The Church At Its Best

When it works the way it should, there's nothing sweeter. Here we are, back in Houston, staying at a beautiful house...for free. Driving a borrowed car...for free. Friends offering lunch, offering dinner, offering rides, offering fellowship, friendship. Meeting our needs when we've done nothing to deserve the kindnesses. The body of Christ helping a couple of wandering artists find their way.

I'm overwhelmed. So thankful. And hoping I've done something to meet their needs. Hoping I've filled a missing piece somehow, as they've done for me.

To whom much is given, much is required.

I'm hoping that one day I can offer someone a place to stay, or give them my car, or feed them a good, home cooked meal. Or maybe I'll be the person they know will pray for them. Who will listen without judging. Encourage. Care. I'm hoping that I'll remember how much has been given to me.

We need each other.

I'm learning how important that is.

H-town

I have never been more glad to be in Houston than in these past two days. The most beautiful day in the whole history of Houston was Sunday. 60's. Big clear blue sky. Birds singing right outside my window. In FEBRUARY!!

I took a walk Monday. One, because it was such a beautiful day. Two, because I'm so used to walking around town that it's not right to stay holed up in a house or in a car, or wherever. And three, because I can't get enough of that Texas sky. It was always one of my favorite things about Houston.

Almost as good as my friends here. I'm having such a good time visiting my friends that I, at times, wonder why we left at all. I wonder for a fleeting moment, and then I remember. I know we were right to leave. But it makes me long for heaven when we won't ever have to leave our friends, our family. Or if we physically leave them, no big deal, right? Because it all goes on forever and we'll be back in no time. Literally, no time. Which is weird. I've taken the notion of writing everyone a letter. A big, sappy letter to every person I know in Houston. Even my (guys, close your eyes)...girlie doctor, who I visited on Monday. She was so nice to me that I wanted to write her a letter. A letter to my OB/GYN? Yeah. It's kind of ridiculous. Even my dentist! Who I visited today, for only $10. Heck, I should write my insurance company a letter!

I rehearse in the evenings, so my days are play time, basically. I wake up late. (A little like heaven, too, I think.) I make coffee. I sometimes watch Ellen. I go to doctors and run errands. I get my toes and eyebrows done with my friend, Super Churchlady. And then I go be Belle for the evening. It's...I don't know...it's...INCREDIBLE.

When I first got here on Thursday, it felt like I had left a week ago. I remembered everything so perfectly. It was like New York was a vacation and I was coming home. Then I woke up the next day and felt nostalgic and out of place. Like everything was so foreign and strange. And NOW, I want to write everyone a letter. This is so weird and good and fun and sad.... I'm a mess.

This is Awesome

Direct from Chaotic Hammer. Caption by: The Cachinnator:



"Shaun Groves, Seth Ward, and The Cachinnator Walked into a Bar..."

Nice going, C-ham. And the caption, Cach...right on.

Beauty and the Beast

I'm leaving for Houston this week to play my favorite role of all time. This is really exciting for me. Truthfully, I've been waiting for a chance to play this role, and here it is!! I hope it's not the last time, but it's definitely the first!

Tickets are on sale at www.fortbendtheatre.com.

Here's directions to The Stafford Centre.

Would love for any of you Houston-ites (or not, my parents are coming in from Oklahoma =-) ) to come see the show! Spread the word!

Public Transportation...

is the bomb-dot-com. ESPECIALLY when it's FREE!!!!

FREE shuttle to Ikea. From New York City to Elizabeth, NJ. Non-stop. And returning. Absolutely FREE!!!


Have you ever eaten at Ikea? Pretty darn tasty. I highly recommend the Swedish Meatballs, and the Chocolate Mousse Cake. Because it's all pretty delicious. Oh yeah, and HALF THE PRICE. How do you do it, Ikea? Really, how do you do it?

A fancied future field trip: A Saturday lunch date to Ikea in New Jersey. It would be the cheapest date of all. Hey, it could even be a Valentines date if you bought those cute little Ikea ice cube trays that freeze the ice in x's and o's.

