Will Tomorrow Ever Come? Oh Crap; It's Here

Today I went to Our Lady of Shoes and said a prayer for my surgery tomorrow. I lit a pair of black Christian Leboutins as that is the traditional color for throwing yourself upon the mercy of the altar. Or maybe that's for the death of your landlord.

I'd like to quote from my friend Jess Riley's new book, Riding Sideways, due out in May of this year (Riley's Rambling's on my sidebar) "It's amazing how much of a sense of entitlement complex you can get just walking around feeling healthy."

I beg you, PLEASE don't tell me the time will pass quickly and 'then it will be over.' I'm not a retard, well most of the time anyway, and believe it or not I understand the passage of time and the beginnings and endings of events. I'm living over here in Realityville, although to my knowledge Los Angeles has never been called anything remotely similar to that. And everyone knows that time only passes quickly when you're doing something phenomenal, like on Safari in the Serengeti, shopping in Milan or lying on the beach in Maui. So when Mr. Brick Wall or Miss Aluminum Siding offers up those platitudes, tell them they're not helping because you graduated from the 2nd grade and can actually tell time and while they're up could they pass the bottle of Vicodin?

I came down with a terrible cold last week, probably because my stress level was off the charts and caused my immune to crash. Then my allergies made a return engagement and I've now cancelled my accountant 3 times. I'm supposedly going at 5:30 pm today. I just may file late because there's nothing worse than crying all over your 1099's. And for all the wrong reasons.

I ordered the Roller Aid and it will be here this morning. "Because crutches can be a real pain." Really, Kojak? Why doesn't it say, "Because crutches will take you an hour to get to the bathroom to pee and by then you will have wished you'd put on a Depends." I've been practising with my crutches and except for the fact that they stick to the carpet and my body is 2 feet ahead of them, I think it's going very well.

I'm the first surgery on Tuesday morning and my friend Heidi the nurse said that's a good thing because they're not all tired from partying over the weekend. Although I've probably got the one L.A. doctor who hangs out with Lindsay Lohan.

My surgeon looked me in the eye twice and said "This is a VERY BIG surgery." After the second time I said, "If you tell me that one more time I will take those glasses off your face and smash them." Was he trying to scare me or just saying that the huge discount he gave me was worth it because it was a VERY BIG surgery? Why do doctors make so much money for being cruel? And if that's all it takes, I should be a bazillionaire by now.

In other gross news, he told me that they have to lengthen my calf muscle. So now I'll have 3 scars to add to the 10 I already have, for a grand total of 13. Can anybody beat that? You win no prize, it will just not make me feel all alone in the freakishly scarred for life department. And I'm only counting the physical ones.

The good news is that my right leg will be numb for 24 hours so I can have friends over to play "Did you feel that?", "How about that?" "Hey, where do you keep your knife sharpener?" Mr. Very Big Surgery said that the first few days will be really hard and I could tell from his voice that was a euphemism for PAIN WORSE THAN TORTURE BECAUSE THIS IS A VERY BIG SURGERY. I may not answer emails and only answer my phone when I'm really high off Vicodin. So get your tape recorders ready.

And at the end of all this I'll be able to wear these shoes by Balenciaga.

I won't be able to afford them, but I'll be able to wear them.

End of flats chat.

Cirque Du Shoeleil # 5

Shocking, another pair of Steve Maddens in lime green patent leather with a zipper across the top. I guess in case you need more air when you're walking in slingbacks.

These are a pair of Italian Belos, which are made out of lambskin and are buttery soft to the touch.

And to Tommy James, who thinks I've alienated my all male readers with my shoes, then Tommy my friend, you know nothing about blogs. If I had a list of all the retarded Favs that people post on their blogs, the list would wrap around the Universe 50 zillion times. Toys, games, hand-knit socks, flowers, puppets, kid's toys, kid's pictures, animals in Christmas costumes (!), spoon collections, sex paraphernalia, homemade birthday cakes, trees in bloom, long country roads, cakes that went awry, build-a-bears and last but not least memes, then you would do what you do at your house, change the channel. And while we're at it, for God's sakes, update your site once a year. So I can make fun of it more.

End of Shoes Du Soleil.

Steve Madden Shoes Steve Madden

Cirque Du Shoeleil # 4

These are yet another pair of Steve Maddens, in black and white tweed. The last time I wore them was at the Because We're Not Dead Yet Party last April. I was in so much pain by the end of the evening that I took them off and walked around in my black stockings, which tore and ran and basically made me look like a homeless woman. That was the last time I ever wore heels. Sob.
I liked these boots because I knew no one would wear them but me, which is how I buy most of accessories. I remember the last time I wore them I was in line waiting to vote for some initiatives or something, maybe to legalize prostitution?

