I had some beautiful thoughts while I was getting a nightcap beer and taking a leak, and since I have nothing better to do while I drink the beer, you will all be the recipients thereof. I knew you'd be thrilled.
It has struck me - quite unoriginally - that the reason for America's (and England's, for that matter) monstrous obesity problem lies in our attitude toward food. We have been trained by doctors, advertisements, etc., etc., etc., to believe the myth of "Three square meals a day!" "You can't work on an empty belly!" "Make sure your child eats a good healthy three course breakfast!" And the most pernicious one - "Clean your plate! Children in other countries are starving!"
It just ain't so, guys. Once, when Sarah was about three, she woke up one morning and was yelping for breakfast, and I finally said, "Well, what do you want? You can reach the icebox. Get what you want for breakfast." (I think I was feeling somewhat overburdened that morning.) OK, you do have to know that we didn't keep junk food in the house, because I don't think it should be around children until they're old enough to take their allowances and go buy it themselves. And anyway, given our exceedingly limited means back then (what else is new) we couldn't afford it anyway. But Sarah went into the icebox and got her own breakfast...yogurt, a slice of whole wheat bread, and a banana.
See? Small people who are too young to listen to the hype have a firm grasp on this stuff. Yes, food is fuel. But it should be satisfying. It should be the only, the perfect, the exact thing you want to eat at that very moment and no other moment. And it has to be the absolutely best of its kind. If you want nothing more for dinner than a big baked potato slopped with butter and a bunch of grapes, then it should be the absolutely most perfect potato you can find, and the best butter, and the most beautiful grapes ever.
Nobody needs three or four courses of food because the "rules" say you have to have a "balanced meal." Peg Bracken, in one of her wonderful books, remarks about eating alone that you should balance the week, rather than the day. So, she goes on, if one day is mainly meat, make one day mainly vegetables. You come out the same way in the end.
I am a devotee of food history, and as I've mentioned in these pages (is that right for a blog? Should I perhaps say "on these screens?) I spent many hours at formal dinner parties...and it was awful. You ate nothing but coffee and salad for a week afterwards. Hors d'oeuvre, soup, fish, meat, vegetables, savory, dessert...dear God. And that was in the 1950's and 1960's. Go look up some menus from the late 1800's...then gag.
Breakfast at our place in France is the best. Bread and butter and cheese and ham and hot cafe filtre...and maybe a leftover artichoke that's just sort of sitting there in the icebox, or the odd bit of pastry...
The point I'm trying to make here is that if you eat exactly and precisely what you want to eat, and it is completely satisfying because it IS exactly what you want to eat at that particular moment, then you will eat a great deal less than if you attempt to arrange your eating according to somebody else's rules. For instance, I am not a great liver eater. But every now and then I get a mad craving for it. At which point I go out and get myself a little slice or two of calf liver and saute it up with onions and bacon, because that is what I want. And this is quite probably because my body is telling me that I need iron. You have to learn to listen to what your body is saying - maybe, "I don't want another expensive sandwich. I want a big bag of cherries and a chunk of cheese." Or (and it's perfectly acceptable - it's your body), it's a Big Mac day! You have to listen. And the more you listen, I may add, the fewer those Big Mac days become.
You have to listen to your own needs. And yes, I do know that there are people whose needs include 16 chocolate eclairs a day, but that's abnormal, and they are trying to feed another need - probably MANY other needs - altogether. I'm talking about us - the normal people (although define normal).
Eat what you want. When (if it's possible) you want it. Forget counting calories, carbs, or any damn counting...unless you're timing an egg or your brownies. If it's the right thing - trust me. You will be full, in every possible sense of the word.
Love, Wendy
Monday, August 25, 2008
An Evening Out!
Well, nice things to report at last! None of them have to do with money, unfortunately, but I feel much better.
I went out Saturday night to see my pals John (Polonius) and Larry (Claudius) in Hamlet, and damn near killed myself. The production took place on the Lawn at The Cloisters. Well, kindly remember that I live in the West Village, which means that as far as I'm concerned, The Cloisters is one hell of a long way out of town - I mean, you get off the A train at 190th Street. Trust me - that is out of town. I tend to get a nosebleed going to see Saint Tiger Lily and the Boss, and that's only 118th. (Although I will willingly travel miles for Tiger Lily's cooking!) Not to mention that it was outdoors. With bugs. And trees, which I'm convinced will some day attack me (I feel the same way about butterflies - I'm convinced that one day they'll grow teeth and come after me). Outdoor performances are just wonderful at Damrosch Park at Lincoln Center, where you have an actual chair and can see buildings. When you have to take a blanket and sit on the damn GROUND, it gets problematic. I'll give you The Great Lawn in Central Park for the Philharmonic, because there are reasonably handy delis and Porta-Potties, but put me anywhere twenty goddamn minutes away from a john, having to exist on TicTacs because I'm afraid to drink anything, and you can't see a damn building...is it becoming clear that I will NEVER buy myself a nice house in the country?
Would you believe that I was actually once a Girl Scout and went to a Girl Scout camp in the summer where not only did we live in tents, but once during the session we went primitive camping and I pitched a pup tent and cooked over an open fire? Yeah, I don't believe it either. I did it, you understand - I just don't believe I did it. Forgive me...I was very young. My mantra these days is "Nowhere without taxis and an all night deli!"
And of course The Cloisters - i.e., Fort Tryon Park - tends to be hilly, and the one damn bathroom is about a mile away, all uphill, and the humidity was (no joke - I checked on Weather.com when I got home) 80%...and what's left of my lungs doesn't do well in humidity, much less when I have to go uphill.
But (perhaps as a thank you), John called today and invited me out for a couple of drinks which ended up with actual food - food and drinks bought by my escort! My God - do you think I've just actually been on a DATE? With JOHN? There's a whole new idea, now isn't it? Naturally, he's leaving town again almost immediately, before I have a chance to consider this new idea...anyway, he's one of my Richard III brothers, and I've never actually thought of it.
At any rate, we had fun.
