Tag Archives: Food

Rent Paychecks & Food Orphans

8 Jul

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Am watching this show that makes me want to cook all the time…an artform I am rubbish at, but like to pretend I can do anyway.

… My amended versions of fake recipes are entirely based on what seems like a good idea at the time, spun on its ear, with the hodge-podge of nonsensical foods and condiments I have to work with directly in my cupboard and fridge. This is because it was rent paycheck week, so I am poor again, but just as determined to invent something of culinary awesomeness with nothing at all but what I’ll refer to as the leftover Food Orphans in my kitchen.

… There is no lettuce, but I have zucchini and cucumbers. Lots of beans and rice…but no bread. Eggs without milk. Hot sauce in three varieties…and chicken broth…spaghetti with no sauce, and one can of albacore tuna.

… Every condiment in tiny takeout packet form, and every salad dressing…but no butter or sugar. I have a $12 Moroccan spice and a $3 Italien seasoning mix, but also a tiny packet of zillion-dollar-an-ounce Saffron, as well as a box of cornflakes, a thing of Shake-n-Bake, and cupcake decorations without ingredients to mix and make the cupcakes.

I dunno how half these things got in my house. Mostly, other people have bought them and left them, over time. Because everyone cooks there…not because the kitchen is posh and high-functioning…it is a galley with zero steel surfaces and a human dishwasher (me)…but mostly because I will ply free booze to anyone who will cook for me…so I can grate and cut things and pretend I know what I’m doing when I don’t.

Because I love food.

… And I love the process of making it.

… And so, when I go through friend-cooking-withdrawal… I click a food show on Netflix, get a burr up my ass, and go pretend I know how to go it alone with inventiveness.

I WILL FIND ART ANY WAY I CAN, AND PRACTICE IT, TO MY HEART’S DELIGHT… SO JUST SHUT UP ABOUT IT!

(The struggle is real.)

(… And not just for my palate.)

Next: Am starting to get frustrated with the ever evolving world of job hunting. You want this one who never calls, constant calls from all the ones you don’t want…the best jobs are too far away, the close ones are shitty, requiring your every night and weekend probable take-over. It has become a vicious cycle of the phone ringing and binging all day long, but always ending with anticlimactic fizzle.

My phone is quickly becoming sexually frustrated as hell, as I re-sweep the same damn ads over and over and over again, and Insurance companies haunt me like a mouth-breather on a crowded bus.

… Also, every accounting department known to man.

Trust me. You don’t want me in Finance. Or to sell things to people. You want to bury me in the back office where I can chew massive amounts of paperwork while speaking to no one…for hours and hours.

… Maybe I’ll start looking into the mortuary arts. It’s people-related, but only barely. It’s quiet, low stress, and there are no constant calls bitching about returns and repairs.

(No, but seriously. I should consider this.)

Meanwhile, why isn’t it 4:30 yet?

… Mrs. Johnson has arrived and gives zero fucks about the remainder of the work day. She just wants her forced 15k walk out of the damn way and a Pamprin cocktail with a whiskey chaser. And then: some pajama friend hang time.

… Which she’s damn-well gonna get. (I’ll have you know.)

The end.

~D

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Enuf

18 Sep

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Omigod you guys! I actually got sleep last night for like the first time in almost two weeks!!!!!!

…The Fitbit buzzed me out of dead sleep this morning, which naturally made me want to rip it off my arm and hurl it across the room (for soooo not the first time), but then I realized why I was mad and sorta wanted to burst into tears.

…Of joy, this time.

….Which is a happy change, yes??

…Anywho, one night’s sleep may not two-weeks cure-all, but it doesn’t freakin hurt. Even stuck at the office alone with all the usual constant fire-customer-bullshit is more easy to choke down, with a semi refueled tank.

(Giant sigh)

After tonight’s rehearsal, I’ll have an entire actual day and night off tomorrow…wherein I vow to put all stressful necessities aside, and instead, party my damn ass off….at a friend-wedding so conveniently placed on the schedule…I really sorta feel like I personally owe them.

…I mean, I do, but I mean more than just “people who support you when you really freakin need it,” and a wedding gift.

