Archive for the ‘Observations’ Category


May 6, 2013

Last night I met a friend and some of her friends who were in town for the premier of a film they were both in* for dinner at the Chateaux Marmont,** and it was one of those times when you meet a couple and instantly love them. I have a feeling these are people that everyone loves, so I shouldn’t feel all that special, I certainly don’t have a corner on that market — but they were warm and kind and beautiful and fashionable in a timeless and unpretentious way, and they really charmed the pants off me. (Not literally. It was not that kind of dinner.)

They were Australian, and now that I’m thinking of it, I have never met an Aussie I didn’t like, either in Australia or anywhere else. And most of them I have liked immensely. What really pushed me over the edge was when we were talking about words that are pronounced differently from English-speaking country to English-speaking country, which I think is always a fun game to play, and she said, “clitoris,” and it was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.

“Clitoris” is a word I’ve never felt comfortable saying, along with most words involving private anatomical parts, but the way she said it made me feel like I wanted to say it all the time. With the emphasis on the first syllable; the lightest, most delicate “l” sound; and a brittle, crispy “t.” Clitoris.

“That would make a beautiful girl’s name,” I said. “Clitoris Jane.”

After that discussion, another friend I didn’t know, an American***, joined our group, and when my conversation with him lulled for a moment, I found myself saying quietly, “Clitoris.”

Once, many eons ago, a man I loved rejected me for an Australian woman. At the time, I couldn’t understand. But now, knowing how lovely she must sound saying that word, I think I get it.

*Baz Lurhmann’s The Great Gatsby, OMG I CANNOT WAIT
** This sentence makes my life sound way more fabulous than it is.
*** A famous person, if you must know. Maybe my life IS fabulous. Who’s to say?

Would You Like Some Mustard With Your Shower?

May 3, 2012

A funny thing about my apartment is that, for some reason, whatever my downstairs neighbor is cooking, I smell in my bathroom. For the first year that I lived here, I could never figure out why my bathroom smelled like mustard! I’d take out the trash, pour baking soda and vinegar down the sink drain (an earth-friendly and bubbly way to clean out your drains, btw), and scratch my head in wonderment.

Then, we got a new neighbor. And the mustard smell immediately stopped, to be replaced by spaghetti. That was the night I figured it out. “Why does my bathroom smell like spaghetti? Wait, I smelled spaghetti when I walked by downstairs. OHHHHHHH.”

Yes, this new neighbor had a whole different recipe book of kitchen smells. And for the most part, it was an improvement, not to mention an adventure. I’d awake and stumble into the bathroom, greeted by the aromas of coffee and oranges. While I showered, I’d smell bacon frying. As I moisturized, I’d be enveloped with wafts of pancakes and maple syrup. What would my bathroom smell like when I returned home that night, I’d wonder. Croques monsiuer? Chicken Cordon-bleu? Something non-French that I knew how to spell?

Well, this morning I went to take a shower as usual, and was assaulted by an olfactory affront. My bathroom smells right now, unmistakably, of dog food. I had a dog as a child, and I know what a can of Alpo smells like, and that’s what they’re cooking downstairs. I know they don’t have a dog, either.

The moral of this tale, really, is that I know way too much about my neighbor downstairs. If I smell enough bacon in the morning, I’ll slip a bottle of Tums under his welcome mat on my way home from work. No I don’t, that would be crazy.


April 23, 2012

I’m taking an international flight in a couple weeks, and I’m wondering if they’ll let me carry my guitar on board. I was on the “Fragile and Perishable Items” page of the United Airlines website trying to figure this out, and I found this curious paragraph. It was actually its own section, right under “Seafood.”

Zamzam Water

United Airlines will accept one jerry can containing up to 10 liters (2.64 gallons) of Zamzam water as checked baggage at no extra charge.

The jerry can must be properly packed in a plastic covering to avoid leakage and damage to other bags.

Jerry cans containing Zamzam water are not permitted as carry-on or in cabin baggage.

If more than one jerry can is checked, the extra jerry cans will be subject to excess baggage charges.

