and it's all because of the interweb

I so adore how out of everything I've done in the last six months, my boss singled out my ability to quickly find the phone number for the Talbots in Georgetown for special praise.

Really, I'm touched.

Oh and also, I handed in my final paper. Let's just say this this marks the third time I have now included Paris Hilton in a paper during my nascent academic career. But really, when one is writing on the irrelevance of quality categorization in contemporary popular culture, there really couldn't be a better example to cite.

Oh Lordy, I am so ready for Christmas.

silent night?

This is the problem with not blogging for a long time: there is too damn much going on to be organized into a coherent post. Writing feels like when I go to bed at 2 AM on a Tuesday without first taking a Tylenol PM; a million unconnected thoughts running through my head. Errands I need to run, people I need to see, tasks to check off my list at work, did I double-book happy hour with Old Urban Family and New Urban Family, how long has it been since I've called my mother, wait, how long has it been since she's called me?

And so I present to you the last week, sans-panda, insomnia-style:

"Buy Gruyere, cheap reds, rotissere chickens and panko for holiday party. Find out what the hell panko is. VACUUM. BLEACH BATHROOM. Starting to smell like cat has died in toilet. Come to think of it, where is cat? Find catsitter for Christmas. Buy Christmas presents for parents, Grandfather and His Wife. Write paper. First actually read articles required for paper. How many pages does 3,000 words equal? Reschedule date with Tattoo Trent-- no time for dating until paper is done. What the hell was I thinking going out with someone who has THAT tattoo THERE? Do I tell my mother I'm at least dating just to get her off my back over holiday dinner? Do I then lie about details of how MET Tattoo Trent? Must remind Jenny not to spill beans. JENNY VISITING. Pick her up at Metro at 7:30 AM. Damn Northwest blackout times. JOB INTERVIEW. Print out resumes, clip packet, job description, firm info, question list. Thank-you note to interviewer. Oh god, interviewer graduated same year as me. This is discouraging and depressing. Speaking of, gynecologist visit immediately following. What do I think of switching birth control? How do explain to boss that have yet another doctor appointment when have claimed had two already this week, when actually was viewing panda and interviewing? Oh god, eighty-three new emails in four hours. I hate the Patriot Act and everyone who has ever touched it, written about it or voiced an opinion about it regardless of what they said. Why is this week above others insane at work? WHY is god's name does this publication HAVE to go out RIGHT NOW as opposed to three hours from now? K BIRTHDAY. At least get her a card, you awful, awful friend. CHRISMUKKAH. Cannot afford actual gift of alcohol-- would be OK to bring leftover office party Robert Mondavi cab sav to a kegger? Lovely, you want to bring the new girlfriend to Chrismukkah? Whatever, I guess thanks for checking in with me first. Holiday open house. Brokeback Mountain already sold out for two days? Duh, it's only in Dupont. Fandango for Saturday. BLEACH BATHROOM. Paper-- would my prof buy the argument that MacDonald is the academic equivalent of the guy who really liked Bloc Party until everyone else started listening to them and now he's full of poser disdain? Wonder if there is an academic equivalent of MisShapes or Last Night's Party? Am pretty sure Alan Dershowitz would DJ at it. CRAP, must again cancel on HH with Rem and S. Third time someone has-- look for new date in 2006. Gahh, 2006-- what's going on New Years? Are we still doing dinner and champagne somewhere? CRAP, rescheduled date with Tattoo Trent on night of Kisha's show. Must either blow him off AGAIN or blow off Kisha like accidentally did in New York. Wait, did Jenny get back home OK?"

Christmas break may be coming up, but exactly how can I get a vacation from my thoughts?

Panda-Monium!

We finally got to the National Zoo, and it was cold. Oh Lordy, it was cold. Thigh-chilling, nose-freezing, toe-numbing cold. This panda had better be DAMN cute.

We present our tickets, wait in the first of three lines and start to get excited. For six twentysomething professional women, we are regressing back to childhood really quickly. Something about playing hooky from work to go to the zoo will do that to you. We start comparing our favorite Disney movies. We start singing songs from them. I freak Libby out with my impersonation of Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty.

We finally get inside. We are literally skipping by this point. "We're gonna see the panda!" we sing. "Butterstick, Butterstick, Butterstick!"

