"soccer mom" thriving under self-imposed house arrest!

I was ruminating, today, (remarkably, for the first time) about the fact that I'm so often called in for "soccer mom" roles.

take, for example, my fine work in that "cheese" audition. (they called me back in, friends, yes they did!) they LIKED my saucy take on grocery shopping, I guess, only this time I was asked to pretend their store had everything I could ever want for my Thanksgiving table. well, yes, if that menu is comprised solely of whey protein, egg whites and filtered water.

then there was the one-liner I went in for yesterday for a show being produced by none other than my most underwaringest, break dancingest, Dirk Diggleriest friend - ok, we're not friends...yet - (cut to mug shot of me after my arrest for breaking into his house dressed as Roller Girl) now producer, Mark Wahlberg. I had a fantastically plot-driven line as I drive up in my Volvo "what the hell are you doing on my property?" nailed it.

and then there is, of course, the reality that I was cast as not only one but two different soccer moms in the hit off-broadway show, Secrets of a Soccer Mom? I'm sure you saw me in it - I went on once.

am I a soccer mom? no. do I look like one? I guess so. I guess so...

so, seeing as I am now more woman than girl - not as in when my dad approached me, arms outstretched, in the garage after I had divulged to my mom that I had begun getting my period saying "oh, honey, you're a woman now."(thanks, mom.) these words to my ears after I had just witnessed my poor dog, Molly, getting molested by the local squire dog of New Cannan, CT ...probably named Tristram or Buckley or something equally irritating...in that very garage!! but in the sense that I look a certain way (like a soccer mom, perhaps?!) and can pretty much be counted on to look that way without too much thought or effort on my part - I am trying to embrace my new role. this is all aided by the decidedly soccer-momish wardrobe that I've amassed for such auditions...added to the fact that I grew up in fucking New Cannan, CT.

really.

there is a disconnect, however, with the "being" that I think I am inside and this new outer veneer. oh barf, I know, like anyone needs to hear about my self-realizations - well, suck it, people, it's my blog and you'll just have to weed through it all to get to things that interest you.

anyway - here's where it gets tricky. you see, inside, I have all of these really contrary thoughts to what I'm now being told I look like and I've found myself doing everything possible over the years to shake up that perception of myself. I had my nose and navel pierced (have since removed both piercings as different doctors kept making fun of my xrays. idiots.), I learned "to Roller Derby", I write blogs with lots of swear words, I enjoy things of an outrageous nature - like the exhibit I'm planning to see this evening of clothes made of marshmallow peeps - check it out: and I'm a frikkin' actress which, certainly, is the complete antithesis of soccer mom. god, this is making my brain hurt.

but I think I may have found the glue that makes the irreverent, slutty person inside adhere to the waxed and polished facade I present to the world. the glue? I am not just any soccer mom, I am now the ultimate soccer mom. I am:

Martha Stewart...in JAIL!

I'm so excited to present for you my proof...

exhibit one: I am eating much like Martha in jail - no processed foods, no dairy and no booze. I am given rations (albeit by myself) and if I want to cheat I have to either hide it under my mattress or in an orifice. I don't cheat much. and I am so much fun to be with these days! come on over! I can eat you, too, if you're less than 3% fat and no sugar!

exhibit two: just like Martha in jail, I lost 3 (THREE!!! weight-watcher's fatspirationalists give me a hell yeah!) pounds so far being incarcerated in my own self-imposed diet jail.

exhibit three: I am (still!) being paid a weekly stipend for being unemployed - just like Martha in jail who, likely, was afforded her own weekly stipend to barter for necessities such as crumpets. or verbena.

exhibit four: the fight club class I'm now taking will, ultimately, teach me how to kick some prosecutor's ass should I decide to sell any stocks. oh, right, I'm an actress I don't own stocks. do I?! (she guilelessly twirls a blonde tendril...) I really like this class and, just like Martha in jail, every time I bend over it hurts!

so, between my self-issued uniform of sweat pants, blonde bob and sensible sneakers coupled with the brain and mouth of Matron Mama Morton - don't even try to set me free!



lock me up, officer Craig, for I have done wrong and I have a lot of time to serve. thanks, Martha, for being such an inspiration and for helping me see just what I've been missing all this time. I'll see you and your brioche on the other side....

the "Mommie Dearest" effect

i've been thinking about the character, Mommie Dearest, lately - because that's just what I do - and contemplating the effect that like-minded mothers indubitably have on their offspring.



had it not been for the stunning work of the incomparable Faye Dunaway, we may never have understood why our mothers did some of the things that they did. and now that my dear mother is comfortable enjoying a Manhattan in the sky while I am still dealing with alternate side of the street parking in Manhattan, I thought I'd reminisce...

