had to get this down before I forget the actual quote later

I know I haven't blogged in over a week. Now that life is better, or at least less up in the air, I am going to be back to a more regular blogging schedule. But for now...

A conversation over dinner preparation for Laura's going away dinner (lasagna--light on the cheese, per Laura, salad, texas toast--prob just for me and Lauren, and angel food cake swirls from TGI Fridays...low fat, betch):

ME: So those stupid cake things are awesome but they're really expensive when you just get them on your own...they're much better in the--hey, wait....do you do the Three Course thing at TGI Fridays ever?

Lauren: Um, TGI Fridays is kind of my guilty pleasure.

ME: How did I not know this? Lisa, you know, "Girlfriend"--

Lauren: --Yes, of course, Girlfriend, her official name--

ME: Yeah, she and I went there all the time on 'dates' and especially when the Three Course Menu was in effect.

Lauren: Well, um yeah, we should go.

ME: We're totally going.

Lauren: Yeah, my perfect date would be guitar playing and singing to me, followed by coffee and discussion of philosophy at a bookstore, more singing, some making out, and ending with Oreo Madness.

ME: Oh yeah, they have that as part of the three-course thing--

Lauren:--Yes, I think I would have sex with a guy who took me to the bookstore, then the cake.

ME: Wait, hang on, I thought you said you hadn't technically had sex before--you mean you'd give away the V-card for the bookstore and Oreo Madness?

Lauren: He'd have to sing twice. Original words and lyrics.

So any takers? My best friend in Cincinnati can be instantly won over by confections in the musical and oreo forms. All of these things could be accomplished in a small geographical location, it could all happen in Hyde Park, people.

More soon...including the tale of TJ's waffle problem, microwave s'mores, and probably highlights from karaoke later tonight.

Advice for Living, 30 Rock Style

Tracy Jordan:"Stop Eating People's Old French Fries Pigeon"

One of many reasons I am becoming quickly enamored with 30 Rock, and a great example of how funny Tracy Morgan can be when he has good material to work with. He always annoyed me on SNL but now he's fantastic.

Also Lauren and I have decided this is our new mantra for life. I think it's way deep.

Fantastic news!!!

It's been a while in coming. There have been rumors flying around for months, but the day is finally here. The corporation of Wild Oats was purchased by the far-superior Whole Foods back at the end of the summer, and the takeover makeover is finally happening. I realized this morning that the Rookwood Commons location (or Hyde Park, if that means anything to any non-Cincy folks) is finally making the transition to becoming a Whole Foods Store, and that means that my life can become several degrees happier. That's right, friends.

Skyr is here.

The folks here at Playhouse have mocked me on a couple of different occasions for making the pilgrimage out to Louisville's Whole Foods (a 180 minute round trip) for an item that has become a necessity in my life. They just don't understand. Shane, Jason, and Erica do. Every time I go to DC (my favorite city in the US, in case you didn't know), they make sure that I am properly directed--or driven, thanks, Shane (see right)-- to at least one of several Whole Foods locations so that I can stock up on what I believe is one of the world's most perfect foods.

Now, the biggest misconception about the stuff is that it is yogurt. According to the "skyr.is" website-- which I notice has been updated for American audiences, as it must be finally gaining the popularity it deserves as its ministry spreads--skyr is "a remarkable dairy product unique to Iceland. " It is not yogurt, but a cultured cheese product, like yogurt, but thicker, creamier, and smoother, with more of a tangyness to it (no matter the flavor, though the plain version is practically like sour cream). It is currently available in strawberry (my favorite), blueberry (my least favorite, though the Jonathan Groff lookalike pictured here makes it far more enticing now, even with the ridiculous little spoon in his mouth), vanilla (great on waffles, I believe that my performance in our workshop of Jimmy in New York City last year was markedly enhanced by the Vanilla Skyr/Van's Chocolate Chip Waffles combo that Tara and I had for breakfast each day during our visit), and plain (like I said, it's like sour cream; I don't recommend it eaten straight with a spoon. Erica finds it truly abhorrent).

In addition to its unique deliciousness, skyr is amazingly good for you. A 6-oz. container is about 150 calories, 16 incredible grams of protein, completely void of fat, and only 20 g of carbs, which is far lower than most yogurts. I have only ever seen it in Whole Foods (and not even in the NC and FL Whole Foods, last time I checked....LAME! Step UP, Raleigh and Orlando! Geez!), except for the one random Scandinavian bakery in Clermont Florida to which Melissa Nay and Chris McCollum kindly accompanied me this summer. They have skyr smoothies there, and believe me, I tried to buy some skyr from them, but they said that demand was too high to sell the stuff on its own, they had it shipped there directly from Iceland, so they had to save it for the smoothies. With the buyout, though, the sky's the limit for skyr exposure. I've extolled its virtues to many, and I am glad to know that as Whole Foods gets rid of all those worthless Wild Oats across the country, this wonderfood will now be available to the American population at large.

