So Many Things

I'm supposed to be doing since this renovation began that I'm just not.

What I have been doing is eating. And I've gained 6 pounds in 3 weeks.

What I'm finding fascinating is that my clothes still fit. I know it's not for long and the minute I wash them, I'm toast, but until then...mangez moi.

What I have been doing is going to the gym. It's near my filthy home, yet not my filthy home, so I feel pretty safe there. Especially in the sauna. I love a good sauna. And you can get this once cranked up to 180 degrees. It is a place of respite.

Except when...

The woman with...oh crap...what's it called when you make involuntary noises and curse a lot? Well, she not only doesn't like it when someone else comes in the sauna, she barks. It's fascinating but...not restful.

And then the plastic bag lady. I've complained to management about her before but to no avail. I missed the tell-tale plastics when I entered last time. But her routine tends to be

1. Leave plastic bag in sauna to heat up goodies while showering.

2. Come in and rattle plastic bag, eventually find lotion and juicily slather body.

3. Rattle plastic bag, replace lotion, find razor. Shave. Rattle.

4. Leave and Rinse.

5. Repeat plastic bag rattle, find lotion, apply to hair.

6. Repeat rattle, find comb, brush very long hair that comes out in clumps that are left on floor.

7. Leave and rinse.

I'm never quite sure what happens after that because I throw up in my mouth and have to leave. Although this last time SHE TOOK HER BAG WITH HER! So there I am chanting a la Rainman, "Maybe she's gone forever. Maybe she's gone forever. Maybe she's gone forever." only to find her listening at the door.

Awesome.

At the Russian Spa down on the Lower East Side, the eucalyptus steam room has a sign inside that reads, "No Shaving, Spitting or Picking of Teeth. Thank you, The Management."

I may have to steal it.

And may it be a lesson in courtesy to all. A "one size fits all" maxim.

I Confess

that I read my horoscope. Daily. And not just one. A couple a two three.

Rising Sign scope - Today, Apr. 20, 2011

Old traumas and phobias from the past may be bubbling up from your unconscious, and may have you wondering why you're thinking about such ancient history, and why it's upsetting you. This is actually a healthy process, as it releases outdated, negative emotions to make way for new and positive ones. The Moon is doing the important job of clearing the way for a new awareness.

I had to laugh after what I wrote yesterday.

Let the clearing begin.

Because Gilbert is still here and he's not going.

And I Am Telling You

Now that it's become crystal clear that Gilbert is never leaving...

He actually sang, "And I Am Telling You" to me yesterday.

No he didn't.

But since all that was accomplished yesterday was finishing the closet trim and painting the ceiling in the living room, well, I think he's just having a splendid time and/or the church is trying to gaslight me out of my place.

Okay, why am I writing this? There must be a reason I'm writing this.

Oh yeah. Got it. Finally. Phew. I finally figured out why this whole renovation thingy is making me so sad and cranky and frightened. The last time I was having my home worked on was when I was living in the bachelorette pad near the Cuban Mission. And was playing in the Miss Managed Mischke Show. Things were not going well at work and I wanted to crawl out of my skin. Things were not going well at home and critters wanted to crawl out of the walls....literally.

There were large animals in my walls and large holes in my walls.

Nightmare. AnthropomorTiZm.

One would think 15 years later there was nothing left to dredge up regarding that time.

Think again.

Or don't. Maybe this will finally exercise and exorcise those demons. Make the demons dance 'til they drop.

Lah de dah.

Or they could strike up a rousing rendition of "And I Am Telling You." If they do, I hope they do the skinny, giant-haired Jennifer Holliday version where she does a full-on backbend on the final note. 'Cause then I'll laugh.

The People in the Pic

Two-fold - People in the Picture is the last Broadway (or Great LORTway) show I was ueber-shortlisted for.* Can't complain. Every ounce of the audition experience was extraordinarily wonderful...including both a director and a nine-year-old who spoke fluent TiZ.

Here's the second fold - Because of the renovations (Oh yes, they continue. Gilbert is painting the closet room as we speak and then moving onto the living room, which should take, perhaps, a year.), I'm de-cluttering again...this time with the help of Marylee Fairbanks and The 24 Things. (Check it out.)

Okay...enough with the parenthetical phrases cluttering this post.

I'm throwing away pictures...and the frames they come in. Pictures that make me feel bad. The people in them don't tend to...it's either who gave them to me or the reason they were given that are the issue. There's enough to feel bad about it, I don't need to be reminded...

1. That I missed my brother's wedding. I was poor, I had a job, and it conflicted. Did I hurt my family? Yes. Did I hurt myself? Yes. Was I back on Broadway within three months? Yes. Did that job lead to other amazing jobs? Yes. Was it the right choice? Don't know but I'm really tired of thinking about it.

B. That I once starred in a Broadway show and was not particularly appreciated...by management. I was very much appreciated by a Japanese doctor who took photos of my final curtain call, framed it and sent it to my home address...that had been supplied by the mischke management. Then he started to send me his late mother's clothing...C.O.D...FROM JAPAN. When I returned the second batch he supposedly sent a rather disgusting letter...that a friend read and destroyed believing I didn't need that kind of vitriol in my life.

3. This friend's picture remains.

I wonder if I can throw out pictures that live in my noggin too?

*Oh preposition. Should read "shortlisted for, Bitch."

Home Sweet Home

I didn't realize how much I love my mountain aerie rabbit warren until it was not mine for the resting. I haven't had the joy of sleeping in my own bed since last Thursday night. Due to water damage and the building settling over thirteen years, my walls are reminiscent of Miss Haversham's establishment, and they are plastering, painting and changing out fifty year old kitchen cabinets.

They are making a nuisance of themselves.

It isn't that I haven't been staying in lovely places. Nana's for two nights. A Castle in the Clouds on Park West with a Pretty Princess for three. Beautiful friend's beautiful floor for one (with a delicious and nutritious breakfast made for me this morning). And tonight, a beautiful Bronxville Tudor with a family I have loved for years.

But tomorrow I am reclaiming my territory. I am not looking gift horses in the mouth. I am appreciative to the bone. But I've been carrying my life in a backpack and a shoulder bag while auditioning and conducting business. I need my home.

My super was surprised. He's only known me to be rather joyous and complying.

"Hi. I've been out of my house for a week. It's less than half done. I'm moving back in tomorrow night. You can work on the front of it, entering and exiting from the living room door and I'll close off and live in the back."

"I'll call you later. We had an emergency at the church so we haven't even made it into your apartment today. It should move faster once we're back in."

"No. You won't call me back later. I'm sorry there was an emergency at the church AND something that needed to be finished in another apartment while I was kind enough to vacate mine. The work you've done is beautiful and I'm moving back in now.

"Well, your walls were terrible."

"Yes, well, that is not my fault. Thank you for the beautiful work you're doing and I'm moving back in."

With age comes a pleasant bitchiness.

Tomorrow I will be home. Home. HOME. And it will be sweet.