Plowwy

background to plowwy...





i have a friend. i call her "mommy" (don't tell the real one). she calls me "wowwy" which is, basically, mommy upside down. yeah, that's me...all the goodness and light and nightmares ...but topsy turvy.





she even recently did the 21st century of the "mommy, put my crayon drawing on the refrigerator" thingy...she's a brill artist and she downloaded this pic i i-photoged and is using it as background on her puter.

now...that's a "mommy."

we had a big ol' lunch today and got onto the subject of expectations. we both try to work out of the realm of expectation...with the exceptation...

love, cherish, respect and regard.

i (we, if i may) expect those fab four in the equation. that is what i (we) surround myself (don't make me do it again) with, bitch.* without those, i just don't play anymore.

why "plowwy?" oh yeah...i'm drunk, pissed, sozzled and plowed.

remember kids, never drink and blog.

*never end a sentence with a preposition.

Quote of the Week

We're just going to have to agree that you're wrong.

--Dan from tap class

Google Geek

Because I have limits to my control (and am a honkin' nerd), I went a little wild on the Google and had to see how the rest of my pets fared.

The results are in...

Procrasturbation – 76
Frusturbation – 1 (but we knew that, didn't we?)
Exaspurbation – 1
Crassturbation – 1
Fasturbation – 11
Collapseturbation – 1
Plasterbation – 1
Trashturbation – 1
Crashturbation – 1
Passturbation – 1
Disasturbation – 33
Relaxurbation – 1
Elasturbation – 1
Onassturbation – 1
Embarrassturbation – 1
Lasturbation – 6
Morassturbation – 1
Sassturbation – 1
Prolapseturbation – 1
Molesturbation – 3
Molassturbation – 1
Massturbation - 88
Messturbation – 1

Full disclosure: at times we are the only result, HOWEVER, I, Miss Glass Half-Full, consider this trail-blazing as opposed to...well...pitiful.

Go Go Google

I have not yet learned how to load a captured image onto Blogger, friends, so we'll have to content ourselves with a simple cute and paste (no, that's not a typo) of GOOGLE today because...

WE'RE #1

If you search "frusturbation" today, Tiz and Ass wins.

Thank you for all your tireless mensturbation in making this dream come true.

And thank you OPJK for the heads up. Would love to know why you Googled it in the first place.

Boots, you are immortalized. Congratulations. It is a dubious honor and therefore I accept this award on your behalf. Always remember, "That's no lady. That's Tiz."



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1. Tiz and Ass
Frusturbation – again…you knows what I mean. Penned by my oldest/dearest Boots. ... Exaspurbation – first cousin of frusturbation. ...tizandass.blogspot.com/ - 76k - Cached - Similar pages
2. AutomationDirect Customer Forum - Search Results
Well, that was a frusturbation... I added code to disallow parameter changes while comm was busy. It waits for the comm to go quiet, shuts off comm, ...forum.automationdirect.com/search.php?searchid=66251 - 22k - Cached - Similar pages
3. MySpace.com Blogs - Its Gnarly Carly Bitch!!! MySpace Blog
I went to say " it just sucks when your sexually frustrated so you masturbate" Its came out frusturbation. so the word is. Frusturbation- To masturbate due ...blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.ListAll&friendID=23729264 - 139k - Cached - Similar pages
4. The Codex Forums :: View topic - Fallout 3: Aliens - Since ...
Oh gods, the udders of this once-fine franchise can't take any more stroking. My penis can't any more frusturbation, either :`(( ...www.rpgcodex.net/phpBB/viewtopic.php?p=779311 - 61k - Cached - Similar pages

Tiz and Ass Post Mensturbation Invitational

In the spirit of the Washington Post Mensa Invitational which asks readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition…

LET’S PLAY WITH THE WORD ABOUT PLAYING WITH YOURSELF!!!! Forget the one letter rule…GO WILD!

ME DO! ME DO!!

Procrasturbation – needs no explanation. First heard (by me) uttered by Hunter Bell in [title of show]. At that moment, he became my personal hero.

