Universal signs...

I'm a dreamer. Sometimes this is a major inconvenience, because the world likes to exist within the realm of logic and reason. Often it allows even a mundane task to end in an anecdote or a parable, which makes life beautiful and interesting for me every day.

For example:

I was driving on the I-17, heading north into Phoenix/Glendale today when I heard a strange noise outside my window. I looked to see a motorcycle in the lane to my left, gaining speed to pass me in the HOV lane. The noise that sounded out-of-place was the U.S. flag attached to the back of his bike.

It was flapping and snapping on a 5-foot dowel secured to the 'bitch bar' and the flag itself measured approximately 2ft by 4ft (maybe a bit larger). Its size and the height at which it waved, made the rider look like he was more suited for a slow-moving parade than a busy rush-hour freeway. It dwarfed the bike that he was riding; not a tricked out hog, but a small Honda somethingorother.

Just as I was wondering if it was legal, I heard a snap and caught a glimpse of the airborne flag just before it disappeared back to the concrete and under the wheels of a semi-truck.

Having had 'flag duty' in Elementary school, I knew it was exceedingly important that the American flag never touch the ground. I was a particularly clumsy and flighty kid (not much has changed) and I used to silently repeat the mantra, "Every time a flag hits the ground, a Veteran dies" in the hopes that I would treat the situation with more focus and gravity than I was typically wont to. It worked. The flag never hit the ground when I was on 'flag duty'.

So I felt my own 'pang' when the flag hit the ground and I imagined the silent screams of those in the vehicles around me that may have seen the unfortunate incident.

And then I thought, "Well, it was a pretty ridiculous flag. He didn't have to have such a ginormous one and it didn't have to be waving 5-feet in the air on a dowel with no more than a 1-inch diameter. That's a pretty easy physics hypothesis... even for me."


His overt expression of pride led to the desecration of the very thing he sought to represent.

His overt expression of pride led to the desecration of the very thing he sought to represent.


To some, it would be no more than a curious incident. Perhaps even something soon forgotten and unremarkable. To me, however, it was just one of those reminders from God/my greater conscience. Random musings of a dreamer.

Thanks for the lesson, universe. :)

Stuff my kids say...

There is a website and a book titled "Shit my dad says". It is one of my guilty pleasures, as I adore the blunt, acerbic, no-nonsense approach of the older generations as they impart their tidbits of wisdom.

I've also been highly entertained on more than one occasion by the stuff my kids say.

It started when I was completing my son's baby book. There were entries for his first word, his first step, etc... and I was ironically entering his first complete sentence:

"Mom, Imaddatyou!"

My daughter, forever antagonized by her older brother and the more vocal of the two, is often the more quoted of the two. I've compiled some of my favorite quotes and conversations that span a wide age range, but beginning when my daughter was about 2 or 3.


X: (crying) D hurt me!
Me: He did? Where?
X: (crying harder) Here. (pointing to her head)
Me: He hurt your head?
X: No. He hurt my feewlings.
Me: Oh. He hurt your feewlings?
X: (now sobbing) Yes. For NO reason!



X: (crying) D kicked me!
Me: Where?
X: On my head!
Me: D, did you kick her?
D: No! I was just walking along and her head hit my foot.



While driving across
town, X (then five) eyed my 99-cent pack of peanuts which I had opened to munch during the trip. (I had torn the corner and just tipped it into my mouth, not hygienic, I know. Whatev.)
X: Can I have some peanuts?
Me: Sure.
X: Did you put your mouth on this?
Me: Yes.
X: (inspecting the peanuts) I guess it's okay. I'm not afraid of your germs. It's all about our DNA.
(My internal monologue: "DNA? WTF? You're five!")



While dining at a new family-style buffet, X (a 7 yr. old chicken-lover) turns to me and says, "Hey mom... all the cooks here are black. So you know the fried chicken is good!"



X: Mom, did you ever think of putting D up for adoption?
Me: No, not really.
X: Maybe you should.



X: All the people that work at this Panda Express are Mexican. I'm not being racist. I'm just sayin'.



While staying with her dad's mom:
X: Hey mom, I found an upside to living with nana... my whites have never been whiter!



