Margaret Mead Film & Video Festival- Edie & Thea: A Very Long Engagement

Edie & Thea: A Very Long Engagement is a wonderful film that is part of the Love Against the Odds series. It is the love story of two women, now in their 80's, talking about their relationship through the years which began in the 1960's. Definitely something to catch - and think about.

It is being shown today at The American Museum of Natural History, as part of the Margaret Mead Film and Video Festival, that runs through the 15th.

All you need is love, man.

New Blues Songs: Economy's Got Me By The Balls

Lunch today at work - very strange...this economic crisis has everyone by the short hairs. I honestly don't know why I still have my job. I mean, I guess I'm good at it; but what they say about advertising - the cutthroat, backstabbing, mean-spirited attitudes?

It's true.

I suppose one could use this time to write blues songs. Head to the crossroads (uh, where, between Park and 28th?) and grab a guitar, throw your head back, and yodel to whomever will listen that you can't afford the rent? That you allowed your boss to get away with that suggestive comment about your ass fitting snugly into your pants because you really had nobody else to hear it and don't want to make waves, not in this recession?


I keep hearing that the recession is over, it's over, rents are going down, we're okay. Wow - really? Nobody told me. Nobody told R. at my job, so that maybe he can stop being such a little cunt and trying to constantly get credit for my ideas when we work on a project. He's talented enough, he doesn't have to make me look like an idiot. I wish he and Lauren would work together - it would be lovely.

Picture if you will: flaming bitch and a flaming queen fighting to the death over who gets what copy over which image and who will be the one to get credit for it - if it goes well, if my inch-within-a-lawsuit boss finds it usable. Which he will; they are both good. I insinuated they were assholes, but not that they aren't good at what they do.

I have a friend who is an opera singer. I took singing lessons when I was young...I used to want to sing. I also took ice-skating, and even clarinet. I've always been good at what I did, never worried about it. I make good money, never worried about it. Dated and if it didn't work out, well...I'd get over it and never really worried about it.

Now, I'm worried about it. God, if I have to move back upstate...I don't know what I'd do. I'd find a way, but...it's strange that we claw and scratch to be who we think we are, who we think is the penultimate of what is "correct" to be; good at your job, making a good living, or at least good enough to live in New York, which is saying a lot.

I walked past this woman today, homeless; it's summer now going into fall, so the weather is at least decent, and she looks like she's eating. But how quickly does one have to fall to get to where...say I am (which isn't that high up off the ground) to where she finds herself? And when people say "well, they probably have an addiction problem," I think to myself - well, FUCK, wouldn't YOU, if you didn't have a job? But I guess that's a chicken or the egg kind of thing...and there is a difference between that chicken and that egg...but either way, she is living on a cardboard box at night, alone, and people look the other way when she asks for help.

I pray things get better.

Cutting Out Cancerous People

Well, I made the choice to cut someone from my life a few days ago...and it was difficult. I mean him no ill will. And most of my exes (including, surprisingly, both of my ex-husbands) I am still in contact with on at least a cordial level. Some are my best buddies.

However, he seemed to delight in constantly emailing me on FB to discuss his new conquests...or to tell me that for "some reason, and he didn't possibly know why" that he was thinking of my pictures...and insinuating that I should come up and visit him for a romp in the sack. Then, in the same cyber-breath, he would say something degrading or passive-aggressively rude - like he did when we were together; one of the reasons why I just fell out of whatever it was that I felt for him.

He is a man who says horrid things about people - the young lady he was dating within a week of our breaking up, he was putting her down to me...calling her nothing more than a dog and insulting her because of her being Muslim. I was horrified; I couldn't understand if he was so annoyed with her being more of a doormat (because he hated that I was so busy and wouldn't put up with his being so rude) - then WHY was he wasting her time? His time? I tried to actually play relationship therapist to a man that has proclaimed emphatically that he is a sociopath, with glee. He promptly began to cheat on her - telling me this, I suppose to make me jealous? I was simply relieved he had other disctractions - but I did tell him that he was making a mistake, because he left his ex-wife because she was cheating on HIM...so what makes him different now? He called his second lady "a disgusting alcoholic." Wow.

Even after we broke up, he would send me copy for a website that he is creating, and I would proof-read it and try to make him sound as smart as he is; he is, to my knowledge, somewhat in the Aspergers spectrum, and is incredibly intelligent. However, he is still a guido from Bensonhurst, with the grammar, mannerisms, and racist tendencies of many Italian men from that area. Sorry, boys - hate to burst your bubble, but there is a reason why the rest of NYC thinks you all are out of your fucking minds. He is an ex-cop who is brilliant with computers, and after making a critical error in the Police environment, he moved over to corporate professional hacking/etc - and started to make 6-figure salaries. With that comes the taste for expensive things; collecting art simply because you can, etc.

You know that old saying, you can take the Hick out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the Hick? Same thing goes for a guy from an armpit of Brooklyn who suddenly came into a bunch of money. Top that off with an inability to communicate, take advice, or simply have a give and take outside of the bedroom (eh...scratch that - sex was always painful with him and he really didn't care as long as he enjoyed himself) and you have yourself someone who may always have a date because he is very handsome and now that he's on the way to divorce and the money he had set aside that his wife couldn't find out about is okay to flaunt, there will be women who are interested in that.



During the brief time we were together, there were very good and very bad times. I will always appreciate the good very much...and I learned a helluva lot from the bad. I recently was looking on his page on FB (before I deleted him from my friends; the little things on the side that say "%$#& has new pics up" with shots of his new ladies was just too much for me to deal with), and in that album there is a picture of me - one that I use for my headshot. He is a fantastic photographer, and should really try to make money from it...he's THAT talented. Well, under the comments of my picture I noticed some people's comments that made me realize that he's been talking shit about me...and what gets my goat is that I have been nothing but nice and supportive to him since our breakup. This happened early after when I noticed something someone had said and it was obviously about me...but he lied and said "No...that was about someone else."

When I am nice to someone - I expect them to be nice back. Especially when the text me constantly, email me for advice (or just to have someone listen) or for grammatical feedback for their site since they have the grammar of a 5th grader. When we were dating, although he was always buying furniture and stuff and saying he had money (and then saying he didn't, though he admitted to a hidden money fund that his wife couldn't know about at the time), I tried to pay my way often; I bought him $300 worth of presents for his Birthday because he gave me an expensive necklace...I tried, best I could, to not make him think I gave a shit about his money, that I just liked him. And I did.

But when I found out how cold, mean, and quite literally mentally unstable he really was, I realized that perhaps I had made a mistake in my judgement...however, he was dissatisfied with my art being a focus in my life, and so broke up with me in an email.

Real class.

However, I was thrilled; of course my ego was a bit bruised, but I realized that it was saving us both a bunch of heartache. But that still doesnt' mean that I enjoyed him flaunting his women of the week in my face; I would never do that to someone. There is a part of me that still has feelings for him; and a part of him that delights in hurting me - a large part, one that I keep dear to my heart to remind me that our breaking up was a wonderful thing.

So, like a cancerous tumor that has to be cut out - I did just that. I deleted him from my networking sites and blocked him from my gmail. I doubt he's even noticed it - or cares, really; but at least I don't have to deal with him again for a while. Hopefully, he'll move on to better things. It's a pity; I really wanted to be his friend, but his misogynistic tendencies proved too great for him to really be able to treat me like a human being, and not like a used rubber that you yank off your dick before you flush it.

So...for RT - Here's a little tune from Lauryn Hill - Lost Ones - that is probably the most appropriate song for how I feel - and where we find ourselves now.

Maybe, someday, if he wants to play nice, then we can talk again. But for the first time in ages, I have cut someone out of my life who meant me nothing but harm - and I know I did the right thing.

I'm Teaching Acting At Hunter College This Fall

To begin with, if you haven't already gotten on the bandwagon, I teach acting for Martin Acting Studios and currently have a class on Saturdays from 2-5pm.

However, I recently scored a new gig at Hunter College, right here in lil' ol' NYC, and I will be teaching two courses one right after the other: Beginning to Intermediate Acting, and then Intermediate to Advanced, with Hunter College's Continuing Education program.

For those of you interested in acting and not sure about taking it in a setting outside of an college or institution setting, I really recommend this. The first course is a month long, from September to October; then the second course starts. The emphasis of the second course is in monologues and scenes...but I only accept students that have previous experience in acting otherwise they will not be up to speed with the rest of the group.