So imagine our disappointment when the zookeeper tells us Butterstick just went down for a nap. Literally entered his enclosure as soon as we skipped in. We look over to the monitor and sure enough, there's his snoozing, fuzzy butt curled up in the corner. And so we pout.


Sarah and EJ are very sad that Butterstick won't come out to play.


Kim is also sad. Sarah is still sad. I'm not sure what's going on with Libby here, but I'm pretty sure she's also sad deep down.








We try to console ourselves with learning all about Butterstick and his family. Somebody brings up the even more sad fact that in two years, we will have to send this little guy back to China. "How exactly do you ship a panda?" Laila wonders out loud. "Yeah," Libby chimes in. "Is it boat? Plane? Can you FedEx a panda?"

"As long as it's not USPS," Kim adds.



As it turns out, it IS FedEx.











We met Zookeeper Mo, who told us the Zoo Secret-- that despite the hype, it's really quite easy to get tickets to see the pandas, especially when it's cold. Just show up at 11:00 and claim the no-show tickets. We thank him profusely, and I'd like to think our politeness inspired what happened next. A zookeeper decided that since we were such a nice, polite crowd, she would pick up the snoozing Butterstick and parade him across the enclosure for us!


EJ takes bad pictures, but in her defense, she was a little excited. Oh yeah, and she blames her camera, too.









I'm pretty willing to bet that if we had been pushy yuppy bitches they never would have taken him out, but apparently taking pictures with frowny faces did the trick. So the moral of the story is, pout and you'll get your way.

After The Stick's curtain call and subsequent curling up in a rock pit for yet another nap-- being that cute is CRIPPLINGLY exhausting-- Mama Mei Xiang was nice enough to stroll into the enclosure to check on her barking cub and knaw on some bamboo. Of course, she completely ignored us.



Mei Xiang cannot be bothered to entertain you. There is bamboo to be eaten. Take her photo if you must.




And so, pandas seen and lunch hour successfully frittered away, we skipped out of PandaWorld and went merrily on our way, panda-monium achieved!








The mood is markedly different. Butterstick is nature's upper for Kim, Sarah, Laila and EJ!

forest for the trees

Quoth the New York Times editorial board:

The price tag for protection against a Category 5 hurricane, which would involve not just stronger and higher levees but also new drainage canals and environmental restoration, would very likely run to well over $32 billion. That is a lot of money. But that starting point represents just 1.2 percent of this year's estimated $2.6 trillion in federal spending, which actually overstates the case, since the cost would be spread over many years. And it is barely one-third the cost of the $95 billion in tax cuts passed just last week by the House of Representatives.

Total allocations for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and the war on terror have topped $300 billion. All that money has been appropriated as the cost of protecting the nation from terrorist attacks. But what was the worst possible case we fought to prevent?

Losing a major American city.

If Democrats do not use this properly in the coming elections cycles, I'm FedExing my stuffed donkey back to DNC headquarters. Say what you will about the duties of nation-building, the morality of abortion and the stickiness of charter schools. It really pales in comparison to letting a major American city rot while slashing taxes in large part to benefit the wealthiest one percent of Americans.*

*And before you get all persnickety, I know that most of the first three tax cuts passed were a) approved by Republicans AND Democrats and b) not the flagrantly elitist kind that usually gets my knickers in a twist (for example, the largest was to slow the expansion of the alternative income tax, a move that is merely SOMEWHAT flagrantly elitist). However, the cuts debated today are for $56 billion worth of cuts on dividends and capital gains which ARE flagrantly elitist and almost exclusively benefit the kind of people who did not need to rescued from their waterlogged homes by helicopter.

run! i see a FLAKE!

One of the (few) benefits of a northern Michigan upbringing is weather cred. I can't be all badass like the kids who actually grew up east of 8 Mile, but I DO get to make fun of Washingtonians who go apeshit at the first sign of snow. Quoth the NBC4 website:

"Storm Center4 meteorologist Tom Kierein said the storm is approaching from the west and could hit D.C. as early as 9 p.m. Thursday.

Some areas south of Washington will see a mix of snow and rain, Kierein said. But the area around the District could get anywhere from 2-4 inches of snow, mixed with rain. And Kierein said areas north of the city will see all snow and should expect anywhere from 3-6 inches.