One of my favorite stories takes place when we were leaving a family day at Peter Piper Pizza to head home. The kids were 5 and 6 and Jay and I had just started dating. They had turned in their tickets for 'prizes'... D had chosen a small battery-operated fan on a neon string that he wore around his neck. X had chosen scented body glitter.
We had no sooner turned onto the freeway when X began to cry. D had spilled her drink. Great.
Always prepared, I handed a stack of napkins over to Jay who twisted into the backseat to assist D in cleaning up the Sprite that had pooled into X's seat. They cleaned it up as best they could and resumed, while X continued to cry.
Me: What's wrong?
X: (sobbing) Why do I (gasp) always have to (wail, inhale) sit in the wet spot?!
(As much as we tried, Jay and I couldn't stifle our giggles.)
D tried to help and began to direct his newly-acquired fan towards the offending residual when X began to cry anew.
Me: Now what's wrong?
X: I wanted a fan!
Me: But you didn't choose the fan. You chose the body glitter.
X: (sobbing) But... But I didn't know it could DRY things!!



Ah, my wondrous children.
Always a source of entertainment and amusement.
And blog content. :)

They are awesome.

Pride Week

For those that live in a box, it was PRIDE in Phoenix which means about 2/3 of the theatre community was out hoofing it in the parade downtown this weekend.

Yay for the gays!

But this post is actually about a totally different pride.

My pride.
My cats.

I have four cats.
Yes, I am the crazy cat-lady... except that I do have a family (and a decent sex life) so that's where the stereotype ends.

My cats are my babies. They are spoiled, talkative, coddled, over-indulged, hyper-inquisitive... and true to their nature, skilled stalkers.
Which has become a HUGE problem.
Epic.

Our firstborn, Benedick (he prefers 'Lord Benedick' as he insists the Bard intended) was adopted as a 3-month-old kitten in November 2001 from a shelter. He had Bordatella(sp?) and was undernourished and incredibly sick. For those who don't know the story, he had been on steroids and antibiotics ($250. worth) for two weeks and still wasn't eating. We hosted a cast party in which some questionable activities were taking place in the back room where our sickly kitten had claimed sanctuary. He emerged an hour later... with the munchies.

Since that day, 'Benny' has not had a problem eating. He is now a 16-pound Maine Coon who thinks he's still a 4lb. kitten. In his old age, he has grown a mostly lazy, sometimes downright surly disposition; but he still does tricks... when he feels like it.

In 2004, we had arranged to adopt a kitten from a friend of a friend who had just had a litter. When I went to pick up our little calico treasure, however, my bleeding heart couldn't leave her brother behind. He was a beautiful black furball with a severe umbilical hernia that would require costly surgery... and most likely would have been put down. I showed up at the door with not one kitten, but two. Thankfully, Jason is a softie and lovingly accepted our last-minute addition to the family. Having just been introduced to 'Lost' (which is a family-wide obsession) the kids opted to be involved in their naming. Our little female was named 'Claire' and our black bundle of issues was dubbed 'Sawyer'.
We couldn't know that Claire would do her best to live up to her namesake, but she vanished from the island one day and showed back up pregnant in our alternate universe. It was the summer of 2006 when she finally had a litter of four kittens.

Ozymandias was a carbon-copy of his father (who became a svelte, lean, fighting machine after a costly tummy-tuck to correct Sawyer's abnormality) and was the 'joker' of the group... and the bottom of the totem pole. And yes, he was named after the Shelley poem (his namesake quote later appeared in the movie 'The Watchmen'.) Shortly after we moved, Ozy ventured out and didn't return. We put up signs and actually got calls from people who had spotted him. Our best guess is that he ventured into the retirement community adjacent to ours and adopted some little old lady. Probably tired of being the bullied scapegoat.

Spartacus had the most eventful of the kitten births. Our little Claire had been a trouper through the first three and had been acting like she was done. I wasn't quite convinced, but changed my mind when she jumped out of the hamper-turned-whelping-box to lay the smackdown on the two boys (who had started to tussle in the corner).

She was walking back across the room to the hamper when she squatted in the middle of the tile and expelled something unlike anything I've ever seen before. Unlike the first three kittens who emerged wriggling, small and dark, this was a long, off-white blob that landed with a wet 'plop' on the ceramic and didn't move.

You know those white sausages you get in the grocery store? Imagine that... covered in mayonnaise... on your kitchen floor. Ew.

Jason was immediately concerned and jumped up from his chair, asking if she had just passed a lung. (Name Possibility #1: Jethro)

I rushed to inspect what had just happened and the quick movement spooked Claire, who took off running (blob still attached via umbilical cord) towards the hamper where she leapt and cleared the side of the hamper to land among her three babies. Blob, however, wasn't as lucky. As she bounded across the tile, he bounced... and bounced... I was following behind in some kind of half-crouch thinking that I'd be able to hold my hands out and either catch it or cushion its fall. As she made her grand leap into the basket, the blob hurled against the side of the hamper and rebounded in a huge arc before the umbilical-turned-bungee cord whipped him into the hamper alongside Claire in a loud 'thud'.

