Quotes of the Week

love

love > email > text

love - (email + text) = true love

--TiZ

I Am...

...in a word...shit-out-of-luck.

I asked the I-Ching (Where I Establish I Have to Consult Many Mediums Before I Can Leave My House):

I-Ching, how do I make more money creatively?

The answer? Not so hot. First of all, there was this pic...

Really? I mean, really?

Well, that is one unhappy looking queen, a torrid sky and well...a fuckin' barren wasteland.

The caption? STANDSTILL.

The I-Ching certainly answered my question, didn't it? Don't pull any punches, I-Ching. No need to try and read into THAT one.

But today is the first day of Mercury Direct. Farewell, Mercury Retrograde, you mean son-of-a-bitch. Don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.

SLAM

Schizzy Izzy Part 2

Oh, Katherine Heigl.* Adopting a special needs child named Neighla from Korea is NOT going to get you back into my good graces. Nor will it make me buy a People magazine. Try again.



*Dontcha know this woman and I will eventually meet and she will be the sweetest thing on the face of the earth and I will be proven an AsS and this may be a run-on sentence.

Gratitude3

So filled with grate that I'm not subjecting* myself to this anymore (and really haven't since the 80s).



Who's YOUR favorite?

h/o/t DLC for the heads-up on this video.

*I typoed "suggesting" initially. I probably should** have left it.
**Watch for the upcoming SHOULD post. Oy.

Enough About Me

and my life and my p.o.v.

Tell me how you are, please...either in comment, on FaceBook, or if it's too personal, mizmtizm@gmail.com. Oooooh, or if you know me well enough to have my numbah, give me a ringy dingy. I wanna know. Tell TiZzy.

But Extreme Mullet, if you are reading, I don't mean you.

Happy Sunday, you gorgeous people, you!

So, This Guy Gets on the Subway...*

...with a mullet. Not just any mullet. Extreme mullet (ooh...a new reality show) with 2 inches sticking straight up on top with a tail down to the middle of his back.

For this fashion faux pas alone I would never make eye contact. Stare at the fiesta on his head? Yes. Eye contact? Nuh uh. Add to that the poster of god-knows-what on a stick and the officious air and my head is jammed into my book. I swear New Yorkers are so well read because they like to disappear on mass transportation.

He passes from one end of the car to the other and declaims, "I'm sorry to tell you ladies, but there are no angels on this car, so I will not sing O Holy Night and call forth the spirit."

And all I can think is, "Fuck off, asshole."

Nope. No angel here.

*This might maybe have to become a subway series. Keep eyes peeled.

Dish Diss Decision

The votes have been tabulated and the judges diss-ision is...

OPJK's "Tis a few sheep's plucks short o' an haggis."

And it's not my decision. It's NOT because OPJK used a variated spelling of my nickname.

OPJK - As grand prize winner, we will share this savoury pudding and a dram in the near future. And then, perhaps, barf our guts out (though I admit I LOVED the one I et in Edinburgh).

To the rest of you, I thank you and treasure you for participating and not making me play with myself. (What?) Just playing makes you winners in my eyes.

And I offer you...

Robert Burns' masterpiece, Address to a Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!

Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

Your hurdies like a distant hill,

Your pin wad help to mend a mill

In time o need,

While thro your pores the dews distil

Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,

An cut you up wi ready slight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:

Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,

Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;

The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,

'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad mak her spew

Wi perfect sconner,

Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view

On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

As feckless as a wither'd rash,

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,

His nieve a nit:

Thro bloody flood or field to dash,

O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread,

Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll make it whissle;

An legs an arms, an heads will sned,

Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,

And dish them out their bill o fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

That jaups in luggies:

But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,

Gie her a Haggis!

Oh...I know. I know...

Gratitude2

P.S. Also grateful for the sound of dance--torso hitting torso, hand scraping wall, shoes rubbing floor, breath...

YES

Gratitude

Grateful am I that I went to see La Binoche dance in a piece she co-created with dance partner and choreographer Akram Khan. I can’t explain it…the loveliness of it. And the fact that in the program she is so grateful. And that gratitude shows onstage.