Except Valentine's Day is on Thursday, not Saturday, and the shuttle is only free on Saturday and Sunday.

I love you, Ikea.

Two Weeks and One Day Ago

My husband almost died two weeks and one day ago. From choking on an oyster cracker. I came home that day and found Seth sitting in his favorite brown leather desk chair. A sight I'm used to and one that I like. He would turn around and smile and say hi. He turned, but instead of a smile and a hello, said I'd never guess what happened to him that day. When he told me, I told him what I tell my one-year-old boy that I babysit, "Chew, baby. Chew." But that was after I knelt beside my husband and cried with my arms around his neck.

As I held onto him, I thought of what I would do if I lost him. How empty and unsafe I would feel. Empty. How my life isn't meant to be lived without him. It wouldn't be right. It doesn't make sense. And how could God let that happen? How it all seems up to chance. That God isn't in control. If he was how could Seth have almost died? Where was God's protection? It's all pandemonium. God leaves us all to chance, and a faulty bite at dinner could strip my best friend in the world from me. Thirty more seconds, and he could have been gone from my life in an instant.

And I suppose you think, but he didn't die. Right. He didn't. And maybe you're also thinking, God WAS protecting him. He didn't die. And you'd be right. You are right. And thankfully within a reasonable time, I began to have those thoughts, too.

But what if he had died? People die every day. Seth will die one day. Maybe even before me. Maybe I'll have time to prepare. Maybe it will happen when I least expect it. No matter what, it will feel like the end of my world. It will feel empty. It will feel unsafe. And what will I think then? Will I think it all chance and that God had turned away from me?

We sang at Redeemer Presbyterian here in New York this past Sunday: "Give Me Jesus," which Seth adapted from the well-known spiritual and added his own verses and bridge. I think they liked it, but I remember the sermon that Tim Keller preached. He preached from a passage in Job, about the fear of God amidst despair. That when despair enters our lives, what we really need more than anything, what Job realized he needed, the only answer to it all, is wisdom. And wisdom comes from the fear of God. Those who have not the fear of God have not wisdom. They are fools.

He described the fear of God, as not so much a scary fear, like the fear of an intruder, or the fear of what any bad person or person with bad intentions might do to me. The fear of God is believing in the purest good, even when that good allows for bad. This is wisdom: Realizing that yes, the world at times works the way it should. Hard work equals reward. Following God equals blessing. Following the rules equals fair. BUT the world is fallen. And alot of the times it doesn't work the way it should. Hard work ends in suffering. Following God ends in despair. And nothing is fair. Wisdom is knowing in these times, that we serve a God, who, actually, (yes), allows all around us to be black and dismal, allows the bad to enter our lives, does NOT prevent it, and at the same time, not only has control of our lives, but loves us more than we can imagine...as we struggle through the darkness and hurt through the despair and beat our fists demanding justice. Amidst the darkest despair, TRUSTING and BELIEVING in that all-powerful goodness, in that love, and ultimately in the justness of it all. That is fearing God. That is wisdom.

Will I have learned wisdom when that time of despair comes? Will I forget that this world is fallen, that it doesn't follow the everlasting law of God? That it yearns for restoration? That it will be restored. Will I be a fool?

Job 28:12: "But where can wisdom be found...?"

Job 28:28: And he said to man,
'The fear of the Lord—that is wisdom,..."

City Sights

Something tells me I shouldn't eat here.

Ahhhh....

Peace. Quiet. Tranquility. A Bedroom! Heaven.

I want to order in dinner every night. I want to buy all of my groceries online. I want to sit on my couch, look out of the glass door that leads to our deck at the clear blue sky, and listen to absolutely nothing. I never want to leave this place. My new home. Are you ready for this?

It's NORMAL.

Yes, it really is. Before I moved to New York City, I wouldn't have dared live in something so small. But now, this place is the grandest, most luxiurious, most spacious living arrangement I could ever want.