A winter storm warning means severe winter weather conditions are expected. Significant amounts of snow are forecast that will make travel dangerous.

Officials say motorists should keep an extra flashlight, food and water inside vehicles in case of an emergency.

Thursday night's low will be about 25 degrees."

Twenty-five degrees?? THREE TO SIX INCHES IN THE NORTHERN SUBURBS?? Oh, THE HUMANITY.

Yeah, you could stock your car with food, a flare gun and a tire iron for beating away all the zombies emerging from the sewers as Hell freezes over. Or, y'know, you could just pilfer packets of hot cocoa from the office break room and put on a sweatshirt when you get home tonight.

After all, here in Washington we try our best to be levelheaded and not overreact to anything.

daisy wouldn't take life, either

Dear TBS,

No one wants to see Daisy Does America. The promotions for it are so unfunny that they actually make people squirm. Please inform Daisy and the Cox Arquettes that no one has made a "who let the dogs out" joke since spring 2001 and they weren't funny then. Is Daisy herself actually that bad, that millennium-era VH1-quality humor is the best she can muster, or is Courteney Cox Arquette actually that poor a producer?

Also, please stop running ads for this show during my PG-13 reruns of Sex and the City. It is NOT the perfect show to follow Sex and the City, and I resent your insinuations that Daisy's painful shtick is in any way comparable to the considerable talents of Sarah Jessica Parker. Based on what I've seen of Daisy, even Kristin Davis could eat that girl for breakfast with a side of quiche.

Moreover, I already watch this television program on HBO, where it is called Da Ali G Show and it is actually funny.

Oh, and please find some new films for rainy Sunday afternoons. We've all seen Stepmom approximately eleventy grillion times now.

Your friend,

EJ

no place like home for the holidays

i laughed, i cried, it was better than "cats"

It's a well-established fact that I'm a huge theater nerd. Not the "As I child I saw Phantom of the Opera with my parents and did a play in high school" kind of nerd. Oh nonononono, friends, I mean NERD. Specific to Rent, my nerdiness includes the receiving of a poster signed by the original cast for my fourteenth Christmas, countless hours of singing along with the cast album in the shower, car and various dorm rooms and finally, being SO EXCITED to see the touring company in Detroit that I completely forgot to buy anything for my mother's birthday because it was on the same day as the matinee we were attending and therefore my attention was entirely elsewhere.

You want more? OK, when I made my "Philosophical Self-Portrait" for senior year philosophy class, no less than three pages of the twenty-page work contained references to Rent, including an entire page with just the lyrics of "La Vie Boheme". Of course, in this class I also accompanied myself on the electric keyboard while singing Tori Amos' "Silent All These Years." That incident is one of the many reasons I will never attend a high school reunion.

So we saw the movie version of Rent last night, and I'm still trying to work out exactly how I feel about it. It was not the enormous disaster it could have been, that's for damn sure. There were some pleasant surprises (Rosario Dawson can sing!) and even some things that translated better on the screen than on stage(Jesse L. Martin's big cuddly grin!).

You know what it reminded me of? Paging through my high school yearbook. I did this over Thanksgiving, and even though high school isn't in the distant past just yet, it feels like light years ago. Browsing through glitter-pen decorated pages, I laughed (what was I thinking with that red hair?), I cried (was my stomach really once that flat?) and I winced a LOT (a girl on yearbook staff who didn't like me captioned a picture of me in The Music Man with "EJ conveys a look of superiority." Ouch).

Rent was the same way. I didn't want to get my expectations up, which was good. No matter how much I loved it on stage, it was bound to get a little muddied in translation to film. Changing song lyrics into dialogue, no matter how much the actors ignored the cadences they once sang, just sucks. Talk about cringing.

That flaw aside, it was still worth it. They used most of the original cast, who miraculously can still pass for 20somethings. There was no attempt to update it to the present, which, seeing how the Lower East Side is now littered with Starbucks and Alphabet City is as much a tourist stop at Lincoln Center, is a relief. The transitions between songs were awkward, but once they started singing it felt great. I'll even admit to crying during Angel's funeral, though I was really embarrassed about it and glad I'd worn my glasses as to better conceal any evidence.

