Wendy From Encore

Home From A Party

2012-01-22T20:43:00.000-08:00

I've just come home from a lovely housewarming party given by two young friends of mine and am delightfully full of food and good conversation and (duh) beer. You will understand how much I love this pair by the fact that they live in the far reaches of Brooklyn...requiring a bus, a subway, and another bus.

However, the conversation, at one point, turned to Orthodox Jewry. (The male side of this pair is Jewish.) And we began talking about a very upsetting trend.

I am disturbed as HELL, as half a Jew, about what seems to be happening, not only in Israel, where an 8 year girl was recently spat upon and hounded for her perceived "immodest dress," (an 8 YEAR OLD) but here in New York, where women in highly Orthodox neighborhoods are told that they must sit in the back of the bus...which brings us almost inevitably to Rosa Parks, and also told that they must walk on the other side of the street from men, and on and on and on. There was a very good op-ed piece in today's paper about this.

What I find fascinating about it is that I'm a half-breed Catholic/Jew, raised in both religions, and this sounds exactly like what I was taught in Catholic school. When I hit puberty, I began to grow a bosom (it happens) and mine was pretty impressive. Still is, although it needs a LOT more shoring up than it used to. I was told to wear ever larger uniform blouses, and try to find a flattening bra, because my breasts were giving boys "bad thoughts." If I wore patent leather shoes...well, we all know that one. We were also taught to wear a horrible thing...a Playtex rubber girdle. The idea was that since we could barely get the thing on, no boy could get it off. This was undeniably true...you try dealing with sweaty rubber in August in Chicago. It took you 20 minutes to get the damn thing off. And my all time favorite was the nun who told us that if we had to sit on a boy's lap, we should put a telephone book down first. Personally, I ALWAYS carry a telephone book in my purse...don't you?

However, in either religion, do you see the point here? It's ALL OUR FAULT. By our mere existence as women, we bring this upon ourselves. Men are completely innocent. In today's article (I'm sorry, I've forgotten which paper) there was a story about a wig store in an Orthodox neighbor which was forced to close, because the ultra-Orthodox announced that the faceless wigheads modeling wigs in the window were an incitement to...BAD THOUGHTS.

Dear sweet GOD. We are being dragged right back into the old bad days. When I was abused by my first husband, I had to run barefoot in the snow (yeah, I know it sounds like an 18th century novel, but it's true and it happened to me), I got the cops to come with me to get my things out of the apartment, and the cops said (this was 1968), when I told them about my broken nose and permanent scars..."What did you do to him, lady?" Well, of course. By my very existence, I was the cause of being violently raped and beaten.

And all the conversation about how men are led by their penises and should therefore be given some sort of pass? What is that? Surely it can't be right that we walk innocently down the street, NOT dressed like streetwalkers, NOT hunting for a man, NOT doing a goddamn thing except trying to get home from work or a party...and goddamnit, if we are attacked, we are STILL greeted with "What did you do to him, lady?"

How on EARTH is this still going on?

Love, Wendy

A Rise In Spirits

2012-01-09T10:37:00.000-08:00

I have just made myself feel enormously better by setting up my computer wi-fi ALL BY MYSELF. You have to understand that while I can work computers, I have absolutely no talent for what other people consider extremely mundane tasks...such as sending a link. I spent quite a bit of time thinking how nice it would be if I could send a friend of mine the nice picture of my cats that I took with my phone...like months...before I accidentally pressed a button and got a list of things to do that included "email photo." So you can understand that I now feel totally invincible, and not only that, I can get rid of the damn card table that the computer is sitting on (because that's where its cord reaches) and put the computer on the dining table, where it belongs. Then I can get the damn card table out of the middle of the living room and go on with organizing this joint.

Yay, me!

Love, Wendy

Ghosts of Apartments Past

2012-01-09T09:43:00.000-08:00

Oh, I can't stand it. That damn Chelsea apartment is STILL following me around causing trouble.

Tuesday of Christmas week I went over and did all the cleanup from the move...getting rid of trash, sweeping floors, cleaning the icebox, washing the floors. Now it seems that I didn't do enough for them.

Now, as we all know, I'm a total neophyte when it comes to apartments in this particular century. I've only had four since I moved back to NY in 1972, and two of those were in the same building. Now, when I left the second one in that building in the '70s, I just told them I was leaving and left. Nobody said a word to me. When I left the third apartment, they were trying to get us out because they were going to renovate and turn the thing into a coop building, so nobody cared about the apartment (which was a good thing, since it was really old and shabby). In both cases, I hasten to add, I left the apartment just as I left the Chelsea apartment...clean, swept, etc. Then we bought the house, and when we sold that, they were going to gut renovate the thing, and anyway they had us bring the cleaning and fumigation people in.

So I have absolutely no experience of leaving an apaartment which seems to be under new rules. The lease I had tells me that normal wear and tear is fine. Dan (son of the owner), tells me that the stove is covered in grease and they probably have to buy a new stove (they should buy a new stove because that one is crap, but it hasn't got anything to do with grease and anyway I cleaned it) and that I should have taken all the picture hangers out of the walls and spackled and painted. Done WHAT? Since when is the outgoing tenant intended to repaint the apartment? This would make sense to me if I had painted a wall black or something like that, but surely hanging pictures is "normal wear and tear," isn't it? And according to Dan, there were marks on walls. Well, yes...if you put furniture against walls, it may well leave a mark. Again, surely this is normal wear and tear?

So now they're going after my security deposit, and I'm just furious...not to mention frightened for no reason whatsoever. It's just that Dan and his mother Maria frighten me anyway, because of the whole eviction thing and all (I was never comfortable in that apartment because I always thought they were going to burst in the door wanting to inspect it). I mean, there's no reason for me to be frightened of them...other than taking my money, they can't do a damn thing to me...but they're such a creepy pair.

I'm going to spit tacks for a while.

Growl.

Love, Wendy

Happy Almost New Year!

2011-12-30T15:28:00.000-08:00

So here I am...still in a fairly comprehensive mess, but that's because I haven't cleaned up from Christmas yet.

This apartment is so great...everybody loves it and is congratulating me for getting out of Chelsea. You walk into the front door and the kitchen is on your right. Oh, this glorious kitchen! It has an icemaker in the refrigerator, a dishwasher tht actually works, and a ton of storage space...and it doesn't get covered in grease and the stove doesn't get unbearably hot when you cook on it. Plus the floors are level! (I made some very odd-looking fried eggs in Chelsea because they kept slithering to the edge of the pan because the stove wasn't level.) Then the living room has a big picture window out to the street and tons of light during the day.

My bedroom has plenty of room, with a good sized closet and another of those picture windows, the bathroom has tons of storage, and right outside the bathroom there's a sort of half walk-in closet and a linen closet. This is wonderful!

The neighborhood is slightly sketchy, but gentrification is moving toward me at a great rate. There are housing projects all around, but also lots of luxury apartments...you can tell, because while my corner deli (open all night!) has a lot of cheap beer, they also carry premium brands and black olive tapenade. The supermarket closest to me is pretty terrible, but perfectly fine for everything except meat...but there's a good one four blocks away which I went to explore today which has everything else I need. I also have a gourmet store two blocks away and a Duane Reade one block away. And if I want specialty stuff...you know, an actual butcher and an actual fish store and like that...Essex Market is about nine minutes away by bus.

Transportation is admittedly a bit of a problem on weekends. The M21 bus, which is the crosstown bus, doesn't run on weekends, and the M9 (that's the one to Essex Market) has a truncated schedule. However, I can always go over to Avenue D and catch the 14D, which hooks up with all kinds of transport, so that's reasonably OK.

My cable is hooked up, and it's somewhat cheaper (FiOS rather than Time Warner), so I can sit here in perfect peace and watch TV with my trusty ashtray.

I did have a few bad moments when the super (Jimmy...a lovely guy and a friend of friends) came by soon after I'd moved in to tell me someone kept smelling smoke, but he caulked a couple of things, and I use my air purifier, and that's the last I heard of that...and Jimmy kept reassuring me that this is NOT a non-smoking building.

We had a lovely Christmas, even though it nearly killed me. The week before Christmas I had to do all my shopping in one day (which I do NOT recommend...either the amount of shopping or the timing), and then Sarah, bless her, got all the stuff for the nieces and nephews...but I still had to wrap it all and mail it out Express Mail. But it all got done. Then we had our traditional Lobster Fest on Christmas Eve, and our proper Christmas night meal, and our friend Henry brought the tree over on Christmas Eve so we could trim it between lobsters. Unfortunately, Moon Unit has discovered the tree and thinks it's the best fun ever, so I have to keep an eye on her...she likes to knock the ornaments off and bat them around the floor, which is not particularly good for either the ornaments or the cat.

Meanwhile I put my mother-in-law in a taxi on December 26th to get her back to Penn Station, and then came back and SLEPT for about three hours. Then I got one full day off before I had to go to my ambulance chasing lawyer pal for Wednesday and Thursday. Today I went to the good grocery store (I lead such an exciting life).

Tomorrow night I'm either going to my pal Jiggers' place or to the Bistro for New Year's Eve, looking absolutely gorgeous...Sarah bought me these amazing red velvet pants for Christmas which I just love. I'm going to wear them with a black turtleneck, ropes of pearls and black heels. Get me...

Oh, and did I mention that there's a post office around the corner and a library across the street? Talk about convenient...

Now to eat dinner, and I think I'll find something to watch on TV. Hoo boy...this is GREAT!

Have a wonderful New Year, everybody!

Love, Wendy

YAHOO!

2011-12-21T17:36:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting here in front of my very own computer, with my very own ashtray in my very own living room. Hog heaven!

As you can imagine, what with not being totally unpacked (totally? try mostly) and my mother-in-law arriving Friday and people for dinner Saturday and getting the nieces' and nephews' gifts into priority mail, I'm a complete banana.

Let me get through the holidays, darlings, and I'll give you the full rundown!

Meanwhile, merry and happy whatever you celebrate and I'll give you a full rundown next week.

Love, Wendy (exhaling happily)

Last Night in Chelsea!

2011-12-07T14:27:00.000-08:00

Oh, my God. I have packed ALL the artwork, ALL the books, and borrowed a cat carrier from Sarah. All I have to do now is the kitchen and bathroom. And the movers are coming at 9 am tomorrow. I swear, I flat out refuse to move again...EVER.

Let's hope the cats like catnip...I got a catnip toy to help persuade them into the carrier. I'm not looking forward to that one.

Look for me in a week, gang...I can't get my cable and computer hooked up until the 15th, damn it.

Moving twice in two years is not to be recommended.

Love, Wendy

What?

2011-11-25T15:57:00.001-08:00

I will blog about Thanksgiving, but just at the moment you all absolutely have to read the comment on my previous post about getting my apartment. It's hilarious!

Love, Wendy

YAHOO!

2011-11-23T17:39:00.000-08:00

I got an apartment! I'm totally amazed, after the hoops they made me jump through. Do you know that it just cost me a total of $13,999 to rent an apartment whose rent is $2695 per month?

We had two checks for $2695, of course, for rent and security. Then we had a check for $4851 for the broker's fee. Then we had a check for $2758 to the insurance company that let me pay them to insure that I would pay my rent.

So yesterday I went over, signed the lease, and I've got my apartment. Or I thought I did. As soon as I got to Sarah's bar, Joe from my new building called me and told me he had forgotten to tell me to get yet ANOTHER damn check for pet deposit. To the tune of $1000.

This last one almost killed me. Pet deposit? For CATS? Cats only destroy their owners' things...not apartments. Dogs will scratch the hell out of doors if they want to go out, but not cats, for God's sake. What I really wanted to do at this point was go home, empty the cat litter box, and bring him its contents. "You want pet deposits? These are pet deposits."

But I am now the proud renter of a one-bedroom apartment in the East Village, with an excellent kitchen (that even has an ice-maker in the icebox)...it's an open kitchen with a breakfast bar, so I have tons of counter space and storage space...yay! The bedroom is big, it's got good closet space, and altogether I am thrilled.

We have not mentioned the smoking question. I'm sure that if I use my nice air purifiers I should be fine. There's a laundry in this building with a nice garden outside it, and said garden has benches...AND OUTDOOR ASHTRAYS. This gives me hope.

Oh, and I found out at the lease signing that this place even has a free concierge service, for heaven's sake. And they'll be perfectly happy to help me get a mover and all kinds of good stuff. For free! Wow.

Meanwhile, my turkey is defrosting in cold water in the kitchen sink,and I'm probably going to have way too much food tomorrow because there's only about six of us...and I've finally managed to get all the shopping done without ONCE obsessing about the green beans! I think that's progress. Of course, now I'm obsessing about what on EARTH I'm going to do with what's bound to be a mountain of leftovers...

Happy Thanksgiving, all!

Love, Wendy

The Apartment Hunt - Day Three Million Or So

2011-11-19T16:01:00.000-08:00

You know, I'm not the best person to go apartment hunting in Manhattan in this day and age.

When I moved back here in 1972 (we lived here at the tail end of the War...you know, the one back there in the 40's), I lived with my aunt in Brooklyn Heights for a couple of months. Then she had friends who were looking to sublease their West Village apartment on Jane and Hudson, which I promptly jumped on, followed by getting my own (non-sublet) apartment in the same building. Not too long after that, one of the original subletters (my pal Charles) moved in on West 11th Street with his new lady Casey, and they discovered that I could get a better apartment in THEIR building, so I moved. I lived there for years, and then we bought the Charles Street house after my father died and I had some money.

Now, the way I got my three apartments was that I signed my name to the lease and paid them one month's security and the first month's rent. THAT WAS IT. That was all I did. And then we lived in the Charles Street house for 18 years.

I am here to tell you that things have gotten very strange out there in apartment land. Their requirements are horrendous. They want you to have 40 times the monthly rent sitting in your bank account. They do not believe in trust funds...a landlord remarked to my realtor that "Oh, a trust fund. Well, they come and go." Um, no, they don't. That's why they're called TRUST funds. Mine, for instance, is backed by a very large bank. It doesn't go much of anywhere.

And then comes the part that utterly fascinates me...the credit rating. You have to understand that I tend to be a complette innocent about money, and have learned about it through extremely painful trial and error. My father brought me up to never touch the stuff. I never had an allowance; any time I wanted something I was told to simply sign Daddy's name. Which I did. It never occurred to me to ask how the bills got paid, because it certainly wasn't encouraged. To this day, Bill the trustee keeps up the same nonsense...I have absolutely no idea how much is in my trust (in excess, at the moment, of $500,000, I know). I have never been allowed (by Daddy's wishes) to see an accounting or get regular financial statements.

Of course, this ended me up in a hell of a mess when I got credit cards...somehow I missed the point about how you were supposed to PAY the bills. Somehow in the back of my addled little head was the notion that you signed your name and the bills got paid...well, they always had, right?

I finally got all the credit cards paid off and haven't had one in years. These days, I work entirely in cash, and if I can't afford something, I either save up for it or talk myself out of getting it.

Which brings me to the credit rating problem. It seems that in order to have good credit and be seen as a good risk, you have to be in debt to a credit card company. I cannot be the only person on earth to whom this makes no sense whatsoever. I pay my bills (electricity, cable, cell phone) on time, and I have no debt whatsoever. Wouldn't you think this would qualify you as a prudent member of society? Nope. It seems to mark you as a deadbeat.

So I've just been accepted by something called Insurent, whereby you have to pay them 102% of a month's rent so that they will insure that you pay the rent. This, when we were perfectly willing to pay them six damn months of rent in advance!

I am left deeply confused by all of this.

The bright side is that there is something I've seen and things are moving, but I'm damned if I'm going to mention it until everything is in place. Everybody cross your fingers at the top of your lungs!

And to all parents of children out there...TEACH YOUR CHILDREN ABOUT MONEY! You may feel free to use me as a cautionary tale.

Love, Wendy

The Apartment Hunt - Day 1

2011-11-10T18:45:00.000-08:00

I have just been shown (by a very nice lady named Joanna), three identical apartments on one floor in one building. Why on earth I should have looked at all three of them is somewhat beyond me, since they were identical. They were also all tiny studios...even if I WANTED to swing the cats (which sounds dangerous, since most cats of my acquaintance don't want to be swung), I couldn't. Not to mention no storage space in the kitchen and no closet space...and they don't want smokers. And what is the matter with that floor in that building that there are THREE apartments available simultaneously? Mice? Rats? Dragons?

Onward and upwards...

Love, Wendy

CLEAN!

2011-11-09T18:31:00.000-08:00

In case you've been wondering, I have been missing in action because I have been cleaning my house.

This is because, of course, my year of exile in Chelsea is just about over and I am moving, moving, moving, back below 14th Street where I damn well belong. In an apartment where I can friggin' SMOKE. The front stoop here is charming, and I have many good friends among the dogs in the neighborhood, many of whom want to sit in my lap. Well, you know, I'm OUT there all the damn time. And I'm an easy mark for any friendly dog that wanders by...I love dogs and would have one, except for my wonky hours (you really can't leave a dog alone for a possible eighteen hours...you know, by the time I go out, hit a location bus, and then go out and have a couple of beers at the end of the day). Not to mention the fact that I distinctly remember the days when we DID have a dog, and despite all promises to the contrary, guess who was out there with the dog at 6 AM in subzero temperatures? Yeah. Anyway, Dweezil and Moon Unit (otherwise known as the Insane Cat Posse) keep me busy enough.

So. The house. It really is a perfectly nice apartment (now that I can see it), presuming I A. wanted to be in Chelsea to begin with, which I don't, and B. that I could smoke in it. And Maria, the odd gal from whom I sublet this, actually wanted to know why I didn't want to renew my lease. She seemed quite shocked when I told her I wanted to smoke indoors. But it is now painfully clean, which means I really have to find a new place soon before I get a chance to filth it up again...my track record on keeping ANY apartment clean isn't the best. Although when I get going, I do quite a good job...really, you could eat off the floor, except that you'd have to fight the cats for anything that was down there.

And we still have to have Thanksgiving here...oy.

Tomorrow I am meeting with a nice lady named Joanna who is going to show me apartments. Watch this space for the hunt details!

And cross your fingers that I can manage to keep this apartment together long enough for Maria to rent it again and, importantly, NOT to retain my security deposit.

Love, Wendy

Law & Order - The Micro-Shoot

2011-10-25T14:02:00.000-07:00

Well, that just wasn't worth putting on all that makeup for. The makeup was because Russian women, the older ones, wear a TON of it. Personally I feel that the older you get, the less you should wear...it just settles into those tiny fine lines (oh, all right, crows' feet you could stick an actual crow into, if you must know) and makes you look older.

Anyway, so I caught the location bus out to Brighton Beach at 5:45 am...then we walked back and forth on Brighton Beach Avenue for a while...then we were sent back to holding...and then we were wrapped, at 10:45 in the morning! Sheesh. I must say that SAG is a generous employer, though; while we were out walking back and forth, it spat one or two drops of rain. Would you believe we got wet pay for it? (Yes, in SAG language, there really is something called wet pay. You can also get smoke pay, among other things.) I mean, thank you, SAG, for the extra 7 bucks, but how silly can you get?

Meanwhile, I've been being terribly social...birthday party for my friend Caesar at his place in New Jersey on Saturday (you know I adore the guy if he got me to go to New Jersey without a location bus). Lots of lovely food and lots of people I hadn't seen forever.

Then last night I went uptown to a rather less amusing engagement...a memorial service for a gal I did a show with some time back. It was quite a decent memorial, as these things go; lots of wine and good food, and again, a bunch of people I hadn't seen forever. But nobody (even if we weren't close friends, which we weren't) should die at 58 from hepatitis. Ghastly.

Tonight I'm off to play with my child at the bar...without makeup and with jeans, for a lovely change. Well, I certainly wasn't going to a birthday party looking like I was going to the grocery store (red turtleneck, black mini, black tights, red cowboy boots...yay, me), and I would consider it impolite to not dress decently for a memorial (gray pants suit, pale blue turtleneck, short black boots). So at least tonight I can throw on my dirty old sneaks...long sigh of relief.

I was reading the NYTimes on Sunday (through my hangover...that WAS a good party) and went directly to the vanity publishing ads, as usual. There hasn't really been anything good in these recently, but Sunday I found one for your delectation.

"MUSINGS OF ONE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS OF SOLITUDE

In this collection of maxims, aphorisms and just plain thoughts and unanswered questions, Bardas Benetbunk attempts to lend coherence to the thoughts that visited his mind over a great number of years, and the reflections they occasioned."

Hoo boy. Can we say hubris? What on earth would make this gentleman think that anybody was in the least interested? I bet he's bored every single member of his family and everyone else he knows to death with this stuff. Can't you just see, oh, say, Thanksgiving? "Oh, God, here comes Bardas again. Look, if I'm stuck with him for more than 5 minutes, invent an urgent phone call or something, please?" No wonder he's had a thousand and one nights of solitude. Admittedly, much can be forgiven a man who's stuck being named Bardas Benetbunk...but not everything.

So, for those of you who are looking for the equivalent of a lump of coal in the Christmas stocking for certain people this year, I give you Bardas Benetbunk. He'll have plenty of books left after he forces one on each member of his family, I'm sure.

Love, Wendy

Time Got Away From Me Again

2011-10-14T14:07:00.000-07:00

Well, I keep meaning to post...doesn't that count for something?

I've been locked into the ambulance-chasing lawyer's office for practically two weeks, which means that the sum total of interesting things that have happened to me is one big fat zero. Unless, of course, you count the fact that in six days of this guy, I managed not to strangle him...which I consider an enormous achievement, frankly.

You have no idea. He's a perfectly nice guy, I have to say, and even (unlike far too many lawyers) actually has a sense of humor. Most lawyers simply aren't taught these things in law school, you see...evidently moot court and torts class don't have sections devoted to oh, say, Mark Twain (although they ought to). No, it's his method of working that drives me straight up a wall.

The man has the mind of a butterfly on crack. He cannot prioritize (I hate that word) his work to save his life. The result of this is that everything gets half or one qaurter done when he suddenly comes up with another frantic emergency. Face it, people...everything is NOT an emergency. A Will in probate is not going to get probated any faster if the letter is written this afternoon instead of this morning. Or, in fact, tomorrow instead of today. This guy doesn't do criminal law, so we're not talking about somebody rotting in jail for an extra day. Anyway, six days of him was WAY too much for flesh and blood to take...which is why I've been avoiding my home computer.

So there.

However, I did get two calls in succession yesterday while I was dozing off over a Stipulation and Final Accounting for Receivership (oh, God help me...I'm talking legalese). One was from Central Casting, who have suddenly decided they love me again...and I'm doing Law & Order SVU on Monday! Yay! And right after that...I mean 15 minutes after I talked to Central Casting...I got a call to do 30 Rock today! Unfortunately, today's shoot was weather sensitive with a fallback on Monday, and of course I was already booked on Monday. Damn.

So today I had a nice long nap, went and got my chin and upper lip waxed (I don't think the elderly billy goat effect is a really good look for me), and am now attempting to talk myself into doing something useful in the house. That would be organizing the books, of course. Every single book I own (well, not quite) is on the living room floor because I'm trying to get all the authors together. It's been like this for weeks now. The job is intrinsically boring anyway, and then there's the basic problem of runniing across something I haven't read in forever and just saying, well, the hell with it, I'll just read for a while. I'm managing to organize six books a day before I get sick of the whole thing and curl up with one of them. At this rate, I'll be moving them off the table for Thanksgiving dinner.

The cats continue to be completely insane...Moon Unit showed me some affection the other day by walking up, looking me in the face, and then nipping me very gently on the eyebrow. Um, what?

Love, Wendy

Unbelievable...

2011-10-01T16:15:00.000-07:00

From today's Weird But True column in the NY Post:

"Lawmakers in Ohio have made it legal for people to carry concealed weapons while visiting bars.

One state senator said there's no need to fear people carrying guns in close proximity to alcohol.

'An undischarged concealed weapon never hurt anybody,' he said."

Does anybody but me see anything hugely, deeply wrong with this whole idea? Obviously an undischarged weapon never killed anybody, concealed or not, but how many times have we all heard, "I didn't know it was loaded!" And the notion that you can just waltz into a bar, no matter what your mood, carrying a weapon that no one can see...well, I'm personally not going to be drinking in Ohio any time soon, I can assure you. Not, you understand, that I have EVER planned to drink in Ohio, but stranger things have happened. For instance, I actually have had a drink in Ohio...this was roughly a million years ago during my touring children's theatre years, and I haven't the remotest notion exactly where in Ohio I was. Yeah, well, you do three shows a day and spend the rest of the time in a heavy fog on the Ohio Turnpike...you won't know where you are either.

And someone came up with an equally ridiculous and dangerous idea here in New York just a couple of weeks ago...the notion that you don't need a vision test to renew your driver's license. Hoo, boy. Like the streets around here aren't dangerous enough already...although personally I blame that on the kamikaze bike riders we have. Luckily someone with a modicum of good sense nipped the no vision test thing right in the bud, which is excellent.

Meanwhile, good old Anonymous (and how IS life in Chicago?) does raise a point about various people not being thrilled with my notion of heaven. This is probably because I failed to make it clear that this is MY version of heaven. I am firmly of the belief that if there is a heaven, you get the one you want. I mean, I know people who would be thrilled to have heaven be one long night at a 1970's disco. This would cause me to beg for the fires of hell immediately, but there's no accounting for taste (certainly not for that one). No, everybody deserves their deepest desire in heaven...why not?

Love, Wendy

One More Day

2011-09-30T18:21:00.000-07:00

Well, I finished up being dead. As it happened, I was dead for a total of three days...draw your own conclusions.

The last day of the dead was out in Brooklyn, in the old Williamsburg Bank Building, which is absolutely gorgeous. All columns and marble floors and this incredible ceiling with blue and gold signs of the Zodiac.

I must say that the scriptwriter on this has what I sincerely hope is a damned odd take on the afterlife. First of all, I really hope I'm not being transported there via PATH train under New Jersey. Hell, we didn't even get to see the light at the end of the tunnel...although in this case, it most certainly WOULD have been an oncoming train. And while Croton Park Point was lovely, there were all those bees...being stung by a bee never figured heavily in my notion of the afterlife either. And now (if things go according to this script) it turns out that in order to get to the actual afterlife, you have to fill in forms and stand in line. Doesn't that seem awfully bureaucratic? And what if your forms aren't right? Do you have to be alive again? Personally, I've always pictured Heaven (well, all right...I know I'm presuming here) as a gorgeous very English library, with a roaring fire and big comfortable leather chairs, and bookshelves that are constantly refilled with brand new books by my favorite (dead) authors. Oh, yeah...and a small kitchen area with a beer filled refrigerator and all my favorite snacks. Doesn't that sound cozy?

Meanwhile, life has been dull. Nobody else seems to want me to be in a movie, so I'm going to give Nancy, who is my overworked friend at that nutty law firm, a few days off...Thursday and Friday of next week and the whole following week. This may be that bourne from which no traveller returns...I'm deeply afraid that seven days of Andrew the lawyer may kill me, because while he's an awfully nice guy, he is the world's most maddening person to work for. However, it is money coming in, which is always useful.

And just to show you what me and Sarah get up to (we tend to text each other when we get bored), here's a verbatim exchange straight from my telephone. S is Sarah and W is Wendy...just so you know.

W: I got a hat.

S: I...What?

W: I got a hat. I told you I wanted one.

S: Oh. Yeah. But it just seemed totally random. You could have said "I got the hat I was looking for." What came out was closer to "wanna ride bikes?"*

W: Wait until you see it. I didn't think the purple veil was going to work with the pink roses, but the rhinestone clip really beings it together.

S: I'm going to barf on your head.

W: Black felt fedora. Found it at H&M. Perfect.

S: I'll buy it when I see it.

As you can tell, we have a good deal of fun together. And the asterisk on the "Wanna ride bikes?" That refers to a silly joke Sarah told me years ago which has sort of become a catch phrase with us. How many people with ADD does it take to change a light bulb? And the answer is, Wanna ride bikes?

I will now go and do nothing in particular for a while, then I will go smoke my final cigarette of the day, and then I will climb into bed so the cats can gnaw my toes. A full, rich life...

Love, Wendy

Nature Red in Tooth and Claw

2011-09-15T15:08:00.000-07:00

I have said it before and I'll say it again...I am not a nature person. Get me away from decent taxicabs and all night delis and I wilt. Not to mention that I'm convinced that trees are out to get me, and that one of these days butterflies will grow teeth and then THEY'LL get me.

This said, you can imagine my extreme distrust of going out on Tuesday for Gods Behaving Badly to be recently dead in a park an hour outside New York.

To give the place (Croton Point Park, I believe) its due, it is absolutely lovely. BUT.

First of all, trying to get something to eat was a production number. Crafty was a van ride away, for God's sake, and when we got there, there were a lot of perfectly lovely donuts waiting for us, and I was starved. Unfortunately, the idiots running Crafty were evidently also city types, because instead of putting sturdy plastic covers on the donuts, they had loosely covered them with Saran wrap. The result was that when we got there, the table was completely covered in a swarm of bees. We had to fight them off to get any breakfast. See what I mean about not liking nature? That never would have happened in a decent deli.