And who needs all this stuff? We still have too much stuff. I could do without three-fourths of it. OK, maybe half. But the point is, how and why did we ever live with so much stuff? It's so cumbersome and stationary. It's almost slavery. When I got married, I registered for a bunch of stuff, and thankfully then but unfortunately now, we got alot of it. I remember how stressful it was to pick it all out. I had no idea what to pick. Now I wish I hadn't picked out anything at all and just bought a few plastic plates and bowls and cups from Target.

We walked over to our old apartment today to do a little cleaning before turning in our keys. I couldn't wait to get out of there. The place that had been my home for five months was nothing to me. I resented it. Anger. Disgust. Frusteration. But no attachment. No wistful nostalgia or fond goodbyes. I shut the door with a Good Riddance and never looked back.

But now, I am at peace. I feel like we've just woken up from a dream. More like we just finished a five-month marathon and are sitting at the finish line, drinking the most refreshing bottle of the purest water and breathing in the crisp, clean air. Long, slow breaths of home and health and strength, overcoming strength. Perseverence. Gratitude. Rest.

I'm Gonna Be a Part of It...

Most of you know the saga, what has transpired since we've arrived here in NYC. And through it all, I've resented my landlord. I see him as a ganuf, (thanks Super Churchlady.), which is a Yiddish term meaning "thief, dishonest person, scoundrel." In my mind, all of this has been his fault. And really, it is. But after reading yesterday's article, I realized a few things. Now what I realize is probably common sense to either those who've lived here for a certain amount of time, or to those who are just older and wiser, or just wiser.

#1) There's really no such thing as NORMAL is New York City, except if you have a whole heck of alot of money. Then you just buy normal. But if you don't have a lot of money, you are basically S.O.L. Either you are at the mercy of those who have a lot of money, or live outside of Manhattan and then you can have close to normal again. But here in Manhattan, it helps to be rich.

#2) I think this going around the permits and C.O. thing happens often in the city. The Brooklyn building had been happily inhabited for ten years, and not once did anyone raise objection, until this past week, when for some reason the Department of Buildings chose that day out of all days to evict the tenants. So if our building had been completed when we moved in, no one would have filed complaints with the DOB, and we would have been happy neighbors...for a while at least. Buildings are inspected once a year, it seems, so our eviction might have happened eventually.

#3) Who's really the bad guy in these situations? Did the DOB really have to evict those tenants? On the coldest day we've had. (And it really was the coldest. I had to stand in a line outside for an audition. It was painful.) They give everyone one day to get out? And the tenants weren't at fault. They did nothing. Why couldn't the DOB just work with whoever to fix the problems?

#4) My landlord may be a ganuf, but maybe he's not the bastard that I've thought him to be. For one, he did allow us to stay down the hall, a bigger apartment for the same price. Two, if it's common to take shortcuts, then he did a common thing, and had a run of bad luck at it. Or made a bad decision to move people in too soon, because he's a ganuf. Still, he knew our line of apartments did not meet fire code. That's a big deal. That's not something that a man who owns 8 buildings in Manhattan doesn't know.

All in all, for some reason that article made me forgive my landlord. There must be a war that goes on between landlords and government officials, and sometimes the tenants get the brunt of it. It's unfair. But my story doesn't seem that bad after I read their story. And unfair might just be what we have to endure for a while. It's alright.

If you can MAKE it here, you can make it..(Bum Bum) ANYWHERE, its up to YOU....New York, Ne-ew YORK!!!!

I'm Packing, Again...

because we're moving (but staying in NYC), again...and I can't wait. I can't wait because our electric bill is out of this world expensive because we have an electric heater, rather than radiators like most of NYC. I can't wait because those guys jack hammering and pounding outside my window don't allow me my rightful peace and quiet. (The workers are back to it, finishing the basement after the "Stop Work Order" was removed. The "Stop Work Order" was placed on our landlord because of all the fire code violations. We hear he's planning on building an entire 6th floor now. Our building is 5 floors. He's planning on creating an entire 6th floor while people live here.)

