Happy Birthday!

Happy Birthday to my mom! Her birthday was yesterday, but I found this snazzy picture today and thought that these little guys look a lot like mom and I after we have had too much cake.

*Photo courtesy of www.cuteoverload.com

Misheard Lyrics of Carmina Burana

This is safe for watching at work:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=AlZWaqCZ02k

Again with the shower misadventures....

This morning I awoke to discover that our shower was out of order. No matter how many ways I turned the knob, no water would come out. Zip, nadda, nothing. So, after writing my landlord a nasty email and leaving a note for my other roommates (who were lucky enough not to be up at an ungodly hour), I had to figure out how I was going to get ready for work. Wearing a baseball cap was NOT an option, however much I may have wished.

So, being the ingenious problem solver I am, I got an empty Tupperware container from the kitchen and proceeded to fill it up with water from the bathroom sink. Then I positioned myself over the bathtub (buck-ass naked) and poured it over my head. Just to recap the visual: the diva was bent at a 90 degree angle over the bathtub, completely naked, whilst pouring lukewarm tap water over her head. Sorry you couldn't be there to witness this display of ingenuity and pale butt crack.

Actually, my hair didn't turn out all that badly...but the shower had best be fixed when I get home or I am throwing a tantrum the likes of which Boston has never seen. I might even resort to the pale butt crack to get my point across. How is that for scare tactics?

If I were a dog......

Orchestra Confusion....

We had our first run-through last night...and it wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be.  The one HUGE problem is that the orchestra is not in front of the stage, it is stuck over to the side.  I have never been in a production in which the orchestra, and the conductor, have not been right in front of me.  Quite frankly, it is making me break out into nervous hives.

 I woke up this morning with a sore neck from craning my head to see my song entrances and it just started the day off on the wrong foot.  When I asked if we were going to get monitors set up on either side of the stage to broadcast the conductor, a common feature in opera so you can see the tempo and not make it obvious, I was told that "wasn't possible."  Really?  At MIT?  The greatest technical school in the world?  And you can't set up a few monitors?  Surely some freshman could just rig something up, maybe get extra credit in his electrical engineering class? Hell, I'd be happy to bring in my tiny TV and hook something up, if only so I don't have to break character during the Act I Finale and fling myself around the chorus so I can see our conductor. Or, my personal favorite, look through my legs during my aria to catch the upbeat after a pause. Very elegant.

The tuba player has been replaced with two trombones...because two trombones equal a tuba? Whatever the reason, I feel bad for our tuba-player friend, who wasn't even called upon, but showed up anyway.  He just loved Gilbert and Sullivan that much.  I can just picture him now, at home in a dark room, drinking heavily and watching old Savoy productions of "The Pirates of Penzance."  I'd hate to think that a production I was in brought about the mental downfall of a tuba player.  And while they can't get us monitors, the crew has managed to get us two professional violin players, who have succeeded in producing enough right notes to keep us on track.  A miracle given that we couldn't tell which song was played when at the sitzprobe (pre-professionals).

Tonight is the cue-to-cue, which means we stand on the stage for an untold number of hours, waiting for them to adjust the lights correctly.  I wonder if we can bring reading material on stage?

Beast of Burden

I have taken a break from icing the palms of my hands to write this entry.  Yesterday was the set move-in for Ruddigore, and I had forgotten how much community theater thrives on slave labor.  I had been spoiled by all those years of professional and school operas (where people who put up sets for a living take care of everything) and was surprised to find myself lifting, hammering, painting and stapling every piece of scenery.  In the process, I discovered that I am much better suited to standing around, look glamorous, than I am to heavy lifting and woodworking.

Of course I didn't bring work gloves.  That would require forethought and planning....and I don't even own a pair.  The closest I come to doing manual labor in my house is putting self-stick hooks up for my purses.  So I rolled out of bed at 7 am ON A SUNDAY and showed up in tennis shoes and a baseball cap, ready to carry a few benches and maybe a light flat or two.  Instead, I got stuck lugging floor platforms that easily weighed about 100 pounds each.  And I am fairly strong, for a girl, so I was surprised when I barely made it 10 feet before I had to rest.  Even with someone holding the other end, my shoulders and forearms ached and my fingers (which gripped the top to stabilize it) were cramping. 

Then there were the splinters.  These splinters were taking steroids, because I have never had such large pieces of wood stuck in my hands.  The first one was fairly painful, the third made my eyes water, and the fifth one drew blood.  Squirting, serious blood.  I ended up digging all the splinters out with a dirty knife offered up by one of the old, grizzled lighting guys.  I then poured Purell over my hands to disinfect them.  THAT felt special.  There might have been shrieking, but I think I blacked out for a few minutes, so I can't be sure.

After we lugged everything into the giant room (up several flights of stairs) where we were performing (yes, a room, not an actual theater), we had to put the damn set together.  And all the while, the lighting guys were rolling around on their high scaffolding, yelling at us to move as they swung from one end to the other.  I'll forgive them their crankiness, as the whole lighting crew is Jewish and, as a result of Passover, are stuck eating Matzoh.  God forbid you eat a bagel anywhere near their Passover snack table.  And it is not my fault that I am allowed to eat delicious Bertucci's pizza while they are stuck eating unleavened bread....so stop it with the dirty looks already.

Then we had pieces of corrugated metal we had to put together to make up the scaffolding that would then hold the upper part of the stage....and several cast members.  Not only were my terrible building skills going to be put on display, but my shoddy work might lead to the demise of a fellow cast member.  Of course, there was the issue of the metal being about ten years old and rusted.  After I write this I will be digging up my medical records to see if my tetanus shot is up to date.

So now I am sitting at work with scraped, swollen palms, scratches up and down my arms, and punctured fingers.  Not to mention muscle soreness all over my body from all the lifting and stairs I had to climb. Can't wait to help take it all down after the show.

 

Exhausted....

I have spent all day moving in sets for Ruddigore and am too tired, and too full of splinters, to write anything right now.  However, I promise to write of my adventures in stage construction tomorrow (Monday).  Right now I have to take a hot shower and collapse.

Death Scene....

Not gonna lie, this cat acts better than some opera singers I have worked with.


*Photo courtesy of icanhascheezburger.com

My drug problem....

Yesterday, I discovered that it is easier to get heroin than it is to get antibiotics. How I wish I were kidding. For the past four years, I have tended to get a nasty case of tracheal bronchitis in April. Last year it was caught in the nick of time by a sympathetic doctor, and I didn't have to go through the agony of feeling like someone had poured battery acid down my throat....usually just in time for a performance. So when I started having familiar "bronchital" symptoms on Tuesday, I decided to call my sympathetic doctor.

She wasn't in. So I asked to leave a message regarding my "bronchitis." You would have thought I had said the word "anthrax" instead, given the speed with which I was transferred to a nurse practitioner. When I explained my situation, not to mention the fact that I work regular hours, have a show in a week and do not have the time to trek to the doctor's office, she lectured me about how they "never" call in antibiotics without seeing the person first and I was foolish to ask. Then she suggested that if I was "really serious about my health" I would cancel my rehearsal and come in to be seen by a doctor. Obviously this woman knows nothing about the tyranny of directors during tech week.