And I have a job all this week - in a tiny little law office which is only paying me $15.00 an hour. It remains to be seen exactly how much of this will turn up in a paycheck...as we all remember, I did a one day job a few weeks back for which they took out every cent for insurance purposes and I got a paycheck marked $0.00. (Do you love the fact that they actually paid for the computer to write a check for no money and then for the postage to send it to me?) We shall see.I had one of my favorite things tonight at Frankie's, which is essentially my neighborhood bar. They do (in season, more or less) asparagus wrapped in prosciutto and sauteed in butter and lemon and it's just wonderful. It's one of those things that is so light but satisfying as hell - due to the butter, I should think. NOTHING is better than butter. Margarine is an abomination unto the Lord and should be banned from sale. It is extremely nasty. When I'm feeling rich, I go to Gourmet Garage or Citarella or somewhere and buy myself really good bread and really expensive European butter and prosciutto and just slather butter all over the bread and top it with a scrap of prosciutto and drift off into heaven...or sometimes I go to the Amy's at the Chelsea Market (or the Bleecker Street one, conveniently located next to Murray's Cheese) and get her olive bread...oh, yeah. Good bread and butter. MMMMMmmmmmmmmm....slurp, drool.
Love, Wendy
I went out Saturday night to see my pals John (Polonius) and Larry (Claudius) in Hamlet, and damn near killed myself. The production took place on the Lawn at The Cloisters. Well, kindly remember that I live in the West Village, which means that as far as I'm concerned, The Cloisters is one hell of a long way out of town - I mean, you get off the A train at 190th Street. Trust me - that is out of town. I tend to get a nosebleed going to see Saint Tiger Lily and the Boss, and that's only 118th. (Although I will willingly travel miles for Tiger Lily's cooking!) Not to mention that it was outdoors. With bugs. And trees, which I'm convinced will some day attack me (I feel the same way about butterflies - I'm convinced that one day they'll grow teeth and come after me). Outdoor performances are just wonderful at Damrosch Park at Lincoln Center, where you have an actual chair and can see buildings. When you have to take a blanket and sit on the damn GROUND, it gets problematic. I'll give you The Great Lawn in Central Park for the Philharmonic, because there are reasonably handy delis and Porta-Potties, but put me anywhere twenty goddamn minutes away from a john, having to exist on TicTacs because I'm afraid to drink anything, and you can't see a damn building...is it becoming clear that I will NEVER buy myself a nice house in the country?
Would you believe that I was actually once a Girl Scout and went to a Girl Scout camp in the summer where not only did we live in tents, but once during the session we went primitive camping and I pitched a pup tent and cooked over an open fire? Yeah, I don't believe it either. I did it, you understand - I just don't believe I did it. Forgive me...I was very young. My mantra these days is "Nowhere without taxis and an all night deli!"
And of course The Cloisters - i.e., Fort Tryon Park - tends to be hilly, and the one damn bathroom is about a mile away, all uphill, and the humidity was (no joke - I checked on Weather.com when I got home) 80%...and what's left of my lungs doesn't do well in humidity, much less when I have to go uphill.
But (perhaps as a thank you), John called today and invited me out for a couple of drinks which ended up with actual food - food and drinks bought by my escort! My God - do you think I've just actually been on a DATE? With JOHN? There's a whole new idea, now isn't it? Naturally, he's leaving town again almost immediately, before I have a chance to consider this new idea...anyway, he's one of my Richard III brothers, and I've never actually thought of it.
At any rate, we had fun.
And I have a job all this week - in a tiny little law office which is only paying me $15.00 an hour. It remains to be seen exactly how much of this will turn up in a paycheck...as we all remember, I did a one day job a few weeks back for which they took out every cent for insurance purposes and I got a paycheck marked $0.00. (Do you love the fact that they actually paid for the computer to write a check for no money and then for the postage to send it to me?) We shall see.I had one of my favorite things tonight at Frankie's, which is essentially my neighborhood bar. They do (in season, more or less) asparagus wrapped in prosciutto and sauteed in butter and lemon and it's just wonderful. It's one of those things that is so light but satisfying as hell - due to the butter, I should think. NOTHING is better than butter. Margarine is an abomination unto the Lord and should be banned from sale. It is extremely nasty. When I'm feeling rich, I go to Gourmet Garage or Citarella or somewhere and buy myself really good bread and really expensive European butter and prosciutto and just slather butter all over the bread and top it with a scrap of prosciutto and drift off into heaven...or sometimes I go to the Amy's at the Chelsea Market (or the Bleecker Street one, conveniently located next to Murray's Cheese) and get her olive bread...oh, yeah. Good bread and butter. MMMMMmmmmmmmmm....slurp, drool.
Love, Wendy
Monday, August 18, 2008
Small Things
I want hors d'oeuvres. I want white coated servers coming by with teeny tiny hot and sometimes cold things on silver trays. Little baby quiches with one tiny shrimp on top. A little square of filet of beef on a Roquefort smeared toast. Lovely unidentifiable but wonderful things wrapped in flaky pastry. (Reading the Dean and Deluca website isn't good for me at all.)
This, of course, is due to my entirely peculiar upbringing. Since my parents started living apart when I was three, my life was spent on weeks with Mother and weekends with Daddy. It never occurred to Daddy that I wasn't some sort of small adult, so there were a lot of nights when my dinner was at a cocktail party...with those lovely wonderful child-sized morsels (and a gin-soaked olive out of Daddy's martini - sweet dreams, kiddo!).
This has come to mind (aside from Dean and Deluca) because I have just had dinner with my gal pals from Chicago in an Irish joint on 46th Street called O'Flaherty's, where I had bangers and mash, which is something I adore. To all you oblivious Americans out there, bangers and mash is low-class British Isles food, and it tastes just wonderful. It's sausages in brown gravy with lots of nice onions on a huge pile of mashed potatoes, and it is comfort food raised to the nth degree. Admittedly it's a weird thing to be eating on a late summer night, but I love it with a passion and go for it whenever I see it. Its proper place is in a pub on a cold wet day with a pint and a good book to read. (Now that I think of it, a pub with a pint and a good book to read is just about nirvana anyway.)