What in the HELL? What is Zamzam water? For crying out loud. They’re talking about this Zamzam water and these jerry cans like these are things everyone knows about. I’ve been on this earth for 33 years, and I don’t have the foggiest clue. Am I a dumdum? These words don’t even ring a bell, like, “Ohhh yeah, jerry cans — those are those, you know, those… ohh, it’s on the tip of my tongue!” No, friends, it is not on the tip of my tongue. It’s not even close to the tip of my tongue. It’s not anywhere near my tongue at all. I can promise you that this is the first time I’ve ever heard these words, that no one has ever mentioned a jerry can in my presence, nor Zamzam water. Especially not Zamzam water. I would remember that.

They’re definitely things they use on “The Flintstones,” or on Mars, though, right? I’m just making sure. And if I can take “Zamzam water” and “jerry cans” (obviously items from Mars) on my international flight, surely, goodness and mercy they’ll let me take my guitar… right?

Pajama Jeans: An Embarrassing Rip in the Fabric Crotch of Society

January 12, 2012

OK… Can we talk for a second about pajama jeans?



What’s wrong with this picture?

I first saw them in Rite Aid on my lunch break with my friend Lindsay. I was all, “Whaaaaaaat the fuuuuuuuuuuck????” Since then, I’ve seen a few ads and have watched the infomercial, none of which did anything to make me less horrified.

Here’s the thing: I like that clothing has become more casual over the last century. I appreciate that I can go shopping without a corset, a petticoat, tiny, pointy high heels, and even without pantyhose. I like that I can even go to work in pants, a sweater, and flats. But there is a line. And pajama jeans have crossed it.

One of the tag lines in the ads is, “Just because you’re busy doesn’t mean you can’t look sharp!”

REALLY? Are they saying that we’re too busy to get dressed in the morning??? I wonder what we’re supposed to be doing that takes priority over putting on clothes. Texting? Skyping? Checking Facebook? Taking the kids to lessons? Answering work calls? What?

Is this true? Are we too busy? Or are we too lazy? Have we, as a society, reached a point where we can’t be bothered to change from our pajamas into our jeans in the morning? Or from our jeans back into our pajamas at night? Is this too much effort? Do we have to sleep in our clothes and go out in our nightclothes? We’re already apparently too lazy to walk to the TV to change the channel, flush our own toilets, and push or pull a button to put soap on our hands. Are we now too lazy to dress ourselves?

I can kind of understand the appeal if you’re over 90 years old and have a lot of trouble reaching and bending, but that’s really the only acceptable situation. I feel like the main target audience for pajama jeans is people who have just plain given up on life. Because, honestly, if walking from your bed to your dresser is too much effort, something is very, very wrong. And need I mention, if we’re lumbering out of bed and starting our day, wearing our jammies as jeans, does this mean we’re also skipping our shower? Because if you’re taking off the pajama jeans to take a shower, you might as well put on regular jeans. Or, if you’re showering at night, you might as well put on regular pajamas. Unless you’re SHOWERING in your pajama jeans, which I’d believe, because at this point, I’d believe anything.

There are many disturbing things happening in our world today. Pajama jeans may not seem like a disastrous turn of events to you, but I see it as a deadly omen; a harbinger of things to come. Mark my words.

(By the way, someone needs to tell the woman in the ad that she’s too old to wear pigtails.)

Badd Ad Monday

October 24, 2011

It’s not even Friday, but I can’t not post about this amazing ad:

I see a lot of these ads come out of the beautiful town of Flossmoor, wherever on Planet Earth that might be. They must know something we don’t, you guys. They seem to have all the answers!

My main question on this one is:
What exactly is the job she’s doing at home? If I click on the link, will it take me to the fololowing job posting?

Wanted: Administrative Assistant for Busy Office
Ideal candidate should have:
3-5 years’ experience in administrative position
Ability to juggle multiple tasks in a fast-paced environment
Bachelor’s Degree in Communications or related field
Experience wearing blue face paint a must
Ability to hold fish in teeth preferred
Telecommuting OK

Citizens of Flossmoor, I’m directing this question to you.

