Back from the Dead

It's like I was frozen in ice or something. I get back from Kentucky and find the Olympics more than half over, John Edwards cheated on his cancered wife, Ellen DeGeneres married Portia, and Bernie Mac is dead. Bernie Mac? Not to mention all the other national and international news of which I should be aware.

And I now stare directly into the fact that I learn more from People Magazine than the New York Times. But I mean, come on. We're still at war. It's still Obama and McCain. And "going green" is still the solution to global warming. So...I didn't really miss much there. Oh, and gas prices still suck.

We had no internet for most of the summer, except through Seth's iPhone, which consequently convinced me...I want one. Not just for the iPhone. For the iSolitaire.

What we did have was 42 days straight with no day off. 12 - 15 hour days. Spiders in our bed. Three different housing situations, one which involved a tub filled with backed up poop water. And a broken back. Actually it was a bone sheer and it belonged to me. Bone sheers hurt, but osteopaths are miracle men, especially the one who treated me for free. I was out only one show, and half another, which wasn't so bad, considering how bad it could have been. There was no big accident, no mishap, nothing from which I could gain any extra cash. My back started hurting and got worse and worse until I was walking like my father. One day I took 8 Aleve in a 12 hour period and it still felt like 4 knives were being jabbed into strategic parts of my tailbone.

It wasn't all bad.

I rehearsed and performed three different shows in 12 weeks, made a lot of new friends, learned a lot about myself, played three different Five Cent Stand mini-concerts at three different churches, gave away lots of Bitter Kiss CD's, watched four seasons of "House" with our pal, Joey, sang to my heart's content, discovered Wendy's twisted Frosties, learned to like roast beef, worked as a professional actor, and did it all with my husband right beside me. Can't beat that.

So of course whether you like it or not, you'll get pictures. Lots of pictures. And who knows, maybe a video clip, if I can get my hands on one. I'm glad to be done. I'm sad to be done. I can't wait to get back to New York City.

The picture parade begins:

Wizard of Oz (Dorothy):

"Why it's just like you could read what was inside of me..."

"If I only had a brain..."


"Oh look Scarecrow! It's a man...a man made out of tin! Yes."


"If I only had the heart..."


"If I only had the nerve..."


"We're off to see the Wizard..."


"Well, bust my buttons!"


Lil' Dorothies every night.


This one may have been the biggest fan of them all. She came to every show dressed like a different character each time. (I think she was a munchkin's sister)




A Chorus Line up next...

While Running with Imogen

Yesterday, with my new running shoes on, Imogen Heap blaring through my Ipod, I headed downstairs to walk-slash-run the park. ('Walk" being the operative word.) On the way down the stairs, I ran into the older man who lives right below us. We greeted each other. I removed one ear bud just in case he was in a talkative mood. He was.

He commented on what a nice day it was. He had just finished the 5 mile trail. Oh yeah? I said. I'm just about to do that myself. With an expression that denoted pain and exhaustion, he said something in return that ended with what sounded like the words: "at the end there." I chuckled, because at the very time of his response, Imogen kicked it up a notch in my left ear, and I had no idea what he said or what to say back to him. So I chuckled.

He says, No I'm serious! I laugh even louder as I head down the stairs. Good to see you! I say. Yeah, he says grumpily. As I stepped out of my building I realized he might possibly have said something like, "I fell to the ground and the ambulance came and they had to revive me at the end there." Or...."I collapsed from heat exhaustion at the end there." Or...."I accidentally ran into a cyclist and broke his neck at the end there." Or...."You know I live below you and you're a really loud walker and I wish you'd walk more quietly up there." It occurred to me that he might consider me a very evil person now.

It was a crowded day at the park. Not only were the meadows jammed with picnic-ers, the trail was jammed with runners and walkers and cyclists. Occasionally, I had to use quick thinking logic to maneuver through and avoid injury. At one point on the trail, a point where I was running down hill and uncontrollably gaining speed, I came upon two very slow walkers, strolling along on that beautiful afternoon. I couldn't run around them to the right due to the two cyclists approaching me from behind on my right. I edged toward the left curb to pass the dawdlers, and as I approached, at the very last minute, the couple (the girl being closest to the left curb) dawdled to the left, blocking my way. I had no choice. I had to do it.