I can't wait because we'll have TWO closets with even more storage ABOVE the two closets. And I mean big closets. AND storage above the kitchen where we're convinced someone could sleep. Who? Cachinnator thinks we should rent it out to Forky. I can't wait because we'll have a deck. I can't wait because things will be normal. PLEASE let things be normal.

Mostly, I can't wait because we won't be giving rent to a greedy, unfeeling, (fill in the Yiddish term) of a landlord who insists it's fair to move us BACK into the smaller apartment when he FIXES it to meet FIRE CODE. We get vacated because his lousy renovations provide us a death trap for a living space, uprooted from the beginnings of a routine LIFE, to the apartment down the hall where the only way our entertainment center will fit is to put it in front of the only window...see the irony here?...and he plans on just moving us right back over there like it's no skin off our back. Like that's only fair. That's only fair, my foot.

We're out. OUT. Please, let things be normal.

That was what I wrote yesterday but didn't post. Here's what I read to day in "AM New York".

RESIDENTS OF B'KLYN LOFT EVICTED FOR FIRE CODE VIOLATIONS

The 200 residents of a Williamsburg (Brooklyn) loft building fire officials booted from their homes Monday left their apartments - bags, boxes and containers in hand - not knowing when they would be allowed back.

While the residents were evicted because of a fire code violation, the incident revealed an even greater problem. The building, where some have lived for years, does not have a Certificate of Occupancy that would allow for residency. Fixing the fire hazard and obtaining a Certificate of Occupancy may be a lengthy process.

A police officer on the scene yesterday making sure everyone cleared out told the residents of 475 Kent Ave. that if they had a viable commercial enterprise in the building they would likely be able to return in a few days. But those who were strictly residents however, "should probably look for another place."

A spokeswoman for the City Department of Buildings, which issues Certificates of Occupancy, yesterday outlined some of the steps that need to be taken before residents can return. They not only include addressing the fire hazards, but also require the owner to retain a licensed architect or engineer "to bring the building into compliance," Kate Lindquist, buildings spokeswoman, said in an e-mail response.

It was unclear yesterday when the city first realized that legal occupancy was not allowed in the building. Lindquist turned down a request for a phone interview. The building co-owner, Nachman Brach, did not return calls.

Fire officials ordered tenants to leave Sunday evening after finding out that the grain storage for a basement matzo factory owned by Brach was improperly stored and "an explosive hazard," according to vacate order slips placed on each door.

"We addressed an immediate life hazard, that's why steps were taken to vacate the premises," said Jim Long, a fire department spokesman.

Shocked tenants had six hours to gather their things and find a place to stay on a bitterly cold day that brought wind chills around zero degrees. Some grabbed just enough to get by for a few days on the couches of friends. Some called moving vans and went looking for new places to live. Others could just stare vacantly ahead, unsure of what the next move was.

"This is the closest thing to an artist commune I've ever known," said Simon Arnold, 26, who lived in the building for 2½ years in a $2,000-a-month loft with soaring views of the East River. "It's like the dream just ended."

Residents will get a second and final shot today to move out belongings.

Meanwhile, the Red Cross is helping in relocation efforts. As of yesterday, only nine residents had taken the offer.

The building had once been a pasta factory, and later a cold storage warehouse. A group of artists who had been evicted from illegal loft conversions in DUMBO leased the upper floors from Brach.

Those first residents, in turn, built and rented out individual units, but the building never received the proper occupancy certificates, according to tenants. But the building had been well-lived in for a decade, with daily mail, UPS, and Fresh Direct deliveries, and residents wondered why they were given a few hours to gather their things and vacate on the coldest day of winter.

"It's not like this place was a secret," said Hagai Yardeny, 36, a seven-year resident of the building. "The fire department came by once a year to inspect. They could have given us time to fix the problems instead of forcing 200 people to relocate."