But as I was scanning the menu, I looked over what they said were "starters." You know, ten chicken wings isn't a starter...it's a full meal. Cheese fries, ditto. And I just love the "combination plate" that all these places have - a few wings, some fried mozzarella sticks, some fried squid, some fried other things. Are there actually people who start out with this and order something ELSE? No wonder obesity is a problem. I often, in fact, confronted with a menu that says things like "32 ounce porterhouse steak" or "six pound lobster" just order a salad and an appetizer...my midsection may be somewhat middle-aged and flabby, but there still isn't enough room in it for all that, for God's sake. A 32 ounce anything is about four meals, and a six pound lobster will give me more than enough bites that I can save QUITE a lot for lobster rolls and a nice lobster salad (and a really neat midnight snack).
Other than my nice night out with the girls, I have absolutely nothing to report...no jobs, no cash, no hope. This is getting A. boring, and B. terminally depressing. I would try to sell my body, but unfortunately, at this stage of the game, I think science is the only thing that might want it. Since this requires that the body in question be dead, I don't think so. Actually, now that I think of it, the kind of client who might want a living saggy-ish 63 year old body is kind of a disgusting thing to think about too. A cougar, I am NOT.
I don't understand this whole cougar thing anyway. To begin with, it just seems kind of pitifully desperate of women in their fifties and up to go hang out at a bar (however upscale and expensive) to try and pick up young men. I mean, eeewww. And exactly what kind of young men would you get that way? If they don't have any success with women their own age, why on earth would you want them to begin with? I am deeply confused.
On the other hand, I just ran into a old friend on my way home who is about five years my senior, and I am quite casually fond of the lady - but my God, she looks 90. And she's not even 70 yet, I don't think! I may be a bitch, but I feel much better now. Well, you know, given the fact that I'm usually taken for 50.
What the hell. I'm broke, but I look good! (This may, of course, be due to the fact that starvation is REALLY good for exposing one's cheekbones.)
Love, Wendy
This, of course, is due to my entirely peculiar upbringing. Since my parents started living apart when I was three, my life was spent on weeks with Mother and weekends with Daddy. It never occurred to Daddy that I wasn't some sort of small adult, so there were a lot of nights when my dinner was at a cocktail party...with those lovely wonderful child-sized morsels (and a gin-soaked olive out of Daddy's martini - sweet dreams, kiddo!).
This has come to mind (aside from Dean and Deluca) because I have just had dinner with my gal pals from Chicago in an Irish joint on 46th Street called O'Flaherty's, where I had bangers and mash, which is something I adore. To all you oblivious Americans out there, bangers and mash is low-class British Isles food, and it tastes just wonderful. It's sausages in brown gravy with lots of nice onions on a huge pile of mashed potatoes, and it is comfort food raised to the nth degree. Admittedly it's a weird thing to be eating on a late summer night, but I love it with a passion and go for it whenever I see it. Its proper place is in a pub on a cold wet day with a pint and a good book to read. (Now that I think of it, a pub with a pint and a good book to read is just about nirvana anyway.)
But as I was scanning the menu, I looked over what they said were "starters." You know, ten chicken wings isn't a starter...it's a full meal. Cheese fries, ditto. And I just love the "combination plate" that all these places have - a few wings, some fried mozzarella sticks, some fried squid, some fried other things. Are there actually people who start out with this and order something ELSE? No wonder obesity is a problem. I often, in fact, confronted with a menu that says things like "32 ounce porterhouse steak" or "six pound lobster" just order a salad and an appetizer...my midsection may be somewhat middle-aged and flabby, but there still isn't enough room in it for all that, for God's sake. A 32 ounce anything is about four meals, and a six pound lobster will give me more than enough bites that I can save QUITE a lot for lobster rolls and a nice lobster salad (and a really neat midnight snack).
Other than my nice night out with the girls, I have absolutely nothing to report...no jobs, no cash, no hope. This is getting A. boring, and B. terminally depressing. I would try to sell my body, but unfortunately, at this stage of the game, I think science is the only thing that might want it. Since this requires that the body in question be dead, I don't think so. Actually, now that I think of it, the kind of client who might want a living saggy-ish 63 year old body is kind of a disgusting thing to think about too. A cougar, I am NOT.
I don't understand this whole cougar thing anyway. To begin with, it just seems kind of pitifully desperate of women in their fifties and up to go hang out at a bar (however upscale and expensive) to try and pick up young men. I mean, eeewww. And exactly what kind of young men would you get that way? If they don't have any success with women their own age, why on earth would you want them to begin with? I am deeply confused.
On the other hand, I just ran into a old friend on my way home who is about five years my senior, and I am quite casually fond of the lady - but my God, she looks 90. And she's not even 70 yet, I don't think! I may be a bitch, but I feel much better now. Well, you know, given the fact that I'm usually taken for 50.
What the hell. I'm broke, but I look good! (This may, of course, be due to the fact that starvation is REALLY good for exposing one's cheekbones.)
Love, Wendy
Saturday, August 16, 2008
I'm Enchanted!
Now, you are all about to think that I have completely lost my mind. I am the romantic cynic of all romantic cynics, quite probably because my life doesn't deal much with happy endings. I am convinced that one day I will be sitting in my neighborhood bar, and the door will open, and my knight in shining armor will ride in on his white horse. (Believing in this one is probably my first mistake, and I've been doing it for years now.) Anyway, he'll ride right up to me and give me a gleaming white smile. At this point, his horse will turn around, lift its tail, and shit all over me. This is sort of basically the story of my life anyway.
That said, I have just seen a movie I absolutely adored, and I'm really deeply embarrassed about adoring it. It's called "Enchanted." It's the one where the cartoon princess is thrust into a well by the evil mother of her beloved and ends up in New York as an actual human being. It's the soppiest and most idiotic thing I've ever laid eyes on, and I just had the best damn time watching it - animatronic chipmunk and all. I am invariably delighted with large dancing production numbers in Central Park, and ball gowns, and waltz scenes, and true love (of course Princess Bride is one of the great movies of all time, right up there with On The Waterfront). Anyway, I thought it was just idiotic and the best funk destroyer ever. (Except, of course, for Princess Bride.) Actually, I meant to see this in an actual movie theatre, but I got deeply embarrassed at going alone, what with all those ten year old girls - I was somewhat afraid of being arrested.