Badd Ad Friday #1

October 14, 2011

I used to have a section of this blog called “Spam Friday,” in which I made fun of all the spam I received via email and in my blog comments. But this is a new era, and starting today (and whenever else I choose to; I do not promise to do this every Friday), I am instituting “Bad Ad Friday,” in which I make fun of the stupid pop-up ads that are all over the internet.

My combination favorite / least favorite ads are the ones that claim that a “mom” discovered some miracle cure or loophole in the system. Why is the fact that a mom discovered it supposed make it so much more appealing? Like Betty Johnson in Somewheresville, USA, is going to all of a sudden do a double take at her computer screen and go, “DALE, GET IN HERE. It says a MOM discovered this weird old trick that is going to make my teeth 10 shades lighter while also putting money in my pocket and infuriating my dentist. And I know I can trust her, because I’m a mom, too! Never mind that I know nothing about this particular mom or if she knows anything about dentistry, or even how to tie her shoes, for that matter. She’s a MOM, Dale. A MOM!!! I’M CLICKING THE AD!!!”

Another question I have is: Why is it always a weird old trick? Do people think it’s more legit if it’s old? and weird? Because I know of some weird old tricks that I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. (Don’t come near me with those leeches, please!) Science has come a long way, and if given the option between a “weird old trick” and “modern science,” I think I know which one I’ll choose.

I’m going to leave you with a trick from a mom in Lyndhurst (wherever the hell that is; are we supposed to know where Lyndhurst is, or is it a generic town name that anyone in an English-speaking country can realte to: “OH, yeah, someone from Lyndhurst, Dale. WE’VE HEARD OF THAT TOWN! I’M CLICKING THE AD!”)

So this mom discovered this clever wrinkle therapy that makes botox doctors furious (and are there really such things as “botox doctors”? That’s very specific).

I clicked on the ad to find out what the trick was, and as it turns out, she stopped doing meth.

That is a clever trick!

Full House, Empty Brain

July 29, 2011

I was just thinking about Full House, as you do, and it dawned on me that almost every character in that series had a catchphrase.

Stephanie had “How rude!”
Michelle had “You got it, Dude.”
Joey had “Cut it out!” (complete with hand motions)
Uncle Jesse had “Have mercy!”

Now what about Danny, DJ, Aunt Becky, and Kimmy Gibler? I’m sure Kimmy had to have one, right? OK, so now that I’ve got them written down, it looks like only half the main characters had catch phrases. But that’s still more than your average family.

I watched so much Full House, I could maybe win some kind of Full House trivia game show, and with the amount of reality TV happening, a game show about a real show wouldn’t surprise me at all. So it could happen! Facts I know, without visiting any kind of website, include:

Their phone number is 555-2424.
Stephanie’s full name is Stephanie Judith Tanner.
DJ’s is Donna Jo Margaret Tanner.

Actually… I think that’s all I know, other than all the obvious stuff. I would lose that game show so hard! Oh, man. Those are good facts though, right?


June 20, 2011

OK, I was sitting here at the dining room table working, glanced outside, and saw the following:

bum's bum


Then he got up and picked up some trash in his area. “Well, at least he’s cleaning up,” I thought. “That’s something.”

No. he threw the trash on the street. Isn’t it cool how he doesn’t want trash, his own trash, in his little area, but he’ll put it out for the rest of us to enjoy?

Street, trash can -- so hard to tell those pesky things apart.

I’ve had enough. What do I do???

Do I shout out the window at him? Leave him a note of warning? Do I call someone? Who do I call? Opinions, please. I’m done getting bummed.

The Righteous, the Wicked, and the Little Black Cat

June 19, 2011

Y’all some serious drama just went down at the church across the street. It’s like West Side Story, except instead of Sharks vs. Jets, it’s Episcopal priests vs. street preachers. OK, one street preacher. But he was being loud enough for like 20 people. Here’s how it unfolded…

I was washing my face, and suddenly I heard the sounds of shouting and condemnation through the open windows, and then some murmuring and a woman’s voice say, “No, you are NOT controlling yourself.” And I was inclined to agree with her, as the man continued to rant and rave. I went out to the living room where I could get an unobstructed view, and there was a woman and a priest facing off with a man with a big, yellow sign that said, “The Wicked Shall (Something, I forget now).” So I hunkered down to watch, and he kept up the tirade for several minutes. More people came out, including the main priest in the white robe, and the street preacher was getting up in their faces somewhat, and my neighbor downstairs announced that she’d called the police.

