taking time off

Short post friends.

T-minus 2 hours to little sister. And as such I've got to get around to cleaning the kitchen. I love the weird double standard that it's ok for oneself to allow vaguely squalor-like conditions to persist for themselves but the second another person is about to come over there's a mad rush to clean everything up so that it looks otherwise.

Anyway, exciting times with the lil' sis await. She's here for a wham bam 26 hours so hopefully we can squeeze in as much Philly fun in as short a time as possible. Updates tomorrow on how it all turned out.

Faking It 2: Cruise Control

Tonight is the second to last night of my month long stint as a performer. And though I wouldn't have believed it a month ago, I have to admit I'm going to miss it.

In fact, oddly enough, I've only just recently started to grow into my skin as an actor. Both literally and metaphorically wearing that mask was tiring to me for a long long time. The ego bruises are still only just begining to fade. But one day last week I was in the middle of the show chatting backstage with the rest of the cast and I sort of thought, you know what, I actually kind of belong here. In the same way after a prolonged and annoying illness you one day just kind of realize that everything in your body is in working order, I've grown accustomed to the state I've been placed in. And I find that without realizing it I've been enjoying being there.

So it's too bad that it ends tomorrow. A lot too bad. The people I've worked with on the show, both the ones I've known previously and the ones I've gotten to meet, are cool beans. They've all been supportive and wonderful in ways I would never have expected. They are a talented bunch but more importantly a group of very, and I mean this in the most genuine sense of the word, good people.

After every project that I take part in I get a little bit of post partum depression. You've birthed this piece of art or whatever out into the ether and afterwards there's just this sense of, "Well... I guess that's... done. Umm. So yeah. I guess I'm gonna go make dinner now." You've put all your energy into this one arena for so long and then it just, ends. And unlike a breakup where there's negative energy that can be directed towards a specific object, the sadness of a show ending especially when it ends well is vague and disperse. It's everywhere and nowhere. It's an elephant in a tiny room that has no where to go.

Being in a play is a little like the movie Speed. Because you know, every time I do a show Jeff Daniels dies. And a bus explodes. And because, like people who go through huge harrowing events together, there's a certain crisis-like bond that gets created. It is of the moment of the disaster and impact, it is precipitated by enforced closed quarters and a need to work together under pressure. And unlike dismantling a bomb, theatre professionals have to undergo the zero hour every night for several weeks until it becomes the natural state of things.

And because of this previously "ab" prefixed now turned plain "normal" dynamic there is often a weird energy after the crisis event is over. You no longer have to band together in the face of impending danger. You can just be. Which is way harder than you'd think. I often wonder what happened to Sandra and Keanu's characters after a few months together minus bus-exploding festivities. Actually, if I remember correctly, I think they broke up before the narrative of Speed 2 begins so he could go do the Matrix thus giving us the only remotely realistic feature of the movie series I have yet found.

Anyway, cop-out pop-culture references aside, I'm bittersweetly looking forward to the next 48 hours. They'll be the last memories of this group as the collective it has grown to be. The end to the ensemble if not a connection to the individuals that make it up. They are special people. They are talented people. They are people I will miss greatly. They managed to convince me of the near impossible: that I'm sort of something that resembles a real live actor. Lack of headshots non-withsatnding, when I'm working with them, it feels like I belong in my role.

So with much love from me to you, thanks friends.

taste my (vanilla flavored) left foot

Is it wrong that I want to taste like vanilla cookies?

I know, I know. I'm back on the food topic again. But only peripherally today. The topic of conversation is not food specifically. It's about me and my wish to simulate certain aspects of food to those around me. As I said before, I want to taste and smell like vanilla.

Preferably french vanilla.

I've always been vaguely intrigued by this idea. Ever since youth I've been drawn to the idea of perfume. I thought it surely one of the greatest inventions. Being largely Scandanavian, I don't sweat much and even when I do I really don't emit much of a smell. If it weren't for the fact that my hair is so fine it would collect lots of oil otherwise, I might not need to shower very often. And don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. My genetic lot in life is for the most part quite satisfactory. But the fact that I don't have a lot of inherant smell meant I wanted one. Unlike most unfortunate smellies who wish only to purge themselves of their natural odors, I was obsessed with the idea of creating an Adrienne aroma. A scent that one would intrinsically connect with me. So despite being on the whole a rather ungirly girl I got into this aspect of makeupdom quite young.

It was a pursuit aided by my grandmother, the original queen of makeup. My grandmother has no eyebrows because in her youth it was fashionable to pluck them out and draw them back in with a pencil. Eventually, the poor eyebrows just stop trying. My mom's mother would give my sister and I perfume all the time for birthdays or christmas or even for no reason at all. I would slather myself in these scents: Emerald Musk, Amber Evening, Misty Rose and a variety of other fragerances that sounded like the names of soap opera characters, much to my mother's dismay. I think eventually someone pointed out that perhaps I was applying the prescious liquid from the tiny little vials a bit too heavily. Which made me actually take stock of whether I really liked any of these smells or not. And I realized that I didn't. They stunk.

Up until that point I had the simplistic idea that perfume = smells good. This was perfume, ergo I must be a fantastic nasal orgy for everyone around me. And if a little perfume = smells a little good, a lot of perfume should by rights make me smell even better. Should not goodness of smell be contained only by the amount of it one can acheive? Aparently, as my mom later revealed to me, Emerald Musk, Amber Evening, and Misty Rose didn't smell very good even when applied in small doses. It seemed I had learned that one had to be a bit more discerning in choosing one's scent.

So rather than take someone else's opinion on the matter I decided to decide for myself what the best smell was. The lilac bushes in the backyard were an paradise of scent. The more I smelled them the more of them I wanted to smell. Unfortunately, their delicate blossoms did not stand up to the test of being mashed into a purple pulp and then rubbed all over my neck. I found after performing such an operation I smelled only of generic dead plant mass. Same, it would seem for all of the flowers in the backyard. Berries were sticky, and I found fruit flavors rather cloying anyway. I liked mint in theory but the only source for the smell I had was toothpaste and even then I knew experiments with the tube would turn out badly. Chocolate also presented a clear problem in terms of mess. But lo and behold in the kitchen cabinets I found a tiny vial of vanilla extract. The magic brown liquid that I always watched go into cookie dough in tiny amounts. That bottle smelled like what I can only hope heaven does. And it seems from that moment forward, my loyal nature being what it is, I have stayed true to my scent.

I love vanilla in all forms, tea, ice cream, cookie, you name it I'll eat it. It's so comforting and soft a smell. Even in large doses it just doesn't know how to overpower. And I've found that one can get lotions, perfumes, shampoos, lipsticks, room fresheners, roll-on body stick, deoderant, face cream, foot scrubs, nail polish and on and on ad naseum in the scent of vanilla. I've come across a few that are particularly realistic to the true thing. I won't give away my trade secrets here, lest someone wish to simulate my presence and just buy the bottle my ambiance comes in, but suffice to say a mix of a couple vanilla inspired products and you basically have patented me. I will say however, the words French in front of the V-word will tend to put you on the right track.

In any event, once I found my scent I was rather pleased with myself. Ha, I thought. I can now forever be linked with one of the best smells ever. I claim vanilla for Adrienne. But the problem with store bought smells is they have to be applied via lotion or spray. And the problem with vanilla is it tends to remind one of things you want to taste. So vanilla applied via an alcohol spritz is a bit of a tease, a wolf in sheeps clothing. Because best case scenario you smell a mirage. My odor leads you nowhere, rendering your poor soul a wandering knight in the forest of scent with nary a vanilla bean touched taste bud in sight.

And I don't want to do that to you.

But I was talking to a friend the other day and she told me that there is a little jar you can buy. In this jar is a powder and the powder contains both the power of smell and taste. So when you put this on yourself and someone bites you, you taste like the thing you smell like. Fantastic... So I'll end with a return to my original question. Is it weird that I want to taste like a vanilla flavored product? Is this some strange desire to be consummed? What does that mean? Why can't things just be simple. Simple and sweet. Simple and sweet and bean derived.

Like vanilla.

Carmen Miranduck

"I don't know."
- The last words of Peter Abelard

"Don't let it end like this. Tell them I said something."
- Pancho Villa, deathbed request

"On the contrary."
- Henrik Ibsen's response to a Nurse's comment that he was doing much better that day. Immediately following, he died.


Only a Norwegian could go out with such wry style.

