On the First Day of Christ*&^%$

On the Thirty-First Day of Christ*&^%$, TiZ reveals to you...

It's taken 14 years and a lot of help from friends and dead parents and a stupid little dog for my apartment to look and feel like a home.

12 Days Minus 1

My original most many moons ago...

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12 Days of Christ*&^%$

No...I'm not cursing out Our Lord Jesus. Not at all. I thought it would be fun to do a play on the 12 Days of Christmas with my name but since I haven't used my name in la blogue and adore my relative anonymity (aka, my relatives don't know I'm flogging said blog), I had to throw some crap in after the "t" to throw 'em off the scent. And might as well end on a dollar sign. Hopes for the New Fecking Year.

On the Fist Day of Christ*&^%$ (oooh...a typo and yet I like it...like I'm raising my fist to the heavens screaming, "Why, God? Why?") I will reveal one thing about myself that perhaps you don't know. On the Second Day of Christ*&^%$ , I will reveal two things about myself that perhaps you don't know. On the Third Day of...and so on and so forth. 

And clap on. Clap off.

Sound like a plan? It's a plan. It should get a wee bit weird by the 12th since I'm a pretty open bouncy bunny and don't have many secrets. So I'll have to dig deep. And what would make the game even better-er would be if you would participate. Tell me weird things, unlikely things...even, dare I say it...oooooogy things. My favorite admission submission will get a copy (or two or three. Really. I'm beginning to use them as coasters.) of my cd for Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or whatever the hell you celebrate. Or a chocolate chip cookie pie and I use the cd's as nipple rings.

Let the games begin.

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I'm so freaking excited I could puke!

The Twelve Days of Christ*&%^$ Are Coming

The Twelve Days of Christ*&%^$ Are Coming.

Where I get to reveal to you and you get to reveal to me.

To know and be known.

Where I am no longer known as the laziest lard-ass blogger in the whole wide web world.

The Twelve Days of Christ*&^%$ Are Coming...

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

That is all.

Mitterally - Definition

1. Literally denying that what you've said before was actually said.

2. The manner in which Mitt Romney literally stands/sways on policy.

3. Soulless(ly) shape-shifting (yet once again I wish to kiss Rachel Maddow).

From Empathy to Sympathy to Apathy

If I have been nothing but polite and kind to you, and yet nine times out of ten...okay...what the hell...FIVE times out of ten you are rude to me, I go from empathy to sympathy to apathy.  

Do not ask me for a favor which takes time out of my day and then never thank me, let alone acknowledge it...or me.  There comes a time when there might be reason but no excuse.  In fact, rarely is there an excuse.

And yet I will be polite. Ever greasing the sticky wheels of society am I.  Lubing life as I stumble along.

Courtesy is the one coin you can never have too much of or be stingy with. - John Wanamaker

And now...

I get to do my work.  This is the part I love.  Running the show.  No collegial stopping.  No collegial commenting. Everyone moving through it and creating, no matter what happens (barring physical injury) and no matter what we're given.  We get to see where it goes when a spit, a curve, a slider or a split-finger fastball is thrown. The editing portion while I'm inhabiting this character is over...until I get offstage, of course, and think to myself, "That didn't quite work. I'll try something different tomorrow."

Sweet candy Christ that makes me happy!

Apolitical Intercourse

Okey dokey...

I rarely talk about politics.  I rarely write of politics.  I stay away from most political intercourse.  If I indulge with most Democrat friends then it's preaching to the choir...and Republican bashing. See...look...you're like me...we both hate them.  La La La. (Of course there are exceptions, and those are cherished.)

If I indulge with most Republican friends, I'm well aware I cannot sway them.  Most of my friends are intelligent creatures, well-educated, and have made informed decisions that work for them.  I'll ask them questions about how they arrived at those conclusions.  I rarely agree but I will listen.

For those with whom I indulge who are not intelligent, well-informed creatures, I'm well aware I cannot sway them.  It's not cool to be persuaded.  It's not cool to change your stance.  Especially in public.  Weak, weak, weak in the majority of this nation's eyes.

Oy.

Hate me.  I know this will not be a popular sentiment among most of my friends.  I think Mitt Romney actually did a good job last night.  A successful infomercial.  His warmongering finale was bizarre, but it followed a quiet, gentle plea to swing voters that I fear was quite effective.  Not to me. But he wasn't talking to me.  I'm an Obama Mama. I'm a "pro-choice, marriage for all, universal healthcare, caring for the health of the universe, a teensy bit of socialism never hurt anyone" vixen. (That's just a little too long to be an effective moniker, right?  I'll work on it.)

He wasn't talking to me.  It would have been bizarre and not at all cost-effective for him to talk to me.  