(here's where I cue my mother's award-winning but sad star turn in her later years as the crazy drunk lady slipping off the couch claiming "I am the madwoman of Chaillot...and you are too!!!") ok, so while I'm not skidding down any armrests with the bottle of gin I'd hidden in the birdseed, I am only too aware of how close lady apples can fall from their trees. (is it wrong to think that it's cute that my daughter says "show-veen-yown-blon" when the waiter asks what I'd like to order?) one eye open, Luvy, one eye open...

so back to Mommie Dearest - take, for instance, the wire hangers scene. I recall thinking, after one of the dozen times watching it, "if that had been me, Mommie Dearest, I would NEVER have let wire hangers anywhere near my closet. they would have been where they belong...under Christopher's bed where Carol Ann would find them." just like my brother, Peter's CLUB magazine which I discovered and promptly hid under his pillow the morning of his Eagle Scout coronation. TIMING, baby, I gots it!!

poor Mommies, though. being compulsively clean and orderly is draining when you don't have $2 million bucks to spend on cleaning ladies. and being a mother and actress can be utterly brain-splitting work at times. it's pretty weird to drop off your kid at school with all the other parents likely thinking that you're going to return home to do the laundry, (because you look just like them - see my Soccer Mom post - http://luvyhowl.blogspot.com/2009/10/why-staying-in-jail-can-be-fun.html) but you actually go the other direction and drive an hour into the city to audition for the role of a sexy single cosmopolitan lady trying to pick between two stuffed animals for her niece in a mall. and then there's of course, the vibrator audition...ahhh, I do live the glamorous life, don't I? I'm still trying to figure out whether I looked like I used a vibrator too much or too little...?!? please advise. actually don't bother, I broke mine a few years ago so that probably answers that.

speaking of vibrators and auditions, I was in the city just the other day for a callback for an interstitial I really hope I get because the writing was GENIOUS (if you're reading, Nick at Nite - I'll do it naked if you cast me. ok, I'll wear extra clothes.) and now I'm going to get a little raunchy so cover one eye and keep reading if you're feeling randy, otherwise hold the apple key and "w" and the window will instantly close until you're in the mood again. so I was early, which is something that almost never happens with me, but the trains all forgot their galoshes or something that morning and were threatening delays, so I took an earlier one. I had two hours to kill which got me thinking...I never have two hours to kill but when I do one of my favorite pastimes is to...well, you know "take care of business." not for two hours - that would just be indulgent and annoying but the idea of two hours free is quite the turn-on these days. and, of course, once I even thought of it, it's all I could think about. now, I might not be like most women, but I know you men out there are used to being friskier than a box of catfood. and society recognizes that - they built you dirty playhouses, sectioned off parts of video stores, published scores of naughty magazines, but what about the ladies? what do we get, Playgirl?!?? bwah ha ha ha! even the gays don't read that anymore! I get more titillated by the Pottery Barn catalog. where is OUR pretty playhouse? where is our "special section" at the video store - and don't insult me anymore Cinemax - your porn is about as stimulating as a Yani video.



oh, my God - I actually just watched that. if you can bear to listen until the end, can you please tell me why the Dukes of Hazard music kicks in around 3:04??? WTF, Yani???

anyway, wouldn't it be nice, if there was a pretty, pretty place with soft lighting, Yani-free music, candles that smell like desserts and an expertly tailored chaise lounge for all the poor lady folk out there who need to kill a few hours?

well, there isn't. so what did I end up doing? visiting my enviable friend, Julie, to see her perfect duplex, perfect baby, perfect husband and perfect body. nothing like an unhealthy dose of comparison to shake all those lewd thoughts out of my head. how could I possibly imagine pleasuring myself, when I don't have an integrated fucking dishwasher?!? or custom cabinets. that were labeled, y'all - as in, "winter clothes" "summer clothes" "clothes I look so amazing in I don't even bother to wear because I think I'll just get laid all day since my husband works from home?" I quickly told Julie that I had to go and skulked into Ivy Nails where I imagined that the Korean girl massaging my hands was actually me and that my fingers were really little penises. and then I was all better.