…I’m thinkin something along the lines of a fully-paid week in the Tropics. You know…if I were other than me and all wealthy and shit.

…Anyway, to them I say: “Thank you for making a lifelong commitment to one another at this particular time. It’s really super convenient to me.”

(My friends. You guys…they just excel at all the things…)

…So! A wedding! That means girl clothes! Like that used-to-be “skinny” dress which is also now “too big for me.” But it’s the closest I’ve got, so I’m freakin doin it!

…Hell, I’ll even shave my legs! Breaking all depression anti-self-care tradition! Lookit me: all Rebel With A Cause, and shit!

…And speaking of legs: those new bruises are gonna look super hawt with heels. Like a cage-fighting pinup! I’m fucking fierce, y’all!

..P.S…I dunno how I gained them, exactly…(the bruises)…but I’ll bet it has something to do with flying on office rolley chairs in a fake dream sequence (like yuh do.) Cuz that’s how our choreography rollz, people.

(…get it? “Rollz”…)

…In fact, I dance more frequently on, around, and with a chair, than any human being.

…Which is prob’ly super wise on our Director and choreographer’s part. Perhaps there’s a cunning plan?

….Perhaps it’s ALL a “cunning plan.”

…And perhaps I need to wrap this up and eat something today. I’m clearly still fake-high loopy on restness. A little sleep and a shit-ton of coffee does not Wonder Woman, make.

….I’m pretty sure that’s a real saying.

~D

Breakfast Farts & Tech

15 Feb

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Today we had our first full run with tech from which we were reminded about and learned, many things.

…Like you do, during tech.

…Things like: computers have made tech zero-percent more efficient to the old reel to reel and manual light slider days. Because human error is so much easier to fix, and people almost always are able to speak to one another without conjunction cables, software crashes and Bluetooth errors.

…Also, water is messy. And it follows almost no rules. Once it’s out of it’s holding confines, it owns the whole damn world of wherever you’ve introduced it. And we’ve introduced it damn near everywhere… in every room…rendering surfaces slick as spit, even after mopping.

…New costumes get ripped by heels and snagged on set pieces, quick changes are fought like battles with small armies, smaller bustles must be found so I stop taking out props with my ass, sounds source from wrong speakers for unknown reasons, light cues are still being built and refined mid-scene, volumes need to be pumped cuz of the air conditioner, the keys need hooks, the doors need jams…our pump is still without water…

…And then: there are the eggs.

Apparently those innocent little clump-bastards which we thought we’d solved in squish and shovel and spit, days ago, were holding out on us. Add a shit-ton of hot stage lights to the mix and after flinging them all over and rolling in them like dogs for the better part of ten minutes, the whole damn theatre (and at least two of its actors) smelled like a sulphur plant had exploded.

…I mean: horrendous. Like a hundred farts got together for a meal of baked beans, cabbage, turnips, and beer, in a 110 degree locked room, with no ventilation.

Computers: we are stuck with, rips can be sewn, pumps will be plumbed…butts can be made smaller…but it’s looking like our friendly little puffs of lukewarm slimy sunshine might be in for a radical recasting session, only days before we open.

Poor bastards….

…But then I think I’d rather eat food-colored tofu by the truckload than roll around in that joy of butt-gas air again, never mind twice on student matinees and command performances.

…See? You never stop learning.

And that’s the truth.

Also: tech is hard, and exhausting, and tomorrow is Monday.

…That is another truth.

~D

Manic, Twisted, & Sexy

28 May

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Today, I have three less personalities to concentrate on, still leaving me with a sizable deck yet to be sorted.

…A great new program at the UWT has been attempting to launch a theatre works interest, not only to the student body but local community as well.  Some of it’s leading professors have brought in a handful of actors to work both with the student playwrights and faculty, to do read performances with talk-backs to get the ball rolling, and I’ve been supremely lucky to be amongst those handful. 

