to say nothing of the dog

Fuzzy

2005-03-20T09:56:00.000-08:00

Wouldn't everything in the world be better if it were coated in a fine layer of fuzz? Like my brain?

I seem to abandon this blog in the midst of projects and then take it up again immediately after. SO!

What I did this past month:

I produced a play. It was pretty good, I think, and it was definitely a good karmatic way to ensure that I don't have to submit paperwork on shows that I'm directing. My god, did References make me want to kill myself toward the end there. No one should have to go to Brooklyn in the rain when they're already ill and stand outside of a maskmaker's building for 45 minutes with their fiance when said fiance is in the middle of finals, and then have the actors reject the masks out of hand because they don't fit well. HATE. Pain. Much sinus pressure and blowing of noses.

But yay! Play that I produced got extended, and so all is well the universe, do a happy skippy dance. We're going for an extra four performances. Also: yesterday I assistant stage managed for a 24/7 play festival. Beautifully strange. Very self-important college students also worked on it.

In future months: directing a reading of M. Giant's play "Sister's Tragedy" at the Tank, hopefully in May. Getting married. Freaking out, man.

Aaand...I'm Back.

2005-01-28T09:19:00.000-08:00

Hello, you beautiful white space which no one reads. That's cool. All the more for me.

The play, she opened, she sold-out, she closed. Several things happened. The guy playing the Moon did in fact have to shoot during the play. Heh--shooting the Moon. Heh. An understudy was gotten (who did a brilliant job). It was the FASTEST tech ever, which was brilliant and bizarre, given the fact that I had a terrible flu or cold or walking pneumonia, worsened by the lack of sleep and extreme level of commitments I had. My daddy came to see it, and he liked it! He thought it was professional! Perhaps we put another foot of distance between his ideal of me being a lawyer or upper management, and my idea of me...not being those things.

Christmas itself was lovely. The surrounding mess was not lovely, including lost Christmas presents, travel plans cancelled, and grandfathers having heart attacks. I even managed to hit myself in the eye socket with a corkscrew. It bled. I had a black eye. Wine is dangerous. Just ask Carrie Nation.

Incoherent Shrieking

2004-12-03T10:44:00.000-08:00

The post under this post is The Play. It starts in a WEEK. I need to do, like, five million and a half things for it, and I've got today and tomorrow to do them in.

In other rage and paranoia inducing weirdness, the day after Thanksgiving saw me cuddled with my boy, watching Bonnie and Clyde, when I got a phone call. An anonymous phone call! Yay! Anonymous Phone Call Woman asked how I was doing, I told her (living in New York, graduated acting school, engaged), her voice got weird, and asked if I had set a date. I said, yes, June, and she said something involving the Lord blessing me, and hung up.

That'd be Adam's ex-girlfriend right there. Yup.

Then I started to get spammed. A lot.

That's not my cup of tea. But, hey! Whatever.

More importantly, the Coyote has NOT called me back about location of thrift stores for costume shopping, and the Moon has a recurring role on Third Watch that shoots before Christmas. My play is before Christmas. This does not fill me with warmth or fuzziness. More fingers of dread clamped around my stomach, maybe. Hey! When everybody's there, the play rocks!

2004-11-22T08:58:00.000-08:00

References to Salvador Dali! Come and see, please--tickets through www.smarttix.com; you can also donate (tax-deductible) through www.fracturedatlas.org, via "Browse Fiscally Sponsored Projects".

I'm Going to Hell.

2004-11-11T08:04:00.000-08:00

I was going to post about, you know, being told that I was going to hell, but it's a nice day, and that trumps going to hell anytime. (For the record, it first pissed me off, and then I was kinda proud of it. Haven't been told that for...oh, six months?)

This morning...I slept in.

Really.

Because I have the day off.

I had shortbread for breakfast.

I went for a walk in Central Park with Adam and the Elmer-beast. All the leaves are falling off. You can almost see midtown from the top of the Great Hill. In the winter, the spire of the Empire State Building peeks out in between the bare branches.

I might go to the bookstore later.

For someone who has been working 13 hours a day, doing the day job, going to class, and getting the play off the ground, it is glorious to roll around on the bed and feel sheets on your backbone. Mattress pressing up against your skin, instead of the polyester woven fabric of an office chair. Light that comes from the glowing ball in the sky, and not the overhead lamp. Snorty dog instead of snorty bosses.

Just for you, Mom

2004-11-01T17:52:00.000-08:00

My mother couldn't read the lovely post I wrote about Adam yesterday.

So I traded in my blue polka dots for black text on the white page.