And tomorrow TMC (which, as we all know by now if we assiduously read my blog - you DO, don't you? - is about the only channel I ever watch) is doing an entire evening of Gene Kelly movies. I am delighted. What with the no money and all (although thanks to my wonderful child, I actually have an inhaler now and can breathe again, thank you very much), I can't think of anything more completely delightful than an evening spent with about seven hours of Gene Kelly. On the Town, Cover Girl, and one of the three all time greatest movie musicals ever - An American in Paris. (The other two, should you care for my opinion, are Singin' in the Rain and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.)
Oh, and I am weirdly delighted by the news that there is a group of Hawaiians who attempted to take over the palace in Hawaii and reinstate the rightful King. I think this is a fine idea. Except that there seem to be several groups of native Hawaiians who insist that their leader is the rightful King...and, obviously, several "rightful Kings". There is a tiny bit of me that is slightly annoyed by this, in that none of these various groups seems to want to take over anything in the name of a rightful Queen, but what the hell. I'm sure one will turn up. I mean, you know, what about Queen Liliuokalani? And if I spelled that right, it's a miracle (given the Hawaiian language, I'm sure I've left out six or eight vowels) (son of a bitch - spell check actually gave me the correct spelling...weird). (Hey, I'm up on my Hawaiian lore - I used to watch Magnum, P.I. all the time.)
Let's all pray that the jobs are out there for Tuesday in terms of extra work...there are about 42 jobs for Monday, but because my gals from Chicago are coming in, I'm not going for them - problem is, once you get on a TV/movie set, you never know when you'll get off it (which is NOT a bad thing - as in time and a half or - please God, actual overtime), and Shelby and Sharon's time is fairly limited (they run a gift business and come every year for the gift show at the Javits Center). And when you've known someone as long as I've known Shel - it's upwards of 40 years now, I guess - you really don't want anything to interfere with your once a year day.
I shall now go to sleep and dream of myself dancing with a handsome prince...and cleaning up after his goddamn horse.
Love, Wendy
That said, I have just seen a movie I absolutely adored, and I'm really deeply embarrassed about adoring it. It's called "Enchanted." It's the one where the cartoon princess is thrust into a well by the evil mother of her beloved and ends up in New York as an actual human being. It's the soppiest and most idiotic thing I've ever laid eyes on, and I just had the best damn time watching it - animatronic chipmunk and all. I am invariably delighted with large dancing production numbers in Central Park, and ball gowns, and waltz scenes, and true love (of course Princess Bride is one of the great movies of all time, right up there with On The Waterfront). Anyway, I thought it was just idiotic and the best funk destroyer ever. (Except, of course, for Princess Bride.) Actually, I meant to see this in an actual movie theatre, but I got deeply embarrassed at going alone, what with all those ten year old girls - I was somewhat afraid of being arrested.
And tomorrow TMC (which, as we all know by now if we assiduously read my blog - you DO, don't you? - is about the only channel I ever watch) is doing an entire evening of Gene Kelly movies. I am delighted. What with the no money and all (although thanks to my wonderful child, I actually have an inhaler now and can breathe again, thank you very much), I can't think of anything more completely delightful than an evening spent with about seven hours of Gene Kelly. On the Town, Cover Girl, and one of the three all time greatest movie musicals ever - An American in Paris. (The other two, should you care for my opinion, are Singin' in the Rain and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.)
Oh, and I am weirdly delighted by the news that there is a group of Hawaiians who attempted to take over the palace in Hawaii and reinstate the rightful King. I think this is a fine idea. Except that there seem to be several groups of native Hawaiians who insist that their leader is the rightful King...and, obviously, several "rightful Kings". There is a tiny bit of me that is slightly annoyed by this, in that none of these various groups seems to want to take over anything in the name of a rightful Queen, but what the hell. I'm sure one will turn up. I mean, you know, what about Queen Liliuokalani? And if I spelled that right, it's a miracle (given the Hawaiian language, I'm sure I've left out six or eight vowels) (son of a bitch - spell check actually gave me the correct spelling...weird). (Hey, I'm up on my Hawaiian lore - I used to watch Magnum, P.I. all the time.)
Let's all pray that the jobs are out there for Tuesday in terms of extra work...there are about 42 jobs for Monday, but because my gals from Chicago are coming in, I'm not going for them - problem is, once you get on a TV/movie set, you never know when you'll get off it (which is NOT a bad thing - as in time and a half or - please God, actual overtime), and Shelby and Sharon's time is fairly limited (they run a gift business and come every year for the gift show at the Javits Center). And when you've known someone as long as I've known Shel - it's upwards of 40 years now, I guess - you really don't want anything to interfere with your once a year day.
I shall now go to sleep and dream of myself dancing with a handsome prince...and cleaning up after his goddamn horse.
Love, Wendy
Friday, August 15, 2008
BREASTS! (Have I Got Your Attention?)
Ah, well, I see that the fight about public breastfeeding is raging again - mostly in Canada, this time, it seems. You know, one of these days someone has got to take these nice lactating ladies aside and show them how to do it.
The problem with breastfeeding in public is not WHAT you're doing - it's how you're doing it. And believe me, in the ever-gentrifying but still pretty crunchy granola West Village, I get a great view of this. (One day I saw a lady sitting in our local playground, and her son, who must have been three years old, ran out of the sandbox and up to Mom, unbuttoned her shirt, and had a snack. She continued her conversation without turning a hair. If you can unbutton a shirt, you can damn well handle a sippy cup, for God's sake.)
Ladies, I believe the reason that people are objecting is that you're all so proud of the fact that your bosom can now feed a child that you feel the whole world ought to be just as proud as you are. I quite understand this - I certainly breastfed Sarah. It's an excellent achievement, and one worthy of praise.