End of chat.

Steve Madden Shoes Steve Madden

Cirque Du Shoeleil # 3

These Ann Kleins are some of my favs. I used to wear them with some Armani Exchange pants that buttoned up the back leg, a Juicy Couture scarf, and a mid-leg camel coat. I was wearing all of that plus an angora hat when I picked up my mother at LAX one time. As I bent to kiss her she jumped back."Mom?"
"Oh my God, it's you? I thought you were a model!"

First off, what models does she know? And second off, that was the best compliment I ever got from her in my entire life and it wasn't even really intended for me. Because, you know, she didn't think it was me. Because of her raging narcissism she never mentioned that outfit again but did repeat year after year how fabulously dressed the Air France flight attendants thought she was.

End of chat.

Cirque Du Shoeleil # 2

These are my favorite jean boots. They're made out of starched denim and you can see the ridges near the tops where I've worn them so much that they've developed permanent indentations. The design is made out of very tiny silver beads. I bought them over 4 years ago, long before people were wearing wedges and I got a lot of weird looks when I used to wear them. Passive-aggressive compliments like "Wow, those boots are really interrrresting." Believe it or not they're super comfortable. I know they look purplish-bluish in the picture but they're denim blue.

A pair of Steve Madden cheetah ponies with a 2" heel. I love pony fur, I think I have four pair of them. I've lost count of how many Steve Maddens I own.
End of chat.

Steve Madden Shoes Steve Madden

Cirque Du Shoeleil # 1

Men never understand why women need so many pairs of shoes. Shoes are to us what football is to them. Guys can watch three games back to back or four games on two screens and there's no point in trying to explain it to us. Men love football. We love shoes. So if you're unlucky enough to be trapped with a guy who says "You have enough shoes" try responding with "Well, then you've watched enough football." I've shut up two men with that line.

All this week I'm posting pictures of the shoes from my Cirque du Shoeleil™ collection. They're the ones I've missed the most while my ankle has been disintegrating. All of the circus toys pictured belonged to my dad when he was a boy.

This is a pair of Steve Maddens. They're grey suede with black leather. The cut-out on the top near the toe is a heart and it's surrounded by little silver beads, also found all over the black leather part of the shoe.

These are a pair of bebe's which are a little whorish. Not surprisingly, men really love them. Especially if I wear them while they're watching football.

End of chat.

Steve Madden Shoes Steve Madden

It's Everyone Can Bite Me Friday!

Two hours at the internist today. My blood pressure was 2 million over 1 million. So then he gave me Xanax and it dipped to 54 over 13. Sixty Xanax! With one refill! What surgery?

I've always wondered if anyone out there has a foolproof way to signal to another driver you know you're in the wrong. Driving to the doctor I was trying to cross 2 lanes in one block length amid bumper to bumper traffic so I could make a left hand turn. I had my turn signal on and was trying to ease over when a huge SUV came roaring up on me and started honking. He slowed up at the last minute and I flashed him the peace sign in my rear view. That has become my de facto mea culpa in the last few years. When the SUV saw that I had to make an immediate turn he zoomed past me and flashed me the peace sign. And kept his arm out the window for almost 5 seconds, still flashing the peace sign. First time that's ever happened.

Driving back from the doctor, a guy was honking at the car in front of him because he wasn't making the right on red that is legal in California. Not Turning Guy got out of his car and was screaming at Honking Guy. Honking Guy was yelling something but wisely chose to stay in his car. I wanted to give Screaming Guy some of my Xanax but hahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Uh no.

If there was a contest to see who got up in the middle of the night to pee the most, I would win hands down. The idea that I have to do this on crutches, in the dark, for three months, makes me weep. And since I'm an insomniac, I can't be up too long in the middle of the night because I'll wake up and then be awake for the rest of the night. Can't wait!

Here's an at-home tip for all people who cut their own hair. Do not cut it dry when there is static electricity in the air. Trust me on this one.

My numb tingly hand disease has gone away.

This has been the worst week of allergies I've ever had in LA. When I first moved here I got some weird ones. One year I couldn't stop scratching my calves until they bled. And I'm not talking about baby cows here. The next year I got a cough that would accelerate into a vicious choke and friends would ask if they should standby for CPR. This year it has just made my eyes get all puffy and red and I feel like I'm dragging a truck behind me. In one 3 day period I took 15 Benadryl and they barely worked.