I was sure it was dead... whatever it was... or at very least severely brain damaged after the beating between ceramic tile, plastic hamper, and mom.

He emerged from his mayo balloon with a mighty open mouth as if to yell, "I am Spartacus!" And thus, he was named. As he grew, however, we knew that something wasn't the same about him. He was completely white, with blonde rings around the tip of his tail and blonde lowlights on his ears and face. His eyes... are the most sparkling blue you've ever seen. He confessed to me (at a very young age) that he's so pretty because he's gay. (And I hope he doesn't mind me sharing that in this blog, but it IS pride week, so I say he should unite and be proud.) So while his given name is 'Spartacus', he prefers 'Sparky'. Or when he's particularly adorable, 'Sparkleberry Brown'.

He was actually supposed to be adopted, but his potential family fell through and he ended up being my shadow.

They all have their favorite spots in the house to chill. Ben prefers doorways and heavy traffic areas. Claire prefers nooks, corners, hampers or any place at waist level. Sawyer and Sparky most often have to be within touching distance or at least in eyesight of Jason or myself. If we shut the door to go to the bathroom, they will meow outside the door and stick their paws underneath. Sometimes we play 'get the toilet paper roll'. It's an awesome game. I'm undefeated.

Anyhow... we moved into a new house in June of last year. It is in a beautiful neighborhood. It's quiet here, our neighbors (with one exception) are incredibly nice and the house itself is very low-maintenance. I really do love it here. And so does the pride.

Which brings me to my current conundrum.

One of the struggles I've had with being the cat-lady is litter boxes. I hate the smell. I hate the maintenance. And with four cats... it's just kinda ridiculous. So, we had decided to get a pet door and train the cats to go to the bathroom outside. I wasn't crazy about this decision because I grew up with indoor-outdoor cats and watched them get hurt often from other animals, cars, kids, etc. Though they are fixed and we've been diligent about their shots, that can't help them in the path of a vehicle or a nasty person. But... we decided to give it a try and I couldn't be happier about that aspect. No more litter boxes. The cats don't roam far (Benny doesn't leave the back yard) and I love watching them outside. They love the patio and have plenty of comfy places to perch (including an old loveseat) and to watch them roll and jump and eat grass and chase lizards makes me feel like I'm giving them a chance to experience life outside of complete captivity and more in their natural habitat.

It was entertaining to Jason and I to watch our babies experience nature for the first time. They used to sit at the window and chatter at the birds outside. Now we were watching them as they ogled the winged creatures that actually seemed to tease them as they landed and took off from the fence mere feet away. They were slow and awkward, having never chased anything more than a jingle-ball, a catnip mouse, or a lazer pointer.

Were. Slow and awkward.

10 months of ninja training.

That's my only explanation.

For the last month, my house has been home to horrors unspeakable. The carnage that greets me every morning is not for the faint of heart. It is... epic.

Lizards are a daily occurrence. We often find them alive, but missing their tails. Jason and I established a rapid-response catch-and-release program that includes distraction techniques, scene clearance, and stealth relocation.

It is when we are asleep, however, that the most heinous murders are carried out.

If God has his eye on the sparrow, why isn't he watching out for the finches and morning doves? I wake up to feathers... everywhere.
My home becomes a veritable crime scene. Blood on the floors, on the walls... spatters, puddles. I don't know what to do!!

It is now routine that I get out of bed, pee, and head straight for the vacuum, the swiffer, and the disinfectant.

We know that the culprit is Sawyer. Claire, Sparky, and Benny stay inside at night and have more fun playing with their prey; hence they are partial to lizards and resilient bugs.

Sawyer is our master hunter. Our uber-ninja cat. The alpha male, bread-winner, bringer of offerings, killer of precious little birdies.

It's really messing with my attempts to start the day in a 'zen' and centered place. I feel like a co-conspirator... as if I'm hiding his dirty little secret as I scrub away the blood stains with my ready-mixed Clorox.

I hang my head in shame as the birds outside sing gaily. I don't want to be the one to tell them that Uncle Jerome and li'l Annie Mae aren't coming back.

I try to explain to Sawyer that karma will catch up and see to it that his eyes are pecked out by an unusually large crow or that we all get the Avian flu, but it has had no effect so far. He feigns surprise as if to say, "What bird?" And of course, since we are asleep, we have no actual proof.

It has happened every night for the last straight week.

I can't win with these creatures. They have taken over my life!

I'm hoping it's just a 'pride week' thing and that he'll settle down and maybe give up his violent tendencies for 'Earth Day' or something.

I don't want to start locking them all in at night.