Well wha'doyou know. I have thoughts about this but will post later. For the record, our landlord didn't have the correct Certificate of Occupancy, either. If you renovate enough and change the ways of egress, you're required by law to obtain a new C.O. Before we lived here it was a "Single Occupancy Dwelling" (still not completely sure what that means) with one shared kitchen, maybe bath?, per floor. It was a run down crack house/ whore house, according to people on our block. Our landlord completely changed the place. Four studios per floor, each w/ kitchen and bath, with the nicest of amenities. Great for the block, but he didn't obtain a new C.O., and started moving people in before required permits were had and before essential LAWFUL things, such as the intercom from front door to apartment, were installed. Our line of apartments (in the center of the building) were evicted, or vacated, by the DOB for violation of fire code. The windows were too small to crawl through in case of a fire, and even if someone could crawl through, there was no fire escape outside. Instead it was a shaft-like area, enclosed by brick wall on all four sides, with the top of the shaft open to the sky, permitting light and air. (Remember this is Apartment B, which we thought was Apartment A.) We were given one day to get out.

Enough. More later.

Crossing the Street

It could be considered a mundane task, unless you live in a walking city such as New York. It then becomes a very flavorful experience with each changing of the block. There are multiple ways to cross the street in the Big Apple. With each crosswalk the proper option presents itself clearly, and choosing which way eventually becomes instinctual to the New York City walker.

I now present to you the multiple ways in which one crosses the street in New York City:

1) Follow the Rules: Do not cross the street until the crosswalk sign turns from a red hand to a white walking man. This option is best used when the traffic is heavy, and crossing the street equals death.

2) Dare the Hand: When walking up to a crosswalk and seeing that the hand blinks red, quickly walk or jog to the other side of the street before the hand becomes a solid red hand. This option is best used when the walker must make an appointment and has not the time to stand and wait for the white walking man, or if the walker is just too cold to stop walking.

3) Double Dare the Hand: Notice the solid red hand on the sign in front of you, but because there are no cars coming, jay walk. This option is the most used in New York City. The likelihood of using this option interestingly does not decrease if an NYPD patrol car or officer is in sight. In fact, the New York City walker rather enjoys staring the police officer in the face as he or she walks to the other side of the street on a red handed sign. The NYPD officer does nothing.

4) Red Traffic Walking: If heavy traffic ensues so that cars line up across the crosswalk of the intersection, and if the hand is solid red, walk across in between the idling cars! This is the most satisfying of all walks, because the walker feels that in some way he or she beats the system.

5) White Traffic Walking: If heavy traffic ensues so that cars line up across the crosswalk of the intersection, and if the sign turns to the white walking man, walk across in between the idling cars, even if it means one car gets stuck in the middle of the intersection, unable to move forward because of walkers. This is also a satisfying walk, because the walker knows he or she has every right to go first.

6) Running: If one decides to jay walk, and in turn misjudges the distance of the approaching car, run as fast as you can to the other side. This option can be the most humorous because most walkers look funny running.

7) Walk Rage: If walking at the appropriate time under a white walking man sign, and a car, most usually a yellow taxi driven by a glassy-eyed Arab, turns into you from another lane at a rapid speed, remember that you have the right of way, stop right where you are, turn with all hostility, arrogance, and spite toward the driver, and yell whatever obscenities naturally arise from the gut. A simple, "HEY!" will do, at times followed with whatever sort of gesture the walker feels comfortable giving. With this option it is important that the walker stop directly in front of the car, daring the driver to run him or her over, just daring the driver. Oh, you wanna run over me, buddy? Do it, then. I dare ya. Do it. We'll see how you feel then, is an appropriate subtext occurring within the mind while gesturing.

