Audrey Cefaly

When I Am Done

2008-09-16T19:51:00.000-07:00

It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real, they are bruised and wounded.

- W. Somerset Maugham, 'Of Human Bondage', 1915

Life is speeding. It wasn't before. I want to hold on, but it is already gone...that moment, that snapshot, that elusive time, endless replay. Gone.

I always wondered why my youth was so painful. And now I have come to realize, it's all painful. That's just how life is. It's only in relative terms that we feel short-changed, maybe because that's what we feed on each and every day...the 'idea' of life...through t.v., movies, commercials, even a beautiful photograph. Oh, how romantic. How hilarious. How perfectly cool. Even reality t.v. ...manufactured.

Still... I like to believe it is possible...to find oneself at long last in that proverbial bower of peace...a cottage perhaps, everything in white, clean, soft inviting light. Cool blue shallows of warm gulf stream water lazily percolating through sugar. And in the early hours of evening...a delicate, dulcet strain of whispered music waltzing with the fickle waves of high tide, crashing, ebbing, shhhhhh....

ET vs. WALL-E

2008-08-11T10:38:00.000-07:00

I'm just sayin...

Wiipe Out

2008-07-12T20:17:00.000-07:00

Here's one.

I guess…to be quite honest… I've secretly always wondered what it would feel like to be punched in the face. Hasn't everyone?

Well, let me tell you a little story.

I - got beat up - today. It was pretty bad. I haven't told many people about it. I'm kind of ashamed. My assailant got away with it. Plain and simple. And it wasn't in a dark alley…or some gloomy parking garage. Nope. It was much closer to home.

I got my face bashed in …this afternoon…by my 10-year-old son and his

WII

REMOTE

CONTROL!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fuck, it hurt! It hurt like hell! He wasn't even boxing…he was BOWL-ing! There I am, my very first Wiixperience…. My son says, sure…I'll show you how to play. I said, cool, and there I am, strapping myself into the Wiimote, because believe me, I don't want an incident. I've heard the horror stories and seen the carnage. Just take a look for yourselves: Wii Have a Problem. I don't want to be one of those poor sons-of-a-bitches who inadvertently smashes in the flat panel because my weapon goes sailing across the room, right?

So I'm strapping in, sitting there on the sofa waiting with unbridled glee for my first Wii move, and Thomas says (famous last words)….you pull your hand back like this…and POW! Teeth-plastic-shit-gums-nose-lip-and some sort of cracking sound. I almost blacked out. I sat there stunned. Dang. My son just beat the shit out of me!

As I sat there moments later, with an ice pack on my FAT LIP… I thought…ya know what…here's the hypothetical we should all be asking ourselves. Seriously: If a hard plastic object is tightly bound to one's hand, what would happen when one's hand-remote combo then makes contact with SOMEONE'S FACE? Ooh, ooh, I know, I know! IT FUCKING HURTS.

Did I cry? Nope. Did I want to? Yep. Did I quit? Nope. I did not! I held my head up high, I strapped myself back in... I picked up my virtual bowling ball and got my ass kicked by a punk-ass kid.

Yep. Sure did. So suck it, ya'll.

Blogger's Block

2008-07-11T20:35:00.000-07:00

Blogger's Block. Yep. I got it. I think sometimes I have no idea what to blog about. I don't always look back on my day and think of things that are blog-worthy. Maybe I'm not creative enough or maybe I just don't care. I blog like I write my plays...only when I'm in the right frame of mind, and apparently, that's equalling out to an average of one post per month. Is that enough? I suppose I could write about overflowing toilets and gas prices. Or politics. Or Britney. Who the fuck cares and I don't want to feed that machine. I might as well link right to TMZ, those mother-fuckers.

Ya'll, I just get tired of trying to find something creative to say.