I LOVE contributing in my own backyard…my own city…blocks away from my little home.  I love that they are eager to bring more arts to the area, use it’s local artists as resources, engage audiences made of faculty and students and community, in talk-backs about social issues, politics, art, and literature.  I love being part of a grass-roots movement, and that as more and more educational systems are phasing OUT the arts in their schools, we have a very esteemed University staff stating, “No!  In fact, we don’t have ENOUGH!” 

…How awesome is THAT?!

(I know, right?)

…Which is WHY I now have three less contributors to my psyche, in as much as last night we finished another such read, with a wonderfully alert house-full, engaged in the process, the structure, and the event as a whole. A fine study on mental illness and addiction and the affects they leave in their wake. I had a hell of a lot of fun as the bipolar, self-drug-prescribing, alcoholic root of it all, playing with tight text, exercising a little of my own demons, and having an exhausting wale of a time. These are the kind of work outs, (when married with a dream cast of close buds), when you really getta blow it all out there with full conviction, knowing full-well you are supporting, and are supported by, the best.

It only gets better than this, when it’s up on it’s feet and in full performance…

…Which, speaking of, leads us to the next part of the personality deck: A twisted little tale of sisterly sexual obsession and dark deeds.

“The Maids,” a translation from the Genet original, is next up on the calendar…with hopes to butt it snugly up against a mainstay of my bucket list, which will be auditioning next week.

…So, currently, I’ve a Scouser hairdresser a-la Pygmalion (“Educating Rita”) sharing space with a twisted turn-of-the-century homicidal Frenchy who likes to play-act as others. It’s an interesting combo up in my head these days, to say the least…which I obviously love, as only an actor would voluntarily piggy-back that range and number of personalities together at one time. Dropping the manic-bipolar-drugged-up-drunk off my back, makes the rest left over seem almost feasible at this point.

…So now I’ve only to concentrate on the massive “Maids” line load, break down my script as to whom I am “playing” when, and prep a monologue. Pffft!! Piece of fucking cake!

…Except, minus the cake.

…Cuz I’ve seen what we are wearing in this little French horror story, and the deconstructed waste of seedy, stringy undergarments we will be sporting, while slithering all over one another, requires yet another diet regime to flog and whip my body into a submissive state that I feel comfortable slobbering all over a stage in my “altogethers.” Well, as comfortable as one can be, anyway.

…I wonder if going vegetarian is the key? I wonder if I could even fathom a world without meat for any real length of time?

…I wonder if The WHS Pimp would survive the wasteland of this office with an hormonal and pregnant receptionist, and a meat-addicted me on the wagon?

…Fuck that…would the WORLD survive it??

…This is prob’ly TBA.

…But definitely not till after I finish this donut…

~D

On The Piss…Then Off

1 May

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I shall survive! This MONSTER bout of general grossness from seemingly all walks of my life, up to (and including) my Birthday, is almost over.

…And now that I am finally coming out of this two week cycle of woe…like passing a really shitty kidney stone from hell…I can report that the world is not ending after all…while showered and shaved, dyed painted and plucked…sitting in some sunshine. 

…Sure, I’ve gained weight back…which is to be expected when you spend three days and nights on-end eating everything you can get your hands on, and getting pissed on every kind of fermented substance known to man.  But it’s over and done…I survived the bitch, and it’s time to collect myself, and hit the waves of “better things” now.

It all began on Saturday night.  This was when I closed the latest show with a particularly terrible performance, possibly due to the collective 4 hours of sleep I’d had in the past 24 hours leading up to it.  Or possibly not.  Maybe I just blew it full-turkey-out-the-ass all on my own.  I dunno.  But I’m never one to just roll over and let those kind of things just run off my back, whether it’s my actual fault or not.  This only put more fuel behind the next 12 or so hours of supreme hormonal meltdown, leading into my 34th birthday on Monday.

…It basically ended in a Nora Ephron comedic sketch of me blubbering to myself in between hot flashes, whilst refusing anything to do with celebrations by anyone with good intentions, and instead closeting myself away in pajamas, to watch nonstop film alone, on loop, and consider the travesties of my youth, with a bottle (or several) of booze…and how I’ve accomplished nothing I set out to, or will, and I might as well eat this pizza and get even fatter, cuz who cares?

I like to call it “Bridget Jonesing.”