I ended up getting out of rehearsal and making an appointment to see a doctor by uttering the magic word: contagious. The rest of the day I prayed to get worse. Not the usual prayer by an opera singer, but if I had nothing more to go on than an "icky feeling" with this doctor, I was walking out of there empty handed....or, at the very least, transferred to the psych ward. I knew what was brewing in my lungs, but would he believe me without me coughing up blood?

So I called a bartender friend of mine with a Plan B. This bartender occasionally serves drug dealers, as they tend to gather where the people are young and have money, and I asked if he know anyone who sold antibiotics on the black market.

"Are you kidding me?" he said, not knowing just how serious, and cranky, I was.

"Not even the slightest bit," I replied.

"They tend to deal only in the addictive drugs, like OxyContin. Um, I don't think antibiotics are quite hardcore enough for them."

"Well, tell them they could make a killing in the opera world if they started carrying them!" I said as I slammed down the phone. This doctor was looking like my only hope.

When I finally got in to see him, I listed every symptom I had, including ones that weren't relevant: cough, headache, sore throat, oddly colored phlegm, hangnail, knee twinge, paper cut, ingrown toenail....And then two little things came to my rescue: the lymph nodes in my neck.

"These feel swollen," the doctor said.

Yes! Yes! Very swollen. Tragically swollen!

"Given your history, and the swelling, I'm going to write you a prescription for antibiotics."

SCORE! I had never been so happy to have swollen nodes in my life. And now that I have my antibiotics, that swelling needs to go down...stat! If this doesn't work, I'm switching to heroin.

Fashion....

Somewhere there is an angry, shaved smurf, looking for it's fur. Too bad Donatella Versace found it first.

*Photo courtesy of bluefly.com

Awkward...

Oddly enough, I sat across from a guy who looked like this the other day on the T.

On the bus....

Last night, after a long evening of rehearsals, I got on the bus, found a seat, and started rummaging through my bag for my iPod. It was caught on something (not surprising, given the state of my bag) and as I tugged it out, I also pulled out a tampon....which flew from my bag and landed in the aisle....right in front of a cute guy. The only cute guy who has ever ridden the bus. EVER. Of course I pick that moment to play tampon acrobatics. I thought about just leaving it there, but I eventually got up and claimed it. And then I got off at the next stop, which was not the stop I wanted, but there was NO WAY I was staying on after the little show I put on. Then I waited for another bus, all the while trying to collect what little of my dignity was left.

I couldn't resist.....

Wednesday Giggle

*Courtesy of icanhascheezeburger.com

Interesting....

I don't know if anyone noticed, but Google Ads posted an ad for "preventing runner's diarrhea" to the right. I assume this is in response to my entry on the marathon. Right now I am rethinking my decision to sign up for Google Ads.

Why warm weather makes me cranky....

Today it is going to be 80 degrees in Boston. No doubt that will be followed by several 30 degree days, then back up to 80. Welcome to April in New England! I'm just interested in knowing when my sinuses are going to fall out of my skull, as they tend to react negatively to sudden weather shifts. My sinuses could give Mariah Carey a run for her money when it comes to acting like a "diva." And while that has me worried, what concerns me the most is that this weather shift signals that summer is on its way. And no matter how much I bemoan the winter around here, the summer is far worse. For one thing, the humidity sucks out your will to live and, for another, it means less clothing.

I have always contended that I look better with more clothes on. In fact, if I could shower fully clothed at the gym, I would. Hell, I'd just settle for getting to wear Doc Martins in the shower, because the thicker the layer between me and the shower floor, the better. But one does not get the option of "covering up" in humid, sticky weather. Not unless you want to die of heatstroke. And trust me, I've come close. I am just so frickin' pale, that I tend to glow when not covered up, and it is never pretty.

To combat this, I am a religious self-tanner. However, that requires a certain amount of upkeep, and that tends to be a drag. You have to apply it carefully, hang out without pants on while it dries (which tends to make one's roommates a bit nervous), and make sure it doesn't stain your palms orange. In fact, I have had the tanner taken away from me before for improper use. I left a few orange hand prints on the back of my calves while I spent a summer in London and my classmates made me hand over the bottle....for "my own good." That's what I get for slathering it on whilst downing a few gin and tonics.

And no matter how much one self tans, there are still areas of the body that tend to wobble and shake, and those parts are nearly impossible to keep covered during the summer. A friend once called this the "jiggly jiggly hey hey" and I think that title is appropriate. Since summer has snuck up on me, I haven't had the chance to seriously commit myself to the gym, between rehearsals, work, and the desire to sleep. So I have a little bit more "jiggly" than "hey," and I am loathe to let people see it all in broad daylight. In fact, it took me a good 20 minutes to find an outfit this morning that didn't make me lose the will to live.

Summer: you and I are in a fight!

Question...

Why the hell did they keep interrupting my trashy TV to tell me the Pennsylvania Primary was too close to call?  If you don't have anything to tell me, stay away from my brain candy!

What I am wearing to church.....

Now, I love Rihanna as much as the next person. In fact, I haven't been able to get that damn "Umbrella" song out of my head since last summer and I finally just bought the album. It is an excellent one for the treadmill. However, I am a bit perturbed by her choice of ensemble at Kanye West's recent concert.

Apparently the pink parts light up. Not. Even. Kidding. Because that is what every outfit needs, a neon path leading right to your lovely lady parts. And matching gloves, because it gets so terribly cold on stage...under all those lights.... Sweetie, even Madonna has given those up.

Oh, and next time, try not to allow photographers to take pictures from this angle. From the waist down, you're starting to look like Mischa. Not Good.


* Photo courtesy of John Medina/WireImage

Primary Tuesday....

Some political cartoons on the day of the Pennsylvania Primary. Can you tell I am a wee bit liberal?

*Photos courtesy of icanhascheezburger.com....the best website EVER!

This Summer....

The schedule for the New Jersey Opera Young Artist Program was just posted, and I am pretty sure I am not going to make it through the summer. My parents will be picking up the shell for their formally vibrant, clever daughter at the end of July. Hopefully that will also include the loss of at least 10 lbs from all that running around. A girl can dream, right?

I am also filled with some trepidation because I may have exaggerated my skills at the audition. It was going so well, everyone seemed delighted by me, and then they asked about my dance experience. Dance experience? Does that include the aerobics I taught in undergrad? I had two years of movement in grad school, that included ballroom and ballet, and I kept up....but experience?

"Why yes, I have had extensive dance experience," I said, waiting for the lightening bolt to strike.

"In what types of dance?" the director asked.

"Uh, um, ballet and, uh, tap, and ballroom.....and modern. Did I mention modern?"

The director and his cronies all nodded and made agreeable noises. "You look like a dancer," declared the director.

On what planet? But I just smiled and walked from the room in a graceful and dancer-like fashion...or at least that was the look I was going for.

When they called me a week or two later, the director was delighted to award me a role that would "showcase my dance talents." OH. MY. GOD, I am so dead. Perhaps all those ballet DVDs I rented will seep into my brain and, as a result, into my feet. Should I sleep with tap shoes under my pillow? Throw myself off of something and show up in crutches?

Perhaps I will just charm them with my sparkling personality and they will never look at my feet. Here's hoping.

At rehearsal last night....