Have you ever been hit suddenly and forecefully with a bout of your own mortality? It happens to me periodically, usually for no aparent reason. I'll just be walking along as I was this morning to work and then BAM out of nowhere I just become intensely aware of myself as a transient state.

It's not a subject I have lots of big thoughts on. It's not one I've ever really been in a position to discuss much. But when I'm hit with these flashes there's an overwhelming... something. I don't know, it's not exactly sadness or fear specifically but there's hints of that mixed in. Resignation and the need to fight it take a little space in that feeling. More than anything I think it's just a great sense of amazement and wonder. How does one contemplate the end of consciousness?

You can't. Because in the same way you have the "so how big IS infinity?" crisis at 10, trying to think about the end of thinking makes you a snake eating its own tail. When I try sitting and thinking about morbid things in vague and general ways I just end up feeling really stupid, a walking 15 year old cliche (Remember the who would be sad if I died game?) What it comes down to is there's just no getting close to it when you're sitting in the sun drinking a raspberry mocha. And the realization of oneself as mortal isn't the same as becoming gothy and death obsessed. Awareness doesn't have to equal pursuit.

So I try instead to see what happens when I am hit by the awareness. The problem is I don't really know how to stay in that feeling. These flashes tend to be just that, flashes, if for no other reason than it's too intense a place to stay in for long. And beyond the reoccurring realization, there isn't much else to say on the subject. Some part of me thinks I should let that sink a little, let it under the skin. Use it to spur me on in my quest towards whatever I'm questing for, be it love, life and/or the pursuit of something resembling happiness. But usually I shake it away, try to distract myself with whatever else I can grab at.

But part of me wonders,if I had to face my own ending, had to face it right now, which of the three men might I agree with most? I'd love to say that I'd pull an Ibsen. Would love to be that composed in the face of everything and nothing that I could pull out the ultimate cool. But I doubt it. Which might lead me to Mr Villa, wishing I had those last parting shots to hit a bullseye but coming up with only blanks. But while I don't give myself the Ibsen factor I also want a little more credit than the Villa seems to have given himself.

So maybe Abelard it will have to be. It's short, simple, classy. An answer that begets a million questions. One that bespeaks a great humility in oneself, a knowledge of one's own lack of knowledge. And I freely admit, I don't know, about anything really. Not yet. But I keep hoping. Keep hoping that someday, I will.

Expecting...

Nope. Not like that. There will be no additions to the family line quite yet.

I'm talking instead about the way that we as people set ourselves up, how we plant our hopes and dreams in neat little rows to guesstimate and surmise at the future, the way we draw out our plans in pencil (or pen) for them to inevitably be compared to the actual outcome.

What is expectation? Does it work on us or do we work on it? There are things I wish and want from life for sure but is it my expectation of these things that make them come to pass or have my previous acheivements on the path towards these goals set up the expectation? A combination of the two? For your meal this evening will you be having the chicken or the eggs ma'am?

I'm a dreamer. A sarcastic and cynical one, but a dreamer none the less. And my dreams tend to be big. I have high expectations for myself and do everything I can to make them come to pass. I get angry when I can't get what I imagined I might. Really mad. Really really mad. There is no sense of frustration so great for me as the one that comes from not being able to do what I set out to. And though I beat myself up for not getting what I expect, I keep setting the bar up over and over, having to believe that at some point I'll scale it with ease.

And while it's frustrating not to meet expectations for myself, perfectionistic tendencies being what they are, I can more often than not get pretty close. I can usually find a way, however harrowing the process, to make things I said I'd do come to pass. Where the real rub comes in is with people who aren't me. Because while I know that not everyone holds themselves to the same expectations I might have, it doesn't mean I still don't expect them to.

When I meet a person, pretty much regardless of context I almost without thinking set up certain expectations of how our relating to one and another will play out. I'm doing it all the time and even when I don't want to I can't help thoughts that start running through my head. A new friend is already being weighed to see if when we're 80, we might still stand the sight of each other. A first date becomes a gallery of images from moving in to marriage to children. A new artistic acquaintance becomes a lifelong partner in creation. And it isn't even like I really think these things will happen. But in a weird way letting those thoughts in makes them just a tiny bit real. And these expectations start so early that they get molded around simple and not terribly realistic versions of the truth. And while they do change as the knowledge of the person changes, I wish I didn't have them in the first place. I wish I didn't have expectations until I really expect they will come to pass.

Let's take a dictionary break:

to ex·pect (verb)

1) To look forward to the probable occurrence or appearance of, as in "He is expecting a telephone call" or To consider likely or certain: "She expects to see them soon."

2) To consider reasonable or due: We expect an apology.

3) To consider obligatory; require: The school expects its pupils to be on time.


Let's take the above piece by piece and see what happens when the expectation is lost... 1) If one looks forward to a thing that does not come to pass, he never gets his phone call, she does not see them soon, probable or no, we're bound to feel bad. We thought it would occur or appear for us to take note of and it just didn't. 2) We felt owed something and it did not come to us. The expected did not give us our due. 3) We require something and that obligation is left unfufilled. In this case, either we must change our requirement to deal with this disjunct or we remove the thing that has failed entirely.

And if the above tells us anything it is perhaps that the problem with expectations of other people is that they only seem to reflect back on oneself. Because usually the only outcomes of an expectation are 1) that the person will acheive it as you've already conceived them to or 2) they fail. Which means that to expect something from someone is to either ask them to bend to what you wish them to or to be disappointed in them, to force them into hurting you. In this way an expectation is an implicit question, a plea, a cry to be faithful to the expector and one that presumes to get an answer without ever doing the asking. Whether stated or silent, expecting something from someone sets up a constant win or lose scenario for your encounters with them.

Which brings me to a last definition I've saved until now:

4) Informal. To suppose.

While the other definitions of expectation make me a little nervous, this one seems softer around the edges, no? To suppose. To pose superly. Sup from the Latin supra meaning above and pose meaning to put forth, to ask, to question. To question above... As if expecting in this way means one is carrying on with life down here on earth while the expecation hovers overhead, watching and waiting, informally if you will. And I think this kind of expectation is ok in my book. And I'm trying every day to get the expectations that come from numbers 1 - 3 above, pull them out of the pit of my stomach, the lump in my throat, the stress spots in my back and tie them to that balloon of number 4. Take out all that formality that twists me up in knots and just let the expectation float. Let it stand aside while I go about my business. Hopefully, it will be there if I need it, and if I don't it might just have to head elsewhere.

People are dumb

I'm annoyed right now. For a couple reasons, reasons I'm not going to go into below because I'm not airing my personal life for the world to read. Even if I am annoyed with people near and dear to me I have enough respect for them not to write about it here.

But that's not the case for random stupid people I don't know who annoy me. I have no compunction whatsoever to stop myself from railing on them for a little while.

For those who don't know, I have a profile on match.com, a dating web site. My philosophy on internet dating is a suprisingly positive one despite some notable past horror stories. Suffice to say I now prompt any new prospect with the two questions: 1) Did you vote for Bush? and 2) Do you have girlfriend in Ohio? At one point in my life I expected a firm No to both of these questions was an automatic given for anyone on a date with me. Aparently, this is not so much the case.

In any event, my profile's up there. I really should take it down. I'm not looking for anyone at the moment, hands being if not full, not exactly empty. And not even taking into account that I'm super busy with performing, I don't do dating more than one person at a time anyway... But as there have been no "talks" about status, not even hints at such, I like getting the daily emails from would be suitors. I don't really want date them, but it makes me feel nice that based on a few paragraphs and some pictures they'd want to get to know me. A little daily confidence boost if you will.

And then there are the crazies. Who also provide their own brand of entertainment. Like the 37 year old Russian man who said even if I didn't want to date him he hoped I had a beautiful and wonderful life. Or the 56 year old Dupont exec who said we could either meet for a drink or he could get me a job. Or my favorite, the guy who said he was sorry but way too old for me but boy was I hot and was my mom single and cute. I can't make these things up. The number of amusing stories that have come out of the experience could fill a book. But I'm digressing.

The point is that even the crazies tend to be amusing. Even when they're really unintelligent, even when they're lewd, even when they sound like they hear voices, they usually make me smile on some level. But today I got an email that just pissed me off. Maybe it was the fact that I was already in a funk to begin with. Who can say. But read this and you tell me:

------
From: ImAStupidhead@talkmatch.com [names have been changed to protect the moronic]
Date received: April 25, 2005
Subject: Hi

A little advice for you?
You left no room for questions in you profile. So How am I supposed to start a conversation.