now that I think about it? I'm not at all like my mother. and I think she was ok with that. and if looking like I use a vibrator too much means I don't book commercials like this:



I'm reeeeally ok with that.

being aspirational...

in the commercial industry there is something called an aspirational model. this being a woman or man who looks "regular" enough by industry standards but also one that all the truly regular people of the world wish they could look like.

so, I figure it naturally stands to reason that there are also jobs out there for the opposite type. take, for example, the Weight Watchers audition I was sent out on the other day. my manager sheepishly called me and asked if this is something I would even consider doing - "it's a only a demo, they won't even tell me how much it pays, blah, blah, blah, so if you don't want to do it it's ok."

no, no, fair lady, I'm doing it! for I'm not only trying to embrace my current physical shape but I'm also now required (by my sugar daddies over at the Department of Labor), to keep an actual log of all my futile attempts at getting work in this economy. so my answer is an emphatic "yes!" I don't even bother asking her what side of the diet I'm supposed to be on - I figure it'll become apparent as soon as I get there.

"business casual", she says (which basically means don't look like a slut or surfer). so I scoured my closet for anything left that remotely fits and is not either a halter, maxi dress or pair of sweats and headed over to the audition.

when I got there, I rode the elevator with a fairly broad-beamed girl who pressed the button for the same floor. she refused to meet eyes with me to share the "yes, I'm auditioning for a weight loss commercial, guess if I'm the before or after?" face, but instead ran ahead of me to beat me to the sign-in sheet. I think she may have burned two points doing that.

as I scanned the room to size up the competition, I thought - ok, I am totally the "before". I am TOTALLY the before! all the skinny Nancies from the fancy agencies are the "afters" and me and elastic-waist-Wendy are totally the befores. the Nancies are aspirational and we're...well, what are we exactly?

so, I try to own whatever it is I'm supposed to be but it's no use as I'm feeling quite alien as the softer side of Sears. I stand in front of the camera for a full length shot. remember: lean forward on the balls of feet to appear more inviting. tilt head down to look younger, up to look older. down head. down. and hold at a slightly three quarter angle to hide the hole from my nose ring and to highlight the impressive jaw I've been using to EAT THINGS.

ok, [Luvy], now we'll need you to do some profile shots. aw, fuck, I'm thinking, I didn't wear my Spanx. slamming my tongue against the roof of my mouth and sucking my gut in as hard as I can I turn sideways. right. left.

turn front to breathe.

ok, so now I need you to hold your cell phone and look really happy that you just lost two pounds in one week. two pounds? TWO pounds? is that all you think it would take to make me call someone on the phone and gush with excitement? not on your life. try TWENTY, sweetheart, and then you'll get a smile all the way back to my the gold crown I ground a hole into with the massive jaw I use to EAT THINGS.

but, I obeyed and started mouthing into the phone "I'm so excited I lost two pounds...this is just SOOOO exciting!"

the casting lady, who is all of about 90 pounds herself and has NO IDEA how annoying it is to be overpadded says "yeah, maybe the miming into the phone is not working. just smile and hold the phone to your ear."

good, cuz this face don't lie, my skinny sister.

and then, in an attempt to at least decide my fate as the inevitable before, I thank them and add "ha ha, two pounds in one week would be a fucking miracle!" to which she laughed dismissively in return.

imagine my horror when, a few days later, I'm looking at the breakdowns and I find the original casting notice:

WEIGHT WATCHERS ON CAMERA DEMO (1-2 DEMOS)

SEEKING:
[FEMALE] CAUCASIAN ONLY - Real, but aspirational.

needless to say I did not get chosen. it's ok. reeeeally, it's ok - for I got my biggest reward in coining an all-new commercial adjective for myself:

fat•spi•ra•tion•al
(adjective)
providing or showing fat you wish you looked this good in:
that girl was mad fatspirational - she wasn't even wearing Spanx!

Back on the radar: The Mayor of Fatville!!!

Good day, precious lambs, do I have news for you. Ready? You may be as surprised as I was when I found out. I have just been elected Fatty McFatterson, the Mayor of FATVILLE!!! That's right - my running mate, Chubby Chubbenstein, and I are back on the radar here in the Real World, Hell's Kitchen and we are FAT! Whoo hoo - it feels naughty to say it but it's decidedly true! Let me explain...