Then we wandered about being dead. They did have one thing that I thought was utterly marvelous. We were all given what were supposed to be orientation packets for the afterlife, and true to the movies' insane attention to detail, they had actual orientation schedules and maps of the Underworld in them, which was hilarious. From what was on the orientation schedule, it was clear that they had taken these things directly from a university orientation booklet, but it was funny anyway. Things like Managing Your Credit in the Underworld (it's the one thing I thought I wouldn't have to worry about after death), cocktails in the Hades Bar, introductions to the medical clinic (eh?), and my absolute favorite...Safe Bicycle Riding. Um, we're supposed to be dead ALREADY. My only thought was that (since this particular item mentioned helmet safety) well, I suppose that even if you're dead, you wouldn't want to spend the afterlife with a misshapen head from a bike accident, now would you? Not if you're going to have an elegant cocktail in the Hades Bar, anyway.

I'm back on this next Tuesday and maybe next Wednesday, and then I go back to my little law firm on Thursday, so money coming in...yay!

The cats are playing a very loud game of chase and running into things and knocking things over. Teenagers!

Love, W.

Giggling Hysterically

2011-09-13T14:06:00.000-07:00

The world's best story headline from today's Daily News:

"Man in mourning as fire engulfs his prized 'Willie.' "

Well, yes, I should think so.

Love, Wendy

Not To Be Believed

2011-09-11T12:25:00.000-07:00

I wouldn't like to say that some people are a bit bad at taking responsibility for their actions, but there is a story in today's New York Post that is just wonderful...in an awful way.

It seems that there is a gentleman in Nanuet, New York who regularly (oh, yeah) patronizes a White Castle which has the sort of tables that one often sees at McDonald's, where the chair part is attached to the table part, and therefore cannnot be moved about. This gentleman discovered one day that there was no longer enough room for his stomach between the table and the fixed chair.

Now, I don't know about you, but my first thought here would be, "Jeez Louise, I'd better cut back on this crud a little bit." Is the story about a person who then changed his ways and is now a regular gym goer?

No, don't be silly. This is America. He is, naturally, suing for his (according to him) God-given right to keep putting on more weight (he nows weighs 290 pounds, which, by the picture in the paper, is NOT the most flattering look he could have chosen). Therefore, he wants Wendy's to replace all their furniture with something that will accommodate him.

Please. God knows I am all for accommodating the handicapped. Wheelchair accessible, certainly. Blind person accessible, absolutely. Service dogs welcome, you better believe it. And so forth. But for God's sake.

I do know that there are a few glandular problems which do result in enormous weight gains...years ago I had a friend thus afflicted. But I ALSO know that the incidence of these diseases is statistically extremely small. Face it...most people who are fat are just fat and have let themselves get that way. I am damned if I would be willing to tear up all a restaurant's furniture to accommodate people who won't quit eating.

Besides which, if they make the tables far enough away from the chairs to accommodate this guy, how the hell am I supposed to reach MY unhealthy burger? My arms aren't that long.

Love, Wendy

P.S. I know it's September 11th. I was downtown that day. I walked home in the ashes, etc. Enough.

I'm Not Dead Yet! (Thank You, Monty Python)

2011-09-07T08:58:00.000-07:00

Yes, well, these things happen. In this case, what happened was a complete computer failure and my efforts to get it fixed...which swiftly turned into my efforts to pry enough money out of my trustee to get it REPLACED.

After I called Time Warner Cable, who are usually really good about helping me with my occasional tech issues, they told me they couldn't fix it, and I should call Compaq (this being a Compaq laptop). Compaq first of all attempted to sell me a $99 service contract, and then followed that up by telling me that the necessary repairs would be three or four hundred dollars. Somehow I felt that spending nearly five hundred bucks to repair an oldish computer was not the wisest economic decision...so for $750, I am beaming this to you from my nice new Dell laptop, which, for that $750, also includes proper Windows 10 (Word, Excel and Power Point...you never know, I might have to act like a secretary again one day), tech support, and they took everything off my old computer and put it on this one. Not a bad deal at all.

So, let's get everybody filled in on what I've been doing.

The first thing of any interest whatsoever was that I did a shoot that I found deeply creepy on the 8th of August. This is a movie called Imogene with Kristin Wiig, and the shoot took place in the Empire Casino at Yonkers Raceway.

You have to understand that A. the only casinos I've ever set foot in are in Europe, and it was back in the '60s with my father in places like Cannes, where one wore evening gowns and black ties. It was all very glittery and there were croupiers and dealers and roulette tables and whatnot. B. I am NOT a gambler. Well, okay, I'm an actor, which argues a streak of gambling in my soul, but it's gambling on myself (that I'll get cast), not on some horse I've never even met, for heaven's sake. Years ago some friends of mine and I used to go out to the racetrack, and I would take a $20 bill for a ten race card and put $2 on the favorite to show in every race. I invariably came home with my original 20 bucks and maybe a couple extra...as you can see, I'm not a gambler.

So we get to this casino, and I have never seen anything as completely creepy in my life. There were no people in it. I mean, no people that worked there, except for some young girls wandering around with trays of drinks. There were no tables, no dealers...all that was there was two floors of row upon row of computer screens. Even the roulette "tables" were comprised of computer screens, although they had big TV screens where you could see a wheel going around. However, the screens were strange too. Each screen featured a model type girl spinning the wheel, but they had only filmed her doing so once. So the loop plays endlessly until the girl begins to look like an animatronic figure...only, she's not exactly a top model, so she's somewhat less animated than a real robot would have been.

And into this bizarre scene come the gamblers. They are overwhelmingly elderly. Many of them have walkers or wheelchairs. And this seems to be their life. Personally, if I had a choice about how to spend my declining days (and come to think of it, I should probably make said choice, shouldn't I?), it would most CERTAINLY not be in a room full of computer screens. You'll see me hopping on my mobility scooter (which I have every intention of fitting out with a foxtail and a great big OOGA OOGA horn) and heading directly to my neighborhood bar. Personally, I think this seems a WAY healthier choice than staring at a computer screen all alone every day.

There was one thing that amused me...here and there around the sides of these huge computer filled rooms are windows with a big sign across them that says "Redemption." Well, of course they're for turning in your tickets and getting your cash, but I kept having this fantasy of gamblers coming up and throwing themselves in front of the windows and yelling, "I'll never gamble again! Please, Lord, redeem me!" Unfortunately, this didn't happen, but I thought it would be just great.

Then my favorite gals from Chicago came in for their annual trip and we had a nice meal together, and then finally I got to my much awaited first shoot for Gods Behaving Badly, where I'm recently dead.

This was another peculiar shoot, although MUCH more amusing than watching the almost dead play computer slot machines. We started out in midtown, at 34th Street in the PATH train, and spent a large part of the night (this was an overnight shoot...more money...yay!) going back and forth under New Jersey in our special three car PATH train. The best fun was watching the people who were actually waiting for real trains as we went by. We had to go slowly because of the camera equipment, of course, and the looks on people's faces were great. It's not every day you see a train car filled with people in their pajamas and bathrobes wearing ghastly gray-white makeup...some of them with IV bags hanging from the car rails, some of them heavily bandaged...calmly chugging by as you try to get home to Hoboken. We ended up at Christopher Street, which was also fun. All the assorted weird denizens of the night who hang out there were thrown by us too, as we wandered the block between holding at St. Ronnie's (St. Veronica's) and the PATH station where the food was. I must admit, however, that I was slightly annoyed at the end of the night (i.e., 7 am)...if I hadn't moved, damn it, I would have been exactly two blocks away from my house. Growl.

Then we finally, on August 30, did the promised reading of my one act play at Sarah's bar, which was attended by damn near nobody...because, of course, with no friggin' computer, how was I sipposed to let people know? However, those who were there enjoyed it immensely, and we're going to do it again and film it, so there.

As to the hurricane...meh. The earthquake was more interesting. The hurricane was pretty much a non-event by the time it got to Manhattan, although it did a lot of damage around us. We got a lot of heavy rain and a lot of strong wind on Sunday. I made sure I had beer, cigarettes and cat food, those being the necessities of my life, and hunkered down...and then nothing much happened. I spent a lot of the hurricane standing outside the building smoking under an umbrella. You do have to remember that I'm originally a Chicagoan...my take on wild weather and high wind tends to be a bit casual because I grew up with it.

The earthquake was interesting, though. I was sitting in the kitchen, and I have shelves on my kitchen table (because this apartment doesn't have anything resembling enough cupboard space). All of a sudden the glasses I have there started clinking. I promptly looked under the table, assuming the cats (who continue to be a furry joy, even if they do destroy things and knock things over) were screwing around and banging into the table legs. They weren't, however, so I straightened up in my chair again and just then...the kitchen floor shifted. It took me a minute, but I suddenly realized that it had to be an earthquake (well, I didn't have a hangover and I hadn't been smoking anything more interesting than Marlboros, and I didn't have any new meds from the doctor, so...). I jumped up and went to stand in the kitchen doorway and braced myself there (yes, you really are supposed to do that), but it stopped. The reason for the doorway thing is that if you look at pictures of various bits of destruction, you will see that for some reason, possibly having to do with angles, doorframes seem to stay stable. In my building, which is made of a lot of thick stone, I wasn't particularly worried about collapse, but common sense will tell you that you don't want to be in an elevator, and you don't want to be on the stairs, which can (and do...look at those photos again) pull away from the wall. But it was certainly interesting!

Okay, now that everyone is sound asleep from the length of this missive, I am going to take a shower and go see Sarah at the bar, and I absolutely promise not to disappear for so long again! But it wasn't really my fault...blame Compaq.

Love, Wendy

Oh, Honestly!

2011-07-29T14:20:00.000-07:00

There is a piece of building material left over from the World Trade Center collapse which ended up being in the form of a natural cross. It's quite impressive...they set it up amidst the rubble as soon as it was found, and it really did, in those days, convey a sense of hope. (Yes, I was working downtown that day...eight blocks away. It was a very strange day.)

Well, they are now going to move the cross to the Memorial Center, and the atheists have gone completely bonkers on the subject and are trying to get it banned.

You know, I happen to be a believer...not in religion per se, which I consider the most divisive force on earth, but in God. Now it would not occur to me to tell others what to believe, or to tell anyone what not to believe, or anything of that nature...I mean, I feel very strongly that one's beliefs are one's own private property. But this group has gone completely bananas.

In today's NYTimes, they have an article about the fact that the atheists have brought a lawsuit to try and get the cross banned from the Memorial site, and it says, in part:

"...four individual atheists, who are described as having suffered 'dyspepsia, symptoms of depression, headaches, anxiety, and mental pain and anguish from the knowledge that they are made to feel officially excluded from the ranks of citizens who were directly injured by the 9/11 attack.' "

First of all, if they were "directly injured" by the 9/11 attack they'd be dead. Secondly, how dare they deny the comfort that might be derived by Christians (or for that matter, Jews) from this cross? And thirdly, how on earth do these people live in the world? Do they fall down with migraines and indigestion (that being what dyspepsia is) every time they pass a church or a temple? And who said they were excluded? That's an exclusion of their own making, surely. I hardly think the Memorial is going to have a sign announcing No Atheists Allowed.

I mean, really. How damn stupid can you get?

Love, Wendy

Say What, RiteAid?

2011-07-27T17:40:00.000-07:00

I have various discount/reward cards for the drugstores I use. Today I went into RiteAid to get cigarettes, some dish soap, and some body lotion, and when I looked at my receipt, I saw that they had indeed discounted a couple of items...the two packs of cigarettes.

This is fine, except that the discount/reward card is called "Wellness +". Ummm...what?

Love, Wendy

More Work!

2011-07-25T17:45:00.000-07:00

Just got cast for three days' work in something called Gods Behaving Badly. I am going to be playing "one of the recently dead group." Yes, really. I can only hope that casting agencies make a habit of saying "The director loved your look!" You know, the way people reflexively say, have a nice day? Because if they cast me as dead, and the director loved my look, I am in SERIOUS need of new headshots. I mean, face it, doesn't that seem just a tad bit tactless? You're hired to be recently dead because the director loved your look? Good God, what can I possibly look like?

Meanwhile, I just saw the last Harry Potter with Sarah. It's wonderful, presuming you're as steeped in Potter lore as we are...definitely a fitting end to the series. I must say, we're evidently not quite so serious about it as some people. At one point, there was a girl sobbing so loudly you could hear her all over the theatre. Admittedly, in these nasty little multiplex theatres, that's not terribly difficult.

Oh, for the days of actual movie palaces! The Piccadilly Theatre was ours in Chicago, with marble floors and golden cherubs and red velvet curtains...now that was movie going. That theatre could even ennoble a lousy cowboy movie.

I'm going to eat something and curl up in bed and see if the fur people will join me. I've been filling Sarah's bed up with her boxes of stuff, and Moon Unit at least has taken to dozing on my bed, which is just the way it should be.

Love, Wendy

Busy...And HOT

2011-07-20T16:26:00.001-07:00

This weather is disgusting. It's in the high 90's every day, and Friday it's going to be 100! I can't wait...I can't wait to go on an Alaskan cruise, that is. However, after a brief period of complete panic caused by my spotty knowledge of electric things, I now have more than adequate air conditioning (it was a matter of hitting the switch in the plug)...in which I intend to stay until this whole thing goes away.

Meanwhile, I've been running around like a chicken with my head cut off. A week ago Sunday (July 10, if for some bizarre reason you're keeping track), I got a background job on something called Finchley Dreams. I cannot imagine why anyone would dream of Finchley, because it's a rather dull London suburb, but then again, I don't title movies. This shoot was a killer. It was a protest scene, and we protested for 15 hours. Yup, you read that right. 15 hours. In 90-something degree weather. Standing. I thought my feet were going to burn right off me. This is going to be a very pretty little paycheck, however! (And if you think my description is vague, it is...we had to sign a confidentiality agreement.)

Then a friend of mine asked me to do some computer transcription. Beware of friends bearing thumb drives. That took up all of Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday...long, long hours. Like 10-12 of them per day. And in the middle of it I had to go to a friend's birthday party, which I managed for about 15 minutes. (But another nice paycheck!)

Thursday I got some rest, ditto Friday, but meanwhile I had to do some housecleaning because of a friend bearing cats! More on this in a minute.

Friday, a little more rest, but not enough...and then Saturday a cousin came in town so Sarah and I had to have dinner with them, which was great fun...but I had gotten a call earlier in the week to go back on Finchley Dreams on Sunday. Luckily it was a late call (like noon...the previous week was 5:30 am), and only 9 hours, but more grueling because there was about three times the humidity. I may just have to burn the outfit I was wearing...I don't think I'll ever get the sweat out of it. You know it's hot when you sweat right through your underwear.

And last night...drum roll, please...DWEEZIL AND MOON UNIT FINALLY ARRIVED!

Yes, I am once again a happy cat mother. And yes, I will get pictures in here if Sarah will show me how. They're not exactly kittens...about 6 months old or so, but they are young, and they're pretty gray tabbies, brother and sister. And even better, they arrived spayed, with all their shots, a little box, litter, feeding bowls and food! Free! A friend had to get rid of them, and here I was in need of cats...

They are currently curled up on Sarah's bed. They now let me pet them and do a lot of ear scritching, but it'll take them some time to actually settle in and start to run the house in proper cat fashion. But I am covered in cat hair and just thrilled!

YAY! I HAVE CATS!

Love, Wendy

A True Meeting of Minds

2011-07-09T09:02:00.000-07:00

Well, I had the best damn Thursday, all due to Jane Schott, whose comments you can read here, and don't forget to check out her blog, which you can find under Things I Love on my blog page...Empress of the Eye.

We met for lunch, and I then dragged the poor gal off to meet my kid, and we just had the most fun! Now Texas Beth, when are you coming into New York? And Carolyn, you get in here too, because you would logically be staying with me, and your advent may be the only damn way to get Sarah's crud out of the apartment.

Other than my lovely Thursday afternoon, absolutely nothing has been happening. I am actually doing something about the house, but veeerrrryyyy slowly. Books are getting shelved, floors are getting washed, laundry has been done...and ALL the ironing is done AND the stove is clean. I consider these last two items enormous accomplishments, particularly the stove (I'm still picking Brillo bristles out of my hands).

Now I am going to finally FINISH the damn kitchen...which is a matter of about four square feet of floor to wash and the table to move. And I've been putting it off for days now, so it's really time. AND I've sternly informed myself that I can't go downstairs for another cigarette until it's done. So there.

Love, Wendy

A Couple of Weird Food Things

2011-07-04T20:01:00.001-07:00

I was reading a magazine the other day, and there was a product advertised in a jar. Said product was baked brie. Can someone explain to me A. WHY you would put baked brie in a jar, when you make baked brie by putting a chunk of brie in an oven? and B. I think these people should hire a translator, because this jar says Baked Brie. Under that it says Camembert Au Four. Well, au four is right, that meaning in the oven in French, but surely you ought to know whether you're putting brie or camembert in the damn jar?

But I do think I've just come across my all time favorite overblown restaurant description of a dish. This comes from the restaurant's actual menu and I don't feel like going back to it, so you'll just have to be satisfied with the fact that it's a French restaurant here in Chelsea. Which is extremely expensive. They offer the following:

New York State Steak Frites (Organic, Grain Fed), butter maitre d'hotel, french fries. watercress mustard dressing with bearnaise pepper and roquefort sauce. (sic...sic as a dog. Pace Dorothy Parker, whose line that is.) (She's talking about Winnie the Pooh.)

I think someone should do something about this chef. Mellow pills would come to mind immediately, but first I think we should stage an intervention by taking all his/her ingredients away and forcing him/her to make a steak with some salt and pepper on it. Maybe. Clearly this boy/girl has major problems. I can't even begin to think about what this conglomeration might taste like. And actually, I don't WANT to.

Um, Jane? What happened?

Love, Wendy

Unexpected Bugs

2011-06-22T16:52:00.000-07:00

VERY unexpected. There I was, minding my own business, on Tuesday, June 7, very early in the morning. I had grabbed a cab to get to lower Broadway for a Boardwalk Empire shoot for a 5 am call. The set was absolutely spectacular. There's a tiny alley/street that runs behind Broadway at about Walker Street called Cortlandt Alley (of which I had certainly never heard) which had been tricked out to be a tenement block of the 1920's...which was only fitting, because that's what it WAS in the 1920's. There were pushcarts and laundry strung between the buildings...just amazingly great work.

Well, I felt a little nauseated when I got there, but I swallowed a few times and took some deep breaths and it all went away. Then I got dressed and haired and made up, the usual stuff, had my breakfast, and we started the shoot.

After a while it occurred to me that something was very, very wrong. It was a fiendishly hot day, and I had been placed right in front of the door to holding, where the air conditioning was blowing out, which should have been ideal, right? Unfortunately, as the morning wore on, I discovered that the damn air was giving me the chills, which should NOT have been happening.

I lasted until lunch on purpose...they can't very well be expected to stop a shoot for one lousy background actor. I mean, they would have DONE it...but it would have been damned expensive in terms of time and stuff, so I just got through it, and as soon as lunch was called I left.

I then proceeded to spend five solid days flat on my back with the worst case of flu I've ever had in my life. I mean, like running 104. I couldn't even get downstairs to smoke a damn cigarette...for me, that's SICK. Thank God for Sarah, who came in and out delivering necessities like Diet Coke and chicken soup.

I am now completely well again except for a lingering cough, which is getting better. Never again!

So yesterday I went out to shoot something called Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close in Brighton Beach, the deep Russian part of Brooklyn. What a damn screwed up shoot. I picked up the van at Varick and Canal, we got out there around ten, and they didn't use us until about 5 pm, which is in no way unusual. What was HIGHLY unusual was that there was no Crafty. Crafty is Craft Services, and it's the life blood of a shoot. It's your breakfast, it's your lunch, it's the all day snacks all actors count on so they won't have to go home and cook/pay for dinner. So we all had to go get and pay for our own breakfasts, which didn't improve anybody's mood much. The mood had already been pretty much lowered by the news that the agency had given all of us the wrong information when we called in to get our call times...they said wear a layered spring/summer outfit and bring a winter coat, hat, scarf. Turns out we needed two spring outfits. So all of us were dragging around all this damn heavy winter clothing for nothing.

And when we got lunch, it was catered by the Russian restaurant we were using as holding. Unfortunately, with the exception of things like caviar and blini and Beef Stroganoff, Russian food is pretty ghastly. Nine million mayonnaise laden salads and unidentifiable things wrapped in pastry and covered in breadcrumbs...all served cold. Well, at least it was ballast.

So we did the shoot, went back to holding and were wrapped around 6:15 pm or so. We all got signed out and went out front...only to be told that all of a sudden there wasn't any van to get us back to Manhattan. There would probably be a van at 10 pm.

Well, this was completely unacceptable, because the Brighton Beach subway stop is elevated...two flights up (and I wasn't hanging around until 10 pm). There's no way I can do this on a humid summer day hauling a heavy tote bag. (Please do not ask me why the HELL I didn't think of car service, but I didn't.) Luckily, after I stated my problem, the nice guy who was the background wrangler dragged my bag and me to the subway and carried it all the way upstairs for me (jumping the turnstile in the process, bless him), and I got back to West 4th Street which has an elevator.

I sincerely hope that it occurs to somebody that I deserve a pay bump for this, because I sure as hell wouldn't have even submitted for the job if I thought it was going to involve subway stairs.

Growl. On the other hand, even without a bump for transportation, I made a decent chunk of money. So there.

Love, Wendy

Unexpected Pleasures

2011-06-05T16:48:00.000-07:00

Well, what a nice week.

There I was on Wednesday, minding my own business, trying to take a nap about 12:30 pm (due to a slight hangover brought about by hanging out with my kid on Tuesday), when a text message popped up, saying Can you be at Steiner (i.e., Steiner Studios in Brooklyn) by 3 pm for Boardwalk? Well, of COURSE I can. I thought it was a costume fitting (I'm in need of a summer costume for this season), but no, it was actual work. Yay!

It was painful actual work. The scene was somebody beating somebody up in a men's room in a below ground speakeasy, and what we were doing was walking back and forth on a catwalk above this bathroom...I presume the intent was to show that this brutal thing was going on and we were all oblivious and just walking around on the sidewalk. The result is that I must let you know which episode my ankles are starring in.

The painful part comes in where they had a metal bar connecting the two sides of the catwalk on one end, into which we all walked at one point or another, except of course my pal Marissa, who's about 4'10" and could walk right under it. Problem was, at various points I was supposed to be talking to her as I walked, so of course since she didn't duck...yup. Clang. In the van coming back to the city, we all decided that we were going to have T-shirts made: I Got Concussed On Boardwalk Empire! And the best thing about it was that in the middle of the day I got an email asking me if I was available for this coming Tuesday for Boardwalk.

Then Thursday my pal Jiggers played a set at the Bistro, so I went there again, and met a bunch of the people from his job at the New York City Ballet (fund raising phone work). Great group.

Friday night I was hanging out at home around 6:15 or so, tastefully attired in my sweats with my hair hanging in my face (always elegant, that's me), when the phone rang and it was Jiggers, saying that he had an extra ticket for the ballet at Lincoln Center that night! You have never seen such a quick transformation scene. Off with the sweats, into the shower, on with the good dress and shoes, comb the hair, slap makeup on the face...and out the door to find myself sipping champagne on the terrace at Lincoln Center by 7:40 pm. We saw Jewels...it was wonderful.

So it was a delightfully unexpected week...may there be more of them!

And I found the absolutely best thing in the New York Post, in their Strange But True column. Seems there was an arrest in Naples, Florida at a children's birthday party, where one woman bit another (what interesting children's parties they must have in Florida). Now I quote:

"The woman initially denied she did it, but she was identified as the biter - because she was the only person at the party with a full set of teeth, according to police."

As you can imagine, this just made my day.

Now I have to do something about this damn apartment. You would not believe the mess I've managed to get it into. (Well, actually, if you've known me for a while, yes, you would.) I decided that I should really get the books in some sort of order so I can find things when I want them, and to that end most of the books are now out of the shelves and all over the place. Then I found some boxes because I threw out my original moving boxes, and I'm still trying to get it together to pack up Sarah's stuff, and of course until I do that I won't have the space on the shelves and in the closet in the other bedroom, and...all of this gives rise to an uncontrollable urge to lie down and read a book. I don't think God ever intended me to keep a house, because I'm really quite lousy at it. Clearly I'm a person who was made to have many servants. Unfortunately, until my staff appears, I'm going to have to do something about this wreck myself, damn it.

And did I mention that there's a pile of ironing to be done, too? And the kitchen to be properly organized? Oy. Ah, well...I'll get to it tomorrow. Right now I'm going to read for a while. Well, gee, it's just about ten past eight. That's nearly nine, which is almost ten, and you wouldn't want me to start cleaning in the middle of the night, would you?

Love, Wendy

Sickened

2011-05-31T19:57:00.001-07:00

Let's catch up a bit before I get around to the sick part. The street fair was terrific, as always, even with a few splats of rain, and I got my Italian sausage sandwich...I allow myself two a year. One at the BBC, and the other at Gay Pride Day. This usually fulfills my cholesterol needs for the year (combined with the full Irish breakfast at Fiddlesticks on St. Pat's).

Other than that, I have spent another two days at the law office, coming off as a heroine this time because I saw a roach, knocked it off the file it was on, and stomped the thing to death. Um, have I mentioned that we're not exactly talking about an elegant law firm here?

I spent Memorial Day weekend doing NOTHING. It was hot, I kept dozing off, I kept thinking I ought to be doing something...and I didn't. So there.

Now to the title of the post. Sarah now only works at the Bistro on Tuesdays, so I trotted over to spend some time with her, and they've got a new waiter, who is just adorable. I believe I may have mentioned that there's a waitress there who reminds me of a Golden Retriever; well, this kid is like nothing so much as a baby Saint Bernard whose paws are still too big for him. Adorable.

So I came home, after various lovely chats and bar camaraderie...to be chilled to the bone and sickened on my own front doorstep.

Now, before everyone leaps up in hysteria, let me say that this was because of a conversation. I got out of my taxi and there was a young man with a bunch of luggage in front of the building who clearly belonged to somebody in my building, and, because I was smoking a cigarette, I engaged him in conversation. (You know, me and Jane Austen - the only people left who ever use that particular phrase). I asked the usual questions from an old broad to a young man...where are you going,will it be fun, are you excited...

This kid frightened the pants off me. He was majoring in political science and economics. He didn't give a fuck about either discipline, and when I (taking the cue of politics) began to talk about grass roots politics...and then when I tried the 60s...his eyes glazed over. I said why are you studying this? And he said, "Oh, you can make a lot of money."

If this is the future of politics, would anyone care to join me in building a lovely log cabin in Central Park? Sorry, off the grid in some Godforsaken spot is NOT an option (no taxis = no me)...and we better wire the log cabin for HBO.

I think the worst part about it is that he was black.

Also, I think I need a shower now. That child was deeply slimy.

Love, Wendy

Monsoon Season

2011-05-18T21:42:00.001-07:00

Look, could all my readers get together and started collecting pairs of animals? I've got my carpenter friend working on the ark...40 cubits, as specified...and no, I don't know what the hell a cubit is either (note: line only works if you remember Bill Cosby's standup act).

You will now have to excuse me for being quite vulgar, but I am going to paraphrase Samuel L. Jackson: I am tired of these mother fucking drops from this mother fucking sky. It has now rained for four straight days, we get a brief break over the weekend, and it's then going to rain for another nine days. E-FUCKING-NUFF! I have personally mildewed.

Meanwhile, now that I have impolitely vented my spleen about the weather, last week's three day law firm job wasn't that bad. Looking back, I realize that I haven't mentioned this.

I'm not on partial unemployment at the moment, so I was quite startled to get a call from the Department of Labor a couple of weeks ago. Being a cynical New Yorker, my first thought was that they had decided that I shouldn't have been getting unemployment and now wanted me to pay it back. But no...they had a job for me. I really did NOT want to go to an office job, and I CERTAINLY didn't want to go to a law firm, but as it happens, it wasn't at all bad. The reason that the Department of Labor called me is that my name turned up on their database as someone who could use a Dictaphone, which is evidently a dying art.

Anyway, it's the first time in my life I have ever been profoundly grateful for the no smoking in offices rule. You have never seen such a mess in your life...and I know messes. There were thick heavy files stacked on every single available surface to a height of at least a foot in all cases...including on the floor. Horrendous. But the work was very much my sort of thing (hand me the stuff and leave me alone, thank you very much), and the guy I was working for actually wrote a check for me, had me endorse it, ran down to the bank and paid me in cash...and gave me paid lunch hours. So, altogether not bad. Horrendously underpaid, though. Legal work used to be $20 an hour...I was getting $12. But since I wouldn't have been getting anything otherwise...why not.