If you follow the link, you can then pick "Arts" and then "Personal Enrichment (don't ask me why they didn't just say acting, I don't know!)" and then the very first one is my class: "Beginning to Intermediate Acting". Further on down is the "Intermediate to Advanced" class.

So, register now! It would be great to get some wonderful students in class!

Sexually Speaking, You Are On Zee Air!

Man, I used to listen to Dr. Ruth when I could...her little voice would crack me up and I was always so amazed at how this little old lady could sit back and talk about sex like it was a cake recipe and all you needed to do was add the butter. I don't know what made me think of her this morning (because I know my online friends on this blog are mostly just waking up except for maybe Kat, since she's out here now) except for the problem that I'm having...I have no sex drive. None. At all. All desire to be with anyone went out the window. My mother attributes it to the fact that I am always busy at the library; I have taken to staying there even when I am not on duty. I don't want to go home. I think I must be depressed, since being alone watching TV or reading makes me feel like a social misfit as of late.

I went to two different clubs this past month, one of them at least three or four times, where some of my old lovers frequent for drinks, and I often have to remind friends that I don't ski anymore...funny how they have the ability to remember if you owe them money or if you said you would get them tickets backstage to a certain performer, but you tell them that you don't do drugs anymore (or, at least, the hard ones) and they act as if its a revelation.

Last night:

Cory scoots into the booth with me and a few people we know, her tank top low and the Queen of Hearts tattoo on her shoulder looking ghostly and trippy in the lighting of the bar. I can smell bourbon on her breath and peppermint gum as she crams in closer to me, allowing room for at least five more people into the booth which is really meant for only four. I feel her hand between my thighs, and I look at her with a question, to which she only smiles and turns her head to talk to our friend Zack. Her ears are pierced in several places and she is 12 years younger than me. Her hand, and what it starts to do, would normally be enough to get me excited and eager to pull her with me out of the bar and back to my apartment...but I feel nothing tonight. I have a beer and gently run my hand across her back and rub her shoulder, in a spot I know she often has pain. I feel bad, if she is intending for us to hook up later, but I just want to hang out tonight with everyone so I don't have to be alone.

But I want to go home alone. I won't be into it if we leave together, and although I'd be happy to please her, my mind will be on a vacation. I want company, not sex, and she only wants sex. So...therein lies our problem.

After a while, she removes her hand playfully, and gets up to put quarters in the jukebox. Somebody has been playing Michael Jackson for over an hour, and she announces she will add to the Motown groove. We all say cheers to Pride, cheers to Michael Jackson, cheers to Farrah...She grabs my hand and drags me to the player, and asks what she should play. I give a few suggestions, and kiss her forehead, and tell her I am going home, pleading an early day today. She looks a bit hurt, and I tell her that I have not been well lately...but run my hand over her ass and let her know that she is lovely. She is, but sex is too much effort for me right now.

Then, I leave.

I try yoga, my body betraying me in ways that I had not foreseen; how does one truly foresee getting older? We all think we're 25 when we're approaching 50. I cry, quietly, wondering why my body is devoid of feeling when my heart is not, why I turned down a lovely woman yet again (and two lovely men during the month) when I could have had them, and sob. Then, after a while, I smile at the thought that I only had one beer at the bar. At least I am in control of some things now in my life.

What a Sad Day: RIP Farrah and Michael

Growing up born in the 70's, Farrah Fawcett made my youth so much fun thinking that I might get to be cool like her; like a Charlie's Angel.

Then, in the 80's, Thriller was the most awesome album, I played it over and over; every time I made a mixed tape off the radio, it always had something from either Michael Jackson or The Police on it.

Today was such a surreal day as I got ready for my Pride party for my theatre company and worked on reviews and various tasks for my theatre life. In the midst of it, came news reports of first one death...and then, as I was about to talk out the door to The Cubbyhole, came news about Michael Jackson.

At the club, people were sad, but the joy of the man's music turned what could have been a maudlin time into a celebration of Michael. Tunes from his whole life were played all night long, and the entire club would sing along. Gone were the talks of his problems with the law and alleged scandals and eccentric behavior. We just remembered him as the great musician he was.

Many of us were saddened that his death almost stole Fawcett's thunder away...but we knew she was going, it was just a matter of time. Nobody saw Jackson passing like this.

There are people that I remember when they died - and where I was when it happened. When Sam Kinnison died, I was sitting on a couch in my apartment in college in Oxford, MS, and was in the midst of trying to bum a smoke off of somebody, when the news hit and we were stunned. When Allen Ginsberg and Jerry Garcia and Jimmy Stewart and Miles Davis passed away...moments in time came to a brief halt...going in slow motion.

I'll remember today for the two passings, but also for the celebration of Pride and my theatre company; and I'll also look back on this day because all of it touched me.

Celebrate PRIDE With MTWorks at the Cubby Hole Tonight!!!

Howdy, Folks!

One of my theatre companies is celebrating pride while earning a few bucks for our next show. If you feel so inclined, come on down to the Cubby Hole bar on W. 12th Street in NYC, and enjoy drinks specials with our guest bartender (and co-star of the Louise Flory's Look After You) Adi; all your tips to her will go towards our theatre company.

The MTWorks blog has a cute article mentioning me and the jello shots I'm making for tonight's shindig. A jello shot for $1! I'm up to my arms in blue, red, orange and green colors...jah, definitely Pride!

Little more info:
Coors Silver Bullet and Pabst Blue Ribbon cans $3.00 // Root beer Float: Vodka, Root Beer liqueur, and soda $3.00 // Sloe Gin Fizz: sloe gin, lemon mix, soda $2.00 // Tom Collins: gin, lemon mix, and soda $3.00 // Whiskey Sour: whiskey and lemon mix $3.00 // Rum Lime Ricky: rum, soda, lemon mix, and lime juice $3.00

Date:
TONIGHT! Thursday, June 25, 2009
Time: 6:30pm - 10:00pm
Location: The CubbyHole
Street: 281 W 12th St. (corner of West 4th St)
NYC

Hope to see you there!

D-Listed: Hilarious - Jackman and Craig Do It On Bdwy

Okay, this link from DListed made me laugh my ass off when my pal Antonio posted it on Facebook...

Apparently Hugh Jackman and Daniel Craig will be staring in a play on Broadway soon...and guess how many horny women and men between the ages of 11 and 101 are going to buy tickets?

Bunches.

Whomever casted this was genius.


http://dlisted.com/node/32248

MTWorks: The Oath - Now Through May 10th

Hello, Everyone!
Sorry to have been MIA, but I have been in another play lately - The Oath, produced by MTWorks, directed by Cristina Alicea.

I'm working with some wonderful actors: Anthony Crep, Sarah Chaney, Louise Flory, Maureen O'Boyle, and Robin Madel...oh, yeah, and me, Dianna Martin.

Jacqueline Goldfingers' The Oath is a Southern Gothic tragedy set in the midst of the Great Depression. A wandering preacher is ensnared in the political and social games of a rural Southern town ruled with a macabre sense of justice by two rival families.

What it's really focused on, which is why it's so relevant to Ornery Woman, is how difficult it was for women during The Great Depression. Women could not be preachers or reverends back then (and the attitudes have changed very little since then, as we heard from our talk back speaker Michelle Nickens on Sunday) and two daughters of an ailing reverend are struggling to find a MAN to replace him...but at what cost? It's a play full of the lies that have to be told in order to actually get by and live.

It's a great show, and I'm so happy to be a part of it. If you are in NYC, please go to www.MTWorks.org and get your ticket and come see the show! Only $18 to see the show...and if you read BUST magazine or their website, look up The Oath on their blog and see what kind of discount you can get! 'Cause the BUST chicks know a good play when they hear about one!

Please leave them a comment and let them know you came by to say howdy - and I hope you come to see the show!

Alive

...but not very well.

'Tis why I've been a quiet contributor. Arthritis took a major slug at me the last day of the anime convention I'm involved with--hands that barely closed around a coffee cup, along with the usual suspects I deal with made the day truly funny in some ways. F'rinstance, the time I was picking up a packet of Japanese candy to give to a volunteer who'd won same, and tried to cuss under my breath as I gave up on that pack (since I'd dropped it half a dozen times already) and used both hands to give the teen another one before her biological clock ran out--yeah, it was actually funny even then.

I'm still dealing with it and several other things negatively impacting my medical care, so once I have things back on an even keel we'll discuss what should happen to asshole construction workers who pull a window out of your bedroom wall (two feet from your bed, and yes, you sleep nude--haha, motherfucker! I bet THAT sight meant you didn't WANT any for a week, let alone try to get any! Have I ever mentioned that I'm not tiny? Well, I'm not. I'm SO not.).

