March 2011

There are not enough sad face emoticons in the universe to express how this story made me feel.,,20475069,00.html

Knut was the adorable polar bear whose face and fluffiness launched a thousand “awwww” exclamations back in 2007.

He was only 4 years old. Polar Bears can live well into their 30s, so the Berlin Zoo will perform an autopsy on his body. He collapsed in his environment and no foul play is suspected.

Enjoy heaven, Knut. There are no tourists and plenty of fish.


1. I’ll be the first to admit, I’m completely jealous of this girl’s body. Implants aside, she looks great.

2. That being said, I hate this new costume. Blue spandex pants? If we’re going to update my beloved Wonder Woman, let’s not get her something that looks like I got it at Ricky’s blowout sale. We can even make the costume some kind of all-black, motorcycle thing and give her a “Batman Begins” kind of treatment. It’s just sad that my Halloween costume looks better, and probably cost $3000 less.

3. I hope this TV show gets some serious fixes before (and if) it ever gets to air.

4. Crazy red lipstick?????

2 years ago today, my BFF married an incredible man at a lovely and truly heartfelt ceremony….

1 year ago today, those same friends came to New York to watch the final show of my first major play production…

Today I was ignored and treated like a useless waste of space at work.

Game fucking over. I’m taking my life back. I feel so much anger and determination it’s like there’s lightning in my hands.

March 15….beware the Ides….

Someone made the unfortunate mistake of giving me unfettered access to a list of our clients email addresses at work. And oh holy shit, if there’s ANYTHING in this world I love to judge, it’s email addresses….and headshots. My favorite headshot pose? Kneeling on a cobblestone street – “Lost in Charleston!” But I digress – at this gig, it’s just critiquing emails, and the getting is good!

I feel strongly that once a person reaches the age of 18, they have new powers (cigarettes! Porn!) but also great responsibilities which include ditching the ridiculous email address they first picked out for themselves in junior high. This means the end of and accepting (which I hope is still free because now I want it).
Why? Because if you expect to be taken seriously as an adult human being, you MUST lose the silly and childish e-handle. As I obviously cannot use our clients as direct examples, I can give you an idea of some of the absurd fucking monikers that grown ass women instruct me to contact them at:

….there was also one where the client misspelled her own name. That was clutch.

I wish I was exaggerating, but I’m not. And I’m as guilty of this as anyone. I had a very childish email when I was younger, but the minute I started sending resumes to potential employers I followed the advice of the Holy Bible, put away childish things and grew the fuck up – that’s verbatim, you can check it.

Post Script Fun Fact – This was written on the 4 train around midnight – I’m all kinds of sneaky! You never know where I’m going to be, laying down my judgements!

Greetings from Wednesday.

For reasons multiple,  I’m not in the best of moods. Though I have a really lovely evening lined up for tonight (friends! theatre! food! a trip to a bar that has a TARDIS…seriously!) all I want to do is curl up on the sofa, sleep and be left alone. Why is this?

The first thought is that I’m sick with worry. A dear friend is currently stranded in Paris, having been barred reentry to the UK, where he lives – he’s an American, and his visa is about to expire, but there’s no reason not to let him collect his belongings and go. He’s being forced to head straight back to the states and I’m waiting to receive him, though I’ve just gotten word that scheduling issues with his flights have delayed his arrival even further. Argh.

Other possibilities? Add-ons, if you would?

Mayhaps it is my hormones. I really should keep a better watch on them. Or perhaps it’s the absolute skullfucker of a headache I’ve currently got going, because I decided to be healthy and have juice instead of coffee – which I’ll remedy shortly, because I just ate the better part of a bottle of Advil and my brain is still throbbing. Or I feel grouchy and insecure about current goings on in relationships.  It’s like a perfect storm to make a woman insane…worry, hormones, caffeine withdrawl and relationship nerves….the true test is if I can just ride out the crazy (keeping it all on the inside, and not starting my own insane webcast, where I’ll proclaim that I too am ingesting tiger blood) then hopefully by the end of the week I’ll have returned to a semblance of my normal self. We shall see.

I love food. I do. Despite my recent posting about usually skipping lunch, I’m a big fan of cooking, eating, and appreciating a meal of quality.

In the restaurant industry (which I’ll be the first to admit I know slim to nothing about) it’s considered a great honor to receive a Michelin star. Any Food Network or Top Chef hotshot licks the boots of a chef whose restaurant and cuisine have been graced by Michelin. But did you know that the Michelin guide is from the same tire company who uses this squishy bastard as their mascot?!? If anyone loves food, it’s this guy, who comes by his physique honestly.

I went to Wikipedia – the source for all things true and good on the interwebs – to learn more about this fascinating connection and learned the following:

André Michelin published the first edition of the guide in 1900 to help drivers maintain their cars, find decent lodging, and eat well while touring France. It included addresses of gasoline distributors, mechanics, and tire dealers, along with local prices for fuel, tires, and auto repairs. The guide began recognizing outstanding restaurants in 1926 by marking their listings with a star; two and three stars were added in the early 1930s.

Michelin operates on the principle that only anonymous, professionally trained experts can be trusted to make accurate, impartial assessments of a restaurant’s food and service (as opposed, for example, to the Zagat Survey, which relies on restaurant patrons for its reviews).

The Michelin inspectors write detailed reports, which are collated at company headquarters in Paris. All favorable ratings are distilled, at annual “stars meetings,” into rankings of 3 stars, 2 stars, 1 star, or no stars. Restaurants that Michelin deems unworthy of patronage are simply not included in the guide.

Am I super lame that I find all this fascinating? What essentially started out as a free AAA auto guide is now the culinary brass ring that some chefs live and die for. All run by a French tire company.

Speaking of AAA guide, here’s a funny story. While traveling with my wonderful mother, she spotted a listing in a AAA guide for a “quaint, colonial-style” inn in Pennsylvania that she thought would be a fun place to stay the night. But when we got there it was pretty much the most janky-ass, run-down, hillbilly shack ever. Even we, two ladies usually game for adventure, just looked at each other, nodded, and put the car into reverse. That’s when I quietly started singing this song, a childhood favorite. We laughed so hard we wheezed and cried. And a moment of disaster became a family legend.

Warning: This is hilarious and gory.

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