Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Welcome to Funky Town

I spend a great deal of time by myself, that's just how I role.  I don't feel comfortable around people, for the most part, so it's just easier to annoy myself, rather than others.  But it does get quiet.  I don't want to talk to myself, because everybody knows that means you're crazy, so I sing.  (My downstairs neighbor probably would prefer me to be crazy.)  
When I'm in a fair-to-middlin' mood ( Debbie's version of happy) I sing Fanny Brice and Brak songs.  Those are two separate groups, by the way.  To my knowledge Fanny Brice and Andy Merrill (the voice of Brak) never teamed up.  But that would be awesome.

But lately I've been a full-time resident of Funky Town (not the disco kind), so I've been singing James Taylor and Joni Mitchell songs.  (Who actually did sing together occasionally, but I do their separate songs.)  "Here Comes Another Gray Morning" and "Last Time I Saw Richard" are great tunes when your heart's dragging on the floor.  Anyroad, I figure no one can hear me (except my downstairs neighbor and she owes me) so I belt it on out there.  
However, I have never done karaoke. It terrifies me.  I don't why.  I've been in musicals and even had to sing solo.  I just had to sing on stage in Yiddish, for Christ's sake (see what I did there?) and I was told I wasn't half bad.  But the idea of karaoke makes my knees shake.  I have a couple opportunities coming available soon where I could actually take the plunge and "give it a go", as our Limey Brothers say.  
But here's the thing:  Because I have made such a Big Deal of karaoke, I kind of hope (in my crazy Irish I-believe-in-leprechauns-and-pots-of-gold-at-the-end-of-rainbows way) that when I finally break through the karaoke wall, everything will finally be all right in Debland. Which it won't.  So I don't karaoke, if that is a verb, because I'd rather live with the Belief that Karaoke is a Lucky Charm, then choke on the marshmallows.

Well, who knows.  I have been taking risks lately: Hanging out with friends (Crazy!!); Not sitting around crying (You Rebel!); Eating hot dogs (?); Writing this blog (yeah, about that. . . .).  So maybe it's time I decide to join Humanity (if you'll have me) and make a fool of myself.  Oh, wait, too late. . . . .

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Midas Touch in Reverse

Everything I have touched in the last few days seems to fall apart.  I opened a drawer of my filing cabinet yesterday and the handle fell off.  I pulled a garbage can to me and part of the plastic rim broke off.  I've broken two nails.  And my TV doesn't work right.  Since I have a history of bad luck with cars, men and vacuum cleaners, I'm staying away from the latter two and saying a Hail Mary whenever I climb into the former. 

Today it's Unemployment, but back in the '70's, the big craze was Biorhythms.  Everyone had a physical, mental and emotional biorhythm that fluctuated every month.  If you were unfortunate enough to have all three hit their monthly low at the same time, you were screwed.  (and not in a good way.)  There was an example in the Biorhythm Book pointing out that the day that Arlene Francis' maid knocked a flower pot off the window sill, sending said flower pot careening down 20 stories and crashing on a Poor Innocent Victim's head and killing him, Arlene's three Biorhythms were all at rock bottom.  The fact that it should have been the maid's biorhythms that counted and not Arlene's probably led to the early demise of Biorhythm Theory, but I miss it.

Because the only other reason I can come up with for my inability to not break things, is that I'm just a Natural Born Fuck-Up.  Much like my curly hair and ready wit, breaking things is part of my Original Package and there's a no-return-no-exchange policy.  You put a to-go cup of hot coffee in my hand and some portion of that coffee will be spilled-guaranteed.  You tell me to attempt an athletic endeavor and either I and/or other people will end up injured.  These are Immutable Laws of the Universe, much like politicians=assholes and puppies=cute.

I have pretty much learned to roll with everything I touch turning to shit; what else am I going to do?  There is no such thing as a non-klutz/ability to  have a relationship/Oreck gene transplant. But I have a feeling that if there were,  I'd have to fight Donald Trump to get my name at the top of the list. 

Friday, August 12, 2011

Food for Thought, and that's all it's good for

I'm going to a party tomorrow night and I want to take something.  I could cheat and buy something (thereby ensuring that it's it at least edible) but my Donna Reed Gene won't let me.  I must cook/bake something.  Aye, there's the rub, as Billy Wagglestaff once said.