I'm leaning toward Ex-Lax brownies, but I make mine with Ghiradelli ground chocolate and cocoa, highly expensive shit for a shitty practical joke, so maybe I'll have to go with something to do with swapping out his live drill batteries for the dead ones, since the charger's in our apartment.

Oooh, I like that one! Not enough for a Useless Woman lesson, but it should be fun watching him wonder why his batteries don't stay charged...

Hasta laters, chicas y chicos--I'll return when I can quit complaining and start entertaining again.

Hiss Boo

Disclaimer:  If I happen to be married to you and you are reading THIS blog, you do so at your own risk.  We talked about this, Dood.  It may or may not be about you-you're taking your chances!

I can't believe how much energy I expend ACTIVELY hating you.

In a way, it is a blessing, because it helps the time go by faster, and anything that speeds up that process is a good thing right now.  But I can see that this is going to be a problem in the future if I don't come up with a way to deal with you.

Deal with you.  HA.  Oh, how I've dealt with you in my head, you miserable, whiny little princess. Or, as a good friend once said, "Mr. Man, you are SUCH a woman."  I fantasize about pissing on your toothbrush.  In my dreams you are drowning and are reaching out to me and I act like I think you are waving and I wave right back at you and smile grimly and watch the look of horror on your face as you realize I am not grasping your hand and pulling you out, I am turning my back and walking away.  You are a waste of valuable oxygen as far as I'm concerned.

You are such a fucking priss.  Every time I see you my skin crawls.  When you talk to me, it is like someone is standing next to my ear rubbing two pieces of styrofoam together, and JESUS H CHRIST you will fucking WORRY a damn point to DEATH.  We REALIZE they don't do things this way where you come from.  Which, by the way?  Why do you feel the need, every time you mention that place, to emphasize which particular part of that state you come from? It reminds me of those pretentious people who say they are from "upstate New York" as though they were distancing themselves from anyone from a 'lesser' part of the state.  But-that is beside the point.  If things were so great there, why are you here?

It is a tangible thing, this loathing I feel for you.  It has a thick, gritty texture, and it tastes like dirt and metal.  It doesn't just annoy, it makes my heart twist because I am not used to feeling like this about another human being.  I don't like the part of me you seem to bring out.

Couldn't you just go away?

Theatre Reviewer Opinions: Everyone Has One

So, with two shows left to go for my run in American Rapture at 42nd street's Beckett Theatre, I can say it has been, overall, a wonderful experience. I've been with a great theatre company, directed by a wonderful and brilliant director, I've gotten to work with a fabulous script by one of this century's most gifted playwrights, and I've been allowed to share the stage with a collection of incredibly talented and amazing actors. It's been a pleasure.

I've also been blessed with several wonderful reviews, including one in Backstage, which singled my acting out as pretty darn good. "The two actors who appear only in the Saroyan play, about a man in jail for possible rape, are exceptional. Stewart Walker as the prisoner conveys an experience and yearning far beyond the confines of his cell, and Dianna Martin is simply heartbreaking as the jail's powerless cook, who is as lonely and longing as her prisoner and keeps him company."
There were several others that said lovely things and I'm thankful to each and every one of those reviewers who thought my work good enough to comment on and say something nice about...at least all the hard work I did didn't go to waste.

Then, of course, there are people who don't like what my co-star and I did. Our play - the style and the acting that would effectively carry it, are not to some people's tastes. So a few reviewers simply mentioned everyone BUT us in their lovely reviews of the show. Okay...I guess I'd rather be not mentioned than to be singled out as something they hated. Everyone has an opinion.

But one reviewer did mention how much he disliked Hello Out There (the play that my co-star and I were in in the evening of short plays, a play that was written by William Saroyan) - and the actors work so much, that he barely left time to talk about how much he loved the rest of the show - a point he was trying to make but could not do so because he was too busy enjoying being a catty bastard. In fact...I wouldn't mind so much, except that he also put down my looks; my actual physical appearance. "...She’s, well, plain. Dumpy. Homely? Yes." Uh, WTF? The attacks on my physical features notwithstanding, the (I would say writer, but...) also gives away the ending completely in the review (spoiling it for anyone who hasn't read/seen it) and says basically that our performances and my fat ass made the the rest of the plays of the evening look bad. He spent so much time talking about that...that he didn't have hardly any time to really focus on the beauty of the rest of the show, which he agreed was wonderful. Hell, if you don't like what we did but you like the rest of the show, move the fuck on and talk about THEIR good work.

I ask you - what is the point of that? In all honesty, it almost seemed like someone was going for the jugular...it was unnecessary. I've read reviews from this site before and thought that some of the writers were often writing more to hear themselves talk, expounding on diatribes filled with multi-syllable words and conclusions drawn about theatre from an intellectual...and nasty nasty standpoint instead of one based in what was truly grounded in the acting. It's a good thing that the "writer" of the piece doesn't have a bio; I'd go send my Min Pin Chico to crap on his doorstep...with a picture of my "plain, dumpy, homely" ass next to it extending a middle finger.

The only good thing about his review was that he gave good kudos to my fellow cast-mates, whom I think did a wonderful job - especially that Laura got a splendid mention, which I think has been overlooked too often. I also think that he did a disservice to my co-star, Stewart; for fuck's sake, if you don't like fat actresses, then say it; don't take it out on Stewie; he did a great job.

But I have to remember: our director made a good point - about the irony that so many reviewers came to the same show and everyone walked out with a different point of view. And so...to be up on stage, one has to be able to take the good with the bad and not put too much stock in either. Difficult to do, indeed.

Adventures in Modern Eating: Had Enough Of Your Plate?

“ Are you hungry? ”

“ No. I am tired of eating. It is so high maintenance and costs too much. I am tired of it. I cannot take it anymore! It is too much responsibility!

I want to take a break. Can I not get someone else to do it for me? I just want a vacation. Day in . . . Night out . . . Will it never end? Can I not delegate it?

I just need to hibernate like a bear, or live off fat humps like a camel. There is so much peer pressure—just because everyone else eats, does not mean that I must! I would rather find people who do not have enough to eat and go back to my roots.

There is just too much from which to choose—having to select all the “right” foods to eat, or else risk making myself sick, or too light, or too heavy. So much stress and pressure. Can it not be simple?

All this ingesting and excreting!
I just want to starve and die already!

And do not even get me started on the responsibilities of having to breathe in and out all of the time!!!

Inhale . . . Exhale . . . Inhale . . . Exhale . . . Inhale . . . Exhale . . .

It is utterly EXHAUSTING!

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.


So ask me again later. ”

Oberon Theatre Ensemble: Much Ado About Nothing and American Rapture

Well, I've gone and done it again: I'm in a play on 42nd street that opens Feb. 14th, American Rapture, and runs in rep with Oberon's other play, Much Ado About Nothing.

If you're in NYC, I suggest you come on out and see them - or, at least see me in American Rapture (it's an evening of short plays, and the one I am in is William Saroyan's Hello Out There).

Hope to see you at the theatre! I'm very stoked to be in an Off-Broadway show.

OBERON THEATRE ENSEMBLE‘S WINTER REP 2009
12th Anniversary Season: Shakespeare, Saroyan & Dinelaris

OBERON THEATRE ENSEMBLE is pleased to announce Winter Rep 2009, celebrating the company’s 12th Anniversary Repertory Season. The company will be presenting William Shakespeare’s Much About Nothing in conjunction with the series called, American Rapture, which includes Hello Out There by William Saroyan and world premiere plays by Alex Dinelaris (nominated Lucile Lortel/Drama Desks).

Brad Fryman, Oberon Theatre Ensemble Artistic Director, believes, "Although written over 400 years ago, the primal, the Machiavellian, the sultry and the romantic desires captured by The Bard, prevail in modern society. The two plays present contrasting looks at similar themes. In Much Ado, we see two true romantics on the road to marriage and another couple quite opposed to marriage who finally fight their way into each other's arms. In American Rapture the characters are also fighting to find their way, whether it's through relationships, self examination, or violence.”

Winter Rep 2009 will play a three-week engagement at The Beckett Theater at Theater Row (410 W 42nd St). Performances begin Thursday, February 12th, and continue through Sunday, March 1st. Tickets are $20.00 and $13.75 students/seniors. For reservations, please call 212-279-4200 or visit www.ticketcentral.com to purchase tickets online. Tickets may also be purchased in person at Theater Row’s box office, open daily from 12pm-8pm.