On my costume:

Me: What color is this? Not only is it a sack with sleeves, but the color looks like the same color the Jews were forced to wear at Auschwitz.
John (a friend in the show): With some tears of despair thrown in there for good measure.
Me: So my costume color is a mixture of Auschwitz and tears of despair.
John: Well done. You are SO going to hell.
Me: See ya there!

Wimp....

I just wept my way through the Season 2 finale of Buffy.  This makes me the world's biggest wimp, mais oui?  There goes the badass image I so carefully cultivated.

Marathon Monday...

Up until this year, I haven't really given much thought to the Boston Marathon, mostly because I lived near my grad school and could easily get to my classes, so the closing of all the streets really didn't make much of a difference.  This past weekend, I have had to venture right into the heart of all the action, and I'm starting to get pissed off.  

On Sunday I ventured out for my weightlifting class, only to find that most of my routes were blocked once I got of the T, due to the Olympic Marathon trials.  I was lucky to get off the T at all, as passengers on other lines weren't even allowed to get off at the stops that were closest to the race and, subsequently, the gym.  And the crowds of visitors are no help either.  When they aren't walking slowly and gawking at everything (yes, it is an old, big building...now move your ass!) they tend to create long lines at your favorite eateries.  I just wanted a damn protein bagel after class, and I got stuck waiting in line for half an hour.  I was so hungry when I got up to the counter that I almost ordered everything they had, smothered in chocolate.  

The worst part is the marathoners themselves.  Are you currently running the race?  No?  Then put some damn pants on.  We get it, you are an impressive runner, no need to wear shorts that short for strolling through Copley Square.  Or else they are proudly wearing their "Boston Marathon 2008" gear.  Big deal, I can wander into any running store and pick myself up a windbreaker just like yours.  And me wearing it definitely cheapens the prestige...especially if I am eating a doughnut while prancing around in it.  Oh these thunder thighs?  Got them from running the New York Marathon.

And the serious runners never look happy.  You can tell the ones who live for marathons, or are on some kind of team, because the guys all have buzz cuts (for less wind drag?) and both sexes look gaunt enough to be mistaken for Schindler's List extras.  And they are CRANKY.  Of course, I would be too if I knew I had to run 26 miles the next day.  

I was fortunate enough to get the day off because of Patriot's Day (a Massachusetts holiday) and the race, but I am holed up in my house, because you can't get anywhere with the damn race going on.  Perhaps I will venture down later and, instead of offering water to runners, I'll offer them a cookie.  And a hug.

Conversations with my father....

Dad: So, how heavy is your computer?

Me: About 5 or 6 pounds maybe?

Dad: Well, that's lighter than a machine gun.

Me: Yes, and I can't shoot myself with it.

Dad: That remains to be seen.

Sitzprobe....

For those of you not in the music biz, the above word is not a German term for a dirty sex act, it involves singing with the orchestra for the first time.  In the case of Ruddigore, the "orchestra" consists of three violins and a tuba.  There isn't even a tuba part in the piece, but, God bless him, he's here, blasting us all away.  I am always filled with a certain amount of trepidation when the orchestra (or whatever we have assembled) manages to beat a full chorus in terms of volume.  Tends to put a bit of damper on things.  However, given the fact that our chorus consists of four women and three men, this is not surprising news.  We are so dead.

Meanwhile, it is 72 degrees outside and sunny, and I am stuck in here until 7pm tonight.  Oh the sacrifices I make for art!

Party Animals....

This Friday night I was fortunate enough to go out to dinner with "the blonde brigade;" three lovely blonde sopranos I met while in grad school.  They also have a dirty sense of humor, so they make the perfect dinner companions.  We headed out to chi-chi Newbury street and completely forgot that it was the Boston Marathon weekend.  

The streets were teeming with tan, thin, athletic-looking people who were all sight-seeing before they brutally tortured themselves for 26 straight miles on Monday.  Unfortunately, their toned bodies were standing between us and a seat at a restaurant.  So, ever resourceful, we put our names in, headed over to the nearest liquor store, bought 40's, wrapped them in paper bags and sat on some steps while we waited.  That's right; my friends and I, decked out in our tight jeans, Coach bags and trendy outfits, sat on the ground and illegally drank beer on the streets. It was like we were twenty all over again! 

I couldn't help thinking that all my parents' dreams were coming true: their daughter was on the street, drinking booze like a hobo.  Guess that prep school, undergrad and graduate education was worth the money.  Cheers!

Tossing Off.....

I don't know what it is about me, but old, creepy guys have a penchant of masturbating in front of me. You read that first sentence correctly. I don't know why, I don't know how, but I always seem to come upon them when they are, "ahem," busy. Today it was an old, and perhaps mentally challenged, man on the T. Things were kept under the pants, but the T has been cracking down on sexual offenses, so the five women around me all pulled out their cell phones and snapped photos. I assume they did it for evidence...if not, I don't want to know about it. But there have been two other times, WITHIN THE LAST 6 MONTHS, that I have come upon men pleasuring themselves. Behold, the list:

#1: The first morning, after I had moved into my apartment, I went out to the common area and opened the blinds on the window. Across the street is a halfway house for mentally handicapped adults who are, mostly, very nice and polite. On this particular morning, an older gentleman was sitting in one of the chairs on the porch, having a grand old time by himself, with himself. WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD!!!!!! It has never happened again, but I try and keep the blinds closed on that window at all times. Better safe than sorry.

#2 I am a huge geek when it comes to reading, as I am sure you already know. Nothing pleases me more than spending hours in the Boston Public Library, reading to my heart's content. When I was waiting to get work from the temp agency (and was wicked poor) I spent most of my time there, just to get away from the house and the evil roommate. One day I decided to challenge myself by reading a novel in French, because I have lofty ambitions that do not always match my abilities. The foreign language books are in a dark corner of the library and as I turned into the correct row, I came upon a homeless man masturbating. Delightful. Being from the Midwest, I immediately apologized and got the hell out of there. On my way out, I let the guard know there was a man pleasuring himself in the French section. The guard seemed very nonplussed. Apparently that goes on a lot in the foreign language sections...too bad nobody told me. They don't tend to do it in the Chinese section because the old Chinese ladies who frequent it tend to hit when faced with obscene behavior. Sounds like they have the right idea.

I am now venturing into all public places with Mace and a large stick.

Not that you care....

It is a beautiful, 72-degree day in Boston and I am sitting on my porch and typing on my MacBook.  That's right...ON MY PORCH.  OUTSIDE.  Technology: today you are my friend.

This really means that I never have to stop looking at LOL Cats because I can take this thing anywhere.  Even the bathroom.  Oh the possibilities!

Just for kicks...

When I showed my friend at work the "who brought the cat" photo [see below], she directed me to www.icanhascheeszburger.com. Above is just a sampling and I assure you that I will never be able to leave my computer again now that I know this site exists.

Just Because...

This picture is entitled "Who brought the cat?" I am hoping it's photoshopped, but it delighted me so much when I saw it that I had to post it. Happy Friday!!!!!

Handbag Whore

I am a self-described handbag whore. Can't get enough of them; Coach, Isabella Fiore, Fendi, Gucci, Longchamp....if it has a handle, a designer label and carries your wallet, I lust after it. The best part about handbags is that it doesn't matter how fat or thin you are, a good purse always fits.