During my Domestic Era (1739-1923 [at least it felt that long]), I cooked dinner practically every day.  And no deep-fried tater tots and Diet Dr. Pepper at my table, thank you, we had fresh vegetables and lean meats and no desert, except for birthdays.  I was a Nutrition Nazi and I had pretty healthy kids as a result.  But that was then.

Now. . . . .well, let's just say a peek into Little Debbie's fridge would reveal a preponderance of beer, half and half, cheese and bread; as well as leftovers from restaurants, some pretty valuable at this point, due to their antique status.  In other words, I no longer cook.

So when I do decide to cook, I get nervous, because that means someone (and these are usually people I like) will be eating what I make, and my cooking skills have gotten rusty.  (However, my beer drinking skills have improved, go know.)  The last few times I've embarked on a culinary attempt, it's been met with little enthusiasm; neither by me nor any of my extremely tactful friends.  My kids always liked my food when they were little, but they're my kids.  And they were little.  I rarely hang out with 4 and 6-year-olds anymore, and while some of my friends may be a little emotionally immature, they all have adult taste buds.  To which taste buds, I extended my sincerest apologies.

Tomorrow, though,  I will sally forth, undaunted, and try, once again, to achieve Culinary Nirvana with some bizarre recipe that sounds good to me and probably is in Debbieland (population: 1),  but in Realityville, tastes like shit. Y'all should just come and live in Debbieland with me and we can dine on cream cheese/mayonnaise delight and chocolate-covered sauerkraut, washed down with a piquant '011 Miller High Life Light. 

Bon Appetit!

Monday, August 8, 2011

I'm So Glad We Had This Time Together

Tonight is my first rehearsal for My Prolonged Hiatus.  No, it's not an original play by Billy Ray Brewton, and Lawdamighty, can you imagine what it would be about if it were?

I have a couple days off before our second week of Angels in America (a phenomenal play, BTW, please see it if you get a chance) and I'm using it as a dry run to get used to having my evenings free.  Starting the end of this month, for the first time since January, I will  not be rehearsing or in a show.  It feels Beyond Weird.  I was lucky enough to have seven solid months of doing wonderful theatre (with a week or two off here and there) but all good things. . ., as the final episode of STNG said, and now I sit and wait for auditions. 

Ok.Cool. Looking forward to it. 

No, I'm not.  It's depressing.

I am a Loner by nature.  I spent the first five years of my life in front of the TV all day, watching "I Love Lucy" reruns and didn't actually have any interaction with people other than my family  till I went to kindergarten.  I've never felt comfortable around people.  I'm convinced everyone else in the world knows the secret of carrying on conversations and having friends and even (dare I say it??) intimate relationships but I've never been asked to join  the club.  To compensate for this fear, I tend to talk ad nauseum, eventually saying something stupid and/or inappropriate, causing people to slowly back away from me and form small groups to discuss how weird I am. ( No, I'm not paranoid at all.  Why are you looking at me???)

Then, when I was sixteen, I discovered theatre.  Besides finally finding something I loved and that I could do reasonably well,  I  found a group of people who I enjoyed being with and didn't make me feel like I had three heads, or if they did, I felt that they actually liked my three heads, so it was okay. It was like finally coming home.  I am friends on Facebook with a couple of those people I knew 532 years ago and, though we don't communicate much, it's comforting to know that they are there and I can reach out to them if I want to.  As opposed to my sister, whom I assume I won't see again till one of  us dies (I guarantee you her money's on me going first.)

It sounds like I've gotten off point, and I have, but fuck you, the point IS that for the last seven months I have had the honor and privilege of hanging with my theatre peeps almost every night and now I won't.  Oh, I know, we'll still go out occasionally and I'll go to their shows, and, believe me, I'm looking forward to all that, but not having to learn lines and blocking and be somewhere every evening is going to be hard to get used to.

DISCLAIMER:  This is not a plea for attention. I'm tickled mauve that you're reading my blog. . .I have the best friends in the universe. . .and I'm involved in a vibrant, fun theatre community--I'm very lucky.   I just know me and know I tend to revert to Little Debbie the Professional Recluse and I thought I'd give y'all a heads-up before I go all Grey Gardens on  your ass.  Oh, gotta go. . .this is the episode where Lucy tries to get a job at Ricky's club!

