the best thing about MUNICH

I went to see MUNICH for many reasons. I was born in Germany. We were there during the Munich Olympics. I remember the hideous hostage-taking and murder of the 11 Israeli athletes with vivid clarity. So I very much wanted to see this movie about the aftermath--about how the Massad hunted down the planners of this horrible terrorist act and systematically avenged the deaths of their countrymen. That this gorgeous hunk of manliness was the star of the movie was a bonus--albeit a very distracting one. All I can say, girlfriends,is that Eric Bana = yummy.

still honeymooning with my iPod

If I could make love to my iPod I would. It has brought me so much immense pleasure (and without the hassle of double-A batteries)! I feel like I owe it something.

Anyway, I'll be back soon, promise.

In the meantime, my comments on the week: I loved Chris Penn and I got a big old lump in my throat when I read on the wires that he had been found dead. Loved him in At Close Range, Reservoir Dogs and True Romance. I am a sucker for big-old burly guys. And Jesus Christ, it just sucks when someone dies so young...

Note to Oprah: Give it a fucking rest with the indignant posturing. Like you never lied before. Get over yourself. Go shopping or something.

Randy (the Milkman) is feeling better, his new meds are helping and his T-cells are better. And we have been having a great time lately. Only the GITB is a little irritated that Randy sent me a huge extravagant arrangement of orchids for opening night last week (and he sent Schmoopie a gift and the card read: "with love from your big, gay dad"). The GITB brought me a bunch of daisies. I loved them both. I am a very lucky girl to be so well loved by the incredibly exceptional men in my life.

mop the floor? what floor?

I explained to the GITB years ago that because I am a creative girl, I cannot be expected to do the whole domestic engineering thing. I do my own laundry and he does his. He cooks because he is more into cooking than I am. I change the oil in my car but I do not mop the kitchen floor every other day because it never occurs to me. It just doesn't. That's how my brain is wired. And I do my laundry when I am almost out of clean underwear. Although I do make sure Schmoopie's laundry basket is always empty and her closet is always filled with clean clothes. It's true that once in a while I will stay up until 4:00 a.m. cleaning the entire house and re-arranging all the furniture but then I usually have to sleep the whole weekend to get over it. I am not a housewife. Never have been, never will be. But that is not to say that I am a slob. I have a very tidy house but there is one corner of each room that is my creative pile of clutter. Not dirt, creative clutter. That's all I have to say about that.

End of the week roundup:
Randy's t-cell count fell below 200 this week and he is a mess. So am I because I love him and I want him to be well.

Saw the 40-year-old virgin movie. I get mel's point now.

Noticed while in the car line at Schmoopie's school today that one of the dads has spinners on his mini van. Muttered "what the fuck???" while noticing the spinners and looked up to see he was looking at me and my guess is he probably read my lips based on the expression on his face. But really: Spinners? On a MIN VAN??? Dude.

Lived through three kick boxing classes this week. Hated it. But glad I went.

Listened to my iPod way too much. Family members are now requiring I be frisked at the door before allowing me to leave the house because I embarrass them in public due to my communing with the tunes. Plus they say I am being rude by popping the ear plugs in when we are in the car together or going out to eat. Hmm.

My extended family is still obsessing over arguments that cropped up at mom's during Christmas dinner and calling each other to bitch about the other ones. Oy.

Went to Wal-Mart at 1:00 a.m. last night (today) to buy baby shower gifts for my friend, Jo, who is having her first child at the age of 40. Thanked god while in the baby section that I will not be doing the labor and delivery thing ever again. Toyed with purchasing a Queen Latifah bra for shits and giggles. Decided it wasn't that funny anyway. Hated myself for shopping at Wal-Mart. It's like screwing an old boyfriend only because he's there and available and the pleasure costs you nothing more than your self respect.