But I have a grudge against those who carry the "Canal Street" knock-offs. Not only are these people supporting crime and jacking up the price of the real thing for the rest of us, but you look silly. And I can tell a fake at 100 feet. I am not even kidding. I have spent a good portion of my young adult life pouring over purses in catalogues and magazines. I know what styles Coach has made and I know yours wasn't one. I also know the belt loops they use on Fendi's, so I can figure out you have a fake when your "Fendi" purse doesn't have one.

And I'm not a snob that thinks that only those who can afford to pay full price should have the privilege of carrying them. Lord knows I can barely afford to feed myself each month, but TJ Maxx and Marshall's have a lot of these bags for not a lot of money. I have found plenty of Coach and Dooney and Burke bags each time I shop. I also have a lot of no-name bags that look much more expensive than they are and people are always asking me if they are a designer's. Just avoid shiny fabrics...they tend to look cheap from the get-go.

There, you have had your fashion lecture for the day. And know that if you are carrying around a bag embossed with "G's" instead of the Coach "C's," I will find you.

*Photo Courtesy of IsabellaFiore.com

NEW COMPUTER!!!!!

I am waiting for rehearsal to start and am writing on my blog FROM MY NEW MACBOOK!!!! This is an exciting moment for no one else but myself.  I am reveling in my techi-ness!

Is techi-ness even a word?  Who cares, I have a new MacBook!!!!  And a purple case!!! Wheeee!!!

Comments on Last Night

The bullet points make it look like I am talking about something important, not just the brain rot I watched in my PJs last night:

ANTM

• I thought Tyra should have sent both Stacy Ann and Fatima home. Stacy Ann should have gotten the cut just for her squeaky voice and I can't stand Fatima's snotty attitude. Also her rib cage scares me more than I can say.
• I was SO glad that Mr. Jay finally sat in on the judges' panel. He seems like the kind of guy I could have a cosmo with while trash talking about celebrities. Only it would mostly be me snorting while he made witty remarks and hit on the waiters. Perhaps afterwords I could help wipe off some of his pancake makeup.
• I am still surprised that I don't dislike Whitney. She has the kind of personality that would normally make me want to shank her in the ladies' room, but I am kind of rooting for her. AND she has a bangin' body...let's hear it for the booty!

Girlicious

• Every time I write that name I hang my head for watching something with such a title.
• Robin "man in drag" Antin kept everyone around for next week's final, and while that was a nice thing to do, the evil part of me wishes she would have sent someone home. I nominate both the bottom two girls (Chrystina and Charlye) merely because they spell their names in an obnoxious manner.
• I am continually amazed that no one has chipped a tooth from falling in those ridiculous heels they are always wearing.
• Did you know there is a Girlicious line of clothing? Now we all can squeeze into booty shorts and make the neighbors think we are running a sleazy strip club in our basement!
  

Oh Lord....

It's too easy...like shooting fish in a barrel....so I'm not going to write anything about it. Well, except that we should all feel better about our selves and our clothing choices after seeing this picture.

Godspeed.....

The recent Northworst (excuse me, Northwest, we call it by it's nickname in Detroit) and Delta merger had me thinking about the state of travel today. To have a career as a singer, one must be amenable to doing loads of traveling, sometimes at a moment's notice. I much prefer to take the train when I can, because there is much more leg room and I can bring as many damn liquids on as I want.

However, I have my plane travel down to a fine science. Since 9/11, TSA has become the newest fascist regime in the US and I have no doubt that anal probes are going to be the next security measure implemented. As it is, a strip search is usually in order. I have responded to this by wearing as many layers as possible and good underwear, because I am willing to keep stripping until there is nothing left just so I can make my flight. Need the undies off too? Fine, just let me board that plane to San Francisco. Hey, you asked me to take it off, don't complain that some of these body parts have never seen the sun. I know, you didn't think it could get whiter than the parts you can see with clothes on. Take THAT suckers!

But an incident during my grad school audition trips convinced me that empire-waisted shirts were NOT the way to go, despite the fact that you can let your gut hang out in them. A TSA official, with a face like a battle ax, asked me if I would like to be wanded down so the X-ray radiation "didn't hurt the baby." Of course she said it quite loudly...they always do. When I told her I wasn't pregnant, every woman behind me in the line gasped in sympathy. I almost bitch-slapped the woman, but getting tasered probably would have delayed my travel time. She did help me out in one respect: when I have to pee on a plane before the "fasten seatbelt" sign goes off, I usually tell the flight attendants that I am pregnant and can't hold it. No doubt this will doom me to a pregnancy via immaculate conception, but at least my bladder is happy.

It was the "limited liquids" rule that really chapped my ass. When it first went into affect, NO liquids were allowed on-board and I was out singing in Aspen, Colorado. As you can imagine, I had brought a whole bunch of liquid products with me, from makeup to a gallon of hairspray, because I was going to be performing. Let's get something straight; as an opera singer I am made up of nothing but water, makeup and hair products....none of which were allowed on board at the time. I had to put a bag over my head because I nearly hyperventilated from the news. I made it back, but I was a sad shadow of myself.

Now they allow you to fill a small Ziploc bag with liquids and I am always amazed at how few people know that. They think this is still a free country and they can bring on all the liquids they want. Not so, my innocent friend. Hell, when I found out I was allowed to carry on a smidgen of concealer, I had a kegger to celebrate. I suspect TSA does that on purpose; take it all away and then give it back, little by little, so we become grateful and compliant. Well, I am on to them!

And yes, YOU STILL HAVE TO TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES. I had to write that in caps because some idiots still don't seem to know...the rule has only been in place since the beginning of time. For instance, the goth-clad young lady ahead of me in the security line at Logan who delayed me by a full ten minutes because she was unaware that she needed to unlace all 3 feet of laces on her Doc Martins and remove every stud on her body. Believe me, there were quite a lot. I almost ripped a few out myself, just to help things along.

You see now why I take the train whenever possible. And no one has asked me about my "pregnancy" on Amtrak.....yet.

Stationary....

These charming and classy notecards can be found at www.16sparrows.com. Hope you all are ready to get these when I send them out as Xmas cards. Sure beats that damn newsletter everyone else sends out.

And my apologies for the late posting today. Sometimes I actually DO have to work. Which is such a damn shame.

Celebrity Fashion: Preggers Edition...

Holy Crap! I SO thought this was Britney Spears. Apparently pregnancy turns one into hillbilly white trash. Thank you Jessica Alba, I have learned my lesson well.

Overheard...

Overheard in my office today:

"Where can I get an iced coffee the size of a small toddler?"

Public Television: running on caffeine fumes to bring you quality television that pisses off the Bush Administration.

Annoying...

There is a couple at MIT that are constantly making out in the student center. Well, making out doesn't quite cover it. It's like they are attempting to swallow each other's souls. I sat across from them one Saturday while eating my lunch and I'll never make that mistake again. I almost didn't get my burrito down and my reason for living involves burritos, so this was serious.

Last night, after I bought my soup at the student center, I noticed them sitting on the first floor, with their lips hermetically sealed together. I made a beeline for the third floor and settled in with my soup. I enjoy soup because it is food you can drink when you get tired of all that chewing. So here I am, safe from pheromone-charged lovers, when THEY walk upstairs. No doubt the people on the first floor got tired of their antics and banished them up here. Thanks a lot! I even had to put on my headphones so I didn't have to listen to the slurping. I said it....THE SLURPING.