Skyr and Whole Foods have heard the word of my wanting, and I thank them.

just in brief...thinking positive

OK, so mostly this is for Jackie. No big promises on wit this evening, as spirits have been at a new low in the recent weeks of high stress due to thesis work, tedious rehearsals, difficulty finding work, and subsequent empty pockets. I don't know who else is even reading this thing, except that TJ posted it on his facebook so people could learn about the culture of our weekly karaoke experiences. Not much to report that's necessarily good, so I will talk about a couple of things that are keeping me smiling anyway.

1) Counting Crows is putting out a new album: Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings, due March 23, 2008. Two new songs are available to download free from their website. Matthew says that Skinny Duritz (that's right, he's hot again...though I still would've married the man even in his biggest days, I would've just suggested less cheeseburgers and beer and tried to promote more "physically active" activities in which to drown his endless sorrows) isn't depressing enough. But that's just fine with me. I've got enough depressing Duritz to listen to for years, and that's not what I need to hear right now anyway, so there.


2. Slings and Arrows. It's fantastic. Anyone who's ever been in the theatre NEEDS to see it. Anyone who just appreciates great writing and wonderful acting would probably enjoy it too. It's a Canadian TV show about a fictional Canadian Shakespeare Festival. Starring Paul Gross and Rachel McAdams and lots of other folks I didn't know b/c they were Canucks, but now I know Paul Gross and see him in my dreams at night. Yeah, tall, curly black hair and huge blue eyes, amazingly talented, I'm in love with him, go figure. I am sad that there are only three seasons, but happy that I'm still only on the second DVD of the first season. I'm rationing it out so I won't run out of episodes too soon. That and if I allowed to watch it as much as I wanted, I might give up on my thesis altogether. Just kidding, Mama.

3. Preparing and sending mailings to (hopeful) prospective employer theatre companies feeds my Type A need for structure. There's always something theraputic about putting together packages that contain a cover letter, a headshot, a resume, a review, a paper clip, my return mailing label on the front, handwriting the address, and affixing three stamps in the top right corner of the manila envelope. I've been doing a lot of that the last few days, and in fact I'm gonna get back to it now, on the laptop, while watching some more of this guy on my TV. Seriously. Come on. Look at the eyes.

4. Also, I've been eating a lot of Hamburger Helper. This goes back to the empty pockets thing, but I've actually been enjoying it. Blast from the past, perhaps, I used to love this mess when I was 7 years old. It's not really a good thing, per se, I'm pretty sure that there is next to no nutritional value in it...I am feeling a serious fruit and vegetable deficiency in my life b/c I can't really afford them, but I have to admit it, it's delicious.

RIPod

It's true, friends. All things have to end. My 2005 electric blue Ipod Mini met with his untimely end yesterday. I tried to plug it in to my little speaker system to listen to it in the shower, like I do every day, and instead of the menu popping up so I could listen to the brilliant Andrea Burns album again, this adorable/threatening image appeared--a poor little sick Ipod with the Ipod support website listed underneath.

Refusing to give in to doubt and send him out to pasture with no effort to save him, I made a reservation at the Genius Bar at the Apple store at Kenwood Mall. I made the trek out to exit 11 on I-71, passed the Trader Joe's without stopping (a feat in itself, this shows extreme dedication to my cause), walked down the hall, and headed straight back to the check-in. Larry checked me in, and said I had a lovely name--his mother's name was Margaret Ellen. Aww. I love the Apple store. Sorry, new Compaq Presario, I like you a lot so far, but I still wish I could've afforded the Macbook. Anyway, after waiting for less than 10 minutes, though being thoroughly entertained and educated with the little videos and demos on the screens above the bar, the cute Apple genius walked over to me (What fortunate timing! The other guy was blond and had long greasy hair. Ew.) and said "So you must be Margaret..." I corrected him, apologetically as always, then he apologized and said "oh cool, Southern, I bet, huh?" Good call, Aaron. Tall, skinny, dark hair, huge eyes, very impressive but well-groomed facial hair, and an Old Testament name. Yes you CAN help me, sir!