Quote of the week: "When two people love each other, they love each other. And people should hold on to it as hard as they can, whether it's homosexual or heterosexual," Brokeback Mountain star Jake Gyllenhaal told reporters at the Toronto Film Festival. Amen.

more guilty and embarrassing pleasures

my latest embarrassing iPod (thank you, Santa-baby!) uploads with favorite parts noted (which means in part that it is the point in the song where I pause whilst bopping through the kitchen and stand in front of the dishwasher or some other appliance to gyrate and acknowledge my adoring fans):

Three Dog Night: "Out in the Country" (favorite part): "...before the breathing air is gone, before the sun is just a bright spot in the night time...out where the rivers like to run, I stand alone and take back something worth remembering..."

Grass Roots: "Sooner or Later" (favorite part): "...It's just a matter of time before you make up your mind to give all that love that you've been hiding, its just a question of when, I've told you time and again, I'll get all the love you've been denying..."

Moody Blues: "Go Now" (favorite part:) "...We've already said: Goodbye...since you gotta go, oh you'd better go now, go now, go now...before you see me cry I don't want you to tell me just what you intend to do now, 'cause how many times do I have to tell you darlin', darlin' I'm still in love with you now, whoa-oh-oh-oh..."

Oh, yeah, I am such a loser. But a happily humming loser. How cool is this: I am tuning my kid and spouse out with the same shit I used to tune the parental units out with. I'm not old, dammit. I'm cool. And probably working on a good case of hearing loss. But damn, it's good stuff. And I don't feel so dorky since an old hipster friend of mine sheepishly admitted to me last week that he has been listening to Blood, Sweat and Tears in his car lately. Loser 1970s music fans unite!

12 things: post #100

Bikini wax? Never had a bikini wax, but I am not a furry girl anyway…

Favorite bread: Arnold’s seedless rye, toasted with real butta

Last trip: Boston, December, with one slight detour on the way home. Nuff said.

My car if it were free: 2006 Lexus RX, silver with moon roof

My car and it's paid for: Buick Park Avenue with leather seats and a v-6. Hauls ass.

Sleep: Naked. Always. Exception: when Schmoopie is hosting a slumber party

Favorite drink: Southern Comfort & Diet Coke, two cherries. (summer: frozen Cosmo)

Reading: Woe is I and Wicked (always read more than one at a time)

Current anxiety: Opening night is coming up fast. Do I know all my lines? Um, no.

Love this about my job: Do it from home, from the road, wherever,no need to sit in an office 40 hours a week.

Hate this about my job: When I fuck up everyone knows about it, the curse of media.

Hair: Red (not orange)

I'm in love with a dead gay guy

and this would be the reason why: he's been dust for 40 years but still, he can crawl into my soul and make me melt with sappy-ass songs like this:



We love each other so deeply
that I ask you this, sweetheart,
why should we quarrel ever,
why can't we be enough clever,
never to part?

Ev'ry time we say goodbye
I die a little,
ev'ry time we say goodbye
I wonder why a little,
why the gods above me
who must be in the know
think so little of me
they allow you to go.

When you're near
there's such an air
of spring about it,
I can hear a lark somewhere
begin to sing about it,
there's no love song finer,
but how strange the change
from major to minor...ev'ry time we say goodbye.

~Cole Porter, 1944

elizabeth, step away from the blog. Do it now.

jesus is just all right

this is Chewy. He is the office dog. He owns the guy who signs my paychecks. When Chewy first started coming to work every day, my co-worker, Frank, insisted that Chewy's real, true and rightful name is actually Jesus. He tried to argue that somehow, in proper Spanish linguistics, this is true. Whatever. So Frank and I call Chewy "Jesus," mostly to annoy the dude of greatness who signs our paychecks. Chewy likes to nap and get treats and for Chrismahannuahkwanzakha, I got him a nice new cozy bed to sleep in under one of the work tables. He sent me an e-mail that said simply: "woof!" and this photo. What a guy.

I noticed today that the guy in the drive-thru speaker box at McDonald's sounds exactly like Barry White. But he looks like a lithe and delicate baby-faced ballet dancer and his name is Jarrod. His co-worker looks just like Tonya Harding only less trashy. And without the sparkly spandex, of course.