OH and ps -
not too keen about your first picture, not hot. I would rather try the last one. mmmm. Just stating my openion.

Think you can keep up?
[a number, presumably a cell phone inserted here]
ImAStupidhead
------

That's just rude. Not one sentence in that email does anything other than try to put me down. Am I crazy? In what universe did he think that would work? "Hey baby, you're so right! Even though you can't spell or punctuate I don't know how I lived all these years without someone putting me in my place."

I couldn't help myself, I had to respond. I mean come on, he put a question mark where there should be a period and a period where there should be a question mark.

-----
To: ImAStupidhead@talkmatch.com
Date Sent: April 25
Subject: A little advice for yourself

Hey there ImAStupidhead,

How lovely and eye opening it was to get your email, I spent quite some time pondering the intelligent points you posed. And in the spirit of self-exploration and growth I thought I might send some of my own words of wisdom your way.

You just might have better luck if you don't insult someone while propositioning them. Also, if you want women to answer your emails, that extra effort to double check with a dictionary is always a point in your favor.

As for keeping up, even if I hadn't slept for a week and had gone without food and water in the meanwhile could you even begin to try.

Just stating my opInion,
Adrienne
------

Is that bitchy? Yeah. I know it is. But you have to admit, it's pretty good too...

serenity now

I just spent the whole afternoon in the kitchen. And now I am so zen.

I'm sure those of you who don't know me well have noticed a trend in this blog to tend towards food related topics. Those of you who do will be mightily impressed at my ability to hold back on the subject as often as I do. I don't know why I am so monofixated on it. There's that wives tale about how men think about sex every 10 seconds or whatever it is. I think cooking is my sex.

Not my actual sex. Just, you know, with respect to the thinking about it every 10 seconds thing.

As my Meyers-Briggs personality profile will attest (that's a post in the making people, just wait a few days) I am a person that spends an awful lot of time in my head. I'm an intuiter, I am most in my natural state when I'm thinking and pondering. I run over social situations a million times to logic out every iota of meaning. I spend 45 minutes on a three paragraph email making sure I'm writing things in the best possible way. And I define myself in large part in relation to my ability to deduce and critique and problem solve. Sometimes, like after a hard gym workout, I think so hard my brain hurts.

For the most part, I like this attribute of my personality. I value intelligence and the pursuit of it higher than just about anything else. But sometimes, more and more so since I've gotten a little more in touch with the ability to emote, too much thinking just makes me tired. And the problem is, I've spent so much of my life in pusuit of thought, so much time encouraging receding farther and farther into my own head, that I can have a hard time knowing how to turn the thinking off.

Music doesn't do it. In fact, music tends to add a soundtrack to the movie playing in my brain. TV can sometimes be useful, if the program is at least passingly entertaing but also round and fluffy enough to have no point upon which thoughts might grow. Reading is similarly dependant on the material one is engaging with. Running can do in a pinch. But I have found that cooking works better than anything else.

Cooking is the perfect salve for the overly analytical mind. For those who spend months, years, working on things waiting to see them bear out, cooking provides the antidote. Instant gratification. Take something, work it in your hands and a few hours later, boom, you get to eat it and you're done. It's physical which takes focus away from mental stress and diverts that attention towards mechanical motion: chop, stir, slice, mash. I love it best when you have multiple things going at once, a main, a side, a dessert, all needing attention in varying degrees. No time to think in my kitchen, just ride the wave and try to keep up with the food.

And I find that when you've spent all day in a man made environment there's something lovely about dealing with the natural and elemental. I always take a moment to look at all the ingredients when they're still in raw form, just to take stock of them for a moment before I begin. I won't deny there's an essential and earthy quality to it. And while a high tech gizmo is exciting in theory, for the most part I like to use only the most basic tools: a knife, a wooden spoon, a pan, my own hands. To me there's something terribly right about the feeling I get when making ravioli from scratch and I'm elbow deep in a pile of flour and egg. To knead that chaos into something that makes sense.

Cooking is a sensory pursuit, all about smelling and tasting, so it puts a person in touch with a more instictive part of theirselves. A real cook doesn't use a book to figure out if two flavors mesh, they simply try and see. And unlike watching TV or running, cooking for me is highly creative. I admit I own a lot of cookbooks and have subscriptions to two cooking magazines. I like to read them in my spare time to get general ideas, noting what an interesting combination this or that recipe has. But when the stove is on they stay on the shelf. A cookbook is a kitchen prophylactic, a condom for my food. Whatever its presence may gain you in security, it will surely cost you in sensitivity to your medium. On a good day I can pull out whatever's in my fridge and just go on instinct, no specific endpoint in sight. My besh dishes have always come from this technique.

So I spent all afternoon in the kitchen. And what do I have to show for it? A warm and full sense of contentedness.

Finally, a parting thought:

For those of you who just read and walk away, and you know who you are, don't think that just because I've put something new up here today that you get out of responding to yesterday's post. I know the three comments left thus far have set the bar high but come on friends! Dream big. Or small. I don't care, put something on there. I just want to feel popular.

Paging Dr Freud...

Hey guys, like last Saturday, I didn't sleep a lot and I have to leave in an hour.

Plus, I'm in a pretty good mood at the moment. Not for any real aparent reason. Just a general, I like being alive today, kind of feeling. And when I'm in that mood I have a hard time trying to make myself do anything productive, I like to just sit and free associate. So you guys can be my Rorschach test. I'll write down the first 15 thoughts that pop into my head and you guys leave me notes as to how chemically imbalanced these musings reveal me to be. Plus, I can never get enough comments. This is a pure solicitation for feedback. Come on, bend to my will. Ready? Let's go:

1) It annoys me to no end that one of my hands is slightly smaller than the other. It is especially noticeable if you compare the two pinky fingers. One is WAY longer. I don't like it. Grr.

2) My room is painted light purple. I have painted my last two rooms this same color using the same two cans of paint.

3) When I was a kid we had a parrot named Jimmy. Jimmy didn't talk except to say one single phrase over and over and over: Step up Jimmy. He taught it to the other parrots so they would all chorus in "Step up Jimmy" every time anyone entered the room.

4) When my younger sister was in 2nd grade she hated her name and wanted to change it to Georgette.

5) When I fall asleep my whole body shakes. Or at least, that's what sleeping partners have told me. Aparently each limb shivers one at a time and then I do at least one whole body quiver.

6) Do you ever buy a new pair of pants and love them so much you wear them every day for a week? I just did this and now I seriously wonder what I wore before I got these pants. I can't remember. Suddenly every other pant-like item I own seems to have disappeared.

7) I think I'm a little addicted to solitare on my computer. My OCD tendencies love love love putting things in order endlessly.

8) H & R Block tells me am receiving 35 dollars for my state income tax return. I would rather the state of PA just buy me a nice blender and called it a day.

9) I can recite Eddie Izzard's Dressed to Kill verbatim. I'm very close with Glorious.

10) Little known and slightly strange fact: I am a dental oddity. I have two sets of wisdowm teeth, an extra bone in the hard palate of the roof of my mouth as well as a condition called "geographic tongue" in which small patches of taste buds deaden and then regenerate in shifting plces over time.

11) I just recently bought two new pairs of sandals. One of them cut the hell out of my feet.

12) Will Dawson's Creek ever stop being relevant to my life? I think not. I don't know why I like this show. I hate just about all the actors and the writing is bad. But still it tastes so very good to watch.

13) Food made by other people somehow tastes better. It just does. I can make the exact same thing I just saw someone else make and even when I know I did a better job I still want to eat theirs.

14) I have been in love 2 and a half times.

15) I learned the other day that the pole about which a circular staircase revolves is called a newel. I think this is the wrong name for it. I don't have a better suggestion. But I know newel is not right.

There you go friends. Play couch psychologist. I wait with baited breath for your response.

Out of Sight

Want to know what's funny?

The US Marshals showed up at my house. Seriously, they surrounded the building with guns and stuff and then they asked to get let in. They aparently thought my roomates and I might make a run for it or try to stop them from entering the apartment. I don't know about you, but I tend to let the US Marshals do whatever they please when they say they need to see my room.