I never talk about politics because it normally bores me and people never change their minds about what they think about religion or politics so it's just a waste of time. But I'm so OVER Barack Obama. For the love of God man, if you mention the words "It's time for a change" once more I will lose it. WE KNOW IT. Eight years of Bush; even dead people know it. And for the love of all that is human and left wing, right after 9/11 I knew ONE person who opposed the war, my friend Gail in Florida. Everyone else, including those of us who actually lived in NYC, we believed Bush and thought it was the right thing to do. We know better now since Bush got caught in his lies. So if your entire bitch slap is about Hillary voting for the war SEVEN YEARS AGO, man up and let it go. If you're really that naive to think that Bush wouldn't have started the war without the approval of Congress, then I have nothing to say to you except you really don't understand politics. Or the Bush Family Robinson. My Dad worked for the government and one of my best friends works at Homeland Security. What the American people don't know about what's going on would fill the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans.

And FYI, George W's entire campaign the very first year was him yammering about how we needed a change. And guess what? We got one!

I've been invited to post at Scrivel so I'll be alerting you in the future to go read my words falling on deaf ears over there.

End of chat.

My Bad Arena Stage Audition

My dad had signed me up for a six week summer theatre course at Arena Stage in Washington D.C. while I was still in Paris, getting ready to come home to finish my last two years of university. The course was great and at the end of it, I was invited to participate in an open audition for the repertory company. I had been going to Arena Stage since I was 15 years old. My parents dragged me and my sister to every museum, play and art gallery in the free world. At the time it was annoying. Now I'm grateful because you never know when you're going to need to break out a soliloquy from Richard the Third or have to choose between buying a Picasso or a Modigliani.

The audition consisted of an a cappella song, a piece from Shakespeare and something from a modern play. I don't remember what I sang or the Shakespeare piece but remember I did a monologue from Arthur Kopit's Oh Dad Poor Dad, Mamma's Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feelin' so Sad.

The day of the audition I felt like a million dollars. Happy, upbeat and totally on top of my game. I was also on my way to Ocean City, Maryland with a bunch of my girlfriends because I forgot about the audition. Arena Stage is one of the biggest rep companies in the United States. Serious, stodgy, and all up in the I'm An Actor And You're A Housewife attitude. And I was on my way to the beach. When I finally remembered all I could think about was that my dad was going to kill me. My Dad who was all "You kids get off my lawn! Now!"

"Well you'd better call them and reschedule," my Dad said when I got home. I had not counted on that. For starters I thought he was going to scream at me but he didn't. I assumed that the reason I had conveniently forgotten about the audition was because I secretly didn't want to go. This was a big rep company. If I sucked and went down the drain, then my entire acting dream was likely to follow. To be rejected by them would have killed me. My dad didn't see it that way.

"How will you know if you're good or bad unless you show up?"
"What if I blow it?"
"Then you blow it and go on to the next thing."

Arena Stage rescheduled me and this time I showed up. A few weeks later my mother called me in the dorm.

"You made it into Arena Stage!! Call them, here's the number!! Congratulations!!"

I was devastated. I had come out of denial long enough to recognize that the real reason I had missed that first audition was not because I thought I couldn't cut it but because I was engaged to be married (to the guy who ended up marrying a rich chick and sitting around their house playing his guitar). I had planned on joining him in California, which was not on the East Coast. I wrote down the number and told my mom I would call but I didn't.

She called me ten days later and said Arena Stage had phoned again and why hadn't I responded? I reminded her of Peter and moving to California and she said I would always regret not taking the job. I reluctantly called the woman at Arena Stage.

"The first year you'll have small non-speaking parts like spear carrier or maid. Then the second year you graduate to a few lines in each play and then the third year you get bigger parts and so on and so on."
"When do I get bigger roles?"
"Well obviously you have to work your way up..."
"How long does that take?"
"Well, if all goes well, maybe five or six years."

I turned down the job and then five months later my fiancé dumped me. All in all, not such a great year. I never regretted the fact that I didn't take the job. I would have been stuck with my real last name for years and years and years instead of the name I now have. I knew I was not cut out to be a spear carrier because spear carriers had no lines. And I ended up being a standup comic. And standup comics do.

End of chat.

My Bad Minister Audition

My second Los Angeles agent decided I not only could play a minister but a lesbian minister to boot. Since he was gay, what was I going to say, "A lot you know about gay people?"

Before you start furiously typing in the comments section that nobody 'looks' gay let me respond with this. You've never been to Hollywood. I truly thought my agent would look at me after a year with him and say, "She cannot pull off a lesbian minister."

