Happy 8000

You e-lightful Bleaders. You did it!

You and the Arabic readers where TiZ translates to something along the lines of "hoo hoo."

I know there are some blogs that reach 8000+ hits in a day, but since I remain Ann Anonymous, do not promote (other than the occasional shout out on the Book of Face), and am just "the nicest random blog I've ever come across,"* I count myself mighty blessed.

As a result of a kick in the AsS from Labor Day (which I will spend sacked on the soporofic sofa with a head cold...which is strange 'cause I'm in Tucson where it's so dry I have no boogers), I vow to labor (in a Tizzy the light fantastic way) more with my writing.

See you in the land of 0s and 1s...it's Heaven.com.

*Thank you, random reader from India...where TIZ does not mean "hoo hoo."

I Thank You

You who commented. You who didn't turn your backs on Ye Olde TiZ and AsS when I took my momentary blug leave of absence. Ooooh...a bleave of absence.

After the previous blug, I think the reason is obvious.

By the way, I DID clean and I DID find someone who wanted to take care of my apartment for me whilst I am away.

And I DID see an almost secret Eddie Izzard concert in a tiny venue. Genius.

And I CONTINUE to work with the sweetest group of people in the history of theater.

Life is Good.

Love, Loss and What I Ate

LOVE

I went to L.A. for three days or so. Not for the reason I expected but for the reason I needed. To see friends. And not the friends you often read me write about (I was going to write "hear me write about" but that just seemed too stoopid for written word) but the ones I obviously needed to see.

First stop-Larry. Larry and the dogs. Larry who has been around electronically for years but only recently again personally. I'm glad the recent has happened. Larry is a good man. A great man. With great dogs. We went hiking 'cause that's what I wanted/needed to do. I find talking easier when there is physical activity involved. I find almost any interaction easier when physical activity is involved. Keeps me out of my head. Keeps me honest.

And then I scampered away to my

Second stop-Death and the Props Goddess. Yes, that's right. Death and the Props Goddess. We're going way back...Yale. Dr. Death was renowned because he could take one toke or your pot and tell you what kind it was and WHERE IT WAS GROWN. Yes, he was the Henry Higgins of Pot. To the extent he took my roommates mom's crop and murmured, "Sens. Westchester?"

Bingo!

The Props Goddess did props for the Yale Precision Marching Band. She earned the moniker rightly. If you've never seen them, youtube 'em. Raucous, underhanded, overt musical joy. Death was the announcer (as well as a brilliant organist who serenaded thousands of tripping Yalies with Bach Toccata in D minor at the yearly Halloween Concert at Woolsey Hall). I fondly remember their "Salute to Communism" and the quick cut-to-commercial on national tv.

Anyway...that's who they were. Who they are? AWESOME. I never spend three hours over dinner. I spent three hours over dinner.

Third stop-Harriet. I love her. Have worked with her. Barely know her. But love her. She is funny and smart and thoughtful and thought-filled and kind.

Fourth stop-Kevin. Hiking with Kevin. Kevin makes me laugh and I envy Kevin 'cause Kevin lives his dreams. Hanging with Michael. Who knew I needed to see Michael? Loopy, efficient, generous Michael. Callie. Who knew I needed to be dry-humped by Callie? Don't get excited. Callie is a dog. Debra Jo. I knew I needed to see Debra Jo. Debra Jo always makes time. And she knew I needed an attitude adjustment. Little did she know how much.

Fifth stop-Kieran. Warped Kieran. He drinks TaB. He's a film-maker. He's wicked and wicked smart.

Sixth stop-Sus and her baby sirens. All delicious, gnawable creatures who put things in a new perspective.

Seventh stop-Sistah. We have not seen one another in eight years. We played identical twins. We would like to play twins again. This would take some weight loss on my part. She is married to the delicious Rafe and mother to another awesome siren. She has NOT turned into a soccer mom with a muffy hairband as she feared. I needed to see her. I'm not quite sure why yet but maybe someday...