What really freaked me out was watching the film and realizing what a yuppie I've become. Rent-free loft in New York? Do you KNOW what people would do for that? Shut up and film your damn friends after you shoot your "sell-out footage," you whiny kid. It's called A Day Job. Even Jonathan Larson waited tables and THEN went home to bitch about art and life. And ROGER-- CAN WE PLEASE DISCUSS HOW EXACTLY IT TAKES A YEAR TO WRITE THAT SONG? I know you're heartbroken and going through withdrawal and everything, but John Mayer could have pulled that song out of his ass in five minutes. I expected better, you sexy, sexy man. Finding myself sympathizing with Benny, the guy who's just trying to collect the rent from his old friends who are refusing to pay up, was a totally unexpected and unwelcome phenomenon.

But then, when I loved this show as a teenager, I didn't pay rent myself. Nor did I pay my phone bill, taxes, budget for Meow Mix and worry about balancing my career with a social life and if I should ever go back to school and should I pay off my Amex bill in entirety even if it means I have no cash for the rest of December? I was a misfit kid who loved a show about a bunch of misfit kids who found each other and held on tight, even as they made crap choices and didn't want to own the consequences. They didn't do anything well except love one another, and that part translated loud and clear onto the screen.

So it wasn't perfect. It's so strongly identified with a place and time, both as an extant show and in the minds of people who see it. You can't go home again, and I can no longer view a show about dilettantes without rolling my eyes a little and thinking "Get a job."

But I laughed, and I cried. And it was hella better than Cats.

on bloggers rocking

Blog Happy Hour last night was great! Thank you to the lovely hostesses for putting on such a great event, and especially to I-66 and KOB-- I-66 was the first DC blogger to ever comment here and KOB is the Godfather of this little sphere, so I have a special place in my cold stone heart for both of them. Good luck to Laura, who is running a fantastic charity that everyone should give money to, and who when I started ticking off her 2L classmates I know, shouted "Oh my God, you know every Jew at GW Law!" Yes Laura, that's probably true.

See, only other bloggers know what it's like to be a ho to your sitemeter, to willingly open up your personal life for public scrutiny and only a fellow blogger would understand why I had a twenty-minute conversation with the charming Heather B. about meeting Stephanie Klein. Other bloggers are the friendly extroverts who don't hesitate to introduce themselves with "Hi, I write Sharkbait!" them giggle a bit at the oddness yet clear practicality of introducing oneself by one's blog name. Furthermore, general consensus among Washington bloggers is that Jessica Cutler is a skank who serves absolutely no purpose and is generally the Ugg boot of women, thus illustrating the wit and wisdom of the DC blogger world.

D was good enough to come with me as a buffer guest at the beginning of the night, to help ease my nerves until the cocktails set in. Chatting with her and another girl whose sitename I sadly lost in a gimlet haze, she asked us why we blog. It was funny; for all the navel-gazing that goes on here I'd never really thought about it. "Well," I answered, "it's because I have to write. I just need to. Whether it's venting or documenting, I just need to write."

"So why don't you just keep a journal?" D asked.

The other girl and I looked at each other for a second and I looked back at D. "Narcissism. Honestly! People reading your writing feels great."

Well, it turns out that meeting those people was even greater. Thanks for a really fun night, all.

only GS-11s and above get the contaminated ecstasy tablets

B: working for the government is so strange...someone just brought me 2 glow sticks, 6 antimicrobial wipes, antibiotic ointment p ackets, and two handwarmers so that I could toss out the expired ones in my emergency kit....I'm just unsure if we are preparing for a terrorist attack or a night at velvet nation

EJ: HAHAHAHAHAHA

B: seriously

B: did I tell you one of the things in the emergency pack--along side the gas mask--is a maxi pad (yeah like the kind my grandma wore)

EJ: oh that is priceless

B: your tax dollars...taking care of any off-cycle days

EJ: and ironically, it would also come in handy for a night at velvet nation

hours of happiness

Blogger Happy Hour tonight!

Why am I nervous about this? I feel like I'm crashing another high school's prom. D articulated it at lunch today-- it's just so strange, the idea of meeting people whose lives you read about but who, let's face it, you don't know. Not bad, just strange. Uncharted waters, if you'll forgive the cliche.