"On your left." is what I meant to say, loud enough but calmly enough. Due to the downhill-ness and Imogen Heap blaring in my ears, and the fact that I'm in awful shape, what came out was,

"ON YOUR LEFT!!!"

The girl jumped a mile in the air, quickly stepped to the right, stopped, and then cringed her shoulders to her ears, waiting to be trampled flat.

I didn't run her over.

And later, the WALK-slash-run in me satisfied, I waited at the crosswalk to head home. A taxi pulled up, out of which a forty-something man in a suit appeared carrying two duffle bags. Imogen was finished blaring in my ears. This time I heard plainly.

"Wow, it's a gorgeous day!" he said, to my surprise, addressing me.

I attempted a polite chuckle to acknowledge the pretty day. (Apparently, I chuckle when I don't know what to say.) A cyclist sped toward us. I guess the forty-something man knew the cyclist and addressed him by name.

"George, it's so beautiful here!"

The taxi sped away but the forty-something man in the suit stood and looked at me.

"At my place in Southampton it was raining cats and dogs!"

I gave him a sarcastic smile through pursed lips that said, "You don't impress me. Get over yourself," looked away and crossed the street as fast as I could.

Very eventful day in the park.

Birthday Fun and More

Mom and I had a great time in the city. We saw Gypsy with Patti LuPone Saturday night. Wow, what an actress. I love the moments when I'm at the theater and I get a chill up my spine. More like a chill up the neck and behind the ears and then...gone. I wait for that moment. It's when the actor and the music, or the set, or the lights, come together at just the right moment, and this indescribable...thing...happens. What you see is real. Not imaginary, but real. Real life. But better. More powerful. Magic. Patti LuPone made magic on Saturday night.

We had tea at Alice's Teacup. The best scones around. Not me and Patti LuPone. Me and my mom.

We had dinner at Taboon, where my mom couldn't help but tell the waiter it was my birthday, and the waiter couldn't help but put a candle on our chocolate lava cake but to my relief, refrained from singing, and the table next to us couldn't help but start singing anyway, and then the whole restaurant was singing, and then my mom yelled out, "Her name's Amber!"..."Happy BIRthday dear...AMBER!" they all sang, and I couldn't help but bury my face in my hands, and then the old man with shoulder length grey hair came to our table and toasted my youth and my mom for spending it with me, said "his poetry tonight was my youth," (woah - pretty deep stuff there), then he couldn't help but assure me youth doesn't last. Bright smiles. Big toast. Thank you's.

Youth doesn't last.

Thank you for reminding me, dear old man.

I joke about it, but really, is that a necessary reminder?

We shopped at the local thrift stores. I'm telling you, you can score big in these parts.

I got a new pair of running shoes (not at the thrift stores but at the DSW in Union Square) so I no longer have an excuse for not running the park. Ugh. I'm doing it, but I hate running. I'd much rather take a dance class, but wow, it's expensive. My last pair of running shoes lasted me about 8 years. No lie! Obviously, I didn't run in them much.

We killed a roach the size of my big toe - with Pledge and Seth's shoe. The only roach I've EVER seen in this apartment. With Pledge because I didn't have any Raid and it was the quickest solution. It worked! Slowed him down enough for mom to smash him with Seth's shoe while I stood on the couch barefoot. I don't smush roaches. I just can't. I hate that crackling noise when the shoe hits at just the right place.

And my stairwell smells like an animal crawled up the wall somewhere and died. Either that or someone in one of these apartment's is dead and nobody knows it. Creepy. The smell is disgusting. Not in my apartment, thank God, but definitely in the stairwell.

Gross.

Thanks Mom, for a fun-filled (roach and all) birthday weekend. Love you.

Behind the Black and White Dress

If I were to be completely honest with you, I would tell you how, when I was at that fancy shmancy party on Saturday night, I hated walking around by myself. That I felt ridiculous and out of place. That I kept noting how my dress seemed a little tighter, and kept wondering if my purse was too big. It didn't match my outfit.

How I wanted to be the one on that stage, and how when I watched Kristen, a looming sense of doom crept deeper and deeper within my spirit. Thoughts like, I'll never get there. I'm not that good. Am I that good? How did she get there?

I might seem really bad to you, if I tell you all of this. But then again, to some Christians, I was already really bad because, every once and a while, I enjoy a good martini.