We're all strange bedfellows.  Get used to it.  If you're a Republican, what the hell, go ask your Democrat friends how they got that way. If you're a Democrat, hey hey hey, go on and ask your Republican friends how they got that way.  If you're a swinger who watched the RNC, whoah, don't stop there.  Watch the DNC next week.  Maybe we'll give you something as sadly strange as Clint Eastwood.*

And if you're a Democrat, don't get too comfortable. Especially if you're in a swing state.  You're not going to change anyone on FaceBook.  Get your ass and your mouth to a phone bank and work it.

Okey dokey.  That's my quiet, gentle plea. 







*Oh, that was too easy.  I promised I wouldn't do it.  There...I done did it.

THIS

has become my new favorite quote.  I don't know for how long.  I do know how come...

Creativity can be described as letting go of certainties. - Gail Sheehy

Letting go of certainties.  Surrendering to the unknown.

I'm uncertain, but it just may remain my favorite quote for a while.

make pretend

We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.- Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

I always said, "make pretend" whilst growing up.  My mother always corrected me, "Make believe or pretend...not whatever it is you're saying."

I said it anyway.

The make pretend I'm doing now is eluding me.  So much loss.  Such a sense of disenfranchisement.  Such kow-towing.  It actually hurts. 

And it's Neil freakin' Simon.

I have to find the win.  

the artist and the arts

The artist is not a special kind of person; rather each person is a special kind of artist.

- Ananda Coomaraswamy

If you ax funding for the arts, Mr. Romney, you ax the people themselves...a veritable Lizzie Borden. - Me

To the Kind Gentleman

who asked if Baxter used to be bigger...

Yes.

One shouldn't put dogs in the dryer.  Even on delicate.  You can imagine what I found in the lint trap.  I could have made another dog out of what I found there.

Who knew?

They should come with instructions, right?

Hang-dry only. 

Delicate Cycle

I have a dooooooooooog.

OH MY GOSH

I amaze me. No blog yesterday. Even after the vow.

You know why?

WOEEEEEEFULLY unprepared at work.  WOEEEEEEEFULLY. 

And long walks with the stupid little dog. And registering at the gym.  And working out at the gym.  And rehearsing.  And food shopping. 

And watching porn on the internet...aka, looking for apartments.

Me try harder.  This shouldn't be this difficult.  But sometimes I have little more in my head than...

"I have a doooooog."

Meanwhile, "Oh my Gosh?"  Really?  It's taken all of two minutes in the midwest for that to develop?

Crikey.

New Job, New Vow

I'm hoping to Meet Me in St. Louis, Louis.  

The past year has been one of...well...TONS OF LOSS.  And now this is my second character recently who is dealing with...well...TONS OF LOSS.

And I'm hoping to  figure out how I can move on and through this world either carrying this loss in a wee bindle--hobo style.  Or just plain chucking it.

And hopefully Meet Me in St. Louis, Louis.  And see who I become.

And blog every day.  Even if it's bindle style.

Here's a Suggestion

Have a bottle of wine but no corkscrew?  Here's a suggestion.

Place it in the freezer and forget about it for 12 hours.  The freezing and expansion of the water molecules during the phase transition will thrust that pesky cork right from the bottle.


Or...you can be like me and forget you put the bottle of cheap-ass white in the freezer, fall asleep and wake up the next day to a winesicle.  Whichever.  The cork is out and the wine is cold.  

You're welcome.

The Little Dog

I have a little dog.  I think I've made that clear in a few previous posts.

An adorable little dog.

A stupid little dog.

Who is trying REALLY hard.

We arrived in Ithaca a day earlier than necessary for a job so I could acclimate him.  Left him alone a couple of times.   Brought his crate, his fav bed, fav food, fav treats and ALL his toys.

He seemed okay.

I came home for lunch the first day of work to find him pushing through the window screen to greet me by LEAPING into my arms, whacked out of his mind.

Whose dog is this?

I enter my apartment with the wriggling mass of dogmanity to find crumbs all over the floor.  Seems the little dog who NEVER climbs on furniture in the great city of NY found it appropriate here and discovered a brownie I'd missed in my welcome basket sitting on the kitchen table.

Quick:  google brownie.  Could be okay.  It's definitely not dark chocolate, it wasn't a FULL ON chocolate brownie.  He hadn't eaten ALL of it.

Maybe it's just a sugar high.

Walked him.  Walked him far.  Went to rehearsal and had company management check on him.  Fine and happy.  A ginormous chocolate poop later, and he was pawsome once more.

I came home for lunch the second day of work to find him sampling half the contents of the refrigerator.  Seems the seal on the refrigerator door was faulty.  Who knew?


The stupid little dog...


The cheddar cheese wasn't too disturbing other than the sheer quantity. 

In fact it was impressive.

What WAS disturbing were these...