Last time I did that, one of them pissed in my sink.

And I don't want to bring back the litter boxes.


But I do want to save the birdies. Do I declaw? Stage an intervention and suggest counseling first?

I just can't win.

An Ode to My Mentors

(*Warning: This post ended up epically long. Go to the bathroom and grab a drink first.)

Those of you who know me well also know that I really have no internal censor when it comes to the stuff that comes out of my mouth. I speak what I think, I write how I speak, and so on...

I am proud to report, however, that I do manage to behave in a civilized manner when good PR is required and a paycheck is involved. It's the darndest thing... :)

So I guess the real story is that I know how to censor myself... I just don't like to. Especially when I'm among family or parties that I feel comfortable around.

And so it happened... on Sunday as I was rehearsing for a performance at an awards ceremony, that my lack of that censor landed me on the feisty side of Michael Barnard.

Now to give you some history... okay a LOT of history...

Michael is the Artistic Director of Phoenix Theatre. His bio and resume are much too impressive for my modest little blog, but the man is a legend.
I first auditioned for Michael when I was a Freshman. I had just done 'Annie' with MTA and the adults in the show were all a-buzz about some hot director who was coming in for 'Damn Yankees'. Now, I wanted to do anything and everything that the adults in that cast wanted to do. We're talking the likes of John Schuck, Kathy Fitzgerald, Bob Sorenson, John Sankovich, Noel Irick, Karen Morrow... my head is swimming right now.
I was way too young for the show and never thought my parents would allow me to audition for a play with 'Damn' in the title, but they did. It was a brief audition. I was too young for any of the roles.
Damn.

I was pretty gung-ho my Senior year of High School and had applied to every college in the state and auditioned for every performing opportunity possible. I was either going to college with a full scholarship or I was going to tour or travel or just land a solid gig somewhere. I had an offer to tour with Young Americans and I was all nerves and false bravado when I auditioned for the holy grail of my young career... Disney. (*cue angelic descant*)

Once again, I found myself in front of the legendary Michael Barnard. I was called back. Win!
I was invited to attend another callback.
One week before that callback, I found out I was pregnant. Oops.
Certainly NOT the 'Disney way'.

And so, I took a break from theatre while I explored the life of a new mom. I watched my friends whenever possible, becoming an avid audience member (which I believe helped me as an actress more than I could have imagined.) With every show, I felt a stronger pull to return to my first love... the stage. Once my kids were of school age, I had time to devote to relearning my craft.

I was nowhere near the level I had been at the 'height' of my childhood (and childish) acting career. Other than singing at church and for weddings here and there, I had stopped performing. I hadn't danced since my beginning jazz class and my center of gravity after two kids had shifted to somewhere around my right knee.
Layouts and backbends caused me to pee a little.
I certainly wasn't ready for anything beyond community theatre and that's where I lived for many happy years.
TJ Weltzein gave me a break. I had auditioned for him once before. Poorly. Like, epic fail on the audition. It was so bad, I didn't want to show my face again for fear he'd remember me as one of the worst auditions he'd sat through. He put me in the chorus. I was the awkward, chubby girl.
We had an asshat of a choreographer who choreographed the show (purposely set in the 1950's) as modern interp and dance captain Laurie Case had to step in during tech week and rework almost all of the numbers. I started observing everything I could about performers and technicians that I admired. Every director had strengths that I could capitalize on and learn from. Greg Jaye, D. Scott imparted advice I still use to this day. Alan Plado did more with my voice in the course of 6 weeks than 3 years of daily singing had done.
I soaked in everything I could from actors like Kristen Drathman, D.Scott Withers, Ross Collins, Kathi Osborne, Johanna Carlisle, Beth Anne Johnson, Beth Reynolds, Kim Hart, Chris Erikson, Scott Schmelder, Susan Hogle... a list too lengthy to be complete.
It culminated (I thought) when I got the chance to do Victor/Victoria with Jerry Wayne Harkey (who had previously been my Musical Director for 'Annie') as Toddy. I had reached my schoolgirl talent-crush nirvana.

Or so I thought.

I still saw as much theatre as possible. I had seen two productions of 'The Man of La Mancha' and didn't care for the show. The theatre I was working for was mounting the premiere of Dale Wasserman's 'A Walk in the Clouds' the following season and PT happened to be mounting the former aforementioned show, so I decided to give it a look-see. I fell in love with that show that night. I also fell in love with Rusty Ferracane, Jon Gentry and Michelle Gardner. Uber talent crushes everywhere.