Let this be a warning to you all: make out in front of me and I will do nothing about it...and then I will write about it in my blog.

Celebrity Fashion...

This is Mary-Kate Olsen. You can tell she's Mary-Kate (and not the other one) because of the slightly crazed look in her eyes. I like to call her the "deranged" Olsen. Especially given the outfit she is wearing. I can only assume her driver ran over a raccoon on the way to this event and Mary-Kate figured "waste not, want not." How environmentally conscious of her. Or she felt like she needed something to cover up the hideous dress she's wearing, so she slung the poor beast over her shoulder like a road-kill poncho. Either way, the addition of the fur shrug is like lipstick on an ugly girl: useless and it only serves to highlight how unfortunate the rest of her is.

Oh, and she apparently hung her head out the window on the way to the event, just so she could get that "fresh" undone look. I've had that look before, after stumbling into my apartment at 6am, still drunk from the night before. It didn't look good then and it sure as hell doesn't look good now.

I'm glad to know I look better than at least one celebrity. Score!

*Photo Courtesy of CelebrityFashionWatch.com

Green-less Thumb....

Okay, it is a well-known fact that I can barely care for myself, let alone another living thing. In fact, I have a few stuffed animals who have barely survived. SO WHY THE HELL WOULD SOMEONE GIVE ME A PLANT?????

This plant was proudly presented to me as a housewarming gift when I moved into my apartment in September. The "appeal" of the plant was that it was in a pot that had fleur-de-lis on it, my favorite symbol. Yeah, like that makes it acceptable. It is a very nice pot, but I immediately started to think about what non-living item could replace the plant in said pot. Perhaps a Coach bag? Because that is what I would have preferred to this "heartwarming" gift. I swear I could feel the plant tremble as it was handed over.

But I tried my best with the plant. I even bought it plant food, which I begrudgingly watered it with every two weeks. Other than that, I kept to a strict every-other-day watering schedule and even had one of my roommates watering it when I was off at auditions. And then I found out the damn thing needed new dirt in its pot every couple of months. Are you kidding me????? This plant is way too high maintenance for me. But I did it. I dragged potting soil across town, on the T and up the MANY stairs to my apartment, all in an effort to make my plant happy. This carried on for about 6 months.

And then the ungrateful vegetation died. Just keeled over. I awoke to find it drooped over the side of its pot, leaves turning brown. So despite Katie's protests that it could be brought back to life, I tossed it out. Trust me to get the one rebellious, "teenager" plant. Fine, if you dislike your home so much that you fake death, then I'm going to bury you. No plant is going to call my bluff.

I tried, really I did, but I just don't have the time to remember to put pants on, let alone water something. And despite all my efforts, the thing STILL died. So let that be a lesson to you all: I will only accept designer purses or cacti as housewarming gifts.

On the plus side, I now have a very pretty, and empty, pot on display.

No towels....

This is an accurate representation of what I looked like after I discovered there were no towels at Bally's. My hair also looked like this after I used a sweatshirt to dry it.

*Photo courtesy of comedy-zone.net

Message This Morning....

This morning I awoke to a voicemail from my mother. After I finished laughing so hard that I started snorting, I decided to share the message with all of you:

"Hello Sweetie, it's mom. Just wanted to let you know I received your email about your taxes. Also, the painters were in you room yesterday, moving furniture around, and they unearthed a giant penis-shaped water bottle. I can only assume they thought it was mine. That is all, love you."

It was a gag gift, I swear!

Saturday Night....

Last night, it was pouring, so my roommate Katie and I stayed in and watched Elizabeth: The Golden Age. And then we sat on the couch and made funny noises at each other to see who would laugh first.

I know, you are amazed at my AWESOMENESS!!!!!

Fun Website...

These are all courtesy of www.noisebot.com, where you can get any of these (and more!) made into a t-shirt, sweatshirt or tote, just in time to amaze and horrify people on public transportation. These are three of my favorite and I will be wearing them at the next family reunion with my WASPy relatives. Should go down well.

Katie

Once again, my friend Katie comes through with a brilliant comment, this time on my Mischa Barton post. Let this be a lesson to you people, comment and ye shall be posted:

"A girl this skinny should have no problem looking hot. I think Mischa has stopped working for the hot. She's been told she's pretty so many times, that she thinks she looks good in whatever she wears. Also, on top of being pear-shaped, she's skinny fat. I understand her plight. I too would be skinny fat...were I not regular fat"

Say on, sister, say on.

My father's take on my blog...

Dad: Why is there a rodent wearing shoes on this thing?
Me: It's a hamster.
Dad: Yes, well, why is it wearing shoes?
Me: It's a stylish hamster.
Dad: Where did you find this picture?
Me: Online.
Dad: And do people find this kind of thing amusing?
Me: Sure, everyone loves a hamster in heels.
Dad: {sighs} I guess I just don't understand your generation.
Me: Hey dad, better hamsters than drugs.
Dad: Oh lucky man.

Spiffy

I just bought this bag to carry around my 20 lbs of library books and trashy magazines. My only fear is that someone is going to stop me on the street and say "yes" to the question. And then I will hit them with said bag.

Serious

I was looking through the archives of dooce.com, the best blog out there, and I found an entry Heather Armstrong wrote about her struggles with depression. This particular paragraph is one of the most beautifully written statements about depression I have ever read:

I think many people are afraid that if they take medication or even agree to see a therapist that they are in some way admitting failure or defeat. Or they have been told by their boyfriend or their mother or their best friend that they should buck up and get over it, and that asking for help is a sign of weakness. Well then, let me be weak. Let me be a failure. Because being over here on this side, where I see and think clearly, where I'm happy to greet my child in the morning, where I can logically maneuver my way over tiny obstacles that would have previously been the end of the world, over here being a failure is a hell of a lot more enjoyable than the constant misery of suffering alone.

Okay, public service announcement over. I owe you all a more lighthearted post next time.

MIT Continued...

While riding up in the elevator to my rehearsal space at MIT's student center, a mother and her very young-looking son got on. The mother smiled at me and said; "see Josh, there are some pretty girls that go here. What's your major sweetie?" Poor Josh looked like he was ready to crawl into a hole and I was pretty much there with him. However, I didn't want to disappoint the woman.

"Molecular Biology," I said, lying through my teeth.

"Your parents must be so proud," she sighed.

I nodded. Proud and surprised.

An entry in which I am the coolest person in the room...

I have been spending an inordinate amount of time lately on the MIT campus, performing in the school's Gilbert and Sullivan Society production of "Ruddigore." The rehearsals alone could generate enough entries to fill this blog for weeks, but some of the people in it are very nice and read this blog (thank you!), so I would be loathe to put anyone on the spot. See, I do have a heart, despite what several of my ex-boyfriends may think.

Last night I headed to the campus early and discovered I was in the midst of some kind of future-freshman orientation. I snagged a prime spot in the student center, and watched, with amusement, as scared looking uber-dorks (and their even more scared looking parents) milled around with campus maps clutched in their sweaty hands.