The best part is, they've been here before. The warrant police have also made their appearance, their rendevous with my abode was at 4:14 am in the Winkin-Blinkin and Nod hours of a wednesday morning. They don't schedule ahead, too much planning for the warrant unit, they prefer to drop by and promise to break the door down if you don't open up. The regular old police have been here half a dozen times, but that barely registers as exciting anymore.

Why, a random person might be inclined to ask, would the US Marshals, the Warrant Unit, and the Police want to come into my home?

Ginger Bread.

That's right. You heard me: Ginger Bread. That is the clever alias of the former downstairs neighbor and blight on humanity step-son of my landlord. I'll refrain from using his real name, lest the Police spy on me and think I am covertly supporting his efforts against the law or the perp himself finds out I'm writing about him and comes to kill me in the night. Which he very well might be capable of doing. Which he very well might have already done. I'm not really sure.

Because the other fun part about this crazy game we call low-rent housing is that my roomates and I have no idea what Ginger Bread is wanted for. No one wants to tell us, not the Police, not the landlord, and certainly not the Bread himself. We have no earthly clue what crime was committed to incur such attention. Though with each successive attempt at his capture we can only increase our suspicions as to its severity. I guess the Police won't talk to us because they don't want to jeopordize their investigation. Though, at this point if our house is their only lead, the investigation can't be going spectacularly. Ginger hasn't been here in 6 months as far as I know, not since he, his girlfriend and their three kids who aparently don't go to school, stopped selling their belongings on the stoop in front of our house. Also, none of the law enforcement groups seem to be communicating with each other. Every time some new team comes they ask us the same questions and are suprised every time:

He's not here?

You don't know where he is?

Are you sure?

Really sure?

Like, really really, super-plus good, sure?

The landlord is certainly in no hurry to relate any info to us. Which I suppose is understandable given that his other stepson set up an actual crack den in our house and was captured through the efforts of the honest-to-god SWAT team. This amusing bit of our house's history was related to us by our neighbors after we moved in and not by Lord de Slum himself. When I called him post the 4am sting to say, "Hey...Guess what funny little thing happened to me today?", he responded as if the phone were bugged. I was told that he had thought "things" were "taken care of" and he was sure we wouldn't need to "talk to anyone about you know... recent events". His step son was in New Jersy but we shouldn't need to tell that to anyone, he had hired a lawyer to work it all out, you see. When I explained that I hoped he understood how upsetting the incident was to myself and my roomates he simply replied, "Welcome to the big city kids."

All of which I of course related to the Marshals when they popped in for a chat the other day. Aparently, I looked annoyed while doing so. They asked for my feelings about G. B. and I said I rather didn't like him. To which one replied, "Why? Is it because he's Italian?" And I said, "No, it's more to do with the fact that you've just searched my house in an effort to arrest him and he still could have keys to the front door."

It's partly my own fault though. It's true that the police have reason to believe that I'm aiding and abetting Ginger's shady goings on because, and maybe I shouldn't be telling anyone this, I have his AAA card. You see, Ginger Bread being his clever alias and all, the former downstairs dweller would sign up for things as said spiced foodstuff and then get letters mailed to our address, which only has one mailbox. So one day when we got a letter for Ginger Bread from the American Auto Association I figured it must be a joke. So I opened the envelope and found one card made out to a Ginger Bread with my mailing address. Which of course I had to put up on my fridge. How can you not? It just fell in my lap.

And of course during the 4am raid the Warrant Unit saw this card and questioned us heavily as to what it might be doing magneted to our Frigidare. Which is probably why they persist in believing that he's hiding out here. Which sadly results in my life resembling one of the many 2 minute and 12 second sequences one sees on Law and Order. Damn my overdeveloped sense of sarcastic humor to hell.

I'll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours

Alright already, I fess up. I can't hold onto the pretense any longer. You may not believe it but I am semi-rescinding something I said here before.

It's time you knew the truth.

Guys, I'm a little prone to hyperbole. Shock, gasp, I know. I am in love with that figure of speech in which exaggeration is used for emphasis or effect. As in:

I just slept for a year

or

This book weighs a ton

The book in fact does NOT weigh a full ton and I'd be mighty upset with myself if I slept for an entire year. And it's about time I admitted these things. So the other day, when I said those mean and awful things about a bed other than my own in my blog, I meant them, but only a little.

The foreign bed and I didn't have quite the falling out I might have led one to believe. So I'm sorry bed that I made it out so much worse than it was. I'm sorry I aired our grievances for the world to see. That was wrong of me. I even missed you a little. And I should have talked to you about these issues before I went and shouted them to the world, little town crier I seem to be. Don't let us go the tragic way of Britney and Justin, bed. Like the old Beatles song says, we can, my friend, work it out. Because I'm learning to be more accepting of nocturnal resting places other than my own. It's a prejudice I'm willing to work on.

For selfish reasons assuredly. Through your good graces, bed, I think I've found the most amazing of ways to sleep. Let me explain: The human back is a fantastic and wonderful thing. It holds most of our vital stuff, lungs, heart, stomach, and it generally does so in a shapely and attractive manner. The back is a broad palate for warmth and touch. Sexy and supple, it is one of my favorite places to learn about. Lascivious writers of the middle ages wrote of the beast that has two backs. I write instead of the beast that has none.

Inch for inch, pound for pound, you can't beat sleeping back to back. At the same time both satiating the need for the intimate and respecting the wish for individuality, sleepy-time has never seen anything like it. Backs feel like they were made to be pressed together, they just fit, giving all that contact craved and you can still curl up into that requisite position fétale. One rests assured with all that bodily contact and has none of the complicated "This arm goes where?" juggling of the spoon. No longer does one have to choose between the emotional satiation of lying on another's chest and the unbearable neck cramp that inevitably follows. The snuggle buddy never had it so good.

And bed, I slept quite well now that I've seen what you have to offer. Maybe you think I'm trading the my-bed crack for another, equally situational dependant, sleep addiction. To which I can only reply: Zzzzzzz....

L'etat Jardin

"Thank you for this, bitter knowledge.
Guardian angels who left me stranded.
It was worth it, feeling abandoned,
Makes one hardened but -
What has happened to love?

You see above me... I'll never know,
What you have shown, to other eyes.
So go. Or go ahead and surprise me.
Just go. Or go ahead and just try me."

- Sir Rufus, Go or Go Ahead


I know what you're thinking. No, Mr. Wainwright hasn't been knighted while you were looking the other way. But I have a problem putting up song lyrics as the opener for a post in a non-ironic fashion. With the Sir in front of his name I can almost pretend like it's a real-person quote. Just imagine that it's existential poetry. Or listen to the song. It's a good one.

I don't have a lot of words for myself today. So you'll have to content yourself with some ponderings on the words of others.

There's a really smart man who once said that the tears of the world are of a constant quantity. I think for the most part I believe this is true. To make one group happy by necessity you usually have to cheat another. And the more a victor feels a need to celebrate their winnings generally so much the greater will be the pain of the loss for those who have failed.

Khalil Gibran, also a relatively smart man, was highly fond of an aphorism of his own invention that said the greater that sorrow carves into your being the more joy you can contain. I wonder if that one works the other way as well, so that the more joy you allow yourself to feel the more, one day, you must have to mourn? What then is the use of all this laughter and tears? Is it better to just stay in the middle and save oneself from both...

The Gibran quote is admittedly a little bit of a manic depressive's manifesto. And lots of people speculated about Gibran on that point. I, for my part, since I can remember myself in any real way, have always known that severe clinical depression runs on both sides of my family. My grandfather died from it. And it's an interesting paradox to be a product of such a situation. There's a constant self-examination that begins early on to test the bounds of one's own emotional capacity. I feel sad. Ok, but is this TOO sad? Am I depressed or anxious in the normal way or is this bad feeling more bad than I ought to feel? Maybe I'm being irrationally upset but maybe I'm not. I don't think I need to see a therapist, but how do I know when I have crossed the threshold and need help?

And in a way this self-psychologizing is an onus of sorts to to hide oneself from sadness. Because to constantly need to name the feeling, to box and package it and put it where it belongs, to diagnose and rationalize it often stops one from getting to own it. That if you need to label something before you even get to look it in the eye, let it hunker down and sit on your chest for a while, then you don't really ever get to know it. For a very long time I wouldn't admit to pain for the very reason that I felt if I did I'd be consummed by it.