Much Ado About Nothing
by William Shakespeare
directed by Mark Karafin

Benedick and Beatrice have vowed to remain single and appear to enjoy their battle of wits too much to ever call a truce. Young lovers Hero and Claudio conspire to change their minds. A romantic comedy about winning the one you didn’t know you wanted most.

Thursday, Feb 12 at 8pm
Friday Feb 13 at 8pm
Monday, Feb 16 at 7pm
Tuesday, Feb 17 at 8pm
Wednesday, Feb 18 at 2pm
Saturday, Feb 21 at 8pm
Sunday, Feb 22 at 3pm
Wednesday, Feb 25 at 8pm
Thursday, Feb 26 at 8pm
Friday, Feb 27 at 8pm
Saturday, Feb 28 at 2pm

American Rapture
Hello Out There by William Saroyan and world-premiere plays by Alex Dinelaris
directed by Alex Dinelaris

An evening of short plays, some humorous, some tragic, explore the unique mixture of loneliness and hope, which make up the American Experience. Playwright/director Alex Dinelaris, who was nominated for a Lucille Lortel (Best Musical) and two Drama Desk Awards (Book & Lyrics) for his work on the off-Broadway hit, ZANNA DON’T!, weaves his way through modern relationships, religious hypocrisy, love, loss and the endless cycle of violence that threatens to swallow our society whole. The evening culminates with William Saroyan’s Hello Out There, the powerful tale of two outcasts who find love at the most unlikely of times, in the most unlikely of places.

Saturday, Feb 14 at 8pm
Sunday, Feb 15 at 3pm
Wednesday, Feb 18 at 8pm
Thursday, Feb 19 at 8pm
Friday, Feb 20 at 8pm
Saturday, Feb 21 at 2pm
Monday, Feb 23 at 7pm
Tuesday, Feb 24 at 8pm
Wednesday, Feb 25 at 2pm
Saturday, Feb 28 at 8pm
Sunday, Mar 1 at 3pm

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Visit www.oberontheatre.org for more information.

Please check out The Fab Marquee as well as Kampfire Films PR for information as well.

Krazy Kats: A Friday 'Hello Out There'

Yes, I'm a confirmed Krazy Kat Lady.

And yes...the little bastards, along with my dog Chico, run my life.

But I thought this was so appropriate...especially since today I put my kitten in her place. She thinks she runs the house, but she doesn't (although she has successfully destroyed my blinds and is now trying to ruin other parts of the house).

Photo by Dale Harris

I'm turning *cough* years old on Sunday...another birthday. One would think I'm old enough to handle the little furballs...but they always find a way to my heart...and my pocketbook.

TGIF, folks - have a great weekend.

xo
Billychic

Sad Face

I try not to get too confessional and weepy on the internets.  I strive to keep my little corner of the web as entertaining and drama-free as possible.

However.

I recently read this article, and for this first time I feel ready to go public with something I try to down-play as much as possible: my depression.

Get ready for some deep shit, you guys.

It began after I graduated from college. My years at Shenandoah were some of the happiest of my life. College was where I found a "group" for the first time. It was where I learned about and submerged myself into music and theatre. It was on the campus newspaper that I discovered my talent and love of writing and humor. We all tend to "find ourselves" in college, and my case was no different. I was content.

Then I graduated, and that was that.

Suddenly, my closest friends were scattered all over the country. Days that were normally full of classes now needed filling. After two years in my own apartment, I was once again sharing a bedroom and living under parental rule (this wasn't necessarily a bad thing, as I'll get to later). I didn't make a plan for the future. Outside of a month overseas I had nothing solid to look forward to.

Partly, this was my own fault. When deciding as a teenager to dedicate my life to the one thing that made me blissfully happy, there were a lot of things I didn't take into consideration. Mainly, the fact that my life- which at that point had a rhythm and order of school and summers- would never have structure again. I had no idea how important that was to me, or how I would deal without it.

After I returned from England, I used that left-over energy to get myself cast in my first show out of school. I was in theatre again. I was in my element. I made friends. I felt like things could be better, normal. There was life after college. However, every show has to end, and as closing night approached I began to panic at the prospect of facing the empty days again. Was I strong enough to do this forever?

It was at this point that my parents realized something was wrong. We talked. I confessed how miserable I was, and how I didn't understand why. All that happened to me was graduation, and that happens to everyone. Why was it harder for me?

Immediately, my parents got me to the doctor, got me on anti-depressants, and into therapy. The next couple of years my parents were heroically patient as I fumbled with prescriptions, day-jobs, frustrations, and set-backs. Eventually, with the help of the medication and through working with my therapist, I became healthy enough to move to New York, while my parents continue to be a rock of support and love from home.

I'll end my story there, even though the story never truly ends. I'm still in therapy. There are still set-backs and struggles and the shadow of a threat that my worst days may yet return. That is the nature of depression, though. It's not a disease that you "cure". It is something you may have to deal with your entire life.

I once again need to express my profound love and gratitude to my parents. In my stubbornness, I never would have admitted on my own that I needed help. Without them I know that depression would have killed me someday.

That felt good to get out.

The reason I felt the compelled to air my own dirty laundry, was because today I became painfully aware about the misconceptions that still surround depression.

The article I linked to is about a theory proposed by let's say scientists. To wit:

"According to scientists, depression is good for us. They suggest that medicating depression as if it is a disease stops us embracing our miserable side and removes the motivation to change our lives for the better."

Fascinating. Go on.

"Being sad can leave victims stronger, better able to cope with life's challenges, and can lead to great achievements."

That's true! I achieved a lot during my own depression, like sleeping 16 hours a day and losing ten pounds from simply not eating!

"Studies suggest sadness could have a protection function. For example, an ape that doesn't obviously slink off after it loses status may be seen as continuing to challenge the dominant ape - and that could be fatal."

Oh, now that's just silly. If an ape doesn't pout after losing to a stronger ape, that doesn't mean he wasn't appropriately emo. The ape could have just been really stupid. Darwinism, people! It works!

"Professor Jerome Wakefield, of New York University, said: 'I think one of the functions of intense negative emotions is to stop our normal functioning - to make us focus on something else for a while.'"

And that's when my brain exploded.

What's wrong with this article is that regular human sorrow is being generalized as depression, and that's a dangerous misinterpretation.

There is nothing unhealthy about sadness. Sadness is natural and inevitable. Without sadness, there would be no happiness. Sadness is a part of life.

Depression is not sadness.

Clinical depression is a physical condition. It is a numbness. It's the inability to feel happy, sad, angry, anything. It is not healthy and it doesn't have to be accepted by anyone as "natural".

Unfortunately, there is no medical "test" to diagnose depression, much like ADD, it's redheaded step-cousin (which I also dealt with at one point Hi, ADD! I miss you! Hey! Look at what the cat's doing!). It's easy to declare someone as depressed because it all depends on the sufferer's words and behavior. It's a tricky little devil, and hence all the fuzziness and grey areas surrounding it.

That doesn't make it any less real.

I put my story out there in hopes that someone with unshakable opinions on depression as "weakness" will read this and think about it in a different way. I hope it will open up a few dialogues about depression, diagnosis, and treatment. Above all, I hope someone who is depressed themselves will read this and get the help they need and deserve.

Thank you for your indulgence. Now, back to my regularly scheduled nonsense.

Are You a Good Wife or Girlfriend?

This is priceless.
From Housekeeping Monthly's May 1955 issue: "The Good Wife's Guide"
and of course...don't forget...
A good wife always knows her place!

(click the image below to see it larger and follow along)




How about these as replacement bullets? Item by item:

• Forget About Dinner - let him bring in take-out or make his own damn meal. You just spent a day working yourself or with the kids...suggest pizza, chinese, or thai. If he balks, take the kids out to a restaurant (or go alone), and leave him at home.
  
• Prepare to Be Comfortable - since he's probably not even going to notice you as he makes a beeline for the bar for a cocktail after surviving yet another day not getting canned in the New Economy, feel free to wear sweatpants, your hair up in a ponytail, and a rock t-shirt and bare feet. If he wants you to look pretty - tell him to buy you some new clothes.
  
• Be a Little More Gay - go bang a woman instead. You'll get a lot more on your returns.
  
• Don't Worry About the Clutter - just hide everything in the closet. Preferably his.
  
• Dusty? Don't Worry! - get one of the cats or dogs to run their tail back and forth through the dust...it will be moved around enough so that everyone sneezes but you can actually see through to what's underneath!
  