However, this does not necessarily mean that others share your delight, and when they are standing, say, in the checkout line at the grocery store, they may be somewhat alarmed when you casually open your shirt and suddenly haul out a breast at them.
I have a suggestion - receiving blankets. You know, those little scraps of flannel you get tons of at baby showers and usually use to cover your shoulder when you're burping the kid. All you have to do is throw one over your shoulder and the baby, unhook your nursing bra, and you're good to go, without offending anyone - and, as I found, often without anyone knowing what you're up to (except for the sudden cessation of the noise of a hungry kid). Sarah was fed in some extremely public places, and no one ever turned a hair.
Personally, I feel that what these ladies who crow so loudly about their right to breastfeed in public are doing is sheer exhibitionism. Receiving blankets, please - and just a little decorum.
Other than that, my temp agency called me for a job. I'm thrilled to the very core of my being. I go to this job for two hours of training this coming Friday (for which I'll be paid), and then I work from the 25th through the 29th. I should take home about $50 bucks for this, since the rate is $15.00 an hour, and of course they'll do all the deductions...sheesh. However, Law and Order is shooting again, and I'd have to be braindead not to get an extra role on that - in common with every single other actor in New York.
Meanwhile, I'm still rationing cigarettes and drinking ice water. Luckily, my wonderful child lent me a hundred bucks so I can get the inhaler I desperately need, so things are looking up, in a way. And two old pals from Chicago will be in town on Monday and are taking me to dinner. So there.
I hate being broke.
Love, Wendy
The problem with breastfeeding in public is not WHAT you're doing - it's how you're doing it. And believe me, in the ever-gentrifying but still pretty crunchy granola West Village, I get a great view of this. (One day I saw a lady sitting in our local playground, and her son, who must have been three years old, ran out of the sandbox and up to Mom, unbuttoned her shirt, and had a snack. She continued her conversation without turning a hair. If you can unbutton a shirt, you can damn well handle a sippy cup, for God's sake.)
Ladies, I believe the reason that people are objecting is that you're all so proud of the fact that your bosom can now feed a child that you feel the whole world ought to be just as proud as you are. I quite understand this - I certainly breastfed Sarah. It's an excellent achievement, and one worthy of praise.
However, this does not necessarily mean that others share your delight, and when they are standing, say, in the checkout line at the grocery store, they may be somewhat alarmed when you casually open your shirt and suddenly haul out a breast at them.
I have a suggestion - receiving blankets. You know, those little scraps of flannel you get tons of at baby showers and usually use to cover your shoulder when you're burping the kid. All you have to do is throw one over your shoulder and the baby, unhook your nursing bra, and you're good to go, without offending anyone - and, as I found, often without anyone knowing what you're up to (except for the sudden cessation of the noise of a hungry kid). Sarah was fed in some extremely public places, and no one ever turned a hair.
Personally, I feel that what these ladies who crow so loudly about their right to breastfeed in public are doing is sheer exhibitionism. Receiving blankets, please - and just a little decorum.
Other than that, my temp agency called me for a job. I'm thrilled to the very core of my being. I go to this job for two hours of training this coming Friday (for which I'll be paid), and then I work from the 25th through the 29th. I should take home about $50 bucks for this, since the rate is $15.00 an hour, and of course they'll do all the deductions...sheesh. However, Law and Order is shooting again, and I'd have to be braindead not to get an extra role on that - in common with every single other actor in New York.
Meanwhile, I'm still rationing cigarettes and drinking ice water. Luckily, my wonderful child lent me a hundred bucks so I can get the inhaler I desperately need, so things are looking up, in a way. And two old pals from Chicago will be in town on Monday and are taking me to dinner. So there.
I hate being broke.
Love, Wendy
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Why I Don't Watch Television
So there I was, minding my own business and reading the Sunday NYTimes on Saturday night, as usual, when I innocently turned to the television page to see what was worth watching (in terms of movies, since the nice cable man came today and brought me a new cable box to replace my dead one). I need to do a lot of ironing because I'm tired of looking at it (and in case I ever get a job again, the call will most likely be an 8 am emergency, so it would be nice to have my office wardrobe all ready to go).
And what should appear on the side of the page, in the What's On Today section, where I presume they note shows of special interest (to television people, that is, of whom we all know I am not one)?
A show at 7 pm on G4 (whatever the hell that might be) called Hurl! Their explanation point, I may add. I will now give you the full blurb for this extravaganza:
"Contestants in the 'Hurlympics' gorge on dim sum and won-ton soup and then try not to throw up while riding a 60-foot-high vertical loop roller coaster. Jelly donuts are served during the tie breaker."
They are kidding, aren't they? There cannot possibly be a television show for which the entire justification is waiting for people to throw up. There just can't. PLEASE tell me there can't. Good GOD.
I went to an audition on Friday (can you tell I just really, really want to get away from the above subject as fast as humanly possible?) which annoyed me. I was doing my absolutely best monologue, which was right for the character as described, and I was doing it very nicely...and the SOB doing the auditioning never bothered to look at me. I'd like to think he was avidly perusing my resume because I was so wonderful, but I don't think so. Boy, is this sort of thing infuriating. Particularly when you're doing comedy, which I was. And I've NEVER failed to get a laugh on the damn monologue. He didn't even bother to say thank you (this is standard audition protocol...when you finish your speech you say thank you to let them know you're done, and they say thank you to let you know they wouldn't cast you in a million years...oh, all right...it just seems that way sometimes). That is bad, bad audition manners. Growl.
And I should like a trumpet fanfare here, please...I CLEANED MY ROOM! Oh, all right, it was because the cable man was coming and I got embarrassed about it, but still, it's clean! I even washed the floor, and all the books are in the bookcase except the two I'm reading. Usually I read/reread a book and sort of shove it over to the other side of the bed (well, when you've shared a bed with someone for twenty years, it takes a LOT longer than a lousy six years to sleep in the middle - trust me). The result of this is that there are usually about15 or 20 books in there. They are now all put away, and there is nothing in my bed but bedding and a couple of cats. And of course clean brand new sheets (street fairs are wonderful)...oh, I tell you, I may start cleaning my room on a regular basis - more than every six or eight months, which is my usual regular basis.