And eventually I got to a point where I realized that the effort of holding back wasn't worth it anymore. And I finally just let go and said, if it means I'm broken, let's start picking up the pieces. It was shocking at first to let those feelings wash over me. They were very intense. I had no standards by which to judge them. But suprisingly, they came and went. In the end though the valley was lower than any I had let myself cross before, it really did mean that the mountains could be higher.

Which is not to say I'm anti-therapy, with two psychologists for parents and having been a product of it myself, it would be awfully hypocritical to be so. But in a strange way from a very early age I developed this sense that I wasn't supposed to let myself be moved by what happened around me. That rationality reigned supreme and that to let in the hurt and pain would be admitting defeat in some way. The flip side of that feeling being one that told me I was actually very broken and even more wrong for not admitting it. And that I think, just isn't right.

Back to the Rufmaster. Thank you indeed for the bitter knowledge. It comes in handy sometimes. The point being, that maybe there needs to be a constant amount of tears in the world. How can we judge what we love if we cannot also know how it pains us? What is the worth of the win if the loss means nothing? And no, you can't dig yourself in so deep you can't get out. But test your limits, see how far you're willing to let yourself plunge or fly.

So I say go. Just go ahead. Suprise yourselves.

Worn Me Down

"You can't always get what you want."
- The Rolling Stones

It's true, I suppose. Like right now, I'd really really love to have an orange. I can almost taste its juicy little self. Peeling away the rind, smelling the citris as it wafts through the air. But I've come to realize that just beca -

Wait. Scratch that. I absolutely can get an orange. I have to walk around the corner to the store, so I suppose sitting here in my room I can't just magically produce one. But on the great continum of needs and wants, orange is high up on the attainable side.

So while I'm not calling Mick Jagger a liar, I think maybe he just needs a little perspective. Indeed, it would be much harder for me if I wanted say, a monkey. A monkey is much less easy to come by than an orange, you can't just get them at the corner store. So much so that I might be tempted to say I just can't have one. But you know what? That's a cop out too. If I wanted and dreamed for that monkey I bet I could save up enough money and find a pet store that would willingly sell me a one so that I could carry out the rest of my life as a simian-laden paradise. Just look at Sigfried and Roy.

So really there are very few things you can never have. Anton Chekov maybe, cause he's dead. But for the most part, yes. You can get very close to most of the things you desire. You just can't always have them right away. Some things, generally the most important ones, take time and effort. It's a barter between how bad you want something and how much work you have to put into it to get the end result. So when does the effort required to aquire something stop being worth the payoff that thing brings? How does one negotiate working things out and knowing when to let go? At what point is enough, enough?

Take my house plant Fiona. And yes I do name my house plants.

Fiona is a Calilily. Fiona didn't come from a store, she was bequethed to me from the previous tenants of my last apartment. When I got her it was spring and she had these huge white flowers that I loved to look at. I moved Fiona and I into my bedroom and put her on top of my bookcase, a place of great respect for me. I left the shades open for her to bask in the sun, I watered her what seemed to me to be the requisite amount. Sometimes she'd get a little droopy but a glass of water and voila she was back to normal. How great, I thought, a plant that I can respond to. Fiona and I had a good system going.

Until about a month later her flowers started turning brown around the edges. I didn't know what to do. I put plant food in the pot, I tried putting more water in, but there's only so much water that the soil would hold before it started spilling out the bottom dish. I made several very very large messes and Fiona being on my bookcase meant I made messes of things I really didn't want to get messed up.

So I moved her. I figured for both our sake it was the best plan. I put her in the kitchen where she'd get more direct light and not spill her contents onto my collection of drama theory. To no avail. The flowers eventually withered and fell off. I told myself maybe that was just what Calililies did, it was heading into summer, maybe it's a spring flowering plant. In the back of my head I sort of knew that wasn't the case but it was too late to save the flowers anyway. My friends all gave me advice and told me what to do about her. I'm sure it was well intentioned but none of it worked. Some of the advice I couldn't take, I couldn't give her direct eastern sunlight because the apartment's windows faced north west. Some of the advice seemed an inordinate amount of effort, spending money on fancy plant food when the rest of my plants grew just fine seemed dumb. And some part of me didn't understand why I couldn't just get Fiona to grow on my own. Clearly she had been fine with the previous owner, I didn't see what I was doing so terribly wrong.

Fiona took a beating when I moved into my new apartment. All of the plants did, but she ended up stuck behind some boxes I was slow to unpack. When I pulled her out from the rubble I thought for sure I had killed her once and for all. And while I was sad to see her all brown and dead I was also a little relieved. But to appease my conscience I watered her again and put her out in the sun and sure enough in a few days, though now minus most of her former foliage, Fiona seemed resurrected.

We've sort of struck a deal, Fiona and I. I try as hard as possible to water her at the same time I water the other plants. It makes it easier to remember. She still gets droopy which makes her kind of ugly so when I see that sometimes I get up and go water her more. Sometimes it works sometimes not. I like the window open, she doesn't seem to and since there's no where else she fits in my new room, I alternate open and closed on cold days.

And at this point it really doesn't matter whether it's Fiona's fault or mine for the destructive person-plant dynamic. No matter what I do I still seem to forget to water her a lot. I think I've been doing a good job and then I look over and all of the sudden it's withered plant city. I'm not going to directly say she does it on purpose, but you know... Calililies have that way about them. I don't mean to be negligent, as a general idea I like Fiona, but I still can't help it. Maybe if she grew the white flowers again I be more apt to notice her. But I have a feeling that's dependent on me giving water more regularly. You see the problem cycle. So I'm stuck here with a wilty house plant.

I return to my original set of questions. Maybe you can't know for sure when enough is enough. Despite the fact that everyone around will have 12 opinions on the matter when it comes down to it you can only fight for what you want in the way you know how. Don't fret your decisions too much, even if they're important ones, cause eventually you just have to let go and make one. As troublesome as Fiona is to my psyche once in a while, I don't really have to worry too much, at the end of the day she's just a house plant.

And now to go get that orange.

1 - 800 - Why do I Bother?

I'm waging a war.

I am taking no prisoners.

Slowly but surely, I will eradicate the presence of grain/bread product from my kitchen.

Every simple sugar, every complex carbohydrate, each and every one is out. Sucrose, fructose, lactose, galactose, galactica, gattica, they're all things of the past to me. Pain me as it might pasta, rice, croissants, bread, bulgar (ok losing the bulgar won't pain me much) and anything bearing a resemblance to these foods will be slashed and burned, raped and pillaged from this home. It may take me time but I will emerge from my warpath like winged victory herself.

I know what you're thinking, "Adrienne, can it be, is it conceivable you've succumbed to the horrors of fad dieting? Surely you haven't taking up with the South Beach Zombies and the Atkins Undead? Please, for the love of all that is holy tell us it isn't so!"

To which I reply: Don't be retarded. This isn't a showing of 28 Days Later. Have you met me? Is there a span of 20 minutes let alone a week, cringe, a month in which I don't consume carbs? Some day my metabolism will slow and I may have to make that frightening choice between my greatest love affair to date and weighing 800 pounds. But until then suffice to say there are only two places to find the recipe for Fritos Chili Pie and I'll give you a hint, I don't buy Hormel Chili.

"So what then," cry you huddled masses, "can be the meaning of this?"

Well, if you hadn't interrupted me in the first place I could have explained it right away. Now it's all built up in your head. The point is I'm battling against the Great and Terrible Indian Meal Moth. And I don't mean just one. These evil little creatures have infested my home and I'm not going to take it any more. For a while I bought these traps which seemed to contain and possibly have rid me of them for good. As suggested by the prestigious investigative source the internet, I threw out what seemed to be extraneous open packages they might lurk in. At the time, it seemed that I was safe.

But oh no. They hid in waiting. Biding their little mothy time and finding new more nefarious places to settle. When I began seeing them in the kitchen again I thought perhaps more traps might do the trick. Ho ho, wrong again fool! Eventually they began making appearances into my room, mocking me with their lackadaisical idyl upon my walls, flaunting their insectal simplicity as they hovered in the air. Angered, I took to chasing them, trying to kill them mid flight with a mighty slap of my hands. Frustratingly, the air currents from bringing my fingers together often created a small enough gust to thrust them just out of my reach. Like the proverbial Tantalus, my thirst for their blood only strengthed as the water I sought shrank away with each further attempt to drink.

