Initiating CPR...

How long has she been out? Initiating CPR now...

Waiting for pulse...

WHY DOES THE BLOG KEEP DYING?

Is it really that hard?

RIP.

PORK TAKES FOREVER

Hello friends (AKA SLACKERS. WHERE ARE THE STORIES? WHERE ARE THE GLORIES?? YOU PEOPLE ARE NOTHING BUT A BUNCH OF WHORE-IES. Really, NOTHING to share? FOR SHAME.),

I don't really have any stories either, but I just yelled at yall, so I have to put my money where my mouth is, sotospeak.

I just finished eating a home-cooked meal that took, oh I don't know, 2 EFFING HOURS to prepare. I decided to swing by the local grocery-mart on my way home from work (SIDE NOTE: fridays at the studio, I teach my "Production Class" which is code word for "PUT ON A FULL ENTIRE SHOW." It's at the end of the week, so usually I'm like totally burned out by then; and it's definitely my most challenging class because there are so many kids and it lasts 2 hours, and, oh yes, right, I have to present a fully-birthed show by the end of the sememster. But today, I came in early, I watched the old video of the show back in the day (AND THEN OH MY EFFING GOD I CAME ACROSS "11-YEAR-OLD-HADLEY-AND-13-YEAR-OLD-AMY-PERFORM-THEIR-SOLO-VOCAL-(AND IN HADLEY'S CASE ALSO DANCE)-PIECES-FOR-STAR-POWER-COMPETITION"-AND-OH-MY-GOD-IT-WAS-LIFE-CHANGINGLY-HYSTERICAL.) Ahem. Deep breath. But about Production class: I watched a video of the old-version of the show, learned a whole huge dance number, practiced and practiced and practiced, and entered class utterly prepared. There are about 16 kids in the class ranging in age from 8 to 13. Or at least it USED to range from age 8 to 13. But today, 3--I SAY 3, I SAY ALL 3 of my 13-year-olds--KIDS DROPPED OUT today (after THREE fridays) due to the "childish" [aka: lame, aka: they are wrong] nature of the show. Ok this show is NOT lame. You can ask Hadley who performed it back when she was a wee-thing (I have footage. She is the top. The show is great.) But really, how is it that 13 year olds can STILL manage to make me feel stupid?? I thought that at SOME POINT I would outgrow that. Anyway, to make myself feel better, I decided to swing by the local grocery mart on my way home from a super-annoying day at the grindstone and pick up ingredients for a full fledged dinner. There is nothing more relaxing to me than cooking my face off after a stressful week. I now kind of understand how Hadley feels about vacuum cleaners. Too bad I'm not as much of an expert at cooking as Hadley is at cleaning, as displayed in the fiasco that was cooking my dinner tonight. At the g-store, I got m'self some pork chops, some okrah, some lettuce leaves, some--who am I kidding? Yall don't care. What you SHOULD care about, though, is that TWO HOURS LATER I was still poking my pork with a thermometer watching it eek up to 140 degrees. (Google losers told me that it needed to be at LEAST 155-160 degrees!) FINALLY it reached 152, and I was like whatEVER, living-bacteria-in-pork-that-might-make-me-sick-and-die, I'd rather die of that than STARVATION.

So I ate it. And so far I'm still going strong.

And then my dad walked in and fed our dog clyde in a mere 10 seconds. Life is really not fair.

BRING IT ON, BLIZZARDDD!!

I was told by my deli man it was going to snow 18 inches tomorrow in Manhattan.

I am told by Al Roker we can expect no more than 4 inches.

PLEASE, LORD JESUS GIVE ME A BLIZZARD.

I love weekend blizzards.

What the hell, happy birthday elle.

I would like to open the blog (in these final hours of this special day) to any and all reflections and memories of, and roasts and toasts to our awesome friend Ellen.

Here are mine.