When Stagebrush began to fold and Theaterworks saw their changing of the guard in the early 2000's, my theatre family splintered as their journeys brought them to other theatres and other towns. I still felt insecure and green. I knew that I had been coddled and protected and outright spoiled by people who believed in me... but it was now time for me to sink or swim and I didn't know if I was ready.

I got thrown in with both feet when I was called for a production of 'Herberger Headliners'. I would finally get to work with Michael Barnard. Oh joy, Oh Rapture!
Well, it wasn't all it should have been. It was a two-week rehearsal process and a two-show performance. Not only was the rehearsal process quick and harried, but my head wasn't in it. I had just closed a show, was starting rehearsals for another, had a corporate gig on one of the rehearsal nights... oh... and I was also separating from my husband. I was a mess and the entire process was a blur. I left feeling like I had failed destiny and this freak opportunity to become BFFs with Michael Barnard.

I had decided to take a break from the world of musical theatre and try my hand at 'straight' theatre. My resume was very musical heavy and I knew that I was going to have to branch out and show some diversity if I was going to be taken seriously. I landed a role in Noel Coward's 'Blithe Spirit' opposite Jason Barth and directed by Sally Jo Bannow. It was a show that changed my personal and professional life forever.

Jason is a classical actor and somehow managed to talk me into auditioning for Southwest Shakespeare. I had stayed far away from Shakespeare since my rather dry exposure to it in High School and thought he had to be absolutely nuts. But I gave it a try... hoping to impress him. I did find that Shakespeare (to me) was just like singing without an actual tune. There is a natural rhythm... a natural rise and fall, lift and land... to Shakespeare. And I found myself falling in love with the Bard, too.

To my surprise and amazement, I landed roles in the first two shows of the season; the second role would have me side-by-side with Maren Maclean... someone I had only heard of until my reading with the statuesque, sharp-tongued beauty at callbacks. Talk about intimidating!!
My work with Southwest started sporadically, but I was still doing Pinter and LaBute and auditioning for companies like Nearly Naked, Is What It Is, and Stray Cat.
I had also landed some corporate work with Quantum Leap (formerly 'Funny Business') and found myself traveling more than I ever had before... and I was being pushed. My directors, musical directors, choreographers... all saw some kind of potential in me and took the extra time and/or consideration that I needed and got me to where I needed to be.

I was now working with some of the most amazing actors I had ever known. My life was even more full-circle when I had the chance to work alongside Bob Sorenson again and to spend a summer at Shakespeare Sedona with Kathy Fitzgerald and her new family. Again, Nirvana reached.

And last season... after several mediocre auditions and a few chickenshit no-shows, Michael Barnard and I were reunited at long last. He cast me in 'Curtains' and the third Nirvana of my career ascended upon me.

After 'Curtains', Michael called me for a few in-house events... a sure sign that our relationship had not only solidified, but blossomed. He had to have realized (as I had long before) the symbiosis and natural balance of the universe when we are working creatively together. Finally!

And so this novella culminates with our last creative venture in which I completed the most convoluted piece of choreography I have ever attempted to execute.

At rehearsal, I had put in a turn where Michael hadn't choreographed one. Of course everyone in the room is looking at me - Johanna is giving me the eyebrow - and I blurt (in my outside voice)

"I'm just used to Michael putting turns in where they don't belong."

Open mouth, insert right foot.

So, Michael quips back (with feigned hurt) "Most people like my choreography."
And I respond, "Oh, I LOVE your choreography. I just don't like to do it."

Open mouth insert left foot.

*I will insert the disclaimer that I am not a dancer. I am an actor/singer who 'moves well'. Yes I took dance classes. Yes they are on my resume. But that doesn't mean I'm any good. Choreographers scare the shit out of me. They are mutants that have these superpowers that allow them to bend in ways the human body (with bones in it) shouldn't bend and they move their feet faster than I can point out the cheapest shoes in the room (which are mine). They make or break me at auditions and I revere them with the same awe and pants-piddling fear as God. ('Cuz I'm sure he's amazed by them, too.) I'm still nervous whenever I audition for directors I don't know or haven't worked with before. But among them, Robbie Harper, Molly LaJoie, Beth Reynolds, Laurie Trygg, Shawna Quain... basically any choreographer... and the Madonna Mary Mother of them all... is Michael Barnard.

So how do I dig myself out of the hole I just created? I don't.

With both feet inserted in my mouth, I proceed to explain how much of a non-dancer I am.

(Keeping in mind that next season has me panting like a bitch in heat with shows like 'Hairspray' and 'Nine'. Um... DANCE, anyone?)

As my offense continued, (and as Johanna graciously tried to gag my running ratchet-jaw) with my right and left foot firmly planted in my oral orifice; I executed the most flawless pas de bourrée and pirouette. Ever.