Oh, here's one... is this blog-worthy? I've been very nervous about taking our new dog Cooper to the dog park. He's just so big and he doesn't have very good manners. And he pretty much tries to flatten all dogs he meets for the 1st time. But today, we finally decided to take him and I was SO proud of him! He played and ran and sniffed with the best of them. I watched him run all around the dog park, chasing a really cute black lab mix...back and forth and back and forth and then...WHAM!!! MY 85 POUND HORSE plows into this poor unsuspecting woman at 50 miles per hour (that's a modest estimate), lifting her OFF of her feet and sending her hurtling to the ground head-first into the mulch!

Holy.

Shit.

Talk about flattened. It took her five minutes to get to her feet. I felt so terrible. She had such a headache. Folks began to gather around and ask if we should call 911. I helped her to the bench, yanked my hoodlum up by his collar and bolted. Jesus Christ. What dog does that? I don't think I can show my face back at that park again. Cooper's on the list now. I just know it...the kid no one wants their child to play with.

I guess that was blog-worthy. Right?

Mess With Me, Mess With the Whole Trailer Park

2008-06-23T20:15:00.000-07:00

Margaret Barnes was a bad-ass. Margaret Barnes was a Navy nurse, a devout catholic, my grandmother… and a certified BAD ASS. In her later years, she didn’t own a car and had strayed away from her two-pack a day Chesterfield days. She drank a cup of buttermilk every day, (for digestion) and made me promise I would never smoke, do drugs or ride motorcycles.

My sister and I stayed with mamaw in the summer months in Pensacola, Florida. She lived in a tiny immaculate two-bedroom rented house on the bad side of town (roach infested, hotter than hell, and a box fan in every window). How could a house so clean have so many roaches?!?! Each day, we changed our sheets, washed and hung them to dry on the line, bathed twice, declared our bodily output levels, and said our morning and evening prayers. In between times, we ran the oyster-shell-lined streets of Cervantes street barefoot and wild, scrawny and brown as beans.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but she was dirt poor. DIRT poor. We took the bus everywhere, but mostly…we walked. We walked to the store, walked to church, walked to the fabric store to buy calico and notions so she could sew our summer clothes.

At least once a day, we were required to take a break and pray the Rosary. Mamaw would send us up to the Army Navy Surplus on Pace Blvd to get her a forbidden coca-cola. She savored every drop, prodigiously dotting her diabetic ulcers with witch hazel and rocking back and forth in the creaky front porch swing. The Apostle’s Creed….creak. The Lord’s prayer…creak. Hail Mary, Hail Mary, Hail Mary….creak. I began to think everything important happened on that front porch swing. It had movement. It was going somewhere. It transformed the still, wet Pensacola air and cooled the sandy strands of my golden summer hair. I loved that swing. I loved it because I was on it… with her.

She was a saint… to dogs and children. Whenever we were naughty, she would fetch a switch (which really was just a skimpy old reed from the yard)…and we’d pretend it hurt like hell. She must have known we were faking…surely.

There came a time though, that I looked at my grandmother in a whole new light. As the story goes… someone broke into mamaw’s house once, climbed in through the living room window. She met him at the window with a .22 and explained to him that he was in the wrong house and if he didn’t leave, she’d blow his head off. He didn’t seem to have a problem with the request and they both were satisfied with the outcome. I always thought this was a made-up story…until I found the gun under her mattress.

If mamaw could blow a strangers head off…imagine what she could do to her own kin! She argued with everyone! Waiters, teachers, priests and nuns, sales clerks and bus drivers. She hated doctors and trusted no one. She argued with her two daughters in particular, about their looks, their weight, their health, their husbands, and about her innocent grandchildren and the way in which we were being raised. Nothing was without a fight, even on same-sided disputes. Once my Aunt Diane had a fight with mamaw that lasted two whole months. Mamaw hung up on her and Aunt Diane called back. I counted the rings. One, two…20… 45…49…100… 200…TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY-FOUR TIMES! Aunt Diane finally hung up. More likely though, the phone line burnt to a crisp. That was when I learned the definition of tenacity and its genetic properties.