…Add to that the fact I’m pretty sure I was (and am) peri-menopausing on top of it.

…Like an idiot, I did research online. This is ruinous for people like me, with anxiety issues that won’t sleep for weeks at a time cuz a zit on my elbow might actually be a cancerous growth I don’t know about yet, but am too scared to really check out.

…So I fester.

…Only lately, it’s been: “fester and sweat.”

…Now, don’t get me wrong, I have always been a clammy sweater. Its in the Latino DNA. Only for the past…oh…year or so, I’ve had these random night-sweats-from-hell that I try to pretend aren’t really there. Except when they wake me at 3 am because I have to strip every fucking thing I’m wearing due to the fact they are doused and soaking wet with sweat. It’s been really special…lemme tell you…

…And as my BD got closer, and I brought it up to Ma, she was all, “Well, yeah…I mean, me and two generations back all had hysterectomies by your age…so who KNOWS when menopause hits this side of the family?”

…And I said, “ARE YOU TELLING ME ON THE EVE OF MY 34TH BIRTHDAY THAT I AM MENOPAUSAL?!?”

…And she said, “Well…maybe peri…”

…And I said, “I STILL GET ZITS ON A REGULAR BASIS! I’VE BEEN DYING THE WHITE FROM MY HAIR SINCE MY MID TWENTIES! I JUST FINISHED PLAYING MOTHER TO A MAN THREE YEARS OLDER THAN ME!! ARE YOU BEING REAL RIGHT NOW?!? HOW IS THIS FAIR?!?!”

…And she said, “Reasons.”

…So, needless to say, after a really shitty performance, in my really not best show, with streaks of white waiting to be dyed out of my temples, a bitchingly horrid period, and (apparently) peri-menopausal sweats, I decided to be terribly terribly depressed on the day of my birth.

I’m usually anxiety bound…so this was a new thing. It sucks too. Especially the involuntary bursting into tears bit. You know…the, “I should take a shower, but what’s the point, I’m fat anyway…my back hurts like I’ve been punched in the kidneys…I think I’ve bled so much I may have turned anemic and SUNOFABITCH it’s HOT IN HERE!”

…That kind of thing.

…Wrapped up in: ” All my LIFE I wanted to be EQUITY and pro, doing only theatre by age 35, and now its only one year away and I’ll never make it…or if I do, I’d only work like once every five years…there aren’t enough houses here to support it anymore…and I’m a coward…totally unlike The BFF who just opened her first solo company in freakin’ New Orleans last week…you know…cuz she SAID so…and also, no matter WHAT I do, these last ten pounds just won’t go away. It’s like my body is STARVING for the fat…to keep it warm and sweaty (apparently)…also my mood swings could basically be categorized as step-one bipolar disorder…if that’s even a thing…and I’m in my mid-thirties…and STILL struggling to pay bills and live life and figure out my head…and sometimes am maybe a little lonely…but never enough to deal with the shit that people have to deal with when they come in twos…”

…And also: “CHOCOLATE!”

…And, “Maybe I need some sex IMMEDIATELY, or at least more often…or maybe not ever again. But definitely salt. Like NOW!”

…And, “How DARE my mother call me menopausal! Peri or otherwise!!!’

{gentle sob}

…It’s been an interesting few weeks, to say the least. And by “interesting” I mean: “viciously feminine and horrifying.” And though the actual REAL heat outside is not helping my body’s imaginary already over-indulgence, the sunlight does. So I’m trying my best to use it as a guide…to get out in it and sweat more (on purpose) and hydrate like a sonofabitch…and try, try, try to find the humor hiding in all my personal little woes. It’s there. They are the original basis of Rom-Coms (minus the love story bit)…which is totally fine with me…cuz I obviously have enough shit to deal with right now without adding secondary subplots into the mess.

…And whatever all THAT means/achieves in outting crap for some better self mental-help: so be it. Consider it writ. You can now commence to make fun of me. Meanwhile…I’m packing up and going for a walk. Like a person.

Hurrah for me.

~D

Huh.