Onstage where she dances. From everything I read, she did not dance before IN-i. Onstage where she sings. She was definitely not known as a singer before this. Is she a singer? Is she a dancer? I don’t know. Why label? Labels are sticky. I know she’s doing something fluidly different at the age of 45 and abandons herself to it. And I know that it moved me to pieces.

Let’s all be so daring. Every day.

Much better than the boob tube.

Schizzy Izzy

I write this in honor of the Grey's Anatomy season premiere that I will miss not only because my cable is out (damn you, TIme Warner Cable) but because I'm seeing Juliette Binoche dance at BAM (coool)...and due to the following sediments.

Okay, so I know it's no news to anyone that Katherine Heigl's character survives. Great. Kill off sweetheart T.R Knight and leave the bitch* behind.

I don't mean that meanly (Yes. I. Do), but C'MON! A little gratitude might be nice, young lady. You were born with talent, a gorgeous face and some huge tatas. You were raised in the town next to mine which is a freakin' bucolic area, AND you get to play with gorgeous leading men on a consistent basis. But instead of gratitude, you turn down an Emmy run and we get to hear, "No. “I do not feel I was given the material this season to warrant a nomination." I'm surprised the writers didn't kill you there and then.

But they didn't. They DID give you some nasty cancer and some pretty great material. Where's your Emmy nomination now? Chandra Wilson and Sandra Oh got them some with far less material. Hmmmm? What happened?

Wouldn't expect one again for maaaaaaaaaaaany years. A little gratitude goes a long way. Alot of ingratitude? Ceaseless.

The word...according to Judgina Navritilova.


*Harsh. I know. I just expected a little better from a Shoreline girl.

PrePONDERance

Yup. I’m done with the pondering methinks.

I love this painting. I do. In fact, you have seen a lot of visuals on la blogue as of late. I’m not quite sure what that’s about other than I’m a child and like pretty pictures. Or I could just be going through a visual phase, which is a bit of a joke since my eyesight is shite and getting worse by the minute.

Who knows?

What I do know is that I LOVE this Chagall…Der Spaziergang. I’ve been told it’s a self-portrait of him and his Bella. I saw it first, I believe, in St. Petersburg in March of 2002. I might be making that up...I saw soooo much in St. Petersburg and I was soooo drunk most of the time in St. Petersburg. And if not drunk, soooo hung-over in St. Petersburg.

But right now I have Der Spaziergang (which means "The Stroll" btw) in postcard format on my desktop and as background on my laptop and iPhone.

I have spent my life flying, especially in dreams. I used to have beautiful out-of-body escapades and flying dreams as a child and they have returned in the last few months. It’s a good sign, methinks.

I LOVE this Chagall.

Since cogency, if I watched any kind of sequence on stage or screen where a person flew of their own volition, I was reduced to a quivering, heaving ball of boogers. Imagine Superman. Envision E.T. Merely think of me in tech for Peter Pan. Poor Wendy, Michael and John had no idea what happened to their gracious Mummy. It borders dangerous. And I have no idea why.

I LOVE this Chagall.

And let me admit I’m not the most grounded of creatures. I think you all may have picked up on that. At times I just float away. I like—LOVE—this but have always felt (and been assured by others) that I needed a stabilizing force to keep me sure-of-foot. What you may not know is that for years I have looked for a man to fulfill the role of that grinning earth-bound creature…to hold my hand and keep violet me from sailing off into the blue. I’ve even used this painting as part of the “Get to Know Me” portion of the partnership program.

I LOVE this Chagall…but this has never worked.

Despite the fact I have what some might consider a strong personality (tee hee), whenever I find someone to hold my hand like this, they not only grasp but squeeze it, and squeeze everything that is precious yet strong about me into the green earth. And I let them. I freely hand over the white flag, acquiescing, “I surrender. You know better. I will live your life.”

Now, there’s something to being a chameleon, something to getting along and it’s a glorious ability to fit in wherever I go, but I have become a secondary character in The Story of TiZ.

This I do not love.

And it took me until now to figure all this out. I do not blame my partners. Not one bit (at least not for this). They probably missed me as much as I did.

So, I will become both Chagall and Bella…rooted in terra firma and holding my own hand as I crown the clouds. I’m not sure how I’ll accomplish this, but I will.