Eighth stop-Nemo. She has a real name but I like Nemo. When we met 14 years ago, I was in the midst of some naughtiness and kept repeating, "I'm telling no one." Well...Nemo means "no one" so that's how I got away with confessing my sins. We continue to confess and absolve and shriek and cackle over life. She buys me TaB. Her almost teenage siren was there too. If all I created on this earth was this young woman, I would die happy. Nemo is the best. Mother. EVER.

Ninth stop-Eddie. He's new. He's Nemo's. I like him.

Other things I loved-Von's had TaB. The Tangerine Hotel. The Troubador Players' production of A WHITHERS TALE. My CaR and San Diego...and Newport Beach and Encinitas.

LOSS

Oy. It started with a director saying I was not right for a role I had played to great success before, so I would never be playing her again.*

Within an hour, the job for which I had booked a ticket to L.A. (and then to Tucson) was pulled due to ridiculous legalities that folks have overlooked for twenty some-odd years. Thank you, ridiculous legalities. I now have a residence in L.A. so you can never ridiculous legality me again. Since the ticket was non-refundable, L.A.--here I went.

While hiking with Larry, I learned that George David Weiss had passed. You may not know him by name, but he wrote WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD, THE LION SLEEPS TONIGHT and CAN'T HELP FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOU. He also wrote my first princess musical which put me on the map with an Atlantic Records original cast recording and a Warner Home Video. We hadn't spoken in ages and he was quite aged (Don't read this, Nana.) but we had worked together for five months and were good drinking buddies, so it made me melancholy. Workable melancholy but nonetheless...

And then...

Andy died. I'm not going to give you his full, delicious moniker because...well...he never asked to be included in something entitled TIZ AND ASS. But Andy was an ER doctor, a highly-regarded Ivy League professor and researcher. And while riding his Vespa to work he was hit by a truck.

And he died.

When his brother-in-law called to tell me, he wanted to make sure I wasn't behind the wheel. Why compound the issue, eh?

Honestly, Universe, you couldn't have picked on some exec from an investment bank bail-out who took his undeserved "stolen" yearly bonus and went to Cancun?

You had to take Andy?

Andy was a part of my Yale escapades that I hold madly near and dear. An episode of my life I rarely write about because I hold it so strangely sacred. A group of guys who, no matter what I did, made me feel like I was brilliant and cared for and a lady. They are a part of my secret arsenal. And Andy was a kind and loopy and generous and talented and absolutely brilliant bullet.

As I wrote one of my friends, "my most recent fond memory of andy was at the reunion, post-cemetary when we all gathered at the non-working fountain in front of stirling. andy just dropped a beautiful nugget of why we had to cherish the kind of discourse owned only by the sob's because it was precious and existed nowhere else.

i hate this for all of you. the earth does not seem to be spinning on its axis correctly."

I made the sadness workable for a little while. People to see and love, you know.

Now I just hurt. If you feel like being angry with God, I'm your girl. Call me. But I may be asleep since that's what I do when sad. When the going gets tough, Tizzy gets her AsS to bed.**

WHAT I ATE

I ate a lot. I've become a nervous eater. L.A. and its environs sustained me with...

peanut butter

chocolate chip cookie dough

Snicker's bar

Japanese vegan

Spinach salad with a pig's worth of bacon

Bob's Big Boy Bacon Cheeseburger with avocado and fries

chorizo omelet

chips and guac

a GINORMOUS shrimp quesadilla

a GINORMOUS honey bun

bagel with peanut butter and butter

Carvel large chocolate cone

and...

2 12 packs of TaB.

All in three days.

Burp.

*Okay. You'll find that the tapestry of the show unravels if you change the quality of that character. It's not the book and it's not the movie. Go with God (the one I'm currently rather angry with).

**Actually, not sure I believe in GoD. Working on that. I do believe in the human spirit. And I also believe that my AsS will not remain in bed for long.