26 Mar

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So this happened…

Got on the scale this morning after another not-great-sleep and had a double take at the face plate.  Understandable as my eyes were blurry from being shrieked awake by the news of how high the body count is now in the mudslide here…cuz  apparently I must have bumped the station setter on my clock radio and switched it to talk radio.

…I hate talk radio. It’s almost always angry, picking fights and depressing.  I hate it even more when it wakes me up out of the three hours sleep I finally managed to get.

…So anyway…where was I?

…Oh yeah, I was rubbing my eyes again to focus on the digital read-out on my scale, while behind me the shower water blasted on full, waiting to warm up.

Scale: Blinky, blinky, solid number.

Me: Wait. What?

(I get off and try again.)

Scale: Blinky, blinky, same solid number.

Me: Huh.

(I get off, jiggle the back plate, check the batteries…and try it a third time)

Scale: Yeah, I already told you…”BLINKY, BLINKY, SAME NUMBER.” What are you not understanding here?

Me: Because …how??

Scale: How the hell would I know? I have one job, lady…I’m doing it. That’s all I’ve got.

Me: But…wha…I don’t…understand

Scale: Listen, it is what it is. Deal with it.

Me: But…but…

Scale: –LOOK!! I’ve gotten a lot of fucking abuse from you lately, you know?! Every damn time you’ve used me in like the past month, you’ve told me to go to hell, go fuck myself, or kiss your ass! Every. Single. Morning! All I do is report your weight. It ain’t my fault what the outcome is! Did I shove the booze and shit-food down your throat till you puffed up like a Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon??? NO! I didn’t! I report the results! That’s all! It’s like getting pissed at the weather man when he says its gonna rain today, and it does!!

Me: –BUT I DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW THIS CAN BE RIGHT?!

Scale: WELL, TRY! DEAL WITH IT! I’M DONE NOW! GO TAKE YOUR DAMN SHOWER AND LEAVE ME ALONE, ALREADY!!

Me: BUT, HOW DO YOU LOSE SEVEN POUNDS IN ONE DAY?!?!?

Scale: PEE A LOT?! I DON’T KNOW!!! NOW GET THE HELL OFF OF ME!!!

Me: So I’ve just passed the 10 pound mark???

Scale: I GUESS SO!

Me: Just like “that?” Just from out of NOWHERE?!

Scale: APPARENTLY, YES!

Me: AFTER ALL THIS TIME?! OUT OF NOTHING, NOTHING, NOTHING…DAY AFTER DAY AFTER DAY?!!?

Scale: ARE YOU INSINUATING THAT I’M LYING?!?

Me: IT JUST DOESN’T MAKE SENSE!!

Scale: WELL, I DON’T CARE!

Me: HOLY SHIT!!

Scale: WHATEVER, YOU’RE BEYOND ASTONISHED, YA-DE-YA-DA…NOW WILL YOU GET YOUR FAT ASS OFF MY FACE AND GET IN THE DAMN SHOWER?!

Me: IT’S LESS FAT THAN IT WAS!

Scale: WELL, “BULLY” FOR YOU!

Me: YOU’RE A SHITTY MOTIVATIONAL COACH, YOU KNOW THAT?!

Scale: IN FACT, I DO! AND I DON’T CARE.

Me: CAN’T YOU EVEN CONGRATULATE ME IN MY MOMENT OF GLORY?!

Scale: NO! LEST YOU FORGET, YOU’VE STILL TEN POUNDS TO GO!

Me: –BUT IT AIN’T TWENTY ANYMORE!

Scale: WELL, IT AIN’T FIVE, EITHER!

Me: BUT IT WILL BE SOMEDAY!! AND NOW I KNOW IT FOR REAL!

(I get off scale as it’s screen goes to black.)

Me: FOR REAL!!!

(Momentary joy fills the land, just as I step into the shower…and scald myself raw.)

Me: SUNOFAFUCKINGBITCH!!!!

Shower Head: WELL DON’T SCREAM AT ME?!!? I’VE BEEN WAITING LIKE FIVE MINUTES ON FULL HEAT TEMP! I’M ONLY DOING MY DAMN JOB!! EVERY FREAKIN’ MORNING, IT’S THE SAME THING WITH YOU…!