1. When she was sick (and if my memory serves me correctly, maybe potentially just "sick" as in HUNGOVER). Having spent a day out in the city, I returned to to ph d to find Ellen in her bathrobe, splayed on the floor in the hallway of the apartment, with a big empty bowl in her clutches. It was about 3 in the afternoon. Despite my many attempts to figure out why she wasn't in her bed, a whopping 10 feet from where she lay, I couldn't get a straight answer. She just kept laying there on the floor, mumbling every now and then, but more importantly, blocking my way to bathroom, and I had to pee. In retrospect, I probably should have been a little more tender because she was nursing the worst hangover of all time AND food poisoning simultaneously, but I wasn't, so she called mychal and told her how tough I'd been. Tough, you say, elle? No, tough I SAY: Tough LUCK, Elle. Lay off the vod next time.

2. I also have very fond memories of seeing Ellen crossing 39th street at 8th Avenue in the dead summer heat. On crutches. She was HUFFING and PUFFING across that street. Why, you ask? Why, what. Why was she on crutches? Because she broke her toe for the eighth time. Why was she coming to my workplace? Because BEFORE she broke her toe she had agreed to sign on as a telemarketer for the American Symphony Orchestra. Did the girl back down simply because she had been gimped? No. She trekked it all the way from Union Square sans taxi (the fare would have cost as much as she earned calling strangers.) to Hell's Kitchen. More like Elle's bitchin' kitchen.

3. Watching the bachelor with Elle. Especially when she a. DEMANDS silence or b. DEMANDS we rewind to watch a squirrel cross the street or c. DEVOURS a bento box. Or sharing with her the utter destruction and disaster that was the outcome of season 13. MES-FUCK. WE WILL NEVER FORGET AND WE WILL NEVER FORGIVE.

These represent the proverbial (hi katie) tip of the iceberg when it comes to the titanic that is Ellen Wert, our beloved birthday girl. Ellen, sail-on, live-on, cornbread-on, child. LOVE and HB.

I'm so very glad that you were born.

I'm so bored and boring I can't even think of a title

Pee-pee people? Parking tickets? Being Amy Coenen? You guys kill me! Write more and write quickly. I need something else to do besides the dishes.

Have I anything to share? I read a lot. Actually, I've read 10 books since summer. Now on my eleventh. It's called Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle? Have you heard of it?

I noticed that the neighbors are repairing their garage? They are. I think they're building some storage units along the walls and in the rafters. Good for them for being organized. But the woman is a little off - she slobbers, too - and her husband has had his hips replaced twice already. That's bad. He drives a corvette because he's going through a mid-life crisis, which is totally understandable if you've had your hips replaced twice before age 40.

The other neighbors aren't really doing much – at least nothing I can see. I spy out the windows before going to get the mail each day. I do that to avoid any awkward run-ins, and also to create the illusion that I don't actually live here. You may think that's crazy, but a few months ago I was accosted on the way to my car with a yell from across the street. Usually cool as a cucumber, I just lost it. I told the nosy neighbor that I was looking for work in NYC and when he asked what type, I said something about babysitting and tutoring and haha, it's a living! What? It's a living? I've never sat anyone's babies.

What I wanted to say was BACK OFF, TITANIUM TITS - he's the one with the hip replacements. They're probably made of titanium.

Titanium... Unobtanium - Have you guys seen Avatar?

Avatar... Tattoo Bar - Did you know that I have a tattoo? Well, I don't. I do have a picture of the design I want, and that means I may get it soon enough, so don't bullshit me, okay?

Okay... Today - Today, I bored my friends by sharing this post.

Good riddance.

I Saw the Sign Follow-up

So I didn't have to teach sign language. My boss (luckily) watched the youtube clip and realized that that shit was crazy hard so she called it off. Good thing, because I hadn't watched it but once. But because I was stressing so much about all that finger wagging, I was utterly unprepared for all my other classes.

Now. When I find myself utterly unprepared for classes, which, in full disclosure, happens pretty much all the time, I have to think on my feet. I have to pretend to know what I'm doing. And I have to make up games. Sometimes all I can do is just start talking and see what happens. So yesterday, I sat everyone down (all four students. side note: you would think that less students would make an unprepared teacher's job easier. Wrong. What games can you play with four people? Four square? Yes. Except that's a sport. And this is musical theater class. Just try playing mafia with four kids. Try it. I dare you.) and did just that. I started talking.