Oh, and this one is great. I was somewhat disturbed on Friday when my temp agency seemed not to have direct deposited the money for the dumb little job I did for one day week before last. Well, today the paystub was in the mail (you know, they send you this thing when you have direct deposit - it's sort of a non-negotiable check). That's how I discovered that for my 5.5 hours a week ago Thursday, I made the sum total of - nothing. Not one single cent. They took out for insurance, and social security, and FICA and all the rest of that happy horseshit, and that's what was left - nothing. This leaves my personal fortune at $4 and change in the bank and 50 cents in my wallet. I suppose I'm lucky that they didn't actually charge me for anything.
I have no idea what to do about this. My trust fund has run out and my poor trustee is diving into his own pocket to pay my maintenance on the house - and I can't give him any more grief, for God's sake. We're trying to get a loan on the house, but, well...what a time to try that one.
The only thing I can come up with is that I should become a very chic disease. Well, people go to all these elegant benefits and parties and whatnot to contribute money to various diseases. You know, heart disease and cancer and cystic fibrosis and autism...so I figured if I could become a disease, maybe...no, huh?
Ah, well. Just call me Mrs. Micawber...something will turn up.
Love, Wendy
And what should appear on the side of the page, in the What's On Today section, where I presume they note shows of special interest (to television people, that is, of whom we all know I am not one)?
A show at 7 pm on G4 (whatever the hell that might be) called Hurl! Their explanation point, I may add. I will now give you the full blurb for this extravaganza:
"Contestants in the 'Hurlympics' gorge on dim sum and won-ton soup and then try not to throw up while riding a 60-foot-high vertical loop roller coaster. Jelly donuts are served during the tie breaker."
They are kidding, aren't they? There cannot possibly be a television show for which the entire justification is waiting for people to throw up. There just can't. PLEASE tell me there can't. Good GOD.
I went to an audition on Friday (can you tell I just really, really want to get away from the above subject as fast as humanly possible?) which annoyed me. I was doing my absolutely best monologue, which was right for the character as described, and I was doing it very nicely...and the SOB doing the auditioning never bothered to look at me. I'd like to think he was avidly perusing my resume because I was so wonderful, but I don't think so. Boy, is this sort of thing infuriating. Particularly when you're doing comedy, which I was. And I've NEVER failed to get a laugh on the damn monologue. He didn't even bother to say thank you (this is standard audition protocol...when you finish your speech you say thank you to let them know you're done, and they say thank you to let you know they wouldn't cast you in a million years...oh, all right...it just seems that way sometimes). That is bad, bad audition manners. Growl.
And I should like a trumpet fanfare here, please...I CLEANED MY ROOM! Oh, all right, it was because the cable man was coming and I got embarrassed about it, but still, it's clean! I even washed the floor, and all the books are in the bookcase except the two I'm reading. Usually I read/reread a book and sort of shove it over to the other side of the bed (well, when you've shared a bed with someone for twenty years, it takes a LOT longer than a lousy six years to sleep in the middle - trust me). The result of this is that there are usually about15 or 20 books in there. They are now all put away, and there is nothing in my bed but bedding and a couple of cats. And of course clean brand new sheets (street fairs are wonderful)...oh, I tell you, I may start cleaning my room on a regular basis - more than every six or eight months, which is my usual regular basis.
Oh, and this one is great. I was somewhat disturbed on Friday when my temp agency seemed not to have direct deposited the money for the dumb little job I did for one day week before last. Well, today the paystub was in the mail (you know, they send you this thing when you have direct deposit - it's sort of a non-negotiable check). That's how I discovered that for my 5.5 hours a week ago Thursday, I made the sum total of - nothing. Not one single cent. They took out for insurance, and social security, and FICA and all the rest of that happy horseshit, and that's what was left - nothing. This leaves my personal fortune at $4 and change in the bank and 50 cents in my wallet. I suppose I'm lucky that they didn't actually charge me for anything.
I have no idea what to do about this. My trust fund has run out and my poor trustee is diving into his own pocket to pay my maintenance on the house - and I can't give him any more grief, for God's sake. We're trying to get a loan on the house, but, well...what a time to try that one.
The only thing I can come up with is that I should become a very chic disease. Well, people go to all these elegant benefits and parties and whatnot to contribute money to various diseases. You know, heart disease and cancer and cystic fibrosis and autism...so I figured if I could become a disease, maybe...no, huh?
Ah, well. Just call me Mrs. Micawber...something will turn up.
Love, Wendy
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Outsourcing?
After having written the previous post (all of a minute ago), I went to the Channel 7 news site (my grandfather was a newspaperman, and I'm a mad news nut), and found a sad story about a 24 year old woman found dead in her underwear at a Times Square nightclub.
However, what caught my eye was the fact that I have come to the conclusion that along with almost everything else these days, website news is being outsourced. This is because I consider it a physical impossibility for anyone whose first language is English to have written "[was reported missing when she] didn't show up at her home after attended a partying at the club."
After attended a partying at the club? What?
Love, Wendy
However, what caught my eye was the fact that I have come to the conclusion that along with almost everything else these days, website news is being outsourced. This is because I consider it a physical impossibility for anyone whose first language is English to have written "[was reported missing when she] didn't show up at her home after attended a partying at the club."
After attended a partying at the club? What?
Love, Wendy
Enuf!
I can't stand it. I was just browsing through the news stories on the 1010WINS site, when I came across an item that absolutely blew me away.
Now I hope you're all sitting down for this deeply important information. It seems that Paris Hilton did a spoof political commercial which has something or other to do with a John McCain commercial (let's all remember that I am an almost total non-television watcher). Anyway, the point of this "news story" was that Ms. Hilton - wait for it - MEMORIZED HER ENTIRE MONOLOGUE!
Yes, people, this was in the 1010WINS news. Granted it was in the Entertainment section, and granted that I'm sure this was an amazing feat for Ms. Hilton (particularly since I wasn't actually aware she could read) - but what with one thing and another, do we really need this kind of nonsense cluttering up the news?