Well, here's to smooth sailing. And cocktails. Here's to those, too.

all work and no play makes ej more than a little tense

Oh, the tingling nerve of it. The empty screen practically taunting me. "C'mon EJ!" it whispers. "No one will know! Vent! Let it all out! Your boss would never find it! No one else in your office would care! You go ahead and spew all the crap stored up inside you."

Oh Blogger, you foul temptress.

I will not blog about work. I will not blog about work. I will not blog about work. I will not blog about work. I will not blog about work.



Instead, I will say that standing in the Teet at 10:30 last night, after work, class and exhaling for the first time since I hit my snooze button that morning, I contemplated which pint of Ben and Jerry's would be my downfall. Two years, kids. That's how long it's been since I've induldged in that particular sin. More specifically, not since the week my thesis was due. There have been other ice creams, surely, but none with the caloric or emotional significance that comes with a pint of B&J.

It was a tough call between Fossil Fuel and Dublin Mudslide, but in the end I went with the former. The idea of something fueling was quite appealing, plus I was afraid that anything with a drop of alcohol would set me off on a whole other kind of binge.

I ate three-quarters of the pint curled up on my couch with Sadie kneading my stomach as if to say "Oooh goodie, more to play with," wondering when, exactly, it starts to get easier. Just when the things we work for finally fall into place after years of towing the line and working hard and playing by the rules.

My Dad said last night when I called for advice "At least you have the comfort of knowing you're doing everything right." That's lovely, but I'd prefer not to need that comfort at all.

disavowing all knowledge

What's that you say? There are two entries missing? Two entries that describe certain individuals in accurate-but-less-than-flattering terms?

There. Are you happy? I'm not. I don't particularly appreciate being censored, especially when the odds of said individuals stumbling across this site are comparable to odds of said individual's spouse leaving all money to Hillary for President 2008. Well, it wouldn't be the holiday season without carefully reasoned guilt that makes me feel like a petulant child.


And remember, DAD, I know when you're reading. It's called a "sitemeter." You are well advised not to return.

what i will do with all of my free time now that the show is done

* Really miss everyone from Company. You guys are so fantastic, and I had the best time working with you.

* See people again. I know, right? Such a novel concept.

* Actually do the reading for class before the day OF class.

* Write a 3000-word paper entitled "In Defense of the Middlebrow." Remind me again why I'm not doing this full-time?

* Host my office holiday party.

* Spend an overlarge amount of time scouring www.epicurious.com for ambitious recipes for said office holiday party.

* End up beating head into wall after two hours of buttering ramekins for individual chocolate molten cakes while simultaneously vacuuming stray cat hairs, wondering why ever agreed to host said office holiday party.

* Go back to Michigan to eat turkey, banter with extended family members, throw a bridal shower and see Garrison Keillor.

* See Rent, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Walk the Line, The Family Stone, Brokeback Mountain, Memoirs of a Geisha, Capote, Good Night and Good Luck and Pride and Prejudice.

* Figure how the hell my new TiVo hooks up.

* Read Are Men Necessary? and bitch about Maureen Dowd to all my girlfriends while being secretly afraid that she may be right.

* Renegotiate my salary.

* Make full use of my gym membership.

* Sleep.

* Audition for another show? I know, right?

directions

We're standing outside the classroom, waiting for the Italian 001 students to finish their vocab drills. I am fervently grateful not to be among their ranks; Italian killed my GPA. Without Italian I would have graduated summa, and it's not like learning to say "the pasta is very good" helped me when I was lost in Verona and desperately needed to get a cab to the train station before the 9:34 AM train to Innsbruck.

The other students are chatting about what classes they're taking next semester. M, the thoroughly nice guy who asked me out earlier this year but I turned down because my main college relationship taught me never to date a man who wears jeans with embroidered decals, asks me what I'm taking.

"Nothing as of now," I croak. Despite a paycheck's worth of Halls, the Death hasn't really left me yet. "I'm not technically a grad student."

Two other people look over at us. "I mean," I add, "I'm just taking this class because my job gives me great tuition benefits. I'm not a masters candidate."

"Really," he says. "Why not?"

I hesitate. It's complicated. "I just... now isn't really... I'm just not sure yet."