Mamaw liked to argue with her sister… Aunt Francis…about everything. Aunt Francis represented all the things that mamaw was afraid of…. she collected cats (live ones) and National Enquirers. Her house was flee-infested, and so we never went in, just stayed on the porch mostly. There was one thing that mamaw did approve of… Aunt Francis had a car! And this meant freedom. So once a week, Aunt Francis would come and pick us up in her air-conditioned Nova and take us for a drive. We would stand at twilight on the Palafox Street Wharf in Pensacola watching the shipping boats come in and eating Church’s Fried Chicken. I would look over the edge of the pier and imagine how deep it was. It was cool there… so very cool in the early hours of evening. And I never, ever wanted to leave that pier. I wanted to stay there forever.

But we did leave. We always did. The summers closed and we had to say goodbye and make our way back to Montgomery. On mamaw’s front porch, with my mother waiting in the car, I clung to her, buckets of tears streaming down onto her apron, breathing her in, the smell of pine sol and bleach and witch hazel….hoping with all of my heart that she would allow me to stay for just one more day. And every now and then, it kind of worked out that way.

What did I miss?

2008-06-09T21:18:00.000-07:00

Help me out here. When did what did I miss become oh, man, no buffer!? Remember the days when we had to put our life on hold for t.v.? I do. Recently I had to explain to my 10-year-old son Thomas about how it was in the old days when folks would scramble during the 2-minute commercial break to handle dog walks, snackage, laundry rotation and potty breaks. Sometimes the planning would start even before the commercial, so as to maximize its value. Inevitably, though, no matter how good the planning, one poor straggler would tear back into All In The Family hollering…what did I miss?

And if you missed a show completely!? Oh the despair! The inhumanity!

No longer. Now, it’s pause, buffer, pause, buffer, pause…or no pause, just FF or RW or that familiar Tivo sound, the one that brings music to the ears, the one that means… no commercials EVER:

gooduck-gooduck-gooduck...

...and voila…Project Runway is back…3 seconds later. What can you do in 3 seconds? Yawn? Take a sip of beer? Blink?

Rigged for Bear

Rethinking free time...what does it mean? The DVR proposes that boredom is a disease and convenience is the cure. Prescription: A recording device housing an always-open ever-filling library of hand-picked entertainment. Prognosis: no cure! Endless viewing+Endless possibilities=death by t.v.

What did I miss?

On the off-chance I do miss my favorite show, it will either come back around or I can view it on Youtube the following day. So the answer seems to be...nothing. Nothing is ever missed, because every media outlet on the warped wide web is vying to score an ounce of my streaming time, assuring me that I can view whenever, wherever I choose. And down time is no longer.

But how much television does one person need? I used to be a couch potato, tuning in and surfing til I got bored. Now, there’s no boredom, there’s just constant stimulation, marathon viewing sessions with no commercial interruptions and never-ending choices… efficient – yes, but healthy?

Tune Out. Tune In.

My husband accuses me of getting too engrossed in my shows. I tell him that’s the difference between he and I. He likes to watch t.v. to tune-out…I like to watch to tune IN, to explore and learn. Maybe it’s my theater background that compels me to analyze, compare, rewind and review. I’m looking for something greater. Something beyond me.

Isn’t it ironic, though, that with all of our technology and all the years since the invention of the wireless remote, we now have to learn how to put t.v. on hold… for life?

Dog Piles

2008-06-09T09:38:00.000-07:00

I don't know how it happens.

No sooner do I get one pile of poo picked up in my house, then another one pops up. We adopted Libby on Easter Sunday. She has an issue with table food. Too many years on kibble at the wonderful Amish puppy mill has left her stomach a little sensitive. A few days after we adopted her, Carolyn and I took her with us on a car ride to get some coffee. Moments later, we scattered into the parking lot to escape the explosion of poo. Poor Libby had a massive crap in the back of my Jeep Cherokee. Luckily, it was mostly on the rubber liner. I gave the job of cleaning it to my husband. We went out that week and bought a steam cleaner. I figured it would see occasional use.

That was then.

We adopted our second dog at the beginning of April. Cooper is a big boy…with big poo. And he’s never, ever had an accident in the house. Until NOW! We took him to the vet last week to get a steroid shot for a staff infection. He came home and promptly blew up in the kitchen. He’s been wee-ing and pooing in the house all week long, and I don’t see any end in sight.