• Make the Place Comfortable - and then I recommend buying a JackRabbit vibrator...because catering to YOUR comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
  
• Turn Up the Stereo - crank up whatever tunes you want to hear; encourage the animals and kids to make noise! It's gonna be a fuckin' party!!!
  
• Be Happy to See Him - if he deserves it.
  
• Greet Him Accordingly - if he's a darling, then be his sugar mama. If he's an ass, tell him he can kiss yours, and head out with your friends to the nearest pub.
  
• Listen To Him - and get him listen to you. If you both have issues about your day, you can share them together. If he thinks that his problems are the only important ones, remind him that he's going to have an even bigger problem if he keeps acting like that.
  
• Don't Be a Doormat - if he comes home late all the time, goes to places without you (including dinner) on a regular basis, and basically just thinks of you as the doorgirl/coat check chick, then find yourself someone else who does love you and leave his ass. Be sure to try to talk to him first; if that doesn't work, then be sure to not be home when he DOES get home...make him wonder for a change.
  
• Your Goal - to be the best person you can be for yourself...and if he's a winner, he'll be able to enjoy and reap the benefits of that and celebrate that with you.
  
• Don't Greet Him Bitching - he's probably had a rough day, too. However, once he's home, feel free to share your life and the issues you may have, and encourage him to tell you about his day. If there is a crisis, that supercedes anything and blurt it out when he gets there.
  
• Have A Game Plan If He Stays Out All Night - including a baseball bat to bust upside his head.
  
• Greet Him With A Cocktail - and then ask if he wants one too.
  
• Have a Pillow Fight - it could lead to some really good sex.
  
• Concerned? You Have Every Right to Ask Questions - any relationship that isn't a two-way street verbally is destined for the dumpster. You need to listen to him...and he needs to listen to you.
  
• A Good Wife/Girlfriend Alway Knows - period.
  

A New Year of No Devotions

We were at Arthur's last night, an ancient Dixieland pub just south of Village Cigars on Christopher Street. Taut balloons hung in bunches, some in plastic bags to open and drop when the New Year rang in. A blues band thumped, the blind guitarist growling (the white bassist took our eyes with his broad back and terrible hair).

M the barback in a black shawl, black pixie hair, matching eyes tired, moves as an old wench. She is drenched in oil and resigned about the fact.

I keep thinking about Mickey Rourke (the bassist reminds me). That damn movie, The Wrestler, it got to me. And later I go on Youtube and he's on a British talk show talking about his seven Chihuahuas and the kisses one gives when he blows on her ear.

My roommate and the girl in the zebra shirt are against the wall. They have glitter on their faces, so do I. We make up dances based on cooking skills: "The Pepper Shaker," "The Pizza Cutter," "The Dough Roller," etc. I drink four Sidecars, a glass of Grand Marnier, and an icy length of Patron Gold. There is joy and laughter as there must be, as people insist on, as is doled out on special occasions committed to drinking. I am happy because I am not sad, because there is no point - to worry about dying, to hear the rockets in Gaza, the snipers in Mumbai, the dying in Darfur, the screaming in the Congo, Rick Warren at the inauguration, Mickey Rourke kissing his dogs, everybody in my office playing cards in the conference room - no one asked me. I can't think about these things because I am not alone, because there are people here who will give me cigarettes and be amused by my tongue which comes out under a pair of crossed eyes, because there is Joe with his hand on my thigh and his worried look and his endless cash and his dedication and love and me thinking about Mickey Rourke and his vanquished face, stretched and pinned behind the ears, but not in a way you'd think was intentional, in a way you'd think was lonely, like he went to see a comedy all by himself in the middle of the afternoon.

Goddamn that movie, it's eating at me (his hearing aid on the night stand, like mine).

Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Happy New Year. My roommate and I bump butts. Joe and I kiss and hug and kiss and hug again. There are text messages but not hookahs. There are bathroom breaks but no hook-ups. There are no "devotions to God," not like my Mom's New Years (she went to a wedding). "We gave our devotions to God, and then we drank," she wrote in her Myspace blog.

The boys and girls split. We are at a diner, we are in a cab, I'm asleep, I'm not, I'm sliding my credit card and see the cabbie has a mustache and holds a look I recognize as concern but might just be hurry. Doors are opened, shoes slide on ice. I look back before shutting the door to make sure nothing is left behind and in the empty stretch of leather sits a pool of piss-colored light, seat buckles limp in the crux like small, dead animals. Happy New Year, we say to the driver, Happy Fucking 2009.

We are in the hall, my cat stares. There are showers and chocolate. I fall asleep with my laptop on my belly. The morning, my roommate tells me she dreams the cat attack her and she kicked him out in a flood. She feels guilty and I make fun of her. I tell her it's a classic inner-demon battle dreams and make coffee. My roommate and Zebra leave and I crawl into bed with my laptop. I google "Mickey Rourke."

Useless Bitches Part 2: Relocating Hammers

I think we've all been here.

We have the day off--and so does the rest of the continent. We decide we're going to do something mellow, like, oh, how about--KNITTING? Yeah, we're gonna spend the afternoon knitting and reading all the blogs we're behind because we actually had shit to do during the holiday season and couldn't find a Useless Bitch who was either capable or willing to do it. But that's all over now and all we want is peace on---

BANG! BAM! BAM! (INSERT SWEARING MALE HERE) BAMBAMBAM!

What does a Useless Bitch do? Goes out there and says, "Uh, um, when are you going to be done doing a job that's actually a union job and you could do on a non-day off?" Now picture her being ignored--the guys know who the Useless Bitches are and what they'll do if you bother to answer them--nothing, not a damned thing.

Now, we useful bitches? We're dangerous in this position. Here's what WE do:

Lesson 2: Relocating Hammers and Other Forms of Revenge

Requirements: One knitting/crochet/scrapbook project in dire need of being finished, but isn't getting done because some asshole is outside doing something like, oh, putting in WINDOWS in the northern USA in DECEMBER? Yeah, that'll do.

Why yes, it's happening at my house right now--how'd you guess? I might have to drop the window here and there because even tho I'm in my own room there's one window left to replace in here and even though I got a great electric throw blanket, it'd be just like these guys to decide to work in my room and scatter shit all over my knitting.

Other requirements: A six-pack of beer, preferably one belonging to the noise makers, but not necessary due to alternate revenge.

A paraffin spa, preferably one where the wax is rose-scented or peach-scented. Although mine's scented with several essential oils for use when my hands are sore, I think it would work.

Your phone number, in what looks like his handwriting.

Your best friend's phone number, ditto.

One of his tools, preferably a hammer--they're not cheap, you know. You know this because some asshole used his best patronizing tone to tell you so because you needed it to drive a nail into something in the house but (Dog forbid) didn't put it away again. A Sawsall is even better--but could catch fire due to the paraffin, so perhaps sticking to non-electric tools is best.

PROCEDURE:

Begin by wondering aloud why ONE guy can put a window in within an hour's time but when he gets a "buddy" over to "help with the heavy part" the work slows down by about triple the time it was getting done before. Muse that if a lady were in charge that work would be done already and he could be having a beer from the fridge, one of that six-pack of really good shit you picked up a couple of days ago.

Leave them to stew on that statement while you plug in the paraffin spa and call your best friend and tell her that "It's on like Donkey Kong" and you need a hand with this bitch of a man that's over here.

While you're waiting for her, give yourself a paraffin dip--trust me, you're not using that wax again once you use it for this lesson. When your friend gets here, give her a treatment while you explain the procedure. While she hardens, swipe a tool while you muse once again that the inside of the house is nearly the same temperature as the outside thanks to half the windows being gone and the tarps not taped on right. Tape down the tarps yourself while you search for a good tool to dip--yep, into the wax.

Give the tool to your friend after you take off her wax and tell her to dip it enough times to really get full of it in places where it'll be tough to get it out. This is where you grab that six-pack and head for the truck.

Guys like these always have a truck, and only let their women drive it when their cars are down, mostly because they're just too proud of their trucks to trust anyone with them.

So--that's why you've got the truck as a target. If there's no truck it means the truck's in the shop getting useless mods done, and this is actually her car, so they'll be in even worse shit when all is said and done. Shake one beer, then open the top, letting it spray all over the back seat. Meanwhile tell your friend to plant the tool under the passenger seat, then go back and fake a man's handwriting with your phone numbers on some half-assed torn-up piece of his paper in the car. Getting one of his deposit slips to do this on is a bonus win.