Just because I love you, Ma.

Lemur Fiesta

2004-10-31T14:08:00.000-08:00

Last Christmas, I gave Adam a bottle of Johnny Walker Red, a CD, and the Lemur Fiesta--plush stuffed lemurs from FAO Schwartz. A mother lemur, and her little baby lemur clasped around her.

We had been searching for a present for one of my many many cousins, and we visited multitudes of places before deciding on a dinosaur hand puppet from the Natural History Museum. One night, we walked up Fifth Avenue, three weeks before Christmas. All the lights were out, walking by Rockefeller Center. We looked at the skaters, and the Christmas tree, and the stretch Humvee with a stupid little boy in it promoting some godawful movie. I (loudly) voiced my indignation at the very idea of a WHITE stretch Humvee's existence, Adam laughed at me, and we walked on. We passed by a little shop that sold Japanese candies; they were so delicately displayed that I was afraid that if I breathed on the glass, the candies behind the liquid sand would crack.

And finally, twenty minutes before closing, we went into FAO Schwartz. We ran all the way through the store, examining Go sets, the Simpsons Monopoly Game, and inevitably came to the stuffed animal section. There were stuffed dogs, stuffed cats, stuffed turtles, stuffed dolphins...and yes, even stuffed mama and baby lemurs. I have never, ever seen Adam more excited in a store. His brown eyes glowed behind his wire-framed glasses, and in a voice that I have only heard reserved for small weird dogs, he said "LOOK, ANNE! LOOK! It's a LEMUR FIESTA!"

After I was fired from The Bad Place, two days before Christmas, I decided that I finally had enough time to go buy Adam his presents.

He got his Lemur Fiesta.

I'm missing him tonight, as he's in Washington to meet some higher-up muckety-mucks. So I'm just holding on to the Lemur Fiesta and listening to my small weird dog sound like a tea kettle. Squirrel the Cat is curled up like a hat somewhere, and I didn't have to share my artichoke for dinner. Later on, I'm going to go to watch part of the Halloween Parade with Katie and Jackie and Zack. It's all okay, and good--but I can't take the same amount of satisfaction in being alone that I do when Adam is here. He'll be back tomorrow.

Guess I'm in love.

Carbohydrate Drugging

2004-10-29T06:44:00.000-07:00

Last night, Adam and I went German. Brought out the lederhosen, I tied my hair up in braids-- we even brought in a goat and practiced our yodeling.

Not really.

But we did have pierogies, kielbasa, pumpernickel bread and beer for dinner. Then I fell asleep in my skirt and my contacts; carbohydrate drugging is real, folks.

Joseph the elevator man at work was very very excited at the pierogi idea. He said that the best place to get pierogi is on First Ave. I don't know, Joseph. Joseph has a crush on me. He wants me to hold his hand to give him energy.

And to help him pick out his camera.

And to give him more of my headshots. I had given him a business card, because he begged for it. And because I like him.

Joseph sings me songs in Polish. He calls me Anna Maria. I gave up on correcting him after he said that Anna Maria is his daughter's name, and she lives in Poland.

Joseph has the worst toupee in the world. Sometimes his hair on the bottom of his skull grows longer that the toupee. He once offered to take the toupee off for me. I politely declined the honor.

Joseph operates the elevator in the Puck Building, where I work.

Joseph belongs in a short story. I'm not sure whether it's a comedy or a horror story.

Not At All Funny

2004-10-26T10:54:00.000-07:00

Today I looked at the New York Times web interactive election-thingy. The subtle shadings of red throughout the South and the West...they scare me. They scare me so much. You know those almost overt slams against pessimistic over-educated liberals? Yeah. Whatever. Bush is a bad man. He thinks he's fighting a holy war against Muslim terrorists--but a) holy and b) war are not a good combination. He's creating more terrorists, due to the sheer terror that we've sown in Iraq.

I want to move to Vancouver, but I'm afraid that if I do, there won't be anyone left to protest this terrible, terrible man and his policies that will kill more women (outlawing abortion) and men (unannounced draft via enrollment in the National Guard), leaving us in a police state (the Patriot Act).

Bush is a terrorist. I am in a state of terror. There is no logic that will move me or anyone else at this point, from our votes either for Kerry or Bush. My gut tells me that Bush will continue to listen to his God, who seems to hate everyone who isn't Bush.

Has that man ever seen someone bleed? I have. I don't want any more bleeding.