I'm not sure people who aren't in the business know this but when you go out for a role you dress for the part as best you can. If you go up for a Doctor or a gym teacher, you can either wear a lab coat or a whistle and baseball hat. Does everyone do this? No, but if you're going up for a hooker, you'd better take those fishnets, stilettos and minis out and chew some serious gum if you want a better chance. Now if you're just going up for a cashier or a friend or a dog walker, it's a lot harder to figure out what to wear. I have a friend who regularly has to appear in bikinis in front of a panel of casting directors because those are the roles she gets called in for, Beach Bunny With Cocktail or Murderess Girl By Pool.

So back to the lesbian minister. I didn't have any cassocks, albs or chasubles sitting around so I just wore pants and a top. I flirted briefly with the idea of a Lipstick Lesbian Ensemble but decided I wasn't sure how Lipstick Lesbians dress. Did they have a dress code? I was taking the audition way too seriously. It might help to point out that I was stone cold broke at that juncture in my career and I needed jobs. And we all know that when you need something that much, you reek of neediness and even small children will run away from you in the mall. Thank God.

I looked in the mirror before I left and decided to slick back my hair with gel. I have long hair so it became a long, disorganized mullet. I didn't wear any makeup. That was my lesbian minister. A mullet with no makeup and slacks from The Limited.

When I went in to read I could tell from the casting director's face that I was all wrong for the part. I should have just said, "I know I'm not right for this; my agent's a moron." But I didn't because I needed the job. I read the few bland lines, "Do you take this woman" and "Do you take this man" and that was it. The casting director barely looked at me when I finished. I was so uncomfortable I said, "I really like your sweater."

When the show aired on TV I wasn't totally surprised to see who they cast. The woman weighed about 240 lbs and had short hair and it was slicked back with gel. AHA! At least I got one thing right.

My apologies to lesbian ministers everywhere.

End of chat.

My Bad Can-Can Audition

I was living in Paris and decided to give up show business. I was actually relieved, which I took as a sign that I had overstayed my welcome in this miserable business. No more rejections, no more time wasted auditioning for things that I clearly was not right for. When I told my mother I had quit she sighed deeply and said, "Well thank God, Suz."

Two days after I quit a friend called me and said he wanted me to interview with his agent. I turned him down. He said his agency needed an American girl. He begged me to help them out and said it was only going to be a look-see so I could waltz in and out and get back to the business of quitting the business.

So I went. The agent told me that a French Cabaret up in Pigalle was looking for a blonde American girl to take over the lead of their Can-Can review. I told him that didn't sound like the type of job I was right for. I was a comedic actress and I didn't have a clue about how to do a review. The agent was so desperate for me to go he said that even if I got the job, he wouldn't take a commission. He begged me to help him out.

So I went to the audition.

I interviewed for about 10 minutes with the director and then he handed me some sheet music and said to have it ready for the audition, which was in 4 days. I started laughing and gave him back the sheet music.

"I don't sing."
"It says here on your resume that you and your sister had a band when you were in your teens."

"Well, we were young; it was dumb luck."
"But your resume also says that after that you both had another act, where you told jokes.....and sang." Who was this guy, the Resume Police?

"I don't sing but thank you for your time." I stood up to leave.
"So that's it? You're a quitter? Maybe you've heard our French expression, Qui ne risque rien n'a rien." (He who risks nothing has nothing)

I grabbed the sheet music out of his hand. I was many things, but I sure as hell wasn't a quitter. A fool, yes. A quitter, never.

The day of the audition I was hanging out with my friends in the Latin Quarter. They all knew I had the audition and one of them, Steve Plummer, urged me to have a glass of Calvados. Apple Brandy that can kill a horse. A very big horse. So I had one and then someone bought me another and then one more for the road and off I went in a taxi. My sister was meeting me outside the club so I wouldn't have to walk in by myself. The cab stopped, my sister opened my door and I fell out onto the pavement.

"Oh my God, are you all right?"
"Yessh, I'm fiiiiiiiiiiine."
"Jesus, are you drunk?"
"I sink shho."

We walked into the dark theater where 27 hopefuls sat waiting to sing Je Cherche Un Millionaire, a song made famous by French chanteuse Mistinguett in 1937. Hopefully she was still dead and not in the audience.

When it was my turn to go to the piano and pick out a key, my sister dragged me over because I was having serious issues with the concept of walking. The pianist asked me what key I sang in and I said to pick something he liked. He drew back as if he'd been struck by a baseball bat. Or my breath.

"Is she drunk?" He asked my sister. She nodded and I smiled and picked my way down the aisle and onto the stage.