When she's got the phone numbers ready, drop them in the back seat--one under the back window, the other somewhere else that looks like it's been dropped too but exposed anyhow. Leave the rest of the six-pack in the back seat--if you're truly pissed about the way you've been patronized and ridiculed by the macho he-men who did work on your house on the most ridiculous day of the year, you'll add to the fun by calling the cops about that truck/car that was weaving past your house "just now".

If you think of more things to add to this lesson, put them in the comments, but I'll leave it at this for now. When the men are "done", write the check to the wrong company and sign your husband/SO's name to it, even if it's your account and house. Sure, it makes you look like a Useless Bitch but you don't want them catching on too soon. When they ask about the beer, ask, "What beer?" with the most innocent smile as you and your friend sip wine from teacups.

If you've pulled this off, they'll be in the paper in the morning. If you've done an exceptional job, they'll be on the TV news. And if you did a perfectly stellar job? They'll be in the obituaries.

Not that you'd wish that on anyone, but who knows what another non-Useless Bitch will do when she's found out he got stopped by the cops because of the beer in the backseat (while he's supposed to be working, remember) of HER car, so when she looks she finds the phone numbers along with the rest of the six-pack.

I recommend mercy here--you really don't actually want him dead, do you? After all, a guy like that isn't worth the jail time. So tell his wife he was an asshole at your house so you fixed his backseat and called the cops to get him in the shit. Whether she's Useless or not won't matter--if she's Useless she'll make him pay for those women's phone numbers because she didn't believe you; if she's non-Useless she'll take the credit cards out for the day and make him literally PAY for what she found.

Either way? Mission accomplished and end of Lesson 2.

I'm betting the noisy nuisances are going to do the front door next week, so there just might be a new lesson very soon.

Happy Holidays to All and Happy New Year From the Gals at Ornery Woman!

In favored tradition, I would like to share one of my favorite clips for the holidays and the coming New Year:

Southpark's The Spirit of Christmas

Please note: there is serious profanity and religious slurs for all kinds of people. It's SOUTHPARK, people, so don't say I didn't warn you if you click are shocked at Cartman calling Kyle a "pigfucker", and Jesus trying to kill Santa Claus.

If the vid below doesn't come up, just click the link above.



Happy Holidays to all. And thank you for reading and sharing our lives, tortures, and aspirations that we share on here. Let's hope 2009 is even better.

Love,
Billychic

The Biggest Tool In History

This is hilarious. Good morning...to all the women who've unfortunately met someone like this...

OMG - he sounds like my ex boyfriend from college, Daniel Timins.



http://view.break.com/527579 - Watch more free videos

Plea to the Furies

Disclaimer:  If I happen to be married to you and you are reading THIS blog, you do so at your own risk.  We talked about this, Dood.  It may or may not be about you-you're taking your chances!

Dear God, Goddess, fates, furies, higher power or consciousness, Great Baboo, Gizmo, or just plain Bob, please hear my prayers.  I have to believe that something out there hears my plea or I will lose my mind.

How ironic that it came out like that, oh mighty Whoever or Whatever You are.  For I am here, for a change, on my own behalf.

We talk, You and I, regularly, and I thank you for all the blessings in my life, for I know they have not been earned, but are freely given.  I know that grace is like grits, that it too comes free with a belief in You, so I am going to take it on faith that You are listening.  I usually come to You either in Thanksgiving or to ask you to intercede in someone's life who is suffering or in some great need, but tonight, I am being selfish. 

I know that our family has won some cosmic joke of an Alzheimer's lottery, and I am doing my part to keep from hitting its next big jackpot.  But if I do succumb, Oh Great Is, please, I beg of You:

Please allow me to lose those pieces of myself which You choose to take away so stealthily with dignity.  When I get confused, please allow me to see that this is Your way of taking away my worries, not some plot of others to get something by me.  Please allow this to become a time of peace for me, not a time of bitterness and paranoia.  Do not let me become the woman who has to make sure everyone else follows the rules because it makes me feel more in control of a world that I barely recognize.  Do not let me assume that every person I meet is trying to take advantage of me because I am frightened because I can't remember their names.  Let me focus on the wonder and happiness of meeting them, over and over, because some small part of my brain knows how important they were or are to me.  Let me draw pictures full of childlike images and love stuffed animals and if I'm to lose my present, please allow me to revisit my past. And please-slip in a memory or a story to draw a laugh from an old friend or a new one.  Do not let my fear infect those around me so that they stay away, like avoiding me will keep it from happening to them.  Let me be a blessing, an example of how to lose oneself without losing one's essence.  If You are to allow the me to leak out a little at a time, at least leave the funny, and the joy, and the love.  I wouldn't ask if I wasn't supposed to be a reflection of You.

Betty Page - RIP

Bettie Page, one of the most beautiful and sexy icons of the 20th century, who also mainstreamed the BDSM movement to some degree - has died.

Right alongside Marilyn Monroe, Marlene Dietrich (who we all know was gay, but only later on), Lana Turner - Page was just as important of a sexual icon, but she also embodied the alternative sexual lifestyle, to the point that her visage has remained a constant source of joy - and cash flow - for people who wish to embody not just the raw and lovely sexuality and fun she shared in her photos, but also the brazen underground culture of the BDSM movement that was going on at that time - and has become more mainstream today. I even own my own Bettie Page necklace/bracelet set (given as a gift by Roisin) and several other merchandise that makes me happy to display her proudly as one of my own icons.



I daresay if it were not for people like Bettie Page, the BDSM movement and even some of the fashion that is loosely associated with it would not be what it is today.



She, like Marylin, was a natural, someone who loved the camera and the camera loved her. And regarding her extra step into nudity? According to the referenced article, Bettie said, ""God approves of nudity. Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, they were naked as jaybirds."



RIP, Bettie. You will live on like Marilyn - but not like Marilyn, because you are your own beautiful - and intensely different person...and icon.

Okay, So I Met A Guy Last Night

...who is an amazing photographer and filmmaker. He worked with my father 8 years ago. He is 2 years older than me. He has lived in China for the past 8 years and just got back to America two weeks ago for the first time.

And for the first time in four months - I kissed a guy. It was not a huge, passionate make-out session - it was a single little kiss. And suddenly, I realized, that I am not dead inside anymore. Whether or not he and I just remain platonic - after spending 10 hours until 5am talking and drinking and having a kiss - but he's a wandering man who goes where his work is, so he won't be around for long, I don't think - it doesn't matter.

I'm not dead inside anymore. I can feel passion again (dude was so hot I can't even begin to say it; and I don't think he really, truly knows how beautiful he is...in a haunting way)...I can feel giggly again, like a little girl. I was flirting. I was having thoughts - I wanted to rip his clothes off, and I just wanted to talk. It was so weird.

But yes - I will repeat it again, for I can't believe it: I'm not dead inside anymore.

He was teaching me Mandarin last night while we listened to The Miami Vice Fucking Soundtrack and laughed and talked and read a scene from my play that I will be doing together.

I may not ever sleep with him - and that will be fine (although what a waste - Oh, the Places We Could Go!)...I would love to be his friend.

But he opened up my mind, body, and heart again. I have a crush. One who isn't married or just fucked up and makes me feel unattractive. I think S. is into Asian women...so I may not be his type. I have so many types it could fill an atlas of the human geosystem. That doesn't matter...

Oh Jesus it feels good to be alive! I don't care if the world stops tomorrow - as long as I know now that I can feel those things again. Even if they never lead to anything more than friends with him...I know that I feel beautiful again.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

I know why he's sad, now

Meet Pixel

Pixel went to her forever home with my brother just after Thanksgiving. So far, she'd been doing well, and today was her first vet appointment. They found a little problem.

Very little, since HE's only 2 months old.

Yes, HE. We thought Pixel was a girl all along, til the vet, um, pointed something out. Fortunately my brother is already in pet love so he wouldn't consider asking us to take him back--he's keeping the cat, definitely. The text answer after I asked?

"Mineeeeeeeee!"

So, enjoy the cat face and picture petting shredded silk, and you'll have the image of the Furry Prince.

Spud the Kitty Trying to ...er...fit...in box

Photo: Dale Harris

Okay. This has officially gotten me out of my bad mood.
My roommate took this pic of my cat Spud...and, well, it reminds me of myself. LOL

I love my pets.

Today...When you walk out in the world...Please Be Kind.

I bump into assholes every day. Unfortunately, some of them are my friends, too. I ask that people make an effort make today and the following week "I'm Not Going To Be An Asshole" week...and then try extending that into a month...and whatadya know? Next thing you know, you aren't being an asshole.