Take, for example, the (formerly) "fat" skirt I split the seam on yesterday. You know what? I gots to give that girl a rest 'cuz she don't like being stretched that way. Or the 7 year old who asked if I was pregnant the other day? She knew exactly who she was talking to - she saw me campaigning over on the corner of Ice Cream and Wine! Or the new fall "campaign" clothes I bought at Old Navy - double the digits equal double the fun for chubby chasers like Mr. Chubbenstein. And the best evidence of all - no one throwing you a bone when you admit it yourself. Ahem.

So, we've returned to life as we know it in the city and are now all pious

and spare - eating produce from local farms and hungry man salads for dinner. It blows. I've been trying to psych myself up with little affirmations like, "Today, don't judge yourself by the fruits you bear but by the seeds you put in the ground." The only word I latched on to in that sentence was "fruit" because if it weren't for my gay I'd be much more concerned that my poor, ragged liver is now trying to file an unemployment claim and is hoping for extended benefits. We'll see, cranky.

The only thing that really got my motor running (at least in my head) was the gorgeous, tiny, sexy, tall amazing man that (sometimes smokes,












proving he is indeed flesh and blood) but we still call Mister President last night I mean, come ON people - have we had better than this?!?! Hearing him last night so passionately defending his health care plan - neither stopping for applause nor heckler (asswipe!)
- but just being the incredibly charismatic speaker that he is, made me leap out of my lazy boy and beat my chest for I heard him loud and clear. His message was to me, McFatterson, "TAKE ACTION. NOW!" I was inspired. I mean, if some of us can't even do that in our own personal lives and yet he's even fighting for the I'm-so-fat-I-gave-myself-diabetes-and-now-I-have-to-shop-the-Walmart-in-a-Jazzy people, then what does that say about us? Or more specifically, what does that say about me? He's not trying to be liked - he's the fucking President, he doesn't give a shit! He has his own health care and could probably personally take care of many people's health care. He's here to help us! Christ!

So. I've put aside my slick campaign promises for now - no more hidden agendas -
and am taking action. I went for a run. Again. It was hard. The wind was blowing at me. I felt it's weight against the weight of my poor, tan and a little too-relaxed body. I walked. A lot. I did it for an hour. I tried to visualize great things, but all I could think of was Merlot. It was hard. I was slow. But I took action.

Thanks, Mister President, for inspiring me. You are truly a gift to us all. As my running mate (who is, incidentally, cleaning up his own act as well - I think he's secretly planning on running in 2010) said to me last night, "I hope the next president will be a fucking Mexican. Or Chinese." "Or American Indian?" I ventured. But that would just be too symbolic and perfect, wouldn't it? And after all, once you go black...

a callback. a callback.

I've had a lot more auditions, lately, though which is always a good sign because the government cheese will only be doled out for so long and then I really will have to resort to being NYC's oldest coatcheck girl. so getting a callback is big excitement for me. yes a callback - can you believe it. woo hoo. a callback for a fucking piece of cheese. now don't get me wrong - I really love cheese. all kinds - from a deli-sliced American square to a decadent sliver of humboldt fog. however, the older and stinkier it is, the more time I tend to spend with it. kind of like a dirty old man you know you shouldn't be flirting with, but you keep doing it because it's just so wrong. so - after getting my foot injected with botox or whatever it is my podiatrist had in that needle, I hobbled down to the flatiron district for my audition. once I got there, I got my picture taken (trying to look as much like the "wry" grocery shopper that I am), read the copy and waited for my name to be called. once in the room alongside four other "mothershopper" types - an older lady, an Hispanic lady and one other young whitey, the elderly male director asked us to read our lines with various degrees of surprise at having to address a giant wedge of cheese. I hadn't eaten lunch yet so I not only started thinking about how I could get the director's attention but also how yummy it would be to take a bite out of a giant wedge of cheese. my inner monologue got real confused - it went something like this: "I want to eat you, you big old stinking piece of cheese. pick me and I'll eat you so hard." I'm sure I made for a very salacious shopper, to say the least.