Then I got a call on Tuesday to go shoot Arbitrage (some financial thriller with Susan Sarandon), which was great, but annoying. I called in on Tuesday night as directed to get my call time, and was told it was 1 pm. Terrific! Actually it didn't matter what time it was, because we were shooting on 28th Street and 11th Avenue, meaning it was about a five minute taxi ride away (I could have walked, but not in the aforementioned monsoon). However, on Wednesday morning they called me at 6:30 am to tell me the new call time was 9 am. Obviously I had no problem with that...five minutes away, right? What I DID have a problem with, however, as did all the other background people, was that they proceeded to leave us sitting in holding until about 5:30 pm. But as usual, breakfast, nice lunch, and the company of a lot of cops and retired cops (a lot of cops moonlight as background people and actors in general), who are generally good company and tell great stories. And the earlier call time and the long wait meant that I not only got fed, but a little overtime as well.

Then I went and met my pal Caesar at Sarah's bar, and then I came home and fell into bed. Today I have done nothing whatsover. I may make another stab at getting Sarah's stuff in order tomorrow, but I haven't decided yet.

And on Saturday the greatest street fair in the world occurs, the Bedford Barrow Commerce/Ye Older Village Faire! Yay! It's also supposedly the Rapture and we'll all going to die. Well, personally, if I'm going to die, doing it with great food, cold beer, good music and a bunch of friends seems to be exactly the right time and place. See you on the Other Side! (Bring beer.)

Love, Wendy

OK, Already - I'm Back

2011-05-05T17:09:00.000-07:00

I'm back. And a very happy Cinque de Mayo to one and all. That, by the way, is the sum total extent of my Spanish, except that I am able to say, Sarah has diarrhea. No fruit, no vegetables, only chicken. This came about because we had an au pair named Cecelia from El Salvador when Sarah was still too young for day care, and she spoke no English. I managed to get along with a Spanish phrase book, but to this day I live in fear that I will someday be invited to an elegant gathering at the Spanish Embassy and have absolutely no conversational opening except, Sarah has diarrhea...

It's been an interesting couple of weeks or so. I got an absolutely fabulous invitation from my old pal Marty for April 26th, which I jumped at. There is an organization called Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS, which has made tons of money for AIDS research, and twice a year they do these extravaganzas which are basically for the industry. This one was the annual Easter Bonnet Competition, wherein various Broadway shows make Easter hats and do take-offs on shows, and it was just a delight.

They had a takeoff on Glee, they had a monologue from Robin Williams, the casts from Mamma Mia, Billy Elliot, La Cage Aux Folles, Priscilla Queen of the Desert...it was all just marvelous. Sutton Foster was there, and Harvey Fierstein, and Daniel Radcliffe. The Cage Aux Folles gals did a heartbreaker of a number. They all came out in full drag, of course, and sang I Am What I Am very quietly, while they stepped out of the line to speak the names of various cast members who had died of AIDS over the 25 year life of the show. It was deeply moving. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. And of course, this being an industry show, there was every in joke you can possibly imagine. In the Glee number, which opened the show, Artie, the kid in the wheelchair on the show, was played by a guy in a Spiderman costume. Spiderman came in for a LOT of ribbing.

Saturday I went to do my weird job at the Long Island car dealership, which was even stranger than I thought it would be. First of all, nobody in the way of actual customers CAME to the car dealership for quite some time, so there was the decidedly odd spectacle of 15 actors wandering around trying to sell cars to each other, which was deeply strange. Then some people actually showed up, and I did my agreed upon bit of the dotty grandmother buying a car for her grandson who was graduating from high school. You should have heard my masterly dithering. "Well, I promised him if he got on the honor role in his senior year I'd get him a car, but I'm just so concerned about his safety...are you SURE these are nice safe cars?" I'm amazed nobody called the men in the little white coats on me.

And yesterday I got back on Boardwalk Empire! Yay! Not out on the boardwalk, damn it. We were shooting at the Henry Street Settlement on the Lower East Side. Thank God we were indoors, because it was chilly and pouring all day. Are we ever going to have anything resembling a nice warm spring? I looked at Weather.com, and we're STILL not getting out of the 60's and the "possibility of showers." I'm getting violently tired of this.

Anyway, what we were supposed to be doing was watching a Charlie Chaplin film. When you see the scene, remember this...you will see a theatre full of people smoking (1924; we were still allowed) and eating popcorn and thoroughly enjoying the movie. What we were looking at was a white curtain thing with a cross made out of black electrical tape stuck on it for us to focus on, while someone walked back and forth behind it with a piece of black something or other to make the light flicker on our faces as it would had we actually been watching anything. I'm here to tell you that a black electrical tape cross is EXTREMELY dull to look at and react to. For six hours. However, the popcorn was nice and fresh...it shouldn't be a total loss. (You know, eventually I'm going to ruin all your delight in the magic of movies here...sorry.)

And the best news of all? Sarah actually came and picked up a piece of her belongings! I'm so thrilled. She came and got the big old microwave from the old house, which is now hers since this apartment came with one. One can only hope this is a harbinger of things to come...such as the rest of her stuff leaving. But by God, it's a start!

And the wedding. Oh, wow. Glorious. I have seen every one of the Family weddings I could, not to mention Queen Elizabeth's coronation, because I love all that pageantry. Limos are so boring. I want to trot by the adoring populace in my horsedrawn carriage with the palace guard riding beside me.

That dress was so unbelievably beautiful, and so well suited to Kate. Simple, elegant...just absolutely perfect. And of course, the unvarying spectacle of English hats. Good Lord. Fergie's daughters, of course, took the prize, what with Beatrice in that pretzel or music stand or WHATEVER the hell she was wearing on her head. I kept looking at it and thinking, WHY? Why on EARTH would you do that? There was an amusing Facebook thread about the hats which started with someone saying, Where do they get them? The answer is Philip Treacy, who's been making hats for the English nobility for about a hundred years now. But I liked some of the answers that came up...particularly someone who said, Aretha's of Detroit. My response was The Ministry of Silly Hats. I was thinking as I watched the various extravaganzas on peoples' heads, how does it feel to be sitting behind one of those things and trying to see what's going on, or worse, sitting next to one of them and having the explosion of feathers or the cockatoo in full plumage or whatever the hell piece of nonsense tickling your ear through the whole wedding?

The Queen looked lovely. That color is so nice on her. And I hadn't realized that Prince Phillip is going to be 90...good Lord. Camilla looked lovely too, although I wish to hell she'd do something about the Farrah Fawcett Majors hairdo. And Princess Anne looked like a very well bred horse. This is because Princess Anne ALWAYS looks like a very well bred horse. Dressing her up has never, ever, helped. She really is at her best in riding clothes.

Altogether a MOST satisfying occasion, and they really looked in love with each other.

And of course, the other bit of news...no more Osama bin Laden. I do wish I could be happier about this one. The problem is that while I'm thrilled we finally got him, I'm somewhat concerned about possible retaliation. I mean, is it like cutting off a lizard's tail? The lizard thrashes around quite a lot, but eventually it grows a new tail. I wonder what's going to follow bin Laden, because something surely will. Right now I believe his forces are probably in disarray, but I cannot believe he didn't have a picked successor. We shall see.

I would MUCH rather dwell on Kate's wedding dress...wouldn't you?

Love, Wendy

Spring Spheres

2011-04-22T18:25:00.000-07:00

The above is what this post was going to be about, sort of, until I just found out the story was a spoof...although it could happen, so I might as well write the post anyway, right?

Supposedly, a school in Seattle banned the term "Easter eggs" and decided they should be called "Spring spheres." I found this disquieting (obviously) but also amusing...would you send your child to a school that was not aware that an egg is an ovoid, not a spheroid?

But I got thinking (somehow) abut the burkha ban in France, and the ubiquitous "Happy Holiday" greeting over here and one thing and another like that.

Has anybody but me noticed that whenever anybody is expected to change the name of their holiday for politically correct reasons, it's always the Christians? As far as I know, Passover remains Passover, as does Hanukkah; Ramadan is Ramadan and the Eid is the Eid...so stated in all newspapers, on TV news, etc., etc. It's seemingly only things like Christmas and Easter that draw people's wrath. This seems terribly odd to me. If we're not allowed to say Christmas, why isn't EVERYTHING just the "Holidays?" And obviously you'd have to say "The Fasting Month."

It's all just so damn silly.

As far the burkha ban in France...well, that's pretty silly too, because unless they aren't reporting it (and I would think they would), this is another one of those things that looks like equality and fairness and is anything but. I mean, if you ban the burkha, wouldn't you also have to ban Orthodox Jewish dress? Frankly, if I had to wear those clothes, I'd sure as hell consider myself an oppressed woman. No, I'm being facetious...what I mean is that Orthodox Jewish women wear their clothing for religious reasons, as do observant Muslim women. I don't see a difference. You cannot be oppressed by a piece of clothing unless you feel yourself to be. If you consider it to be an integral part of your religion, then surely refusing to allow you to wear it is the worst form of oppression? And where do you stop? Are cloistered nuns who still wear the habit going to be deprived of it?

I can, I suppose, understand some people's fear on seeing a heavily veiled Muslim woman, but people...none of the Muslims who have attacked America have been women.

I wonder what they're going to rename Easter...the Rabbit Romp? Eggs for All Day? Chocolate for God? Oh, wait...are we still allowed to say God?

Love, Wendy

Kittens!

2011-04-19T15:22:00.000-07:00

My kittens are coming! They won't be here for eight weeks, however, since they were just born yesterday (gee, that sounds like a good title for something...born yesterday).

They are the offspring of my pal Ellie in Vermont...oh, you know I mean her cat, don't be silly. She's got two black, three black and white and two calico, but I'm going to trust her to pick out two affectionate cuddly type kittens once they actually turn into kittens as opposed to furry blobs.

And one of my old temp agencies called me for a job which will run this coming Saturday and the following Saturday! I won't make much money, but it sounds amusing.

This is a one woman temp agency which is known far and wide among actors because the gal who runs it is a flying maniac who gets you to do the damnedest things. She once called me at 6 am to ask me to dress in a carrot suit and prance up and down Madison Avenue...since it was August, I turned her down. Those costumes are hotter than hell. However, I did do a mock election day deal for her where I promoted Pillsbury snack cakes (I think that's what it was) on Park Avenue all day. She also had me be a ladies' room attendant at the Big Apple Circus on New Year's Eve one year (which was enormous fun...I didn't have to clean toilets or anything, just man the door, and I got to see most of the circus for free and they gave us champagne at midnight). You never make a lot of money with Liz, but it's always fun. One time she sent me to the Apollo Theater to fill gift bags for some gala they were having and the people there bought us a barbecue lunch from Sylvia's, which was entirely cool.

This gig is very confusing. I have to be at Penn Station to take a train to Babylon, Long Island at 10:15 on Saturday morning to go and stand around a car lot pretending I'm going to buy a car. I can't imagine what the hell this is about...does the car lot need attention? And if so, why can't they just get banners and some guy to shriek on late night TV, like every other car dealership? I explained to Liz that I'm going to find it extremely difficult to pretend to be buying a car because I don't drive...the only thing I can think of to ask a car salesman is "Does it come with wheels?" This didn't seem to bother her in the least...nobody else is calling me for anything, so why not. Anyway, I don't think I've ever been to Babylon, Long Island, and I like riding on trains...and they're paying transportation.

And Glee is finally back in new episodes tonight! As Sarah tells me, I'm a complete nerd about the show, but I'm excited. I've also been watching the new three episode Upstairs Downstairs which is just terrific. Next up is Game of Thrones...Sarah gave me the books for Christmas and I've been wading through them. Good Lord, it's densely written. Each of the four books requires about a ten page family tree in the back so you can keep everybody straight.

And the best news of all...SARAH'S FINALLY GOING TO PICK UP HER STUFF! She has a friend with an SUV, and I will finally have the closet in her room to myself. Now all I have to do is get Joshua's stuff to storage and this place with be mine, do you hear me? MINE, MINE, MINE! And the kittens', of course. They are to be named Dweezil and Moon Unit, because I always thought those would be great names for cats. I must say, however, that despite their peculiar names, the Zappa kids are doing just fine...they're never in the gossip columns or on the police blotter. Frank did a good job.

KITTENS! YAY!

Love, Wendy

Rats!

2011-04-13T18:02:00.001-07:00

Yes, I mean the furry variety. I just submitted myself for an episode of Law and Order: CI where they want me to handle rats. The reasons I did this were A. I'm not afraid of rats and actually consider the nice tame lab variety rather cute, B. if one's husband was a snake fancier and keeper, you get used to having them around (to feed the snakes), and C. I'm pretty sure that handling rats comes under what SAG calls special abilities, which means a bump in one's salary. All in all, a winning situation...let's just see if they call me for it.

Meanwhile, I've actually been getting some work. I spent a damp, cold night in Brooklyn last Friday for Boardwalk which was pretty pointless. They got us out there, dressed us up, made us up and did our hair, and then we sat. And sat. And sat. From 7:30 at night until about 3 am. (We did get dinner...it shouldn't be a total loss.) Then they dragged us off to a different holding area (did you know that I'm becoming an authority on church basements?) until around 4 am, and finally we got to the set...which, it being about 40 degrees and misting in a nasty cold fashion, was outdoors. They put us into position and left us there for about 40 minutes. Then they said, OK, that's a wrap! Otherwise known as, we never got used at all. However, we went into overtime and got night differential...every little bit helps.

Then on Monday I did a day on Men in Black 3. Well, I felt fine about this one...the weather was due to get up to 80...a fine idea if you're tromping about outdoors in summer clothing. Unfortunately, the weather didn't hit that until late afternoon, after the shoot. So there we were, freezing to death in our adorable summer dresses. Growl. But Will Smith grinned at us! Also, I added to my collection of bobby pins...this scene was set in 1969, which meant a beehive for me, of course...it took me ten minutes to get all the damn pins out of my hair when I got home. I'll never have to buy another bobby pin again as long as I live if I keep getting all these period shows.

Meanwhile I'm doing nothing else of any interest whatsoever. I did manage to get my taxes done today, only to discover that there are certain production payroll companies that don't bother to take out state and/or city taxes...the result being that on my resident taxes I owe the IRS $193 and change, which is annoying as hell. However, I'm getting back $500 from federal, so I guess it all works out.

Tomorrow I'm going grocery shopping and then over to Sarah's bar (all right, Carolyn, it's the Greenwich Village Bistro...so there...and yes, I did actually notice that you forgot my birthday, but I won't hold it against you).

And that is the end of the news...Jane, your arrival sounds great! Can't wait.

I'll let you know if I get to play with rats.

Love, Wendy

Relationship Woes

2011-04-04T18:49:00.000-07:00

No, not MY relationship woes...no relationship, no woes, obviously. But I must say that standing out on the street with my cigarette does give me a rather disquieting window into everybody ELSE'S relationships.

The reason, of course, is that people continue to believe that if they are talking on a cellphone, they have somehow stepped into an invisible soundproof telephone booth. This is odd, because some of these people are too young to have ever even SEEN a telephone booth (unless they're watching old George Reeve Superman reruns).

Tonight's drama was a girl wailing to what I think must have been a girlfriend that "he couldn't understand what I was talking about, and I wrote him back explaining in a really nice tone, you know, and he just can't see it..." (voice fading out down the street). I have also heard, "Bitch, if you talk to him one more time, I'm gonna slap you all over the bar," from a very gay gentleman (well, I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt as to the gentleman part). And "Well, it's over, is all. I just can't take never knowing where she is, for God's sake."

You can see why I fear for relationships.

The best loud cell phone conversation I ever heard was a lady on the crosstown #8 bus one morning who was describing her previous day's visit to the gynecologist. In detail. At the top of her lungs. You better believe the whole bus was riveted to that conversation.

Meanwhile, I had a perfectly lovely birthday party at Sarah's bar on Thursday...lots of old friends, and Sarah actually didn't even snarl at me about my dress...which was cut to approximately my navel. Well, hell...if you can't have your boobs in view on your birthday, when can you? And along with the legs, the frontage is still damned impressive.

Then I went back to the bar on Friday, for the bar's 12th anniversary...also fun...and off to Soho on Saturday to greet my pal Tracy who's in from Italy for a week or so.

Therefore, I am currently in recovery mode. I spent all day yesterday reading the papers and eating things in a leisurely fashion, and never bothered to get dressed in anything in particular. I am slowly evolving some half clothing for this apartment. You see, in the old place, the deli was right around the corner, about 300 yards away, meaning that I could throw my coat on over my pajamas and just run and get the papers and my obligatory Diet Coke. This new place is half a block from the deli and I have to cross 8th Avenue. Please don't ask me why, but I feel that crossing a major street requires actual clothing. Well, I mean, what if I get hit by a car, and they discover that not only am I not wearing clean underwear, I'm not wearing ANY? (Who wears underwear under their flannel pajamas?) Think about the embarrassment of that. "Hey, Doc! Get a load of this! This must be some crazy street lady!" Yeah...no. So I now have three sets of sweats and sweatshirts to which I can add a pair of underpants (why on earth am I fixated on wearing underpants tonight?) and a pair of socks and some shoes, and I'm good to go to the deli...and as the weather gets warm, the socks are going. Note the lack of bra, which is kind of the point. I'm a 34D with necessary underwires, and at that point, things start feeling WAY too much like actual clothes. For half a block I can leave it off, and then if I decide on a late morning nap, it's MUCH more comfy.

But you do see why I call it half clothing. It hardly resembles actually getting dressed.

So today I did the laundry, and tomorrow I'm going to clean the house, do the ironing, and try to get all of Sarah's stuff into "her" room. The quotes are because, as she says, it's actually the guest room, since she has her own place. To which my reaction is, good. Now get this crud out of my guest room and into your "own place". I need to do a bit of organizing because I have people coming over on Monday to rehearse a play, for one thing, and also because I have to call the building people to come and replace a couple of light bulbs...the living room overhead I can actually live without, but I really need the light in the hall when I come in at night, since I don't like leaving lights on when I'm going to be out for a few hours...why give Con Edison free money?

Oh, the rehearsal? Well, some time back I wrote a rather blasphemous play about an angel coming to earth to find a new Mary (you know, as in starting a new Messiah), and we're actually doing it as a reading in Sarah's bar in a couple of weeks, now that I finally got somebody to play the angel. One of these days I'll post the script here for your delectation. It's a short, funny piece, but there's thought in it. It is, however, nothing the Christian Right would EVER see as moral. Thank God.

Meanwhile two of my friends and their 8 month old child are off to London and Italy and I'm wildly jealous...by God, I'm getting to London this fall by hook or by crook...presuming I can find a willing crook to pay my fare, that is. Third week in September is when you want to be in London...the weather is glorious, the new theatre season is open, and everything in the garden is lovely. Oh, drool...

Love, Wendy

Embarrassing Eating

2011-03-30T17:00:00.000-07:00

I am going to HAVE to start having people over to dinner, because the way I'm feeding myself is just awful. No, no, I'm not living on buttered popcorn and fudge, or anything like that, but I'm using just about every convenience product in the whole sidereal universe, which I find embarrassing.

The problem is that I'm sitting in the direct middle of a nest of really good, well-prepared convenience food. I mean, Whole Foods and Trader Joe's are right here. So tonight's meal was curried chicken with basmati rice and naan bread and chutney. Admittedly the boneless chicken thighs came out of my freezer and I cooked them all by myself, and the rice was in the cupboard...but the curry sauce was Trader Joe's and so was the naan bread (a minute and a half in the oven!) and so was the chutney. Not, you understand, that I actually make my own naan bread or chutney, but still, I certainly used to make my own damn curry sauce. And Trader Joe's also has these great shrimp shumai which heat up in the microwave in three minutes, and these wonderful scallops wrapped in bacon that you just throw in the oven for 20 minutes...and I am CERTAINLY capable of making my own scallops and bacon. I used to do it all the time. Yet another cook lost to the siren call of the package. Sad. That's why I have to invite people to dinner...I certainly wouldn't serve guests anything I took out of a package and heated up! (Mainly because I'm a showoff.)

So tomorrow is my birthday party. I'm planning to wear a wonderful black dress I have which involves a Wonderbra because it's VERY low cut. What the hell. If you can't have boobs on your birthday, then when CAN you have them?

Meanwhile, let's all cross our fingers. Sarah is moving on Friday, from one Brooklyn apartment to another, and she and her roommates have gathered a bunch of people and rented a U-Haul. If this truck doesn't make a detour to my house I am going to have fits, because I am missing an entire closet and shelving unit...it being filled with Sarah's stuff, of course. And I NEED that space. So I'm going to be sneaky as hell and beg her roommate Alison (one of the many friends of Sarah's who calls me Mama Booz) to get this done. Asking Sarah invariably makes her snarl at me, so I figure intimidating her friends will work better. Sarah hasn't been intimidated by me in YEARS. When do you quit being a goddess to your children, I wonder? Probably somewhere around puberty...that sounds about right.

Right now I'm debating whether to open up a card table. For some reason I have a terrible yen for a jigsaw puzzle (of which there are several in the house...traditional Christmas gifts), and unless I open the card table there's nowhere to put it. I think I will, because I have to do it at some point to get my taxes done. This is because the IRS no longer sends out forms to you, and while I've printed out my 1040A form, I am DAMNED if I'm going to print out all 200 pages of the stupid instructions. Since I can't seem to get my WiFi hooked up, this means I can't take the computer into the kitchen and use the table in there, and for general use, I keep it on a very small table where I can't work on the form and follow the instructions on the screen because there isn't enough room. My God, that was dull. Sorry.

Anyway, I shall report on my birthday Friday...presuming I bother to get out of bed.

Love, Wendy

Unfortunate Business Names

2011-03-28T18:44:00.000-07:00

So I went out to see Sarah at her bar tonight, and on the way I saw a van labeled "Too Sharp Construction."

I don't know exactly what they intended this name to mean, but frankly, it's just wrong. I keep getting two mental images from it. The first one is that a bunch of guys come to my house to build something...bookshelves, say...and the next thing I hear is: "Oh, shit. There goes that nail gun into my leg again." "Damn, that saw's really sharp, and that was my last finger on that hand." "Damn, that hammer hurts." The second one is that they all turn up looking like the cast of Grease, and do nothing all day but comb their pompadours. Either way, it's not a terribly reassuring name. I'd be MUCH more inclined to trust "Carefully Performed Construction."

So I went out and got totally blitzed in Brooklyn on Saturday night. Sarah's friend Gio wanted me at his birthday party, and the birthday party started at Sarah's favorite bar, which is just great. It's in an old coffin factory, and they've named it Pine Box, which I think is brilliant. Face it, nice to know if you kill yourself drinking there, you can get boxed right on up...none of this undignified meat wagon stuff. It was a great night...there's a wonderful picture of me at the actual birthday party at Gio's place telling a story with a bunch of Brooklyn hipsters curled up around my feet. I look like I'm reading them Goodnight Moon.

Speaking of meat wagons, or at least meat, for reasons which I can't even begin to fathom, when I went over to see Sarah at the bar late this afternoon, the TV was playing a story about an 800 pound woman who was having one of those gastric band operations, which they showed (thank GOD I wasn't eating). While I turned my face away from the actual operation, I noticed (before the slicing began) that at least one of the doctors and two of the nurses assisting at this operation were pretty hefty themselves. How odd is that? I mean...

So I am now going to go into self-imposed seclusion (i.e., non-bar going) for two days. I will be 66 on Thursday and we are having the party at Sarah's bar. The next night is the bar's anniversary, which I must attend, and then Saturday is another birthday party in yet another bar for my pal Tracy, who's in from Rome for a couple of weeks. Oy.

And finally, I made something so good last night and so easy that I truly have to pass it along. I am a seasonal eater by nature, to a degree because it tastes better that way and also because it's cheaper. This means that at the moment I am gorging myself on asparagus. So the other day I went to Trader Joe's and picked up a twelve ounce pack of asparagus and one of their containers of chopped prosciutto, and last night I microwaved the asparagus (use the microwave for vegetables, people...it's BRILLIANT) and crisped up the prosciutto in some good olive oil. Then I poured that over the asparagus and added a squeeze of lemon. It was terrific.

And now I'm hungry and should eat dinner.

Love, Wendy

Oops, I Did It Again

2011-03-20T18:39:00.000-07:00

Really, I am getting way too far behind with posts here. The current problem is that I'm not doing anything whatsoever that would interest ANYBODY, most particularly me. There are all kinds of things in the pipeline...Boardwalk Empire, of course, but also my nice playwright Philippe wants to put on the one-woman show again, plus an earlier play of his that I did...although this time he wants me in a much better role than the two bit parts I played before. Oh, and I've got a reading of something coming up in a couple of weeks.

But of course, none of this is happening NOW. And Sarah's stuff is still in my second closet, and all those boxes are still on top of the second closet, and they're too heavy for me to get them down (books, mainly...I think). So I eat things and take naps and run up and down to smoke cigarettes. On which subject, Jane, you would be totally amazed...from being a nearly two pack a day smoker, I've gone to being a person who buys two to three packs A WEEK. The reason, of course, is that it's too damn complicated. When I could smoke in my own house, I was always smoking because I COULD. Half the time I'd forget I was smoking a cigarette and let it burn out in the ashtray. Now, smoking has to be planned, to an extent...I have to put on shoes, for one thing, and (since I don't care if it IS the first day of Spring, NYC hasn't noticed yet) get my coat, and get in the elevator. The result, particularly in bad weather, is that since I do have my electronic cigarette...I just don't bother. Naturally, they're now saying that those are terrible for people. I can't win.

Meanwhile, I am feeling quite frugal. I never care how much money I spend on food, because I have an extremely wonky appetite. This stems from a ghastly period of stress some years back which gave me a stress eating disorder during which I couldn't eat at all. I ended up at 94 pounds with a nice little case of malnutrition. I'm perfectly fine now, but I do tend to lose my appetite when I'm stressed...so I make sure that if there's something I truly want to eat, it's around. This gets slightly expensive, but what the hell. I'm only feeding me, mostly, and I think my health and well-being are more than worth it. So I buy the damn filet mignon and the shrimp. (Tonight's dinner was tiny little new potatoes, fresh, pencil thin asparagus, and a little sirloin steak. It was lovely, thank you.)

However, the money spent on food makes me slightly nutty about spending too much money on some other kitchen essentials. I am the one you will find scouring the aisles at KMart looking for the best buy on 16 rolls of paper towels and things like that.

I mention this because when I was cooking dinner tonight, I looked at what I was using and had to laugh. When I put the asparagus in the microwave (and however you've been cooking asparagus, stop immediately and use the microwave...it's the only way) I covered the dish with some plastic wrap that must be two years old. It's perfectly good Sarah Wrap, but they quit making this type of packaging because it doesn't quite work, even though it's a great idea. The box has a sort of plastic cutter...you know, where the serrated edge usually is...which cuts the wrap perfectly. Unfortunately, in order to get the wrap out to where the cutter is, you have to take it out of the box and unroll it, and then put it back in the box to cut. This is a nuisance. But there's at least a foot or so left on the roll, and by God, I'm going to use it up. The same goes for a HUGE roll...or what used to be a huge roll...of the worst tin foil I've ever used in my life, because it's as thin as tissue paper. It's something my ex-roommate Vicky picked up. Thank God I'm almost at the end of that.

I shall leave you with this perfectly lovely line from today's New York Times Travel section. It's the beginning of a recommendation of what to do where, but I think I'll just give you the beginning, which is what amused me anyway.

"Looking to get away from the Everest base camp scrum?"

Well, of COURSE I am. Aren't we all, really?

Love, Wendy

Back From The Slough Of Despond

2011-03-06T18:05:00.000-08:00

Well, it's been a while. Sorry about that, but there's been a strain of flu going around which basically (thank God) missed me, but did sort of flick me in passing...the result of this was that I couldn't keep my eyes open for a solid week and had a ghastly hacking cough which produced nothing of any interest and went on and on and on. I am now feeling MUCH more human.

The other thing was that I just got really depressed about the state of this damn apartment and, because of falling asleep all the damn time, couldn't do a thing about it. However, as of this moment, there are books in the new bookcases (oh, all right, not all of them, but you gotta start somewhere), and the USA channel on TV has been handing me one of my favorite cures for depression, which is lots of Indiana Jones. It's very hard to be depressed when Indiana Jones AND his father (what an inspired pairing that is - Harrison Ford and Sean Connery) are searching for the Holy Grail. Also when Indy is racing along underground in a tram car escaping the Thuggee cult. That was last night and tonight...and the result is that I almost have an actual working living room (every now and then commercials are useful). So there.

Other than that, no further word from Boardwalk, but I wasn't expecting it because I got a look at the shooting schedule and it's all indoor small scenes at the moment...we should be going back to the crowd scenes in a week or so.

But I've decided to get some more money from my trustee because I really CANNOT live another moment without kittens. I have now been without any animals in the house for more than three months, and I think that's the longest I've ever gone in my life...and I hate it. You will understand the depth of my need for kittens when I tell you I'm looking forward to changing a litter box. I mean, face it...that's NEED.

And I have totally lost faith in anybody's ability to use the English language. I was reading the book review today and as always, I ran my eye over the page with the self-published books from XLibris, which I invariably do with a sense of wonder that the authors felt any of this was worth writing about to begin with...although authorial pride is certainly a prime mover, and now that you can do it with your very own desk top software, anybody can publish a book! They mostly shouldn't, but what the hell. They're having fun.