I have to...because until I do, I refuse to go loping down Lover’s Lane. Why make the same mistake again and again? I think I’ve made perfection of that error. It's the era for this cranky canine to learn some new tricks.

Time to be the leading lady of my own life. Top billing. Over the title. BIG LETTERS.

I LOVE this Chagall.

Ponder that. It's a good sign, methinks.

Quote of the Week

"Every now and then go away, have a little relaxation, for when you come back to your work your judgment will be surer. Go some distance away because then the work appears smaller and more of it can be taken in at a glance and a lack of harmony and proportion is more readily seen.”

--Leonardo da Vinci

Rebooting

[Ctrl] [Alt] [Del]

A Penguin Too Far*

Don't fuck with the Penguin.

(Happy, Messler?)

Detour

So many detours…I’m on a train to Connecticut, to go to Rhode Island, to go back to Connecticut, only to come back to New York again—all within 48 hours.

This post is definitely a detour from Marc Chagall and Der Spaziergang and the penguin-punting. I guess we’ll all have to ponder that a pinch longer.

And last but def not least, my life detoured…and I didn’t know it.

To recap the Miraculous Friday episode…I received an exquisite missive from my favorite author. That e is my new pocket pal. And then I discovered love—not the love I set out for with this particular pal, but the Plato credo…and that was goodness. And THEN the subway man sang to me. Me. And I knew I was a pretty girl, Mama.

AND THEN…AND THEN…

The stick fell off the wall.

What?

You heard me. The stick fell off the wall.

Not just ANY stick. THE stick.

Flashback to 1996—I was a princess on the BroadWAY. I started out in a little town, a quiet village, one might say, and ended up at the Palace. Midnight struck a little too soon and I had to flee in a coach that had definitely downsized to a pumpkin. And the horse that drew the coach? Became the Mouse. Some called it Mauschwitz. Some called it Donald Dachau.

I called it sad.

My flight was not easy…wolves howling at my door, threatening to huff and puff and blow my heart down. I got many parting gifts from my palace pals—sustenance for my new life—I left the poisoned apple behind but there were still books, toiletries, libations …my stick. The stick I wielded in the skit to protect myself. The stick given me by the prop master. The prop master who was tone deaf and impervious to singing but who could hear me and my soul for some reason. The prop master who knelt at my feet and sang “Nothing’s gonna harm you” with such pitch-free emotion, I wept.

I have held that stick firmly and dearly for many years and for many years it has held an honored spot in the feng shui career sector of my pied a terre. And for many years I’ve held the sneaking suspicion my career was not my own. But how could that be?

Feng shite.

At 11 pm August 28th, the stick fell off the wall.

I gasped. I belly-laughed. I wept. (If you know me, you know I actually kinda weep a lot.)

And my world exploded.

I stopped being scared. And I stopped caring what people thought of me. And the battle lines were erased. The battlements fell. And I pulled my head out of my ass and could see clearly because I was no longer looking through a belly-button window.

For the first time in forever I don’t feel like a phony. So what if I’m batshit insane? The pixie-faced pinhead is out of the woods and back on the path again. Who needs protection? Not I. Like the Phoenix and Cinderella I can arise from those ashes day after day…happily ever after.

Happy. Ever after.

The End*


*of the detour and the story—not my life. Geez, you’re dark. Oh yeah, please feel free to grab me if you see me toddling off the path again. It can get gloomy in them there woods…

What Tiz Is Doing Instead of Blogging

Penguin punting. Don't knock it 'til you try it.

(Unless, of course, you're a penguin.)

Ponder

Are you pondering the painting? Have you pondered long enough? I don't think so.

Crap. You probably have, but I haven't AND I'm a bit tapped out. I feel bad about that...like I invited y'all to a big to-do at my igloo and then went penguin punting...which to me is preferable to throwing a fete and not having you all show (DAMN 4TH GRADE CLASS), but I doubt you agree.

I'll be back.

And until I am, here's an assortment of pre-masticated treats...like a Whitman's Sampler that your brother has taste-tested...unrequested.

My Bologna Has a First Name

Open Letter

Tuesdays with Ollie

A Day in Ollie-Wood

I'll be back.

I promise.

Trust me.