Turns out that what you you CAN do with four students is make up a story about a super chihuahua (I cannot believe I spelled that right on my first TRY.) and act it out. Many times in a row. For an hour.

"Super Chi, Mrs. Fluffy Shirt and the Poison Coconut Juice" was our creation. It involved a plane flight to hawaii, strawberry daiquiris (I did NOT spell that correctly on my first try.) barking, a sad girl named Lily, talking palm trees, secret passwords, death by poison, fist-fights and, of course, a kick line.

They performed it four times. I sat and watched. And gave notes.

They didn't care about my notes.

But they effing loved my story.

Class dismissed.

Why do I care what crazy people think of me?

Friends,

I recently had a run-in on the subway which was noteworthy in and of itself, but more importantly than the actual event is my incredibly odd reaction to it. Maybe you can shed some light.

I went to a friend's in Brooklyn the other night (I know, I'm kind of a changed woman) and ended up on the 3 train back to Manhattan the next morning at a fairly decent hour. Now, this is not just Williamsburg or Park Slope...this is BROOKLYN Brooklyn. Like closer to the ocean than Manhattan Brooklyn (changed woman).

When the train finally comes (how do those people ever get ANYWHERE on time?!?), I am relieved to find several open seats (because that far out in the middle of nowhere is pretty deserted). Needless to say, I felt pretty insecure in my heels and designer jeans and my pasty-ass skin. I immediately tried to look like a gangster so people would know I was tough (this inevitably made me look like a loser).

After I relaxed a little into my germ-infested seat, I began taking in my surroundings. And wouldn't you know it, I chose a seat directly across from a crazy man. He looked something like this:

So at first I'm like, ok another crazy in New York, big whoop. Then my horribly deficient olfactory finally kicks in, and I realize perhaps the reason I am the ONLY person in this man's vicinity is he smells like URINE. Like SO MUCH URINE. Like HOLY LORD, WHO JUST PEED ON MY NOSE.

Here is where my first bout of horrible judgement occurs. Instead of simply moving to another part of the train where the smell was more bearable, I decided it would be rude to do so as the CRAZY man might think I thought he smelled bad and get offended. So I stayed and breathed through my mouth.

Somewhere more towards the middle of nowhere-Brooklyn, Crazy Man takes out a packet of cheeze-its from his bag. He then proceeds to mash them up and smash them into his face, giving the illusion he has a beard of orange vomit. I look around and realize that still nobody has come close to me and my crazy friend in the past four stops even though the train keeps filling up. Though now I am sufficiently disgusted, I am sure if I move it would be a direct insult to this man's dignity to move (what is wrong with me).

Then, to my utter disgust, Crazy Man begins to sweep the plethora of crumbs that have fallen to the FLOOR OF THE SCURVY-RIDDEN, DISEASE-ENCRUSTED, URINE-STAINED 3 TRAIN into to his hand and then INTO HIS MOUTH. At this point with the image I was faced with and the lingering stench in the air, I am actually gagging. But I can't leave because I must not insult this foul, foul, crazy man.

Now the train is getting packed. And this man seems to have a stockpile of snack crackers (of all varieties) in his "recycled" grocery sack. He is getting verbal and physical, kicking the air and yelling racial slurs at the subway pole directly between us. As the train gets more crowded, people start to pass by him out of necessity. At first, he throws crackers at them. Handfuls of cracker crumbs he has mashed, dropped, and picked up again. Everybody is very grossed out. Eventually, he just starts kicking at people (thankfully missing most of the time). And the whole while I expect him to start lashing out at me, as I am the only one remotely close to him (about 3 feet away).

But just as I am about to get off the train after nearly an hour with this Crazy Man lashing out at every Tom, Dick, and Harry that passes his way, he looks at me. And instead of hurling crumbs or shouting at me, he SMILES.

My immediate reaction?