And while my artistic influences and talent crushes ebb and flow, I still have to take time every once in a while to acknowledge where I've come from, where I am... and the artists who have been my mentors - whether they knew it or not.

I will probably always be intimidated by Michael, but I also think that a certain amount of respect for your director is healthy. (Even if it doesn't always stop me from saying something stupid and all too Andi-esque.)

And for those who haven't already been mentioned; Tom Leveen, Kaitlin O'Neal, Richard Baird, Doc, Porter, Nathalie, Schoen, Jared, Patrick, April Smith, Christian Miller, Kyle Lawson, Turvin, Page(rip), Dennis, Craig, Gene, Jim, Darcy, Ariel, Wanda, Toby, Desi, DebbieJo, Jeff, et al.

Thanks for teaching me, pushing me, and putting up with all my shenanigans.

Thankfully, I am still learning.
And thanks to so many of you, still loving what I do.

My job is such a privilege. I have been through phases of taking that for granted, but age and experience have taught me that it is a rare blessing to be able to do what I love. I am thankful every day for those who have taken me under their wing and for those that continue to share their knowledge and wisdom (and patiently teach me to time-step).

I can only do what I do because you've taught me.
Thank you.

And finally, in case my acerbic, tongue-in-cheek humor doesn't translate via written cyberpage, I would like to have it known that:

I LOVE Michael Barnard's choreography! It challenges me. Furthermore, as a director, he allows me to push who I am as an artist and how I express myself. And if that weren't motivation enough, I'm guaranteed to lose anywhere from 10-15 pounds over the course of a Michael Barnard show. I know my skinny bitches hear me on that one.
Right?
Done!

Subpoenas and Sandra Lee

I have extended cable for two reasons. #1 I love my HBO and Sundance channels. #2 I'm absolutely addicted to Food Network and The Travel Channel. Yeah, yeah, yeah... I'm just a barrel of wild and crazy, right?

So for those that don't know Sandra Lee, she hosts her own show on Food Network called "Semi-Homemade" which has her pairing mostly packaged, processed, prepared ingredients with 1/4-1/3 fresh ingredients.

Now, I'm a mom who has made plenty of packaged meals for my kids. They (and I) grew up with Macaroni & Cheese, Ramen, Hamburger Helper, etc. I'm not a foodie snob, but as I've grown older, I've grown to appreciate good meals made with fresh ingredients prepared at home. I've always loved baking and am a whiz with pastries, but cooking was a latent talent and it took my relationship with Jason (who is an amazing chef, if a little bit anal-retentive about following recipes to the letter) to enable more culinary exploration.

Together, we laughed at quirky Rachel Ray and fell in love with her 30-minute meals which were perfect for our 4-person family and hectic lifestyle. We became enamored with Anthony Bourdain for both his culinary expertise and his evocative writing. Paula Dean reassured me that my love affair with butter was perfectly acceptable and the Barefoot Contessa (Ina Garten) brought me on lovely journeys to the local shops and available resources in East Hampton while also offering decorating tips and long forgotten etiquette. All individuals with a vast knowledge and understanding of my most long-lived friend and confidant. Food.

And then there's Sandra Lee.

Sandra Lee is a blonde, Malibu-Barbie, everymom. She is the All-American woman-next-door and her show is so saccharine-sweet that I fear watching it could give me cancer and diabetes at the same time.
She coined the word 'tablescapes' which is how she defines her gauche table decorations (often themed) which I hate only slightly less than the word 'tablescapes' which makes me want to vagina-punch her. And while she does have one or two cute little craft ideas, they are the kinds of things I would do with my kids for fun, but not for a formal engagement party or cocktail event. Seriously. I was making origami napkins in the 4th grade; so no one's impressed, lady.

Her Bio claims that she attended Le Cordon Bleu, but on further investigation, she was enrolled in a two-week course that she didn't even complete. She probably got lady-cramps and had to quit.

And most importantly, the blasphemy... the perversion of FOOD... is inexcusable.

Assuming that we have the time, resources, and motivation to prepare a meal with fresh ingredients... why would you sully it by adding the equivalent of Friskies^® Tuna and Egg in Sauce? You wouldn't.

In addition, the woman tries to make things that she knows NOTHING about. Today, I had FN on in the background and she was attempting to make tamales. Now, I'm a gringa... but having previously married into a Hispanic family, I did pick up a few tips on how to make things like tamales, empanadas, tortillas, etc.
First, she admitted that she couldn't find corn husks at any of her local supermarkets. Well, then she doesn't live ANYWHERE near the southwest. I'm sure her suburb probably doesn't even have a grocery with an 'ethnic foods' aisle. It was probably omitted in favor of the new microbiotic aisle and the extension of the 'foods that are easier to puke back up' section.