For instance, one of the potential best sellers on today's page was a tome entitled "Analytic Philosophy Adrift" by Elston Van Steenburgh. The blurb reads as follows:

"Elston Van Steenburgh believes that what analytic philosophy needs, both English and American, both ordinary language analysis and logical analysis, is a convincing proof that sense qualities are continuous and, derivatively, lack ontological status. 'Analytic Philosophy Adrift' further expounds this concept."

I don't know about you, but I'm going to order dozens of copies for Christmas presents.

However, what actually caught my eye was a book entitled "The Very Little Book of Children Sayings." No, that's not a typo. That's the title. And not only did no one catch the problem while printing the book, they repeated the title on top of the blurb, and it's evidently what's on the actual cover of the book, since there's a picture of same. That's THREE TIMES they perpetrated the damn error. The Very Little Book of Children Sayings. Good GOD.

There's also what looks like a fascinating book called Obamaism Is Socialism, which is fascinating because the author's picture is on the cover, and she looks exactly like an older version of Snooki from Jersey Shore. Although I seriously doubt that Snooki has any idea of what socialism is. For that matter, I'm not at all sure Snooki knows who Obama is.

And this smoking outdoors crud is getting old...particularly since at the moment it's pouring rain and they took down BOTH the handy bits of scaffolding, one on each side of my building. This means I have to stand out there with an umbrella. Growl.

Onward. I am listening to a great show on Channel 13 which involves 50s and 60s doo-wop and pop music, for which I harbor an unholy passion. Right now they're playing Sha Na Na Na...otherwise known as Get A Job. And some poor fools are listening to heavy metal.

Love, Wendy

In The Trenches

2011-02-16T20:42:00.000-08:00

I fully intended to blog about Tuesday's Boardwalk stint on Tuesday when I got home, but there was Glee to consider, and after that, I was basically sound asleep...still shivering.

How on earth they survived in the '20s in their thin coats is completely beyond me. We weren't on the actual Boardwalk set...according to the crew, they're still trying to dig it out from the snow. They dragged us out to the far end of Staten Island, to an old beach community. It was an odd shoot, in that we had a LOT of time in holding...usually on Boardwalk you get dressed, haired and made up and go straight to the set, hastily trying to cram the last bits of breakfast into your face. This time we stayed in holding for quite some time. This was, as it turned out, merciful. The people who were called were a bunch of guys to be rum runners, and me and one of my familiar cohorts from last season, Marissa, and two guys. Our job, unlike the rum runners, who were indoors (for which I will never forgive them), was to be neighbors in this community taking a winter walk on the beach.

Yeah. There was a howling damn bitter wind out there, and the entire area was a mixture of unmelted snow, ice, and mud. The sand was sand, mostly un-snow covered, but of course, it was damp. And to get from the location bus to holding, and from holding to set and the warming house, was mud and mud and more mud. Unless you were trying to navigate the ice patches with those thin-soled vintage shoes. It took me HOURS to thaw out. And while walking down to the water was reasonably okay, coming back was a misery because the wind was right in our faces. Thank God it was meant to be an establishing long shot, because believe me...nobody in their right mind wants to see me larger than life and twice as natural with my eyes running and my nose dribbling down my face. Elegant as shit.

Meanwhile, the apartment is in a state of suspended animation while I try to get somebody...ANYBODY...to put together the damn bookcases. This is driving me absolutely crazy because I can't very well unpack books because I have nowhere to put them. I have one option left, which, please God, will work...my pal Pete, who lives upstate (one of Sarah's friends). Having (along with the rest of the immediate world) lived with me at one point, he can usually be guilted into helping "Mom." Well, it's not that bad...I am, after all, going to feed the child. And he has a car. So if I play my cards right, I can get bookcases and at least some of everybody else's stuff OUT OF HERE.

And Carolyn, the problem with the hair is that I have totally lost the patience necessary to screw around with it. Also, since I'm no longer 14, the interest in doing so. These days, my prime interest is keeping it out of my face. I would kill for a neat wash and wear cut like yours, but I've got to keep it long...at least until Boardwalk stops. Growl.

And Jane, please keep letting me know how you're doing. I worry about you...it's such a huge life change for you, even though it looks to me like you're handling it like a real champ.

Love, Wendy

Even More Productivity!

2011-02-10T17:39:00.001-08:00

Moving right along here...damn, I'm good.

First of all, almost all of my art is hung! You enter my apartment by coming down a long hall, on one side of which is the bathroom and kitchen, and on the other side of which is Sarah's room. This provides a perfect art gallery, and I've got almost all of it up now.

I went out earlier this week over to lower Broadway to Uniqlo, which is where they keep the really good long underwear. Remember, I'm heading back to the Boardwalk, and we all remember those freezing spring (spring...hah) days last season. So I found two very high tech t-shirts. I can't wear anything else under the costume, you see, because bits hang out, which they frown upon. But I also found three MORE nice turtlenecks on sale, so I'm now pretty well set. And then I went to Old Navy and caved in and bought three pair of jeans and a dress. Well, totally justified...everything in the store was 30% off for one day only. So three pair of jeans and a nice kind of burnished green/bronze color shirtwaist for 72 bucks. Not bad! Then I came home and threw out ragged turtlenecks and jeans...with an enormous sigh of relief.

Thing is, I've been so broke for so long that I have a HUGE amount of trouble realizing that I actually have money in the bank and can afford to treat myself a little bit. Today, for instance, I went to the drugstore and honestly spent about $75 on myself. The major part of this was tinted moisturizer. It's gotten horribly hard to find, and for daily wear I really prefer it to actual foundation. My mantra is, the older you get, the less makeup you should be wearing. First of all, after a certain age heavy makeup makes you look somewhat desperate, and secondly, after that same certain age, it just cakes into the fine lines (oh, all right, damn you...WRINKLES) and you look ten years older than you are.

Well, Oil of Olay came out with one finally, but it's been like $39 in drugstores, which I certainly couldn't afford. But today I found it at CVS on sale for $22.99 and promptly bought two of them. Ah, the pleasure!

This trip to CVS was after a terribly disappointing trip to the movies. I have been dying to see Black Swan, because I am a lifelong ballet freak. Give me a ballet movie and I'm a happy camper. You will always find me anywhere The Turning Point is, and The Red Shoes (one of the best movies EVER). Not to mention a spectacularly wonderful documentary about the Ballets Russe de Monte Carlo, which was the first ballet company I ever saw. It's narrated by Frederic Franklin, and if you run across it (Netflix, probably) see it...it is utterly charming.

The Black Swan can only be described as The Turning Point on acid. To begin with, they dump you right in the middle of it, meaning that you have no clue of what lies behind. We have a driven perfectionist ballerina...very young ballerina, seemingly, but she can't be THAT young. Even Balanchine didn't pick 16 year olds for Odette/Odile. And she's equipped with a monster mother. And she scratches herself until she bleeds.

Well, damn it, WHY? Where is her father? Was her mother a failed dancer (there is a brief moment of dialogue which would seem to support this)? How did she start with the scratching? Again, there's a scene with Monster Mommy which seems to say it's happened before. Or, to shorten this whole diatribe...WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?

I gave up after a scene where Nina (Portman) goes out for the evening with Mila Kunis, and Kunis puts what seems to be a roofie, or something, in her drink, at which point we go into a nice 60's montage of an acid trip. Then Portman and Kunis get into a taxi and start a lesbian flirtation and I started out the door.

What is interesting here is that everything I saw (although remember I didn't sit through the whole thing) mirrors Turning Point. In love with an older dancer? Check...although in this case, it's the choreographer. Mother with problems? Check...although played far more lightly in Turning Point. Amazing opportunity? Check. Crazy scene in bar? Check.

I suppose I'll watch the rest of it when it comes on cable. But really...I KNOW the ballet world. I studied it for years. And while there are certainly cliques and whatnot at ballet schools, and yes, you get bleeding and broken toes, eating disorders and all the rest of it...NOBODY who had been a member of the company for four years (so stated in the script) could be A. as friendless as this child, or B. allowed to go on being so self-destructive. Damn silly, the whole thing.

Tomorrow I'm going to burst on my child's bar in the glory of my new jeans, a new sweater, and pretty makeup! And, since I spent the money to buy myself an actual hair dryer (I mean with a bonnet so I can actually set my stick straight hair...even hot rollers don't work except the ones they use on Boardwalk which you can't get commercially), I can actually have curly hair! At least for about ten minutes until it collapses...

Love, Wendy

Ta Da!

2011-02-05T17:46:00.000-08:00

What a very productive day I had yesterday...and today, for that matter.

First of all, I actually found three turtlenecks! Imagine my joy. One is gray, one dark purple, and one a sort of olive green...so I can now throw out three of my old tattered ones. Yahoo! I just thought, well, I'll stop into Loehmann's just in case...and lo and behold.

Then I went to Marshall's and got a little table for my computer and fetched it home...and that made me so pleased with myself that I went right back out and got a shelf for my stereo. I even managed to put it together. So now I can finally have music around here, which makes me feel MUCH better. And today I set everything up.

Now I have eaten dinner, and I'm sitting at my new computer table listening to my old stereo, and (except for having to get all dressed with the coat and all for my nightcap cigarette), things are perfectly lovely.

Love, Wendy

Random Assemblage

2011-02-03T18:04:00.000-08:00

There are at least two men in my new neighborhood who wander around in this lousy winter wearing parkas, gloves, hoods up on the parkas, scarves...AND SHORTS. Would someone like to explain this to me?

Email from Grant Wilfley...am I free February 14 and 17 for the Boardwalk? YOU BETTER BELIEVE IT!

I can has new hat. I got a hat, but it got basically laughed right off my head. It was a trapper hat, which I made the mistake of trying to find in January at Kmart. Kmart had exactly two trapper hats left, although they had a fine selection of bathing suits and tank tops. One trapper hat was camouflage which I refuse to wear because I hate it (and for that matter, I'm violently anti-war, so it just seems wrong). The other trapper hat was very strange, but it fit, you see. This is a consideration because I have an oddly small head, so hats often don't fit right on me. This one was black with black and white dogs with flowers behind their ears and bright pink bubbles and pink fake fur. It was pretty hideous. Sarah had fits when she saw it. However, I wandered over to 14th Street today and found one of those little stores which had a nice brown plaid hat that actually fits beautifully and is nice and warm, so I am now happy. And nobody will look at my head and giggle or point any more.

Unfortunately, what I was actually looking for on 14th Street was nowhere to be found. In fact, as far as I can tell, they are nowhere to be found (at a price I'm willing/able to pay) anywhere.

Evidently, all manufacturers have suddenly decided to stop making turtleneck sweaters. I have been all over the damn place. Old Navy, H&M, Filene's, Forever 21, Marshall's, TJ Maxx...and I have found: a brown turtleneck, brown being a color for which I have no use at all. A black turtleneck, which is lovely, except that I have two. A wonderful blue turtleneck...cashmere, $159. No. Oh, and of course, a red turtleneck. I have one of those, too...along with the two black ones, it's only good for private wear...no black, red or white on a movie set.

What I wanted was to go to Old Navy and find what they have EVERY single year...a nice big table stacked with their good ribbed cotton turtlenecks in every color of the rainbow for about 19 bucks each. I have a drawer full of them, each of which has been mended long past its natural life, but which I'm going to have to live with, obviously. Even in October, Old Navy didn't have proper turtlenecks this year. And Filene's, which usually has piles of those nice August Silk ones, had nothing.

I will just have to assume that all manufacturers have decided to wage war against ladies with necks they prefer to keep hidden and insist that we wear V-necks all winter. Now that I think about it, since a V-neck in winter means you have to wear a scarf, this may be a clever marketing ploy to make us buy not only the sweater, but one of those big mufflers so our chests don't freeze. This is excellent...unless, like me, you are short-necked to begin with and seem to have NO neck in one of those things. GRROOOWWWLLL.

Meanwhile, on the apartment front, I am fascinated with all the caulking and sealing that's going on in this apartment. Dan from the building comes over at least once a week to caulk something or seal something to the extent that I feel perfectly fine about dying in here should anyone want to view my body. By this I mean that if he keeps this up, the place will be hermetically sealed. What fascinates me is that all of this sealing and caulking comes with dire instructions not to smoke in here (which I'm not, which is a goddamn nuisance, what with putting on coats and boots and all). Well, frankly, then why bother with all this? It makes no sense at all to me.

And finally...going out to buy the papers this morning, toddling carefully along like a two year old because of patches of ice...along comes a lady in a jacket, miniskirt, and four inch spikes. I wonder how long she lasted on the ice patches? And I do so wish I'd been there to watch when she hit one...

Love, Wendy

Om Nom Nom

2011-02-01T21:17:00.000-08:00

I am not Saint Tiger Lily, nor was meant to be, but oh, my God, what a meal I just had.

It was our friend Trish's birthday and we went to a restaurant called Public on Elizabeth Street, and here's what I had:

We all absolutely had to try the kangaroo, which arrived on coriander falafel cakes and tastes like filet mignon. Then Sarah and I (because we are Brussels sprouts freaks) HAD to eat their fried sprouts with lemon-miso sauce. I followed that up with roast lamb loin with (take a DEEP breath) caper piquillo salsa, cauliflower puree, braised chard and a wheatberry, romanesco and sweetbread salad. Oddly, this didn't turn into a homogenous mess either on the plate or the palate...it was just amazing.

Meanwile, they kept bringing us little things to taste...like a dollop of something pureed, salty-ish and green on a little disk of what I think might have been jicama. It was too white to be mushroom, but maybe it was...it seemed to be just a little too limp for jicama. Anyway, whatever it was tasted terrific.

Then I finished up with sticky toffee pudding in a large pool of caramel sauce with Armagnac ice cream.

Oh, and did I mention they kept bringing up little treats of drinks? Like the beautifully dry champagne and the bourbon and something palate cleanser just before dessert?

And did I mention that this all cost about $70?

Anybody wanna join me at Public NEXT week so I can nom my way through the rest of the menu? There's this venison with goat cheese dumplings...

Love, Wendy

It's SO Nice To Be Wrong

2011-01-29T16:52:00.001-08:00

Well, I will be damned. My extremely boring day - well, you try spending eight hours going up and down an escalator. You think I'm kidding? Welcome to the wonderful world of movie making. Anyway, my dull day was nicely broken up by:

1. A huge grin from Sarah Jessica Parker.

2. A WINK and grin from Pierce Brosnan. Well, since I've been completely mad about this guy since the old Remington Steele days, my knees literally went weak. And I am delighted to tell you that while there are signs of wear here and there, but hoo boy...he's still unbelievably gorgeous. And an absolute sweetheart. He made of point of talking to and engaging with us background people and was an absolute doll all day.

Unless you're in this business, you have no idea what a difference this makes. We're out there doing this mind-numbingly dull repetitive work all day, sometimes in vile conditions, and when the stars of the movie have the attitude that we're all professionals and we're all in this together...it just makes the whole day sing. And yes, there are those actors (no, dears, Mother doesn't mention names in that context) who are complete shits and wouldn't help you up if they knocked you down.

So what a lovely day I had!

Now I'm going to take out some garbage and have a cigarette while defrosting my dinner. I went shopping again today and am now the proud owner of actual hooks for people to hang coats on, an actual laundry hamper, and neat places to put my collection of dish towels and cleaning cloths and potholders, and a neat new knife holder. And did I mention that I got gorgeous new sheets and a whole comforter set? I may actually be moving in here...

Love, Wendy

Somebody Loves Me!

2011-01-27T18:11:00.000-08:00

Well, at last a ray of hope. Got a call from Grant Wilfley to go shoot something called I Don't Know How She Does It out at some airport in White Plains, NY tomorrow...and it's all indoors! Yahoo!

And nobody called me about inspecting my pristine, SMOKE-FREE apartment. This may be because I ran into one of the board members in the lobby and laid out my tale of woe with these fruitcakes upstairs to him, and he promised to look into it for me...I did not, of course, because I'M not nuts, refer to them as "fruitcakes" while I was talking to him. And since nobody called me or said word one to me, I presume that they are now running around trying to make sense out of this latest loopy request from upstairs. Fine. I hope they enjoy themselves.

I, on the other hand, am going to be making a lovely movie (with Pierce Brosnan, whom I know damn well I'll never lay eyes on) and earning money. And smoking outdoors. Ah, well.

Love, Wendy

ENOUGH!

2011-01-26T18:04:00.000-08:00

Yes, well, enough is enough.

My upstairs neighbors, they of the terrible tobacco allergies and God knows what other diseases, have lodged another complaint about the constant cigarette fumes coming from my apartment.

I think this is fascinating, and should surely earn them a place in the Guinness Book of World Records, or whatever its actual title is. I don't think I've ever heard of anyone...anyone who was actually sane, that is...complaining about billows of cigarette smoke in their apartment, coming from an apartment in which no one has smoked for just about three weeks now.

I have my electronic cigarette, and when the craving for a real cigarette overwhelms me, I simply put on my boots (for those of you outside NYC, we are having a bitch and a half of a winter...it keeps snowing and sleeting and God knows what all) and go downstairs and smoke a cigarette. Having been told I'm not allowed to smoke on my front stoop, I go three doors down to a building that is being renovated and therefore has no tenants and smoke in front of that. Last Monday when it was 10 degrees out, I was out there smoking.

Anybody who can translate this into large billows of smoke coming from my apartment is more than welcome to try.

And would you believe that my word on the subject doesn't seem to be good enough and they are sending someone to inspect tomorrow?

I think I will go outside and smoke a cigarette and bite perfect strangers for a while...just on general principles. After which I will suggest a good mental health professional for my upstairs neighbors.

Love, Wendy

Living Amid The Boxes

2011-01-24T16:50:00.000-08:00

Honestly, this unpacking is getting to be a joke. As I think I mentioned, I had to jettison my two tallest bookshelves when I moved in, and if there's one thing I've got, it's books. It's not a collection...it's an infestation.

So I trotted off to Home Depot...I'm in love with Home Depot, by the way...and bought one wire shelf to fit between the two windows on one wall of my bedroom, and four stackable bookshelves...one on top of the other in my bedroom on another wall, and one set in Sarah's room.

Well, it turns out that any carpentry skills I once may have had have completely gone down the drain. The wire shelf looked pretty easy to put together, so I did the better part of it...the four posts that support it and the four shelves. Unfortunately, because my fingers don't work like that, or something, I can't get the damn thing to sit up at all...it keeps listing to one side or the other. I've at least got it propped up so it won't fall on my bed (or I hope to God I have), but getting it together the rest of the way seems to be beyond me. And as far as the other ones go, I can't even thoroughly understand the instructions.

Naturally I called Caesar, who is my go to guy in situations like this, and he was coming over tomorrow to take care of it for me...when his job called him back to work. So now I'm STILL sitting amongst the unpacked book boxes. Growl. Although good for him that he's working again...not least because he usually takes me out to dinner when he is. Yay.

However, I'm getting the kitchen together, slowly. I got two shelves to sit on the kitchen table (there is NO damn storage space in this lousy kitchen, even though it's very pretty). And I discovered that a piece of storage that I had at the old house will fit neatly on one shelf to take care of all the various bits of paper I seem to accumulate...oh, you know, bills, phone numbers waiting to go into my phone, notices of one thing or another that I need to remember...all that happy horseshit personal organizers are always yammering about.

I did get a lot done today...I got books on the shelves I actually have (currently all double rows), and found more of my kitchen equipment. And I'm about to email my kid to get her to call her man with a van pal to get HER crud out of here and into HER apartment, which will give me a lot more space to navigate.

And I still hate my non-smoking status, even though the electronic cigarette sort of works. However, just to top off my tales of woe, there was a story on the internet news today that they now want to ban those. ARRRGGGH!

On the bright side, I did promise to feed Caesar, and while unpacking, I found the recipe for the beef stew I plan to feed him...and I discovered that if you're only out in it for ten minutes smoking a cigarette, you can too survive 10 degree temperatures. See? Life isn't all bad!

And you know, it's amazing how little money you spend when you only smoke one pack of cigarettes over three days...

Love, Wendy

BLECCHHH!

2011-01-18T18:39:00.000-08:00

I have just seen a commercial on TV that suggests that for a lovely dinner, you pour a can of Campbell's Chunky Beef and Vegetable Soup over a plate of mashed potatoes.

I'm going to go throw up now.

Love, Wendy

Stark Terror

2011-01-14T20:24:00.000-08:00

Actually, what a great name for an action movie star. "And now! Stark Terror in The Eggplant That Ate the World!"

But not so funny, actually, when it's you...or, as the case may be, me. I am now officially fucking terrified in my own apartment. Today was the last goddamn straw. I was informed by the super that I couldn't smoke at the front of the building.

This is about IT. If I can't smoke inside, and I can't smoke outside, are they expecting me to find an entirely new dimension in which to smoke?

Meanwhile, I am in possession of what purports to be an email from the people upstairs which reads like everybody's hysterical dreams. It is dated January 11th. Now, if we can all think back, we will remember that I moved in here on December 21st. By my count, that makes it about three weeks, maybe a little less. And remember, the moment I was informed of a smoking problem, I promptly went out and bought an air purifier. This would have been about January 3rd.

I then proceeded to do all kinds of nipups with said air purifier, to wit: Ashtray directly in front of machine. Ashtray emptied AND WASHED after every cigarette. Trash can into which said cigarettes went, sprayed with Lysol.

And this email, dated January 11th, goes on at great length about the fact that their entire apartment, all their clothing, bedding, upholstered furniture, etc., etc., ad infinitum is completely permeated with the terrible amounts of smoke coming from my apartment.

Um. No. This is a physical impossibility. In order to cause this much damage in precisely 20 days of smoking in my apartment (6 or 8 of which were with the air purifier), I think I would have had to A. bore a hole through my ceiling into their apartment, and B. smoke at the very least 6 packs a day. Since I have been doing my level headed best NOT to cause a problem, I just today opened a pack of cigarettes that I bought last week. Does this sound to anybody like I'm sitting here smoking all day? I am admittedly (when possible) a heavy smoker, but in this situation I felt it best to restrain myself, so one pack lasted me damn near a week.

The bottom line is that I am now completely terrified in my own lovely apartment. I'm not allowed to smoke indoors, I'm not allowed to smoke outdoors without standing in traffic, and these people are making my life a complete and total misery. I even bought myself an electric cigarette (it's due to arrive tomorrow) to please them...and they all seem to be bent on harassing me. I went to Home Depot today and got all my necessary new bookshelves, and they were supposed to be delivered between 5:30 and 8:30 tonight, but I got so frightened that I moved the delivery date because I remembered that I wasn't allowed to move in except between 9 and 5 Monday through Friday. I don't think I should have to live in fear of what I'm doing all the time.

You have no idea how terrifying all this is. I'm afraid to cook, for fear someone will object to the smell. I haven't even set up my tape player/radio/record player because I'm afraid someone will get me on it. And when I watch TV I keep the sound so low I can barely hear it. I'm frightened to death of these people.

But I'm back on Boardwalk Empire! Where I can fucking sit on a bench on the boardwalk and smoke a goddamn cigarette in peace and quiet.

Love, Wendy

Somebody Loves Me!

2011-01-10T17:26:00.000-08:00

YAHOO! The deeply anticipated call from Grant Wilfley came today, and tomorrow I have to drag myself out to Steiner Studios in Brooklyn for my fitting for Winter, 1924 for SEASON TWO OF BOARDWALK EMPIRE! They like me, they really like me!

And that nice piece of news gave me such a pleasant jolt that I did two loads of laundry. That's after spending some time figuring out the machines downstairs. They don't take money, you see...you buy a little credit card sort of thing from a machine and then keep refilling that. And to wash or dry clothes, you put the card in the machine. This seems unnecessarily complicated to me...I mean, saving all your quarters was good enough for your grandparents, for heaven's sake, and why add another step? Ah, well...time marches on.

I even got some of my junk down to the basement for the super to throw out. The movers were so busy impressing me with their efficiency that they fetched along several bits that I thought had been clearly put in the junk pile. Then Sarah found a bunch of Joshua's books in her room (isn't that interesting, since I distinctly remember telling him to stay OUT of Sarah's room. The boy doesn't listen well.). I told her to dump them, and I guess she packed them for discard and guess what. Yeah.

And I think I've found the shelving I need at Home Depot which, in common with everything else in the world, is right around the corner. Thing is that I need very specific widths and heights of shelving, and in a rental apartment, I'm sure as hell not going to attach it to the walls. The height (nothing over six feet) is due to the elevator height, and the width (duh) is due to the size of the walls where they will live. But Home Depot has free standing stackable shelves in the right widths, so I think I'm good to go. I just want to get them in here before next week, because organizing books will amuse me quite nicely during my elevator-repair-imposed exile.

And I have to get a smaller table for the kitchen because I really, REALLY need a shelf in there...I have no storage space at all.

But I don't care, because I'm back on the Boardwalk! WHEE!

Love, Wendy

Greetings From Chelsea

2011-01-08T17:23:00.001-08:00

Well, that was a short sharp honeymoon period in my nice new apartment.

So we all know I moved in and had Christmas. Then I had New Year's by going over to Sarah's bar and spending it sagely and reasonably sanely.

However, the rot set in on New Year's Eve Day. I got a call from one of the two people who seem to manage the building in terms of repairs and such things, informing me that I was not allowed to smoke in the apartment - under threat of eviction. Imagine my surprise. This was, let us remember, December 31st. I moved in 10 days earlier.

Now at no time in any negotiations for this apartment, from my first sight of it to my meeting with the Board, to my taking possession of the keys, was this charming little detail EVER mentioned. In the meeting with the Board, I was told (and believe me, smokers can quote this sort of thing VERY accurately) that if I was going to smoke, I should smoke "considerately." This to me means not in the halls, not in the elevators, and things like that. It does NOT mean no smoking. No one EVER said no smoking to me until after a year's rent was paid IN ADVANCE and the lease was signed. The lease, by the way, also says nothing specific about smoking, although there is a paragraph that can be construed that way. Somehow I think this is vaguely illegal. Not outlawing smoking - that's perfectly legal, even if I hate the idea. But never mentioning it until a lease has been signed AND PAID FOR...there's something wrong about that.

Meanwhile, I was getting a barrage of noise from the building and the Board about the couch and chair that had been put out with the garbage, and not yet picked up. Why anyone continued to annoy me about this after our 20" blizzard on the Sunday after Christmas was somewhat beyond me, since NO city garbage was picked up until this past week, a fact that building management seemed quite startled about when I told them. Perhaps they don't have garbage. At any rate, the Sanitation Department, who are all terribly red faced about the lousy job they did with the blizzard, took it all away this morning, so THAT'S fine.

This leaves us with three problems...the smoking one I think I may have solved far enough to get away with. One of the Board members, the President, I think, suggested an air purifier, which seems to be working just fine as long as I sit right on top of it. Then I quickly empty the ashtray, spray the trash can with Lysol, and wash the ashtray out. So far, so good, although an unholy nuisance. But at least I don't have to go down 6 flights of stairs (in an elevator...for a while, anyway...see below).

And I don't seem to have any heat. I kept being assured that this was the hottest apartment in the building, and what I've got are cold radiators and cold pipes. I got them to come and look at that this afternoon, and I'm told I'm not crazy and it IS colder than a witches' tit in here. So that's being worked on.

And now for the absolutely best part of all. As of 9 am on January 18, until 4:30 pm on January 20, there will be no elevator in the building, because they are going to renovate it.

Let's go over this again, shall we? I moved to an elevator building because stairs are getting difficult for me. I am paying more than I can really afford for an apartment in an elevator building....because, you know, the stairs. And what is practically the first thing with which I am presented? That's right. NO ELEVATOR.

This means that for three solid days I will be locked into my apartment unable to get groceries, cigarettes, the morning papers, or any other thing you care to name, not because I can't get OUT of the building (I'm fine with down), but because it would take me at least an hour to climb six flights of stairs to get back IN (and about a day to recover).

I suppose moving is rather liker a love affair...that first period of mad infatuation when the lover can do no wrong, followed by that period where every wart and ear hair seems monstrously magnified, finally settling down to a comfortable happy medium...here's to the happy medium (and some goddamn heat).

Love, Wendy

I'm Baaaack!

2010-12-26T18:28:00.000-08:00

Here I sit in my nice new completely chaotic apartment, full of food (including a whole mess of fresh oysters, which I'm planning to eat for breakfast tomorrow), and covered in boxes. One of said (unlocated) boxes contains all my clean underwear, which is rather a problem, but Sarah nicely went down to the basement laundry room for me, and I've got at least enough until I find that box. I also found (duh) the computer cords, so I am no longer deaf and blind to the world around me. Unfortunately, I have not yet found the box that contains the pound of butter (no, I don't recall whose bright idea it was to pack that...Sarah says it was me and I think it was her). Luckily, butter doesn't smell much as it decays...although I'm not sure that's lucky, because it means that I can't follow my nose to it...I suppose I'll have to wait until I find the box that's oozing.

Meanwhile, I am feeling quite deeply proud of myself, because by God, I managed to pull off our traditional Christmas. It damn near killed me.