So I told him that my Ipod was sick, he said "oh yeah, this is an old one...might not bode well." Points for use of the word "bode." Negative points for pessimism. He tried to force it into "Disc Mode," which was partially successful. He said "well......if I can get this to work, then sometimes...." and with a flourish, he pulled up Itunes. He clicked through a few things, then a grave look passed over his irresistibly bearded face. He held up the Ipod to his ear, heard the same struggling clicking I had heard at home, and he turned back to me. "I'm afraid the hard drive is dead." As I see it, looks like you have two options. You can get a new hard drive, for $249, or turn in this guy for the 10% off recycling discount and get a new one, which would start at $149 for the 4G Nano. There's nothing else I can do here, I'm so sorry."

I thanked Aaron, and I told him I'd go with recycling choice, but I had to go to rehearsal so I couldn't get the new one then. He said "oh, you're an actress? Like stage actress?" I told him I worked at the Playhouse, and he told me he had a friend who was trying to make it in theatre in Canada, and he didn't envy the difficulty of the industry (this is a pet peeve, when people talk about "the industry." Usually I fly into a fit of rage, but I guess that's what his friend called it to him or something. I let it go.) I should've told him he could take me out w/ his big mall-IT salary since I am quickly becoming a starving artist. (Realized I was next to broke after buying the new Ipod. Oops.)

Following rehearsal, I returned to the Apple store. I went straight to the counter, told them I wanted a red 8 Gigabyte Nano, and begrudgingly handed over Old Blue. Sometimes you just have to let go and move on.

We had some good times, my little blue friend. I bought you in August of 2005 in the Cary Target on the trip to Florida from New Hampshire via NYC and NC with Andy. You saw me through the Papermill post-partum, accompanied me on countless runs and walks on treadmills and roads in FL, NC, LA, Washington DC, NY, and OH, helped me learn lines and lyrics and entertained me backstage for at least 17 shows (maybe more, I lost count), made all my long road trips so much happier and more convenient (who changes CDs anymore? seriously?!), and brightened my life and/or indulged my depression when the mood called for it through so many ups (Ben Folds, Great Big Sea, David Wilcox, and Bruce Springsteen) and downs (Damien Rice, Counting Crows, Tom Waits, ...and...Bruce Springsteen) that I couldn't possibly list them here.

Time of Death: Approximately 12:06 PM, Friday January 11th.
Happy Trails to Mac Recycling Land, Old Blue. You will be missed, and I'll think of you every time I plug in my earbuds to Little Red for a walk with Louis or another layover in Hartsfield-Jackson. Here's to the future.

...and Aaron, if you're out there, call me. I had to plug in my cell phone number to the online reservation form, I'm sure you can pull it up somewhere. I have another box of hamburger helper in the cupboard and 3 Blue Moons left. If you actually want to go out, though, you will probably have to pay. I'll meet you at Auntie Anne's, if the line isn't too long.

Karaoke: Catharsis, Hilarity, and Humility

Thursday night Karaoke at Longworth's Tavern in Mount Adams has become a tradition among my small and beloved circle of friends here in Cincinnati. Lauren, Matthew, and I (also recently defined as "The Three Musketeers" or "The Lonely Hearts Club," (both embarrassing but I'll take the former anyday) are always there, our friend Laura comes if she can make it out from Mason, and my next-door neighbor TJ, the one who introduced us to our weekly Thursday outing's location, has been going for some time now. He's the old pro in town.

Now the thing about TJ is that he's serious about karaoke. He knows the DJ (Jimmy, a long sad story in himself...every week, he wears belted dockers with a short sleeved polo tucked in, accentuating his continuing bout with Dunlap disease, he's nearly bald, never one to be conservative with the cologne, and he plays these horrible dance music videos between each karaoke song that feature trashily clad women performing various acts with household items that are not even suggestive, they're just downright obscene. The videos themselves are not enough, apparently, as Jimmy feels the need to add colorful commentary as a virtual elbow-to-the-ribs/wink-wink-know-what-I-mean-say-no-more-say-no-more to the dudes in the crowd. Example: last night one of the videos showcased a bevy of women (they are no ladies, I assure you) in band uniforms with miniskirts, basically humping, licking, and thrusting their instruments, and Jimmy throws in, "yeah, guys, I've always been a fan of the percussion section.") Anyway, back to TJ. TJ knows all the Longworth's regulars, he knows what songs "belong" to them (now I know that 'Steph' does Bohemian Rhapsody every week, this huge dude named John always sings this horrible reggae-esque rap song, etc.), and he knows what songs will go over well with the crowds. I used to marvel at this other-worldliness that TJ possessed, giggling to myself at the absurdity of the whole idea of karaoke. "I sing for a living," I said, "why in the world would I want to sing stupid pop songs badly in front of a crowd of drunks?" Each week, however, I feel myself pulled in more and more to Karaokeland. Yesterday afternoon, Lauren, Matthew, and I found ourselves discussing the songs we were considering for the evening. Time to admit it. we're livin' on the inside of that glass house now.