And then, some of you will know exactly what I'm talking about. Some of you know what it's like to walk amongst pictures of what you're not, and have *something* tell you that you don't have it and won't get it. Something tell you, lie to you, that it will make you happy. Lies of comparison and envy.

So maybe by me saying all of this we can help each other realize that comparison bites and should be thrown straight to hell. That success is an illusion, that money doesn't make us happy.

Some people believe that pursuing a dream is selfish, self-fulfilling, self-pleasing, especially if this dream is found *in* the world. When in fact, that pursuit requires perpetual self denial, diligent cross bearing, insistent battle with temptation. Specific temptation tailored just perfectly for the targeted soul, exposed and vulnerable. Things are not always what they seem.

P.S. To my good friend, Kathy, if you're reading, please don't stop inviting me when you get to do Kristen's hair. These thoughts in this post are merely one side of the coin. I am honored I was your guest and next time, I'm making myself talk to Aaron Sorkin.

Unnatural

It's not natural for a dog to poop on the pavement.

Just plain dadgum unnatural.

I hate walking by a dog taking a crap on the sidewalk in Manhattan.


HATE it.



They look horridly embarrassed: ears back, necks out, beady little eyes, glancing ashamedly at passer-bys. The dogs hate it, too! No grass or shrubs to hide their gross contorted excrementing bodies.

Ugh.

Gross, gross, gross.

In My Kitchen, part II

Our super came today and sealed holes around the piping in the cabinets underneath the sink. And he set a trap.

Now see, this causes another problem. If Mickey gets caught in the trap, you're crazy if you think I'm touching that thing to throw it out the window, or kill it like my father-in-law does, by STOMPING on it. Uh-uh. No sirrree. And Seth's out of town. (Of course, I have to see the dadgum mouse when he's out of town.)

So I've remedied the problem. My next door neighbor has agreed to deal with it if I catch Mickey.

My next door neighbor's 18 and just out of high school. I think he hates me now for asking because I could see in his face that he was just being nice. Oh well. I'm very thankful for his manners, and I hope he doesn't hate me. He's a really great kid who's on Broadway, actually. He hasn't been working for the past few days, though, because of the stagehand strike. Most Broadway has gone dark, if you haven't read it in the papers. So since he has so much free time, I've requested he rid me of my mouse.

Let's all just hope Mickey decides not to visit again. For his sake and mine, and my next door neighbor's.

At the Diner

Today I tried Matzah Ball soup.

I traded it in for French Onion.

Hey. I tried.

The Apartment Saga: Stella

Continued from previous post

After several silent and suspenseful seconds of intense study, Michael, with eyes cast downward looking grimly at our Fred, said softly after a quick nod:

"Dis is de bug."

Wonderful. Just wonderful. Bed bugs in our apartment the THIRD WEEK of living in Manhattan. I thought they had exterminated for those? Obviously not. No, see, what they did was SAY they would exterminate, and then they told us everything was fine, and it wasn't fine. And I was itching all over. It's amazing how sensitive your skin becomes when you imagine bugs crawling all over your body in the middle of night, sucking your blood, and then going to hide away and lay eggs.

Gross.

So, thankfully, our management company agreed to put us up in a hotel that night, while Jamaican man Michael officially exterminated. I was surprised that they agreed. If they wouldn't have agreed, we would have high tailed it out of this place. And at the time we had plans to do that very thing. I called my broker and set up an appointment the next week to look for apartments.

But an interesting thing happened.

We had a relatively nice stay at The Amsterdam Inn (which, upon arrival, I noticed the shared bathrooms and thought I might cry again. But we had a private bathroom so it was all good.) BUT. We soon realized that WE MISSED OUR LITTLE HOBBIT HOLE! The apartment with no closets and hardly any windows! It had become our home! Our neighborhood had invaded our psyche and we belonged to it and it belonged to us. We were miserable away from it. Even the pounding and the fear of bed bugs couldn't keep us away. We wanted to go back HOME.

And back home we went the next afternoon, but not before perhaps the worst of all experiences.

We were told to wait until around 5 PM to return the next day, so Seth and I spent a good bit of time in the Barnes and Noble Cafe down the street from our place. We had been pleasantly sitting and reading for an hour, when a man with two little girls sat down at the adjoining table directly to our right. The little girls were beautiful. Probably ages 5 and 3. Dark, curly hair and brown eyes. And the Dad kept calling one of them Stella and she kept calling him Papa. He sounded British.