I moved in on Tuesday, and our friend Shai (who has been my absolute rock through all this) came to help later. I sensibly had the beds delivered Tuesday as well, because if I had had to sleep on that damn couch one more night I would have died. This turned out to be a lucky idea on my part, since, due to the fact that neither the couch nor the big chair and a half would fit through the door of the apartment, I am now reduced to precisely one and a half pieces of furniture...my black leather armchair and its matching ottoman. I also had to jettison two tall bookcases because they wouldn't fit in the elevator...and the guys had already had to carry three big bookcases up those six flights of stairs. I told them to leave the other two (which are or were taller and heavier) because I didn't want to have dead movers littering the hallways, nor did I want to have to pay tips amounting to the cost of the move itself. I can get smaller furniture. The kitchen table does fit into the kitchen, and I have plenty of chairs and two card tables.

I have encountered a few problems, such as the fact that there is no, repeat, NO damn storage space in the kitchen. I brought my nice kitchen cabinet, but it's filling up fast. I'll figure all this out...there's a Home Depot like four blocks away which has all kinds of nice wire shelving, which looks clean and neat, and they deliver.

Wednesday I shelved books in my remaining bookshelves and went out to Kmart for sheets and blankets and pillows. And I went to the grocery store, which is HALF A BLOCK AWAY! Is that neat or what? And within a block and half there, there's an all-night deli for party beer runs, a very good deli which has all my necessary newspapers, and a Rite Aid drugstore. That's all within a block and a half. What more can anyone want? And aside from my nice mundane grocery store right there, Whole Foods is three blocks away and Trader Joe's is a block and a half away. It is beautifully clear to me that I won't starve around here.

Thursday I kept madly unpacking, and Thursday evening my mother-in-law Ben arrived, and we went over to Sarah's bar to have dinner and then to the tree stand to pick out our tree. Oh, and the cable guy came on Thursday morning.

Friday was complete insanity. I went out to get: presents for Ben and Sarah (very few...give me a break here), the shrimp and lobsters for dinner that night (tradition), and plum pudding (also tradition). Oh, and to get a set of keys made for Sarah. This involved a cab from my house back to the West Village to the one place I can depend on for plum pudding...which was out of it. So another cab to two more stores (one cab...they're a block away from each other). And a stop at my favorite bookstore for Christmas gifts. And a stop at Barnes and Noble for another Christmas present. Well, the first store I went to in that direction may or may not have had plum pudding. but when I saw that there was a line of people waiting on the street to get in the door, I jettisoned that idea in one fast hurry. So I went down the block to the other store, and not only did they NOT have plum pudding, they have closed their fish counter...so now I have no plum pudding and no lobsters and shrimp! Another taxi later, I had the lobsters and shrimp (at actually quite a good price...usually I go to Chinatown where they're really cheap, but since there were only going to be six of us instead of the usual 15 or so, I figured I'd spend the extra money for the convenience). But still no plum pudding! But I called Sarah in a panic, since she and Ben were out shopping, and luckily she was able to find two little ones, which was perfect.

Billy Romp, our wonderful Christmas tree person, who has been a member of the family for many years, came over Christmas Eve morning to deliver the tree (a tiny one this year, only about six feet...usually we get a ten footer but God only knows where the hell I would have put it this year) and have a cup of tea and chat, and then Shai and Selina came over Christmas Eve, and we trimmed the tree and ate our lobster and shrimp and the glorious oysters Shai brought (with gorgeous sauces...the pomegranate is particularly toothsome). It was a somewhat bizarre meal, because at that point I had not yet unearthed the actual cutlery. Somehow we managed with plastic knives and forks and the one claw cracker I had had the sense to buy when I bought the lobster.

And we woke up on Christmas morning and opened our presents and I cooked breakfast, then we all napped, and then I cooked Christmas dinner (all as per tradition). Since there was only going to be me and Sarah and Ben for Christmas dinner, I got us some gorgeous filets mignon (instead of our usual roast), and we had those and pan roasted potatoes and gorgeous green beans from Trader Joe's and our plum pudding with proper hard sauce, flamed with brandy.

And now Ben has left on the rest of her round of holiday visits, and Sarah went to work, and I am sitting in perfect peace, having just watched Oliver and caught up with the world after my enforced internet hiatus, and we are in a blizzard...they're expecting 15 inches of snow. I am one happy, if exhausted lady.

I hope all of you had as merry, if not as idiosyncratic, a Christmas as I did!

Love, Wendy

Movers at 9 AM Tomorrow!

2010-12-20T20:31:00.000-08:00

And I am signing off until Thursday morning between 8 and 11 am, which is when the nice cable people are coming over to hook me back up again.

Also, I am going to bed. If I see one more thing that needs to be packed, one more thing that needs to be put in the garbage, or, actually one more THING of any kind whatsoever, I am going to scream.

Yes, there are things undone, and I am getting up at five to deal with same...but my body has absolutely rejected me, and I'm taking it to bed. Well, okay, to couch. Where I shall sleep serenely, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow I will have an actual bed to sleep in. For the first time in a week. My back will thank me extravagantly for this, as I have been singlehandedly supporting the makers of Tylenol all week. Whether I will be able to find my sheets and blankets for this bed is an entirely other question...and at this point, I don't care. The notion of an actual bed is so exciting that I will sleep on the bare mattress and cover myself with newspaper and not give a damn.

And right now, I'm not going to even think about tomorrow morning. I am going to bed.

I'll tell you all about the move on Thursday!

Love, Wendy

To Do List

2010-12-18T23:47:00.003-08:00

Sunday: Keep packing up house, go to new apartment to pick up keys.

Monday: Final push...finish packing up, take out all garbage. Call cable company and electric company to get stuff switched over. Go to party. Well, doesn't everyone? Anyway, I deserve it.

Tuesday: Move starts at 7 am! Beds being delivered. Sheets? Damned if I know. I'll think of something. After move...run down the street (only half a block to supermarket!), get food, eat the hell out of it. Mainly, find all kitchen stuff. Start unpacking...Sleep in bed (as opposed to sofa) for first time in a week! Yay!

Wednesday: Do all Christmas shopping plus getting little necessities like dish drainer and shower curtain.

Thursday: Unpack madly. Ben (mother-in-law) arrives at house around 6 pm. Go to Sarah's bar for dinner. Get tree delivered.

Friday: Run down to Chinatown and get the lobsters and shrimp for dinner. Come back, deposit same, go to grocery store for Christmas breakfast and dinner stuff. Find boxes marked Christmas. Decorate tree before dinner. Have 10 or 12 people for dinner.

Saturday: Open presents! Yay! Make and serve breakfast. Lounge around all afternoon until time to start Christmas dinner. Do that.

Sunday: Breakfast for Ben and Sarah (and anyone else who may be around...one never knows). Ben goes back home. Sarah does whatever the hell she's doing, and I collapse into my brand new bed and sleep until possibly Wednesday.

But other than that, I really haven't got a thing to do.

Love, Wendy

Yes, Virginia, There IS A Santa Claus!

2010-12-16T08:08:00.000-08:00

YAHOO YAHOO YAHOO YAHOO YAHOO YAHOO!

Guess what I got? AN APARTMENT! My very own APARTMENT! A real, live APARTMENT!

I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to fit my stuff in it (mainly all those damn books), and I don't care. If necessary I'll hang it from the ceiling in one of those nets that people buy to hold baby toys. I'm setting up the move for Monday.

It's just a great place...tons of light because it's on a corner, and it's on the 6th floor (with an elevator, of course), which means I actually have an interesting view. It has two bedrooms, and mine is wonderful. It has a regular type door, but, for some odd reason, it also has big French doors with glass, leading to the living room. This means that I can use my room when we have a big party, and as the evening winds down, I can simply shut the doors (they have blinds) and go to bed.

The second bedroom is a small second bedroom, but then it's not used all the time anyway. The kitchen actually has room for a narrow kitchen table and chairs! Yay! I don't think it has a dishwasher, but I'm perfectly capable of washing dishes...I don't think I'm going to worry about it. The bathroom is also large, with room for freestanding cabinets for towels and stuff. And the living room will (I think) fit the couch, the two big chairs, and the TV and the record player (yeah, I've got one of those set-ups that plays records, tapes and discs and has an AM-FM radio - nobody separates me from my LP's, some of which are not on any other kind of media and quite valuable...to me, anyway). And if I can't fit both the big chairs into the living room, there's room in my bedroom for one of them.

Oh, you think I'm leaving myself too little time to move? Hah. We moved into this place on December 23rd, 1992. We closed the deal at noon, and on the way home from the signing, I grabbed a man with a van sign on the supermarket wall and we moved. That day. I gathered up my gang and we fanned out and bought a card table and four chairs, two beds and a dresser. Then we went and got a Christmas tree. When I'm determined to have Christmas, I am DETERMINED to have Christmas.

I'm sure all of you helped with good thoughts...thank you for your care and concern!

YAHOOYAHOOYAHOOYAHOOYAHOO!

Love, Wendy (who's MOVING...had you heard?)

Where Did I Get It All? WHY Did I Get It All?

2010-12-12T16:06:00.000-08:00

packingpackingpackingpackingpackingpackingpackingpackingpackingpacking.

I will be more coherent at some later date. And damn it, Quacky (made you look), I am too hysterical! Wait...that's not what I meant...was it?

(And the rest of you, never mind...Quacky is a VERY old private joke.)

packingpackingpackingpackingpacking.

Love, Wendy (who, in case you hadn't got the point, is packing)

Spinning Head City

2010-12-08T19:19:00.000-08:00

Oh, Jeez Louise. I finally got the last piece of documentation for that application for the Chelsea apartment, but it required me to go to the bank this morning. The bank is at One Broadway, which is all the way down at the tip of Manhattan. I needed documentation that I actually had a bank account and have had one for years. Then I had to shlep that to Soho and go sign things at my real estate guy's office. Then I came home and packed things. Then Richard came over with the cleaning and hauling guy to estimate what I'm getting rid of (a lot). Then I packed some more. Then I said fuck this, and went to Sarah's bar for therapy. Now I'm waiting for Chinese food.

I am beginning to get just a little tired of all of this. I get phone calls all day, every day, from eighteen directions telling I have to get all this done by Monday. Well, that's very nice, and I've called in a lot of markers and have a couple of crews of husky young men coming to help (thank GOD for spaghetti sauce in the freezer). But there's one major problem.

I DON'T HAVE AN APARTMENT. Everyone is totally focused on me packing up and getting ut of here, but I have no damn where to go! I have no final word on the Chelsea place, and you are not going to believe what is being proposed to me.

In short, I am supposed to pack up 20 years of my life by Monday, and then (presuming this apartment doesn't come through) move all of that into storage, and stay with my daughter until I find a house.

As an option, this bites the hind leg. A: Sarah lives in Bushwick. It is forty minutes away by subway. Because of my chest problems, I avoid subways without elevators and/or escalators, because it takes me 20 minutes to catch my breath at the top. Sarah's stop is stairs. (Say that ten times fast.)

B. My mother-in-law spends Christmas with us. Hi, Ben, you're 85, you're (as usual) carryng a million pounds of luggage, and you have to get to this godforsaken place in Brooklyn.

C. At a very stressful time, I am stuck in the middle of nowhere.

Now, the second option is more workable but a LOT more expensive. This is that all my stuff goes in storage, I get a hotel room in town (with a second bed), and then Ben and I get car service to Brooklyn and spend those three nights with Sarah (23, 24, 25). This is marginally workable, but where the hell do I get 20 lobsters on Christmas Eve day in Bushwick? And if I take the 45 minute subway ride to Chinatown (which is where they're always bought), what then? Another car service? And what about our Christmas tree?

If I sound hysterical, I AM hysterical. Nobody (except Sarah, who's equally hysterical) seems to understand how I feel about our traditional Christmas.

I am now full of Chinese food. This will at least make me sleep...which I don't seem to do much at the moment.

But I am GODDAMNED if I'll let anybody ruin my beloved Christmas. If all else fails, we'll do it in the damn storage unit.

ARRGGGHHH! And, HHHOOOWWWLLL! Also HELPPPPP! And for those of you to whom it comes naturally (like me), a few prayers would not come amiss.

Oh, and P.S. Jane, that would be a trip to meet you! Let me know!

Love, Wendy

Moving Right Along

2010-12-05T18:34:00.000-08:00

Good heavens. I finally got my kid to come and help me with all this. Will wonders never cease?

We have just spent the evening packing stuff up (her) and throwing stuff out (me). Yesterday I had a great bit of luck...one of my favorite movies of all time was on good old TCM, so I used that time to pack books in the den. The movie is that wonderful old 1950's thing, King Solomon's Mines, with Stewart Granger (often bare chested...a definite plus) and Deborah Kerr. For work such as I was doing, movies like this are absolutely perfect, because you've seen them so often that you can concentrate on, say, book packing while still catching all your favorite parts.

I cannot imagine what some of the stuff I threw out was still doing in the house. Why, for instance, was I saving a bag of VCR tapes that someone taped off a television set? This group included a porn movie...no, I don't know either. I also found some strings of Christmas lights (belonging to my cousin) which were perfectly lovely, but they were so old that A. I was afraid to plug them in to test them, and B. half the light bulbs were missing and they are of a type not seen in years. Out, out, out.

And once I got to the bottom of that closet, I discovered that my poor cat was more acrobatic than even I suspected...how the hell did he manage to get cat shit THAT far up the wall? He really did defy the laws of nature in that department.

I have skipped Boardwalk Empire tonight due to all this, but I'll catch it on the 8 pm repeat tomorrow night. Then there's a party with our long-time Christmas tree sellers on Tuesday night, and I still have two plays involving friends to catch...and then all I have to do is pack up the house, buy all the Christmas presents, get the necessary ones in the mail (which this year will probably be Express Mail), and get Christmas done. While moving.

How am I possible? And Texas Beth, believe me, you're going to have fun reading this madness, you fink! And I love you, Jane!

Love, Wendy

My Head Is Spinning

2010-12-03T16:19:00.000-08:00

Hoo boy. Things do move fast around here.

The people who were renting that lovely apartment with the backyard suddenly decided they wanted to sell, not lease. Damn it. So Richard the real estate guy and I spent today seeing four apartments, two in the East Village and two in Chelsea on the West Side around 23rd and 7th. (And that's as specific as I'm going to get, okay? Everybody happy now?)

The first East Village one was small, but workable. Even had a decent kitchen. The second East Village one was even smaller and fairly useless to me. I know I'm not going to get the closet space I have here, which is amazing, but one good sized closet and one tiny sort of broom closet are not going to get me anywhere.

Over to Chelsea, and the first apartment was completely useless, because the guy who was showing it lied in his teeth. It did NOT have two bedrooms, it had one, and it was on the second floor with no elevator. Also, while the kitchen was filled with the right stuff, it was so tiny that you could barely use any of it.

Ah, but the second one! I'm rather afraid of saying it again (look what happened last time), but it really is wonderful. No outdoor space, but on the 6th floor of an old elevator building with a ton of light, a kitchen where I can fit a small table, and just lovely all around. AND high ceilings (don't forget my birdcage with the stuffed tarantula).

So now I'm in a mad flurry of sending the application and reference letters and tax returns and all kinds of good shit.

Oh, and the powers that be seem to think that moving out this coming week is a good idea. Of COURSE. Move out of the three story house in which I have lived for 18 years into a two bedroom apartment...in a week. I think I should probably film this process for YouTube...or more probably, Fail Blog.

Eek.

Love, Wendy

On My Way To Bed

2010-11-29T19:44:00.000-08:00

But I had to stop and share this. One of my Facebook friends (what a misnomer that is!) posted a video, which I assure you I didn't watch, of a band he had recently seen called "Hot Bucket of Fuck."

I BEG your pardon?

What on earth is that even meant to convey? Admittedly, band names these days don't seem to mean anything anyway...unlike the old days, when they had perfectly sensible names like...um...the Shirelles. Yeah, OK. Maybe that remark about sensible doesn't hold up terribly well. And I will confess to being totally charmed by the name of a fairly recent band which seems to have disappeared (again, I never heard any of their music...my taste sort of basically stops dead after Jimi Hendrix when melodies died), which was called Toad The Wet Sprocket. I thought this was terrific.

And I will freely admit that I read something on the internet a while back about a group of nurses being censored because they had giggled at a patient's "ambiguous genitals." Don't you think Ambiguous Genitals would be a GREAT band name?

But Hot Bucket of Fuck?

Good God.

And no, since you asked, my goddamn buyers STILL have not closed and I am slowly losing what is left of my mind.

Growl.

On the other hand, Thanksgiving is over. It can't be all bad.

Love, Wendy

While The Dishwasher Runs...

2010-11-26T12:09:00.000-08:00

So that I can do another load, of course. As I'm sure I've remarked here, I frankly am driven nuts by Thanksgiving and am very happy when it's over, and we can get on with Christmas, which I love passionately.

It's all that damn food, you see. I love to cook, and I do it well, I cook for myself almost always...actual meals, not Lean Cuisine out of the microwave, and I cook for others. And I enjoy it thoroughly, EXCEPT FOR THANKSGIVING. There's just so much of it.

I got up at 4:30 yesterday morning, and essentially did the whole thing (for 15) totally singlehandedly (Sarah turned up later to help and did a lot of the cleanup, bless her). And people brought wonderful homemade pies. But that left me with the turkey, two kinds of stuffing, two vegetable dishes, two potato dishes (well, you have to have mashed and sweet), and the relish tray beforehand with the dips and the carrots and the cucumber spears and the olives...and thank God for leftovers because I do not want to see a lit stove for at least another week. And of course there are always minor screwups...I tend to scorch stuffing (I bake it separately for safety's sake), for instance, and I have never been able to properly time huge numbers of brussels sprouts in my life...they always end up either too crunchy or too soggy (this was a soggy year). Ah, well...I suppose this is what makes it a home cooked meal.

But I'm still really glad when it's over.

Sarah agreed with you, Texas Beth, about being too specific about the (possible) new place. But she saw my point after I explained my thinking...actually, the thinking I did after you guys called me on it.

First of all, why bother? Anybody who reads my blog knows that I am chronically broke and 65 years old. I am a lousy candidate for either robbery or rape, unless your interests lie in acquiring quite a lot of paperback books that the cat has shat on. And admittedly there's no accounting for taste, but really...this is a big city. I can get raped by anyone who sees me as a target. Knowing the block I live on doesn't affect that one way or the other.

Secondly, I dare anyone to find the actual building, which I very pointedly did NOT describe (the outside, I mean). This stretch of the East Village has very long blocks lined on both sides with almost identical buildings. Because of that, and because my hours are so extremely irregular, in order to nail me, you would have to literally walk up and down this very long block 24 hours a day looking for me. I mean hell, the one fixed point in my day is buying the morning papers...but even there, depending on when I wake up, that could be any time from 6 am to noon or later. And hoping that your john break isn't taking place just as I'm hopping into a taxi to go somewhere. Now I have a perfectly good opinion of myself, but I just can't get behind the notion of that much dedication to a cause.

And finally...I am the most social person in the world. If you want to meet me, announce in the comments that you're coming to New York and I'd be delighted to see you! I will promptly arrange to meet you at the bar where Sarah works. I know everybody in the place...at the slightest sign of anything off base, there is a whole gang of people watching my back and ready to go to bat for me...and I NEVER invite someone I've just met to my house, unless it's someone who is coming with a bunch of people we know in common. Last night our friend Shai, for instance, brought his new roommate and her boyfriend, whom I'd never met (they're darling people).

So there you have it. And Beth...when are you coming to NY? I'll meet you at Sarah's bar!

Love, Wendy

Thank You!

2010-11-22T18:13:00.000-08:00

You guys are the best, honestly, my readers out there. Thanks so much for your support! Let us charitably assume that whoever the mouth that roared is, he/she/it was just having a bad day and forget about it.

Meanwhile, things are looking up and down (what else is new).

First of all, I bowed to the inevitable and had the cat put down. Along with his chronic diarrhea, he had started to throw up after every meal, and his back legs were going...and nearly 19 years old is a good long life for a cat. I am sad, of course, but it's also a great relief. You have no idea what it's like to just be able to put down a book or magazine or anything and not come back in ten minutes to find it covered in unspeakable things. And my furniture looks like furniture again without all those plastic sheets. Basically a good thing...although Sarah and I went to see Harry Potter today and we passed one of those adoption stands on 14th Street and there were four kittens...two orange and two gray and white...and I had to be physically restrained from promptly adopting all four. I'm just not used to being without a cat or two!

However, my real estate pal came through for me and found me a perfect place...it's still up in the air because my buyers have moved back the closing date, but it's just wonderful. I'll describe it and you can all send out good vibes for me, yes?

The place is in a small building on East 8th Street, between Avenues B and C, right across the street from Tompkins Square Park, which is a perfect location. It's small, of course, but my stuff will fit. The kitchen is particularly small, but I've cooked in a kitchen which was nothing more than a two burner hotplate on top of a half-size icebox where you washed your dishes in the bathroom sink, so what the hell. And it's got a passthrough and a dishwasher. The two bedrooms are also small, but they'll work...Sarah's room is REALLY small. It would make a great walk in closet. But there's room for a trundle bed, which is really, along with a bedside table and a tiny dresser, all we need in there. And mine will fit my queen size bed. And the closets are adequate, if not ample.

The living/dining area has plenty of room for everything and...wait for it...the apartment is on the ground floor in the back, so no stairs...and...IT HAS A HUGE PRIVATE BACKYARD. PLANTED. I mean, it's ENORMOUS. And I'm allowed to barbecue in it! I can get about 30 people back there for summer parties. A HUGE PRIVATE BACKYARD!

Now everybody's lawyers are going back and forth and around and about and arranging closings and arranging lease signings and arranging everything else you can think of. I am, as you can well imagine, on tenterhooks, since we can't pay for the apartment until we get the cash from the closing. However, it turns out that the real estate guy who listed the apartment is with the same firm (though a different office) as my original real estate guy (Richard), so this is very much in my favor.

Meanwhile, life goes on...I am busy scrubbing up odd cat deposits (some of them very odd) and getting Thanksgiving together. I've just been given all sorts of reprieves on it. My previous roommate Vicky is now living in Germany and has some things she wants that she left here, so her mother was going to come over tomorrow and pick them up, but now Joy (the mother) has decided not to do that until this coming weekend, so I can get all the Thanksgiving shopping done tomorrow. And the guest list has turned out to be tiny this year, only ten people, so I'm in luck there. My two chef pals aren't coming (one working and one entertaining his girlfriend's family and coming over after dinner), so the whole meal is back on my head, but I really sort of like that. Sarah's not working Thursday, so she and I can spend the day getting everything together, and I can do all the prep work (oh, you know...chop the onions and celery for the stuffing, make the dips for the vegetable tray, get the olives in their dishes...all that happy horseshit) Wednesday afternoon/night in my own half-assed and leisurely fashion. And my pals Jiggers and Kathy are doing the desserts, so I'm off the hook there! So I'll cook for 12 or so (one never knows around here)...I figure a 14 or 15 pound turkey should do it. I might even add a small ham to the mix, because while I'm not terribly fond of turkey, I do like having leftover ham around.

And that's the way it is around here this Thanksgiving week. (And Texas Beth, I absolutely agree with you about that beer and a half...some days it's the only way.)

Once again, thank you, my staunch defenders!

Love, Wendy

Followup...And Possibly Throw Up

2010-11-17T19:48:00.000-08:00

Welcome to a roller coaster of a day.

Bill finally called this morning...I was right, he and his wife were visiting their son in North Carolina (well, I got the Carolina part right, anyway). They were due back today, but Bill's wife Boo (yes, it's a nickname, and I'm ashamed to say I haven't the remotest notion what her first name actually is...after 40 years. On the other hand, my actual first name is Loretta, Wendy being a nickname, and I don't think many people know that, either) had a heart attack on Monday. Thank God, their son is a doctor, saw the symptoms, got her to the hospital right away, and she's going to be fine. I'm very fond of her. Evidently it was fairly minor, as heart attacks go, and she'll be out of the hospital tomorrow.

However, Bill informed me that the closing on this house...you remember, the December 1st closing, the one which was cutting it so terribly fine for me? Yeah, that one. Well, it's suddenly set for Monday. Ah, what?

In the meantime, the apartment that I did in fact see that I loved looks like it's going to be a nonstarter. This was the one in Stuyvesant Town, a huge apartment complex built in the 40's for returning WWII vets, essentially. However, Stuy Town has horrendous requirements for renters...you have to have 36 months of rent in the bank, for instance. I don't think I've got 36 minutes of rent in the bank, actually. And because of the trust, even though as of Monday I will have $1.1 in the bank, it'll be under the name of the trust, and they evidently won't rent to a trust fund - which seems a bit weird, since NY tends to be trust fund baby city. Also, when they ran a credit check on me, they found that I owed Chase Manhattan nearly $8,000, which seems to send up a red flag. In fact, I have received a settlement notice from Chase's collection people which states that they will settle for $2,915.87, which will be available to me by the end of the week, so problem solved right? Um, no. Seems that the fact that you have EVER owed money that went into collection screws your credit rating for seven years. Well, if this continues to be a problem, come by the pup tent that I'll be pitching on the corner for the next seven years until I can find a goddamn place to live.

So I called in a favor, and went to a friend who happens to be my kid's ex-boss who is connected to real estate...and this all looks sort of promising.

Oh, dear God, it just goes on and on. I have spent the entire day sitting at the kitchen table in my bathrobe fielding phone calls and emails from trustee and real estate person, and many wonderful supportive messages on Facebook, and I am exhausted. I have no idea where the HELL I'm going to be living next month, there are 15 people (or so) coming over for Thanksgiving, and I'm exhausted with this whole goddamn thing. Also, I twitch. And shiver.

I think the best thing I can do at this moment is focus on Thanksgiving and my usual quandary about the green beans. What do you think? 15 people...given that 1/4 pound is usually one serving of something...but I guess that's really meat, isn't it? I mean, with the brussels sprouts and the yams and the mashed potatoes and the stuffing (oh, yeah, and the turkey) (maybe a small ham)...you think I could get away with two pounds of green beans? Like I did last year and the year before that and the year before that...and so forth?

Trust me...I think I'm a LOT better off at the moment obsessing about green beans than about anything else.

You will wave at my little pup tent in the middle of Christopher Street, won't you?

Love, Wendy

Oh, Honestly...

2010-11-16T18:11:00.000-08:00

So Bill the trustee has been telling me that the closing is December 1 and I have to find an apartment, right? And Richard the real estate guy has been telling me he'll help, right? And Bill's going to take care of the money end? Yeah, well, not so much.

I thought I'd take a look at Stuyvesant Town over the weekend, because they keep advertising at the top of their lungs, and why not? So I trotted over to their renting office, saw an apartment (a model apartment) that was like the one I wanted (one bedroom converted to two), and fell in love with it. It's pretty tiny, but really, that's only comparative...I mean, I've been living in damn near 1400 square feet here, and I'm sure as hell not going to get anything that size on my budget. And it was all new and shiny and clean and uncatted...with an actual window in the kitchen AND one in the bathroom! My house tends to be somewhat dark because it's surrounded by other houses on three sides, so the only light comes from the bedroom window/sliding door thing in my room, and its skylight, and the skylight in Sarah's room, and the front window downstairs. And the kitchen has a built-in microwave AND an actual (very small) pantry! AND it's on 14th Street and Avenue C, with an entrance placed so I can walk out of my front door to a bus stop on 14th Street, with plentiful taxis. My favorite supermarket is a block and a half down the street, there's a deli and a 99 cent store across the street, and utilities are included...no more electric bill!

So I tried to get hold of Bill to tell him all about this wonder. No Bill. Not anywhere. I did email back and forth with Richard, but without the money, there's nothing he can do about anything. And there has been no word from Bill between Saturday and today, which, as we know, is Tuesday.

Now I'm beginning to get worried, because he's not all that young (70s), and I left him several urgent messages and a long email. Of course, he doesn't read his email every day, as far as I can tell, which is no help to me at all. I'm sure he's just gone off for a long weekend to visit one of his kids in South Carolina (well, it's somewhere like that). He's done this before. But wouldn't you think he'd TELL me? And if anything HAS happened, wouldn't it occur to someone to let me know? I mean, since I'm in the middle of a house sale that he's orchestrating? And if the worst has occurred, what do I do NOW? I mean, I know the Northern Trust Bank in Chicago is the backup, but WHO at the Northern Trust?

This is one of the times when I would cheerfully kill my father, were it not for the fact that he's been dead for some years (I usually felt that way when he was alive, now that I think of it). Daddy set up this damn trust, and one of the stipulations of it is that I was never allowed to know much about it. In other words, where other trust fund babies have monthly account statements and drawing accounts, and/or a monthly payment, I have always had to ask for what I needed, backed up with facts and figures, to be scrutinized. God bless Bill, he's always been wonderful about seeing my point, and has always been there when needed...but I should have had, at the very least, a set of emergency instructions about a million years before this. My father couldn't bear to relinquish the reins even after death. Part of this, of course, was the fact that Daddy was born in 1899 and didn't think women should have their own money anyway, and the other part is that he was just basically an SOB.

So here I sit, with my dream apartment slowly receding, losing my mind, and at the same time terribly worried about poor old Bill, of whom I'm very fond.

I do wish people would quit leaving me entirely in the dark...isn't it ME who's supposed to be leaving her home of 20 years standing? In about THREE WEEKS?