Frusturbation – again…you knows what I mean. Penned by my oldest/dearest Boots. She has always been my personal hero.

Exaspurbation – first cousin of frusturbation.

Crassturbation – talking dirty to yourself while…

Fasturbation – “I’ve only got 5 minutes. Let’s get to work.”

Collapseturbation – what happens when one becomes friendly with a shower massage at the Yale Club after working out for an hour and sitting in a sauna for 45 minutes and never replenishing fluids. What? Who would be so stupid?

Plasterbation – drunk and up against a wall.

Trashturbation – plasterbation without the wall.

Crashturbation – what happens when you pleasure yourself on the 101 south during rush hour. (I’m not saying this happened to me, people.)

Passturbation – “Honey, I have a headache.”

Disasturbation – talk to my friend, Kevin. Kevin, talk to the good people.

Relaxurbation – a glass of wine, a good book, some mood music and…

Elasturbation – yoga +

Onassturbation – doing it on a luxury yacht on the Mediterranean. Oh…we can dream.

Embarrassturbation – what your parents and Sister Mary Ignatius would like you to be.

Lasturbation – an all night session.

Morassturbation – when ya just get stuck.

Sassturbation – when you feel a sassy little outfit will make you love yourself just a little more. We clean up for everyone else…why not ourselves?

Prolapseturbation – until you are inside out.

Molesturbation – not realizing that "no means no."

Molassturbation – props are fun, right?

Massturbation - what Linda Blair does with the cross in The Exorcist.

Messturbation – the result of what Linda Blair does with the cross in The Exorcist.

YOU DO! YOU DO!!! TELL YOUR FRIENDS! EVERYBODY IN THE POOL!

No expectation. Just pectation for mensturbation.

Failure Becomes Me

What did I write last week in "Quotizien?" Something along the lines of writing daily?

Ha!

Well, I blew that out of the water rather swiftly, didn't I? Despite the fact I have supposedly gargantuan will power (let's just rename it TizPower, shall we?), I'm TERRIBLE with expectations. The minute I set them, I fail to live up to them. Fuck 'em up royally. And so does everyone else. Didn't you peeps out there know I have expectations of you? Didn't you G.I.D.s out there know I have sexpectations? Oh yes, I do. Daily and twice on Sundays. It's good for the heart and would contribute to world peace...at least in my world. We could all drop our gym memberships and taxes would drop as well since we wouldn't have to support the war machine.

But since expectations are rarely met, I'm dropping the ex and living in pectation (in the cul de sac of spectation)...the land of living in the present and perhaps (at best) hoping for the best.

Catch as catch can, baby.

Join me? I have no expectations.

Why Do Stage Struck Maidens Clamor

To be actin' in the drammer?

I don't think it's because of the facilities...


















I venture it's due to the cute boys you sometimes get to dry hump before 11 a.m at auditions.


Life upon the wicked stage.

Quote of the Week

Please do not use your children to hold subway doors.

--announcement on the 5 train

Elizabeth Regina

Long, successful day. Happy--despite the fact my Hep A booster shot has given me something akin to the Porky Pig flu and I have lost the will to live. Uh bduh bduh bduh--that's all folks.

I'm winding down with my late night lover, Jon Stewart, and I have decided that Elizabeth Edwards RULES!

None of us are getting out of this life alive but she is leaving sooner than most. However, she has not lost the will to live, or the will to help others live. That ain't all folks. There she is with her book, Resilience, decidedly uncomfortable, self-deprecatingly funny, with nary a mention of Rielle Hunter.

What does she mention?

Healthcare reform.

Elizabeth Regina

Quotizien

Things I've learned...life is easier with a bit of routine. Since my life is so varied, I used to say that the only thing I was assured of daily was a good poop. Now there's a bit more (no, not poop)...daily meditation, daily fish oil, daily work-out, and the ultimate luxury...daily bath.

And maybe...daily blogging?

Life seems sweeter when reaching out in this manner.