Stella, the five year old, kept looking our way and smiling. We kept looking her way and smiling.

It was a special day for Stella and her sister. A special day because they got an oatmeal cookie at the Barnes and Noble. And an even more special day because they got hot chocolate after the oatmeal cookie. All this if they finished their vegetable pizza, which they did.

But I suppose special days have certain special consequences, because all of the sudden, Papa was leaning over Stella, asking if she felt alright. And Stella was shaking her head, no. And then Papa reached for the paper cup that just seconds ago had held the hot chocolate. And Stella leaned her little face over it. And then I turned away and heard sounds of spurting liquid hitting the bottom of a cup.

I gagged. I avoided looking. Papa said, "Are you done?" And Stella shook her head no. And then more sounds of liquid spurting into a cup. I placed my right index finger inside my right ear and stared at the laptop computer in front of me. Stella kept looking our way, embarrassed. We no longer looked her way. Smiles were gone. My face was hot. Please be done. Please be done. Papa ran to the counter for another cup. Stella panicked, and Papa made it back just in time. PLEASE be done.

Finally it was over. They left the cafe, an embarassed Papa, a crying Stella, and a confused little sister. I felt sorry for Stella and her dad. I felt sorry for myself that I couldn't go home and instead had to sit next to a puking child on a rainy day after I found a bed bug in my bed. I took out my hand sanitizer, shared it with Seth, and figured it couldn't get any worse than this.

TO BE CONTINUED (just once more)

Bed Bugs

No we don't have them (knock on wood, EVERYONE!!). But Seth finally told me last night that there's a rumor going around our building that someone downstairs reported bed bugs. He didn't tell me for a while because I am deathly scared of bed bugs. I've never had them (knock on wood, EVERYONE, PLEEEEASE!!!!). I'm almost as scared of them as I am of crickets. I hate crickets. Mostly because of a traumatic experience as a child. I woke up (I think I was 3 or something, already in a big girl bed) to the loudest chirping ever. I mean, LOUD. Right by my ear loud.

I screamed bloody murder and scurried out of bed to run to my parents room. I wasn't sure where in my room the cricket was, and at the last minute, right before running out of my room, I thought the cricket might be in the doorway. So...I decided to jump through the doorway, and in doing so, missed the open doorway and jumped into the wooden panneled side of the doorway. It really hurt. But it didn't phase me. I just kept running.

My parents had heard my scream and met me in the living room.

"There's a cricket! A cricket's in my room! Help me! Help!" I pleaded.

My parents walked me into my room and turned the light on. My dad found the cricket, which was nestled into the stuffed animals to the left of my bed. My dad asked me if I had seen the cricket.

"Uh-huh," I weepily nodded, and really thought I had.

"How big was the cricket?" my dad asked, with a slight grin, which at the time, I didn't understand at all. This wasn't funny,

"It was this big!" and I spread my little 3-year-old arms as wide as they would go.


I didn't sleep by myself for weeks. I couldn't. There might be a cricket in my bed. I woke my parents up night after night to sleep with them. Sometimes my mom brought her alarm clock into my room and slept with me. One night, they grew tired of the shenanagin, and tried locking me out of their room, in hopes I'd just give up and go to bed.

Nope. I pounded and wailed and pleaded. And I got my way.

Finally, my parents had the exterminator come out. My mom told me that this man was going to go everywhere in our house and kill all the crickets.

"Really?" I asked. I couldn't believe it. I was so happy.

I followed the exterminator around the entire time and made sure he went through the entire house.

That night I slept like a baby....all by myself. I slept on my side, hugging my knees to my chest, curled into a very tight ball, just in case the man missed a cricket in my bed.

So you see, the idea of bed bugs thoroughly scares the bageebees out of me. Seth checked last night. The coast was clear, and I slept fine. Then this morning, who appeared at our door, but TWO exterminators! Glorious!

It's the Hard-Knock Life...

The past couple of weeks we've been house sitting. Such a hard job, let me tell ya. The pool and hot tub every night. The bike path behind the house. The tasty food and wine she leaves behind with permission to consume. The FANtastic washer that takes only a tiny amount of detergent for one load of laundry, and the dryer which dries clothes ultra fast. The service that mows the lawn. The piano. The very fast internet that doesn't crap out on us every two days, like the ridiculous TV Max cable internet we were forced into using because of our silly apartment complex. Ugh. Did I mention the wine?