So, Sandra Lee is using parchment paper in lieu of corn husks for her tamales (pronounced Tah-mawl-eez) and slops on her homemade masa in a huge clump in the center without spreading it out to a reasonable thickness or evenness. Then she slops in what looks like Rosarita™ beans, a can of preserved ready-diced tomatoes and the fresh onion and garlic she heated up on her nifty skillet. Really? You couldn't grab a fresh tomato and dice it up? Maybe teach us how simple it really is to whip up our own refried beans? No?

That's just... weird.

So, the finished tamales were a joke. I don't know how many takes they went through, but they obviously couldn't get a good shot of the first fork-cut. You couldn't see anything but the masa. It may as well have been a close-up of a steaming yellow cake.

Which is pretty much what I think of Sandra Lee. A pile of steaming yellow cake.

To top it off, while she was on, we had the luck of being visited by the process server bearing subpoenas. Sandra Lee is just bad luck.

To explain the process server, Jay and I witnessed an accident (one that we narrowly avoided) and were the ones who called it in to 9-1-1. We filled out reports on the scene, figuring we had done our civic duty. (The driver at fault was obviously impaired somehow. I credit my dad's school of defensive driving for identifying that one early.) Well, it turns out that this fellah is being taken to court and we've been subpoenaed to appear as witnesses for the state. Joy. They have our written statements. Why can't they just enter that as our legal testimony? It's signed and everything! Plus... this was as an accident that happened almost two years ago. I'm sure that my written statement offers a much fresher and more accurate account of what happened anyway.

We knew we were being called as witnesses because the prosecutor had been in contact with us on the phone, but it's still kinda strange to have a legal obligation to appear in court. There's no 'good' feeling to accompany it. Plus, we have to be there at 7:30 in the morning. 7:30!!?? I no longer wonder why judges wear robes. I would too, if I had to be at work at that ungodly hour. And as if that weren't enough, in bold letters reads:

IF YOU FAIL TO APPEAR AS ORDERED, A WARRANT WILL BE ISSUED FOR YOUR ARREST.

Well, geez! No need to shout.
And certainly no need to threaten me with arrest. I said I'd be there. I understand I'm important to the state's case as the only witness not directly involved in the collision. Don't get your panties in such a twist.

Gosh!

So, I chalked it all up as one more reason to hate Sandra Lee and watched 'Moon' instead. It was significantly better than Malibu Barbie hour, but still left me unsatisfied.

Sigh.

And tomorrow... I get to perform for our illustrious Governor.
*big smile*
*jazz hands*

and.... scene.

One Happy Meal, Hold the Guilt

My schedule is often frenetic and as such, I don't eat as well as I should. Depending on rehearsal schedules, I'm often searching for a quick bite in between rehearsals or workshops or photo shoots or whatever else is going on.

So it was that I happened to find myself in downtown Phoenix with 20 minutes to spare before my next call time. My choices were a Subway, Taco Bell or McDonald's. I should have gone for the Subway, but I was in my sweaty rehearsal clothes and I didn't want to offend anyone within the scent range. The drive-thru line at Taco Bell wrapped completely around the building, so I continued down the road to where I knew there was a McDonald's. I didn't fare much better there as it was the peak of the lunch hour, but I glanced at the mostly-empty inside and opted to park and walk in without fear that I'd be smashed up against a counter in close proximity of the innocent.

Now, I can't eat a whole lot before a dance rehearsal or a show. It's a bit of a change from my younger years. (During my run of Victor/Victoria, I would regularly consume a bacon double-cheeseburger, fries, large Coke and 3 eggrolls between double shows. By myself. No joke.) Just the thought of that now makes me want to yak. And... over the years, my body has decided to take the route of 'tough love' in reminding me vehemently that I shouldn't overeat before I abuse it.

I also suffer from an addiction to potatoes. It is something I believe was handed down by my Irish ancestors through many generations. No less than twice a week, I want one. I don't care if it's french fried, baked, mashed, hashed, herbed or au gratin. I gotsta have my root.
This was one such day.

And because the chicken snack wrap and fries would cost more than just getting a Happy Meal, I opted for the latter. It wasn't until I had ordered from the apathetic teen girl behind the counter that her expression became (dare I say) suspicious. I've ordered Happy Meals for my kids tons of times... but not recently. It made me nostalgic for the days when the kids were younger.
I realized with more than a little awkwardness that I (an adult) was ordering a kid's meal. For me. My mind justified it with, "This girl doesn't know I don't have a kid at home waiting for his or her Happy Meal. Single females walk in and order a Happy Meal every day." I made eye contact and she must have seen the doubt in my eyes because she cocked her head to one side, smacked her lips and said, "Do you want the toy?"
I hung my head and muttered a quiet "no".