Other than that, I have something upwards of nothing to report...I still can't get elected dogcatcher, and just to add insult to injury, I submitted my picture and resume for background work which requested "West Village resident types" - and nobody called me. Personally, I think I'd be perfect as a West Village resident type - given the fact that I'm a West Village resident, you know. Unfortunately, I have a horrible feeling that they're looking for this week's types - i.e., all the young girls with their miniature dustmops which they fondly refer to as dogs, and all the young Wall Street gents. I would call these West Village transients, not residents (they get married and move to the suburbs, you know), but then I'm not casting a movie. Of course, the one I'm really annoyed about that I didn't get a call for is the one which requested "haggard bar drunks." Now, come on, people. That's PERFECT for me!
Meanwhile, since nobody else seems to want me, I'm off on the stage audition trail again - the only problem with which is that while I can get $130 a day as a background player in a movie, one of the things I'm auditioning for will pay me $378 a week. You gotta love Actors Equity - still the same pay rates as when it was formed in - I think - 1912.
On a totally different subject, I have a peculiar quirk - well, actually I've got lots of them - but I hate, hate, hate it when people don't use the proper plates and cutlery for their meals. This, of course, has to do with Joshua...now I know perfectly well he wasn't brought up this way (what with his mother being my aunt and all), and it drives me completely nuts to see him using a Corning Ware casserole dish, for instance, to eat spaghetti out of. We have PLATES! Given my habit of giving humongous parties, we have TONS of plates! USE A DAMN PLATE!
I am not, I may add, a fanatic on the subject - if dinner is a salad, casserole and rolls, I see no reason why you need a salad plate and a salad fork and a butter plate and a butter knife, etc., etc., etc. (even if I happen to prefer a salad plate because I dislike salad dressing in my casserole). I mean, the whole point of a meal like that is ease in cooking and serving. BUT, damn it, pie is eaten with a fork, not a soupspoon (fork and teaspoon if it's a la mode), and vegetables are served in vegetable dishes if the meal is at all formal. Really.
Hey! Do you think this sort of thing is why (along with my horror of blue jeans, T-shirts and flip-flops at a Broadway theatre) I have some old friends who refer to me as the world's only living Victorian beatnik?
Love, Wendy (mistress of the bizarre segue)
Now I hope you're all sitting down for this deeply important information. It seems that Paris Hilton did a spoof political commercial which has something or other to do with a John McCain commercial (let's all remember that I am an almost total non-television watcher). Anyway, the point of this "news story" was that Ms. Hilton - wait for it - MEMORIZED HER ENTIRE MONOLOGUE!
Yes, people, this was in the 1010WINS news. Granted it was in the Entertainment section, and granted that I'm sure this was an amazing feat for Ms. Hilton (particularly since I wasn't actually aware she could read) - but what with one thing and another, do we really need this kind of nonsense cluttering up the news?
Other than that, I have something upwards of nothing to report...I still can't get elected dogcatcher, and just to add insult to injury, I submitted my picture and resume for background work which requested "West Village resident types" - and nobody called me. Personally, I think I'd be perfect as a West Village resident type - given the fact that I'm a West Village resident, you know. Unfortunately, I have a horrible feeling that they're looking for this week's types - i.e., all the young girls with their miniature dustmops which they fondly refer to as dogs, and all the young Wall Street gents. I would call these West Village transients, not residents (they get married and move to the suburbs, you know), but then I'm not casting a movie. Of course, the one I'm really annoyed about that I didn't get a call for is the one which requested "haggard bar drunks." Now, come on, people. That's PERFECT for me!
Meanwhile, since nobody else seems to want me, I'm off on the stage audition trail again - the only problem with which is that while I can get $130 a day as a background player in a movie, one of the things I'm auditioning for will pay me $378 a week. You gotta love Actors Equity - still the same pay rates as when it was formed in - I think - 1912.
On a totally different subject, I have a peculiar quirk - well, actually I've got lots of them - but I hate, hate, hate it when people don't use the proper plates and cutlery for their meals. This, of course, has to do with Joshua...now I know perfectly well he wasn't brought up this way (what with his mother being my aunt and all), and it drives me completely nuts to see him using a Corning Ware casserole dish, for instance, to eat spaghetti out of. We have PLATES! Given my habit of giving humongous parties, we have TONS of plates! USE A DAMN PLATE!
I am not, I may add, a fanatic on the subject - if dinner is a salad, casserole and rolls, I see no reason why you need a salad plate and a salad fork and a butter plate and a butter knife, etc., etc., etc. (even if I happen to prefer a salad plate because I dislike salad dressing in my casserole). I mean, the whole point of a meal like that is ease in cooking and serving. BUT, damn it, pie is eaten with a fork, not a soupspoon (fork and teaspoon if it's a la mode), and vegetables are served in vegetable dishes if the meal is at all formal. Really.
Hey! Do you think this sort of thing is why (along with my horror of blue jeans, T-shirts and flip-flops at a Broadway theatre) I have some old friends who refer to me as the world's only living Victorian beatnik?
Love, Wendy (mistress of the bizarre segue)
Friday, August 1, 2008
I Don't Want To Be Here
It is hot. I am in New York. I do not want to be in New York. I am therefore annoyed.
I'll tell you where I want to be. There is a little tiny medieval fishing village on the edge of Lake Geneva, half an hour from Geneva, Switzerland, just over the border in France, and that's where I feel like being right this instant.
The town is called Yvoire, and it happens to contain my husband's family home. No, nobody in the family is French - it's just that my mother and father-in-law bought the place when they were both working in Geneva in 1949, and because they were a foreign service family, it became the one place, over the years, where everyone got together. Our house has the distinction of having had the first flush toilet in the village. My in-laws actually had a party to show the village how it worked. And it's still there, right under the front steps to the house - full of spiders, usually, but there, and very useful if you have been bouncing about the village and suddenly feel you really, REALLY don't want to have to climb up not only the front steps but to the second floor to take a leak. You know, handy. I love Yvoire.