It became a sickness with me. One minute I'd be having a pleasant conversation with a friend, sitting and chatting over a cup of coffee or a tasty treat, then I'd spot one of them just out of reach, floating above my friend's head. I'd lunge after what usually appeared to the visitor as thin air, frantically clapping my hands over and over after the evil little bug, like some sort of deranged circus seal gone mad from the pressure of performing. I tried to just ignore them. This tactic led only to the paranoid conviction that every time I saw something out of the corner of my eye it must be another of the brood taunting me for my incompetance. The Indian Meal Moth has led me to a greater respect for the dog that tries desperately in vain to catch his own tale. Though a mere 3/8 inches in frame, I had truly been mentally beaten by this little foe.

So, it has come to this. I will starve them out of this place if it's the last thing I do. I will purge my home of the farm-derived bounty they feast upon. I will freeze and refridgerate anything that is not vacummed sealed or made of chicken.

And then, I will watch them die.

some days you gotta dance

I woke up at 7:30 this morning, as per usual. Luckily, when I got up with the sun on this particular day I actually had a reason. You see I had to go to work at the Di Bruno Bros House of Cheese. For those of you who don't know this side of my life ask me to tell you the extended story some other time, it takes too much room here, but suffice to say that once a week I get to play with the Italian cheese mafia. I enjoy the company and get to take home a bag of free vittles every week. So for the most part it's pretty easy money.

However, there's still the little matter of being someplace in shape enough to serve people food products at the wee hour of 8 am on Sunday morning. Bleh.

Last night I got home around 2, drank a bunch of water and then puttered around until the alcohol buzz wore off enough so that I knew I wouldn't have a headache today. So I probably actually went to sleep around 3. And though many of you out there might think 4 and a half hours of shut eye is plenty, I am a big wuss about such things and don't function on much less than 8. Seriously, I get really cranky.

But I was there bright and early, unwrapping lasagna for the hungry masses. The first few hours are always kind of a blur because there's a bunch of set up that you have to do. Enough that you can kind of tune into the work and not notice until it's around 9:30 or 10. After that point though, Sundays tend to be kind of lazy which means a lot of sitting around and waiting. There's only so much citypaper crossword one can do and blatantly reading a book is sort of frowned upon. So generally I kind of stare off into space when I'm not chatting with my co-workers.

Today however I changed things up. I was too tired to stare, because if I zoned out I'd constantly wish I were sleeping instead. And if I wasn't careful, I would actually be sleeping instead of just wishing I were. So logically I found only one alternative for the long afternoon that stretched ahead of me: I started a Di Bruno Bros dance party. Usually I'm not much one for public exhibitionism of this sort but if you put "Get Up Off of That Thing" on the CD player, I'm sorry, I'm just going to have to bust a move. Thanks to the couple dance steps learned for the show (ones I can be reasonably confident in doing without looking like a total fool) I was given the chance to teach the rest of the crew my awesome moves. We moved our groove thangs as we passed hoagies over the counters, we rocked out when we served up chicken and eggplant parm, and we even bumped it as we dished out marinated mozzarella by the pound. Before long I had not only the fine Di Bruno employees but several of the customers jiving along with me. At one point I even left the safety of the register to go out and shake it while I restocked the beverage case. I'm more than a little proud to note that a few people clapped.

I don't know if there's really a moral to this story. Other than that it's a fantastic feeling to take whatever it is your doing, however boring or mundane, and turn it into an opportunity to share song or word or my incredible charleston-into-jump-freeze-turn-and-walk-away step with people around you. To bring a smile to someone's face when they walk in looking pissed. To take a day that could be like pushing a boulder up a mountain, one that feels like a waste, tell it to loosen up a bit and just dance til you feel better.

No time

Yep. I just woke up a little while ago. I have had an insanely hard time adjusting to my performance schedule. Mosly this is because I used to get up around 6:30 or 7 when the sun rose through my window. It faces the east and so when le soleil comes up over the horizon I naturally just wake up with it. The problem is that now because of the play I don't get home until way late. And even then I'm totally keyed up and can't just come home and fall into bed.

My body is retaliating against me. I say to it, "Friend, we get to sleep in today. So let's do it! Sleep as late as you want. It's going to be awesome!" And still, 7am on the dot there's the sun and so is my consciousness. Grrr...

But this morning, I managed to actually sleep late. Except that I didn't really want to sleep late today because I had stuff to do. I had errands and grocery shopping to get done. I should have cleaned my room and mailed off forms that I needed to send away. I actually need to leave for the theatre in 5 minutes. And I can't find my shoes.

However, I didn't want to cop out on my post. So instead I'm meta posting. I'm writing about posting. Which is kind of silly.

But I wanted to leave you with something. So, you can read the insanely harsh review that the inquirer gave to my show. It's really mean, they super hated it: http://www.philly.com/mld/inquirer/11396730.htm

Under most circumstances I wouldn't want people to read a review that totally trashes the show I'm in. Except in this case there is one glowing gem of a sentence in the middle:

Smythe's production ... is not trenchant commentary, and in the process leaches the lovers of all individuality and interest - even though the actors under the masks, especially Genevieve Perrier and Adrienne Mackey, seem quite capable of doing their roles justice.

Boo ya suckas, I am "quite capable" indeed!

Faking It

When do you officially "grow up"?

Is there an age cut-off? Is there a magic number and poof, adulthood begins? Or maybe it's more gradual than that, an hourglass of childhood that is flipped at some pivotal point and then spends itself slowly over a number of years. Slowly enough that one day you look back and go, "Hey! Wait a minute... I'm almost out of sand. I didn't notice it leave."

Maybe it's a Thing that makes you a real person, the right job, a partner, a child. So that no matter how old you are these things remind you to stop messing around and act like an adult.

When I was little I was so excited to become a true Adult with a capital A. It was this magic idea that one day all of the sudden I'd just be the official version of me. That I would arrive at Adrienne and become this recognizable entity, the way I thought of my Mom or Miss Clifford, my first grade teacher. All the questions I always found myself asking would stop existing because as an Adult I'd know all the answers. I always wanted to "act like an Adult" so that I'd have plenty of practice when the official time came. I'd be terribly impressed when people seemed to buy my ruse and I'd laugh to myself about how shocked they'd be if they knew I was only pretending.

At some point I realized that there was a gradation of grown up, like when my Gen-X Uncle Walter turned 30 the year my father turned 50. I recognized that my Dad was clearly the more grown up grownup. So I set up these markers for myself about what stages of adulthood I'd be entering. The Big High School Kids, the daunting monolith of College, a Real relationship, my first apartment, and so on. I'd always assumed by the time settling in one place for good, marriage and children, picking a career were even remote possibilities I'd be such an adult I'd laugh at my little pre-formed childhood self.

No such luck. I spent so much of my early years planning ahead: I was a workaholic, totally driven towards making the future me the most impressive person possible, had to garner as many accolades as I could so that I could look back from the top of the mountain and say, "Yep, what a great path I cleared to get here." I was all about the game plan, got to get ready so that when my "real" life begins I'll be prepared. Mostly when I got to the stages I'd previously defined I'd set a new marker, assuming that I just didn't know enough before to really understand what it meant to be grown. When I got to Swarthmore I realized how much of me was left to decide on. When I got that apartment I felt like a kid playing house. That two year relationship couldn't be anything like what adults had with each other. I'd look back on these mile markers like steppings stones, just a tool to get where I was going. In fact I was so concerned with concentrating on what was in front and behind me that I never really looked under my feet to realize that the future was the present and that "real" had aparently arrived.

So at some point this year I was on my way out the door to meet some friends at a bar when I had this flash of, "Woah, right now I'm just, living. Huh..." And I stopped and looked around for a second. I looked at my house and my roomates and thought about everything I'd done that day. And then I said to myself, "So I guess that means I've arrived at my life... Weird."

And half the time I still tell myself I'm a fake adult. That I see people around me who are doing "real" things (whether they realize it or not)and that eventually I'll be like them. But during the other half, I begin to think that maybe it's really great that I don't have to worry about the frying pan to the head of adult actualization. That, yeah, my hour glass isn't empty but it's well on it's way. And that's sort of scary but also pretty cool. Because then maybe I don't have to worry so much about making sure I'm on the path to the "right" me. That maybe there are a bunch of paths that will do, thank you kindly. That looking up from the map every once in a while only serves to help me get wherever it is I'm headed. And if I'm lucky I'll see a sign for the World's Largest Ball of Twine.