All week long, I’ve been picking up poo. I don’t even put the steam cleaner away anymore. It just travels from one room to another, always on stand-by.

I used to be afraid of poo. I was afraid it would destroy my home. That was before I got the Hoover All-Terrain! Now I know a good steamcleaner can save lives. This may sound odd, but I’m beginning to understand the dynamics of poo. Getting it out of my carpet is really an artform. Although I hate having to fill the tank (and empty the tank) and lug it all around, I actually enjoy watching the machine work it’s magic.

I better go…Libby is pacing.

My New Blog: Bad Bad Dog!

2008-05-08T12:57:00.000-07:00

For those of you who enjoyed the Boston Terrier posting, check out my new video blog, which features a multitude of dogs behaving badly!

Stream and enjoy!!!

Guilty Boston Terrier

2008-04-29T16:19:00.001-07:00

Since we've just taken in two new dogs, I have had them on my mind so much lately. I found this video on youtube and I thought I would share. That little Boston is trying so hard not to make eye contact... LOL!

Bird Flu

2008-04-25T10:19:00.000-07:00

I pulled my rented black Dodge Dakota onto the second floor of the garage, two hours late. In tandem, six tiny goslings padded by, like fuzzy little weeble wobbles, led by one hissing Canadian and flanked by another. Where were they headed? Waddling in and out of foreign and domestic, hybrid and hog?

I pulled my key from the ignition and sat there in silence. My history of bird encounters goes way back. At the age of 21 I found an entire family of robins behind the dryer in my one bedroom rental unit in Columbia, Maryland. I called in late to work and spent two hours on the relocation project. I maneuvered the dryer, wedged myself behind it, scooped the babies up one-by-one in my t-shirt and put them outside under a bush. I suspected they had nested inside the vent and all hell broke loose when they finally hatched. I have no idea where the mother ended up. And I don’t know if they lived or died.

Now, twenty years later, the robins visit me again. Three times, this year alone, I have chased birds out of my house. One got into my bedroom through the space between the a/c and the window. The extrication was an hour-long ordeal at two in the morning after a night of heavy drinking. The bird was so exhausted after having spent much of the day inside, all it could do was stick itself in the corner and breathe heavily. I finally shooed him out the window by turning off all the lights.

Another got in the same exact way on a Sunday morning. I whispered to my 8-year-old son Thomas... come and see... he stood there in amazement, watching the little robin fly all around his collection of Thomas the Tank Engine books. This time, the eviction took less than two minutes.

One sad robin was nesting in the front door wreath, and fell in through a missing pane in my storm door, trapping itself for nearly a day. When I came home, the exhausted bird was finally released from his chaotic ordeal. I removed the wreath and the mountain of lost feathers...and carefully placed the nesting twigs and bits of string on the porch bench. Gradually, the twigs began to disappear (only two feet away, I later found) and took up residence behind my aging porch light. My husband put a quick end to it, muttering something about fire hazards. It made my heart ache, and I dealt with it by busying myself with the weeds.

But the birds survived! And moved 6 feet away into the nearby holly bush… which brings me to my next dilemma. Our yard guy …Gus…says the bush has to go. I could look the other way, but for the tiny blue egg that fell out of it yesterday… and lay weeping on the sidewalk. Thomas and I sat there looking at its broken shell. If Gus moves the bush, all the remaining eggs will certainly meet with the same fate. What if the babies are born by the time the wrecking ball arrives? What then?

I thought about these bizarre encounters, as the baby goslings scrambled to keep up with their elders. When I started at Phillips 6 years ago, having come from a hellish existence in the government contract world, the free parking garage was one of the biggest perks. Even though it was always leaking and crusty, I could always count on the garage to keep my vehicle free from the elements, snow, rain and the relentless solar rays. When the winter came, it was with great happiness I realized I was merely subletting space from the true owners of the garage. In January, they returned, squawking and pooping and hissing and digging up pansies. With absolute certainty, there is no middle ground in the human-to-geese-office-park arrangement. You either love them or you want them dead. I took on a strange kinship with the geese from the very start, often striking up one-sided conversations with them. Why are you nesting there? Don’t you know how unsafe that is? You are walking in the middle of the road!!! Hey you two! Welcome back!