I did a ride-along with the cops today as part of my job. I have covered these jokers for a while now and so they all got a huge yuck-yuck over getting my ass down to the station house and having me sign a waiver that says I realize I may be killed in an unfortunate law enforcement experience gone awry during my ride-along. And they offered me a bullet-proof vest to wear. One of the jerkos offered to help me put it on, "to make sure it's nice and snug." When I smiled sweetly and pointed my finger at him cowgirl-style and asked if I got a gun of my own for the day they suddenly lost their senses of humor and said: "Now, come on, that's not funny." Our first call was a report of an unresponsive woman in a car outside an office building. Turns out she was on her lunch hour and taking a quick nap. How embarrassing for her. Especially to wake up and find all these strapping young EMS dudes and cops looking through the windshield at her and of course her mouth was wide open. She opened her eyes right when one of the paramedics said: "yeah, she looks dead, you know, mouth wide open and all..." I like to think she was dreaming of chocolate or well-hung men or maybe both. My cop buddy for the day was so young that when we were introduced I asked him if his scoutmaster knew the Explorers were packing real guns and driving squad cars. He said he was 28 but he looked like a 16 year-old Boy Scout. Only without the acne. But he was fun once he loosened up and believed me when I promised I wasn't out to make him look bad. Silly boy. Kidding, I am just kidding. I do have some fucking ethics. But I did get him to do the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru for coffee. No shit. I still got it, baby.

My buddy, Randy is having trouble learning to tango, so we have a date tomorrow night to go over it AGAIN. Yes, he's gay. The things I do for my mens. And btw, I am not a fag-hag. I am, as David says with an elegant sweep of his hand: "A Flame Dame, honey." The fag-hags are depressive beasts with no hope of ever getting laid who nurse delusions of converting their gay men friends or some such crap, according to the boys. I say the FHs are sad girls who cannot get laid, have no fashion sense, hence they need mentoring and they cling to the only males on the planet who see their inner beauty because they are usually not so hot: gay boys. And the gay boys need someone to go to the $6.99 Chinese buffet with once in a while, honey. Randy says he is terminally single because gay men are too mean and bitchy. He would know.

All this said, I am thinking that I'm spending way too much time mentally masturbating and I need to take a break to do my real job and pay attention to the other people who live in my house. I know they were here a few minutes ago. So I am taking a blogospheric sabbatical of undetermined length. But in blog-time, it will seem like I ran out for a pack of smokes. So I'll be right back.

My friend, Dan, was telling me the other day about hell. Hell for him, to be specific.

"I am sitting alone in a dark theater and there is no popcorn, of course. And then a movie starts to play and the title of the movie is: All the Women Dan Could Have Had Were he not a Cowardly, Clueless Putz.” And it would be an excrutiatingly loooooooooooong movie.

Dan said that many opportunities in the form of amazing women have presented themselves to him over the years. In hindsight he realizes he completely missed many of them or was just way too chicken to go for it in other situations. Sigh.

Dan’s version of hell brought to mind my second-most favorite William Saroyan quote. It goes like this:

There's a pretty woman for every lucky man in the world. Every man in the world is a lucky man if he only knew it, so why waste time?
~William Saroyan, Jim Dandy: Fat Man in a Famine, 1947

evil, thy name is excess

yeah, I did go overboard this year.

The GITB thinks I must be feeling guilty about something, hence the unusually good mood and the overspending. I have nothing to say about that. A girl should always have a few secrets. It keeps us interesting.

Murry Crimmus, ya'll. We're off to the beach for some kite flying, then to grandma's to stuff ourselves and open more presents. 'Cause, you know, we really need more stuff.

nothing says "happy holidays!" like pimps and ho-ho-hos

The GITB has some pretty questionable and colorful friends, one of whom is a buddy from high school who invented some innovative twist to fire extinguishing equipment and now has more money than he will ever need. I like the guy but he is a little twisted and leering sometimes. Though he is very good to his mom. But that does not mean he is not a jackass. Because he is. And he spends way too much time speaking to my boobs and not my face.

Anyway, so what is Rob doing for the holidays? Purchasing toys for underprivileged children? Helping out the homeless? Easing the burden of those who travail and are heavy-laden?