\

The dreaded grapes.

For some dogs, not all, the only thing more deadly is antifreeze.  ANTIFREEZE.  You don't know if your dog is SOME dog until he is in acute renal failure.  Of those who go into acute renal failure, only 40% survive.  Of the 40% who survive, only 40% become their doggy selves again.  That was a 16% chance Baxie would ever be Baxie again.

Holy crapdoodles.

I run around town trying to find hydrogen peroxide to make him throw up.  That seemingly takes hours since I don't know the town, there are 1,001 one way streets, I go to the rehearsal hall to see if they have it, they don't so they give me directions to a CVS that I burst into, dog in tow, Shirley MacLaine-ing, "Don't give me any shit.  My dog is sick."

And then, lo and behold, it doesn't act as an emetic on him.  He kinda digs it. 

Holy crapdoodles.

Finally too many hours later we are at the vet, under the recommendation of brilliant company management and the company of the soul woman herself (I really try not to use proper names here.).  They take Baxie away.  They bring him back.  I think he's home free and they explain just how bad this could be. How late I am.  How long it will take.

Three days.  Three days of throw up, charcoal to clean out his system and intravenous fluids every few hours to give him a chance.

Holy crapdoodles.

The little dog and I haven't been separated for more than 16 consecutive hours.  In five months.  And that was so I could do a show and have uninterrupted adult relations.  And he was with someone he loved.  Not strangers.

Baxter took it like a champ, although I did hear his requisite WTF screaming as I put a down payment on what ended up being a two paycheck bill (so much better than it could have been). 

My WTF screaming didn't happen 'til I got home.  Implosion.  Followed by a bolshoya tokan vodka.  Followed by wandering around wondering why my fuzz face friend wasn't at my heels.

Little known fact:  I got the stupid little dog to replace my mother.  'Struth.  (But he doesn't criticize my hair, which is a good thing.)  I got the stupid little dog because we were both orphans and I thought we could raise one another. (I realized within a day someone had to captain the ship and it better be me.)

I got the stupid little dog so I wouldn't MISS so desperately.

Holy crapdoodles, that backfired, didn't it?

72 hours couldn't move fast enough.  I don't think the vodka, Peanut M&M diet helped much.

Weeks later, he's healthy and happy, if exhibiting a little more separation anxiety than when we left home.  He's friendlier with other dogs and people and kids.  He plays ball and we chase rabbits and squirrels, chipmunks and deer. We went kayaking the other day.

Every once in a while I still find charcoal in his beard.  

I have a new refrigerator door.

I no longer eat grapes.

We're both trying REALLY hard.

  

Coming Soon to a Blog Near You

A post. An actual post.  I promise a REAL post.


The NaNa Mother's Day story was a whopper and took a lot out of me.  And I was also stupidly proud of it and felt it was some of the best writing I've ever done.  


So I had to let it sit.


BUT I'M COMING BACKKKKKKKKKK!

HDMD +1

Well, kittens, it wasn't too bad.  Okay, I did have a complete breakdown while onstage.  I do not recommend singing, 


"I had to learn how a heart can yearn, how tears can burn, 
With no one to turn to.
I know now that I can't forget--I can't for I don't know how.
I guess I never knew how I needed you.  But sweetheart I know now."


while celebrating Dead Mother's Day.  But they pay me, so I must.


I fully admit to speaking the last two lines...vocal malfunction due to copious snot caused by tear overflow.


The two show day was followed by a four drink night.


Today I feel special.


I thank all of you for taking care of me and going to Elephant Journal and meeting the Nana Lady.  She was a pisser and I miss her to the bone.


But today the little dog has a bad belly.  Me too.  Wait, did he have a four drink night too?


Baxter, you've got some 'splaining to do.


So, on HDMD +1 I take care of the little dog with the bad belly.  


Wet doggy kisses to all of you.

HAPPY DEAD MOTHER'S DAY

My inbox bursts with solicitations for Mother’s Day.

“Treat Mom: Wine & Norman Love Chocolates,” “FTD.com Half Off Flower & Gifts for Mom,” “Loft Celebrates Moms,”

and the kicker:

“Let Me Be Your Mommy.” (Wait…what?).

I currently call it “Dead Mother’s Day.”

I think it surprises people when I say dead or died, as opposed to passed or past. Or my least favorite…moved on.

Mary: “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

TiZ: “What was?”

Mary: “Talking about Mother’s Day.”

TiZ: “Why?  Because my mom is dead?”

Mary: “A friend of mine found it difficult after her mother moved on.”

TiZ: “Oh, well, mine didn’t move. She died.”

Read more at Elephant Journal... 

AAAAAAAAH!

I'll be back soon.

Promise

(Okay, maybe there are some fingers crossed behind my back.)

((Okay, not really.))