Soooooo...my objective is to jot a little something every day with sturdy entries bi-weekly. I may fail, but what the hey.

In that spirit...

I had my yearly physical this morning. Let me just say I'm healthy as hell. I was also bored as hell, so I started texting.

ME: Naked and 2 1/2 blocks away.
FRIEND: Jeez. Am in ripley greer.
ME: Then am naked and 20 blocks away.
FRIEND: Repeat. Ikm in ripley greer. no naked. xx
ME: Not naked for YOU wanker. xxx
FRIEND: Meant to write not naked. What a difference a t makes.
ME: 24 little hours (please know that song reference). xxx I think I shod hold auditions naked. Everyone would be better.
FRIEND: Is it from a musical?
ME: Pop song early 70s. What a difference a day makes.
FRIEND: Thats so weord was singing that today.
ME: Btw, should have read YOU should hold naked auditions. Not ME
ME: What a difference a word makes.

What a difference a daily word makes. And hopefully just 24 little hours 'til you read me again.

Yesterday

all my troubles seemed...nope...

Yesterday I woke up sincere--terribly sincere--which was fine until I walked out into a tres insincere world. It was scary.

Today is good-er.

You Couldn't Write this...

So...I was trying to respond to some of you dear people's dear comments and of course had to go through word verification to comment on my own blog...just to make sure I'm not phishing or hacking or whatevah.

The word they give me?

Penis.

How do they know?

Your fav word verification? On your mark, get set, PENIS!

Rain, Rain, Go Away, Come Again Another Day

No, I'm sorry. That's not strong enough.

"Rain, rain, fuck off
And don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya."

I know it's good for the crops, but it's not so hot on my soul and since there are no crops in Manhattan, I think we should be exempt. I'm a Leo, and an itty bitty kitty, and this constant condensation makes the hairs on my the back of my neck stand on end, leaving me hissing and spitting.

If I wanted weather like this I'd live in London.

Trifucta Trois

The last in a three part series of…

The Three Most Awful Things I’ve Done in the Pursuit of Thespianism
(or How Rude Can One Girl Be in Rehearsal or Onstage?)

Okey dokey, smokey pokey…here we go down the randy road to hell…and Georgia.

One of my first gigs in theater was at Augusta Opera as Maria in West Side Story. Since I made the leap from opera to theater rather late in life, I felt a little like Bette Davis attempting the role. Since my Tony (a pal from opera shule) was only two years younger, we dubbed him David Niven and a grand twosome was borne.

We played lovers, shared a house, meals and a car. It was a recipe for disaster yet we got along brilliantly. I actually lost my voice I laughed so much. Mix that with the fact that we shared the attention span of a challenged gnat, and we would get lost on our five-mile trip to rehearsal on a daily basis. But I ask you, how can you not love someone who upon seeing you after the first time you’ve driven in 15 years declares, “We have to find something scary for you to do every day because you’re beautiful right now.”

It was a recipe for disaster and it finally struck…a real beauty.

The creative team thought it a fantastic idea to have the two of us spazzes as the center couple in the “Somewhere” pas de six. This is not an easy feat, people. When we finally nailed it, with moves we coined “corkscrew,” “jesus on a stick” and “cooch smooch,” we actually wept for joy.

Two days later, we were calling the waahmbulance for a different reason.

Perhaps I’d had too much TaB. Perhaps he was frustrated because he missed his girlfriend and a pixie-faced pinhead was shackled to him 24/7. But we went for the first lift and he dropped me, muttering, “Stop running at me.”

Second lift? “Stop RUNNING at me.” Plop.

Third lift? A charming “I said STOP RUNNING at me.” As my skinny-ass feet slammed the floor for the third time, I looked at his bare shoulder (Why DO men wear wife-beaters?) and…

I bit him.

I actually bit him.

Did I miss kindergarten altogether?

With Noel Cowardesque repartee consisting of bon mots comme “The bitch bit me,” and “That fucker dropped me,” in front of a cast who had the desperate look of soon-to-be-orphans whose parents were not making it through their marriage alive, we were sent to our corners to await the decision.