Here's the deal with alcohol; it's no accident that karaoke is held in bars. I wailed on that song, beat out all the French girls and became the second American woman in French history to lead a can-can. The first was Josephine Baker and the one after me was Latoya Jackson.

The show lasted 7 months, 2 shows a night, 3 on the weekends, 7 days a week. It was the most exhausting job but my bosses were the Sicilian Mob so asking for a night off was out of the question. I never hit one correct note throughout the run of that show, probably because I was sober. The last night of the review, I was so relieved that the run was over that I sang all my songs on key. I could see the waiters out on the floor stop their service to stare at me. Afterwards, three of them came up to me and said, "Wow, you really can sing."

Trust me, I can't.

The waiters who thought I finally pulled it off:
End of chat.

My Bad Ellen Audition

All this week I'm going to blog about some of the worst auditions I've ever had. Starting with one for Ellen DeGeneres. My agent sent me out for a role on her sitcom, These Friends of Mine, which changed to Ellen in the second season. I got the sides and noticed the scene required me to talk to three different people.

Sidebar: Sides are the piece(s) of paper with your scene(s) on them. They used to fax them to actors but now they're sent via the Internet.

Ellen was very girl next door and blonde and I was very girl next door and blonde so I decided to make myself look less Girl Next Door and more Welcome To Folsom Prison. Whenever there's a brunette lead, they will always pick a blonde or redhead guest star. And if the lead is blonde, well, you get the picture. Since I wasn't going to dye my hair dark I put on a a sleeveless black leather motorcycle jacket, some baggy plaid pants and gym socks with silver sneakers. I thought this outfit would definitely distinguish me from Ellen, because you know, I'm a genius.

I went before the casting director and after she removed her glasses and gave me an incredulous onceover, I started my scene. The casting director played the other three parts, and when I say play, I mean she read them in a monotone while doodling with her own blood all over a pad of paper my head shot.

I made the casting director the #1 person I spoke to in the scene. When I was required to talk to the second person I looked to my left. Then back to the casting director for #1 and then over to the right for person #3. As the scene continued I forgot who was where. As I read to the #2 person, I looked to my left and then quickly to my right and then settled on a space in between #1 and #2, which meant I now had four directions. It didn't take long for me to stop acting and to start concentrating on where the FUCK everyone in the scene was. I'm pretty sure that by the end of the reading my head was spinning on its axis. Or it might have flown off entirely. For all I know it's still circling the Disney Studios.

When I was done, there was a huge silence in which I could have parked a truck. After the casting director grunted and finished drawing a beard and mustache on my 8 x 10 glossy I drove straight to my agent's office.

"What the hell are you wearing? Didn't you go up for Ellen today?"
"Yeah, well, I need to talk to you about that. See, I was trying not to look like Ellen."
"Mission accomplished."
"In my head it all made sense."
"I've warned you about thinking, haven't I?"
"I'm not from here; I can't help it."
"So, how did the audition go?"
"You know how agents always call casting directors after an audition and ask them how their client did so they can pass that information along to the actor?"
"Yesssssssss."
"Don't call her. And if she calls you, don't answer your phone. And if you run into her somewhere, don't mention my name or say you know me. And I need you to help me move."

I did not get the job.

End of chat.

It's Everyone Can Bite Me Friday!

There's a whole lotta bitchin' goin' on today. First up is the gigs I've had to cancel because I'm getting a fresh batch of ankle cartilage. Standup comedy can be really hard and yet I'd rather do a year of hell gigs at Betty's Fireside in Jersey than have to go through this surgery. For free. Please do me a favor and take this survey. You'll be entered in a drawing for a free pass to the next BlogHer conference, which is always held in cool kick-ass cities. BlogHer can be an inroad to growing your blog, your blog friends and is an opportunity to connect with other like-minded people. Who drink! Win Win!

Sidebar: Are blog friends called Blends? Or Froggers?

When you see BlogHer's survey on my sidebar, click on it or I'll hunt you down and steal your designer shoes. That means you Kay and Kristen and Abeyta and MJ and GM and NonPom and Burl and Val and Fahey and Surcie and Denise and Jenn and Traci and Jess and Bee and Jami and Bossy and Fussy and Jenee and Tracy and Stefanie and Beckie and H-Train and Bex and Amy and whoever I left out. And I think all the guys who read me should take it too, ESPECIALLY D2. And he knows why. And for those of you who don't blog, take the survey anyway; it might get you out of the house and closer to group alcohol. Win Win!

Night Blooming Jasmine is in full blossom in Los Angeles. At night I open my front door and within seconds my living room is drenched in the aroma. It's one of the only things that renders Los Angeles human. No agent represents the flower so it can't get screwed and does quite well at the box office.