Year after year I watch over them from my office window…nesting on the fourth floor garage roof, hatching in tandem in the early days of May... The routine is always the same… the goslings, coaxed on by their mother, hop one-by-one off of their four-foot-high nesting perch… and follow their new mother around and around the garage in a desperate and exhaustive search… for the exit. One such year, the search lasted two whole hours and threw me into intervention mode after the mother threatened to jump off the 4th floor ledge. Now that, I thought, would be an exit! I rounded up three colleagues and sprung into action. We each took a side and kept a safe distance. Amidst the resentful hissing and charging, we slowly corralled them, down one level and then the next, to the safe green grasses where even the weeble wobbles, only a few hours old, knew how to peck for food.

Today, in my rented car, in the dripping old garage, I watched the newness of life. The one in the back of the line wobbled a bit, plopped down and decided to sit there for a good 4 seconds, while the rest of the brood moved forward in formation. The adult at the rear gave a squawk and slowed to half-speed, prompting the lazy gosling to right himself and catch up with the others in an awkward jerking motion, like a rubberband snapping back into shape.

The big adult in the lead, the mother maybe, was scoping out the third story ledge, threatening. I got out of my car and started the lecture. Where are you going? You think you can just jump off of there with your whole family? The exit is down there!

Is it because I am a mother? Is that the reason these bird dilemmas bother me so? If I do nothing, the cycle goes on as intended. If I intervene, one more might live. Sometimes the decisions are grueling… and other times, like today … it was only one clutch. And this was something I knew how to do. I called for reinforcements. My shepherding compatriots from years past had all moved onto other jobs, and this year I had to recruit a new soldier. Michael looked at me suspiciously… stay on that side of them, I said. Keep your distance…this won't take long.

Do You Love Your Kitchenaid?

2007-12-24T19:34:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas!

My sister-in-law had surgery a few months ago, but that did not stop her from making Christmas as special as ever. Her house is always so beautiful. I love how she puts love and attention into every detail. There was one decoration, however, that stood out from the rest.

I was standing in her kitchen tonight, as she put the finishing touches on dinner. People are talking and having a great time. And I’m over near the microvave tasked with cooking the veggies in one of these new-fangled steaming bags when I hear something so peculiar, so rich, so wonderfully brilliant, it felt like the whole room stopped.

… yeah, I decorated my Kitchenaid for Christmas.

It is just like Carol to pay attention to this kind of detail and just like me to wonder why I didn’t think of it myself. I got my first Kitchenaid about 6 years ago. It is a beautiful cobalt blue. My son says I should dress it up for Hanukkah.

It isn’t the craziest idea.

Like many families (God, I hope so)… when we discuss this great gadget at our holiday gatherings, the initially casual conversation inevitably takes a sobering turn. The gravity of the topic seems to rank with other life or death topics, like war… and Tivo. Faces become drawn, brows furrowed. It's that look...you know the one...suspicious, cautious, territorial, unsettling and yet, curiously reassuring. Perhaps, it is because there really is no other human/appliance relationship like that of the cook and his Kitchenaid.

...except for perhaps a guy and his grill.

But even that comparison is laughable. The guy/grill affair is more like a fling than a marriage. Owners often flaunt their indiscretions by projecting an air of casualness indifference…as if to say… sure, I love my grill… but if it died tomorrow, I could replace it in a second… Best not to get tied down, all the while flagrantly shopping for their next partner in the sales papers before the current one is even out of the door! And then Autumn arrives, rusted-out used and abused old grills get dumped...euthanized and left to die at the ends of lonely leaf-cluttered driveways.

Where’s the love?!?!?

One thing is for sure: No Kitchenaid ever sat at the end of a lonely driveway! They are kept...and handed down...and collected and lovingly displayed even when they are way past their prime. Some folks even manage to gussy them up with peppermint ribbon, crystalline cranberries and a halogen followspot...