I'm still afraid of not knowing where I'm going. It's most certainly my biggest fear, the one that periodically keeps me up at night. But knowing that I've made it this far gives me hope. Seeing the people I've collected along the way, those who weren't part of the plan but have meant so much more to my life than it ever could, bolsters my spirit.

And sometimes when I'm just sitting and talking with someone and they say something so interesting that I'm no longer paying attention and knock my food on the floor, I stop and say to myself, "Wow. So THIS is my life. I think it's pretty great."

You Could Win A Trip To Orlando!

Admit it, folks.

You got up this morning and thought to yourself, "Ooh... I can't wait to see what Adrienne has written today! I am a titter with anticipation. I'm going to scamper over to my computer and check it out." Which you did, as per usual, to peruse the 5 paragraph format for hidden subtext, secret thoughts and clues as to what might be running through this Scandanavian head sitting on German peasant stock shoulders. You wanted an allegorical exposition about one ostensibly neutral topic that acts as a stand in for what's really going on. A cryptic tit for tat, as if i hadn't noticed. You thought that maybe, just maybe if you read far enough between the lines I might be putting out a dot/dot/dot, dash-dash-dash, dot/dot/dot about you.

Well I'm not giving it to you, baby. If you want that most passive form of communication from me you will have to wait another day. For on this fine afternoon there is nothing sub about my text. I am anti-McCarthism incarnate, no shadowy meanings or secret plots afoot. I say what I mean and mean what I say.

Because today you get FRITOS® Chili Pie.

What, you may ask, is FRITOS® Chili Pie? Well, I'll tell you, according to the bag of chips upon which the key to this heartattackapalooza was printed, at least one answer would appear to be Hot and Delicious.

I had concerns about posting this today, thought it might seem food obsessed, given my rant on cheese yesterday, but the Gods of Fritolay must be appeased. And I really AM food obsessed so who am I trying to kid? So here it is, the "recipe" I got off a chip bag.

CLASSIC FRITOS® CHILI PIE

Ingredients

One 10 oz bag of FRITOS® Corn Chips
Two 15 oz cans of HORMEL® Chili

Preparation

1) Empty cans of HORMEL® Chili into large microwave-safe bowl and cover loosely. Heat chili on High (100% power) for 3 to 5 minutes or until hot, stirring once. (All microwave ovens vary. Times given are approximate.)

2) Pour bag of FRITOS® Corn Chips into large serving container.

3) Stir the HORMEL® Chili, then pour the chili evenly over FRITOS® Corn Chips.

Now for those of you who need the directions on the pop-tarts bag, don't get tripped up with step 1. It may seem daunting all those numbers and qualifications on what to do. Go with your gut and note that though they don't mention it, you will also need a can opener. And in step three, don't worry too much about spreading evenly, that's really more of a guideline.

For those who got the "advanced" books when the reading class split into two groups, I offer these extra credit features:

You can jazz up your FRITOS® Chili Pie by adding these features to taste:
*1 cup shredded cheese -- add to top of Fritos Chili Pie® and stir
*2-5 chopped green onion stalks into HORMEL® Chili prior to cooking
*Chopped jalapenos (to taste) into HORMEL® Chili prior to cooking

By the way, if you were wondering, HORMEL® is a registered trademark of Hormel Foods, LLC.

Now this is the Classic FRITOS® chili pie recipe. For those opting for a more contemporary flair you are encouraged to visit www.fritoschilipie.com for the "creamy" version of the dish as well as other favorites like: FRITOS® Chili Pie Chili Dogs, FRITOS® Chili Chowder with Chips, and my personal favorite FRITOS® Chili Pie in a Bag.

So what is FRITOS® Chili Pie? It's crap is what it is. You think this post is a cop-out?

You bet it is.

food porn

If only the world could be a little more like smoked gouda.

It's my favorite cheese. Smoked on the outside, covered in that tangy and slightly burned flavor formed of carcinogen laden opaque billows rising from Cedar or Ash. And though it is hard on the edges it is all creaminess within. Aged for a year or two in a cabin somewhere, at least that's the picture on the outside would have me believe. All rough and tumble woodsman on the surface but turn it over and smoked gouda will let you pet its soft underbelly.

Smoked gouda is not a foodie cheese. Smoked gouda will never sit in an eggplant boat or deign to cross paths with lightly balsamic drizzled frisee and a miso glazed Atlantic whitefish sitting on a bed of asian mustard greens sniggers to itself when smoked gouda enters the room. Because around the overly delicate palate smoked gouda can't help but acting like a bull in a china shop, all elbows and thumbs. Shrink away you more sophisticated flavors, smoked gouda will walk all over you.

There aren't a lot of foods I could sit and eat by themselves at length. This cheese is an exception. In fact smoked gouda doesn't really play well at all with it's peers. It can't share the spotlight, becomes flat and dull on bread, bored and listless when slathered in mustard, and almost repugnant when melted on top of anything else. But when smoked gouda can stand on it's own, sliced or cubed or cut piece by piece with a knife, it is a wonder to behold. I am in no way ashamed to admit I've eaten nearly 2 pounds of this proud cheese in a single sitting, nary a cracker in sight.

Smoked gouda reminds me of home, and not only because it's usually produced in the mid-west. It's one of the few foods that I still enjoy imbibing the way I ate as a kid. When I was young I wanted pure flavor, if it's sweet let me rot my teeth in my head. If it's salty I'll just lick the shaker. If it's bitter I would eat a lemon raw and like it. Even things like pancakes had very specific rules: If I'm eating slightly fried bread than I want that taste only, put the maple and butter out of sight, it only complicates matters unecessarily. When I eat smoked gouda, I don't want anything else around.

It's a flavor that starts off familiar. It's simple and homey, that first bite is a taste I've come to trust. And unlike many other sources of culinary delight, this sensation only deepens with extensive repeated efforts. I think smoked gouda is pretty easy to like at first meeting. I think it becomes irresistable when you are willing to give it time. Because though the flavor is naive and unassuming, understated, there are no layers of wine-esque tasting here, the simplicity offers a jumping off point for the mouth. It is more in the thought of contrast, the idea of everything smoked gouda is not, that one appreciates it. White light is the purest light of any color for the very reason that it contains them all. Add everything together and you get simplicity.

Smoked gouda is that for me. Wonderfully complicated simplicity.

Simplicity and tastiness.

Comment Whore

So, it's recently come to my attention that people actually read this thing.

And that's pretty cool. I for one, am most amazed. So, thanks friends, or in some cases, random people I don't know. I may actually spell check from now on for your personal benefit. I even brought my thesaurus over near the computer because a lot of times moving to look up the word I really mean to use is just too great an effort.

But come on guys, where's the comment love? Were it not for the strength and grace of Andy, I'd be a babe in the woods, lost and without comment at all. Really, it's all for you, the little people. If I know you're out there it gives me that daily drive to keep forging on. Just look at yesterday, no post. Why? I had no comment food upon which to feed.

In other "news":

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TOKYO (AP) - A small walking man-shaped robot for home security and entertainment is going on sale in Japan for 588,000 yen ($5,450).

The robot can walk, get up and respond to voice commands such as ``turn right.'' It links to mobile phones so that people can check on images of their homes taken on a digital camera inside the robot's head. It can be controlled by a remote and is programmed to do a dance. It also makes musical sounds.

The creators are billing the machine as an eye-pleasing addition to fashionable homes, and the Tokyo-based ZMP is planning to sell 2,300 robots with shipments are set for late April. Though Sony Corp. has sold Aibo dog-shaped entertainment robots, ZMP says it's the first to mass-produce humanoids for the home.
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Does anyone else find the whole "futuristic robots that look just like people" thing a little old hat at this point? Am I truly the only one bothered by the fact that a large portion of the human race will not rest until we've recreated Rosie from the Jetsons in our own homes?

I think once again it relates to basic features of human nature. We live in a constant state of uncertainty and that bugs us. So we dream and guess at ideas about the future to comfort ourselves about what we're in for and then work our damnedest to make sure that it turns out just the way we predicted. A rather self-fufilling prophecy but one that let's us sleep a little better at night, "Oh yes, we all said there'd be humanoid-robots and look, mine is bringing me lemonade."

I say rail against this kind of thinking. It sucks because all it allows for the future is what we've already imagined to happen. To me the humanoid robot represents all that is wrong with civilized man, and not only because they'll eventually become smarter than us and create an alternate computer universe for us to live in so that we can become their fuel source.