Lisa Marie Presley is suing Britain's Daily Mail for saying she was eating too much when in fact she was pregnant and trying to hide it until she was ready to announce. Hello control freak, have you forgotten where you live? Move to Montana for the first half of your pregnancy, announce it there and then move back to LA. Although no one would likely care in that your C- list status (only being Elvis's daughter has kept you off the D list) doesn't produce any albums or songs of note. I think the UK tab should counter sue for this entry on her blog of March 10.

"Once they got a glimpse of my expanding physique a few days ago, they have been like a pack of coyotes circling their prey whilst eerily howling with delight."

Elvis might not have named a plane after her if he knew that one day she would marry Michael Jackson and use 'whilst' in a sentence. P.S. That plane is parked across the street from Graceland, and you thought your neighborhood didn't have enough parking. I've heard that Aussies use 'whilst' all the time. So this would be a good time to tell them to stop.They painted my bedroom and bathroom 3 days ago and my living room ceiling 2 days ago. I now have a yellow ceiling. It's so cheerful in here that I'm thinking of making a potato stamp of skulls and making a nice chair rail around the room.

I love American Express. I spent the better part of my adult life using Visa and Mastercard and only reluctantly went over to Amex because it was tied to my Costco card. Remember my Panasonic Lumix? With Black Dot Disease? Well, Amex covers a year past the one year manufacturer's warranty. I made two phone calls. One to Amex to get the number of the Buyer's Assurance Program and one to Buyer's Assurance. Without a receipt and very few questions asked, and no physical proof of the diseased camera photos, they refunded the amount of the camera onto my card. In less that 24 hours. Amex is my new husband.

And finally, this is one of my favorite cuffs. I bought it out of a magazine three years ago for $125. When I received it I discovered that it was huge. I am so small boned that my baby bracelet, from when I was born, still fits me. So I had to take Velcro and lay it inside this new cuff to make it fit. Even with the Velcro, the cuff often slipped and I had to jam it back up my arm. UNTIL NOW.

Due to the fact that I haven't been able to exercise because I can't walk normally, I have put on 236 15 pounds. And today I wore the cuff and it didn't slip once and everyone can truly bite me because I can't stand being overweight.

End of chat.

BlogHer Lisa Marie Presley Elvis Presley The Lisa Marie Elvis' Plane Betty's Fireside Worst Comedy Club in the U.S. American Express

L.A. Sign Of The Times #34

Don't Kill All The Mommy Bloggers

Even though I read a few of them by my friends, I don't go searching for more mommy bloggers to add to my feed. I try them on, like shoes I know are probably not going to fit, and then discard them and wander off for a few weeks days. Yes, you're exhausted. Yes, there will always be housework. Yes, you're bored. I have all these complaints and I don't even have kids.

I admit to having a short attention span and my constant need to be entertained by bright shiny lives is annoying and time consuming. Which brings me to Radical Vixen's blog, which I discovered on Mommy Has A Headache's blog. A show of hands if you see the irony in me discovering a blog by a dominatrix on a mommy blogger's site. I'm nothing if not inconsistent and yesterday I mentioned I was a liar so try and keep up.

Vixen is not for the faint of heart. My favorite post so far is A Date With Murphy, Murphy being one of Vixen's clients. The best thing about her blog is the men's sexual fantasies and how in all probability they work at your office or live down the street or if you're really unlucky, have married you.

What makes this blog dangerous fun is that Vixen the Dominatrix has a boyfriend. Who is aware of what she does for a living.

End of chat.

I'm Such A Liar

Eight days ago I posted Who Wants A Clean House? (scroll down, it's from March 3) I said in that post that my place was pristine and fabulous.

This is a picture I took of my office over the weekend.


Does that look pristine and fabulous to you? I've decided to blame it on my numb hands rather than on, uh, my inability to run three projects out of my old dining room.

So when you read me and imagine where I'm sitting, rest assured I'm sitting in the same muck as you. Only worse.

End of chat.

Pinch Me When This Is Over

For the last few months I've picked up the habit of cracking my neck. I discovered it by accident when I turned my head and heard the little popping bursts as they traveled to my left. Like a loose button that you're dying to twist off and can't quit playing with, I couldn't stop doing it. I guess I wanted to see if my head would eventually droop down over my body and hang at a precarious angle without actually falling to the ground.

This past Wednesday I had a pain on the right side of my neck.

Thursday I was so tired I lay on my couch all day and longed for an IV drip of food to be airlifted in. I didn’t see myself walking all the way to the kitchen to grab a South Beach bar and then trekking back through the Himalayas to get to the couch. I had two pillows behind my neck and even though it didn’t feel very comfortable, I kept adjusting them throughout the day.