There were also various fraternities and sororities on hand to give out information. I know EXACTLY what you are thinking; MIT has such things? I assure you they do, but I never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. However, it is a pale wash of the Greek system we had at my Big-Ten undergrad. There, Greek life was a career. At MIT it's more like a club sport. The guys try and look like big men on campus, but their faces generally have one too many zits and the muscles under their t-shirts aren't quite as defined as they should be. In fact, their t-shirts are much too tame for frat identification. There was no mention of naked chicks, keggers or references to 4:20. Obviously they have yet to learn about slipping roofies in unsuspecting girls' drinks.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of these young men was holding a bunch of flyers and eyeing me. I get that a lot at MIT. Not because I'm particularly good-looking, but because I am usually coming from work and am outfitted in true "diva" style. I also am in the habit of wearing makeup and clothes that fit properly, so I stand out from the other young women of MIT. In fact, the first words the Gilbert and Sullivan Society said to me at my audition was; "you aren't a student here, right?" Damn right I'm not a student here! I'm of normal human intelligence and can dress myself.

Anyway, the frat boy started edging closer to my table until I finally looked up and gave him what I hoped was a death stare. Unperturbed, he slid a flyer across the table at me and said "The A E Pi's are having a party on Friday night. We'd love to see you there. There's free beer."

Had I just been invited to a MIT frat party? With FREE BEER??!!? Where the hell did I put my black booty pants from college? Wait until they find out I'm the only one invited to the party who can legally drink the free beer. I'll be the most popular one there! After I retrieved my jaw from the floor, I thanked the young man for his "kind" invite. And then he winked at me and strolled away. That's right, Mr. Ladies' Man WINKED AT ME.

What do you suppose they do at these parties? Rent porn so they can finally see a woman naked? Play drinking games with MAGIC, The Gathering? Get drunk and speak in binary code all night?

I wasn't much of a frat party type of girl in undergrad, nor was I invited to more than one or two, and I am not sure I'm going to start now at the ripe old age of 26. Plus, I have an old shoulder injury that acts up during keg stands. However, I am keeping the invite, just so I can prove that someone thinks I'm cool.

Dust Bunnies, Part Deux....

This morning I found a HUGE dust bunny on the keyboard of my computer. After it stopped snarling at me, I picked it up (with at least three Kleenex layers between it and me) and placed it on top of a carton of yogurt in the fridge that belongs to my evil roommate. That was my way of saying "yeah, that's right, I know it's you. Who do you think you're kidding? I was a middle school girl more recently than you and Lord knows I can play this immature game with the best of them."

This lump of dust will probably get passed back and forth between us like a bad chain letter until I leave for the summer in June.

Bring It On Bitch.

American Idol

A lot of people ask me if I watch American Idol, given that I am "a singer and all." Let me be the first to tell you that you never want me on your karaoke team...I am a horrible pop singer. I can't even belt out an 80's Madonna tune without people heading for the hills. Ironic, given that I am an opera singer. All I got is full-fledged vibrato, or nothing, and a vibrato you can drive a truck through has no place in pop music. I am also so used to singing the harmony (the cursed existence of a mezzo-soprano), that singing the melody, where the music actually plays along with my vocal line, totally throws me off. Between that and my booty, I was obviously meant to be a rap superstar.

But I can't watch American Idol. It is too traumatizing. I know how hard it is to get up in front of an audience and sing. It is like standing in front of people naked and turning around....slowly. And I have never had to do it in front of millions of people on TV, so I can only imagine how these kids feel. And make no mistake, they are kids. I think the oldest is around my age. I can't even imagine doing that now, let alone when I was eighteen and refused to ever wear knee-length skirts because I was so self-conscious. At least no one was writing on their blogs about how I looked while I poured my heart out on stage.

Singing is such a painfully personal thing because you don't have an instrument to hide behind. Your instrument is inside you. Imagine having your violin become a part of your body. Suddenly, people aren't only criticizing your playing, they are criticizing you, and you can't do much about it because what you were born with is pretty much what you have to offer. And, as in American Idol, the judges are picking you apart in front of all your friends, family and America. I feel for every one of the singers and tend to break out in a cold sweat at every "pitchy" phrase or odd facial expression. This is not escapism TV for me, it's a nightmare of all the bad auditions I have ever been on.

And then there is Simon Cowell. I have faced down men like him before in the music business, and they are usually right in their estimations of talent. That doesn't mean I have to like them. In graduate school, one of the top directors could have been a dead ringer for Cowell and he was one of the best teachers I have ever worked with. But every time I had to perform for him, I started remembering all those prayers from that ill-fated Sunday school one of my babysitters dragged me to when I was five. After I was finished, I usually had to take a shower. He was the type of guy who said things like "that aria is usually cut from the opera...and thank you for demonstrating why," or "I was cataloging my latest grocery list in my head while you sang, it was that dull." He never said these things to me, but I lived in fear that he would someday make me the butt of a clever and demoralizing joke, so I worked my tail off for him. It wasn't a pleasant environment for any of my classmates and I wonder if we would have learned more and been more free with our interpretations if he had been nicer, or at least more encouraging. As you can imagine, any time Simon appears on the screen I have the urge to put my face in a carton of rocky road and stress eat.

Long story short, I don't watch American Idol because it brings all kinds of repressed memories to the surface for me: from being told by a professor that I was "talented but couldn't count to save my life," to having a young artist judge rip up my resume in front of me. Who would have thought a little show on that waste-of-space TV network FOX would get me worked up? So I choose to abstain from watching and turn to the high-class entertainment of "The Pussycat Dolls Present: Girlicious" instead. Because I am a class act and all.

Cuteness II

Now this is the only kind of hamster I would ever consider owning.....one with good taste in shoes.

*Photo courtesy of cuteoverload.com. And now I have blown my badass reputation.

Mischa

Dear Misha,

Let me be the first to welcome you to the Pear-Shaped Society. There are many things to recommend this shape, including the womanly outline it lends us and the fact that men far prefer it to that "stick" look that seems to be so in nowadays (see: Kate Bosworth). In fact, my hair salon is filled with stick women, but their boyfriends always stare at me when I walk by. Why, you ask? Perhaps it is because I am the only over-size-two woman there (and am shocking to behold), or, perhaps, I look guaranteed not to snap in half during sex. I might even use my body fat to keep them warm during those cold Boston nights. You may look better in your jeans, Posh-wannabes, but your boyfriend would rather go home with me.

But I digress. As the president of the Pear-Shaped Society, I would like to let you know the do's and don'ts of belonging to our little club:

• The A-line shape is your friend. Skirts and dresses that swing away from those problem areas will change your life. As we can see above, Mischa has thoughtfully provided us with a demonstration of what can happen when your dress has no swing and your thighs want the limelight....DOOM I TELL YOU, DOOM! Well, perhaps not that bad, but you end up looking about 10 pounds heavier than you are. Ten pounds Mischa probably needs to gain, but don't even get me started.

• The area the skirt or dress hits on your leg is also important. We here at the club believe in a good skirt hitting about two to three inches above the knee. Any longer and you start to look dumpy. Any shorter and you....well, you start to look dumpy there too. As Mischa has again demonstrated (God bless her, always thinking of others), the short look can backfire when it hits the widest part of your thigh. Perhaps her mirrors only come to her collarbone?

• Just Say No to Light Colors On Your Bottom Half. The Society is having that printed up on T-shirts. I don't mean that you should try and hide those hips and thighs ('cause we all know that ain't happening), but drawing attention to them can backfire. Again, please see the photo above. It's like she has put a giant spotlight on her problem areas. A dark bottom and colorful top usually go a long way in getting people to look at the "right" areas. Dirty-white polyester coated with flowers does not seem to have that same effect.