Love, Wendy

The Rocky Road To A House Sale

2010-11-11T18:54:00.000-08:00

Well, we've got our house sold...the co-op board finally stopped being jerks. And then I evidently nearly managed to queer the deal all on my own, through the most idiotic set of circumstances.

I just remarked...kindly remember that contracts have been signed and the closing is set...that the wiring was wonky. Now this is the same thing I have said to A. the broker, and B. the buyers, all along. I merely told what I thought was an amusing Village story this time, which was that the original electrician had wired the house when he was stoned out of his skull.

This is an entirely true story. The electrician in question is our friend Rob, who has been clean for about a million years now. But it is an undeniable fact that when he wired the house, he was a wreck. I thought this added a lot of character to the house...you know, a real true to life Village story.

I have told this story to my realtor, I have told this story to buyers...and all of a sudden, our buyers decided they couldn't live in a house that had been wired by a crackhead.

SOMEBODY SHOULD LISTEN TO WHAT I'M SAYING. I prefaced the story of the wiring with the remark that this had taken place in the 1970's. Yes, that would be the 1970's. That is 40 years ago. May I repeat...40 YEARS AGO. 40. Years ago.

We got our buyers back. But I've been told that I'm no longer allowed to talk to them.

Look, I'm perfectly fine. But I think the rest of the world has gone stark raving mad.

Meanwhile, I'm being told that I have to rent and move into a new apartment within the next three weeks. It's going to be a damned interesting holiday season.

Love, Wendy

30 Rock

2010-11-07T19:27:00.000-08:00

Well, damn, that was fun. I just wish I hadn't been wrapped so soon, because we got out at 2 pm after an 8 am start...this was fine in terms of getting tired, but not so hot for getting any overtime.

Our scene was in a battered women's shelter, with Tracy Morgan and Jack MacBrayer (is that how you spell him?), who plays Kenneth. I got to exchange words with both of them (mainly since I was sitting practically in their laps). Tracy Morgan, by the by, can't remember lines to save his life, in case you care. It gave us a good laugh, anyway.

I'm presuming this will air around Christmas, since there were Christmas decorations on set. I couldn't get the name of it, but it's Episode 5.10 (meaning the 10th episode of the 5th season), and you can look it up on their website. I should be very clearly visible, because they gave me a small bit to do involving my inhaler...you just never know what'll come in handy.

The reason I'm dying to see what the hell the episode is about is that the people coming in for the afternoon shoot were fascinating...four large drag queens (one of whom was on roller skates) and at least one little person. I confess to having a LOT of trouble imagining what on earth you would do with a plot involving battered women, drag queens and little people.

Then Saturday night a friend came in town and brought me a carton of cigarettes, for which I am forever in her debt...Sarah, I love you! (Yes, her name is Sarah too.)

And on Sunday I trotted off to Spanish Harlem for the annual Marathon Party with Saint Tiger Lily and the Boss...and got to snuggle up with absolutely the world's most adorable and happy baby, the one and only Nico. This is why I didn't watch Boardwalk Empire last night (although I caught up with it tonight and was rewarded by a flashing glimpse of myself on the Boardwalk in that awful Lesbian On The Boardwalk khaki suit) and why when I started to write this blog last night I decided not to...as usual after one of these events, what I was typing was complete gobbledy gook, so I decided to wait until cooler heads (those less filled with beer and magnificent banh mi with three kinds of pork) could prevail. I always feel that if you find you suddenly have twelve typing fingers on each hand, bed is the only answer.

And this week yawns before me with absolutely nothing to do, which is probably good, since my house is humongously disgusting...anyway, announcing that I'm going to clean the house is usually the best way for people to start calling me with jobs. This doesn't help the house, of course, which is why it looks the way it does (disgusting, remember?).

Food and sleep beckon...

Love, Wendy

More Work!

2010-11-03T15:20:00.000-07:00

Oh, yay me. I just got a call from a casting agency that never hired me before. This is always good, because the more people know you're out there, the better. Anyway, I'm doing 30 Rock on Friday! I would say, isn't that glamorous, but it isn't, actually, since I'm playing one of the denizens of a woman's shelter. Ah, well. I am, after all, a character actress...also, unless I miss my bet, from the questions on the phone about my sizes, I'm pretty sure it's going to be one of those lovely jobs where I just roll out of bed and get there and they do the rest.

Meanwhile, I have three lovely bits for all of you in the listening (reading?) audience.

The first is tiny, but it amused the hell out of me. You know my oft-repeated rant about nobody paying any attention to the English language any more. Well, the complete inattention to copy editing and proof reading paid off the other day in the NYPost in an article about a gentleman named David Pecker (which is a rather unfortunate name to begin with). He is the CEO of something called American Media and seems to be doing some sort of restructuring...which caused the article to be headlined: "Pecker's Package."

Secondly, I had the most bizarre experience last week. A friend was in town, and she and I were having a drink and chatting. Apropos of talking about my first marriage, I told her the story of being sort of engaged (I think we were sort of engaged) to another guy with whom I was sharing a room in a boarding house. This would be about 1967 or so. Anyway, the guy and I also shared this tiny room with Buzzy, who became my first husband. You see, Simon and I worked days and Buzzy worked nights, so we would get up for work as Buzzy was coming in to take over the one bed. This sounded a WHOLE lot more reasonable in 1967.

Now I have not thought of Simon in years, except very much in passing. And I certainly haven't laid eyes on him in a good 40 years. The morning after this conversation, I opened up my Facebook, and guess who requested me as a friend? Yup. I about died. How completely weird is that!

I'm going to have to start looking up all my old boyfriends...presuming I can remember their names.

Now I'm going to do something I rarely do, which is change the names to protect the innocent. You will understand why.

The lady I was talking with about the boarding house room I will call Mary. Mary has a boyfriend, call him Joe, who is an old pal of mine, which is how I met Mary, whom I adore.

So Mary told me that she had quite a lot of issues in her nether regions which had been bothering her for years, and she finally decided, oh, the hell with it. I've got the insurance, let me get this taken care of, finally (a botched episiotomy, among other things). Before the operation, since there was going to be a fairly decent bit of reconstruction done, her doctor told her to go home and measure Joe...length and width flaccid, length and width aroused.

The result is that they can never break up, because Joe now finds himself going with a lady with a custom-built crotch, just for him.

And you thought those monogrammed shirts were a great Christmas present.

Love, Wendy

Free of the Javits!

2010-10-25T14:20:00.000-07:00

That was a long, long week there. Next year, I swear I'm going to find myself a little battery operated heater, if there is such a thing, and tuck it under my feet. But as always, the two guys who run the computer expo are very nice, so except for the freezing and boredom, it wasn't as bad as it might have been.

Nothing's coming up, so I might get deeply busy cleaning my house, which two dogs have not improved in the least. I must say it's fun to have them around, though. There's something deeply cozy about watching television with two nice warm dogs resting their heads on your lap.

My, Boardwalk Empire just gets more naked every day, doesn't it? (No, Beth, I haven't been seen recently, not since the first episode...but keep watching!) I must say I was quite pleased this past Sunday to get my first glimpse of the full male frontal. It's not, you understand, that I have any great interest in gentlemen's what have yous...not after two marriages and many rather less formal liaisons. Face it...unless you've got a square knot or an interesting tattoo, you guys all look pretty much alike. No, what was bothering me was that we were getting lots and LOTS of ladies in all their unpruned glory, but the boys were always covered with a sheet or something, which I felt was some sort of discrimination. Small sidelight about the movie business in re that "unpruned glory" remark...did you know (well, how could you) that they actually put out a casting call that way? For women who would appear in the nude and were "completely natural; no Brazilians." I wonder if anyone desperate for work went out and had it put back on?

And I seem to be having a play reading! My friends Pete (my current roommate, he of the dogs) and Trish were reading a one act I wrote some years back, and decided to talk Carla, who owns the bar where they and my daughter all work, into doing it as a reading in the bar! I think this sounds like fun. It's a funny little one act about Gabriel coming back to earth to search for a new Mary for a second Son of God. It should be fun...since the script is somewhat blasphemous (yeah, well, we fallen away Catholics tend to get that way), audience reaction will probably be greatly improved if they're all a little drunk.

Meanwhile I am going to clean the icebox, because the lettuce is brown and the cold cuts are green, and somehow I feel that should be the other way around. Also I distinctly heard rustling noises in there the other night, and I'm deeply afraid that things are taking on a life of their own.

I shall leave you with this...I was reading the paper during a lull at the Javits last week, and my, how the world has changed. Seems there was a gala celebrating 50 years of the contraceptive pill (God bless its little heart - sure did make life more fun). During this event, Cosmopolitan Magazine was presented with an award for Best Contraceptive Reporting. I think this is by far the best award I ever heard of. Sure beats an Oscar for, say, Best Sound Editing of An Already Written Score For A 7 Minute Documentary, or whatever other bizarre things they hand out.

Love, Wendy

Back in the Javits Again....

2010-10-18T18:34:00.000-07:00

Why did I remember so many things about the horrors of working in the Javits Center (bring your lunch and snacks, remember that the only affordable coffee is out back by the loading dock, there is nowhere to eat lunch in any comfort whatsoever), while forgetting the main thing...the first day of the Interop Expo is when they set up the Exhibit Hall and LEAVE THE LOADING DOCK OPEN ALL DAY. Aside from the usual pigeons wandering around indoors, the result of this is that an icy wind blows through the whole place for all of your 12 hours there.

Long underwear tomorrow...and boy, does that ever feel sillier than shit in October.

Love, Wendy

Two Hundred Shrieking Nurses From Hell

2010-10-15T20:04:00.001-07:00

Bet THAT title caught your eye. It is extremely descriptive of the day I have just had...or, even more descriptively, the day that just had me.

Off I went at 7 am to do a medical seminar for a company for whom I have worked many times. These things are absolutely easy, simple, no problems, so I picked up the morning papers, because once you've signed people in, no problems whatsoever.

Oh, hee hee hee, and giggle giggle giggle. There was not one single damn thing that worked today. And by not worked, I mean, craziness beyond belief.

Here is how you do these seminar things. When you get to your location, normally a hotel or that nutsy 7th Avenue joint that I've talked about here (the one that's a conference center and antique store), your boxes of handouts and stuff to sell and your various bits are sitting there waiting for you. You unpack everything, set it out enticingly, and then you collect your nicely faxed list (UPDATED the night before list) and settle back to welcome the hordes.

Yeah. Right. We (me and Vincent, with whom I've worked on many of these things) got there at 7:30 am for a seminar that started at 9:00. There were no boxes. There was no fax. The hotel staff had to go running around to find the boxes. There was no fax. We had to make an entire new list, damn near.

So, OK. It then was made quite clear to us that the organizers had seriously overbooked, because there were seats for 180 people. We had (and this according to the organizers) 196 people. AND we had walk ins. We had to turn down the walk ins after one or two of them. They objected fairly strenuously, but hey, they were walk ins.

This thing started at 9:00 am. Around 10:00 am, a lady (I use the term advisedly...she weren't no lady) walked in and announced that she had a seat because she had paid for it six weeks before, and we should throw out people to make room for her. She was quite determined, and very, VERY loud.

Now, you have to understand that by this time we had already attempted to make room for people by removing tables in one room...which brought down on our heads the people who had been sitting at those tables. All of them, according to each and every one of them, had terrible back problems, and couldn't do without the table. We had also, in complete defiance of Fire Department rules, ranged people along walls and out in the hall, within at least earshot.

Next, a lady turned up...this at 10:30 am for a 9:00 am thing...and she was even nuttier than old Nurse Ratched (see One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest). SHE called the cops. No, I'm serious. She actually called the Fire Department to get the whole shebang closed down, but what we got was a very nice cop. Who went away. She also called the Mayor's office and God knows who else.

And when we finally lurched to the end of this day...all of these people who attend are given certificates to say that they have attended before they get professional points for this. Because of the earlier kerfluffle about the old sign in sheet, Vincent and I had to hand write some of these (this always happens...usually with walk ins). At which point we had people screaming that their various employers wouldn't give them credit unless their names were typed.

After that, I went to Sarah's bar and got somewhat drunk. Because, to be honest, the only thing that held me together all day was the notion of nice cold beer. And, given the lovely mix of people at the Bistro...it is just so lucky that there wasn't a nurse in there tonight. Because I would have cheerfully strangled any nurse I saw.

Oh, and by the by, after about 16 of these damn people threatened to sue for not having seats they paid for, I happened to look at the actual title of the seminar, which was: Nursing Documentation: Legally Proven Strategies To Keep You Out of the Courtroom.

Um, yeah.

Love, Wendy

Disjointed Remarks

2010-10-12T19:22:00.000-07:00

Oh, good Lord. I'm now harboring TWO dogs. Really, life does get complicated. As I think I must have mentioned, Sarah's friend Pete is currently living in with his darling (large) puppy Luna...well, it turns out that Aisha (another of the denizens of Sarah's job) has to give up the dog she just got...another largish one, Bella. So Pete is helping with this effort...and in the meantime, guess who gets to live with BOTH dogs? It's damn good thing that A. I love dogs, and B. I have made it perfectly clear that I do NOT walk dogs. Unless they're my own, of course. In fact, I'd have a dog again in a heartbeat, except that my life is not dog-friendly in the least. You can't leave a dog alone for the 16 to 18 hours I'm sometimes away on a movie shoot, for instance. It's cruel first of all to the poor dog, and second of all to my floors and furniture...even though the cat has actually not left much undone to said floors and furniture.

Speaking of which, I honestly got down on my hands and knees today (which, at my age, takes a while) and started cleaning the bedroom floor. Then I got up and got a start on the ironing...wherein I found a dress I haven't worn since, I believe, last spring. Oops. Naturally, what I've been doing is ignoring the entire tottering pile and just grabbing and ironing the pair of pants/skirt/blouse/dress I want to wear that day...but since I have a heavy few days coming up, I thought I'd better tackle the heap.

Temp work has suddenly revved up, you see...which means I need to look like a nice professional type person instead of a friendly Greenwich Village bar patron. I've actually got work for this coming Thursday, Friday, and Sunday through Thursday (all seminar stuff). That's a Franklin Covey seminar Thursday, a PESI on Friday (these are nursing seminars), and then off to the dear Javits Center (retching noises here) Sunday through Thursday for Interop.

Much to my fury, the Metropolitan Transit Authority is forcing me to take a taxi to each of these jobs except the Interop orientation/training session on Sunday (because that's from 1 - 5 in the afternoon). The taxis are because the MTA has cut out my overnight crosstown bus and it doesn't start until 7 am, and has cut the hours of the uptown bus, which also doesn't start until 7 am. This is of limited usefulness to me since all of these jobs START at 7 am. And I am damned if I'm going to walk 6 blocks to the subway in pitch blackness in a neighborhood which unfortunately has gotten pretty dicey at that hour. And it makes no sense to grab a cab to the subway, because the Javits is over here on the far West Side and a straight shot up West Street, whereas the subway is over on 7th Avenue. Oh, and did I mention that after all these service cuts, they're raising the fares again? ARRGGGH.

Meanwhile, if you're not watching Glee, you should be. Lea Michele, who plays Rachel, is lobbying her cute little socks off at the moment. Seems there's going to be (in real life, I mean) a revival of Funny Girl in 2012, and the kid is going for it at the top of her lungs, which are somewhat upwards of considerable. She sang Don't Rain On My Parade at the Oscars this year, and in tonight's episode of Glee, not only did she sing Happy Days Are Here Again, but she was wearing a replica of one of Streisand's first act costumes from the show (the sailor suit, if you care). Personally, I think she's pushing it, but she really is just about the only one of the current crop of actress/singers who could do it...more power to her. Meanwhile, I absolutely can't wait for Tuesday after next, when the Glee cast takes on The Rocky Horror Show...which I love with an unholy passion.

Oh, and if you haven't seen it yet, I highly recommend Raising Hope, which comes on right after Glee. It's silly as hell, and very, very funny...the story of a young man with a mad family who becomes a rather reluctant single father. Try it...it makes me giggle.

Love, Wendy

Oh, For God's Sake

2010-10-07T22:33:00.000-07:00

I just saw this new study that's come out linking childhood obesity to the cold virus.

Boy, it is just really hard for people to admit that they eat the wrong things, now isn't it? And even a mother interviewed for this video says that when she was a kid (and when I was a kid), we were out playing until we were called home for dinner. We were all running up and down the block, we had our bikes out and our roller skates, we were playing baseball in the vacant lot down the block.

By the by, this study encompassed 124 children. Um, no. Could we get a much larger sample here?

When Sarah was growing up, we didn't have junk food in the house because we couldn't AFFORD junk food. I never made dessert because I am not that much of a sweets eater and am fairly lousy at making desserts.

And once again, and probably to the enormous boredom of everyone, because it's my favorite rant. Make dinner. You can do it in half an hour. Look up quick recipes for decent food. Rachel Ray, whom I detest as a person, has very good family recipes that can be made in a short time with fresh food.

STOP FEEDING EVERYBODY GARBAGE!

And now I'm going to eat some more candy corn (and a nice big mouthful of popcorn) and go to bed. Nobody's perfect.

Love, Wendy

Bizarre Movie Shoot

2010-10-07T20:57:00.000-07:00

REALLY bizarre movie shoot.

So Grant Wilfley called me on Tuesday for a shoot yesterday. Be in Long Island City at 6 am Wednesday. And LIC, God help us, happens to be what SAG calls "in the zone." In layman's terms, this means...no location bus.

Up I drag myself at 3 am. Out the door at 4:30 am. On the N train by 5 am. And at Queensboro Plaza by about 5:30 am.

Frankly, I defy anybody who doesn't live in Queens to follow the directions we were given, which were (I know, because I dutifully wrote them down), go to the Five Star Indian Banquet Restaurant at 13-05 43rd Avenue, between 21st Street and 13th Street. Um, WHAT? This is one of those peculiar addresses that only exists in Queens. In case you ever find yourself having to do this, I will be the first to tell you that there are no people, no lights, and no nothing at 5:30 am in Queens. Luckily, a block away I saw a street with all kinds of unoccupied taxis racing down it. UNluckily, as I soon discovered, they were all deadheading in from the airport and heading back to Manhattan, because I had to stop six of them before I found a driver who knew anything about Queens.

Well, I got to holding on time and we shot stuff under the train lines. Then we were told, okay, now we're all going to Times Square. Oh. We are? This little detail wasn't mentioned before, but okay, why not. So we piled into the picture cars (they hire people to work with their cars on various shoots, because you can't depend on actual traffic to move when you need it).

So we get to Times Square JUST in time to shoot during the lunch rush. As I think I've mentioned before, after my nice quiet Boardwalk set, this shooting right in the middle of the immediate world tends to be annoying. You have to spend so damn much time clearing the civilians out of the way.

We shot most of the scene, went to the midtown holding on 46th, and had a nice lunch. Then we finished up there, and were told that the vans were coming and we were now off to 34th Street. Well, to begin with, those damn vans should have been at the subway station first thing in the morning, and we were all fairly pissed off that there were suddenly vans to take us from 49th to 34th (and some of us are planning to lodge a complaint with SAG).

Once the scene on 34th was explained to us, the whole shebang suddenly rocketed into complete and total insanity. This was the first day of shooting on a movie called Safe, which stars a guy named Jason Stathorn, who seems to be quite hot as an action type character. Awfully nice. Very British. Anyway, the powers that be had decreed that the shot was going to be some sort of guerilla filmmaking/cinema verite stuff, where two production people and two handheld cameras would be on 34th Street right opposite Macy's. We 12 or so background people were to form a flying wedge around Jason to protect him from unwanted civilian types.

This was the nuttiest thing I have ever done on film. (I have done many, MANY nutty things in my life, but I've never gotten paid for them before.)

We got out on 34th Street and the production guys, Steve and Brad, organized us into our wedge shape. We then proceeded to stand in this odd arrangement in the middle of the sidewalk across from Macy's for about 40 minutes while we waited for Jason and his stand-in Chris to appear. You simply have no conception of how idiotic you feel standing like this in the middle of the damn sidewalk for 40 minutes. After a while, we started playing around...we'd all look up, for instance, with varying degrees of horror and prurient interest on our faces. This achieved nothing at all, because everybody on 34th at 5:30 pm is either running for a train or to catch a sale, but it amused us for a while.

Well, eventually Chris the stand-in arrived, and we all started marching up and down the street in formation. Yeah. Right. Have you ever noticed how deeply focused New Yorkers are when they're trying to get somewhere? They were shoving us out of the way, intent on their Blackberries and train schedules...

Then Jason arrived, and evidently he's something special, because suddenly people got interested...and it all got MUCH worse. We're supposed to be keeping these people out of the way, but really, when some little girl leaps out in front of the poor guy and flashes a phone camera in his face...I just don't see myself tackling a 14 year old. And some ditzy broad thought it would be great fun, despite all our reasonably discreet closing of ranks, to insinuate herself right in the middle of our flying wedge...oh, and did I mention the lady in the red outfit who wanted to dance with us?

I have never been so tired in my life. Whoever dreamed up this nutsy shoot should be...um...shot? Preferably in three locations in one day. Starting at 5:30 am in Queens.

Love, Wendy

Weird Jury Duty

2010-10-01T20:15:00.000-07:00

Well, that was deeply amazing.

You have to understand that I seem to do a LOT of jury duty. I almost never try to get out of it, because you have to serve anyway, right? So why bother? I've done it a couple of times, but only because I'm leaving for Europe or something. And I'm always put on a case because I seem to be the demographic they're looking for...nice middle aged liberal woman with family.

So, as I said, I called in on Wednesday night and was told to report at 9 am Thursday, which I dutifully did (in that lousy weather). I got there a bit early because the buses were for some reason nonexistent (two of them didn't turn up) and I knew damn well that even if one did come, it would still be lousy service since New York has this weird thing about weather. You see, New York seems to be completely incapable of dealing with anything other than fair and warmer. The powers that be...i.e., the MTA (Metropolitan Transit Authority) and drivers of cars and anybody else who's trying to get around greets everything like a major emergency...something that has never happened in the history of the world. So if it rains, you get all this doom and gloom about "The subways will flood!" No, actually, they won't. In forty years in New York, they never have. "Snow is coming! Everybody panic!" Um, it's winter. Snow tends to arrive. At any rate, I said the hell with it and took a taxi.

I got to the jury room around 20 to 9, had a cup of coffee and a brownie, and then they called us into the jury assembly room and said "Please sign in." After we had done this, the gal (Clerk of the Court, I think) announced, "The case has been settled out of court. You have discharged your jury duty. Thank you for serving."

Eh? Two days...one from 8:30 to 12:00 and one from 9:00 to 9:10? And I don't have to do it again for four years? I can live with this.

So I went to my decent Old Navy on 18th and 6th Avenue, and found my pants...one pair of black, one pair of khaki, and one pair in a nice black and white tweed. I'm not much of a fan of khaki pants, but some of the jobs I do require quasi-uniforms...as in wear black pants and a white shirt, or khaki pants and black t-shirt. So, a pair of khakis is kind of a necessity. This being New York, a black t-shirt...or anything black...is also a necessity.

On a related theme (clothing, children...we were talking about clothing), doing background work has an extremely boring effect on one's wardrobe. You see, my colors are black, red, and white. I decorate my various and sundry living spaces that way, I buy clothes in those colors...I mean, this is me. Now, when you get a call from a casting agency, unless it's a period show like Boardwalk Empire, they tell you what to wear/bring. This can get deeply annoying, because quite often they say something like wear one, bring three. Yeah, seriously. And you're shlepping three sets of clothes all over the damn place. But the FIRST thing they always say is, "No red, black or white." Naturally, it's because those colors are eyecatching, which is the LAST thing they want you to be if you're doing background. In that regard, according to me and every other woman on Boardwalk Empire, that show is a dream. Fall out of bed, throw on your jeans and t-shirt, catch location bus. You don't have to touch your hair, your face, your anything. It's all done for you when you get there. Admittedly, this requires you to catch a bus at 5 am, but think of all the time you saved by not having to think about anything!

This is why I agonized about buying that lipstick red dress for the wedding...because I can't wear it for background work. Not like I have the money or the space for two totally separate wardrobes. So now I find myself eying clothing in medium blue, or dark wine red or deeply boring beige...not colors I would choose if I had my druthers. And I cherish the remark of a gal at an open call a couple of years back at Central Casting who, when confronted with the bit of info about the black, red or white rule, said, "This is New York. Have you ever tried to buy anything that ISN'T black?"

Meanwhile, I have a ferocious hangover (yeah, good night at Sarah's bar celebrating my release from jury duty) which, in a deeply stupid move that I should have gotten over YEARS ago, I am attempting to cure with cold beer. Unfortunately, it seems to be working pretty well, or else I'm blitzed again. Which is fine because I'm going to bed...having successfully fought off the blandishments of my roommate Pete and my old pal Jiggers (who dropped by tonight) to come out to the bar. Luckily, the notion of attempting to find clothing is quite beyond me at the moment. I'm going to eat something or other and go the hell to bed. I just hope the dog and the cat don't take up ALL my space in it.

Love, Wendy

Good News/Bad News

2010-09-29T14:19:00.000-07:00

Well, it looks as if I live in my way too big house for a bit longer. I am going to KILL some of my neighbors...that would be the ones on the co-op board. You see, they, in their wisdom, decided that if I sold my house for $1.1, it would lower the property value of THEIR houses. So they rejected our nice buyers and told us to get $1.4 for the house.

Honestly. Nobody in their right mind would pay that for this house, lived in and falling to bits as it is. Not to mention the constantly erupting cat. So my trustee called me and laid out some complicated plan that I didn't understand a word of...and now I'm back in house limbo again. AARRRGGGH. And meanwhile I seem to have acquired a dog...I hasten to say that the dog is visiting, along with Pete, my current roommate (yes, of course, another friend of Sarah's). Luna is a sweet dog...a big puppy (six months old) of collie and Australian shepherd background. She gets in bed with me in the morning and tries assiduously to lick me to death. The cat isn't thrilled, but he and Luna are getting along and even do the occasional nose kiss.

Meanwhile I'm on jury duty. I went in on Monday in a pouring rainstorm. They let us go at noon and told us not to come back until we had called into their hotline after 5 pm tonight, which I've done, and now they want us back at 9 am tomorrow...when there is going to be not only a pouring rainstorm but 40 mile an hour winds. I'm so thrilled about this that I may vomit. The only bright spot is that the courts, in their infinite wisdom, have actually provided the prospective jurors with an indoor smoking room! I think I'll write them a letter of appreciation.

And the layoff from jury duty this week made me able to actually be here for the arrival of a treat I bought myself. Since my husband bought something from them YEARS ago, Omaha Beef has been chasing me around trying to get more business, and I finally succumbed to their blandishments. Really, it was an awfully good buy. For $70, including shipping, I got 4 sirloin steaks, 2 aged filet mignon steaks, 2 nice boneless porkchops, 2 of their very good sole filets stuffed with crabmeat and shrimp, 4 hamburgers, 4 big fat hotdogs...and a free gift consisting of a knife set, a cutting board, and 6 more hamburgers. That's about 24 meals for me at a cost of $3 each...oh, and there were 8 little cakes of potatoes au gratin, too. I consider this a damn good buy. Not to mention those nice knives, which I figure will cut things for at least a week. Being a complete cynic about free gifts, I have absolutely no doubt that the knives will fall apart the minute I try to sharpen them, but what the hell...they were free.

Meanwhile (remember I liquidated that little IRA), sdaedddds (that was the cat walking across the keyboard...say hello to the cat), I have been doing a bit of shopping.

Good Lord, shopping is annoying these days. I am a creature of habit because while I love to wander through stores and think about the odd (sometimes EXTREMELY odd) things people seem to be buying and presumably wearing, I actually BUY things as little as possible. I hate dressing rooms, and I hate standing in line. Therefore, I go to H&M, where I know exactly what sizes I wear, and to Old Navy, ditto. That way I can just grab what I want, pay for it and get the hell out.

Oy. All I wanted was some new turtlenecks and office-type slacks from Old Navy, and I had my eye on a dress and jacket combo at H&M. Well, it turned out that the Old Navy in Soho no longer sells office slacks OR turtlenecks. Which means that until I get uptown to the 34th Street store, I will have to continue wearing the old slacks which are stretched out and falling off my rear, and mending the old turtlenecks, which are falling apart. And on top of that, the outfit I wanted at H&M fit badly and looked awful on me. I did get a bronzy, silky dress at H&M which is very pretty...a sort of shirtwaist thing...and it was on sale for $30. It shouldn't be a total loss.

Meanwhile, I have returned my library books and gathered a whole new bunch, I have gone to the local Rite-Aid and stocked up on paper towels and toilet paper, and I have a house full of food. Unfortunately, I still have a house.

Love, Wendy

Wedding Weekend and Boardwalk Empire!

2010-09-21T14:37:00.000-07:00

Well, nothing of any great note happened last week - I had a day's work on a seminar, but other than that, it was a real snoozefest.

But then Sarah and I went off (way too early) on Saturday morning to the family wedding, and it was truly great fun. It was the wedding of a cousin and took place on the waterfront in Annapolis; you should have cousin Sarah and her Ben standing on the edge of the water, Sarah wearing her grandmother's wedding veil (and a lovely simple dress, of course - although I must say wearing the veil alone would certainly have been innovative), as the sailboats went by behind them...just lovely. And then we all ate and danced and caught up with each other...a perfect day.