Oh how cool, this guy likes me!! I knew it was worth it!

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?! Why do I want to be friends with crazy people?

I think all of you leaving me has had a direct impact on my social standards. Please come back. All of you.

Igg.

Yeldah

My life: injustice, unqualified, and unfrickenbelievable

3 things you should know about MY life these days

1) I am being summoned to court. Not jury duty. No. That's a civilians duty. I have been summoned on March the 25th to the CRIMINAL COURTS OF NEW YORK CITY where I will be representing the waffle truck as we are charged with over $5,000 in fines for parking misdemeanors (none of which have ever happened when I was working and are NOT my fault). I can't get into this too much, because I don't want my fellow phdlitters to be an accomplice to my criminal behavior. All I know is, I am actually not exaggerating about this one. I have a court summons and am a suspected criminal. If I do not show up for court, there will be a warrant for my arrest.

2) I am teaching the following classes that should be of note: improvisation to 8th graders in Harlem who scream "nooooo not her!!!!" when I walk in the room, an URBAN FUNK fitness dance class twice a week to 7th and 8th graders, and...Songwriting to 5th very white fifth graders (several parents have already told me they expect us to write a full length musical. They're serious).

3) Today I was outside in a monsoon. An african american woman and her (well not HER) white 2-year old boy were trying to cross the street. We both fought the monsoon, but because I was not holding a toddler's hand, I was able to keep hold of my umbrella. This woman (who might have been speaking West African or something) lost her umbrella from her hands. [Side note: the umbrella went flying from her hands, into my face, crashing into a taxi cab, to the top of a tree, and then in the middle of a median on broadway and 113th st]. She started saying things to me in her language that I, obviously, didn't understand. I was also confused when she gave me the boy's hand and ran off. I assumed she was going to search for her umbrella. That was in the first 2 minutes. When I had asked Alec (the boy who was 2 and a quarter years old and had a stuffed monkey named Tony with him) almost every question I could think to ask him in the rain, I realized that I was in quite a pickle. What if she never came back? Would I be charged with kidnapping too???? I got nervous . It had been nearly 5 minutes. I saw that the umbrella was gone from the median, but WHERE WAS THE WOMAN. The boy started to cry because he said his feet were wet. Mine were too. So I decided to play peek-a-boo with him, which he LOVED. So...10 mintues. TEN FUCKING MINUTES and IM PLAYING PEEK-A-BOO with a TODDLER in the RAIN who I have just KIDNAPPED and finally, when I was about to call 911 (seriously), the woman shows up. Umbrella in hand and....McDonalds (shout out to Mychal). She ended up giving me a breakfast sandwich and saying "god bless you" maybe 20 times.

Moral of the story: you can serve breakfast to people once a week and become a criminal, it is possible to be paid to teach things that you have NO skill, ability, or experience teaching, and finally, kidnap kids. You get McDonalds.

I Saw the Sign

Hello friends.

Last night, Hadley informed me that she and Doc had agreed that it was time to bring the blog back. (Thanks for checking with me and the other phdlitefuls). Lucky for them, I'm in full agreement with this re-re-resurrection (that sound like it could be the hook to my first rap single. BiA+ch, in case you forgot, is the name I will go by.).

Just like last night's episode of Big Love, where Bill waits for a sign from God on how to win Senate (If I were God, by the way, I would strongly urge Bill to reconsider. What a stupid idea. Good idea? No. Good tv? YES. Not as good, though, as Alby shackin' up with some lawyer dude he met in a park.) anyway, just like Bill (I'm SO similar to Bill), I was waiting for a sign from the blogging gods of what to share with you people. Because let's be honest, I didn't feel like recapping the last 4 months and you didn't feel like reading it (by the way, this might be the right time to out hadley (she's just like Alby). Here's a recent exchange. You draw your own conclusions:

Had: omg i BET

now

have you been to peopleofwalmart.com yet?

me: I went once and then forgot about it

I LOVED it

Had: ok good

9:52 AM me: but I just can't remember all these blogs

Had: it's not really a blog

that's why i love it

i dont have to read stupid shit to enjoy it

I lied about drawing your own conclusions. I will draw them for you. Hadley doesn't like blogs. Especially ones that "require reading." In fact, she's probably not even reading this post right now. Some friend.