M shakes his head and goes on talking with the other people. I refill my water bottle, and it's a good thing I did. When we finally get to go in the classroom and the discussion starts, I play a big part in it. I do most weeks. I'm really not bragging here, at least not intentionally; I would be incapable of of graduate-level (or undergrad-level) work in a lot of disciplines. I'm good in this class because I studied these topics really intensely in college and the format of the class is very open-ended and free, a style that really suits me.

I get a lot out of it, too. Even though I bitch about the reading and often don't give it the attention it deserves, I always leave class with a million different thoughts bouncing around my brain, running in all directions. I often also leave wondering why I'm not doing this full-time. I have the means to do it if I want to, though it would leave me with less financial freedom down the road. A masters would make me a more valuable employee, would give me more power in salary negotiations and help me find a better-paying job. More importantly, it would be hugely stimulating and rewarding. Beginning to become an expert in a field, to be slutty with academia and learning, would be a delicious experience. I know I'd be good at it, I don't have any doubt about that.

So why am I not doing it? Why am I not pursuing this? My current professor, who I studied with as an undergrad, almost refused to sign me up for this class. "EJ," he said, "why the hell do you want to stay here? Go to Yale, go to Harvard. Is there a good reason you're not getting a PhD?"

The reason, though I didn't tell him, is that I don't know if I'm capable of that level of scholarship. Right now, I'm not even capable of doing a practice GRE. It's easier to stay in this comfortable limbo, full of relatively secure finances and a crazy fun social life. For the first time, I'm in a job I enjoy and can support myself with. I'm the head of my household, and giving up work to be a full-time student, no matter how intellectually rewarding, would be a huge lifestyle change. I hate to think that my shallowness is the reason I'm not a grad student. I'd hate to think that it was kickball and happy hours and community theater and dating crazy French guys and crappy television that is keeping me from pursuring this.

Yet another part of me wonders if these are really such shallow things. These are all earned, this lifestyle maintained solely by my work. Despite all noble notions of higher education, that one goes to college to become an educated member of one's community, we also go to college so that we can begin careers that can support a lifestyle to which we become accustomed. This isn't shameful; it's a practical reality, and one that is a hell of a lot more satisfying than women fifty years ago were faced with. There's freedom in it, independence and control over one's future. I'm very big on all of those.

Plus, it's damn fun. Who knows what's in the future? Now is the time where we can spend disposable income on building our networks and our lives, where we just begin to reap the fruits of all our labors in college.

All this is on my mind throughout the class, which is excellent as usual. When we're done two hours later, M and I walk out chatting about possible topics for our final papers. I say goodbye to him at the bike rack and start walking towards the Metro when he calls out after me "Hey-- you did really well today."

Maybe he just said it because he still wants to get in my pants. Maybe he really meant it. I happen to think the latter. I go home from class, as usual, with a million things on my mind, spinning off into a million directions.

thank you much

Best. Show. Ever.

Thank you so much to my dear, dear friends. Seeing your faces after the show felt fantastic, and the flowers are oh so pretty.

Thank you to the enormous swell of people who came, forcing us to add extra chairs and hold the curtain while the ushers made sure we weren't violating fire code.

Thank you to whoever started applauding after my first scene. That's never happened before, and I had to bite my lip walking offstage to keep from grinning because it felt so damn good.

Thank you to tonight's entire fantastic audience, who totally made up for last night's far more tame group by laughing at everything that came out of our mouths. It's incredible the difference a strong, engaged audience makes.

Thank you to A for providing the classic A line "EJ, you've set the bar too high. I won't come and see you in any shit plays now." Having your support is great; being able to impress you is even better.

Thank you to the makers of Dayquil and Hall's Cough Drops for sponsoring my surprisingly resilient voice after four days of panicking and yodeling to keep my throat limber.

Thank you to the random woman in the parking lot who stopped me to say "You play dumb so well!"

Thank you, thank you a million times over. Tonight felt really good.

ripping jolly good time

I would like it noted for the record that I called Matthew Macfayden's stardom back in the fall of 2003, when I started watching reruns of MI-5 on BBC America during my thesis-induced insomnia phase. Yummmmm. Even with the silly Darcy wig they gave him for the new Pride and Prejudice, yummmm. How did this show never catch on the US? It's Alias meets 24 with accents, people!