Why, no. Rob is renting a ballroom at an area beach resort for New Year's and he is throwing a "Pimps and Hos Ball." That's right. All the guys are supposed to dress like, well, pimps. Shiny suits, lots of bling, gold teeth, big hats. And the women are requested to attend said ball dressed as "hos." Which does not look correct but I guess it is the plural of "ho." Because it is "ho" without an "e."

Yep, the Pimp & Ho Ball, 2006. Rob assures me that if I attend, I will love it because he is serving Cuban food and there will be a cigar bar, and he knows how much I love Cubans. But still, do I even need to ask that age-old, hey-let's-make-it-into-a-rubber-bracelet-question? Yeah, I guess I do: WTFWJD?

so I bought the dog a stocking

when we got Daisy last year, my friend, Paul, a dedicated dog dude (his SUV sports a bumper sticker that reads "Dog is Co-Pilot") heckled me and insisted that my cool chickness would melt and I would soon treat Daisy like my second child.

Oh no, no, no, I am so not one of those loser weirdo dog people, I told him. Well, turns out, yeah, I am.

She has crawled into my heart and I do refer to her and Schmoopie (my human child) as "the girls" and yeah, I let her sleep in the bed, especially when the Guy in the Boxers leaves for work--she hops into his spot and even lays her head on his pillow and stares at me with her huge chocolate eyes.

I am besotted with my Daisy-doodle and I don't care that there are dog bombs all over the yard and huge black furry tumbleweeds blowing through the house and someone wakes me up at 2:00 a.m. to go pee. I love her to pieces. And yes, I broke down and bought her a stocking. And I embroidered her name on it. Yeah, I know. I'm a loser, weirdo dog person.

dinner (one of the only good things about living in Florida)

we'll go to Disney World, and that will make it all better

I am happy to report that I indeed survived three fun-filled days and nights at Rodent World/ Rat Land, AKA: Walt Disney World with my entire extended family. This is my parents' idea of ultimate family bonding and Christmas fun. They do this every year--spring for everyone they are related to to join them at WDW to celebrate Christmas. Even my Jew Guy in the Boxers gets into it, skipping down Main Street USA and fa-la-la-la-la-ing and all that stuff. Because we live less than two hours from Orlando ("O-Town" to the hipsters) we often go to Rat World. I think Schmoopie has been there at least 30 times because the grandparents are annual pass holders and they go at least once a month, sometimes just to hang out and people-watch. Anyway. Here is what I noticed about folks at Disney World:

• Jesus Christ, are we Americans fat! Fat, fat, fat. Yes, have some more cotton candy and hot chocloate and feed some more to your three kids who have bigger beer guts than the guys who change the oil in my car down at Jiffy Lube.
• And spoiled. And mindless consuming freaks. Do you really need another Tinkerbell pin to add to your camera strap? Really? REALLY???
• And miserable. I noticed so many miserable men, especially, who looked like they would rather open an artery than spend one more second with the stringy-haired, ball-busting harpie who is snapping at him every five steps while pushing a stroller with a screaming kid or two or three in it. What is it about marriage that makes women wear nothing but sweat pants and develop tummies that slide halfway down their thighs and turn into colossal bitches? I mean, it was weird. I witnessed more incidences of couples going postal on one another (mostly the women going off on their men) than I ever would have imagined. In my book, it is the ultimate unforgivable sin to ball-bust in public. Ladies, never, I mean NEVER, dis your man in front of witnesses and then wonder why he doesn't want to have sex with you for six months at a pop.
• Why do idiots bring infants to theme parks? Why, why, why?
• Why do some women dress as if they are on their way to a cocktail party rather than a theme park filled with screaming, tired children and their stressed-out parents? Spiked heels and mini skirts=dumb-ass in a theme park.
• Why do some women willingly wrap themsleves from head to foot in swaths of scarves and burkas while their men happily amble along in comfortable shorts and polo shirts? Hello? WTF?? And the women push the strollers and the men go on all the rides while the women sit like valet attendants and wait with the strollers. Again, I ask: WTF??? This is enlightenment? If this bullshit set of theme park rules is in the Koran, I would LOVE to have someone point it out to me.