Anyway, this is to say, I didn't know what to write but still wanted to post something. I know, what else is new?)

[an aside: I just got locked in the bathroom of Jittery Joe's coffee shop. Deep breath. That was intense. But not the subject of this blog post.]

Onward: I awoke this morning to the following email from my boss:

"Hi Amy

Do you think you might have time to learn the sign language for Imagine and teach that tomorrow?"

Yep. The last 2 hours I've been watching "Imagine" from Glee. For those of you who, oh, I don't know, DESPISE that show, let me give you some context. Matthew Morrison's glee club invites this other glee club to come to their school and perform a song at their practice. The glee club shows up and the opening chords to Imagine start playing. We then discover (gasp!) that the members of this glee club are deaf! And yet, they still perform! And with gusto! And then, if you're me, you get all goose-bumpy and tear up but try really hard not to cry because you're not that lame. Oh, but you are. The tears come. You are Putty in Fox's hand. Anyway, then you get an email from your boss asking you to LEARN all the signs to the song and teach them to a group of 14 year olds tomorrow night. So you find the clip on youtube and watch it for two hours. Well, actually that's where I'm lying (the part about crying: sadly, TRUE.). I've watched it once, thought to myself "Oh wow. This is hard. I'm, like, really not qualified to teach this. I'll blog about it instead." And let me tell you, this stuff IS really hard. There are fingers wiggling and hands circling around heads and it all happens so fast AND I have to reverse everything I'm seeing. For one who never was the quickest ant in the hill when it came to picking up dance moves, this task is nothing short of Herculean. But what can I do? Ask an old high school friend's husband, who I have spoken to once about 18 months ago (and what did we speak about you ask? Oh, SIGN LANGUAGE. Which he STUDIED as his FOREIGN LANGUAGE at uga), to come teach it in my place? Maybe. Nevermind that I know not another thing about him. He could be a serial killer for all I know. What I do know: The guy can sign.

Yes, These are the things I do these days. I learn sign language to songs (or stress about learning sign language to songs and blog about it instead), fail, and debate whether it would be too weird to fb message this dude saying "hi! Want to teach a handful of teen agers sign language from the hit show Glee tomorrow night? By the way, we HAVE met before. And I'm not crazy, yet. But if I have to do this on my own, there is no doubt that I will be."

This is NOT something I would be doing at the American Symphony Orchestra. And yet, I'm happy.

The Waffle Truck...

Dear Friends,

It's official. Our amazing friend Ellen has added another amazing chapter to her life story. As some of you may know, she has recently taken up employment with the "Waffle and Dinges" truck. Upon my first visit to Ellen's new workplace, I took a series of pictures which Ellen won't allow me to post on facebook. However, she DID give me permission, after much groveling, to share my candid photos with you via a relatively more private cyber-arena. She was probably thinking I'd email them, ensuring complete privacy. But don't worry, Ellen. Nobody reads our blog anyway. It's as private as private can be.

This first shot was taken before Ellen even knew I was there. If you squint, you can see her hard at work.

Ellen notices I have arrived...with a camera.

Ellen realizes it's Friday, and she needs to change that board.

Ellen hard at work.

So here's the story for this picture. It may look like Elle is just doing her job, chatting with customers, being the BOMB. But what you can't see is that there is a crazy man harassing her (sexually and otherwise). He later made her craft a waffle "boat" and had her cut his bacon waffle into bite size pieces with plastic utensils. Oh, and then he brought it back because she hadn't successfully filled each cranny with syrup.

Perhaps the best part about Elle's new job? She has to come up with a creative question to write on the board each day.

Today's question: If you could have 1 superpower WHAT would it be?

Answer: Ellen is a Goddess.

A parting shot. And yes, that badass bandanna/hat is mandatory.