I only say this because I'm an inch away from kicking like 20 people out of my life, and after that, slaughtering other fuckers I meet in in the subway, the street, in the line at Zabars (especially there - they smell Shicksa on me) and I really am very close to being homicidal.

Me,on a good day.

There are people who don't talk to me because their friend and I are no longer going out...although everyone else does who is that guy's friend. There are people who think I'm an unprofessional actress because I couldn't memorize my lines for the last show...uh, lemme see: the director is my boyfriend and our relationship is crumbling around me. That had "fucked" written all over it from the beginning. Oh, and there are people who get mad when I can't hang out, but forget that I have like three medical issues that prevent me from even being able to get to work...much less go and party late on a week night.

So...be nice. Be kind. Don't be an asshole. Or I'll have to kick your ass - and if I can't do it, I know people who can.

I just got cast in two plays and will be directing a reading...was just in a movie this last week...and stuff that is GOOD is happening to me. I don't need dingleberry fartknockers bringing me down. Can I get an Amen?

Good Morning!

Too close for comfort

Disclaimer:  If I happen to be married to you and you are reading THIS blog, you do so at your own risk.  We talked about this, Dood.  It may or may not be about you-you're taking your chances!

Once upon a time, oh...?  About five years ago?  I found out that my baby boy was not such a baby anymore.  

The family computer in the living room was not working one night, so I decided to go check my email in Boychild's room while he was at a basketball game.  I went turned on his light and looked at his screen and sighed.  He had so many downloaded programs on his computer that automatically started whenever it was booted up that it took ten minutes to close them all.  If you didn't, though, the computer wouldn't run worth a chit, so I resigned myself to the land of clicking x's and sat down at his desk.  Every time I x'd out of something, there was another layer underneath.  Exasperating.

So I'm sitting there clicking things closed, when all of a sudden the layer underneath revealed my little boy.  ALL of my little boy, in all his glory, in the exact same thing he was wearing when he came into this world.  Nothing but a hard on.  And OHMYGAWD he was farking NOT my little anything anymore.  Nice image to be burned into my brain for the REST. OF. MY. LIFE.

Now, I'm not the kind of mom who would ever go snooping, but when something like this hits you between the eyes like a two by four any reasonably intelligent person is going to do at least a little more investigating, so I continued to close things out until I was down to a blank screen. I opened AOHell and signed in as Boy (his password was stored) and went to look in his pictures.  Again.  OMG.  Then I looked in his sent mail, and sure enough, he is not just admiring his own goodies, he was SHARING them.  There is only so much I can take, so I didn't dig any further.  Suffice it to say I was FREAKING THE HELL OUT.

Now, Boy has some long standing problems due to a traumatic birth, the least of which is a sometimes childlike naivete. When confronted with what I had found, he said that "All of the kids I know are doing it."  I took away his webcam and computer privileges, and we had a talk about pornography and child pornography and how he had no flipping clue as to who those pictures were being looked at by.  I asked him if he thought a girl would think he was a nice boy if he sent her pictures like that, and that one stopped him in his tracks.  He looked at me with stricken eyes and said "You don't think I'm a nice boy anymore?"   I shit you not when I say that there is no way this child could have been playing me.  The upshot of the evening was that he promised it would not happen again.

Fast forward a couple of years and Boy is a young adult.  We are close, this young man and I, and he knows he can talk to me about pretty much anything.  The Unit was on the boat, and one night as we are about to eat dinner, the Boy says "I want to be circumcised."  Um.  Nice dinner conversation?  I looked at him blankly and said "What?" and he repeated himself "I want to be circumcised."  I thought back 18 years to the long months he was in the hospital neonatal unit and the conversation on this very subject I had back then.  If memory serves, I told the doctors "Not just no, but hell no you're not circumcising him.  He's been through enough."  Heh.  Hindsight is 20/20 and all that crap, right?  I asked the Boy what brought on this desire to trim up the young baloney pony, and if he was aware of what that particular procedure involved.  He replied that he was still a virgin because his girlfriend was squicking out on how ye old Johnson looked, and that yes, he knew what was involved.  Yeah, right.

I enjoyed reminding him of that conversation a few weeks later as he lay moaning on the couch grousing at me that his twig and giggleberries were killing him.  Killing him?  Killing ME is more like it.  Of course the damn thing has to fooking AIR DRY and be tended every several hours with antibiotic cream etc.  And since he only has the use of ONE hand (very obviously only one is NEEDED for some things, but evidently not THIS) guess who got to do said tending?  May I just say that I know that boy's wanker better than I ever EVER wanted to?

Fast forward another couple of years to the almost present.  I started my blog in September as a text based document, but slowly but surely have been learning (by trial and error since I know no 'puter geeks in real life) how to add little elements into my posts such as links and pictures.  As the birds can sometimes be distracting when I'm trying to write, I have taken to occasionally going over to the house to write instead of doing it (heh.  I said doing it.  Just sayin'.) here at the houseboat.  Two weeks ago, I ended up doing just that-preparing my post for the day over at the house on the Boy's (now a full fledged adult) badass computer.  As I am flipping back and forth between servers and typing in web addresses, these browsers are pulling up all kinds of porn sites in their histories.  I didn't really notice it at first, as Iwas actually working at the time.  When I mailed myself a picture from my IPhone and then tried to find it, however, I was in for a rude awakening.  For there in the Pictures folder are more damn pictures-LOTS more damn pictures-of Mr. Happy!  WTF?  

I let him know very SUBTLY, that I had found them.  I was giving about to give away my old phone and needed to update it, but told him I'd have to do it "At the houseboat, because I don't want to send a stranger pictures of your dick."  Heh.  You'd have thought I hit him with a taser. His head whipped around like Linda Blair's in The Exorcist and he said "What?"  I said "You heard me.  I can't update my old phone on your computer because all of your dick pictures are on it."  He looked mortified and muttered something about "I can take them off."  

Am I alone here?  What can I do to convince this kid he needs to keep his pecker in his pants?  I can't babysit him.  Legally, he is an adult.  I'm at my wits end, and I just don't know what to do. He wants to be an actor-maybe his calling IS porn-do I want to stifle his MUSE? *snort*  I'm sorry.  I know this is not funny, but if I don't laugh about it, I am going to lose my damn mind.  Any suggestions?

Mumbai--Answering the call?

Was the slaughter in Mumbai an answer to the call for Jihad from my post, "The election's over--now the Jihad starts?"

It seems an obvious "Hell yes!" to me, something I find more saddening than the murders themselves.

The US isn't the only place one finds sheeple, it seems. Extreme Muslims will kill because the wrong national leader isn't Muslim enough. I think we're fortunate that we have few extreme Christians that will kill for their beliefs.

Let me clarify: It is NOT right for ANYONE to kill for their faith--be they Christian, Muslim, or of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. I'm just grateful that few Christians feel the need to kill over their faith given the large number of Christians in the US. If more Christians were extreme enough to kill for dogma, it could get mighty bloody around here.

You see, I live in a mix of Lutherans, Catholics and Methodists, with a smattering of Episcopalians and members of Assembly of God. I know of few Jewish folk in my area, so few that there is no synagogue closer than about 2 hours' drive from me. There are more Amish in my area than Buddhists.

Given this sort of religious distribution, even my very small valley town could be a slaughterhouse--if there were an abortion clinic closer than the three hours' drive that it is, Mumbai would have the potential to be repeated here.

Does this make the extreme Christians who think it's a call from God to murder a doctor who performs abortions better than the engineers of the disaster in Mumbai? Absolutely not. I could make a case for those Christians being worse, but I'm not the judge nor the jury here.

Nope.

I'm just another horrified human, looking about her world and wondering what the hell comes next as she lights a white candle for the spirits of those who lost their lives in Mumbai and those who soon could follow.

So--who are you?

The election's over--now the Jihad starts?

The link in the headline for this post leads to an article entitled, "Qaeda scorns Obama with racial slur and urges attacks.

What, getting Obama elected wasn't hard enough? Now we have to make with dealing with a fucking JIHAD because we have a President who is not Muslim ENOUGH to suit Al Queda and other Muslim extremists?

Well, you know, that's tough shit as far as I'm concerned. America has a President that WE are certain that WE like--we don't have a legal firefight over who actually WON this election--Obama took it in a landslide--so America has nothing to bitch about.

The rest of the free world doesn't seem to be bitching either. Foreign stock markets and other indicators of confidence in the American dollar seem to be slowly, oh so slowly, improving, and the world press seems to be quietly in favor of who we elected.