The GITB is a mental health professional and he says that people go to places like WDW seeking artficial happiness and nursing unrealistic expectations. Maybe he's right. And I realize that I sound like a bit of a shrew myself here, because it was an all-expense paid trip on Mom and Dad and yes, it was great to be at the Happiest Place on Earth surrounded by all the people who love me and suspending all sense of reality and responsibilty for a few days while looking at the most beautiful Christmas decorations everywhere I turned.

But still. The Ugly American is alive and unwell and overspending and overfeeding him/her-self in Orlando seven days a week (when not screaming at each other or their kids). And it is a mighty sad sight to behold.

PS: The "Live" Christmas parade on NBC from Walt Disney World is a big fat lie. It is not "LIVE" on Christmas morning. They were taping it last week. We watched.

nipple cookies!

here is my annual Chrismakwanzachuh speciality cookie: regular or unleaded.

My house. Hot cocoa and marshmallows. Come on down.

F*#K Jacquie Lawson

Oh, for chrissake, if one more of my efffing friends e-mails me that goddamned animated snow dog Christmas card or anything else created by "Jacquie (like that is even a real name. please. let's all be a little more pretentious, shall we?) Lawson" I will barf and run screaming out into the street. But not in that order. Sheeeit.

I rest my case

Don't even try to tell me that the bearded man is Joseph. Because he is so NOT. This is YUKON (thanks to eb) Cornelius.

And I don't know what "Mary" is about to do to the sweet little vinyl baby Jesus here, but it looks to me like a felony.

Happy Holidays!!!!

“Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” Browning

Grace is in town from New York for a few days and she and I are bigtime strolling buddies. We love to walk and talk and since the weather is so glorious lately, what better reason to play hooky? We loaded up the backpack and went downtown yesterday and walked the streets most of the day yammering, gossiping and looking at the dozens of sleek new high-rises going up. The sounds of construction are everywhere (and a plus: cute construction workers too!).

We wound up trolling the brick-paved streets of the historic district where we both lived in the 1980s. We passed by a few places where she used to live and places I used to live, my first garage apartment, my first studio, her old boyfriend's apartment, my old boyfriend's apartment. Grace is thinking about investing in a condo downtown but our feet took us to the old neighborhood as we ambled and she grew wistful talking about the guy who broke her heart 15 years ago because he was constitutionally incapable of monogamy. I listened. I had nothing to say about that. The guy in question had a catastrophic stroke a year ago and so the man who was once her untamable lover is now pretty much a drooling turnip. He exists no more, really. Woulda-shoulda-coulda becomes excruciating for me sometimes, even when they are not my woulda-shoulda-couldas. They hit way too close to home, that's all I'm saying. There is no worse ache than an old ache.

We stopped to meet friends for lunch at a Thai place and later rendezvoused with more friends at a pub on the waterfront for drinks (no martini for me, thank you, I learned my lesson--back to the Janis Joplin cocktail--Southern Comfort and Diet Coke, two cherries).

We passed a young man who was writing poetry in colored chalk on the sidewalk. He told us he is in love. I gave him a few dollars and wished him luck. He handed me a xeroxed copy of his latest poetry. The title: "Between My Lips and The City Lights." He said "Here's one that looks like you," and pointed to a poem titled "Euphoria." I asked him if I could put it up on my blog and he said "Yeah, 'cause you know what? It looks like you." So here is Jacob's poem:

I am coming back to you soon
If you will have me
So let us leave it to Fate
To arrange the coincidence
Of our togetherness

I saw you today
How beautiful you looked
Lost in the distance
Of so long a silence
I wondered what you were thinking
And if in those thoughts
You still contemplate the possibility
If you still recall
Those tangerine nights
When the very air we breathed
Hummed with a vibrant sweetness
So delectable, so instantaneously surreal
Everything Alive
As we walked through
The humble night
We knew it then, didn't we?

Sure, I screwed your boyfriend and so he made me a snowman

The is Mr. Frosty-Jim. He was created for me by my friend, Jim, a few years ago.