I Am Well Aware...

...that I suck major blog weenie. If any of you are still out there, I will slog and flog through a real live blog tomorrow.

It Is Official

I cannot write when I am with family. This is not procrastination. This is not an excuse. It is utter reality.

And today I rest.

Tons of love,

Me

A Little Nibble of Joy

$3 Part 2

I wrote something hear and then hit VIEW BLOG which erased it all. Of course it was quite pithy and profound.

Let's just leave it at...I'm gonna owe a lot of money.

Tons,

meeeeee

$3

So, have you been bleading...blog-reading...MY blog to be exact...recently? (I think those should be dub dashes don't you?)

I think today I may have to give $3 to charity.

My world exploded last night. Got a tentative offer on a gig that could end up being beaucoup bucks. I will have to leave for Tucson three days earlier than expected.

So clean clean clean. Find subletter subletter subletter. See friends friends friends family family family. Give shit away way ay.

All this (and the rest of a regular day) I could handle.

But I have to deal with FREAKIN' WORKERS' COMP some more. Another hour wasted today. Just gone. And some of my soul ...gone too. I have never had to deal with them directly. I have never had $1000 bill come to me directly...TWICE. I have never not had a theatre deal with it. I have never...well, I guess I have now but I liked it better when I'd never.

I'm an artist, goddammit. Not an accountant. Nothing against accounting, or business managing or anyone dealing with money. I was offered a job on Wall Street back in '89 in research. And while I learned the trade they offered to start paying my $150,000 a year salary.

And I said no. It's not who I am. Although I am quite good at investing, it's not where I live, breath or poop.

Sometimes I'm stoopid.

This is my lame-ass way of saying I don't think I'm going to get an hour of writing in today. Will writing this and then reading my play research on the bus to and from from the chiropractor (that's another hour and a half out of my day) count?

Please say yes.

Oh, Jack!

Turns out I know Jack. Turns out I beat up on someone who was trying to do good. Who I have never witnessed doing anything but good. Put it this way, we did a gig called FANNY HILL together at the York. At the penultimate performance, when Fanny and I arrived in her new bedchamber, we discovered props had left a ginormous dollhouse from the previous night's performance. It represented a mansion at the end of the show. At the beginning of the next day's show it was just a GINORMOUS PAIN IN THE ASS. So, I took it offstage, down a treacherous spiral staircase, in a corseted dress with a train, cackling the entire way.

By the end of the performance, there was a bottle of VERY nice vodka awaiting me in my dressing room...from Jack.

Jack does good. And Jack was trying to do good again. And he did. He explained what he meant and he included his name, occupation, email address and current residence. And I...

MizTiz said...

jacky jack jack jack. i adore you. you are good. i was cranky. i was bad. writing about something VERY hard and your post caught me at a time when i was feeling particularly vulnerable. so my apologies to the goodness that is you.

and it IS moving forward. really is. so thank you for your concern and your kind words and please accept my humble apology...

August 15, 2010 12:07 PM

MizTiz said...

p.s. you did not include your social security number,

I like Jack. I'm grateful that Jack took the time to explain who and why he was.

55 more minutes to go!

Really, Jack?*

Really? I just wrote for 2 hours and 42 minutes...about one of the more gaping, more tender wounds in my life.

If you knew me you'd know...

#1 I do things I'm afeared of all the time.

#2 I'm quite bright and aware that procrastination is a symptom or byproduct of fear and I don't need a Psych 101 lecture to inform me thus.

#3 I don't appreciate people who don't bother to identify themselves. I find it a form of cowardice.

Procrastinate that.

That's all. Thanks.

*Poor Jack commented on my last blog. Wound writing made me cranky. Oops. PUT DOWN THE KEYBOARD, TIZ!!!

All I Have To Do

All I have to do is write for an hour today. An hour today. An hour today.

Well...there goes a minute.