It was a draw.

We still had to go home together…for another two weeks.

Scary.

As we approached the car, I murmured, “I’m really sorry I bit you, Matty.”

His response? “No…I’m sorry. I deserved it.”

Beautiful.

Ipso facto, I drove home with my de facto and David Niven and Bette Davis lived happily ever after.

For two more weeks.

Which for me is a long-term relationship.

Thanks for reading. It was nice to get these blatant analities off my chest. I am happy to report I never strike twice.

Hi ho! Hi ho!

It’s back to work I go…
With razor blades and hand grenades. Hi ho!

Who you callin’ a ho?

Yup…I’ve got work starting tomorrow. It’s the theatrical equivalent of a mercy fuck. Hired for a reading I couldn’t possibly be more wrong for but the director likes me and knows I’m in a jam.

So now I’m gonna be jammed in as the creamy filling of an oreo cookie.

Mercy me.

Will hopefully have final installment of Trifucta for you by Friday. It’s a doozie and I’m hesitant to print it because I should have been brought up on assault charges. What’s the statute of limitations on assault in Georgia?

Squat Spot Clarification

Because there has been some concern...

300 pound reclining squat. Only one. Only once. I was terrifying muscular at the time—my pecs overtook my tizzies.

15% body fat. Those days are loooooooooong gone.

Trifucta Redux

Second in a three part series of…

The Three Most Awful Things I’ve Done in the Pursuit of Thespianism
(or How Rude Can One Girl Be in Rehearsal or Onstage?)


I'm actually well-behaved in the workplace. Okay, so I play pass the sausage. Okay, so I break onstage, or as the Brits would say, I corpse. Something goes slightly wrong and so do I. I even have this belief that if I lift my arm and stick my head in my armpit, the audience won’t realize that I’m laughing.

Oh, I’m laughing.

But I actually BAKE for colleagues…chocolate chip cookie pie. Just to share the joy and bond over insane sugar highs. And…to make people love me. I’m bad mommy.

But I think I actually bake because…

I hit a colleague once. Onstage. During a performance. I seem to have missed the kindergarten lesson, “Lil' Tizzy, use your words, not your fists.”

And I even loved him. I did. This love probably (definitely) aided in the death of the Stanford Economist relationship. Still love him. Not, not the economist…the actor. Brilliant actor. Brilliant friend. But he didn’t want to be on the…uh…Poseidon Adventure tour anymore. Neither did I. We sadly handled our similar situations tres different-les. I tried harder. He tried less.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay less.

For two weeks straight he didn’t play with me at all. This, for me, is the equivalent of a parent withholding love because I’ve been naughty. (Therapy anyone?) And when he finally looked at me onstage, threw up his hands and said, “Fuck it,” I went a skoche postal.

I elbowed him in the stomach, doubled him over and jogged my jolly way. I don’t think I meant to hit him quite so hard but since I was boxing, bench-pressing 100 pounds and squatting 300 (yeah…that’s right…300), I perhaps did not know my own strength.

Imagine the backstage scene (always better than the real show)…

“Why the fuck did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Hit me.”

“Ummm…that was an accident.”

I obviously do not make my living in improv.

Bless his wife. When he told her of the blow, she said, “What did you do wrong?” I hit him and he gets the blame—ahhhh, the talents of the baby of the family.

We never used our words. It was never mentioned again and we played in the sandbox harmoniously until our tearful farewell.

And I take my rage out on pastry.

Slice of choco-chip pie anyone?

Quote of the Week

Oh, I wish I could...

but I don't want to.

--Phoebe, Friends

The Trifucta

First in a three-part series of…

The Three Most Awful Things I’ve Done in the Pursuit of Thespianism
(or How Rude Can One Girl Be in Rehearsal or Onstage?)

The reason I feel I can out these crimes against acting—let’s call them thespianage—is that I’m a pretty cool colleague. Most theaters have me back. Most directors hire me again. Alrighty…one theater and one director won’t, but since I consider him Satan and his theater is in “Bend Over Squeal Like a Pig, Virginia 66666” I’m just fine with that.