At this point, I decided I needed to take a picture, so I went to get my camera, and wouldn’t you know, when I came back he’d crossed the street and had set up camp right outside my apartment building (greeaaaat), but continued to shout at them from across the street. So I couldn’t get a good picture. By this point, also, the church cat, Vesper, was trotting outside to see what all the excitement was about. And at that moment, the street preacher said something that sounded like, “You thesperals,” but I don’t think that was it, since that’s not a word, but it sounded enough like “Vesper” that I saw her be like, “What? Me? What do I have to do with this?” Nevertheless, she was intrigued and parked herself on the sidewalk to get an unobstructed view as he continued the rant. He said that word a couple more times, and each time, her ears perked up. Eventually the shouting tapered off, and Vesper trotted back inside, deciding the excitement was over, and similarly, I trotted back to my room, got back in bed and started writing this.

And oh, boy, he’s shouting again, although I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. I have a feeling he may not actually be saying sentences, because I just heard something like, “With folly, set on high! Magnified good with God’s shrimp! And the righteous and the wicked shall personally give the wicked to condemn the righteous.” (What?) Then something about a scholar or a collar, and I think he’s pretty upset about an unmarried couple living together.

And Ohhh, boy, he just very clearly said, “Yes, I’m still here, Cowards. I’ll be here for a very long time. Perhaps week after week.” And by “here” I can only assume he means his current position right by our garage. Mmm, can’t wait for that. Won’t be awkward at all walking by him on my way to take out the recycling.

A Metaphorical Spank on the Back

June 8, 2011

When I was little, I had a book, and a record that went along with it, called “The Story About Ping.” It was about a duck who lived on a fishing boat with his extended duck family and their human master, and every evening, the boat master would call, “La-la-la-la-lei!” And the ducks would run back to the boat, and the last one back would get a spank on his or her back. (Yeah, kind of a weird situation overall; don’t think about it too hard.) Well, Ping understandibly never wanted to be that last duck, to the extent that one evening he realized he was going to be last and didn’t go back at all — and adventures, of course, ensued.

Well, last night I started a writing class that is held at the teacher’s apartment. This apartment is in a lovely neighborhood with a heinus, heinus parking situation. Like, I guess the first two or three people actually get to park on his street, then the next six or eight find spaces a couple blocks away after circling twice or thrice, and then, there’s me. And I can’t really get there much sooner, because I’m coming from work. So by the time I got there, (and I was not yet late, mind you; when I got to the apartment and started looking for parking, I still had a couple minutes to spare), all the good, fair, and mediocre spots were taken; all that was left was a metered spot, blocks and blocks away and down a steep series of hills, and I only found it after driving around for 15 minutes. And I can’t help thinking this is like a modern-day, non-fishing-boat Ping situation, except that the last person, instead of getting a spank on the back, gets the shittiest parking space of all time.


Sunrise on the Terrycloth Horizon

June 1, 2011

I have never bought towels for myself. Never. Well, until the other day at Ikea, and tonight on the Crate & Barrel website… and the Pottery Barn Website. Yes, I’m making up for lost time by spending a fortune on an amazing variety of towels. Some are even monogrammed! And for years, and up until the other day, I had absolutely no desire whatsoever to own new towels, whether I bought them for myself or not.