We stayed with my brother- and sister-in-law, which is always fun...but the trip home was a disaster area. We always get the cheap Chinatown bus for excursions to either Boston or Washington (we have family in both) and nine days out of ten, it's fine...this time we hit the 10th day. What should have been a five hour trip turned into a six hour trip. We hit every single traffic jam available, to the extent that I began to suspect our driver of actually looking for them. I, of course, was going bonkers, because I happen to be mildly claustrophobic. I get myself together for the length of the trip and have no problem, but if it goes on too long, I begin to twitch.

And of course, these are marathon travels. Let it be said here and now that I am a pure, unadulterated city kid, and being in a moving form of transport for an entire two day weekend doesn't thrill me. And this weekend went like this:

Taxi from home to bus station
Bus
Washington Metro to end of Red Line
Car pickup (my sister-in-law Diane)

Then:

Car to wedding
Car from wedding

That was Saturday. On Sunday:

Car to Metro
Metro to bus station
Bus (for WAY too long)
Taxi home

So added to my discomfort at all those traffic jams, there was the fact that I was vaguely motion sick.

But it was a lovely wedding, and we got back in time for Boardwalk Empire, in which I was superb for the entire 12 seconds of my appearance.

And, Texas Beth, yes, there's a difference between doing a run of the mill thing like, say, a Law & Order or an Ugly Betty and doing something as big as Boardwalk. I can't exactly explain, but it's an excitement, a feeling that you're part of something fascinating. Hell, that's what kept us going during all those grueling shoots!

I'm quite pleased with myself today...yesterday I didn't even bother to get dressed, because I was exhausted from two days of traveling. Today, however, I got out of the house, talked myself out of two dresses and a pair of shoes (none of which was in the least necessary at the moment) and into Trader Joe's where I stocked up the icebox once again. It had become a takeout graveyard...I have two young friends of Sarah's staying with me at the moment, and they're not much into cooking, and I sure haven't been. But now my icebox looks grown up again.

Oh, and as to what I wore at the wedding...I actually went out and bought a dress. This was pure self indulgence; first of all, because I had two dresses I could easily have worn, and secondly because it's lipstick red and therefore unusable for background work. I decided I didn't care...it's a Calvin Klein sheath, sleeveless with a wide self belt, and anyway it was on sale for 60 bucks. I wore it with a black Pashmina, black slingback pumps, and a lovely black jet and freshwater pearl necklace. I looked wonderful. So there.

And tomorrow I've got another seminar, of the sort I hate most, where I not only have to keep track of all those eager attendees, but also sell products and keep track of all that stuff for 8 and a half hours. Bleaaah. But every little bit helps, right?

Love, Wendy

New Phone!

2010-09-13T17:52:00.000-07:00

In order to get myself a tad bit of cash to go on with while this damn fool house sale goes through, I closed out a baby IRA I had lying around, and I finally got myself a new phone.

This may sound like an extravagance for someone as broke as I am, but in fact, it isn't. The problem is that I often find myself in places where I can't get to a computer...i.e., on a set for 14 hours, doing one of those lousy seminars, etc, etc., and so forth. Since all my notices for film/TV work come via email, this means that I'll never know about them until I get home, at which point it's too late.

So I went out and got myself a Blackberry Torch. I got a good buy on it, because I was due for an upgrade...$300, with a $100 rebate. The only problem is that I haven't got the remotest notion of how to use the damn thing. One of the icons, for instances, is labeled "Social Feeds." I presume this has to do with things like Twitter, but what it suggests to my mind (which is admittedly fairly wonky) is a group of friendly werewolves settling to chat over a nice meal of human. I also have something called Visual Voice Mail. I haven't the remotest notion what Visual Voice Mail means.

I sat down to read the manual, and discovered this this thing doesn't COME with a manual. You have to go to the website for AT&T tutorials. Well, I will. Tomorrow. I just hope to God nobody calls me until after I've done this, because I'm not at all sure I know how to even answer this thing.

Oh, brave new world, that has such technology in it!

Love, Wendy

Two In A Night!

2010-09-11T20:59:00.000-07:00

Well, there wasn't actually a way that I could think of to tack the following remarks onto the previous remarks about scams, so I decided to do a new entry.

Right now, I am planning to shoot my own child. You see, we are embarking on a trip to Annapolis, Maryland next weekend for a family wedding, and Sarah has unfortunately inherited her father's hysterically casual attitude toward travel.

Now, I was not originally invited to this wedding, Sarah having been invited by the bride, who is her age (and her cousin), but she did get a "plus one" invitation because at the time they were sent out, she was still attached to her now ex-boyfriend. Since he's no longer in the picture, I got the extra seat at the party.

However, I have these terribly old-fashioned notions about getting places on time and being properly dressed. Since Sarah got the invitation, and has it "somewhere at home" (having been trying to find the floor of her room here for 26 years, I deeply distrust "somewhere at home"), I haven't laid eyes on it. This makes me twitch. I know we're staying with my brother-in-law, which is fine. But what I don't know is:

What time is the wedding? I.e., do we have to get there the night before for a 10 A.M. ceremony?

Where, and of what sort, is the reception? This is entirely germane because family wedding receptions have, in the past, been known to involve softball games and swimming in a creek. I would deeply prefer NOT to be stuck on the sidelines in my nice elderly silk dress and heels whilst the gang is lolling at ease, having been able to change out of grownup wedding clothes into jeans.

And of course, Sarah shares her father's casual attitude toward train, bus, plane and camel times...after a couple of years of traveling with Matthew, I learned to simply hide the tickets and announce that the flight was two hours before its actual departure because he couldn't see why we might need to get to an airport more than 10 minutes before departure time. This makes me twitch rather badly and need several drinks on the plane, which in turn gives me a terrible headache on landing.

I have taken the high road here...I have emailed the bride's father for some hard information...this being enormously easier than bugging Sarah, who snaps at me and tells me everything will be fine.

Anyway, we're going to have a lovely time.

Love, Wendy

Query

2010-09-11T20:49:00.003-07:00

I have come to the conclusion that we as a nation, and I believe, the whole rest of the Western world, have gotten terminally stupid.

I base this on the fact that every time I open my junk mail I find about six notices purporting to be from various banks that announce problems with my account. None of these notices come from my actual bank, you understand...well, they don't in fact come from ANYBODY'S actual bank since they're all scams. And people all over the world fall for them and, sheeplike, calmly fill in their bank account numbers, addresses, phone numbers, social security numbers, etc.

And here is where the stupidity comes in. Can you honestly tell me that YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU BANK? Yes, I know, I'm shouting, but honestly. I have a checkbook. I have bank statements. I have an online link to my bank account. And I know good and goddamn well that I don't have an account at Bank of America, or HSBC, or TD Bank, or any of the other bank names that the scammers use.

Really. How terminally stupid can you get?

Love, Wendy

A Blog About Very Little

2010-09-09T20:18:00.003-07:00

Well, I haven't been doing anything of any note whatsoever, except for that idiot job calling preschools last Tuesday, which earned me a huge 38 bucks (which won't turn up for at least a week and a half). I'm so deeply (not) excited about this.

However, I have just arranged for a large infusion of cash, so I am feeling quite chuffed...mainly because the exchequer has gotten so low that my entire personal fortune now stands at 29 dollars. This is not a noticeably useful sum of money. It will buy me exactly two packs of cigarettes and some cat food. Like I said not useful (except, of course for the cigarettes and cat food).

Cigarettes and cat food are the two main points of my budget, of course, because without a calming cigarette, I cannot possibly deal with my madly aggressive cat, who gives me no peace unless he is copiously fed. And of course, without peace, I need a cigarette to calm my nerves.

In other news, I find that the lunatic who was going to burn the Quran has finally bowed to public opinion and dropped the idea. I'm sorry, but has this country finally gone completely insane?

I keep hearing about the horrible things the Muslims have done. Has NO ONE ever in their lives studied history? We Americans have perpetrated such ghastly things upon other people, and there doesn't seem to be a single voice of reason that remembers them. Stealing Indian reservations, and introducing firewater. Dragging smallpox around and decimating whole populations. Japanese internment camps in World War II. We took an entire race of people, some of whom were American citizens, born and raised here, yanked them out of their homes and jobs, and stuck them in prison camps. The Unabomber. How on earth was his crime any different from the death at the World Trade Center? And a lot of the people he killed were children at day care. Did we then condemn all Christians? What the hell, how about Jim Jones and the Koolaid (although I will give you the fact that they went willingly...if idiotically). And the Westboro Baptist Church...I think that's their name...the ones who picket soldiers' funerals announcing that the death of someone's 18 year son in battle is because of homosexuality? How in the HELL can we set ourselves up as moral arbiters when we completely ignore our OWN damn sins?

Please, someone, go and tell the majority of Muslims...and all of the ones I have met were perfectly nice normal people, and I've met many over my years of life...that not all Americans are shrieking loons. Because we're beginning to look that way.

And for further reading, may I recommend Fahrenheit 451?

Love, Wendy

Just For Silliness

2010-09-04T19:53:00.000-07:00

Because I just answered a Facebook remark from a friend of 50 years, it occurred to me that a LOT of you who read this blog have never actually seen anything I've done.

Well, aren't you about to be surprised. It just so happens that there are two clips of me on good old You Tube. Since my child has STILL not taught me how to do a link, you'll just have to hunt, but it's fairly easy. One of them is a goofy damn thing that was shot as (according to its director) a Comedy Central pilot...it's called Jihad Joe, and you look up Jihad Joe, Part II. I am the elderly lady at the airport.

The other one was a student project, and you find that under Haggis-on-Whey...its title being "Giraffes? Giraffes!" It amused me to do...and when you see it, you will notice that you (quite awkwardly) never see my mouth. This is because it was originally intended as a voice over and recorded as such...then the gal decided I should be on camera.

Anyway, see if you can find this stuff.

Love, Wendy

WOO-HOO

2010-09-04T19:11:00.000-07:00

No, I am not, at my advanced age, indulging in owl calls. I went out today to deliver some money to my kid, because I found it in her jeans which were discarded on her bedroom floor. Now, you have to understand that when I clean her room (which is invariably when her grandmother is coming to visit at Christmas...yeah, once a year, whether it needs it or not), I consider any change I find on the floor is my salary. Ditto the off hand dollar bill that goes through the wash. However, this time the silly twit left 40 odd bucks in her pocket! Well, you know, that would be stealing.

So off I trotted to her bar to return the money to her, and on the way, I borrowed five bucks to buy my favorite magazine forever, which is called Victoria, and which espouses things like antique silver napkin rings and having your own conservatory where you grow exotic orchids. Don't ask...just google Victoria Magazine. I love the thing with a passion.

At any rate, while I was in the magazine store, I picked up the copy of New York magazine and riffled through to find this picture of me, which I thought would be the publicity shot of me behind Steve Buscemi...and lo and behold, it was a candid shot of me in the LAST episode in my horrible khaki Lesbian on the Boardwalk outfit! I'm still wearing an awful hat, and I have a neck tendon standing out all over the place, but damn, there I am, in all my glory.

So I'm quite thrilled...except for that damn neck.

Love, Wendy

Welcome to Godless Greenwich Village

2010-09-04T08:17:00.000-07:00

I don't know why, but we seem to have an awful lot of proselytizers floating around the West Village. Yesterday I was interrupted in my terribly important work (that would be screwing around on the computer and sort of thinking about cleaning something) by two ladies from Jehovah's Witnesses, and this morning the Mormons were at my door. Sheesh.

So, in answer to you, primarily, Empress, and anybody else who's interested, yes, guys, I am prominently featured in the first episode of Boardwalk Empire. There is a scene which features Steve Buscemi giving a speech to the worthy ladies of Atlantic City on the eve of Prohibition, and there I am, larger than life, sitting on the platform with him. I am sitting in the last chair on the left as you look at your TV screen. I'm wearing a ghastly little fur piece...one of those horrible things that's the entire poor fox biting its own tail, which, I may add, smelled awful. And of course, a hat. That was a DAMN long day. Mr. Scorsese himself directed the first episode, and we sat on that platform for 15 solid hours...with a break for lunch and occasional visits to the john (not as easy as one would think, considering all those layers of costume and the damn corset). That was the day when one of my platform cohorts and I discovered that yes, you CAN sleep with your eyes open.

September 19th, guys! Mark your calendars! And you may also be able to spot me in the mock funeral for alcohol on the Boardwalk in that same episode...

Love, Wendy

So Much for THAT Hurricane

2010-09-03T16:53:00.000-07:00

Once again Manhattan is doing its neat little trick. All around us there's high surf, and rain, and wind, and flights canceled (also the Coney Island fireworks tonight, I'm told via Facebook by my child)...and in Manhattan? Didn't even rain.What's that Stephen King book, The Dome or something? Yeah, like that. Weird.

I've been clearing out old magazines, and I ran across something that I think should be in the collection of that annoying Russian guy on the cable commercial...you know, the one with the miniature giraffe. This is from Food and Wine's Trendspotting page in the September issue. You can now buy a set of corn picks...you know, those things you stick in the end of your corncob to pick it up...which are gold plated and cost $80 for a set of eight. Personally, I should think if you can afford $80 for a set of corn holders, you really ought to have enough servants to hold your corn for you.

Secondly, even though I'm pretty diffident about throwing out my recipes, what with Saint Tiger Lily channeling Thomas Keller all the time and whatnot, I did something twice this week that I just love, which is fried tomatoes. No, not green ones, and not cornmeal. Just slice up a nice firm ripe plum tomato (for one), dip it in a beaten egg, then in flour with salt and pepper in it, and fry it up in a pan with some olive oil and butter. You can play with these to your heart's delight, of course...squeeze some lemon over them when they're done, top them with a little minced fresh tarragon or basil, throw in a little garlic when you cook them...but they're just basically good to eat, and being plum tomatoes, they hold their shape nicely as you turn them. A handy little quick side dish is always useful.

Meanwhile, I've done two of the play readings with the ambiguous Const, who turns out to be a woman who is going to drive me nuts because she's got the mind of a grasshopper in a very intellectual way. She evidently believes, along with Robert Louis Stevenson, that "The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings." Unfortunately, this takes the form of us barely getting to read more than 10 pages of script per hour and a half get-together, because by the time Const has shown us her latest newspaper clippings, read to us from the book(s) she has with her, thinks it would be a great idea if Richard and I read for a couple of pages in a completely different play...yes, well. Like I said, mind like a grasshopper. She also has a habit of calling one between readings to see how one feels about the role. Um, lady, I'm reading it for the hell of it and to keep my hand in. What difference does it make? Yes, it's a lovely role. But until you decide to do an actual presentation of this play with, you know, an audience and all that good stuff, I'm damned if I'm going to spend all that much time plumbing the depths of the role.

Meanwhile I trotted off to Brooklyn last Sunday to see my friend Michael in The Devils, a play I haven't thought about in years. I vaguely recall that someone I knew did it back in the '60s. It's an interesting play, taken from an actual case of a witch hunt in, I think, the 1700's, but don't quote me on that. Aldous Huxley wrote a book on it called the Devils of Loudon which I read about a hundred years ago. It turns on a corrupt priest and the hierarchy of priests hunting him down...and said hierarchy decides that a nearby convent is possessed of the Devil while they're at it and drives everyone nuts, while blaming the corrupt priest (and the Devil, of course). It was, on the whole, a very good production, except for the first act, during which I was reminded of a quote by Jean Kerr, wife of Walter Kerr, who was a brilliant reviewer for the NYTimes. She said she had been to a play where the first act was so long that she considered she had given up smoking, and spent most of intermission wondering whether she should start again. The first act of The Devils is EXACTLY like that. It doesn't need cutting, it needs slashing...a machete might come in handy.

And Michael and I had a lovely two hour lunch yesterday of my absolutely favorite variety...yapping incessantly about theatre, since he's of my vintage and has been around nearly as long as I have in the business. Boy, that was fun!

Meanwhile my crazy temp lady called for the first time in ages and I have a job for Tuesday calling preschools for a rich Park Avenue lady. I did a day of this last year, and it's a short, sweet thing. Seems that the private preschools have a system where you have to call them at a certain time to get your kid on the list (or some damn thing), so these wealthy gals hire temps to make the phone calls...this because the lines at the schools are almost always busy and you have to keep dialing them over and over and over again. Four or five of us sit around a table with our cell phones dialing repeatedly...as I say, a soft job, even if you do come out with somewhat of a sore ear.

But I need the money (what else is new, gang?) and movies aren't lining up for my services. Although I hear that might change...I've just been informed that a publicity still of me right behind Steve Buscemi is all over the news magazines! I wouldn't have known this (since I don't buy news magazines) except for my next door neighbors telling me (and they're saving the mags for me, too). Who knows whether this might lead to more work...but a girl can dream, can't she?

And on the 18th I'm off to a family wedding in Annapolis! Pretty amazing for a gal with not a cent to her name, right? Admittedly I'm wearing a dress that must be upwards of 20 years old, but it's in fine shape and still looks good and doesn't scream "Hi! Look what Wendy found among the moths in the closet!" And it's not even covered in cat shit. Hey, you take what you can get when it comes to good omens, right?

Love, Wendy

Eh?

2010-08-26T18:58:00.001-07:00

Two men were taken off a plane in Chicago and charged with suspected terrorism...the reason being that one of them was carrying seven thousand dollars and a cell phone taped to a Pepto-Bismol bottle.

The seven thousand dollars is easily understandable. I mean, have you flown recently? By the time you get charged for your overweight luggage (anything over 10 ounces), the use of an overhead bin, food, water, the carryon you have under your seat, use of the toilet, and, quite possibly, the color of your shoes...well, you actually do need that seven thousand bucks just to get where you're going.

Now the cell phone taped to the Pepto-Bismol bottle is a bit more problematic. One could give the gent the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he has terrible diarrhea (look! I can spell diarrhea!) and feels that he needs his cell phone right there so he can call his doctor while he swigs.

Mainly, I think we're dealing with idiots. I will certainly concede the point that perhaps someone deeply clever would adopt this pose to lull one's suspicions, but really...a cell phone taped to a bottle of Pepto-Bismol? Right there on board with him? I think the terrorists are running out of recruits. They must be getting a little suspicious about that 72 virgins bit, and the recruiters are really scraping the bottom of the barrel now.

However, far be it from me to complain about safety on planes. The food I'll complain about (or the lack/price thereof), but safety, never.

Love, Wendy

OUTRAGE

2010-08-25T19:24:00.000-07:00

I am no longer sure I want to be an American.

I have spent my whole life being proud to be an American, because I am far closer to my immigrant forbears than most people my age are. My father was a naturalized citizen from England, my grandmother (on my mother's side) was a naturalized citizen from Ireland. My grandfather on Mother's side was only second generation in this country.

But I am now completely ashamed of my own people.

I just came home from a lovely evening at Sarah's bar to find on my local news site the story of a 21 one year old man who got into a taxi early this evening, asked the driver whether he was a Muslim, and upon hearing an affirmative reply, slashed the man with a knife.

I cannot live with this kind of behavior. This country was founded BECAUSE of religious freedom, and FOR religious freedom. And yes, I was downtown on September 11th, and yes, I had to walk home, and yes, I was covered in ash and grit and, quite probably bits of human beings. For that matter, I was also in Grant Park in Chicago in 1968, dragging bleeding reporter friends out to take them to the first aid station my roommate and I had set up in our apartment. I have (quite by an accident of birth) been basically in the middle of a fair number of monumental occurrences in our history between 1945, the year of my birth, and now.

But I have NEVER seen anything like this. This snarling, blind, uninformed, slavering pack behavior. This is more frightening than anything ever in my life. I am terrified of my own countrymen.

What on earth has happened here? Unfortunately, I do understand...much more than thoroughly...that one of the firelighters was our election of a black president. This was the thing, I think, that started the dogs howling. There are a lot of people who simply cannot stand the notion of a black Kennedy, which is, of course, what Obama is. The parallels are inescapable. This young handsome man, with his handsome wife and his two adorable daughters...this is the stuff of every commercial everywhere. Except...THEY'RE NIGGGERS! Yeah. Made you look, didn't I?

I'm sorry. Not like it's a term I would ever use. But that's the truth as it is told in way too much of the United States at the moment. There are a LOT of people who think exactly and precisely that.

And I think somehow that when this country did the right thing, the proper thing, that what happened is we said, "Cry havoc! And unleash the hogs of war!" Huh. The quote is, of course, unleash the dogs of war. That was a typo. But perhaps my fingers knew more than I did.

Please. I am reminded of the title of a book by Alan Paton (it's actually about apartheid in South Africa)...Cry, The Beloved Country.

Oh, my America, my new found land...what has happened to your brave flags and your smiling democracy?

Love (and please let us find it again), Wendy

Nothing Doing

2010-08-24T17:01:00.000-07:00

Really, I know I should keep up with this blog better, but frankly, do you really want to hear that I took a nap and read a book?

The only thing I've done was go to a party for Sarah's birthday at our friend Al's last Saturday, which was just great - he and his wife have a roof, so a whole bunch of us of all generations (my favorite kind of party) got out there and partied hearty and ate and drank up a storm. It was great. And I even got to my own bed. No, no, I don't usually go home with random people or pass out at my hosts' place - it's just when I'm well and truly blitzed I have this awful tendency to curl up under the kitchen table.

Honestly, there's a perfectly good reason for this. Oh, all right - I think it's a good reason. It's that damn spiral iron staircase of mine. If I'm altogether out of it, I have a deep seated belief that I'm not going to be able to make those stairs, so I gently slide out of the kitchen chair onto the floor and have a nap until I'm ready/able to navigate. This makes perfect sense to me, but it looks a little odd. However, all was well...totally smashed, yes, but incapable, no.

Today, however, I got an interesting phone call. Someone named Const called me out of the blue to day that Richard, who was in my bipolar show with me, had recommended me to do a reading with them on Thursday. I think this was nice, and I'm definitely going to do it...the play is A Delicate Balance, and I love Edward Albee...and it also has another of my cohorts from my play, nice Maggie. I must say I'm slightly wary of the group, though. It seems to be very experimental, which isn't much to my taste, and Const was going on about exploring the vocals of the play, and I have no idea what that means. Well, how would you DO a play without a certain amount of vocal exploration? Unless, of course, you happen to be Marcel Marceau. Luckily this is a one-time only (so far) reading, deep in the bowels of the old B. Altman building (which is now a business library) with no audience. So what the hell? I might as well check it out and get a little workout.

Parenthetically, I'm rather curious about Const...I went to the web site and discovered that I can't tell exactly what sex Const is (even with a picture - it could be Constance or Constantine), and the voice gave me no particular clue. It's not much of a factor in anything, because who cares, but there seems to be an intentional ambiguity which is interesting. I do know I'm reading a woman's role, so evidently whatever the group is sticks to that convention at any rate.

Meanwhile, the house now has a down payment in escrow, and I think I may be about to apartment hunt! This is deeply exciting...I have my mind full of decorating ideas and an itch to throw more things out, which is definitely a good thing, as Martha Stewart would say.

Now I'm going to watch TV, eat something, and go to bed, because tomorrow I have to go buy a copy of this play.

I will most certainly report on the reading...and try to stay off the kitchen floor.

Love, Wendy

Oh, Good Heavens

2010-08-17T08:01:00.000-07:00

So there I was, wandering around the Amazon.com site because when I get this house sold, I really, REALLY need a new sewing machine, and I decided to take a look and see what new cookbooks were out.

I never got past one of the first ones on the list: The Joy of Hospitality: Fun Ideas for Evangelistic Entertaining.

Does that seem like a contradiction in terms to anyone but me?

Love, Wendy

Thunderstorm!

2010-08-16T16:55:00.000-07:00

We finally got an actual thunderstorm! I'm so thrilled. I sat out on the balcony and watched the whole thing and listened to all that lovely thunder. Of course, it's now a total steam bath outside, but, given this summer, what else is new?

I went and did my open call, which was predictably dull and cost me at least a million new split ends what with the teasing and spraying of my poor hair. But I got to say hi to a couple of my Boardwalk pals and get a new picture in Grant Wilfley's files, so it shouldn't be a total loss.

And finally, as promised a while back here, I will tell you about my new favorite book. It's called Entertaining Is Fun! by Dorothy Draper, who was one of the great American interior designers of the 1930's and 1940's. The book was originally published in 1941 and was re-issued, completely without any kind of editing, in 2005 (I think).

You MUST read this book. I haven't had this much fun in years. Just opening it at random, I come across Miss Draper's description of a Tyrolean party, where all the men came in liederhosen (those little leather shorts) and all the ladies in dirndls. There was, among other delights, a procession by candlelight from the "cocktail room" to the dining room, and Miss Draper had managed to find and hire "an amateur Austrian band consisting of Austrian workmen and shopkeepers", who brought their wives or girlfriends with them and demonstrated "some of their gay,elaborate folk dances for us." They even allowed the guests to do some of the simple ones, which I think was sweet of them. Well, think about it. When you're doing the time honored traditional dances of your homeland, it's really awfully nice of you to let a bunch of clodhopping New York socialites join in. Miss Draper was also in costume, of course - "I had a headdress of cornflowers with silver and great long diamond peasant earrings..." Um, what? Personally, I haven't seen a lot of peasants wearing long diamond earrings, but, you know, maybe things were different in 1941. My favorite piece of this report is a line which reads: "Elsa Maxwell, I remember, came dressed like a man, in leather shorts and an embroidered white shirt and flowered suspenders." This is just sort of casually tossed off..

I could go on and on about this book, because I am hysterically in love with it, but I must leave you with two of her more inspired flights of fancy, the first of which is that in her lists of what you must have for entertaining (which are a trip and a half), she includes "A pair of candelabra. To stand on the piano or the buffet when you entertain." Of course.

But the best thing in the book is one of her descriptions of someone making do with what they have. To give her all credit, actually all of the suggestions in her book are just as workable now as they were then, regarding things like, if you don't enjoy your party, no one else will; do the best you can with what you've got; and so forth. However, she tells the story of a young bride in the damnedest circumstances I ever heard of.

Seems this young lady started her marriage in a freight car drawn up at a siding in the wildest part of Idaho. I hasten to add that this was because her husband was a railway engineer who had to be on site to do whatever it was he did, and her only alternative was to live alone in a hotel 100 miles away and see him rarely.

Well, you'll just have to read the book, but "Ultimately (and in remarkably short time, too), the freight car was transformed into what closely resembled a cottage in the Bavarian Alps."

By the way, Dorothy Draper was truly one of the American greats, and the next time you think of decorating with a red rug and lavender walls, you may bow to her, since it was she who shook Americans out of the hideous Victorianisms and all beige homes that were still persisting in her time...her interiors were GORGEOUS. And there is still a Dorothy Draper Inc. decorating company, now run by Carleton Varney. So there.

But the book is a HUGE treat.

Love, Wendy

Old Friends

2010-08-15T18:29:00.000-07:00

Dinner tonight with my old pals from Chicago; lovely as always.

And oh, my God, I might actually have this joint sold! We're on buyers number three at the moment, and the appraiser is actually coming on Tuesday, which means we just might be on our way...which would be lovely, since my entire personal fortune at the moment stands at 1.47 in the bank and 16 cents in my purse. Thank God the gals always insist on buying my meal...

And I would like to make some deeply personal and highly unprintable remarks about the damn subway which, in its wisdom, decided NOT to go to Christopher Street tonight, but to go directly from 14th Street to Chambers, thus leaving me a much longer walk home. This wouldn't normally be a problem, but A. it's raining (for which thank God) and B. I had three beers with dinner. Growl. (No, no, I didn't go to Chambers Street, but I had to get off at 14th, which adds six blocks to my walk home.)

Now I have many other things to talk about, but I'm leaving them for tomorrow evening, because right now I have to go and drench my hair with setting lotion and put it up in big rollers and pin curls. This is not something I'm doing purely out of boredom (I can imagine doing, and in fact have done, many terribly odd things out of boredom...both of my marriages, for instance...but never anything involving rollers and pin curl clips). No, it's because Grant Wilfley (you remember, my usual casting agency) has an open call tomorrow for, among other things, 1960's secretaries for Men in Black III. I have a wonderful '60's style pinstriped black sheath dress, I have the obligatory pearls that go with it, and I have the four inch spike heels...all I need to do in the morning (after the rollers, etc.) is tease the head out of all recognition and beehive myself to death, add a LOT of black eyeliner and red lipstick, and I'm good to go. Luckily I'm used to some odd looks on the subway...and anyway, this being New York, nobody really pays much attention. Hey, with any luck, they'll think I'm Dita Von Teese!

Love, Wendy

Spangles and Sequins and Feathers, Oh, My!

2010-08-04T21:53:00.000-07:00

I do love La Cage Aux Folles. I've followed it since its inception as a French movie with subtitles, which I saw first run at the Paris Theatre here in NY, then the original stage show, then the American film version (The Birdcage) and now this pared down version, and I've loved every single one of them.