Der Spaziergang by Marc Chagall

Ponder

And when you're done pondering, I will return.

Quote of the Week

Action is its own reward.

--Spiderman

(I have to point out that a couple of weeks ago it was "Quote of the Weed." Typo? Freudian slip? Chi sa...)

New School, Part Two

Yup…a gig. There’s a GIG. My career is momentarily out of the Entertainium…woo freaking hoo. Just a week long engagement though, so don’t relax yet. Don’t think I’ve got it made. I am not Maid in Manhattan.

Sweet Jesus, wasn’t that an awful movie? If you haven’t seen it, run, don’t walk away. Bluugh.*

But again, new school. And this time I know absolutely nobody. Okay, I know the principal (and he is my pal…the playwright), and the teacher (the director…it’s been 13 years), but nobody else. No school chum reunion revelry.

I hope I make new friends. I just may make a chocolate chip cookie pie to buy them off so I don’t get stuffed in a locker…again.

Plus, I’m already the trouble-maker, asking for time off before we even get started, so my reputation proceeds me…as reputations do. Just like 4th grade. 4th grade where I was determined not to cry every day in school as I had in grades 1, 2 and 3…and kindergarten. 4th grade where that determination was blown to smithereens the very first day. The very first day of 4th grade when Ms. Obre looked at me and said, “Oh, you’re the crybaby. I’ve heard about you."

Beyotch.

Her own dog later bit off her nose. I think she had it coming.

Oh, and remember, I look like this…





so making friends ain’t gonna be easy. (Perhaps my looking like this is why my career is slowly circling the Entertainium.)

Wish me luck, would you?

Tonsoflove,
Me


*I also really dislike the movie Love, Actually. Many people dislike me for this...dislike. And will probably...dislike me even more now that I have lumped the two movies together.

The Perils of Facebook, Part Two

I submit this for your viewing pleasure...




Don't let this happen to you. It's just a website, people.

The Dish Diss

AKA, The Foody "Not Too Bright" List

If you've been reading you know I go for...

A few ladyfingers short of a trifle.

Other pops...

A few fries short of a happy meal.
A few burgers short of a combo.
A few tacos short of a fiesta platter.


LET THE GAMES BEGIN...*


*Please don't make me play with myself.**
**What?***
***It's embarrassing.****
****Okay, Tiz. Whatever you want. We'll play with you. *****
*****What?

Mutual of Tiz and Ass's Wild Kingdom or Mutual of Omaha's Tiz and Ass (I can't tell which makes more sense)

I have a houseguest. No, It's not Aunt Flo...although she is visiting for the umpteenth time this year. I heart perimenopause. (Sorry boys, that shan't happen too often.)


I have a mouse. And the mouse’s name is Maue Mischke. Anyone familiar with the Polish language (and its subsequent misspellings and bastard-tizations by git American girls) knows it means, “Little Mouse,” which was my Polish nickname. Why did I have a Polish nickname? Because I worked with a Polish orchestra and chorus in Germany for seven months. Why? Because they paid me.


I had been the proud possessor of said nickname for a number of months when I yelled at the huge Arschkopf of a German producer, begging him, “Bitte, entlassen Sie mich. Ich hasse dich UND die Spiel.” That bad Deutsch translates to, “Please, fire me. I hate you AND the show.” The Polish chorus and orchestra, who had also been abused by the aforementioned Arschkopf (who resembled Jaba the Hut in spirit and visage), applauded and called me “The Maue Mischke that Roared.”


You've gotta love a Polish chorus and orchestra who know of the fabled Duchy of Grand Fenwick.


Why have I given my little furry friend my Polish nickname? Maybe because he has staying power…just like me. Maybe because my parents gave our last dog my childhood nickname. Maybe because I’m a sad, sad pasty-faced girl.


I believe I met Maue Mischke in 2007, when I accidentally flushed him down my toilet. It’s a little trippy when you squat to drop the kids off in the pool and see a floater…doing the mousey paddle. I squealed and flushed, and then wept, thinking, “I killed him.”


I’m not big on the killing.



But miracle of miracles he came back…or at least I like to believe he did. Remember, I can see the world through such rosy eye wear that I once exclaimed blissfully, “Oh, would you just look at the rats playing in the moonlight.”