Pavarotti's eyelashes

since a big, fat, whole lot of nothing has been going on in my career lately, I thought I'd recall for you the dream I had last night - and welcome any and all analysis of said dream. here goes.

so, I'm about to go on stage in some show I'm in that's an amalgam - insert comedy/tragedy image here - actually, there were far too many images to choose from, including an infected finger and a Mickey Mouse ashtray (I guess the tragedy of that being dying from lung cancer) but I chose this: as I was saying - the show was an amalgam of a cruise ship showgirl meets downtown warehouse production of Ianesco's, The Chairs http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Les_Chaises

oh, that was a lot of set-up. sorry. but dreams are mad complicated, yo! anyway - I'm about to go on stage in full headdress and tail feathers when one of the downtown warehouse troupe actresses, who is short and wears her platinum hair like a little boy's, hisses to me that I need to put some eyelashes on. so I'm all - you betcha! anything for art! where can I get me some? she pushes me into a dressing room and says "just use these - they were Pavorotti's when he last played Pagliacci."



so I dutifully start to try and find the eyelash glue in his (fancier than I've ever had) make-up tackle box. I find it and start applying it to the lashes. my hands are shaking, natch, I mean - Pavorotti's eyelashes? crap! after a few attempts trying to get them on (ain't they a bitch?) I realize that one of them is white and the other is black. so I start thinking...well, this is downtown wharehouse theatre after all, so who's gonna give a shit. but then the disapproving dragqueen on my shoulder that's always wagging it's two fingers at me is like "no you don't, lazy!" and what do you think I did? that's right, queens, I put mascara on the white one and stole the show. yes, maham - STOLE it, nk?

what became interesting to me once I googled Pavorotti and Pagliacci and relived his incredible performance, was the realization that of COURSE one of them would be white - it was from the frikkin clown make-up!!! the other, sadder, realization was how fucking tragic my career feels some days. as in these few excerpts from a synopsis of Cavalleria Rusticana/Pagliacci -- borrowed with the courtesy of Opera News:

"Before the opera begins, the clown Tonio steps before the curtain to say that the author has written about actors, who know the same joys and sorrows as other people...Alone, Canio sobs that he must play the clown though his heart is breaking...Canio cries out that the comedy is ended."

wow. it got really quiet in here. ok, so while I'm not planning on stabbing anyone in the town square - or offing myself, for that matter - it stands to note that my subconscious is quite the drama queen.

the motherload...

I've been saving this short for so long because it's just...well...awesome. I'm talkin' cult classic, here - just sayin. and since I'm on a mission to let this little light of mine shine, yeah, shine I give you - Bernadette, etc. written and directed by my friend, David Perlman. while somehow it doesn't quite fall into the "yes, I did" category, it is still my all time favorite piece of work. so put chore hands tagethuh:

now all you drag girls better watch you backs. I will Victor /Victoria your asses all the way to Ru Paul's runway - and in ill-fitting white pedal pushers no less. watch it!

The SS Mary...

...we all (eventually) go to bed at the end of the day. so, no matter how fancy or un-fancy your life may be in-between, we all walk in the door and eventually get our tired, spent asses ready for bed. whatever routine that may involve - we all have one. so, no matter if you put on hoop earrings and a slutty top to sing a Janet Jackson song at a memorial for your friend, Arte, or you're Stephen Sondheim doing whatever Steve did tonight, we all converged on Bar Centrale (http://www.barcentralenyc.com/youfoundus.html) for a post-whatever nightcap. as predictable as it could be to the lovely waitstaff, to me it proved the perfect denouement to an emotion-charged evening. why wouldn't f'in Sondheim show up at the bar I'm winding down in? natch, all my friends who knew I was in Company pointed him out as he came through the door as if we were best friends and I had forgotten to text him before heading out that night. so, not wanting to let my friends miss enjoying my cozy relationship with him, I called out his name as he passed by. he didn't hear a fucking thing and could anyone blame him with the combined casts of Grand Hotel and In the Heights chattering away like a bunch of Marys and Nancys about...who gives a shit? so, all eyes rivet on me like I still had business to do. like "were you really in Company, or did you just call-in every night?" honestly, some days I wonder that myself. except the day I had to go on (my B'way debut, thank-you) for one of the roles I was covering in the middle of the f'in show. there I was - making all "Effie" in my dressing room - everyone had gotten a crack at the show but me - and I decided I deserved a big, fat pity party, replete with Alison Moyet and journal reading/writing up on the 5th floor, when I hear Gary, our SM, calling me down to the deck at intermission. fast forward 2 minutes later and I am fully costumed, made-up, tear stains wiped away and replaced with Mac N3. if you aren't a fag or musical hag such as myself, you wouldn't maybe know that the top of ACT II in this show is like walking onto the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. if I miss a cue, note or piece of 'ography, the whole number may not attach to it's emergency cord and I'll be the big asshole whose flute is dripping out of her hands thanks to the flop sweat.