I Read Somewhere

I read somewhere...

First of all, I wish that the past tense of "read" wasn't "read." It makes clarification difficult, oui?

How about "red" or "readed or my personal favorite "readeded."

Anyway, in the recent past, I read somewhere to develop *whatever* good working habit, pay yourself a small amount (like $3) every time you succeed in your work goal for that day. Cool. Fun. Every time you don't succeed, you remove that $3 and give it so some deserving (or wtf) undeserving charity.

So far this week I have $15. I give myself two days off a week. I'm sure when I start working in the business of show again (in approximately 2 1/2 weeks) I will hop it up to six days a week, as that's how much I have to work any way.

Anyway, my work habit is to write for an hour a day. Doesn't sound like it should be much, but I can be quite the twiddling twat. And I have all of these projects I would either like to continue (blog), complete (play and acting book), sell (book the play is based on) and start (The Coffee TaBle Book). So I can go into overwhelm. Like this morning. When I took took myself to see "Eat, Pray, Poop."*

The movie sucks.

So I went and worked out...twiddle. Then I sauna'd...twiddle. And the actually cleaned out some drawers...TWAT!

But now I sit and write. But I only have three more minutes and then I have to move onto my next project. That's the another rule I readeded somewhere. If you have limited time, so everything gets its due, divide and conquer.

Twelve minutes? Not enough time to edit the bl*(&^%$&

*Actually that's going to be the name of my sixth writing project.

Sacrilege Part Deux - Is Denny's Mecca?

I feel a yearning...a call. This is God slapped between two slices of sour-dough and then grilled to perfection..

I am obviously going to hell. And I am obviously going to be fat.

Hot.

Sacrilege

#1 I call myself a blogger.

#2 I like the Crayola Box of 24 better than the Box of 64 with the Built-In Sharpener.

It's a little known fact...I like to color. I like to color in coloring books. The past-time is growing ever more elusive because...well...so are coloring books. Now they sell activity books. Activity books? Me no likey.

I think they suck in a major way.

Sucko mujero.

But I discovered something exciting and new. No, not love, you tv theme song fanatics.

Giant coloring pages.

Yes, giant pages with thick lines and large, wide-open spaces to fill. Delicious.

But back to the titular sacrilege.

The Crayola Box of 64 with the Built-In Sharpener was always the Holy Grail, Mecca, Alpha Centurion. For all of us. I mean it had "flesh" as a color, for Yahweh's sake. (This actually prompted an interesting racial discussion between Poppy and me when I was a wee tart.)

But I've learned that I don't like that much choice. (No, not racial color choice but crayon color choice.) Sometimes that much choice binds me up. (And yes, I mean fecally.) I need some rules, some limitations, some direction, in order to keep everything moving freely in the right direction.

So, I'm sticking with the 24. Which is good. I just learned they discontinued the 64.

My 3 Part Happy Anniversary Letter

Part 1

you've been married thirty years. THIRTY YEARS? that would make me...um...middle-aged.

this is not happening.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!


Part 2

oh...don't think i'm not selfish enough to run amok with your special day.

remember poppy's extubation?

i'll do anything for attention.

or a laugh.


Part 3

happy freakin' 30th anniversary.

i don't know what to write. my head and heart are full of so many happy, meaningful memories i can't see straight or type coherently.

but here we go...

your wedding? not one of those memories. i really only remember it through the pictures. i was 17. i was drunk. at least i remained standing for your special day. the pictures are quite beautiful. i hear it was grand.

all the fun cards i would get from "ky" when he was a baby. MY he was precocious. i still have the one where he recounted throwing up all over mommy.

the christmas i had just booked "beauty and the beast" when you made it all about that. i LOVED that. it wasn't enough that my dream came true, but you wanted to celebrate it in such a big way. WHO DOES THAT? (well...you both do. and still do. everyone is pea green with envy over my kevin kline award coach bag. i'm still waiting for kevin to arrive in the mail. i plan to carry him around in my pretty bag.)