So, let’s just say he came back. Work with me here.


Despite the fact I rarely offer him anything, he generously leaves me presents. At first I thought they were chocolate shavings—wasn’t that a rude awakening. Sometimes he likes to say hello. Rude hostess that I am, I throw a shoe and yell “Go away,” which is the only time he moves with any alacrity. The rest of the time he might as well be Baby Hughie, moseying along, singing, “I’m bringin’ home my baby bumble bee.”


And he shouldn’t be moving that slowly because I did accidentally leave him some gifties. Last year he got into hermetically sealed, daily doses of vitamins. He enjoyed everything but the fish oil capsules, which he methodically left underneath the stovetop. Do you know what that smells like? Took a month of scrubbing, air fresheners and my Ionic Air Quadra to wash away the childhood memories of Long Island Sound lowtide.


Oh wait, it does make sense. My bad. If he had only taken the fish oil, his arthritis wouldn't be flaring up and he’d be gliding along a la Peggy Fleming.


But it’s time for him to go. Three times in 24 hours he has meandered through the living room. As I fear the sight of…*




and I don't wish to host a...

I have bought…

It seems to be the most humane. Peeps have suggested poison, sticky paper, zappers and death traps. I’m going G's sweet way and then offering him a life of vacay in the citay in distingue Central Parque...

Sometimes friendships need a little distance.

*Truth be told, if Maue Mischke were actually wearing the jaunty chapeau and lederhosen, he'd be staying. Although that might have made him popular in the Rambles.

Pixie-Faced Pinhead in the Animal Kingdom

If I were an animal...

Ooogie ooogie ooogie ooogie.

On Being in the Business of Show

BEFORE YOU SIGN ON THE DOTTED LINE, realize that you are signing away your rights to live where you want, when you want, do what you want to do, go where you want to go, get married AND most likely have children. You’ll work hours few others can imagine. Kiss away holidays. Say hello to judgment…and, most likely, a cat. Take a gander at the old folks who hang out in the mid-town telephone and toilet (Actors Equity Association Lounge on 46th and Broadway, 2nd floor…for you civilians) making pirate hats from newspapers. If a life upon the wicked stage still appeals to you, PLAY BALL!*

And I have played ball...a lot of ball…until recently. Honest to God, I think my career’s in the crapper. I sang in something called an Entertainium in the Catskills the other night.


You don't believe me?

Nobody puts baby in the corner!!

I am supposedly now an honorary Hebe from the Hood.

I believe the definition of Entertainium is entertainment crapper. The ball has officially fallen in the Entertainium. I have been back for three weeks and two days and although I have sung in the retirement community equivalent of Grossinger's, I have not had one audition. Not ONE! Have my agents forgotten me? Are there that few auditions? Is it because I’m fat? DON’T ANSWER THAT! Is it because my skill set is so limited? I’ve learned to play the ukulele for chrissake. Maybe because I’m in late my 40s? Tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me.

At least I don’t have a cat.

Yet…



*Excerpted from another tiny tome. I have time to write tiny tomes because MY CAREER IS IN THE ENTERTAINIUM!

Quote of the Week

If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world, and a desire to enjoy the world. That makes it hard to plan the day.

-E.B.White

Happy Labor Day

Why is it called Labor Day if it's a day off? I think it should be called Do-Whatever-the-Fuck-You-Want Day. Let's petition Congress.

I'm turning off my puker* and my iPhone and playing. Wheeeeeeee!

What did you do on Do-Whatever-the-Fuck-You-Want Day? Do tell.

tonsoflove,
me

*I wrote this on Saturday...a day of labor. Labors of love, but labor.

The Perils of Tiz and Ass

Hello, shiny happy people!

I invited you to the playground and you CAME! Thank you...you are all generous and lovely and obviously have exceedingly good taste.

And might I say, I gave a couple of hundred of you the opportunity to politely request I stop fucking spamming and none of you did. How sweet! I did, however, receive one "I don't blog. I don't spin. Proud of it." which I found rude as I have done free work helping create and promote this rudester's endeavours but...never miiiiiiiiind.