The reason for this is because my parents have always lived dangerously close to the Springmaid Wamsutta outlet in Asheville, North Carolina, which, coincidentally and irrelevant to this story, is right next door to a Bojangles. YUM. Anyway, so my mom always has way too many towels, and has always either given me her extras or has bought them for me at the outlet. And I think I’ve been using towels I’ve had since college. This hasn’t bothered me in the slightest, because for my first five years in LA, my bathroom was a jarring pinky/purply color, and the only way I could see to deal with that was to lean it toward the purple, and away from the pink, by having white and purple accessories. So my sister bought me a beautiful white shower curtain with purple squares, I happened to find a lovely white bath rug with purple squares, and all my towels from college were, conveniently, purple! When I moved to a different bedroom in that house, my new bathroom was just white, so purple went fine… and when I lived in my last apartment, Mary and I had a bunch of different-colored stuff anyway, so it was no big deal that my towels were purple (and a few various shades of blue that had made their way into my collection (via Mom) along the way).

The Pinky-Purply Bathroom of Doom

Close-up on Those Sweet Purple Towels!

Another reason I’ve kept those old towels is that I kind of hate new towels, or maybe the only new towels I’m familiar with haven’t been the highest quality. I mean, not my Wamsutta towels, because those are great quality… but some new towels I’ve used at other people’s houses, when they’re new and haven’t yet been washed 75-80 times, shed lint all over you and, rather than absorbing water, merely push it around, which is quite annoying when you’re trying to get dry, because isn’t that the point of towels to begin with? So anyway, why would I want to put myself through that, when I can just keep my trusty old absorbent purple friends?

So, back to the other day. I cleaned my bathroom and changed out my blue bath rug for my yellow and white one… and I’d recently gotten some new soap in a yellow dispenser… and I happened to have a navy blue hand towel on the rack… and I noticed how lovely everything looked with the blue and the yellow. And I decided that it was time to get rid of my purple towels and move toward a new dawn… a dawn of navy blue and yellow towels… towels that I would purchase myself, and wash 75-80 times if need be, so that they’d absorb.

And throughout all this, I noticed something kind of disturbing… I noticed that I’m actually very attached to my old purple towels, and that all my hemming and hawing about how new towels suck, and the only acceptable towels are old towels, was actually me masking the fact that I, for some reason, am deeply attached to these purple towels! And as I was spending way too much money on new towels online just now (Monograms! Ahahahahahahaha!), I found myself wondering what would become of the old ones. I could use them as rags, but no, they were too dignified for that; that would be insulting. I don’t think Goodwill takes towels, and if you think I’m going to put them in the dumpster, you can think again. I’m pretty sure what’s happening is that I care about these towels’ feelings! I feel like they’re part of me, like we’ve been through so much together, like comfy old pals. And that, my friends, is precisely the reason I must get rid of them as quickly as possible.

Blue and Yellow Paradise! (The tiles and towels look almost black, but trust me, they're blue.)

R.I.P. Purple Towels: 2001ish–2011.

More on Trash Cat Woman

August 25, 2010

Can we talk about how in England, they apparently call the big trash can on the street a “wheelie bin“? Brits are so precious.

Here is a picture of Trash Cat Woman being escorted into a police car. I think we all know, however, that the real story here is the ridiculous getup those cops are wearing. WTF???

*This photo and all my info on the topic is from

Love on the L.A. Metro

July 8, 2010

Please read the title to the tune of Aerosmith’s “Love in an elevator.” And now that we have that taken care of:

I’ve been reading a self-help book, as I am wont to do, that told me to look for love everywhere I went, and to look for the connections between others and myself, and between others and other otherses. This was very good for me, because lately I’ve been witnessing a lot of hate in the world, and it’s started to get me down in a major way. I’ve gotten so tired of experiencing all the aggression that occurs 1,000 times a second on the freeways, for example, and it all culminated a couple weeks ago when someone put a pre-printed business card on my car that said it hoped I got cancer, because I was parked a little bit over the line in the tiny compact car space that my compact car does not fit into properly. Yes, I will repeat that: Someone went to the trouble of ordering and purchasing business cards that say on the front, “Way to park, asshole.” And on the back, “I hope you get cancer.” It was actually quite a visually appealing card, with a lovely combination of fonts printed on a nice brick-red color. But the point is, feeling that malice directed at me was the straw on the camel’s back of hate that I’d been witnessing, and it made me really, really sad.