Of course, house sitting does come with responsibilities. I mean, don't get the wrong idea. It's not complete utopia here. I do have to water the plants and feed the eleven-year-old-boy's snails upstairs. And if you've ever seen me with green things that grow, you know that it takes some effort on my part. I fret over whether I should water them today or tomorrow, and once I've watered them, if I've watered them too much. And the snails. Well. I don't know if you've ever fed snails, but...gross. That food stinks. Or is it the snails? Water snails in a tank rarely cleaned by its eleven-year-old owner....probably the snails. Why snails, I wonder? I get fish, or lizards, or even tarantulas. But snails? Not seeing the entertainment or companionship factor there, not even the nurturing factor. I was only instructed to feed them on the weekends. They don't feel like pets when you feed them only once a week. BUT, to each his own...

Oh, and the light from the windows in the morning. WAY too early. =-)

On Sleeping and Waking Up

The other night, Seth was out of town, and I had a nasty cough that made my chest feel like a thousand knives were scraping the insides of my lungs every time I inhaled. So I took a couple of Mucinex DM's, and settled into my cozy bed with a book. The bedside lamp cast its soothing light as I read with head and shoulders propped up by my double-pillowed rig I use for such late night reading occasions.

I was doing just fine.

And then, all of the sudden, my room was lit up by the morning light pouring in through my windows. Glancing over at my alarm...7 AM...I noticed my lamp was still on. Huh? Why didn't I turn my lamp off before going to bed? And then I became aware that my head was propped up in old-woman-sleeping-poistion. It didn't register until I noticed my fallen book on the floor.

Watch out for that Mucinex DM. It'll knock you out.

*********************************************************************************

This morning I woke up and groggily made my way into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. It's important that coffee be the first thing of which I partake when I arise.

A minor problem.

The water that came from the tap as I filled the Brita filtering thingy was yellow. Pale, nasty yellow.

I don't know about you, but I LOVE yellow water. I LOVE that I couldn't brush my teeth this morning without wondering how many germs and how much dirt was entering my body. I think it's so great that, in order to take a shower today, I have to be OK with pale nasty water being my cleansing medium. I am so glad that my coffee was postponed as I let the water run, thinking the yellow tint would just go away, when in fact it did not.

Thank you, Houston TX, for such a wonderful morning surprise. How delightful.

Spearmint?

I should drink more water. It's the best thing for you. Good for your skin, good for weight control, good for your overall health, and good for my sadly dehydrated vocal chords from 2 cups of coffee every morning.

But here's my problem. I think drinking water is boring. It doesn't taste very good, just plain. So I thought I'd branch out and try some of that flavored spring water I've been seeing at Target.

Of all the bottled water for sale on the shelf at Target, of all the Ozarka, Dasani, and Evian. Of all the different flavors, watermelon kiwi, mixed berry, grape.....why in the h### did I choose "Unsweetened Spearmint"?

Unsweetened Spearmint?

What was I thinking?

This stuff is disgusting.

Why did I think that water that tastes like minty gum would taste refreshing? Dumb dumb dumb.

I am so mad that I spent 3 bucks on four plastic spearment flavored spring water bottles that are bound together with such tough plastic material that it takes 5 minutes with the scissors to loose just one.

I am so annoyed at myself for not being able to enjoy my water. Just stick with Ozarka, people. Good ole' natural flavored spring water.

Birds are Gross

Warning: This post contains cursing. I'm sorry in advance if it offends you.

I was reading Brody's blog about a bird incident, and it reminded me of a bird experience I had recently. I wanted to leave this as a comment on his blog but kinda chickened out.

Birds are just gross.

I hate the tree outside our apartment because it's always swarming with birds and I'm always afraid that when I walk down the stairs to my car that they'll bomb me with their nasty bird crap.

Once Seth and I were loading up the car for a gig. We had to park under that tree. So I was holding a piece of equipment while Seth was loading and suddenly I felt something plop right on my arm. I was so mad. I yelled at Seth, "Gross! Hurry! Take this stuff. A bird just crapped on me. And it's all HOT. Right out of its ass."

Have you ever had a bird crap directly on your skin?! No lie, it's hot. Naturally, the visual that would follow the hit would be where that hot, nasty dripping mess came from. And that would be its bum.

It was so totally gross.