anyway, back to Bar Centrale (http://www.barcentralenyc.com/youfoundus.html) tonight. once I realized I was being challenged to network, despite my sincere wish to just bury myself in days of yore, my brain became consumed with trying to figure all that out. believe me, people, if no one else had seen my tree fall alone in the wood, I would have happily let poor Steve enjoy a hassle-free evening. but, as it stood, we were 1 and 0. I am positive he was not thinking the same thing.

so, it came time to pay the bill - which was a perfect reason to use the restroom while all the linear, numbers-driven actors figured out the bill. as I passed by his table I was thinking "they all look so cozy - sharing stories amongst themselves, why break that up?" not getting teased on the playground, friends, that's why. if sitting on a bench and crying until someone felt sorry for me wasn't going to work , then I was going to bully my way into him noticing me. as I exited the restroom, I approached his table. he was in mid story - to Frank Rich. yay. having set out to finish what I started I proceeded to then hover at the table until he was done. can you spell awkward? the hostess even checked-in with me ("I"m a friend" I said) - well, I've been at his house, in his show and at his parties, doesn't that count? "ok, Steve, wrap it up", I'm thinking and he does and then I'm like, what the fuck do I say now? "Hi, (Luvy Howl), Company" I extend my hand, he shakes it, his guests smile and I do the walk of shame from his table to mine. that's it, pretties. and no one even noticed at the GH table, so I called it a loss and decided to pay the bill and head a half block home. the former head of our costume dept. on GH who had made "are you pregnant?" hand gestures to me earlier that evening thanks to the f'in empire waist dress I had on alerted me that Steve was on his way out - in whispering distance, really - and awkwardly alone for a moment. but I had tired of that exercise by then and decided to play hard-to-get with some other friends at the bar, instead. that'll learn you, ya chatty Kathy.

anyhoo - I'm now back home about to embark upon my bedtime routine. not feelin' the sleep even though I have two auditions tomorrow - one entirely too early and the other with Angelina Jolie, who probably is pregnant again. ok, not with her tomorrow, but my character with hers in a scene. OK - not a scene. a line. one fucking line. but it's an important one, I am assured.

I wonder if Steve has ever had to take off as much make-up as I have on tonight. god, I hope not. Yawn.

did I forget to mention yesterday that 2009 is my year to not give a shit anymore and embrace my checkered past? well, friends, it's time to embrace the ugly. I have vowed to paste as many "caught-on-tape" moments - some great, some good and some just...wrong - as I can. the first, and possible winner, of the "wrong" side would probably be Tribal Dance (see below), the first precious little cuddly beauty from my cruise ship days. yes, in a headdress. back off - I know I said I'd never. well, I did. and you know what it was mad fun, y'all. I got to travel from San Diego to South America to the Caribbean to Spain and around and around the Cote D'Azur for the entire summer. our itinerary was then topped off with a few stops in Venice and then home to NYC. there were some astoundingly funny moments at sea like when I was all "Belle" in a GIANT hoop skirt and I had to turn delicately upstage in silhouette after receiving a rose from my dearest gay (and "Beast"), Ken. the ocean suddenly swelled up and I lost my balance, giant hoop skirt swinging like a fucking teacup. of course, this sent Ken into spasms of laughter and all you could see in silhouette were our shoulders twittering up and down trying to sing and contain our laughter. oh, what I would give for footage of that moment....but, for now, I give you other riches:

where have I been...

well, clearly the idea for a blog was much more compelling one and a half years ago when I started it. now older, wiser and just as optimistic, I've decided to revisit all those errant projects I have listed on post-it's by my desk - just like my manager suggested I do to bide my time in-between auditions. actually, I think it was her way of telling me to stop barraging her with submission suggestions and fill my time in a more amusing way? (as usual, she's right. dammit!)

plus, my man's not been much for idle conversation...good thing you are, dear reader, cause all I do is idle muthufuckuhs!!! even my daughter refers to me as "slow poke" - which is fine, but would be much more justifiable (and funnier to me, natch) if I were high all the time. I just spent so many years rushing around all over the place - running up stairs, even escalators for goddsakes, walking miles and miles when I could slide onto the subway. what was I thinking? oh, yeah - it's good for you. better write that one down on a post-it.