I should have known that some asshole wouldn't like who we wound up with, but who'd have guessed why? It was tough enough getting a Black president; who would have guessed that others of his race would be bitching BECAUSE we elected him? Bitching because he's not enough of the Muslim his FATHER was? Yes, that's archaic and nothing here is intended to be racist, except for wondering why Muslims are calling for attacks on the US because our similarly-raced President is pissing them off?

I'm going to just have to resign myself to feeling that you can't please everyone; some people would just bitch if they were hung with a new rope! Here's what should matter:

Americans are at peace with the results of the election and the resultant President.

That's it. The only people who should fucking COUNT on whether or not Barack Obama is a fit man to rule America or not is US! That's why we call our Government a Democracy. That's why we vote every four years for our President.

And that, is all that matters--Jihadists can piss off! It's NOT THEIR COUNTRY. It is OURS--this is the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, not the U. S. of any other place. If Muslims don't like their rulers, go do whatever you do (is it kill them, or am I way out of line) and get new rulers so you have something that is actually your business to concentrate on.

Our election is OUR business only--everyone else is cordially invited to fuck off and I'm outta here now--I have a convention this weekend and I still have a wig to style and need to get packed.

"Power to the People" has been demonstrated in the USA--if other countries want it, do what we did--staged a revolution and GOT it! Sitting in your own country and bitching about what is happening in MINE is out of line--my country isn't your business and neither is the convention I'm headng to--so go find your own politics and your own fun and leave Americans to deal with their own.

Bye!

30 days...of...oh, never mind.

So.  Over at my regular blog, I'm doing NaBloPoMo, or 30 days of posting in November.  It's fun, but hard, because I sometimes have nothing I want to say, yeah? 

But the idea of committing to something for 30 days was intriguing to me, and I started thinking about what other things I could do daily in November.  Diet?  Nah.  Exercise?  hmm...no.  Drink wine/eat chocolate? That's a given.  And then I thought, "Heyyyy.  What about SEX?"  

I found my husband and posed the question:  "We are having sex every day for 30 days. Starting tonight."  He said, "That's not really a question" and I said, "When do I ever ask you anything anyway?  Tonight.  BE THERE."

So that night we went about our business i.e. we did it, and we said, "Wow, this will be fun!  Go us!"

The next night we did it, and we said, "Nightly sex...woo."

The third night I fell asleep before John came to bed.  He did not wake me up.

And then we just gave up.  We've been together 9 years and yeah, I love my man and think he's the bomb and he totally does it for me and everything but god DAMN that was exhausting. After TWO NIGHTS!!  I read a study of this couple who actually completed a...oh my god, if I remember correctly it was a ONE HUNDRED NIGHT challenge, and they said that although it was fun, sex definitely lost it's luster.  

There's only so many ways a normal person can contort, you know?  

Useless Bitches Part 1: Bathrooms

Actually I don't consider 99% of women useless (or bitches). I consider a woman useless when she refuses to help herself, using a common household problem to make someone else jump up and act as her personal servant because she's just too good to do her own work around her own damned house, the particular woman I'm thinking of having gotten her house in the divorce. My opinion is if she got it, maintenance is her problem and she can quit calling on her ex-husband for household services.

This has been a bone of contention with my boyfriend the PS, a recently divorced (and very lucky--I did say he'd divorced her) and very nice man. His ex-wife called our house at all hours of the day and night, asking him to drive half an hour and more to their former marital estate to do/fix/clean up/restart/jump start/other thing she's got two hands and enough common sense to either fucking do herself or have her girlfriend do it for her (so it's not like she's all alone in this cold cold world--she left him for someone else). She's perfectly capable of doing these things herself, so she enters the Useless Bitch category.

Finally raising Hell about it all and threatening to leave put a (partial) stop to the calls, reserving them for the worst of disasters, ones where a friend would naturally help. (I don't think you pay maintenance to friends, but he disagrees, so every once in awhile we still have this particular fight.) Maybe I'm just a pain in the ass, but I just don't think someone who's taken you to court so she can be free of you, yet expects you to pay maintenance plus other sorts of fees that float into one's life, can still be your friend, having done these things to you, but that's my own personal opinion and another post.

Tonight's situation in my own home brought this to mind. You see, my toilet's plugged.

I don't know what the fuck Mom did but it's plugged. So, she and I are doing what we women of sturdy (even though both of us are disabled) Scandahoovian stock do: We're unplugging the fucker ourselves, something that apparently other women of Scandahoovian stock (who used to be married to my boyfriend) aren't capable of, even tho their doctors aren't trying to get them to have bilateral hip replacements or pain-controlling implants (remind me to blog about that asshole doctor sometime) and they happen to be in perfect health.

I was actually on the phone with the PS when my mom told me she'd plugged the pot--it never occurred to me to ask him to come help us. He's half an hour from here and works 3-11. While he doesn't have to be in early in the morning, he still needs sleep. Besides, it's just a plugged toilet--we can do it ourselves and if we can't, well, the landlord gets the job from there since he owns the place and we rent from him. So I told him I had to get off the phone, then began working on the toilet.

I'm writing this in between bouts with the plunger--two of three medical conditions that I have require that I only spend 15-30 minutes on my feet at a time, so I plunge and flush and plunge and flush awhile, then sit a bit, then repeat. Mom's taking shots at it as well--she's less able to stand but puts in the time she's able to in between the work I do. I'm sure we'll eventually get this fucker unplugged because we're not, you know, Useless Bitches.

In fact, while I've been plunging, I've been thinking. Thinking that it can't be possible to be a Useless Bitch all your life. Here I am, clearing my own fucking plugged toilet while I'm not in the world's best shape, so it has to be possible to teach Useless Bitches to do things like this, thereby turning them into Useful People (If they choose to be Bitches after that, there's nothing I can do about it and will have to leave them to their Bitchiness until they choose to un-Bitch themselves someday).

And so begins Lesson One: Plugged Toilets

Preface: Unless something radical has been done to a toilet, like, for instance, your son has jammed a handful of Matchbox cars down the toilet or your daughter put her Menstrual Barbie's first sanitary napkin down the drain, it's easy to unplug your plugged toilet.

Equipment:

1 dose of Mother's Little Helper medication (such as Xanax, Valium, etc) (optional, and just kidding) to keep you from offing the offspring responsible for the plug. Note: If the guy in your life did it, make his ass get to work unplugging it--he's just as capable as you are, unless he's a Useless Bitch too, in which case I'll have to write another lesson while you unplug your potty. Send me a note and I'll get to work.

EDIT: If you prefer, a bottle of wine or other adult beverage can be substituted for the Mother's Little Helper. It's being added because I don't drink so I don't think about adding it to the lessons. I'll try to remember in the future.


1 Toilet, plugged (and the reason for this party lesson)

1 Plunger--If you don't already have one of these it's time for a trip to the hardware store/Wal*Mart of your choice to get one, because you're truly screwed without one.

Procedure:

1. Stick plunger into toilet, up against the bowl outlet(the thing that the hole in the bottom of the bowl leads to) in the bottom of the bowl.

2. Push on the plunger, forcing the rubbery part to push air and/or water through the hole in the bottom of the bowl. The idea is to push a bunch of the water or air inside the plunger through the hole to make it clear out the junk that's plugging the toilet. Keep doing this several times, until either the water in the bowl suddenly rushes out the hole in the bottom of the bowl or you wind up low on water because it's slowly leaked out the hole but has left the toilet still plugged.

3. Flush the toilet, making sure that it doesn't overflow--most have a no-overflow sort of thingy (I'm a Useful Bitch, not a plumber--I don't know what the damned thing is called, I just know it keeps the toilet from overflowing.)these days, but very old ones may need their water shut off to keep from overflowing. The valve that would do that is underneath the toilet's tank--just turn it til the water shuts off. When you need the water again, turn the valve the other way and get water again.

4. Repeat Steps 2 and 3 until suddenly the water rushes out of the toilet bowl, then does it again when you flush the pot again.

5. Rinse the plunger and return it to its place next to the toilet brush, clean up any water that got out onto the floor or onto the seat (ew, ick water--trust me, you want that cleaned up!), wash your hands, and call it a done deal.

There! You did it! You did something your damned self, and have taken your first step into Usefulness! Congratulations.

I'll probably be posting Lesson 2 the next time we have trouble around the house or the PS's useless fucking ex calls again.

Until then,
Be Useful Unto Yourself and Those Around You,
Pandora