Archive for November, 2004

Rainy Days and Mondays

It’s Monday again, boo! Though I didn’t just awake from a dream in which I was kissing Valentino by a crystal blue Italian stream, today is kind of manic. What IS a crystal blue Italian stream? I mean, why would you dream about that, specifically?
Why does no one write songs about how crappy Tuesdays are? Your week is not even half over. Maybe because Tuesday doesn’t rhyme with anything and doesn’t have a nickname like Hump Day. But if the Bangles can rhyme Monday with Fun Day, I am going to write a song calling Tuesday a good Booze Day. Or John Hughes Day. Or get a Bruise Day. I have big shoes to fill though, cause Susannah Hoffs and the Boomtown Rats really struck a chord when they chose to write about the most loathed day of the week, it’s true that Mondays are just no good.
I really don’t get what my problem is, I just had a lovely weekend, beautful weather and lots of people to see, but Sunday afternoon I started to dread Monday. Truth be told, all weekend I was dealing with a major bout of hypochondria because I got a zit that I mentally turned into a life threatening tumor, or perhaps it was an ingrown hair that has wound itself around my spine and was going to paralyze me. That could happen, I know a guy whose brother had an ingrown hair that did that! I think he’s fine now though. But for real, I have a thing on my skin that doesn’t look pretty.
Ironically in my fits of hypochondria where I think something is way worse than it really is, I don’t seek professional help. I internalize my fake medical problems, think that I am going to die, plan out who gets my belongings (Reece gets all my shoes. After that, really what is there of mine?). Then comes DABDA.
Denial that my pore is so clogged and that a zit is going to be the end of me. If I just use a gentle salt scrub things will be fine. FINE!
Anger that I have overactive sebacious glands.
Bargaining: “Please God. I promise not to touch, poke, prod or pop anything else that comes my way ever again”.
Depression: I have never even booked a commercial. I am too young and pretty for this to happen! WHY ME??
Acceptance: Alas, what can I do? If this is the way I am supposed to go, let me be a teacher to my legions of fans. Let go of your anger, bitterness and sarcasm, don’t use cleansers with harsh irritants, and please, take care of one another. Also, cremate me. I don’t want to be remembered for my hideous skin deformity. Remember me for the kind soul, sassy demeanor and great taste I have in handbags.

Tiny Kitchen

* Certain facts in this story have been changed so that if I tell this story enough times, I start to believe them. I was interviewed for a newspaper yesterday and did some clever fudging of the truth, though nothing Jayson Blair-y, but I feel guilty for fudging anything. The word fudging makes me think of candy and poop. Together. Should you have been one of the attendees at my dinner, you will know the truth. The fudge factor shall present itself quite evidently as you read.

Did you know that I have cooked a very big dinner in my very small kitchen? You will soon enough! Jeff knows a guy who knows a guy who is writing a story for Newsday about New Yorkers who love to cook but have small kitchens and have cooked Thanksgiving dinner before. Jeff suggested I be interviewed because last year I made THANKSGIVING (wink wink) dinner at my house for like 12 or 15 people, I can’t honestly remember how many people were at my house for THANKSGIVING (wink wink) but I know it was a big party where several big wigs in New York’s improv and advertising communities left feeling drunk, full of PUMPKIN CHEESECAKE (wink wink) and high on LIFE (wink wink), wouldn’t you say, partygoers? (ps, Mom and Dad, that was for laughs-no one got high on anything).

When I got to my house last night, Photographer was already waiting for me. After doing several posed shots of “Liz cooking broccoli”, “Liz reaching into fridge to get yogurt” and “Liz retying open bag of baby carrots”, Photographer got the awesome idea that I should stand ON my stove. Because nothing says “I have a small but functional kitchenette” like someone who can easily crouch on the space between her stovetop and the overhead cabinet. So of course I said “Yes! Great idea, Photographer!” and did just want he said.

Now, I am a professional performer, people. I know how to work a crowd and take a stellar headshot. Right, former crowds and headshot photographers? But it is hard to smile in that casual but effortless way with just enough tooth showing, when your chin is resting on your ankle and your neck is bent at a 90 degree angle and you are hoping that the sole of your sneaker doesn’t melt onto the burner you were just cooking broccoli on. But it can be done, and do it, I did. Indeed.

A few more shots and Photographer was done. He and I both knew to quit while we were ahead, nothing was going to beat the picture of me pulling a reverse Sylvia Plath (stir frying thyself to death as opposed to baking). The interview was simple enough and in fact I did not fudge all that much, except to say what a festive AUTUMN (wink wink) holiday we all shared. The piece de resistance, howevs, is that I will be featured in this article with Miss American Idol herself, Frenchie Davis. I have made it, you guys. Can someone throw some cold water on me, cause it’s tough being so HOT!

The article should be on newsstands Thanksgiving Day. It would be really embarrassing if I didn’t end up featured in it and got upstaged by a reality show contestant named Frenchie, but that seems unlikely ’cause I am such a cache of soundbites and one liners. I said the funniest thing about the TURKEY (wink wink) I made. Honestly, I did.

Morrissey Haikus

Probably the only person who will enjoy todays entry is me. Maybe Amirah too, but I don’t think she reads this. I have been listening to Suedehead today and feel compelled to review each song in haiku form.
The Moz
Ok, i get it
You’re sorry. Hey, what IS a
Suedehead anyway?

I don’t know any
one named Sunny but if I
did I’d miss them too.

I picture this song
as the soundrack to old men
in bareknuckle fights.

The sun will come out…
as soon as someone puts their
arms around the Moz.

A lovely duet.
I wonder if Moz knows her
name is not Siousxan.

Everyday is Like Sunday
I feel like I’m on
an English beach with a bad
rep for tourism.

That’s Entertainment
Can’t decide which I
like – this version or the Jam’s
original cut.

Hold on to Your Friends
This song uninten-
tionally reminds me of
high school. That’s too bad.

My Love Life
Saddest sentiment
ever! You love another,
but please love me too.

Interesting Drug

I love this song. Can
you blame us Can you blame us?
Plus, Kirsty MacColl.

Our Frank

My boss’ name is
Frank. But Frank like Francis, not
frank like “I’m real blunt”

Picadilly Palare
It is harder to
translate this song than it is
A Clockwork Orange.

Ouija Board, Ouija Board
When you spell out your
name – S-T-E-V-E-N
well, I love that part.

You’re The One For Me Fatty
Finally, a song
for those of us with a lil’
junk in the old trunk.

We Hate it When Our Friends Become Successful
Me too! Now all he
needs to write is a song that’s
about schadenfreude.

The Last of The Famous International Playboys
The way he sings “I’m

not naturally evil” makes
me think that he is.

Pregnant For The Last Time
A rockabilly
song that makes me crave pickles
with peanut butter.

November Spawned a Monster

Quintissential Moz
wherein I don’t get the lyr-
ics but love the song.

The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get
Calling my number
and following me around?
Not cool pal. Not cool.