There have been questions and concerns and I'm going to address them ('Twould be easier for me if you would address your concerns to the "comment" box but I'll accept them in whatever box they arrive.)...starting here, starting now.

With a little instruction booklet and map.

TIZZY'S GUIDE TO THE LEFT SIDE OF HER TIZ AND ASS

To the left of the blog you will see a delightful little strip with other kinds of information. If you left click on the delightful face downing a pint of ale in a very hung-over manner from a 100-year-old brass mug in a pub in London (OY!), you will learn a little bit (a very little bit) about the pixie-faced pinhead herself. For a number of reasons, which will probably become apparent, I don't use my proper name as a blogger...nor my proper face. I think a certain level of anonymity is freeing (despite the fact I sent a bunch of you shiny happy people an email with my full moniker). I also keep most friends incognito. And if I haven't, it's usually because they said it's okay. Sometimes I just forget. Sometimes I'm an ass.

In the drunk-ass Tizzy face information, it gives the option for "Team Members." What in hell is that? Anybody know? If so, do tell...I know NOTHING!

Next on the left is the ability to subscribe to Tiz and Ass and its comments. What fun. I might have to try it myself.

Next, in little tiiiiiiny letters, is the invitation to follow me on Twitter. Thing is, you have to sign up for Twitter. I originally did it at the request of my friend King (and in Iranian time) to help the peops in Iran get their information out. Did it help? I don't know but it was a mighty lovely gesture from King, methinks. Now my tweets are essentially lite-brite diaries of loathing. Whatever gets you through the night, alright?

Next on the agenda is "Where in the World is Tiz and Ass"--my counter. Seems Tiz and Ass has made its way around the world. I'm shooting for Antartica and some puerile penguins. Any suggestions?

Down, down into the bowels of hell is the invitation to "follow." Oh do. You can meet my other "followers." This all makes me sound like some kind of strange, backwoods, hominy, religious leader. Remember to wear your black Reeboks. Tonight's menu will be Marie Callender's Chicken Pot Pie.

Finally...the blog archives--where you can find yourself swimming in the morass of Tiz and Ass for hours at a time. A kind of quicksand time sink. Something I think we all need.

Gotta go. Rest now. Map later.

tonsoflove,
me

The Perils of FaceBook

Alrighty, so we've all done a few stupid-ass things on the Book of Face. There are photos of me available that I should just beg to have removed...oh, don't go looking...I have already untagged myself. There are TaB Cola photo wars going on with a nice boy named Rich. I recently had a dare with a nice boy named Clarke that if he friended me, I would update my status to

"Tiz had a bowel movement."


(I have this opinion that people update their status far too often. Not truth. Just opining.) Anywho, he friended me and I updated, although I added his name to the update, a la


"Tiz had a bowel movement, Clarke."


He felt it looked like I had named the BM after him.

Score 1 for Team Tizzy

But I have never witnessed (or committed) anything as stupid as...

and just in case you do not have bionic vision, let me transcribe...in the order that it would have appeared on FB. I believe it was out and about a little more than a week ago.

Let me just note that Tracy is engaged. And I don't think his name is Michael. And let's hope said fiance isn't on FB.

_____________________________________________________________

Tracy - Thank you too, Micheal. I had a great time as well. I'm glad you enjoyed my OTHER pussy :). I must admit I have haven't had sex in a while, so getting mounted by such a strong and powerful man was a pleasant surprise after so many long months of abstinence. I hope this message doesn't scare you off. I just wanted you to know what a wonderful time I had with you. You are permanently invited to "the love-cave-between-my legs" (59 minutes ago)

The comments start pouring in immediately...

Tracy - Oh no! Somebody please tell me how to erase this!!!! I wrote inside the wrong box! How embarrassing :( (59 minutes ago)

Jeff - Nice (57 minutes ago)

Tracy - No! Please, tell me how to get rid of this post! (56 minutes ago)

Jeff - Don't know how - the whole world knows you got laid. lol (56 minutes ago)

Tara - opps - wow Tracy, ya still got it!! :)

Julie - Go to the right corner of the message and click hide! :) By the way congratulations!

Donna doesn't officially comment on the post but scribbles on the wall...