I hope these guidelines are helpful and I want to welcome you, again, to our little society. Our first meeting will be tonight, 7:30 pm sharp. We will be watching America's Next Top Model and eating ice cream. Hope to see you there!

*Photo courtesy of DS/ISM/Flynet

Gywneth...

For the love of God woman, stand up straight!!!!! You are wearing about $5,000 worth of clothes, surely you can manage more than a grimace? Sheesh. Yes, I know being out and about among the little people is traumatic, but you can always sulk about it later with your strangely named children.

*Photo courtesy of Dara Kushner/INF

T Ride

A little girl on the T this morning kept pointing to me and saying to her mother "fancy lady!"

How right you are kid.

Comments

My friend Katie, who should be writing a blog of her own, given that she has lived around the world and is pretty damn clever, left the following comment about my crazy roommate:

"ok i am fascinated by your roommate. does she have friends? a job? who has this kind of time?...ok i do. but i still need to understand so much more about why a passive-aggressive 41 year old woman would choose to live with you guys. my guess is that her lackluster people skills have relegated her to living in communal housing in her 40's. and that probably makes her really bitter. you probably look like you're having fun, and that probably makes her even angrier. "

I am glad to know someone else thinks my roommate is two truffles short of a Godiva assortment. And here I was thinking no one was reading my blog. I feel so much better knowing my mother isn't the only visitor.

This morning's gym debacle....

Most mornings I attempt to get my butt out of bed and drag myself to the gym. I say "attempt" because there are some mornings when I make it half-way out under the covers before I lose my will to live and decide that my pillow needs some more face time...it's a sensitive soul. I really don't enjoy exercise, despite how many FITNESS and SHAPE magazines I read. In fact, some days I would rather stick my fingers in a mousetrap than pick up a weight, because no spandex is required for the mousetrap ordeal. However, my ass has a deep seated desire to take over the world, and so I need to head to the gym in order to keep its maniacal plans under control. You're welcome world.

I usually wake up around 4:45 am and head out to The Boston Sports Club or the YMCA. I get a free membership at BSC for working there (well deserved, given the crap I put up with) and I have a pretty hefty discount at the YMCA. But with rehearsals going later and later, the 4:45 am wake up time now seems inhumane when I am not arriving home until after 10. Who am I kidding, even if I went to bed at 8, it would still be torturous. So I signed up for a month-long special at the Bally's across from work that allows me to go three times a week for only $20.

I arrived for my first trip this morning, all decked out in workout gear, with my GI-normous gym bag in tow. Did I mention this thing has wheels and it's own license plate? People keep asking me where I am flying off to for a month. I usually lie and say "Bermuda." Easier than explaining that I am so high-maintenance that I thought about renting a bus for my makeup. At Bally's there were plenty of treadmills, and my heart was light with thoughts of a taut butt and thighs.

Things started to go downhill when I asked the woman behind the desk for a towel. She looked at me like I had just hacked up phlegm in her direction. "Towel?" she said, "we don't have any towels." And. then. she. snickered. That's right, she laughed at me for being so foolish as to expect towels at a gym. I have worked out at some pretty ghetto places, but even those had towel service. It may have cost money for towels at some of those places, but I would have gladly handed over my credit card and first-born child at that very moment, as I was bathed in sweat and due at work in a short while.

Ever a resourceful midwesterner, I marched off to the locker room and used MY OWN SWEATSHIRT AND PANTS to towel myself off. Really, you haven't lived until you've used a pair of pants to dry off your back and had a sweatshirt wrapped around your head like a turban. I looked like some of the crazy homeless people in Harvard Square. Especially after I made a dash from the showers to the lockers with my pants held up in front of my naked, damp body.

Then I got my next nasty surprise when I discovered that there were no hair dryers in sight. I naively assumed that all gyms offered their patrons hair dryers. Apparently not here in the third world country known as Bally's. So I was reduced to sticking my head under the hand dryer in order to dry my lady lovely locks. But it kept shutting off and I had to keep waving my hand over my head like a drunk seagull in order to keep the machine going. My head in now permanently at a wrong angle from that little escapade. Not to mention the strange looks I kept getting from women entering the bathroom. Laugh all you want ladies, but I don't pay for a membership to this dump like you do!

I had to fill out a card with my name and number when I arrived, and I really hope that someone from the gym calls to try and sign me up. I am still gleefully deciding if I will use sarcasm or operatic shouting to voice my displeasure.

Cuteness

I think we have all had days where we know just how this hedgehog feels.

*Photo courtesy of cuteoverload.com. Don't even get me started.

A few of my favorite things....

In keeping with my reputation of being a makeup whore, I would like to put forth a few more of my favorite products for your consideration. First, is the Sue Devitt Eye Intensifier pencil (on the top). This line was recently discontinued from Sephora (oh the humanity!) but you can find it at SueDevittStudio.com (where I also got the image). I cannot say enough about this pencil! It goes on smoothly, and the texture makes it easy to smudge if you, like me, make a mistake or want a "smokier" look. I have green eyes and the bronze shade entitled "Surat" really makes them pop. For brown eyes, I recommend Zaire (a shimmering plum) or Bangalore (khaki green). And for blue, you can't go wrong with Gold Reef (a chocolate color with a bit of sheen). At least that one has an easy-to-remember name. I can't pronounce the other ones. One drawback to this pencil is that it needs a special sharpener for its thick size, and the creamy tip can sometimes start to melt in extreme heat. I suggest popping it in the fridge during the summer. The pencil runs about $22 and you can order it at her website. That site is, again, www.suedevittstudio.com.

Cover Girl's Lash Blast Mascara is conveniently housed in a bright orange casing, and I am eternally grateful for it's packaging, as I am half-blind in the morning and am libel to put lip gloss on my eyes if I am not careful. The lashes it produces are long, lush and glamorous. These are not lashes for the faint-of-heart! Usually only one swipe below and above the lashes is required. And, for about $8, you can look good while saving up for that Coach purse. (Photo courtesy of CoverGirl.com)
Finally, I present to you the Ferrari of concealers: Yves Saint Laurent's Touche Eclat (picture to the left). It's pricey (around $40) but more research went into this stuff than went into the hybrid car. I have heard raves about this product from every age group of women, due to it's light diffusing, highlighting particles and anti-crease staying power. And trust me, after rehearsing a love scene with a catty, gay tenor all night, you want that kind of staying power. The pen dispenses a rather good amount, so I suggest smearing it on the back of your hand and then applying it with your finger, to avoid slathering too much on yourself. The one drawback to the fancy packaging is that it gives you no warning as to when it is about to run out. One morning you are happily dabbing it on, the next, you are in dark circle hell with nary a cover-up in sight. I also don't recommend this on zits, as the creamy consistency (while non-comedogenic) can cause more problems in that area. Photo courtesy of ysl.com.

Happy Makeup Shopping!

Hmmmmm....

Once, when I was in New York, I happened to pass by Kate Bosworth. She was carrying a Kooba bag that was not only bigger than she was, it probably weighed more. I almost stopped to help, before the designer bag snapped her skinny little wrists. Since then, she appears to have put on weight (if by weight, you mean half an ounce) and has decided to dress like this five-year-old diva did when she was allowed to pick out her own clothes. I mean, seriously, doesn't that skirt look like a tutu one would get a little girl at the Hello Kitty store? Has she decided to attend an anime conference?

