to say nothing of the dog

Sunday, October 31, 2004

Lemur Fiesta

Last Christmas, I gave Adam a bottle of Johnny Walker Red, a CD, and the Lemur Fiesta--plush stuffed lemurs from FAO Schwartz. A mother lemur, and her little baby lemur clasped around her.

We had been searching for a present for one of my many many cousins, and we visited multitudes of places before deciding on a dinosaur hand puppet from the Natural History Museum. One night, we walked up Fifth Avenue, three weeks before Christmas. All the lights were out, walking by Rockefeller Center. We looked at the skaters, and the Christmas tree, and the stretch Humvee with a stupid little boy in it promoting some godawful movie. I (loudly) voiced my indignation at the very idea of a WHITE stretch Humvee's existence, Adam laughed at me, and we walked on. We passed by a little shop that sold Japanese candies; they were so delicately displayed that I was afraid that if I breathed on the glass, the candies behind the liquid sand would crack.

And finally, twenty minutes before closing, we went into FAO Schwartz. We ran all the way through the store, examining Go sets, the Simpsons Monopoly Game, and inevitably came to the stuffed animal section. There were stuffed dogs, stuffed cats, stuffed turtles, stuffed dolphins...and yes, even stuffed mama and baby lemurs. I have never, ever seen Adam more excited in a store. His brown eyes glowed behind his wire-framed glasses, and in a voice that I have only heard reserved for small weird dogs, he said "LOOK, ANNE! LOOK! It's a LEMUR FIESTA!"

After I was fired from The Bad Place, two days before Christmas, I decided that I finally had enough time to go buy Adam his presents.

He got his Lemur Fiesta.

I'm missing him tonight, as he's in Washington to meet some higher-up muckety-mucks. So I'm just holding on to the Lemur Fiesta and listening to my small weird dog sound like a tea kettle. Squirrel the Cat is curled up like a hat somewhere, and I didn't have to share my artichoke for dinner. Later on, I'm going to go to watch part of the Halloween Parade with Katie and Jackie and Zack. It's all okay, and good--but I can't take the same amount of satisfaction in being alone that I do when Adam is here. He'll be back tomorrow.

Guess I'm in love.

Friday, October 29, 2004

Carbohydrate Drugging

Last night, Adam and I went German. Brought out the lederhosen, I tied my hair up in braids-- we even brought in a goat and practiced our yodeling.

Not really.

But we did have pierogies, kielbasa, pumpernickel bread and beer for dinner. Then I fell asleep in my skirt and my contacts; carbohydrate drugging is real, folks.

Joseph the elevator man at work was very very excited at the pierogi idea. He said that the best place to get pierogi is on First Ave. I don't know, Joseph. Joseph has a crush on me. He wants me to hold his hand to give him energy.

And to help him pick out his camera.

And to give him more of my headshots. I had given him a business card, because he begged for it. And because I like him.

Joseph sings me songs in Polish. He calls me Anna Maria. I gave up on correcting him after he said that Anna Maria is his daughter's name, and she lives in Poland.

Joseph has the worst toupee in the world. Sometimes his hair on the bottom of his skull grows longer that the toupee. He once offered to take the toupee off for me. I politely declined the honor.

Joseph operates the elevator in the Puck Building, where I work.

Joseph belongs in a short story. I'm not sure whether it's a comedy or a horror story.


Tuesday, October 26, 2004

Not At All Funny

Today I looked at the New York Times web interactive election-thingy. The subtle shadings of red throughout the South and the West...they scare me. They scare me so much. You know those almost overt slams against pessimistic over-educated liberals? Yeah. Whatever. Bush is a bad man. He thinks he's fighting a holy war against Muslim terrorists--but a) holy and b) war are not a good combination. He's creating more terrorists, due to the sheer terror that we've sown in Iraq.

I want to move to Vancouver, but I'm afraid that if I do, there won't be anyone left to protest this terrible, terrible man and his policies that will kill more women (outlawing abortion) and men (unannounced draft via enrollment in the National Guard), leaving us in a police state (the Patriot Act).

Bush is a terrorist. I am in a state of terror. There is no logic that will move me or anyone else at this point, from our votes either for Kerry or Bush. My gut tells me that Bush will continue to listen to his God, who seems to hate everyone who isn't Bush.

Has that man ever seen someone bleed? I have. I don't want any more bleeding.