So, back to the self-help book. The day after I read the section about looking for love everywhere, it was “one of those mornings” where all forces of the universe were determined to slow me down, and after running to catch the metro, I got there a minute too late, and had to wait, all sweaty-like, for the next one. When I finally got on, a woman using a walker (with difficulty) got on, too. A youngerish woman and a blind man both got up for her to take their seats. (Side note: The question has been raised as to how the blind man knew to get up for her, and my guess is that the youngerish woman said something, or maybe he’s just that good.) Well, the walker woman (henceforth referred to as Walker Woman or WW) took the blind man’s seat and began talking with him and the youngerish woman (YW). When the blind man got off, he said goodbye to YW, and she and WW kept talking. Throughout their conversation, I unabashedly eavesdropped and exchanged eye contact and smiles with both of them at various points. When it was time for me to get off at my stop, I said goodbye to Walker Woman, and Youngerish woman got off there, too. And here comes the best part: Youngerish woman crossed to the other side of the platform to wait for the train going in the opposite direction. She had gone past her stop, and I believe it was out of love, because she didn’t want to prematurely end her conversation with Walker Woman. She wanted to make sure WW was taken care of, and then and only then did she get off and make her way back to where she needed to go.


I’m so glad I missed my train that morning and ended up on the one I ended up on.

That day marked a new chapter for me, one of looking everywhere for love and kindness, and finding it. I make a point to make eye contact, smile at, and talk with more strangers, and I’m making new friends all over town. I still see the hate, and it still bums me out, but now I have something with which to balance it.

I think you should try it, too. We’ll fill the world with love, one person at a time. Then one day, we’ll realize that we don’t see any hate, because there won’t be any.

(Do I sound like a hippy, or what?)

Improv Arms

December 19, 2009

One time recently I was at the gym and ran into a male person whom I know from the comedy theatre where I took improv classes and spend a disproportionate amount of my time. And when I saw him, I cleaned my proverbial glasses (“squeak, squeak!”), because “improv” and “the gym” are two worlds that rarely collide. Too often for my comfort, men who are comedians (or in a band, for that matter) seem to have an excercise phobia. It’s such a widespread phenomenon that it caused me to coin a term for it: “improv arms.” I think it’s a shame, because funny guys and musicians have a degree of automatic hotness because of their talent, so if they’d do a bicep curl once in a while, they could likely be an unstoppable force of hotness. It seems like a waste.

And that leads me to my next point: I love men’s arms. I love them so much. Every day that I wake up in the morning, I love them more than I did the night before. If I could only take one object with me to a desert island, I’d take a man’s arm. I can’t get enough! Men’s arms to me are what boobs are to many men. I love looking at them. I love touching them. Sometimes I stare inappropriately at them. When they’re covered up, I wonder what they look like underneath all that pesky fabric. I love kissing them and squeezing them and rubbing my face all over them. I’m serious, Internet! It’s true! It must be a cavewoman instinct. Probably if you were a caveman, no woman would mate with you if you had improv arms, because you wouldn’t be able to protect her from beasts or wrestle tigers to the ground to bring home for dinner.

If you are a man who has nice arms, you are automatically 75% more likely to get into my pants than if you have improv arms. I’m not saying IAs are a definite dealbreaker… no, if you’re perfect in every other way, I’ll still give you the time of day. But don’t be surprised if you wake up with a set of weights jury-rigged around your wrists, or if I ask you a little too often to lift heavy objects for me. Just bein’ honest.

Popular Broadway Musical Spoiler Alert

June 13, 2009

Guess what, Friends? I’m going to New York on Monday to meet my dad and see two Broadway musicals! It has been yeeeeeaaaarrs since I’ve seen anything on Broadway. The first one I saw was Les Miserables, and boy, did I fall in love with that show. I still love it with all my heart, as I do a few others I’ve seen. But as I’ve gotten older, I find myself looking at certain storylines a little… differently.