Alrighty, so I’ve lied to get a job. Who hasn’t? When the Mouse asks how tall you are and you know you’re more than an inch over the height limit, you slump and lie. Doesn’t take a genius.

“Do you dance?”

“Sure.”

Those are little ones and givens, however… [music morphs to space-age time warp]

Many many moons ago I was doing a piece of theater I should never have been doing. In fact, I was doing TWO pieces. Despite the fact I knew I shouldn’t be within a ten foot pole of these extravaganzas, I did them—needed the insurance weeks, baby. In fact, I have been known to stand in the Mid-Town Telephone and Toilet (AEA Lounge for you neophytes) with a cardboard sign, scribbled terrifyingly in crayon, “WILL WORK FOR INSURANCE.”

Anywho, there I was at this theater, having a shomance of all things and I was jilted.

“Really, Tiz? You?”

“Yup. Uh huh. Me.”

Too bad he did it right before opening night. Too bad he hadn’t learned his lines. And too bad the line he forgot cued a whole big shebang ‘o mine, ‘cause too bad I was way too tired to get creative and sassy and fix it (after all I was working for insurance).

So I fed him his line.
Downstage side.
Verbatim.
Stage-whisper.
Loud enough for both our mikes to pick up.

Ooops.

Honest to God, I was trying to be helpful but the look on his face as he repeated the line…to this day I can be at a funeral, think of that face and still hack up a lung guffawing.

Maybe this is why my career’s in the crapper.

Stay tuned for part two in our three part series. Like all things, it gets worse…I promise.

Pooh's Piglet-cide

Is Pooh a Pig Farmer too?

Dear Labramom

Oh, I love the interactive quality of this—feels like eHarmony without the Smarmony. Except I’m straight…which is the only way one can be on eHarmony (topic for later discussion, yes?).

Do I know you, dear Labramom?

Yes, YEs, YES to what you say—the brilliance of Jefferson, Doug, Christine, Grey Gardens,The Musical…

Little known fact—soon after I saw the musical and watched the documentary ceaselessly for two days, I spent a day as Little Edie. It started out as an exercise for acting class, but morphed into lunch and a walk up the west side, across the park and up to my mountain aerie…nobody seemed to mind or notice the lady (term used loosely) wearing torn hose, a sweater for a skirt and the omnipresent turban.

Full-frontal stolen identity.

Liberating.

Tons,
The Pig Farmer

A Hacktress in New York

So, my friend Jeff Applegate invited me to the Tribeca Film Festival to see a movie (Duh. Really Tiz?) he was in. Turned out to be the U.S. premiere. Turned out to be An Englishman in New York. Turned out to be a loaded evening.

For those who don’t know, Englishman is about the latter years of Quentin Crisp, the 20th century’s foremost individualist. A movie about his former years, The Naked Civil Servant, probably opened the door for more closeted individuals than imaginable. Bless anyone who can offer the soundbites (and watch me misquote yet again)…

“It's no good running a pig farm badly for 30 years while saying, 'Really, I was meant to be a ballet dancer.' By then, pigs will be your style.”

“If at first you don't succeed, failure may be your style.”

“Who would you be if you were the only person on the face of the earth? That is who you should be.”

Mommy!

I was in “setting the spirit free” heaven from the moment I saw Quentin strutting down the streets of New York in all his glory. In fact, I started to hyperventilate. Hadn’t hyperventilated in a movie since the talent portion of Little Miss Sunshine (“We just have to let Olive be Olive.”), or in a theater since Grey Gardens (netflixed the movie and played it continuously for two days). Is it something about the individual being so deeply who they are without reserve?

Full-frontal individuality.

Or had I seen him on my many trips to the Village in the 80s? Is that why he looked so familiar? Or did he just look so familiar because I spent so much time in the Village in the 80s. I arrived in New York in 1986 to attend Manhattan School of Music as an opera student, and crikey, I did NOT fit in. Ever. I was a bad pig farmer. But spend the end of my first week on 12th Street drinking something toxic and eating brownies with Bunny, Muffy and Trixie, watching Polyester and Pink Flamingos? Set my ballet spirit free.