A Homeless Man at My Audition

At least I think he was homeless. He sure seemed like he was, but how assuming of me. Because he had lots of clothes on and strange thick glasses over beady eyes and wild thinning black hair, I think he's homeless? OK, maybe not homeless, but surely crazy. He sat on a bench inside the building and stared at people, stared at me, for extremely long periods of time, periodically roaming around the room, sitting back down, staring, smiling his vacant half-smile. He was odd. But then, most actors are odd, so I first gave him the benefit of the doubt. Guess he thought there might be a part for him in "Marcy in the Galaxy," the musical. I had no idea what "Marcy in the Galaxy" was all about, save for what the casting call described. Maybe there was a crazy beady-eyed character in "Marcy in the Galaxy."

That's what I thought until I sat behind him in the audition line. It was his time to go into the room. He had given a headshot to the monitor. That's the only way he got on the line. The person before him had gone in, had sung, and had come out. She was finished, and it was his turn. But he didn't go in. He just sat there next to me as I looked at him. He looked straight ahead with his vacant expression. No book of music. He held nothing. Finally I spoke up. "I think you can go in, sir."

"Oh. Yeah."

So he went in, with no music for the accompanist to play. He shuffled in and closed the door and I waited. We all waited. We all listened.

Ten quiet seconds passed before us. We stared at the door. We heard nothing. Ten seconds, and the door opened. Beady eyes shuffled back out of the room and wandered off. Off to where, who knows?

It was my turn. I walked into the audition room and over to a stunned accompanist and a bewildered casting director. We looked at each other wide-eyed. I tried not to laugh, but I couldn't help it. I laughed. They laughed.

"I don't know what that was all about," I said.

The casting director shook his head. "I thought I was being punked or something."

I sat my music on the piano in front of the accompanist. "Well, whatever you do," she said, "it'll be better than that."

I wouldn't mind a crazy homeless man showing up at auditions more often.

On Comparison

When we compare ourselves to others we deprive ourselves of the freedom in originality.

Envy fails to give God credit for what He has and what He will do in our lives.

No two paths are alike. And if they are, one is not authentic.

Who are we to tell God what He can and cannot, what He will or will not do?

Christmas Time

It's been a while. Sorry bout that. The show's going well, but leaving little time for blogging, since on my days off, I'm trying to make more money and spending it Christmas shopping. I'm paid to do the show, but, well, let's just say my paycheck leaves much to be desired, or much to be NEEDED...you know, for rent and nonessential things like that. But all is well! All is well. 'Tis the season for yuletide and carols, and the city is the best place to be in a season such as this. My Christmas season has truly begun. Yesterday we went to see the Rockettes with my parents, who are in town to see my show. And see my show, they did. Twice, in fact, because on Saturday night I got to go on as "Violet," which was nerve racking and fun all at the same time. So they came again on Sunday to see me in the ensemble. The Rockettes were really great. We saw the 75th anniversary Christmas Spectacular show, and it was quite enjoyable.What is it about girls kicking in a straight line that's so cool, and who figured that out? It was a full day with the parents yesterday. Brunch at Good Enough To Eat, one of our favorite restaurants down the street, a quick cab ride to Radio City Music Hall for a chance at getting into the 2 o'clock show, success, lots of sparkle and lots of leg, a warming cup of hot chocolate, a last minute trip to the Museum of Modern Art, where artists attempt to prove how inanimate objects arranged in puzzling formations is art, a brisk walk to Rockefeller Center to see the tree, dinner at Virgil's Barbecue (Oh yum), dessert at Nonna's, then back home to play two games of Scrabble, the first of which I came in second to my father, and the second of which I whupped major heinie, especially that of my dear husband, which is saying something because he ALWAYS beats me in Scrabble. ALWAYS. But NO LONGER. I am the champion.

And my show was reviewed by the New York Times. The picture below is from the article. The reviewer liked the cast and the new theater, but didn't think the show measured up to the movie. I get that. But come on. Everyone knows that nothing can measure up to the movie. Get real. Listen to the story. It's told well, and it's a life-changing story. And in my opinion, the music is really good. Resembles Sondheim. Great lyrics. But it's a critic's job, so whatever. Here's the article.


I'm the first girl from right to left. You can see my little head directly above the guy kneeling.