Kate, Kate, wearing extra-large clothing and layers does not distract us from your skinniness. Have a bagel! Those black leggings not only look like they were snatched from a Salvation Army bag, they do nothing to hid the two sticks you call legs. And did you forget to do your hair? For an appearance with David Letterman? No doubt you were too busy throwing on ill-fitting clothing to notice that your hair and makeup look wan and limp. You have money darling, there is no excuse for a shabby appearance! Honestly, I manage to look fabulous every day with clothes from TJ Maxx and cheap hairspray, surely you, with your "movie star" salary, can do better.

*Photo Courtesy of Star Magazine

Curses!

I was halfway through Season 2, Disc 3 of Buffy, The Vampire Slayer, when the netflix disc started skipping. And just when Angel was getting tortured without his shirt on.

Why God, Why?

Comment

My friend Melanie was nice enough to let me know about this little gem:

"My new favorite Tyra quote is from last night... "I was like H2O no you didn't girrrrl!""

I am going to work that into a conversation today, just you wait and see.

HELP!

Okay, so my mother is concerned that people will mistake my blog for a porn site and won't bother visiting it. Her co-worker was kind enough to say that the "blog name doesn't match the sophistication of the content." She is being overly kind. Obviously I need to work on my fart jokes.

So, I need you to help me with a new title. Leave a name either on my facebook page (for those of you who have it) or in the comments section below. The winner gets free ice cream, because life is meaningless without ice cream.

Thank you very much!

What's that smell?

People are always asking me what perfume I am wearing. Usually they aren't holding a handkerchief up to their nose when they ask, so I take that as a good sign. I am quite partial to "Angel" by Thierry Mugler (picture to the right courtesy of Sephora.com). The website describes it as a "pure and innocent" scent, but since I wear it, you can just assume that description is patently false. It has notes of fir and chocolate, so this is the closest I am ever going to get to rolling around in fudge and then walking around all day. We all have dreams people, mine might just be a wee bit freakier than yours.

A new favorite of mine is the Stila Smoky Eye Palette (on the top, duh). My best friend (Miss Jenny) sent me a gift card for my birthday to Spehora (the happiest place on earth!) and I knew instantly that this was what I wanted. You press a button and the case actually speaks to you. Not in a "Miss EPM is hearing voices again" kind of way, but in a helpful, step-by-step procedure to a smoky eye way. Everytime I use it, I get rave reviews. However, I like to keep the "my eye makeup speaks to me" explanation under wraps. I just tell them it is my natural talent for makeup that allows me to look glam 24/7. It retails for around $40, but if you are frustrated with your efforts to do a sexy eye, this is a must. No one pays me for these reviews, so take my word as gospel...face paint gospel.

*Photo courtesy of Sephora.com

4 Minutes

*Image via Pacific Coast News Online

The song on my ipod that is probably getting played the most right now is the Madonna, Justin Timberlake and Timbaland ditty "4 Minutes to Save the World." I love me some Madonna. She's from Michigan too, so it gives me some hope, she can dance circles around Britney (especially now) and she is full of sass. What's not to like? Maybe a little something called "man arms."

Now, I love a good bicep on a woman. I like knowing she can probably kick some poor bastard's ass. Lord knows I have been trying to get myself some cut arms, but since you can't buy them at CostCo, I'll have to go without. But these are too much. Have a bagel Madge! Take a day off! No need to work construction...you have plenty of money. I don't think I would even like these on a man, especially since it looks like a living anatomy lesson.

I realize all the gays are going to hate me for my disloyalty, but this doesn't mean I don't worship the woman. I just wish someone would force feed her Krispy Kreme.

Gym Blooper

This morning at the gym, a young woman fell off the back of the treadmill and had her break-away track pants ripped off by the belt. She was only wearing a thong. I CAN'T MAKE THIS SHIT UP PEOPLE! Every woman in the place jumped off their respective machines and ran to put a towel over her, including yours truly. I have never seen such a display of female unity in my life.

No doubt we were all thinking the same thing: "there but for the grace of God go I."

Letting my trashy flag fly...

I love trashy TV. Wait, that sentence doesn't quite convey the proper emotional quality I was going for. I am madly, passionately, desperately in love with trashy TV. And if it is trashy TV with dancing involved, forget about ever pulling me away from the tube. In fact, the less redeeming social value a show has, the better. America's Next Top Model (on tonight) fits the bill beautifully. Between the cat fights and Tyra's weave, it doesn't get any better. My personal favorite moments come when Tyra deigns to hand out "pearls of wisdom" to the wannabe models. Topics include such gems as posing ("men's magazines; spread your legs and face the cameras, women's magazines; hunch like you know you're ugly."), conveying emotion ("you were like this [narrows eyes], and you need to be like this [narrows eyes yet again, but with a subtle difference that only Tyra herself can see]) and working the booty ("work that booty girrrrrl!") Did I mention that I like to eat ice cream while watching the show? Irony, my friend, is a beautiful thing.

And don't even get me started on Dancing With The Stars (DWTS, for those of us in the know). In fact, I have been known to stay on the phone with my mother back in Michigan for the ENTIRE broadcast, just so we don't miss a moment of catty critiques with one another. I didn't even know they made men's pants that tight, never mind men's asses that firm. Admit it, you are just waiting for Karina Smirnoff to bitch-slap cutesy Julianne Hough. Take that Joseph Smith! The best part is critiquing everyones dancing talent, all the while knowing that I can't even touch my toes, let alone attempt the paso doble (yes, that is how you spell it. I checked).

And for the ultimate trash fest, I suggest you watch "The Pussycat Dolls Present: Girlicious. This takes trash to a whole new level. Hell, I'd watch it just to figure out what Robin Antin (the founder of PCD) did to her face. As my significantother would say; "she would make an ugly man." Seriously, I was unaware that skin could be stretched like that. She looks like her brother in a wig (her brother being the egomaniac Jonathan Antin of the BRAVO show "Blow Out." ....Lord people, keep up!) I do enjoy that Robin focuses on "girl power" in her challenges, yet outfits them all in booty shorts while they thrust their pelvises in front of David Geffin and Little Kim. Gloria Steinem would be proud.

Words to live by....

I think I will be ordering these bumper stickers in bulk and giving them to all my friends. They can be found at www.bumperactive.com. You are welcome in advance people.

Welcome!

For a while now, my mother has been on me to start a blog about my life. My first response; "Who the hell is going to read the damn thing?" In fact, no one may, but I've never let a little thing like "lack of audience response" keep me from what I want to do. If anything, this could be the cheapest therapy around. Sure there will be a fair amount of whining, but I also love movies, books, makeup and most shiny things, and I want a chance to share those loves with the rest of you. Every week I plan to have one, or more, favorite products featured, whether that be a book or an eyeshadow.
Oh, and did I mention that I am an opera singer? Let the drama pour forth! The opera world is ripe with stories and humiliations for my blog and I plan to set them all in my sights. Seeing as I would like to work again in this field, I will be changing all names and dates to protect my future employment.

Hang on kids, it's going to be a bumpy ride.