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Favorite person of the day: Carol Bargeron. She opens her home and her heart to her family all year long while I can only manage one day a year. I love you Carol!

Christmas on 34th Street

2007-12-17T08:49:00.000-08:00

Last night, I drove up to Baltimore to see the miracle of 34th Street.

This is the undeniably, ruh-dik-ul-ous-ly delightful cacophony of all that glitters and glows. Christmas on crack, as papa put it.

What sort of pathology compels a person to dream up a Christmas tree made of hubcaps?

Snowmen out of bicycle wheels?

A crab-straction of Santa and sleigh?

If you go to this winter wonder?land, take some hot cocoa and sunglasses. It is truly a sight to behold.

And afterwards, walk 3 blocks to Café Hon for a snack and Bawl'mer magic.

Hamden rocks!

Sweet Youth

2007-08-10T08:57:00.000-07:00

When I was a girl, I loved spending the summers with my cousins and my Aunt Diane. Even in the 100+ degree heat of Pensacola, we managed to have a helluva time. We’d spend the days in the streets, barefoot and getting into trouble. When the heat overcame us and we couldn’t stand anymore, we’d storm inside and hover in front of the ice cold window unit, our dirt-pasted bodies freezing on contact.

Boys became important for some reason. These were my earliest memories of them…hadn’t really noticed them before. At Saunders Beach in Pensacola, I finally realized what all the fuss was about. A stolen kiss, the obsession over a boy, no matter his age or intellect…he was cute and it gave me a purpose. I try to explain to my son that one day he won’t hate girls, they’ll be interesting to him… but he refuses to believe. He hates them with a passion.

In our youth, we spend so much time believing that adults are an impediment…and that we, alone and despite them, create our happiness. Looking back, I realize those memories would not have existed without my Aunt Diane. She woke up every day with the few pennies she had in her pocket and tried to make sure we had some kind of fun, even if it was a $2.00 toll to cross the bridge to the beach. The worlds she opened up to us on her limited means were really extraordinary.

My little nephew David is flying in today for a two week visit. I have not seen him since Christmas. He and Thomas get along so well, they adore each other. I wonder if these are their earliest memories… I realize I play a huge role in their history… when they both look back 30 years from now, will they relish these times? It makes me want to try very hard to make sure they do.

Good Friends

2007-08-04T23:41:00.001-07:00

I spent the evening with some old friends. It's funny how just a few hours reconnecting with them gave me a renewed sense of hope in my life. They are a form of carbon-dating...reminding me that at some point in my history, I must have done something right to deserve them. So thanks guys.

Favorite person of the day: Clare Flood... survivor, champion, alive and fearless.

2200 Miles and Something Crawled Into My Car

2007-07-31T10:20:00.000-07:00

Just got back from a few days in Destin. The place has really grown up. I really didn't recognize it. But the beaches are so gorgeous, crystal clear water. I haven't been to the beach in years. It was very relaxing. Thomas had a great time flying his kite.

My brother Jake and my sister Guin were there. We had a great time on the beach.

Guin and Jake and Papa Joe...

Guin, Jake and Papa Joe back at the beach house...

Thomas at the Donut Hole Bakery and Cafe... (he has milk box hands!)

Guin and Thomas in Pensacola, FL. We visited with our cousins. I got some great pictures of them too.

I went by my grandmother's old house in Pensacola. It's kind of run-down after all these years. Really brought back memories. Two blocks up is the Army/Navy Surplus store...still there all these years later. We used to go up there and get mamaw a cold coke from the vending machine.

We passed through Brewton, Alabama on our way home. It's a pretty little city, but the factory smell is really unbelievable. I don't know how people live there.

Speaking of stench, something has crawled into my car and died after 2200 miles on the road. I can't imagine what it is, some combination of sour milk and dead squirrel. If I don't find it soon, I'll have to trade the car in for a new one.