A Wonderful Life

My show opened this past weekend. I've had Monday through Wednesday off, a needed break after an intense rehearsal schedule with techs and dress. Back to it tomorrow. We've got a big week this week with double shows on Saturday and Sunday, so 6 shows in 4 days. I'm loving it!

I have a fantastic cast. Not only are they all extremely talented, they are sincere and kind people. I've become close friends with many of them and look forward to seeing everyone again on Thursday. Here's a couple of pics.

At the high school dance. I'm on the left. We have a really fun Charleston number in these costumes.

Here we are as angels. (Go ahead and laugh.) We surround Clarence the "angel second class" as he dreams of getting his wings. Again, I'm on the left. Nice Carol Channing wigs, huh?

So that's what I've been doing. I'll post more pics as I get them. I'm relying on everyone else because I no longer have a camera.

Belonging

Today, amidst a bout of discouragement and self-pity, I remembered I hadn't prayed. I silently prayed the Lord's prayer.

Heavenly Father, hallowed be Thy name
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven

That's as far as I got. I thought on that phrase alone. By those words I remembered I belong to Him. That my reality must be set within that frame of mind, within the kingdom of God. When I live a reality of belonging to my Creator, the rest makes sense, and the inward glare of despair turns outward into the unseen world around me, and that which is seen is seen by the light of that invisible yet tangible kingdom. There I can rest in knowing that I am His and not this world's. There I find peace. Comfort. Joy. Relief.

There I let go of that which I think I need, and I see what I have. I see what others don't have, but what they need. Most of all I feel known by God, and kept. Kept safe. Kept right. Kept and loved. From where I sit, this place feels more alone, but less lonely. More vivid. More clear.

And full. So much more full.

Caution: Proactive Provides Damaging Solutions

This is the stuff I use to wash my face. As you can very well see, Jessica Simpson uses it, too. At least she says she does. At least she makes bazookoos of money saying she does. But, I'm wondering...does it bleach Jessica's eyebrows, too?

A curious phenomenom is occurring on my face. The very top of my eyebrows (usually brown, naturally to match my hair) are turning bleach blond. But it's just the top of my eyebrows. So right now my eyebrows are somewhat two-toned.

I first noticed this about two months ago when talking to Seth. As he pretended to listen to me ramble on about whatever, his focus kept shifting from my eyes to my eyebrows. I finally stopped to ask.

"What are you looking at?"

Seth furrowed his own brow, ultimately perplexed. "Your eyebrows are changing colors."

"My eyebrows are changing colors?"

He studied my eyebrows intensely. "Yeah, just the top."

"What?" I reached for the mirror in my bag. "Oh, weird. Yeah, they're changing colors. Maybe's its the way the sun hits them in New York when I have my sunglasses on." (Hey, it was the best I could come up with.)

I resumed telling my story, but not without intermittent pauses as I waited while Seth sat distracted by my eyebrows.

Then, as I talked to my mom on a recent visit to Oklahoma, she stopped me mid-sentence and moved closer to examine my face.

"Amber, did you know your eyebrows are changing colors?" she asked, quite concerned. Then she laughed.

"OK. This is ridiculous. Yes, I know my eyebrows are changing colors. Is it that bad?"

Later my mom called. She had an idea. What if my facewash that I've been using for the past...oh...6 years or so has been accidentally getting into my eyebrows all this time, and now the effects are showing. And sure enough, as I washed my face that night, I saw that my facewash has been dripping into the top of my eyebrows...for 6 years!

So I'm wondering if Jessica has this problem, too, and what she's doing to remedy it. I don't want to change my facewash. I like it. It works. But I can't go walking around with two-toned eyebrows. Jessica, you're the only one who can help. Save me. What do I do?

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.

In My Kitchen

I just saw a mouse peek its little head out from beneath the kitchen sink.

A MOUSE.

In my kitchen.

Dad friggin gummit.

At the Diner

Today I tried Matzah Ball soup.

I traded it in for French Onion.

Hey. I tried.