Thursday, October 21, 2004

Sartorially Challenged

My salary does not cover the amazing number of things that I really want. I mean, yes, health care, yes world peace...yes, God yes, Kerry in the White House...but also: Nora Roberts novels. Terry Pratchett novels. My first experience at a spa. Covering all expenses for the play. I sometimes feel that I should try to dress even worse (My style could be described as X-treme casual, with a high reliance on cotton shirts in bright bright colors--pretty!) in order for someone to nominate me for What Not To Wear. Because then? $5000 for a new wardrobe? Hell, yeah. That's a reality show I can get behind.

It's not that I don't know how to dress. I do. I recognize that perhaps one should actually press clothing before wearing it, instead of balling it up into knots in the back of a drawer for the cat to nest in.

But in my defense: it could be worse. For example, I could still be wearing sweat pants everyday and not brushing my hair, circa 1992. Or, as we saw in 1986, the dreaded green corduroy pants matched with the panda t-shirt and candy necklace.

I believe that it was at the age of four that I took power from my mother's hands in all matters sartorial, and have not given it up since. Occasionally, this strategy has proved hazardous. But today? Today I have an audition. In front of a commercial casting director.

I think that I'm going to go get that new shirt at Brooklyn Industries after work, after all...

Saturday, October 09, 2004

Calm Red Cherry Tree

Reading over my posts, I've discovered that I could stand with some simplification of my writing style. Words wasting away, all over the page.

Thus, the Haiku Update:

Hush puppies, fried brown
Spinach, bacon drip clear oil
Tempests storm inside

Bush Kerry blood match
Sparring white men bare teeth, bite
Tell me it's over

White petals float down
Over the higher-up's desk
Not my cup of tea.


I bow my head to the world, respectfully.

Tuesday, October 05, 2004

The World Is a Vampire

Thank you, Smashing Pumpkins, for the one lyric from the early to mid-90's that actually stuck in my head. I read an article today in the New York Times that links stomach pain to mental anxiety, due to the high level of neurotransmitters in the brain. My tapping feet and my cramping intestines signal TRIUMPH! on the part of the researchers (oh, brave researchers) who talked to a bunch of worried kids whose stomachs hurt them all the time.

Stoopid anxiety. Stoopid.

Why am I anxious? Could it be the seven applications for steady work floating out in the world? Could it be the echoing "You have NO messages in your voicemail" that gouging Verizon mercilessly drives into my ear? Could it possibly be the nagging fear that my lack of solvency will force Adam to drop out of school, will force me to cut my own classwork short, will cast Elmer and Squirrel out on the street, where they will certainly be eaten by rats, while Adam catches a cold that developes into tuberculosis and I will get HIV by being forced to sell my body for subway fare? And then nobody will like me and friends that I had in college will no longer recognize me in the street. AND IT WILL BE ALL MY FAULT.

Yeah. Maybe.

Elmer will try to tell the rats that he is big and tough, that he is the biggest baddest pug on the streets of New York. The rats will LAUGH AT HIM, and then their little dagger teeth will drip with blood. Blood of the pug.

Sometimes I wish that my imagination was a little less vivid. Because I am now crying at the idea of a pugilistic pug, pounded by parasites.

Friday, October 01, 2004

Boogerman

I've been smacked in the face by the Boogerman this past week (thanks to Adam and his indefatigable, incessant, to the point of despair, neglecting his health--AND MINE--studying) . The Boogerman brings with him tidings of wheezing nights and slow, dragging days, of inspection of kleenex to see if the booger is the welcome clear of infection's end, or the orange of brain explosion. Also known as sinus infection.

Mostly, it's been green.

This came at a most unwelcome time--though I honestly don't know when a welcome time would be. This week, I interviewed someone for the stage manager position. I have to fill this job. HAVE TO. I suck at scheduling shows. Oddly, scheduling is not a problem for any day jobs, but scheduling rehearsals fills me with panic and fear. Just ask the Coyote, who's been on the receiving end of some last minute "Okay, we're meeting here. Give me a call. No, wait, here. Give Adam a call, you know I don't have a cell-phone. And by the way, if you don't show up, I will think that your mothers raped the earth by sowing it with salt, and I will never never never come to your bar and get blindingly drunk again. So there. Yeah. Bye." Maybe that's why he didn't show up that time.