(end scene.)

~D

You Dirty Cheat

24 Mar

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The longer I give up a vice, the worse it gets.  Giving up all but one of ’em magnifies the whole thing beyond ridiculous.  In my final stretch of this nonsense (ending Sunday), I’ve been reduced to pretending I’m getting away with something bad, when I’m really not.

I’m not the noble type.  I’d rather feel like I’m breaking the rules any day, over martyring over it.  Unless I can spin it to make you laugh, in which case, I’m a whore for an audience so I’ll take whatever I can get away with.

…It is because of this that I entered the weirdest part of detox, sometime late last week: Pretending I’m cheating when I’m really not…just to psych myself into accepting the loss and shutting up about it.

“What the hell does that even mean?” you might ask yourself?

…It means dressing things up naughty, in order to fake out your brain that they are naughty, so you can reasonably consider yourself not really missing anything at all.

I am lying to myself on purpose and pretending I haven’t caught on yet.

How fucking lame is that?

…It started with fizzy water.

…I’ve been drowning in it.  It has long been my lack-of-soda fake-out, giving me bubbles that I miss, with zero nutritional cost on the diet end.  Other than the totally unsatisfying side affect of a water burp versus a Coke one, it seems to do the job most of the time. But it stopped filling the void in week two this time. So one night, for kicks, I filled up a champagne flute with it, and popped in few frozen berries set afloat.

…Turns out, the glass is 9/10th of my brain craving.

…I tested this heavily across all last week. Non-fat milk in a tumbler doubles as a White Russian if you sip not gulp.

…Apple and cranberry juice in a wine glass taste 75% naughtier than when not in one.

…Hot black tea with enough straight lemon juice to drown in, and a shot of cyan pepper makes a serviceable hot toddy on a rainy day…only for the love of god don’t try it an hour before bed.

There is, however, no pretence on EARTH that can fix the lack of whiskey.

…But, peppered and grilled garbanzo and kidney beans can give you the same general texture as chicken in a bowl of rice.

…Diced up colored bell peppers make even the most boring brown and pasty of foods look 300 times more appetizing.

…Steaming veggies in garlic to al dente makes shoving pound bags of em down your gullet a hell of a lot more interesting than raw salad number 456.

…After this, I frankly never want to see a piece of naked fruit again…but dried or in a roughly blended juice with some veg can get it down…if it is a sugar substitute must…and keep you from wanting to hit over a convenience store for a Milky Way bar.

There is no cure for pizza.

…But you can in lieu of a burger with a warm turkey sandwich…hot meat (pardon the expression) is hot meat…you can wig your brain to believe it’s almost anything.

…Especially when you’re desperate.

Desperation also can replace brown gluten-free protein powder in water as chocolate milk.

…Make you think the 12 supplement and vitamin pills you pop every morning, full of various weeds and homeopathic hoo-de-haws, will expand and fill your tummy for hours.

…That burping up broccoli means you’re totally in shape.

…That NOT cheating for real, at all, even a little bit, naturally means you will finally drop that sixth fucking pound because: SCIENCE!

…That all the clay masks and lotions and steam showers will de-age you by 10 years, instantly.

…That it’s totally normal for your stomach to growl sonatas during quiet scenes in rehearsal.

…That the pregnant gnome eating 300 times a day to the point that she smells like pizza sauce and baked goods permanently, means that (eventually) her tummy will out-protrude yours.

…These are the lies I have been forcing upon myself.

…They are getting more outrageous as time passes.

…If I were doing this for 30 days instead of 20, I’d be wandering around in my fat pants again, pretending that they fitted like a glove only two days ago, and hula hoop the waist band to everyone I see…just to show how much weight I’d lost in only 48 hours.

…I’d dye tofu red and pretend it’s sweet and sour pork on rice.

…I’d throw lemon juice in water and call it a dirty martini.

…In short: the ending could not come any sooner or last-second than it is.

And I am glad.

Because, even for an actor, I’m running out of lies to pretend for myself.

…And also, I’m not so sure I’m buying the ones I’ve already been telling, to begin with.

~D

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