Btw, Bunny, Muffy and Trixie were their after-six names. Mine? Fo Decolletage. Now it should probably be Miss Quote.

Back to the flick—John Hurt reprises his role as Quentin. Imagine having the opportunity to play the same character 30 years older 30 years later? I’ve never seen anything fit so seamlessly before. Close, really close was Jefferson Mays as the Tranny Granny in I Am My Own Wife. I almost left the business after I saw his performance because if that was acting (which it was) I certainly wasn’t doing it. And if I almost left the business then, what about now?

A Hacktress in New York.

I was a bad premiere date and bagged in the end (which was really mean ‘cause Jeff was great in the film).* I tried to brave it but when explaining my Bunny/Muffy/Trixie days I realized those glorious men were dead. I needed to go home and digest. I needed to go home and digest pig-farming and ballet-dancing and failure and style.

Maybe now that I’ve mourned the past and see the full-frontal possibilities of the future…

Tonight I’m in acting class.


*If Jeff had sucked this would not have been mean. (Sometimes I'm amazed I have friends.)

The Circle of Life

Many, many thanks to those of you who vidi, vince e venne…e scrive. It’s been a real cheerer-upper. Ya see, I’m detoxing. Nah, I’m not in some facility (although I’m feeling like I should be)—it’s a dietary detox. No red meat, dairy, eggs, gluten, caffeine, sugar, sugar substitute, citrus, alcohol units...or TaB. Okay, I’m allowing myself one Nectar of the Gods a day or I don’t think I'd survive. I have zits. I have hives. I honestly feel like I snogged the little kid who snogged the pig. I do NOT feel good.

But what does feel great are your responses. I have a few favorites—

“Sure you were an awesome piece of tiz & ass.”

”Not sure what this is, but I probably won’t attend since I’m at work.”

“Love. Your. Blog. LovettLovit!”

“All Pregnant Women Should Drink Tab.”

“I love the way it says: so and so plans to attend Tiz and Ass. That's hot.”

“…and speaking of the March sex life…you know it's bad when you start browsing through manhunt pages for random other COUNTRIES to see if there's anybody more appealing anywhere else in the world!!!”

And last but def not least, Tish’s

“I read my 12-year-old your (uncensored) sex-free apartment comments and she was rolling. I think she wants to know how I actually know anyone that funny when I am, well, mom.”


OH MY GOD! I actually de-friended my nephews from my Facebook account because…well…they’re my nephews…AND THEY’RE 17 AND 20. I just couldn’t have them read about the Adventures of Aunt Goddess. If I ever get to be a mom, I’m hoping I’m as cool as Tish, who is, btw, very funny.

I actually met her 12-year-old within a year of obtaining the apartment that sex forgot. She was all of two, and I was on a sit-down of the national tour of…ummm…The Poseidon Adventure….yeah, that’s it…in L.A. I was involved with an economist from Stanford (because we had sooooo much in common) and would fly up to Palo Alto weekly to get me some of the stuff that my apartment was withholding. Lo and behold, college friend Tish lived in the area and we reunited with some Riunite (on ice—that’s nice)...before lunch. In that definitely toxic state I watched my first Teletubbies.

And I outed Tinky Winky. A week before Jerry Falwell. I outed Tinky Winky to a beautiful two-year-old. Who wouldn’t with the gay-pride color and the handbag and the high voice and the glorious triangle antenna?

Seems others wouldn’t have. But I did. Unlike the Christian Right, we did NOT boycott Tinky Winky…or Dipsy, Laa-Laa or Po. We watched them that much more. And the fact that I remember all their names may be why I’m detoxing today.

Oh, the Circle of Life.

Estoy Embarrassed

Ummm...Mrs. O'Leary's pig?

What in hell is going on down there in Mexico-land?

Just say "no" to the snout snog.