Sartorially Challenged

2004-10-21T13:30:00.000-07:00

My salary does not cover the amazing number of things that I really want. I mean, yes, health care, yes world peace...yes, God yes, Kerry in the White House...but also: Nora Roberts novels. Terry Pratchett novels. My first experience at a spa. Covering all expenses for the play. I sometimes feel that I should try to dress even worse (My style could be described as X-treme casual, with a high reliance on cotton shirts in bright bright colors--pretty!) in order for someone to nominate me for What Not To Wear. Because then? $5000 for a new wardrobe? Hell, yeah. That's a reality show I can get behind.

It's not that I don't know how to dress. I do. I recognize that perhaps one should actually press clothing before wearing it, instead of balling it up into knots in the back of a drawer for the cat to nest in.

But in my defense: it could be worse. For example, I could still be wearing sweat pants everyday and not brushing my hair, circa 1992. Or, as we saw in 1986, the dreaded green corduroy pants matched with the panda t-shirt and candy necklace.

I believe that it was at the age of four that I took power from my mother's hands in all matters sartorial, and have not given it up since. Occasionally, this strategy has proved hazardous. But today? Today I have an audition. In front of a commercial casting director.

I think that I'm going to go get that new shirt at Brooklyn Industries after work, after all...

Calm Red Cherry Tree

2004-10-09T18:59:00.000-07:00

Reading over my posts, I've discovered that I could stand with some simplification of my writing style. Words wasting away, all over the page.

Thus, the Haiku Update:

Hush puppies, fried brown
Spinach, bacon drip clear oil
Tempests storm inside

Bush Kerry blood match
Sparring white men bare teeth, bite
Tell me it's over

White petals float down
Over the higher-up's desk
Not my cup of tea.

I bow my head to the world, respectfully.

The World Is a Vampire

2004-10-05T13:01:00.000-07:00

Thank you, Smashing Pumpkins, for the one lyric from the early to mid-90's that actually stuck in my head. I read an article today in the New York Times that links stomach pain to mental anxiety, due to the high level of neurotransmitters in the brain. My tapping feet and my cramping intestines signal TRIUMPH! on the part of the researchers (oh, brave researchers) who talked to a bunch of worried kids whose stomachs hurt them all the time.

Stoopid anxiety. Stoopid.

Why am I anxious? Could it be the seven applications for steady work floating out in the world? Could it be the echoing "You have NO messages in your voicemail" that gouging Verizon mercilessly drives into my ear? Could it possibly be the nagging fear that my lack of solvency will force Adam to drop out of school, will force me to cut my own classwork short, will cast Elmer and Squirrel out on the street, where they will certainly be eaten by rats, while Adam catches a cold that developes into tuberculosis and I will get HIV by being forced to sell my body for subway fare? And then nobody will like me and friends that I had in college will no longer recognize me in the street. AND IT WILL BE ALL MY FAULT.

Yeah. Maybe.

Elmer will try to tell the rats that he is big and tough, that he is the biggest baddest pug on the streets of New York. The rats will LAUGH AT HIM, and then their little dagger teeth will drip with blood. Blood of the pug.

Sometimes I wish that my imagination was a little less vivid. Because I am now crying at the idea of a pugilistic pug, pounded by parasites.

Boogerman

2004-10-01T11:28:00.000-07:00

I've been smacked in the face by the Boogerman this past week (thanks to Adam and his indefatigable, incessant, to the point of despair, neglecting his health--AND MINE--studying) . The Boogerman brings with him tidings of wheezing nights and slow, dragging days, of inspection of kleenex to see if the booger is the welcome clear of infection's end, or the orange of brain explosion. Also known as sinus infection.

Mostly, it's been green.

This came at a most unwelcome time--though I honestly don't know when a welcome time would be. This week, I interviewed someone for the stage manager position. I have to fill this job. HAVE TO. I suck at scheduling shows. Oddly, scheduling is not a problem for any day jobs, but scheduling rehearsals fills me with panic and fear. Just ask the Coyote, who's been on the receiving end of some last minute "Okay, we're meeting here. Give me a call. No, wait, here. Give Adam a call, you know I don't have a cell-phone. And by the way, if you don't show up, I will think that your mothers raped the earth by sowing it with salt, and I will never never never come to your bar and get blindingly drunk again. So there. Yeah. Bye." Maybe that's why he didn't show up that time.

Flaming Souffle

2004-09-21T18:41:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, the world witnessed the birth of a new and inventive foodstuff. It arose like the phoenix, in flames. Or maybe a better analogy is the Fire of London.