I want to go to Yvoire and do nothing. Eat and sleep and read and swim in the lake and then eat and read and sleep some more.
Well, think about it. The only form of travel I have been able to afford recently is a bus trip to see the East Coast family (this leaves out my sister and brother-in-law in Boulder, Colorado, and it CERTAINLY leaves out my sister and brother-in-law in China - luckily, I have two more sets, one in Maryland and one in Cambridge, Mass.).
However, after the news of today, I can ASSURE you I'm never getting on a bus again. I have decided that the most traveling I'm going to be doing is going all the way uptown (WAY uptown) to the Cloisters to see my friends John and Larry in Hamlet.
Beheaded on a bus. Was that not the absolutely strangest thing ever? If you have somehow missed this juicy little item, a 21 one year old man was going from Moose Jaw to Bumfuck or some damn where in Canada (even though I've been to Toronto, and would love to see Montreal, that's about it on my knowledge of Canada), when one of his fellow passengers sat down next to him and proceeded to stab him about fifty times and then behead him. As far as anybody knows, they had never met. And the passengers on the bus, all of whom got the hell off the bus in one fast hurry, all say that the stabber/decapitator showed no emotion whatsoever while doing this - no frenzy, no nothing. After they all got off the bus, leaving the perpetrator and victim on it, the guy grabbed the head of his victim and started shaking it at them through the bus door.
The newspaper/internet stories on this today, predictably, announce that the gent who did this is "going to be psychiatrically evaluated." Well, how nice. What a clever thought. Much as I applaud our justice system, there are days when it annoys me. (Actually, the Canadian taxpayers get to pay for this one, so I suppose I really don't have a say in it.) But it always seems to me a bit odd when you have 20 witnesses, all of whom agree, AND a videotape, AND the victim's sworn statement - and then the whole thing takes three years to come to trial. Surely there's an easier and less expensive way? God knows, no one is happier than I am to see a prisoner released when they finally bring DNA evidence to bear on the case, for instance - but in cases where there is no element of doubt whatsoever, surely things could be speeded up. On the other hand, I've never been accused of a crime, and many psychological experiments have been done to prove beyond any possible doubt that people are not always capable of seeing what they're looking at. So God bless the judicial system - it's the best we've got, surely.
That does not alter the fact that I have no intention of ever, EVER getting on a Greyhound bus again. I presume this feeling will go away - after all, it only took me seven years to take a shower again after seeing Psycho.
Love, Wendy
I'll tell you where I want to be. There is a little tiny medieval fishing village on the edge of Lake Geneva, half an hour from Geneva, Switzerland, just over the border in France, and that's where I feel like being right this instant.
The town is called Yvoire, and it happens to contain my husband's family home. No, nobody in the family is French - it's just that my mother and father-in-law bought the place when they were both working in Geneva in 1949, and because they were a foreign service family, it became the one place, over the years, where everyone got together. Our house has the distinction of having had the first flush toilet in the village. My in-laws actually had a party to show the village how it worked. And it's still there, right under the front steps to the house - full of spiders, usually, but there, and very useful if you have been bouncing about the village and suddenly feel you really, REALLY don't want to have to climb up not only the front steps but to the second floor to take a leak. You know, handy. I love Yvoire.
I want to go to Yvoire and do nothing. Eat and sleep and read and swim in the lake and then eat and read and sleep some more.
Well, think about it. The only form of travel I have been able to afford recently is a bus trip to see the East Coast family (this leaves out my sister and brother-in-law in Boulder, Colorado, and it CERTAINLY leaves out my sister and brother-in-law in China - luckily, I have two more sets, one in Maryland and one in Cambridge, Mass.).
However, after the news of today, I can ASSURE you I'm never getting on a bus again. I have decided that the most traveling I'm going to be doing is going all the way uptown (WAY uptown) to the Cloisters to see my friends John and Larry in Hamlet.
Beheaded on a bus. Was that not the absolutely strangest thing ever? If you have somehow missed this juicy little item, a 21 one year old man was going from Moose Jaw to Bumfuck or some damn where in Canada (even though I've been to Toronto, and would love to see Montreal, that's about it on my knowledge of Canada), when one of his fellow passengers sat down next to him and proceeded to stab him about fifty times and then behead him. As far as anybody knows, they had never met. And the passengers on the bus, all of whom got the hell off the bus in one fast hurry, all say that the stabber/decapitator showed no emotion whatsoever while doing this - no frenzy, no nothing. After they all got off the bus, leaving the perpetrator and victim on it, the guy grabbed the head of his victim and started shaking it at them through the bus door.
The newspaper/internet stories on this today, predictably, announce that the gent who did this is "going to be psychiatrically evaluated." Well, how nice. What a clever thought. Much as I applaud our justice system, there are days when it annoys me. (Actually, the Canadian taxpayers get to pay for this one, so I suppose I really don't have a say in it.) But it always seems to me a bit odd when you have 20 witnesses, all of whom agree, AND a videotape, AND the victim's sworn statement - and then the whole thing takes three years to come to trial. Surely there's an easier and less expensive way? God knows, no one is happier than I am to see a prisoner released when they finally bring DNA evidence to bear on the case, for instance - but in cases where there is no element of doubt whatsoever, surely things could be speeded up. On the other hand, I've never been accused of a crime, and many psychological experiments have been done to prove beyond any possible doubt that people are not always capable of seeing what they're looking at. So God bless the judicial system - it's the best we've got, surely.
That does not alter the fact that I have no intention of ever, EVER getting on a Greyhound bus again. I presume this feeling will go away - after all, it only took me seven years to take a shower again after seeing Psycho.
Love, Wendy
Problem Solved
That thing that washed up on Montauk? It turned up on Fark.com with comments, and a couple of the comments seemed to solve the problem. They said that it looked like a large turtle without its shell, and if you look at that head, that's EXACTLY what it looks like. Some poor turtle got its shell yanked off and died. So there. No more monster. Darn...what's life without a good monster?
Love, Wendy
Love, Wendy
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