For example:

Eponine in Les Mis: If you’re not familiar with her story, there’s this whole thing where this guy Marius meets this girl Cosette, and they fall in love and sing beautiful duets and so forth. Well, Eponine has been friends with Marius forever and is secretly in love with him, and can’t stand it when he falls for Cosette. Hence the song “On My Own,” and Eponine piping into other songs singing about how she’s all alone and isn’t life so hard and yadda yadda yadda. Well, when I was in high school, I romanticized the ever-loving shit out of Eponine’s story. Wasn’t it so heartbreaking that she loved this man, and he just treated her like one of the guys? Wasn’t it valiant of her to deliver this letter from Marius to Cosette in the middle of the French Revolution and get shot on the way, and didn’t that just serve Marius right to have her die in his arms? Wasn’t she the most beautiful, the most tragic, the most passionate, amazing woman?

Um… and now I just find myself thinking, “Girl! Pull yourself together! Sure, this dude has a lovely singing voice, but he’s in love with somebody else.” I mean, I’m frankly more than a little embarrassed for her. She’s kind of making a fool of herself if you get right down to it. She needs to stop whining, stop obsessing, pull herself up by the bootstraps, go get some fondue and a glass of burgundy, and eventually meet a man who actually notices her. Geez, right? Seriously, lady, put on your beret and go get on your bike with a long loaf of bread in the basket, and I’m sure you’ll meet someone new in no time. Someone who will make you forget all about Marius and his pesky girlfriend. I mean, you don’t need him! Sure, it may take time to mend your heart, but I suggest getting some fine milled soap and taking a bubble bath. Hunker down with a good Victor Hugo novel to take your mind off things. Go ride a carousel or get a crepe or listen to some accordian music, I don’t know, these are just things I’m throwing out there.  But my point is, when I was 16, this character was like my hero, and now, well… well.


And while I’m at it, what’s up with Rent? I mean, some of the characters I have to admit are really in tough spots, like Mimi for example (AIDS, junkie); and the Collins (AIDS) and Angel (dies of AIDS) storyline is heartbreaking. And it sucks that Roger’s gf killed herself (because she had AIDS). That really does suck. But still… Maureen and Joanne seem fine and in good health. And Mark seems to have had a pretty stable existence up until now, and his mom seems positively delightful — I mean, she sent him a hotplate for goodness’ sake, and she calls him all the time to tell him she loves him — and yet he’s burning posters and screenplays to keep himself warm because he hasn’t paid the heating bill? And everyone’s bitching and moaning because Benny is making them pay…. oh my gosh, say it isn’t so… Rent! Like, because, aaaahhh, what a hardship to have to pay for the place where you live! Oh my gosh, he’s such an asshole for asking us to pay him to live in the building he owns! We would prefer to live for free!

Oh yeah? Would you? Would you prefer to live for free? Because you believe your housing is someone else’s responsibility? There’s a word for that, and it’s “communism,” and I’d like to see you move to a communist country and try to be a professional actress or musician or filmmaker there. Go ahead, Maureen. Be my guest, Mark; Roger. Go move to China and start a band and get some gigs and see how well you do.

Listen, I get it. I’m an artist, too. And I would much prefer to spend all day languishing about, creating, rather than working a day job just to pay the bills. But since I’m not an heiress, I accept that sacrifices must be made, and I get it done. And maybe you should do the same, Cast of Rent. And you know what, Eponine? I’ve had my heart broken, too, and I’ve been into plenty of guys who weren’t into me back. (I know, it’s reeeeeeally hard to believe, but it has happened). And did I moan and cry and sing sad songs all the time? Well… OK, I did write a bunch of bad poetry about boys I liked in middle school, and you should see how ridiculous my journals from circa 1993 were… but I mean, ahem…  You get my point.


So anyway. When I’m in New York, am I going to be a cynical old lady? Am I going to look at these characters and roll my eyes and go, “Puhlease, Billy Elliot. You’re a boy! In a coal-mine strike! Just practice your boxing and for Pete’s sake, put that leotard away.” Or, “Maria! Maria! Can you hear me?! This guy is going to cause you no end of trouble. There are plenty of cute boys in your own gang!”

Will I? Or will I cry my eyes out and love every minute?

I’ll keep you posted.