Katie and Adam and I decided to have a dinner party amongst ourselves. It was my birthday last week, and I had properly celebrated my 25th anniversary by staying up until 4 a.m., surrounded by celebrities. In other words, I was an extra. It was cold last Tuesday, around 3 in the morning, pretending to have a good time with people so wet behind the ears, their hair dripped. But it was also REALLY COOL. I got to ride in the car with publicity phobic celebrities! Woo!

I'm hopeless, I think. It also meant that I didn't get to go out to eat for my birthday. Hence...

Featured in our menu was portobella-blue brie-white wine pasta, and for the side, artichoke with lemon-butter sauce. Katie was in charge of dessert theme. First, she went to Chinatown for mangoes and sweet sticky rice. The rice ended up being sticky (though not sweet), but with mystery filling embedded in the center.

Next!

We inspected my cupboards and fridge and cookbooks and decided that a hot fruit souffle would encompass both the grapefruit and the mangoes.

And you know what goes great with tropical fruit? RUM!

And do you know what rum is? FLAMMABLE!

We also found out that Adam's feelings get hurt when his fiancee and one of her best friends snigger for hours about the hilarious combination of mango-grapefruit-rum flambe and artichoke water.

The evening ended in ice cream and gratitude for lives being saved from a flame worse than death.

That Acting Week

2004-09-12T09:11:00.000-07:00

So, I went home to Ohio for Adam's break from school. We got some stuff done, we signed a contract for the reception site for our wedding next year, and we picked out a place to actually get married.

Looks like I've got a wedding coming up. Wow. I even have a dress. It's really pretty.

I've been reading Jane Austen's Mansfield Park. Very interesting book. I haven't finished it, because, well, I threw up on it on Friday night.

If you saw the movie, it distantly relates to the source material, but only in a second cousin kind of way. One of the essays accompanying the book makes a point of discussing the home theatricals, and suggests that Mary and Henry Crawford (the most sympathetic anti-protagonists I've ever read--Henry trifles with the affections of all of the Mansfield women, proposes to the protagonist, Fanny Price, and ultimately commits adultery with her cousin, Mrs. Maria Rushworth--but you still like him) are most alive while acting, while playing a part--that their acting in the play is an encapsulation of their lives. The essay's author further states that these characters are the first example of modern psychology in literature. The author is pointing out the multiplicity of personality facets that modern/post-modern individuals use to cope with everyday life. He made some smackdown comments on actors and acting in the process. Now, that is one of the easiest ways to piss me off.

Gah. It's the same old assumption that if you're an actor, you're a vagabond and a prostitute, trying to ape your betters by putting on paste jewelry. When are people gonna learn that in order to act well, you have to have empathy, reality, specificity, and imagination?

Pffft. I'm getting off my soapbox, now.

Fog of Blog

2004-08-27T12:35:00.000-07:00

Bleh, I apparently posted the same post twice. Anyway, the contract is signed, the Coyote and I are rehearsing tomorrow--in preparation of performance at Wally the Ex-Boat Lord's SeptemberFest, a few days after my 25th birthday. And you know what makes a very nice birthday present? Full underwriting of artistic endeavours! A five here, a ten there, a $1000 somewhere else...

In other, weirder and sadder news: recently, through a strange Internet happenstance, I've recently become an avid reader of infertility blogs. I, who have no children, am not pregnant, and who does not plan on being pregnant, am rapidly consuming the stories of women desperate for children. They manage to be funny! How? This is just astonishing to me. And two of them recently had miscarriages or negatives. This makes me so sad and worried for them. Check out www.alittlepregnant.com for some amazing (and amazingly talented) women.

Doing the Wiggle Dance

2004-08-23T13:34:00.000-07:00

There's a dance that The Boy does, a little wiggle dance, a little shimmy with a shake at the end. He does it when he's happy. I occasionally request it, because I find it so damn adorable, this manifestation of joy.

I'm doing the Wiggle Dance myself right now (even as I type! It's very challenging!). That's because.......

I'm gonna sign a contract for a space! Contract! Space! Contract! Space! Everybody do the wiggle dance!

What space, you may or may not ask? For what purpose would a space be necessary?

For a PLAY! I love PLAYS! I love to act and direct and produce them! All at once! And then I love to have heart attacks from stress!

December, folks, will see a hopefully brilliantly directed and imaginatively acted piece of work, written by a playwright that fascinates me.

More shall come, we shall be assured of that.

Moral Quandary

2004-08-18T07:26:00.000-07:00

Last night, I was offered a part--and it was a good part too, emotional, juicy, and Shakespearean. The theatre company was in a bind, and so they said "Hey! You've come highly recommended! Memorize this part and don't suck by Sunday!"