Friday, August 5, 2011

Hold Me Closer, Tony Danza

I have always been fascinated by dance.  So You Think You Can Dance is the only reality show (well, other than Hoarders, because it makes me feel better about my housekeeping abilities) that I will watch.  Love the Nutcracker; once saw an Indian (dot not feather) dance concert that totally blew me away.  I would give my eye teeth to be able to dance.

And I can't.  At all.

I have tried.  I have taken dance lessons; I have been in musicals where I had to dance and practiced the choreography endlessly and still ended up in the back line so I wouldn't ruin the number.  For some reason, my head and my feet don't communicate with each other.  This might also be the reason why I fall down a lot, mixed signals; or my feet are just being stubborn. I blame it on my feet, rather than my head, because my head has no trouble talking to the rest of my body, but my feet are prone to hissy fits.  I have bad feet anyway.  I wore high heels too much in my youth (1734-1742) and I'm paying for it now. I am totally flat-footed (that looks wrong somehow) and my right foot has this little bone that broke years ago and presses against the ball of my foot, meaning if I stand for more than 4 minutes I'm in pain.   Sorry, that was probably TMI.  Let's just say I have Fucked Up Feet. 

In Debbie's Universe, aka Debbieland, there would be some sort of footwear, akin to eyewear, that would fix my feet and allow me to dance.  Instead of glasses, they would be called prances.  (Yes? No?  Vote now) I would don them and be a regular Michael Jackson, only without the glove and not dead.  Music would come on and I could move without fear of ridicule or strangers vomiting. I would get cast in a musical. And unicorns would jump over rainbows.

Alas, Debbieland only exists inside my curly covered cranium.  Now, when there is a reality show called So You Think You Can Fall Down and Have People Laugh At You,  I'll be the first in line.  Here I come, Nigel!

Monday, August 1, 2011

Xanadu, but without Olivia Newton John

I don't know about y'all, but I'm pretty sick of the world at large. From baby-killing mamas who aren't convicted, to those pompous jerk-offs in politics who could care less about actually doing what they were elected to do, to my stupidass printer that won't print more than one envelope at a time, I'm through.  I have my kids, the theatre community, friends, and beer and I'm barricading myself in the compound till unicorns jump over rainbows and Mad Men starts up again.

One of my favorite daydreams (that I can publish in public without being charged with indecency by the FCC) is What Little Debbie Would Do if She Were Queen of the Universe.  Man, you guys would love it so much!  First of all, all those things everyone loves but that are bad for you would now be good for you.  And shit like broccoli and income taxes would be bad for you.  Well, I guess income taxes are bad for you now, but I mean REALLY bad, like give you herpes or something.  And pets would be more fun to have, because they would take care of themselves.  In fact, they would even take care of YOU, cleaning house and fixing you breakfast in bed and doing beer runs.  "Thanks, Muffy, a carton of Kools and a six-pack of Modelo would be great!  Just what the doctor ordered!"

Much like the 24th century in Star Trek, money would be obsolete; we'd all just use replicators, which you would automatically get when you're born, like a Social Security Number or a circumcision.  You could do anything you want for a living, as long as you did it well, and it didn't hurt anyone.  Sex, race, and gender bias would be nonexistent and if you were in a relationship, love would be practically painless.  (You have to have a little conflict, to make things interesting, and for make-up sex.) 

Football would be popular, but just as popular would be all the arts.  Plays would sell out faster than bowl games and actors would be banned from becoming politicians because that would debase the craft of acting.  In fact, politicans would be criminals, and sentenced to listen to endless hours of C-Span and Neil Young records and religious zealots who tried to stuff their ideals down everyone's throats would have to work as bartenders in gay bars.  (Not because that's a bad profession, you understand, but because the RZs would hate it.  Unless they wouldn't.  Then they'd have to become politicians.)

Whew!  Creating a universe is tiring!  No wonder God's in semi-retirement.  I'll take a break.  But I'll be back.  I haven't even begun to dismantle the educational system and reality television.  I'll just go play a couple games of skee ball.