Our table's set list (aforementioned table staked out early, mind you, getting a home base from which to operate has become serious business at karaoke) began with "Nothin's Gonna Stop Us Now" by Jefferson Starship. Matthew and I tend to do a different duet every week. Always a power ballad, always inane. Annie Lennox's "Walking on Broken Glass," was next. Lauren's brilliant performance astounded even Matthew, who warned against her possible violation of Karaoke Rule #1: Never sing a song to which you don't know all of the words. She pulled through and we all tried to be too badass for the pathos, but nevertheless, we felt the rain come down. We felt the wind blow through her. Matthew renewed our patriotism with some Mellencamp, I sang "Because of You" in honor of Lauren's defiant declaration of freedom for once and for all, our new friend Dave sang some Whitesnake, TJ did some all-too-catchy "It's All Been Done," Lauren and I finally did our long-promised duet of "To Be With You," (yeah you know you loved Mr. Big in 6th grade, everyone did), Matthew serenaded Dave for his birthday with "Back at One" by Brian McKnight, and I was told by a drunken man at the bar that he "really felt it" when I sang "Head Over Feet" by Alanis Morissette. Speaking of men at the bar, there was a very sketchy character in a green army coat and red and white scarf that we were convinced must have been a Palestinian suicide bomber. I told Matthew to go push him and tell him he was a douchebag. He wouldn't do it. Coward. Dave sang "Fulsom Prison Blues," TJ sang "One" (with falsetto at the end that would've made Bono proud) Dave's friend Craig sang "Mack the Knife" a la Louis Armstrong and Mercer's "The Summer Wind" a la Sinatra, and after Matthew sang one more birthday jewel to Dave, the biggest feel-good-pregnancy-termination hit since Ben Folds Five's "Brick," "Ten Weeks Late" by Third Eye Blind (complete with very explicit dream ballet), TJ closed out the night with The Cure's "Friday I'm in Love," and the rest of us bounced around in circles on the stage at the back of the bar, arms waving and bodies spinning faster than the cast of Spring Awakening.

"Happy Birthday, Dave--this song is about ABORTION!" called out Matthew.
Happy birthday, indeed.

Smart doggie, but not quite sneaky enough

So I'm sitting here checking my email and such (at the desktop computer that is...still using it though I'm getting more and more excited about my laptop) and I hear a rustling of wicker coming from the bedroom, followed by a very distinct jingle. Then there is a small whimper. I wonder if Louis is stuck somewhere, if somehow he's hurt himself. I wonder how in the world this could happen because my apartment is small and open enough that basically everything is exposed unless you're behind the closed door of the bathroom. I walk in my room, calling out to him, looking under the bed, passing right by the kitchen which as you can see is tiny, behind the door, to his little bed, under the covers in my bed, even though there isn't the usual telltale lump under the duvet to indicate his very warm presence in there....and Louis is nowhere to be found. Again, there is nowhere for a little dog to get lost in my apartment. Almost nowhere. I hear the wicker rustle again, and I realize there is one other item other than his little toy basket that is made out of wicker. Given his penchant for underwear, he has apparently figured out that he can get to where the, er, used ones stay before laundry day by stepping up into the opened foot locker where the gym/dance clothes are and using it as a step. Unfortunately, his plan wasn't perfect, because he couldn't seem to find as easy of an escape route with his procured loot. I looked down, and said "Louis!" in a startled voice. He turned his head away of course, refusing to make eye contact like he always does when he's done something wrong. In the case of Louis Ironson Jeffreys, on charges of breaking (knocking the lid off) and entering the laundry hamper, and attempted panty larceny, we the jury find the defendent guilty as charged.

I love Jemaine Clement

You heard me. Love him. Not ashamed about it. Dude is hilarious. I spent hours with my friend Bradley sitting in my apartment watching Flight of the Conchords videos on youtube a couple of weeks ago; we just couldn't get enough. I watched the man tonight in an adorable New Zealand movie called Eagle vs. Shark Granted, Rotten Tomatoes is right as always, it needs a bit more to really distinguish it from other quirky comedies...it's got some heavy shades of Napoleon Dynamite, a little of the lovingly dysfunctional families of Little Miss Sunshine and Juno, and of course a big dose of Mr. Clement's hilarious deadpan, most often found in his Conchords material. The man is a nerd's nerd, and he's ri-doggone-diculously fantastic.