As a New York actor, I have a knee-jerk response to "You're wonderful! I want to hire you, darling!" It involves oral gratification. HOWEVER: the putative play would have run over the time when I was supposed to tape the wedding of a sister of the best friend of my fiance. A committment that I asked The Boy to fulfill, as a favor, because we're getting married next year and the last wedding that I saw was as a half-blind 14-year old.

I want to say that I remembered all of my committments and didn't promise two things at once. That, of course, did not happen. So I stayed up until two, sitting in the tub, trying to stuff "If the king is dead, what would betide of me?" into my head, while attempting to ignore the cloud of doom that emanates from The Boy when he gets pissed off.

It took my father, The Boy, and several other dog-owners to make me realize that the knee-jerk reaction was a good way to fail at several things--the part (because who memorizes Shakespeare in five days?), the committment, and in some part, my relationship. Because that's how actors torpedo relationships--they let their schedules dictate their lives, and forget that there's anybody else who has a say.

I am not West Virginian.

2004-08-13T11:32:00.000-07:00

I'm originally from Ohio. In Ohio, there may be Confederate flags flying in the towns south of Canton, there might be only three counties in the entire state that vote Democrat (Cuyahoga, Trumbull, and someplace in Columbus), and there might be race riots in Cincinnati. We have a greater brain drain than mine after the night when I toasted the death of Marlon Brando with a different shot for each of his major movies. We might have a river that caught on fire--twice.

But at least we're not West Virginian.

Every Ohioan feels it is his or her birthright to imply, state and out-and-out slander West Virginia in all of its cousin-marrying, inbred, and deformed glory. We like it. We take pride in picking on this moutainous, shut-in, and uncouth region. Like any bully, it reassures us of our superiority (as, generally, we're a little touchy in the self-esteem).

So imagine my HORROR when the super of my building mistook Adam (my fiance) for my brother.

I am a big freakin' geek.

2004-08-09T10:21:00.000-07:00

So, I was sitting in the mildly overpriced vegetarian restaurant today, celebrating getting my headshots by ordering the cheapest thing on the menu, reading my sci-fi novel (complete with embarrassing cover), when David Duchovny, his mother, and his daughter walk into the place and sit down right next to me.

Fizzing all over with excitement, I did NOT ask for his autograph on my book, my headshot, or any body parts. Or even talk to him.

I did, however, glance over so many times that I'm sure I look like I had Tourette's syndrome.

Oh, David Duchovny--your hair is really bad.

Satellite of Love

2004-08-08T19:28:00.000-07:00

Now, I've been thinking about Lou Reed. Junkie, artist, poet, but also--weird lyrics. (Shut up, Elmer. Elmer thinks that the lyrics are deeply meaningful, referencing the '70s Andy Warhol Pop-Art Punk Rock scene. His barking tells me so.)

I'm just not sure. What the hell does "Satellite of Love" MEAN? First, it's referencing a satellite. Maybe how good it feels to be in love? As if, perhaps, your darling carries you into another world? Then--Mars. Soon to be full of parking cars. Use, degradation, pollution in an otherwise unspoiled setting. Mr. Reed goes on to tell us (very coyly) that he's been told that whatever her or his name is has been bold with Harry, Mark, and Tom. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday with Harry, Mark, and Tom. Wow. Babydoll is getting a LOT of love.

Then Satellite of Love, over and over!

Who knows. A sad and pitiful tale of sex addiction and substance abuse, no doubt. Really pretty song, though.

Grossosity

2004-08-04T09:04:00.000-07:00

Okay, so the dog and the cat are the cutest creatures on the face of the planet. They have their own fan club, friends of Adam's and mine come over for pet therapy--when the sad barren loneliness of life without pets overwhelms them. They snuggle, lick, and otherwise caress us. It's good, right?

EXCEPT, when, of course, it's summer and their fur feathers the air and carpets the apartment, when it mixes with the damn FISH SAUCE (a condiment made from stewing anchovies in their own brine...yes, I know) flavoring the broccoli stir-fry that the boy made last night. When do I discover this? Right now! Eating my broccoli flavored fish sauce stir-fry! The hair marinated for the past 15 hours!

So, it should actually taste pretty good.

--annemathilde

Explanation

2004-08-02T09:33:00.000-07:00

Hi.

The title refers to Elmer, the pug with many names.

This blog was created to publicize...well, Elmer, and Squirrel (his cat cohort), as well as upcoming projects of my own. As well as to air out my nasty love of cliches.

Expect more in the days and months to come.

test

2004-08-02T09:32:00.000-07:00

your mama says "TEST!"