Donna - Oh Tracey, seriously! You didn't think FB was private did you, that's why they have the option to send an email. (30 minutes ago)

And back to our previously scheduled commenting...

Tiffany - OMG Tracy!! :) (24 minutes ago)

_________________________________________________________________

Does anyone believe Jeff didn't know how to delete that status update? Does anyone believe Tracy is still engaged? Why wasn't she having sex if she's engaged? Isn't that one of the perks of being engaged? OMG, is her fiance in Iraq or something?

Tracy. A few ladyfingers short of a trifle. Something to aspire to.

Love and Loss

So, ages ago I was at a dinner party…let’s just call it a daunting dinner party. There were a total of 18 people, only one of whom I knew, and as I would not be allowed to sit next to him at dinner (Did I mention it was a posh daunting dinner party?), I was a wee bit fucked.

What other aspects made it daunting? Loads o’ famous directors, actors, artists, writers, bgillionaires and infamous quirks.

And me. And if just being "me" (the pixie-faced pinhead) wasn't bad enough, I was the soul American (and that ain't no typoo).

Mommy, make the lambs stop screaming.

I donned my scuba mask, snorkel and flippers (aka, got sozzled) and dove right in. Since people tend to like me (I have noooooo idea why) I supposedly did swimmingly but I credit the non-sinking of my soul to my favorite author.* She was there and she was my elfin waterwings.

She has been my elfin angel for fifteen plus years. She has written two paragraphs about kissing so intelligently erotic they are part of my seduction script. Oh…shut up. We all have a script and you know it.

She wrote the most heartbreaking opening line to a book EVER. “Why is the measure of love loss?”

She wrote my favorite book, a book so beautiful that whenever I see it, I buy it, read it again and gift to someone I love.

When I informed her of this she stated, “Well, I guess we’ll let you stay.”

And she made the stay oh-so-worthwhile.

Months later, around the anniversary of my dad’s death, I discovered her blog. I hadn’t known when we met that she had recently lost her dad. I sent her a message in a bottle regarding that particular kind of love and loss. I sent the e to her across the sea, but certainly never expected a response…we had spent at best (and it was the best) an hour and a half talking.

Last Friday, I received (and I excerpt because some things just can’t be shared)…

“You are intelligent and full of feeling and those things together (not one or the other) make it hard to avoid either the pain or the pleasure or the curious closeness they share. X”

Oh my...she wrote me my own blessed personal flotation device. How ever did I get this lucky?

*If you slog into my blog you can most certainly ascertain the identity of this delightful creature..but I ain't sayin' nothin'.

Did I Really...

...write this post on the 3rd? Or did I want the notoriety of having posted my ass every day of September (but possibly forgot one little day so I cheated)?

Hmmm...you tell me.

Note to self: Definitely do not use BlogSpot for date and time stamp copyright purposes.

Quote of the Week

"I don't stay stupid long."

--Sande Shurin

http://www.sandeshurin.com/

Full Frontal Circle

At some point, I’m sure I flogged the blog about a break-up.* I was probably trying to be discreet as I had no interest in dissing the Wanker...but I was hurt and heartbroken and the break-up was inevitable and stupid and blah blah blah I was even boring myself. Not the best way to arrive in St. Louis, the land that finds my performance “disgusting.”

Right back atcha, St. Louis.

I had dinner with the Wanker the other night. And it was lovely. He only intimated that I was of inferior intelligence once…which was definitely a step-up from our last encounter. And wow, I was definitely no longer in love.

But there was love. And it was surprising. Amazing how sometimes people have to be friends to love one another…adding the other ingredients just turns it all into an indelible, inedible stew (something at which Tizzy excels). I’m pretty sure he knew about the friendship dish before I did, but because he didn't want to be the bad guy, he failed to mention the change in "today's special."

Somebody else please be the bad guy. I’m tired of being the one to scream, “This is fucking inedible.”

But I did and now there’s love.

And as I rode the subway home, this very funky man serenaded me. Last time I had seen him was when I was going on my first date with the Wanker…and he sang about how pretty I was. Of course the Wanker had quipped, “How do you know he was singing to you?”

Who's a pretty girl, Mama?

I am.


Indelible.

*http://tizandass.blogspot.com/2009/06/ass-and-order.html