurricane Ivan storm, then paid for V.'s tea because she couldn't find her wallet, setting a trend for the day of me paying for everyone. We were locked out of the church for 30 minutes in the torrential rain with a sliver of makeshift awning for shelter. We were finally let into the church basement as the exhibitors arrived. Ten minutes later I discovered the water fountain was spewing steamy brown stuff all over my sign-in table. But that took a back seat to the flood that started moments later.

The rest of the day is a blur of forced eavesdropping on groups of 50-ish grey-haired, white women in leggings and over-sized, tie-dyed t-shirts gossiping about neighbourhood cats for hours on end, being forced to sit in on seminars like the one on live enzymes for pets (which I left convinced I needed a heavy dosage of), cat stink everywhere, queasiness at watching people drink from the poo fountain before I could warn them away, endless huskies parading back and forth to and from their runs in Central Park, buying coffees and waters and snacks for all the people without wallets and more pet gossip, and more pet gossip... I was excited about finding a little pooch at the fair to adopt or foster at the start of the day but left with an abhorrence of having an animal companion. I just don't want to be part of the pet-lover world for fear I'll become an obsessed nut who kills squirrels for my dog, feeds it raw, organic meat, sews it holiday outfits (actually that would be fun), speaks in a weird 'mommy loves her little pooch' voice and maybe even wears big tie-dye t-shirts. The horror.

The highlight: Hallie Kate Eisenberg signing in for her Youth Award. She's lovely - sweet and shy. Real highlight: getting home. True highlight: when I get paid. Rich.

water water everywhere

2004-09-16T11:11:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I washed my hair twice, got drenched in a downpour on my way home (that might count as a third wash, well a thorough rinse, for sure) and dropped my cell phone in the toilet. Help, I'm drowning!!! Should I mention sweating like a wild animal in dance class as well? I looked like I walked out of the shower and then rudely imposed my beastliness on the world by going to the bank right after class. I had to stop in to verify for the fifth time that I have a shared account. Sheesh kebob! Everything is such a hassle here. Every month for the past year we've had to get our phone bill adjusted and this bank account has been open for two and a half months and as I said, I've had to go in five times.

Still it doesn't compare to the nightmare we went through to find an apartment. We had to write a letter of introduction, supply references from our previous landlords, Canadian bank managers, U.S. bank manager, bring in passport and social security numbers, submit to a credit check, pay a broker $1700, a security deposit of $1700, and finally, first month's rent of $1700 for a one bedroom about 400 square feet small. All of this for the privilege of living in NY and being dicked around by the bank and phone company on a regular basis!

In fact, we happily submitted to all of the cross-examining because we actually got this apartment after being turned down repeatedly elsewhere because we were thought high-risk as Canadians. Huh?!

In any case, we have a tiny, little home now so all of that is so much water under the bridge.

home on the net

2004-09-15T13:57:00.000-04:00

Finally, I'm online at home! As Finn would say, "Woo hoo!" No more lurking around the Mac store waiting for a computer like a homeless person, no more being busted sneaking into the NYU computer labs with an expired ID, goodbye scum-smeared public library computers, sayonara nasty, dirty, pervert-infested internet cafe in Times Square.

Now I have no excuses - I have the tools necessary to find work. Signing in guest speakers at the Adopt-A-Pet-A-Thon Saturday isn't quite what I came to New York for.

Okay, enough for my first post. Offigit to the "Movin' Out" master class. Fun fun fun!!