Jim (not the frosty one) is an artist and his favorite material with which to work is Styrofoam. Jim creates all kinds of cool stuff with Styrofoam, then seals it with this super hard special paint that makes it like fiberglass and really-really-could-survive-Armageddon sturdy. You know those big-ass Christmas presents and ornaments you see in display windows at Macy's and theme parks? Jim makes those. And he builds sets for several theatre companies around town and has done some museum exhibits, like when we had the King Tut exhibit a while back, his company designed and built a series of sets that made you feel like you really were in a tomb in ancient Egypt. He is a mucho-talented dude.

So, how did Mr. Frosty-Jim come to live with us? Well, several Christmases ago I was seriously ill and in the hospital for a while and Jim called up the Guy in the Boxers to see how I was. GITB mentioned that he needed to get out the Christmas decorations and make the house all festive for me so that when I got home I would be all cheered up by it. He of course forgot that I am in charge of all holiday decorating and he would not do it correctly, but silly sentimental boy, he had good intentions. Anyway, GITB let slip that I collect snowmen. Jim said maybe he would carve me a cute little snowman if he had some scrap pieces left over from the project he was working on. GITB mentioned this to me in passing and I said" "Great! I'll add it to my collection." And I forgot about it.

A week or so later, I was home from the hospital and decided to pop over to my office to pick up my mail and check in when GITB called me on my cellphone. "Uh...honey, Jim is here with your snowman, he wants to know where you want it." I said: "Oh, just leave it on the dining room table and I'll find a place for it when I get home." Silence. A little more silence. Then GITB says: "Yeah, okay. You sure about that?" Well, yeah, I was sure. So imagine my surprise when I opened the front door an hour later to find Mr. Frosty-Jim smack in the middle of the dining room table, all five feet of him, his cute little top hat touching the ceiling.

I love Mr. Frosty-Jim and even though my friend Jim isn't around much anymore because his psycho Greek girlfriend is convinced that we have a thing (We so DO NOT have a thing, never have, never will, she is just a straight-up nut and a Mean Girl), it reminds me of how truly delightful it is when someone goes out of their way to do something special for you. When I called Jim to thank him, he said, "Hey, no problem. But never, ever tell Maria about it. She would fucking kill me."

boston creme pie-eyed

Another life lesson in alcohol abuse: just because it sounds like a sissy drink and there is chocolate involved does not mean you will not end up a drooling idiot who realizes waaaaay too late that you cannot detect your arms or legs anymore, and, oh yeah, your teeth are so numb you would not utter a peep if they were maliciously knocked out by a mallet-wielding chimp. And when you say to Cecil, the adorable latin waiter: "No thanks, I'm good," really, really say it like you mean it, because your kamikazee wild-woman companion will insist you really do need one more and you will give in and end up in the condition described above.

Did ya'll know that they serve these fancy schmancy thingies in Boston called Boston creme martinis? Well, at least at the fancy schmancy hotels, they do. They are $9 each and well worth it. The rims of the martini glasses are actually dipped in smooshed up Boston creme pie and the drink itself amounts to about 5 different shots of likker which I really did not consider until the following afternoon when a few of my surviving synapses finally began firing again. Did I say I had five? I had five. Idiot.

So my friend Christine (who currently lives in Colorado) and I hook up each year at a professional conference held at (gasp) Harvard because we really hit it off a few years ago when we met by chance attending said conference. Actually, it was not chance. It was unavoidable. We were like two magnets flying at each other in a bowl of clotted macaroni. Because that is how fucking boring the people are at this conference. We are both naughty girls who like drinking, cussing and smoking and looking at boys and saying "What the fuck?!?" a lot which is not the standard with this particular crowd and I guess we could tell all of this by looking at each other through a crowd of 500 people. The two cool ones ended up together. Go figure. Anyway.

After all the daylong head-nodding and note-taking and harrumphing at the conference each day, we take off and PAR-TAY like there is no tomorrow because we only see each other once a year and she is a pithy riot and I feel the need to unwind and be no one but me--no one's wife/mommy/sister/daughter/aunt/co-worker, etc. Just me, the great and powerful ell, amok in America for one glorious weekend a year. And god, was I ever amok. Oy.