Boston Vs. Omaha

2007-07-17T09:34:00.000-07:00

Here's a little note I was sending around last year, after taking two back-to-back trips to promote Fin and Euba. I thought it would be fun reading:

I’m back from Boston where I was invited to the Boston Internationial Film Festival. Fin and Euba did not win an award. (not that I’m aware of). I do not consider it a waste of time, but it was pretty close.

In Omaha, where I attended the Great Plains Theatre Conference, you get a plane ticket for $220 bucks, your rent a car for $30 and you are told to watch out for tornadoes and twisters. In Boston, you get a plane ticket for $80 bucks, you rent a car for $100 and you drive on roads that look like they were paved by tornadoes and twisters. In Omaha, there is nothing to do, and your ‘Neverlost’ GPS has alzheimers.

In Boston, there is too much to do, and your ‘Neverlost…i.e. ALWAYS lost’ GPS has split-personality schizophrenia, bi-polar, dyslexia. Thomas Cefaly quote directed to the Neverlost device on day 3: “here’s some advice neverlost. Go kill yourself!’ In Omaha, your conference is overkill, with every detail burnished in gold and Edward Albee wandering the halls munching on cafeteria cookies.

In Boston, your 'gala' takes place in an upscale bar and awards are given out on whatever floor you are not on, by people who don't even know you are there.

In Omaha, you are picked up by a shuttle and taken to a 'limited-service' Best Western, booked in a room on the 3rd floor where the ice machine is broken, making the entire floor a choking 95 degrees, only 2 degrees cooler than the temp. outside, with a sensible roommate who loves to shop and get back to the hotel early for a good night's sleep before shopping for Brighton the next day at an upscale suburban mall. In Boston, you wait an hour for a rental car, are pee'd on by the rental agent, spend an hour fighting with the schizophrenic GPS getting to 'overbooked' Best Western (in fact, all of Boston is always overbooked) and sent to the gorgeous Royal Sonesta rent-free for the evening, overlooking the Charles River and Cambridge, with Chenille blankets and pillows only to pack up at 12 noon because they are ALSO overbooked and drive back to the original hotel and check in, bumping some other poor bastard off of the overbooked list for later that night, on a floor also with a broken ice machine, rooming with Thomas, addicted to in-room Nintendo, mom, who is researching her novel and old friend Carolyn Messina, i.e. force of nature, with no sleep, rehearsing Fin and Euba til 3am parked next to Betsy Johnson and Prada in a schizophrenic rental car off of Newbury Street, Boston's answer to Rodeo Drive.

...annnddd that about sums it up.

Christmas In July

2007-07-08T19:57:00.000-07:00

Most years I'm pretty late taking my Christmas tree down. Many years I've had it up past Easter. But this year I beat my personal record.

I finally took my Christmas tree down today, July 8, 2007. Chalk it up to being busy with theater, writing, life in general. It's been a stressful year, but it's very pleasant to finally have my living room back.

I had a great time with friends recently on the Jersey Shore. We rode bikes and cooked out and ate and ate and ate. It was so relaxing. I found it quite interesting, this city called Ocean Grove, NJ.

World's Cutest Kitten

2007-06-22T20:02:00.000-07:00

Contributing Editor: Thomas Cefaly

This adorable little kitten has an amazing story to tell.

My friend Amy found it in the engine of her mini-van after much meowing and a 5-mile car ride!

Amy stopped the car and tried and tried to find the kitten, but couldn't.

Then luckily one of her friends came to the rescue. She went into the engine and pulled out this adorable little kitten. They decided to name her Violet.

Thanks Thomas for your help with this post.

I wanted to share your picture with the world and I know how much you like little Violet.

She is a very happy kitten, purrs very loudly and loves to chew on shoes.

Remains of a Brain

2007-06-20T22:48:00.000-07:00

If I had a brain cell left I could say something clever right now about how cool it is to be starting a blog and maybe, dunno, catching up with the times.

I should be working on the screenplay instead.

Did I mention my Christmas Tree is still up? Today is June 20th. I'd take it down, but truthfully, I'm way absorbed in the metaphor.

Favorite person of the day: Lara Berger, wise friend, strong heart, wish we lived closer.