This version has half the cast of the Broadway original, which doesn't make a damn bit of difference to it...it came from London, the Donmar Warehouse, I think, but don't quote me...and the sets are pared down like the cast, but it does very nicely. And it's still got all its glitz and silliness. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I mean, face it...when a bunch of drag queens swoop out on stage in silver sequins carrying enormous feather fans and wearing silver roller skates, what's not to like?

And it had an added attraction which I thought was just marvelous...when you get to the theatre, as you're milling around on the sidewalk outside, there is a seven foot drag queen in a black cocktail dress acting as greeter and mixing with the crowds. This is just wonderful. The seven foot height comes in because between the fact that the lady in question looks to be about six feet to start with, and the hair and the spike heeled platforms...seven feet, easy. Anyway, it's a wonderful bit, which sort of prepares the audience for what's inside.

We ate at Smith's where the food is fine but the service is bizarre...I ordered a Reuben sandwich on rye with onion rings and received a Reuben sandwich on white with fries. I was going to go with it, but Sarah insisted on bringing this to the waiter's attention. He promptly took my WHOLE plate and disappeared for 15 minutes, eventually returning with some really good onion rings and returning my sandwich...but you know, he could have brought a plate of rings while I ate more of the sandwich. However, $41 for two including tip and drinks for a pre-theatre meal in midtown is nothing to be sneezed at.

And there is actually news on the house front. Our original buyers can't get the mortgage, and neither can the second set, so we evidently got the THIRD set of buyers to sign a contract, and now we cross our fingers. Seems like they're the ones Richard the real estate person thought would be best anyway. The offer is a little less money, but still over a million. Given that my personal fortune now stands at 34 bucks in the bank and about 40 in my wallet, I'm not going to quibble over the little things.

To bed. I never got to the cleaning today because...well, I just didn't. So sue me. But tomorrow I don't have to get dressed or anything, and I can scrub my little heart out. Maybe.

Love, Wendy

Killing Time

2010-08-03T17:05:00.000-07:00

Yes, well, it's Tuesday, which means Rescue Me, but that's not on until 10 pm, and it's now only 8:05 pm. There are several things I could profitably be doing, but since most of them revolve around things like getting down on my hands and knees with a scrub brush...yeah. No. That sort of thing is for the daylight hours. I clean at night ONLY if someone is arriving from an airport or something at 6 am.

The damn house is STILL on hold...I wish to hell my buyers would either get the damn mortgage or give up on it.

Sarah and I are going to see La Cage Aux Folles tomorrow...yay! And thank you, Vicky. I don't know where we're going to eat beforehand...neither of us can afford Tout Va Bien, damn it, so I suppose it'll be Chinese at Ollie's or burgers at Smith's. Actually, I like Smith's...since our favorite place (the name of which I can't remember at the moment) for cheap before theatre meals closed, Smith's is about it. The place was a stagehand's bar on 8th Avenue, and had really, really good scallops wrapped in bacon, which I just loved. Oh, well.

Then one of my temp agencies called, and I have an actual job for 3 days next week, which I am probably going to hate, but I need the money...it's one of the seminar things. I think I've worked it before, or something like it. This is the one where I float here and there, helping out with this and that...registration, floor assistance (although what a floor would need assistance for, I do NOT know). I remember (presuming it is the same one) that last year one of my jobs was making sure no one but seminar attendees snuck into the buffet lunch. Well, it's an extra 200 bucks or so that I wouldn't have otherwise, so what the hell. Also, it's actually convenient to get to - 6th Avenue and 53rd. And with any luck, they'll feed me...

I'm also submitting for every movie/TV thing that comes down the pike, but so far no luck there. But, as I have a house full of food, that's not quite such a worry.

And tomorrow I shall leap out of bed rejoicing, looking forward to a day with my scrub brush! Doesn't that sound exciting? No, I didn't think so either...but at least I get to eat out and go to the theatre.

Love, Wendy

You Must Remember This

2010-07-29T18:45:00.000-07:00

I was actually going to watch a truly terrible movie tonight...something or other from 1956 starring Tuesday Weld, with Alan Freed, entitled Rock, Rock, Rock, Rock...but then I read the description more closely and realized that it didn't contain the actual 1956 rock & roll I was hoping for, so the hell with it.

So, after another nicely productive day (there is now enough food in my house - including the ham - to feed a small army), I just ate something deeply silly (oh, all right...it was Pizza Rolls with pepperoni) for which I had a sudden yen. Hey...some of us just can't be all that nice and organic and healthful and like that ALL the time. The system needs an occasional infusion of total junk. I mean, really. How else could you really appreciate those good foods there? It's kind of like treating yourself to a real badass rotten boyfriend every now and then. You appreciate the good ones so much more.

Anyway, so I spent the evening wandering around through YouTube, which, when I'm really bored, is a perfectly wonderful way to waste a whole lot of time. I ran across some absolute treasures, such as Ethel Merman singing There's No Business Like Show Business with the Muppets, and then I went to check my news sites (newspaperman's granddaughter here...I am a newshound), and discovered on CNN a link to ew.com - you know, Entertainment Weekly.

It was a slide show of classic movies that various viewers had absolutely hated, and it was quite interesting. Citizen Kane, for instance. I am one of those who never bought into the Citizen Kane thing; it's just not a movie I particularly care for. And the comment from a viewer was EXACTLY what I've always thought about...said viewer remarked that "I've known what Rosebud is since I was six." Precisely. Now The Third Man...wow. I can watch that forever.

I also agreed completely with the haters of 2001. I have never been so bored in my life. Just hated the thing. And Love Story. I'm sorry. I made the terrible mistake of reading the Mad Magazine parody of Love Story before seeing the movie, with the predictable result that the actual movie gave me the giggles. Sample from Mad: "She's dying from movie disease. That's where you get more beautiful the closer you get to death." You see the problem. And Dr. Zhivago. That movie gave me the worst cricked neck EVER. This is because I saw it in London, and in those days the first few rows of the movie theatre were a smoking section...and I ended up in the front row. Ouch. And The Exorcist was forever ruined for me because Linda Blair actually did a sequel to it called Repossessed, with Leslie Nielson, which is the funniest thing ever (that Linda Blair is a really good sport)...and there went any hope of ever taking the original seriously. Do find Repossessed...it's hilarious. And I do understand why some people truly hate Sound of Music, but I did the show on stage quite a lot (the nuns' music needs second contraltos, of which I am one, so I kept getting cast in it) and so am rather nostalgic about it. (Don't ever go near me when I'm watching it, because I insist on singing along.)

But there are some movies that are absolutely detested that just flummox me. (Isn't flummox a wonderful word? You can just sort of see the confusion...) The Wizard of Oz? Good heavens. I can so clearly remember seeing that for the first time probably around the very early '50s, and being absolutely gobsmacked at the fact that when Dorothy was in Kansas, where everything was flat and gray, the movie was black and white, and then when she lands in Oz, it bursts into color. That was the most exciting thing I'd ever seen. And there are people who hate An Affair
To Remember. Now, I'm sorry, but that's just terrible. I distinctly remember seeing that at the Esquire Theatre on Oak Street in Chicago, across the street from my father's antique shop, and oh, my God, I was a wreck. (Hey, Anonymous, weren't you with me? I think you were.) I still can't watch the thing without Kleenex. I can thoroughly understand that it's not exactly a man's movie, but come on...it's the most romantic movie EVER. (Yeah, and I love Sleepless in Seattle, too...the first time I saw it I was jumping up and down at the end, just WILLING for them not to miss each other on the Empire State Building.)

And Singin' in the Rain. WHAT? Hating Singin' in the Rain is like stomping on puppies. People, it's GENE KELLY. Sheesh. And Breakfast at Tiffany's. Oh, my God, the end in the rain, when she finds Cat...excuse me, more Kleenex.

All of which goes to show that A. there's no accounting for taste, and B. I need to get out more and stop screwing around on the computer.

Love, Wendy

The Late Show

2010-07-28T19:16:00.000-07:00

I think I've mentioned here before that I tend not to go to the movies. This is primarily because, I think, nobody ever ASKS me to go to the movies, which in turn is because there aren't a lot of current movies that interest me. Ergo, people have gotten out of the habit of bothering to ask...I guess. Except of course for Harry Potter, and Sarah and I and a bunch of people always go to the midnight showing.

This is the reason why I never caught up with Tropic Thunder until tonight...and I didn't know what I'd been missing. Good Lord, that was fun. I particularly loved the opening, with the fake coming attractions, even if it did take me a minute or so to catch up with what was going on. But what a wonderfully silly piece of work. Definitely my kind of movie. And the absolute best was Tom Cruise, of all people...I didn't even realize it was him (he?) until the credits. I don't much care for him, but what a wonderful bit. Now I have to catch up with Don't Mess With The Zohan, which has always sounded like the kind of nuttiness I like, and Zoolander, for the same reason. Ah, the pleasures of cable.

But really, I'm quite sure I'll watch a lot more television when I (eventually) move and everything is on one floor. This really does sound like the worst kind of laziness, but honestly, think about it. Due to the layout of my house, the TV is in the den. The powder room is in the kitchen. This means that to watch TV, I go down the few stairs from the kitchen, then down the few stairs to the den. And I'm carrying my beer/diet soda/water (whatever I've chosen to drink that night) and my cigarettes, and my phone. If I have to go to the john during the show, it's back up those two little flights of stairs and back down again...and if (as tonight) I'm watching something I've never seen before, how the hell do I know what I might miss? It's definitely a nuisance.

I feel quite accomplished today. I finally achieved some money...Social Security and unemployment (such as it is). It's mostly gone now, but I got a lot done. I paid Con Ed, cable, and my telephone; I picked up prescriptions and stocked up on toilet paper and paper towels for at least the next month, got kitty litter, and then I cleaned the whole downstairs bathroom. I even stopped at Gourmet Garage and bought myself a decent dinner; lovely sirloin steak and potatoes (well, potato...how many can one girl eat?).

Tomorrow, rain or no, I'm off to 14th Street to blitz my way through the Associated supermarket and cram my house with food for a month. If you have never lived with an apartment sized icebox (damn...I mean refrigerator), you cannot possibly understand, you privileged character, what it means to have my glorious side by side machine with all that freezer space, as opposed to a "freezer compartment" that held one ice cube tray and one box of frozen peas...tops. I'm actually going to bake a small ham for myself, because I love ham with an unholy passion, and there are SO many ways to use up leftovers. Also, there are few nicer hot weather meals than cold sliced ham with chutney, some buttery corn on the cob, and a lovely sliced ripe tomato with vinaigrette and a little shredded basil on top...and there you have it, children...Mother's recipe of the day. Given cooking the corn in the microwave (which takes abut two minutes), there's also not an easier meal in the world.

I have never understood why people don't use their microwaves more. They are God's gift to almost any vegetable. Artichokes in ten minutes. Asparagus at exactly the perfect point. Corn on the cob in two minutes, again at the perfect point. Softening butter to make it easier to cream with sugar for cookies. Or to mix with confectioner's sugar and brandy for hard sauce. Melting butter with minced garlic for REALLY great garlic bread. As I have said before on this subject, get a copy of Barbara Kafka's Microwave Gourmet and go to town.

Oh, and does anyone want a leaky cat? I swear to God I'm going to KILL this one. After I had cleaned the entire downstairs bathroom, washed the floor, toilet, sink, changed the cat litter, et cetera, et cetera, and so forth (just for you, Anonymous), the goddamn animal calmly walked over and shat on the plastic bag containing the old cat litter, and the floor around it. Precisely two feet away from his fresh, pristine litter box. I wish I could charitably say, well, he's old, but really...this is beginning to seem punitive. Particularly after he actually walked over the other morning and SHAT ON MY HAND. I am not kidding. I was reading the paper and had just removed him from the page I was reading, and he jumped back on the table and SHAT ON MY HAND. Now come on...this isn't feline Alzheimer's...this is being a total son of a bitch. If only I wasn't such a nice person...I mean, I have dreams of simply taking him to the vet and saying, put him down, but I can't possibly justify that. How on earth could I, getting older as I am, take someone who is clearly enjoying life to the hilt, eating well, leaping about like a two year old, and just in general having a wonderful time (he smiles when he shits on things), say, well, your happy old age is annoying me? I would have to think that karma would get me in the end, and when I got to be ninety (you know, next week or so), Sarah would decide she was pretty damn tired of paying someone to change my Depends and...well, it's just not on. Ah, well. 0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Well, well. An actual illustration. The above is what happens when your 900 year old pussycat, full of joie de vivre, leaps directly onto your computer when you're trying to write something.

AARGGHH!

Love, Wendy

I'm Amused

2010-07-25T16:37:00.000-07:00

Just reading something on line from the Chicago Sun-Times, and I discovered that good old Chicago still tells it like it is. At the top of the page it says, 80 degrees, followed by Weather: Revolting.

Why doesn't the NYTimes have sensible weather reporting like this?

Love, Wendy

weather.bleeccch

2010-07-25T11:25:00.000-07:00

In case you were wondering why you haven't heard from me, it's because there's been nothing TO hear. This stupid weather has got me locked in the house and has fogged my brain to the extent that I can't think about ANYTHING.

However, I did actually get out twice last week...and one of those times was for actual work! I got a day on Friends With Benefits, the new Justin Timberlake movie. And the shoot was actually in Manhattan! (The other time was to go see my kid where she's bartending.)

What a strange day...for me, at any rate. Remember, I'm used to shooting on the closed Boardwalk set out in Brooklyn...closed in the sense that it's self-contained. And the couple of times I've shot in Manhattan have been indoor shoots, so still pretty much self-contained. Well, this one was right out there on the edge of Central Park, on Fifth Avenue and 61st, and sheesh. Talk about tourists, and paparazzi, and fire engines and police cars. And holding was in the Plaza Hotel, which is not as chic as it sounds. We were crammed into a too-small function room on the 4th floor with no craft services because the hotel catering union won't allow any food in the hotel that's not under their jurisdiction. Nor can you bring anything into the hotel. This meant we had to hike over to crafty on 61st for breakfast, and that we got stuck with a walkaway lunch...i.e., go find some lunch, pay for it yourself, and be back in an hour. Let me be the first to tell you that there isn't any affordable food, or very little, in that area...unless you want a hot dog. I found an overpriced egg salad sandwich, but...growl.

The shoot itself was fine, but dull, of course...I mean, face it, how interesting can walking back and forth be? Unless you are thrilled by the sight of Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis, which I'm not. However, it was a nice almost 12 hour day, so a decent check is in the mail. Yay!

Meanwhile (since until this weather breaks, I'm still locked up in here), I ran across another one of those wonderful recipes in my old Gourmet cookbook, which has instructions that sound just strange:

It tells you to marinate 1-1/2 lbs. of calf liver and 3/4 lb. of veal in milk for 24 hours. then you put them "through the finest blade of a food chopper" and mix them with some butter, and bake them in a loaf pan for 3 hours at 300 degrees. Then you take them out, let them cool, and then "put them through a fine sieve," mix in 1/4 cup bourbon. Then you fill a terrine with alternating layers of the pate and whole truffles.

Well, WHAT? Why on earth, and HOW on earth, are you supposed to put something through a fine sieve when it's already cooked for 3 solid hours? And it's meat? And could we discuss those whole truffles? That would be the alternating layers of the pate and whole truffles. How big is this terrine dish? How MANY truffles? And remember, there's more than one layer of the things. Have you priced whole truffles lately?

I think I'll make a nice meatloaf.

Love, Wendy

The Cure Is Worse Than The Disease

2010-07-16T17:09:00.001-07:00

First of all, however, before I get to the actual subject up there, all right, damn it, Anonymous, what I was thinking of was going to my aunt and uncle's place in Riverdale-Ivanhoe, where we did TOO see a far off funnel every now and then. So there, you Anonymous person you, who rather clearly grew up on my block...

Back to my actual subject. Now I take pills. I take a pill for my chest, and I take two for my heart. I listen to my doctor on what the side effects are likely to be (basically none, with what I take). But I'm getting increasingly frightened about what OTHER people are taking.

I have here in front of me (all right, it's actually slightly to my left), an ad that's been appearing in the newspapers all week. It's for something called ACTOS. Now according to the first page of this ad (it comes in three pages, for God's sake), "ACTOS has been shown to lower blood sugar without increasing your risk of having a heart attack or stroke."

Well, this is clearly good news, right, particularly after recent stories about another diabetes drug that DOES cause those.

Ah, ah, ah...not so fast. Then you turn the page.

I do not BELIEVE the list of possible side effects with this thing. Look:

Weight gain
Liver problems
Macular edema (diabetic eye disease with swelling in the back of the eye)
Fractures - yeah, broken bones
Low red blood cell count (anemia)
Low blood sugar (hypoglycemia)
Ovulation (OVULATION?)

This is the medication that's supposed to be BETTER for you? Good God.

First of all, it's supposed to be a diabetes drug. And you're telling me it may make your blood sugar too low. And fractures? You want me to take a drug that may cause my bones to just casually break? And it increases the chance of pregnancy in premenopausal women who don't have regular periods any more?

You know, I think I'll stick with the heart attack and stroke.

Love, Wendy

Sweating in Manhattan

2010-07-12T23:51:00.000-07:00

Yes, well, this weather is beyond belief vile. Let's all be clear on the fact that I DO NOT DO HUMIDITY. I most particularly do not do it when it's coupled with 90 degree temperatures.

I had a wonderful couple of days lounging around the pool in Connecticut. Lots of deeply cool people to talk with, lots of food and booze, and just a lovely time all around. There was even something that my pal Philippe thinks is a dog...although as it's a teacup Yorkie, I do rather question this. Something that weighs a whole pound and a half doesn't actually qualify as a dog in my worldview...I tend to think that these things are members of the rat family. When they get to be about cocker spaniel size, I admit them into the canine group. But for what looked mostly like a dustmop for a dollhouse, it was fairly cute. What WAS amusing was watching Philippe play with the dog, since Philippe is 6'5". The effect was lovely, since the dog (?) occupies about half of the palm of Philippe's hand.

Then back to Manhattan on Sunday night, into the hell of last week. It was 103 on Monday or Tuesday, and it didn't go much below that all week. I didn't even bother to leave the house until Friday, except to go to the deli, since one must have one's newspapers, cigarettes and diet soda...and even then I was gasping for air after I got home from this five minute excursion. It was what we called, when I was a girl in Chicago, tornado weather.

Unless you grew up in the Midwest, you have no idea. I used to love curling up on the porch swing with iced tea and a book, just watching the sky first boil, then turn this odd green color, and then torrential rain and crashing thunder and huge lightning bolts...and every now and then, far off you could see an actual funnel. It was WONDERFUL.

But so far, New York has sullenly refused to rain. It gets black, the wind picks up, you get a few puffs of that nice cool thunderstorm breeze...and then it may possibly spit a few drops, and the whole thing sweeps away and you're left with NOTHING. We had a nice heavyish rain on Tuesday, I think, for all of ten minutes, and yesterday it rained for a whole twenty minutes...very gently...and tonight it spat in a half hearted fashion for about five minutes. That's been IT.

And the air is so desperate for a storm. It smells used, exhausted, worn out. The rain is all around us, and you can see it when you go to Weather.com, which is fascinating. All around us, everywhere, the radar screen shows huge clouds. Except around Manhattan, which is a pristine circle of perfectly clear air. And we are gasping for rain.

Meanwhile, a group of Muslims are trying to build a mosque near the World Trade Center, and people are terribly up in arms about it. This is ridiculous. I'm not afraid of the nice Muslim people who are trying to show that not all of them are madmen. I'm deeply afraid FOR them if they go on with this plan. American extremists would have the thing bombed the instant it went up, for God's sake...and they'd wait until it was full of worshippers. And then pat themselves on the back for "removing the threat."

Did you know that there is somewhere in our lovely, deeply conflicted and half-mad country where they are trying to make it legal to carry your gun into CHURCH? There is an actual clergyman involved here who thinks it's a fine idea. Now, admittedly, I have on occasion felt the need for SOME sort of deterrent for long winded badly spoken sermons, but surely a peashooter would suffice?

What on God's green earth have we turned into? Guns in church? There are communities across the nation who feel it's a terrific idea to be able to carry sidearms openly. This doesn't sound like my country...this sounds like one of Stephen King's more apocalyptic novels (I'm rereading The Stand). I'm now afraid to run to the all night deli that's across the street from my house if it's dark out because the streets around my extremely wealthy neighborhood simply aren't safe for a middle-aged lady after dark (yeah, I know I'm 65, but I intend to stay middle aged until I'm 90...THEN I'll get old).

And you know, I think it really is "the economy, stupid." There is a helplessness that's engendered by finding your eternal verities completely upset. You have worked for the same company for 40 years, or 20 years, and you're looking forward to your pension and your retirement, and you've got your home, and your RV, and you and your wife are going to see some nice country, and all you need are those last few payments on that house and that RV, and then you can relax...and whoops. You're laid off. Those last few payments aren't coming. Your wife's job (well, you know, just for a few more bucks, and the kids are grown anyway) disappears. And Social Security, that looked so good, doesn't any more, because you've had to use most of those monthly payments. Then the bank forecloses on your house, and the RV gets repossessed because you sure as hell can't make THOSE payments, and...

Yeah. And. And. There goes your life. Your ENTIRE life.

So yes, I can understand why those sidearms at your hips could look really attractive. There's crime out there, you know, you gotta protect yourself, you gotta keep your street safe...and maybe, just maybe, with that gun on your hip, there might be SOMETHING, ANYTHING, anything at all, dear God, that you COULD be in charge of, because you've been in charge all your life and you've taken care of your family, and now you're not, and you can't, and there's nothing in front of you, and there are no jobs...

Guns aren't the answer. This way leads to madness and anarchy. Now is the time when we have to find a way that involves cooperation, and caring, and helping. Leave the gun at home. Go make a casserole. You know that family down the street, the ones with the ten kids, and they've both been laid off for months, and the unemployment ran out? Go take that casserole over there. Offer to babysit. Help the mom with dressing up a little for...please God...a job interview. Know anybody in the dad's business? Help him network a bit.

Caring and helping are answers. Guns are an unthinking response that won't help.

Love, Wendy

Oh, Yawn

2010-07-02T18:06:00.000-07:00

I purely hate holding patterns. I have absolutely nothing to do...no movies, no TV shows, no transcription work. Nothing. Yes, I know I can clean my house, and I actually made some tiny strides in that direction today. I cleaned the cat litter box, I got a few pieces of ironing done, and I hemmed the two new pairs of jeans that I bought like a month ago. Oh, and I got some nice deposits of cat shit off the floor. Aren't you glad you know this? And if you think I allow the cat shit to just sit on the floor, you're wrong. What happens is that I go out (I do occasionally go out) and the cat shits, and by the time I get home it's dry, so it no longer smells and I don't see it...until I go hunting for it. Which I did today, to an extent. And cleaned it up.

Actually, I did get out this week, which I REALLY couldn't afford to do, but my friend Tracy is in town for a week and was spending the evening bartending at her favorite spot (hey, that's what she wanted to do...who am I to argue?). So I went over there and had a couple of beers to say hello.

But I'm actually getting out of town for the holiday weekend! My pal Philippe, he of the one woman show, has a house out in Connecticut which is occupied, as far as I can tell, by his ex-wife and their daughter. It was evidently the most amicable of divorces, since he's always popping out there. And this weekend he's giving a party for the 4th of July, to which I am going. Now normally this is the sort of thing I would skip at the top of my lungs, because I have an odd form of claustrophobia...I really, really, dislike going to parties that I can't hail a taxi from. Or call a car service. You know, like Brooklyn. (Yeah, I know I could, in fact, arrange for a car and driver to get me to and from Connecticut, but as I don't happen to be a member of the Trump family...) It tends to make me feel terribly trapped. I don't know why, since I have no trouble bouncing off to Europe for weeks on end. Just one of my weirder quirks, I guess. I've found that there are actually a fair amount of totally urban types like me who have the same problem, which at least makes me feel I'm not A. alone or B. insane. It probably comes from living in a city all one's life, where a car is neither necessary nor (where do you park it? where do you drive it?) desirable.

However, this particular party has a swimming pool at it! Since it's going back up to the 90s this weekend (and, God help me, staying that way all week), this sounds like an excellent idea. Not to mention the fact that according to Philippe, there are going to be lots of industry people around, so I'm fetching along a handful of business cards. Never let an opportunity (or a swimming pool) go by!

Sarah, God bless her, forced me out of the house and bought me a new bathing suit. I didn't actually see the necessity of this until I hauled out my old one. Now I'm not a beach person, I don't take tropical vacations, and I'm not a sunbather because my skin is naturally a charming fish belly white, and as close to a tan as I get is a sort of yellowy beige that makes me look jaundiced. Or else, of course, a roaring sunburn. The only place I ever wear the bathing suit is in France...and if we have a cold summer there, or if my personal economy precludes a European vacation, the bathing suit doesn't even come out of the drawer. The result of this is that I have a 15 year old bathing suit. This doesn't bother me at all, since the only place I ever wear the thing is Yvoire, where a housedress and slippers is considered the height of fashion. But when I pulled it out this time, I discovered that due to the rocks where we swim in France, the seat of the thing is about one layer of fiber away from splitting altogether. This, I feel, is something to be avoided. I am not of an age where my naked ass peeping out is in any way something to be desired. So I now have a nice new black and white bathing suit...thank you, Sarah!

Of course, I could wish she hadn't led me through Macy's and JC Penney yelling at the top of her lungs, "You can't wear that, Mom! You're 65 years old!" I'm gonna have to watch this kid, or she'll have me in elastic waist pants and flowered tunics any old day now. If she's not nice to me, I'll wait until some really important occasion (like her wedding) and turn up in a pink polyester pantsuit worn with a tasteful string of matching pink popit beads and equally matching pink jogging shoes. And a really BIG pink handbag. And blue hair. Hee, hee, hee. After which, I will of course race to the ladies' room and return in fire engine red cut up to my crotch and down to my navel with matching four inch red spike heels. Gotcha!

Love, Wendy

Bits and Pieces

2010-06-22T19:38:00.000-07:00

I am currently in a holding pattern, because I have no idea what's going on with my house. I'm sort of assuming things are moving forward, because otherwise I would be getting requests from Richard the real estate guy to show the house some more. I just wish somebody would let me know. Hey, I just thought of something! I'll ASK! Wouldn't that be clever?

Meanwhile I get up in the morning and read the papers, as usual. A few days ago I found a ghastly little idea on the NY Post's Page Six gossip pages.

"Gossip Girl star Matthew Settle said he was "inspired" by Sandra Bullock and Scarlett Johansson's kiss at the MTV awards. He told fellow guests (at some party or other...I'm not going to type the whole thing) that the smooch represented "huge growth" for female empowerment: "It's important for woman to start making out in public." "

Oh, for GOD'S sake. Surely the LAST thing we need is MORE damn people making out in public. And as for a "huge growth in female empowerment"? Um, what? You mean the ability to look ill-mannered in public? Yeah, that's just as empowering as hell. Really.

On a much more charming note, I have been rather casually looking through apartment listings on the internet. I must say that I'm thrilled to know that there are actually apartments out there in my price range and my chosen neighborhood, but you do have to look carefully. There's one building that's advertised all over the place that sounds quite lovely, and it says it's in the East Village. And the ads announce that it's "just steps" to Union Square, Trader Joe's, Whole Foods, etc. However, if you look carefully at the end, you discover that this joint is in Gramercy Park. I'm sorry...the East Village is between say, 4th Avenue and Avenue D (or the FDR Drive) and between 14th Street and Houston Street. Gramercy Park is in the East 20s. How is this in the East Village?

But what thrills me to the very core about the ads for this building is that they all (and there are a LOT of ads for this place) seem to provide you with roommates for no extra charge. And indeed, whether you want one or not. I base this idea on the fact that in each and every one of the ads there is a line that states quite plainly: "High ceilings and large widows in every room."

This seems quite excessive. By my count, given the usual run of New York apartments, that would give me five large widows to live with...well, "in every room," i.e., kitchen, two bedrooms, living room, bathroom. Certainly, I am the LAST person in the world to deny these poor ladies a place to live; after all, I'm a widow myself. But could we discuss exactly HOW large? Could I, for instance, share one of those galley kitchens with one, should our cooking hours coincide (always a consideration with roommates)? And what about bedroom space? I'm not at all sure I want to share my bedroom with a large widow, and that ad does say, "in every room." And closet space? I mean, I'm quite a small widow...about a size 6 or 8...and I somehow feel that sharing closets with a large widow of, oh, say, a size 24 or so might possibly squeeze my wardrobe space just a bit. And the bathroom is just impossible.

Although, since they do say "high ceilings" in connection with the large widows, perhaps they mean height. Now, at 5'3", I can see all sorts of advantages to this. There's putting away the huge pots I only use at Thanksgiving, for instance, and changing the bulbs in ceiling fixtures and this sort of thing, and I wouldn't need to haul out the ladder or call the super every time (after all these years of co-op living, you cannot possibly imagine what a frisson of total delight it gives me to say "call the super").

Still, aside from the impossibility of living in Gramercy Park, which is a quiet, old moneyish sort of place - exactly the kind of thing I dearly wish to avoid - I think I'll skip the large widows, lovely ladies though I'm sure they are.

Love, Wendy