Friday morning I woke up and both my hands were tingling in that fallen-asleep-cause-I-slept-on-it-wrong manner. It went away after about an hour and I once again spent all day on the couch, praying for food to open the refrigerator door and walk over to me.

Saturday morning I sat up in bed and the tingling sensation shot through my body like an electrical shock. I lay back down and prepared to die. I waited about 30 seconds and tried again and the numbness had diminished but something was not right. I managed to walk out of the bedroom but it felt like I had no thighs.

Sitting at the computer, I coughed and the tingles swept through my body again. I raised my shoulders and more tingling. The right side of my neck was stiff, like I’d been sleeping on a jagged rock. I sleep on one of those pillows with one side higher than the other, with the higher side tucked under my neck and chin, so my spine stays aligned all night. I’ve slept on it for almost seven years and never had a problem before.

I jumped on Web M.D., the home page of hypochondriacs everywhere, and typed in my symptoms. I did not have carpal tunnel. I had that once but managed to get rid of it.

Guillain-Barre? Hmm, no attacks of viral infection but if I do have G-B, surgery can exacerbate it.

Three hours later the sensation had gone away in my lower body but my hands were still half numb. But I had to go to Costco. I say Had To because of all the items I’m trying to stockpile for three months instead of having to buy them online every week.

These are the things I dropped at Costco: A huge box of tiny V-8 juices. A carton of 36 packs of popcorn. A box of 12 cupcakes that fell over upside down. On their icings.

The numbness in my hands lasted all day and night.

Sunday I woke up with tingling hands but nothing else was numb. This time I Googled my symptoms. Just to make sure I didn’t have Raynaud’s Disease I wore gloves around the house. Now Raynaud's Phenomenon can be brought on by stress but me? Under stress? That’s ridiculous she says as she’s gearing up for a yard sale in two weeks.

I’m hoping it’s only that my brain has given me something else to worry about so I don’t have to obsess about whether I’ll ever walk in heels again. Or if they operate on the correct foot. Oh, and after this tingling thing? My neck doesn't crack at all. Because you know I had to see if it did.

I guess I’m lucky that the tingling is now only in my hands, a part of the body you hardly ever use when you’re on crutches.

End of chat.

It's Everyone Can Bite Me Friday!

TO: American Express
FROM: Suzy Soro

Thanks for extending my Panasonic digital camera warranty for a year so I can rid it of Black Dot Disease.

To actually help me, however, you're going to have to answer the phone in your service department when I call. I know, weird, but that's how it works.
One of the items I added to my list of a thousand things I had to get done before surgery was to have my living room ceiling repainted so the health inspectors wouldn't fine the owners of the building. I did not have 'patch, prime and paint the bedroom' on my list. Nor did I have 'repair peeling paint in the bathroom' on my list. Those were added because I pointed them out to the health inspector as a joke, like, "You think the ceiling is bad, take a look at THIS." I'm thinking of putting a large barrel and a sign at the entrance to my front door that says, "Welcome to Casa Flaking Paint Chips. Please help yourself to a complimentary hat."

I set up an appointment with my internist today and the nurse told me to get my pre-op orders faxed to their office.

"The doctor needs to check your blood count to make sure you won't bleed-out during surgery."

And I needed to know that specific detail, why? I don't want to know why they're taking my blood. Just take it and shut the fuck up already. Now that information is stuck in the frontal lobe of my cortex, where panic and obsession live side by side searching for Xanax.

The finale of Project Runway was won by Christian Siriano, pictured below. Only 21 years old, his clothes were over the top, made for supermodel bodies and utterly heart stopping. When one of his models bitched about the towering heels he made her wear because it was impossible to walk in them, he turned to the camera and said, "Oh puleeeeze, I walked in them for 5 hours; if I can do it, she can do it."

Nobody is more fabulous than a queen with a dream.

My new TV obsession is The Real Housewives of New York City. Totally outdoes the O.C. women, who are all trashy and booby with bleached blonde teens who are more annoying than I am. If that's even possible.

My favorite New York couple is the one who are merged. "Inseparable since our second date." I can't figure out whether I'm jealous or just jealous or maybe jealous? Mr. Merged picks out handbags for her, which could be a 10 on the Creep-O-Meter. In their defense, they actually act like they're still in love. Mrs. Merged wore a Brazilian thong on the beach at St. Bart's. For the non-connoisseur of the Brazilian, there is no coverage over the ass. Finally, partial nudity comes to reality TV. Can full frontal be far behind?