I've been watching a lot more BBC America lately, in large part because I don't get home until 11:30 every night and there is only so much Family Guy a gal can watch in a week. Besides, Footballers Wives is FAR superior to Desperate Housewives and The OC. Old episodes of Monty Python's Flying Circus inspire actual laughter, whereas I watch The Colbert Report and find myself thinking "This is funny. I should be laughing at this. Why I am I not yet laughing. This is funny, right?" And do not even get me started on BBC News versus all of American cable "news."

I've always been a bit of an Anglophile, but with this new habit of turning on BBC America, I'm taking it to a whole new level. What once was WASPishness could soon be replaced by lapsing into accents, a condition that has already been known to happen upon the consumption of multiple glasses of wine and group viewings of Sense and Sensibility. Yet beneath the references to places that end in "-shire" or "-heath," the basic premise for this new hobby easily translates into American English.

I used to make fun of my lovely old roommate for her devotion to General Hospital, but now I find myself PASSIONATELY worrying if Tanya actually did kill Jason and what the hell is going on with Chardonnay's hermaphrodite baby and OH SWEET MOSES I CANNOT BELIEVE HAZEL KEEPS HER HAIR THAT COLOR DOES SHE REALLY THINK SHE'S FOOLING ANYONE BECAUSE THAT COLOR IS NOT FOUND IN NATURE. And I realize that, despite the accents (which are often impenetrable as organic chemistry), I have become just another girl addicted to her soaps. It's only a matter of time before I start swatting my mewling cat out of my lap, yelling "I'll feed you after my stories!" Despite all attempts at self-delusion, the accents really don't make it highbrow, any more than a gigantic sequin-encrusted blazer and the strongest Botox in Manhattan make Susan Lucci look a day under seventy-three.

I still wish someone else I knew watched this stuff though, because I would really like to engage in a dialogue about the implications of the Muslim suicide bomber episode and whether by naming one's child "Chardonnay" you predestine her to a future career as a topless model. These are the issues that shape our world, people. Erasing international borders one fictional hermaphrodite baby at a time.

why i love my parents (technology)

From: Dadman

To: Offspring

Subject: another fine mess...

Once again, following in the footsteps of my kids, (who remain an inspiration to me) I have been cast to do a student film at U Michigan. From now on you can refer to me as Mr. Freidman - loving husand of Mrs. Freidman, who is suffering from some dread disease and he is dedicated to taking care of her - although (and this is the dramatic part !!!) it weighs heavily on him and he secretly feels over burdened by the situation.


And since my mother recently learned how to text message, I get at least two texts a day (three if she's at a conference and it's not yet happy hour). Highlights include:

"home bored paying bills wish was still at work"

"gross pt sooooo boring... waiting lalalala"

"u got camera ticket- 32 in 25 zone but dad paid it bc we dec. was horseshit"

backstage notes

One weekend down, two to go!

It went really well. A few tiny bobbles, of course-- dropped lines here, delayed sound cues there, a kiss so violent I nearly busted my upper lip open-- but overall, it went remarkably well. Great houses full of friends and family, and one really entertaining gay couple who sat in the front row of today's matinee and literally barked and hooted their enthusiastic laughter. My entire office and a bunch of friends showed up opening night, which was wonderful. I am so lucky to be so supported by these great people.

It's been a really long time since I felt the jangly nerves of opening night. I've blamed many of my flaws-- procrastinating, overreacting in relationships, analyzing meaningless comments and looks-- on being an actress, but when I'm actually performing I get a focus from nerves that I can't duplicate from anything else. It's an itchy energy, where it feels like ants are crawling on my veins and if I scratch with great diligence and attention they'll stop. When us girlfriends are backstage waiting for our cue in the opening number, doing our hushed disco-slam dancing to keep energy high, it's practically like a blood transfusion. The show seeps into me.

And when we storm out on the stage, the lack of sleep, the fact that I haven't seen my friends in a month and there's a layer of dust so thick on my bathroom floor that Sadie sneezes when she uses her litterbox and I have purchased and not cooked with an estimated $37 in vegetables that have since gone bad-- it is oh so very worth it.

Lessons from Final Tech Rehearsal

When your role in large part consists of making out with a fellow actor, it is probably not wise to consume an entire head of roasted garlic smeared on a baguette for lunch.

Just a thought.