I also enjoyed the presence of a good friend and an insanely large portion of potatoes at dinner tonight, in varied formats. Matthew and I went to Max & Ermas once I got out of a very very tedious 6-hour table work session for the kids' show. That's right...SIX HOURS. TABLE WORK for a Theatre for Young Audiences touring show. The Phantom Tollbooth is well-written, and very clear. It's written for children. We're not solving any big mysteries....all the lessons are right there, hitting you over the head in the TEXT, no need to delve for subtext. It's not Shaw, people....it's just not that deep.

Back to the potato-riffic dinner, though: Loaded Cheese Fries appetizer between the two of us, then Matthew got baked potato soup and a burger with a side of MORE fries. Granted, the side of fries was a mistake, but dude still ate them. I got a baked potato (loaded, yes) and a salad. When I didn't quite clean out my potato skin, I saw a Gap button-down clad arm reach across the table and fork out a bit of what was left. A comment was made about how I never seem to be able to finish anything on my plate, anywhere, which sounded strangely familiar. At any rate, it was a fantastic meal. I always forget how much I like that place until I'm randomly inspired to go there. Somehow I still managed to have cookies a little later tonight.

So lots of potatoes, a couple of chocolate chip cookies, a cute movie (in multitask with headshot selection, thesis outlining, and UPTA planning, I did my best not to miss anything in the movie, OK? I TRIED!), and a happily made (and then later received a couple of times, Fewest Dropped Calls my ASS, Cingular!) phone call later, it's time for bed.

And yes, obviously the Conchord I more traditionally favor is Bret. I mean come on, he's got the Pseudo-Jewish looks, the curly hair...I can't help but develop a star crush on him. I'm such a girl sometimes. Ehh, what do you do?

and I fully admit

that I copied my entire facebook profile for my profile for this thing so yes, I depend on facebook. I don't shun it completely. Thanks to Jackie, by the way, for setting this thing up for me. That's right, Jackie did it. Lest someone out there thought I was jockin' his/her blog for some insane reason.

And Louis is through with playing for the night. He's retired to his favorite place to sleep other than in the bed. Good dawg. Easy.

a title less sexually suggestive...

Not that I don't appreciate Jackie's first blog title. I do, it's just a little graphic.

So, I'm finally starting a blog. It's something I've been wanting to do for over a year now, and one reason I didn't do it was the advent of what was first perceived as brilliant, the phenomenon of online social communities. I thought, "oh, well there's myspace and facebook, I can just put whatever on there and the people I'd want to read it will read it there." Not so, however.

Most of the people I'd actually want to read the things I would have to say or report are not on facebook or myspace, and the extreme public exposure of those sites is starting to freak me out a bit just in general. I actually joined both of them a long time ago, Friendster too, and canceled my accounts with all three, only to get sucked back in to the first two. And don't get me wrong, it's good to get to see in a really quick scan what shows about 50 different theatre friends all over the country are doing, which folks from high school are married, who's having babies (definitely not me), and I'm really loving the recent addition of several former teachers and seeing their status postings about having a sandwich. However, I have seen hours of my life tumble down the drain looking at pictures of that trashy 17 year old girl I did a show with once posing with her friends in terribly unseasonable clothes, clicking bleary-eyed through free gifts given to me for Christmas under my virtual Christmas tree, and looking at the status updates of that girl who is "my friend," who was apparently in University Theatre w/ us at NCSU, but I can't quite remember ever meeting her. I can't do it anymore. My brain is full of useless information about people I don't even really care that much for, and I'm a smarter girl than that. I know better.

I have a thesis to write, I have a stack of books I'm excited about reading, I have tons of music I want to listen to without distraction, I have an adorable little dog who's looking up at me, snaggle-toothed and wide-eyed, waiting patiently for me to turn away from the computer and throw his rope bone again. Good thing I've spent the last couple of hours or so setting up this blog. Now it's time to unpack my brand new laptop. I have such trouble getting motivated to write my thesis in my own apartment, now that I finally have a laptop, I can go to teahouses/bookstores/libraries/etc and get this thing finished once and for all. Not to mention the beauty of freshly french-pressed Sumatra while you're writing about Jewish chicks who sing their primary question in life to God. So yay for the new Compaq Presario. I may ban facebook from it. But Gchat stays, as it's built in to gmail. Nobody's perfect.

Popping my blog cherry

Margaret-Ellen's original and unoriginal thoughts go here...