Please spare me the comments on that double entendre. I beg you. I'm not a well person and could break into spontaneous bleeding-out at any time.

End of chat.

Mailbag # 5

More anonymous news from my emails.....

That made me laugh so hard my neighbor started pounding on the wall.

I started on Prozac a week ago and it seems to be helping.

As a kid we went antiquing all through New England and to auctions and every museum and Corning Glass and Watkins Glen and the Grandma Moses museum and Howe Caverns and we also visited the monument to run-on sentences in Rensallaer, New York.

I love Oprah. Been on her show a few times.

Sarcasm is a cock block. No matter what words the sentence contains, the primal tonal implication too closely mimics, "You call that big?"

Thanks for the heads up on onions and garlic. I actually knew about spinach as I love it and had to cut back.

Do you play poker?

Just got back from Maryland, my little sister Marie finally lost her battle with cancer, she was 48.

We put a link to your blog on our site and quoted you in our press kit!

Sorry I didn't get you an invite for the party... I was pretty crazed.

I HOPE YOU’RE WELL AND I WOULD LOVE TO BOOK YOU ON EITHER OF MY SHOWS. MISS YOU; IT’S ONLY BEEN 14 YEARS!

I’ll drop by before I leave...which will probably be in an hour...I’d like to browse your accessory boutique, if you’re awake that is.

I am giggling like a little boy with a fart machine.

Thanks for the kind words about my work! Sometimes I question myself and ask...'what the hell am I doing this for?' I guess other kinds of artists question too!

I was thinking of making you something really yummy. A stick of herbed tofu rolled in a rice wrap with greens and veggies with a spicy sweet peanut sauce. It’s a veggie spring roll. I’ve made them before, they're good!

EVERYONE on my email list is getting this email. This does not mean that you’ve somehow joined my email list. You’re just getting it because I’m begging for something specific that crosses all boundaries of common courtesy.

End of chat.

Is The Girl Included?

How long do you think it takes people to put this together and then stop laughing long enough to use it?

I know women and men complain about how boring their sex lives are but really, who was sitting in front of a drafting board one day and said, "I've GOT it!"

And then just when you think that people couldn't really be any more stupid you see a magazine ad like this advocating the Karma Sutra.

End of chat.

Who Wants A Clean House?

Should I be worried that my new ankle surgery date is April Fool's Day?

That's what I thought.

So I'm once again counting down the time and the list of things that needs to be done in less than 30 days just gets longer and longer. Added to my old list are these items:

1. Get my camera fixed so I can take pictures of all the blood and guts

2. Meet a deadline for a writing project

3. Get my landlords to repair and paint my ceiling before it falls down on my ankle and allows me to file a 20 million frivolous lawsuit against them

4. Learn how to walk down 2 flights of stairs with crutches like that's even possible

5. Trace a lost package of ink that I think is gone forever

6. Kiss that $52.00 goodbye

7. Buy new ink

8. Clean my entire apartment

Which brings me to my obsession with the Style Network show Who Wants a Clean House? starring Niecy Nash from Reno 911.

If you've never seen the show, the rundown is that people in the Los Angeles area call in and ask for help in decluttering the nightmare that is their home. The Clean House team arrives to deal with pack rats, hoarders, and adults who decorate in early college dorm.

The team goes through their junk to find items to unload at a yard sale which in turn will bring in money that Clean House matches up to a thousand dollars. So if the yard sale yields $1250, Clean House will add an extra grand to that so that they have $2250 to turn their hell hole into design magic via designer Mark Brunetz.

As fun as this voyeurism is, it gets better when you see what people refuse to part with. Burnt pans, 8 tracks and enough cheap plastic crap to open a Dollar Store. And as these people fight for the right to hang on to their decorative thimble collection, used toilet paper and mementos from their 1976 trip to Nebraska you can sit there smug in the knowledge that YOU would never own any of that stuff.

The worst offenders are the people who say "I like to be organized" while they're knee deep in more crap than you can find at a land fill. It's obvious that there are severe psychological issues at play with most of these people. The overweight wife or husband who got dumped, the grown man with hundreds of toys, the woman who lost her engagement ring in the clutter, the couple who are no longer having sex because the wife keeps their two year old son in bed with them because she is still breast feeding him.

Ew. Double ew if you don't have children.

I looked through my place, which is pristine and fabulous, and imagined the Clean House team begging for something to sell at my yard sale and decided that of all that I owned this was the one thing I wouldn't sell even if I appeared demented on camera.

It's a working Art Deco slot machine that belonged to my Dad. If they came to your house, what couldn't you let go of?

End of chat.