your coming to god knows how many performances at mauschwitz...capped only by your willingness to flip mickey the bird in the bitter end.

it's those little gestures that count.

toodles-getting me into lorna's house and the best apartment deal EVER. it was sweet and nightmare-inducing to learn how much lorna's "cat" loved you.

toodles-hiring me at dr when everything went kaboom. i think i did an okay job. i know i did my best to help get you outta there.

mj- i never once witnessed you do a drive-by how are you. exquisite.

mj-responding that yes i could call you my sister and that you had been doing so for years. (okay...some tears just plopped on the keyboard 'cause that was a huge moment for me.)

toodles-on the flip side, lovely and hysterical phonecalls while you're driving. you have to love someone who, once the "car anal game" is explained, moans, "oh my god, that's disgusting!" and then just plays it and plays it and plays it. (explain it tommy.) you may have been indulging me. i like to be indulged. sue me.

what i fondly refer to as "the mother's day massacre." witnessing you both deal so beautifully with that mass exodus was astounding. in lesser hands it could have redefined you in a dramatically different way, but not you guys. i remain in awe.

paul. the one priest i can actually hear. thank you.

your sun room. the most peaceful place on the face of the earth (or really in the galaxy).

r-leigh. i know i met her first but thank you for letting us love one another so hard. she's my favorite blonde.

EVERY HOLIDAY EVER. from your driving up to nanapop's house in your pjs in the "johnny chose to hit a tree instead of a herd of rabbits" torino to new years eve and "how many women does it take to caja quadrada? dos. la interna y la exterma" to thanksgiving with the rowdy delicious schratwiesers to the most recent christmas that had so much love floating in the air it was enveloping.

ky and gav. i love them. they make my life far more special than i dreamed of it being.

as have you both. i love you and cherish you and can't wait to see what happens in your next thirty years of marriage. thank you so for letting me be a part of the ride.

love you tons and more,
me

Quote of the Week

The air between the trapeze and the catch? That's where the magic lives... - TIZ

Perhaps...

...tomorrow. Perhaps the day AFTER tomorrow, which is today. Wheee!

Okay...so...when last seen, our haughty heroine was having a delicious birthday weekend with the Nana.

And then it ended. Tragic, turgid bitter tale.

Now Nana said it. I did not. "I'm like packing for a baby." It's true. Nana monitors, games, formula (aka, more medication than GOD), clothing bags and food packed for the trip. Got it all, and her, and ME, in the Volvo for the ride back to her house.

What did I forget? What did I forget?

I didn't realize it until we were caught in a five-mile back-up due to an accident. I needed to call my brudder to tell him we would be running late when I notice...

My purse.

Is not there.

My purse...with my wallet (license, cash, credit cards), cellphone AND SANITY.

This is when I realize the gas tank is perilously close to empty. Since I've driven a total of 20 miles in the car in 4 days, I'm a little freaked. It's not my car, so I've got keine clue what kind of reserves there are.

And there's the Nana. We finally work out if we get through the stop-and-start traffic, I will hit the nearest gas station with her credit card.

We get through the crap traffic and hit the nearest gas station with her credit card.

And I can't get the gas door open. At all. I feel the fool. I can't find a button or lever or NUTTIN. We check the manual...as long as the driver's door is unlocked the gas tank door should be as well.

LYING THIEVING WHORES.

I ask a cute guy if he can figure it out. This is rough for me 'cause I'm nothing if not VAIN and I might as well be back in eighth grade with glasses and braces and stringy hair and zits. THAT'S how I was feeling.

Cute though he was, he couldn't figure it out either.

Now, here's the kicker. I have to keep turning off the engine which turns off the air-conditioning which turns off the Nana. She's delicate. I am not allowed to Kentucky Fry Nana.