I paid and got out of there as quick as I could.

They gave me the toy anyway.

Tiger Crucifixion

I'm really tired of hearing about Tiger Woods.
First it was all about his infidelity, then it was about his rehabilitation, then it was about his tantrums at the Masters... enough, people.
I'm tired of hearing about Tiger and Jon Gosselin and Eliot Spitzer and whoeverthehell managed to slip up and make a mistake (or twenty) in the public eye.
I'm tired of the public gasping and pointing fingers while they cry, 'We feel so betrayed!'

Why is it okay to hold people to a higher standard because they are a politician/celebrity/athlete? They are still people. Humans. Flawed and fallible.

I have an issue with idolizing people. I look up to many and strive to follow some of the better examples, but I can't imagine holding someone to a higher standard than I've set for my own self.
It's much more important to me to love someone for who they are, flaws and all, than to love the perfect representation of someone.

If you are that desperate for a role model or an example, I urge you to remember Jesus, Allah, Buddha, etc.
There is your story of a perfect human being.
As far as I know, another Christ hasn't come along yet, and if he had, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be masquerading as a politician or a golfer. Just my opinion.

Leave the mortals alone.
I've had enough.

/end rant.

A New Attitude - FTW

'FTW' is cyber-slang that has two meanings. I use it often with my geek-speak gaming intention to mean 'For The Win'. Just to clarify.

I hate being an actress between projects. It is said that an actor is really a professional job-seeker. We are never not marketing ourselves for the next paycheck. Right now, I'm sitting in the middle of my second longest 'dormant' period in the last 12 years. And it sucks.

I've had my corporate gigs and special events, outreach projects and workshops... and my oh-so-flourishing career writing copy (sarcasm)... to pay the bills (barely), but it's not the same as having a well-worn script within five feet of me at all times for six weeks straight. As an actress, those are the projects that give me a sense of purpose and drive. When that script disappears, my mood plummets. I no longer have tricky dance combos to practice in the kitchen or lines to run in the shower. The house gets a little quieter and there are no funny anecdotes from rehearsal to share with my partner.

Jay and I do our best to keep one another motivated and entertained during the 'in-between' times, but my constant demands for him to 'up the ante' are taking its toll. He's already perfected his juggling skills and has added many of my celebrity requests to his impersonation repertoire. I don't know how much more the poor man can take... he's doing his Tim Gunn as we fold laundry nowadays just to keep me smiling.

So, I've diagnosed myself as having PPD (or Post-Production Depression) as is common with many actors. The problem is common and can be exacerbated by an exceptionally great experience. It's easy to say 'goodbye' to a show that was a ton of work with little reward (either personally or monetarily) but it's not so easy to bid our farewells to the dream jobs. The last show I did was a dream job. Even the corporate and special events I do with PT are dream jobs, so I'm certainly not complaining.

I've lost some of my sass and verve lately. I'm lacking some of my usual confidence and it has taken its toll on me both professionally and emotionally. I still see the joy and beauty in life and in each day, but I've lost some of my faith in people and relationships (more of the friendship variety than romantic) and have become a bit cynical in the past couple of years. I either need an electric rod to jolt my brain or a project I can get enthused about.

I just hate feeling like I'm busy, but not really 'doing' anything. I'm not happy unless I'm using my creative outlets. I know there's supposed to be downtime in which we absorb and learn and observe, but I learn so much better by doing and by observing those in action. There's really only so much education one can get from books and youtube... which is what my schedule has me confined to.

So, as if the PPD weren't bad enough, I'm also suffering old-lady syndrome. I just turned 35 last month. Yes. Thirty. Five. Honestly, it's not that I think thirty-five is ghastly old because it isn't. It's just that I never thought I'd live this long. Marilyn Monroe died at 36. I remember my mother's 36th birthday like it was yesterday. I remember how young she was. As a young adolescent, I always thought my irresponsibility or my lack of common sense would have me in some kind of fatal situation by the time I was 30. So, at this rate, I suppose I should be incredibly thankful that I have my health, my kids, and the ability to pay my rent every month... since that's infinitely more than I thought I'd be capable of.
However, at this age, society tells me I should have a 401k and life insurance and my kids' college funds taken care of. So, I'm still way behind the curve on that one.

I need to get motivated. I need to get my butt in gear. And I need to recheck my attitude. FTW.