It's what's uncreative and dull about people. We're so freaked out by all the possibilities that discovery has to offer that we take great promise and make it simple and banal. We smash it into a form we recognize and in doing so we usually bend it so out of shape it's not worth having anymore. There is no earthly reason to make a robot look like a person. Except that the robot kind of scares you so you want to make it friendlier looking. The most efficient person shaped, person-like thing is a person.

And if you want a person to talk to, go find a real one. Close this blog and go take a walk, it's really nice outside. Or maybe it isn't where you are but you can still enjoy the cold or wet or dirty. It's unpredictable, something you didn't expect might happen. Wouldn't that be the best?

Bosom buddy

There are times in my life when I just want a snuggle buddy.

Let me explain: Meaningless sex, though frowned upon by some is an action undertaken to fufill a basic human desire. I think that most people, whether they choose to engage in such behavior or not, understand that there are times when one is lustful. That a person simply has a physical need to release sexual tension and that the need may be met by finding another person willing to engage in sexual activity.

But I think there is also an instinctual need to be touched, not groped or fondled, by others. To be held and stroked in a way that is gentle and not driven by sexual desire per se. A function of friendliness not friction.

Tonight, being warm and lovely outside makes me wish I had a someone with whom I could satiate this desire, even if it were divorced from all the extra fuzzy feeling that usually comes along with a person that one feels comfortable to snuggle with. I call upon you masses, from within ye, bring forth the snuggle buddy. I shall exalt him who whilt lie within my bed and enjoy the bounty of my cuddle.

Sleeping never felt so good™

I have the best bed known to man. I really really do. When I moved into my current apartment, my first non-campus based affair with housing, I decided that I would get the kind of bed I always, always wanted and never had. So I bought the biggest comfiest bed I couldn't afford.

And I feel justified every time I look at my bed in the decision that led me to buy it because my bed continues to make me happy every single day.

It's a queen size bed clearly meant for two people. The headboard has two distinct even sides one for each half of a couple. And I sleep smack in the middle. This means every night I have the luxury of knowing I get to fall asleep sprawled to my maximum extension. Sometimes I sleep diagonally just because I can. I have a giant mound of decorative pillows that could cushion the slumber of half a soccer team. I have reading lights on both the right and left so that I do not have to fear being hemmed in by the limits of a single side. To say that my bed is merely "comfortable" is to do it an injustice, for everyone who sits on it says, "My what a wonderful bed." It is the focal point of my room. When I actually make my bed it balances the the space around me such that it attains a certain zen-like harmony that sends me towards inner peace. Suffice to say that like the proverbial Goldilocks I have found "just right."

But the other night I slept in a bed other than my own. And all I could think at the time was, "This is not my bed. This bed is nowhere near as comfortable as my bed. This bed cannot compete. This bed is a sham, a lie, a mere passing fancy by comparison. This bed does not and will never complete me." In fact, despite being insanely tired at the time I barely slept a few hours because all I could concentrate on was the not-my-bedness of the foreign bed.

And pondering this in the light of day I begin to worry. Perhaps I am too dependant on my bed. Maybe I am a my-bed junkie addicted to my-bed crack... Now I fear the power my bed holds over me, lords over me. I want to sleep. I am tired. But I can't because then I let the bed win.

But oh, how I long for its anatomically correct design featuring different areas of firmness and softness to support my body's natural contours. How I crave the faux knit fabrics that provide a luxurious touch. How I miss that perfect combination of support and comfort that replenishes what the day takes out of me.

Delerium is setting in. Can no longer concentrate.

Must not. let.. bed... win.....

verzagen

The processes by which biological molecules are broken down and resynthesized form a complex, yet highly regulated, network of interdependant enzymatic reactions that are collectively known as life.
- Fundamentals of Biochemisty, Voet Voet and Pratt


It is a strange thing to be a product of evolution.

The human condition at its best can barely assume equilibrium: a negotiation of forces in both the forward and backward directions of a reaction such that chemical balance is acheived and a stasis of sorts is perceived by the outside observer. But equilibrium can be a red herring to those not paying close enough attention. Because a system at equilibrium does not equal a system at rest. By definition, at this point the system is still moving back and forth from the thing is was to the thing it has become and back again. Even at equilibrium this never ever stops.

And while in theory once the bigger reaction has come to its end, that 99.9% of what will happen when two things are mixed has happened, we still can't say we're there, done, because we're assuming no other forces are at play. Because even in the simplest of systems once the chemicals have arrived at one place a new negotiation is in play. Once a system as it's defined in one case has achieved stability it must be redefined to include the new conditions surround it. A beaker of reacted solution left after the fizz, pop is finished is still open to time, to water, to air with all the living stuff within. And though it works itself slower than the big show, a good experimentor understands that indeed, not even this outward calm will be "stable". And in fact the only chemical definition of stability of the human organism is more or less death.

And yet, something inside us is programmed, hard wired, to find that something fixed. To anchor down and if possible stop moving. Create the reaction that ends the hunger, the cold, the lonely. Find the thing to add to the pot that stops those outside forces, and if possible stops them for good. It is an inner drive that we may take up or deny but nags at us quietly when we risk things that keep us at rest.

And so it seems that we war within to decide whether we must keep moving, running around to find those things that we want, or stay fixed and hold on to the things that we already have. A dance between constant action and complete immobility.

And despite what Voet, Voet and Pratt might lead one to believe I think that dance, that balance is really what life is all about. We can only hope to look for those things that best assauge our needs while at the same time knowing that they can't stay the same forever. That even holding on means learning to grow, that the very definition of existing means one has to change.

Because while an object in motion will indeed stay in motion given no outside force acting on it, only in theory is there ever a world where outside forces stop existing.

fantastic and ornamental

I am currently being paid to act in a production of Midsummer Night's Dream. I play Helena, the tall one with the long blonde hair. I have been rehearsing this part of for a month now and we officially will open the show for public viewing in less than a week.

Here's the thing you can't tell anyone: I'm not a real actor. It's true.

Don't get me wrong, I like theater a lot. Some day I would like to direct things for a living. But, despite popular belief, I'm not an actor. Actors do things like cry on command or eat healthfully because they care about their appearance. They also talk about things like agents and auditions, things I have no experience with. They speak a foreign language of cheer and goodwill when referencing other plays they've been in, other characters they've taken on. And finally and most importantly, they all have headshots. Because in the weird world of putting yourself in front of people for entertainment purposes it doesn't count as narcissistic to have a stack of 8 x 10 glossy photos of oneself on hand at all times.

Up until a few days ago I'd done a pretty good job of pretending to be an actor. No one had to know I'd never been to an audition. I blended in among the rest, taking part in the strange warm up rituals. At times I even felt like one amongst them. But there's an evil tradition at most theaters. One that requires you to put your picture on the wall so the consumer of the show can take a look at what they've just paid for before they see it.

Which sucks because, not being a real actor, I don't own head shots. So the theater manager was nice enough to just say, "Oh well, then just bring an 8 by 10 photo of yourself that looks like a headshot." Umm, right. I being a person who abhors being photographed as a general rule of course have an extensive number of oversized photos of JUST ME in black and white. Nice enough to be suitable for public display. With a border. And my name at the bottom.

I lost three hours of my life yesterday and am now twenty dollars poorer and the picture barely passes.

I repeat: I am not an actor.

drawings by the bibiena family

Ugh. I'm that person. Yes, at this moment I too have succumbed to blog envy. Do I have anything particularly more interesting than anyone else to say? No, probably not. But I read other people's little essays on life and thought and it makes me think they're pretty smart. The good ones make me respect those people a little more.

I just had a birthday. So it's time to take a little stock in what we're doing with ourselves right? The biggest conlusion I've come to is that I'm not really sure. General ideas, most definitely. It's the details in between that are confusing. The best part is that it all adds up to me wanting to post my life on the internet.

And I'm really excited about embracing the cliche.

In other exciting news, I sold a book on amazon. Now perhaps to the average Joe this is not so terribly interesting. But, this book is a 87 page paperback called Transition Metals in the Synthesis of Complex Organic Molecules (I won't bother with the subtitle) and I purchased it for a Metallo-Organic seminar I took a few years back. So beyond the fact that I clearly will never ever pick this book up for some "light reading" I am excited to be rid of it because it cost me $79.95 when I bought it. Yes, that's nearly a dollar a page for a paperback book. But I have now sold it to Agwukwu Ofodu of Northvale, NJ for $70. Every once in a while, I have to contend that my life is most excellent.