I try the gas station attendant. Equally clueless we go our merry way and hope to make it to Nana's house. She suggests I pray. I suggest I drive. She suggests I pray while driving. I suggest that anyone who does anything other than driving while driving has their head stuck up their butt.

Nice. I'm a nice girl.

We make it to the Nana house with gas to spare. My brudder (of the chocolate Hostess Cream-Filled Cupcake birthday cake fame) can't even figure out how to pop that persnickety little puppy.

I'm no longer feeling incredibly assholian.

We call the Volvowner and HE can't figure it out.

We call the Volvo dealer and they...wait for it...can't figure it out and suggest we BREAK THE DOOR.

Assholes.

At this point, I dig into spoonfuls of peanut butter because I am FREAKING OUT. I feel like this is all my fault...like world hunger. I'm some kind of sensory defensive and rocking and spoonfuls of peanut butter calm me down.

Who knew?

Since we can't reach Volvowner and I am loathe to disfigure the cute car without his permission, I decide to get on a train and jog back to my cozy getaway and walk R-Leigh the Wonderdog.

THEN Wonderbrudder magically finds something online, we go through the trunk, he pulls the siding away AND

He eases open that cranky little bugger of a door.

I hug him, kiss the Nana goodbye (all the whilst apologizing for my crankiness). Wait, I forgot to tell you, during the hour and a half trip I REALLY had to pee. AND I had my period. You couldn't WRITE this shit.

Okay, so I apologize, borrow a couple of bucks, find high octane gas for $2.96 a gallon (MIRACLE), buy some TaB at the local market, get on the road, hit massive rush hour traffic, get back in an hour fifteen and am greeted by the best dog in the world.

After her potty run, I find a Red Stripe and jump in the pool fully clothed. Where I remain for the next two hours.

Life is good.

But I wanna know where the other .8 ounces of Red Stripe went.

Tomorrow...

...perhaps, I will regale you with tales of today. Tragic, turgid, bitter tales.

But today I tell of the weekend.

I turned old on Saturday. And Nana (aka, my mommy) showed up to have a girls' weekend that was made possible by the generosity and the exquisite event-planning of the Fairfield Tizzies.

Lunch (with anudder brudder) at Centro's, thanks to my bro and sis.

Birthday cake of Hostess Cream-Filled Cupcakes (FAV) thanks to thoughtful udder brudder.

Manicures, thanks to delicious nephews.

Pedicures, thanks to bro and sis.

Floating in the pool-priceless.

A wicked game of Scrabble poolside.

Dinner from The Pantry, thanks to bro and sis.

A special showing (in a giant fluffy bed) of THE YOUNG ELIZABETH, thanks to Netflix and me.

Breakfast culled from Fage yogurt and Sour Cherry preserves, courtesy of sis.

Prayers, thanks to Nana. (And God, I guess. I was doing laps.)

Lunch of the most delicious soups ever from The Pantry, under the auspices of bro and sis.

Movie and popcorn, the same. (Not mentioning movie name CAUSE IT SUCKED but it was lovely to spend time with the Nana...and lovely to consume butter-flavored topping.)

New book, thanks to Nana.

Floating in the pool-priceless.

A wickeder game of Scrabble.

Dinner of sloppy seconds. Yum.

A special showing (in same giant fluff bed) of THE BIG EASY. That'd be Netflix et moi encore. Nana LOVES Dennis Quaid in this one.

Another delicious breakfast of naughty cherry yogurt and some stand-over-the-sink-slurpable nectarines.

Prayers, thanks to Nana (and probably God).

Lunch of sloppier, soppier, more delicious seconds.

I loved all this. Deeply. Mainly because the Nana was there. I never get her all to myself. It just doesn't happen. The last time was 5 years ago, soon after Pop died, when I took over her care for a week.

And she tore her meniscus the first day.

This was waaaaaaaaaaaay more fun.

I'll take this any day.

Happy Birthday to us. And thank you to everyone who made it soooooooooooo gooooooooood.

love Love LOVE