Ellen--I was obsessed with you before, but now? Now you're my daily inspiration. Love you!!!!!

xoxo

h

My Scary Day at the Festival...

Hello, All!

I am writing today to share an experience that I simply can't stop thinking about. I am confused, scared, concerned, and naked.

As at least half of you know, I love September. It's just a great month. Cool fall temperatures finally relieve our bodies of the awful stench of summer, a lot of babies get born, and people all over are feeling sexy (those facts are all factual). What really ices my proverbial (shout-out, Hellkat) autumnal four-layer red-velvet buttercream cake is that September also means it's time for my favorite New York City event of the year. The Festival of San Gennaro in Little Italy!!

*The beloved Feast of San Gennaro is an annual celebration of the Patron Saint of Naples. The first Feast in New York City took place on September 19, 1926 when newly arrived immigrants from Naples settled along Mulberry Street in the Little Italy section of New York City and decided to continue the tradition they had followed in Italy to celebrate the day in 305 A.D. when Saint Gennaro was martyred for the faith.

Doc, Hellkat, and I went straight to the feast on the Sunday before last. We had a blast, won a goldfish who is now dead (sorry D&HK...hate to break it to you this way), and listened to a racist clown offend at least nine people of different nationality in less than one minute (but where, I ask, does a Clown matriculate from?). I had such a wonderful time, I told everyone I knew. Except some of you. When my friend Ellie (aka Sauce Girl) heard me rave about San Gennaro, she insisted I escort her through the crowded streets the very next Sunday.

I didn't object--and the second trip was going just as swimmingly as the first. I even did some things I didn't get to do with D&HK. I got to ride the ferris wheel AND sit in the big chair. And there was something else Ellie and I did. Something that has changed my life.

As we neared one end of Mulberry Street, we noticed a couple of tents about ten yards off the beaten path. Upon closer inspection, we discovered that the tents were advertising "The Woman with a Snake's Body", "The Man with Two Heads", and "The Elephant Lady". Seeing as I was really nostalgic for the days of yore when circus freaks were displayed in cages and not on my TV, AND given the fact that I am reading a book about circus freaks, I couldn't resist. My first mistake? Choosing Ellie as my companion.

Ellie is scared of clowns, small people, and most deformities (though oddly she is fascinated by others...I never know what to expect).

First, we forked over a dollar to see the Snake Woman. We walked up the ramp and peered into a large cage that contained a table. On the table was a cloth replica of a python coiled up with a hole cut in the middle for a woman's head to go. This was the same woman I saw walk into the tent three minutes before. I thought she was the Snake-Woman's feeder. Boy, was I wrong.

My second mistake was paying another dollar to see another scammy freakshow. But the man (dressed in authentic, turn of the century Italian garb) insisted she was the real thing.

He didn't lie.

Ellie and I walk into the tent containing the Elephant Woman, and there is really a woman standing there with a terrible condition that turned her epidermis into what looks like an elephant's cracking, dry, discolored skin. More shocking than her appearance was the fact that we were alone in the tent with her and there was no kind of separation mechanism. It was just me, standing with a woman who had a deformity. I say it was only me because Ellie literally ran out of the tent screaming. I am not kidding or exaggerating.

Since I was standing alone with the woman and already felt bad about Ellie's rude reaction, I decided to stay an talk to her. But that didn't last long because after I asked her where she was from (I didn't think of the implications of this question until after the words were out my mouth) and she replied "Brooklyn" in a rather snarly tone, I couldn't think of what else to say. I left.

Needless to say, I was very upset about the experience. What to feel! What to think! We aren't supposed to stare at people with deformities, right? Why did I pay somebody a dollar to do

so?! And when it came down to it, I didn't want to. Which I am thinking is a really good thing. It was just very unsettling. And why would it have made it better if a partition had been in place?

Thoughts? Comments? I am at a loss. And I italicized many words in this post.

SOS

y

I've got problems

I've got problems. I need them to go away. I have a charge of $24.99 from Verizon on my credit card. It shouldn't be there. Neither should last month's charge of $24.99. My contract with Verizon High Speed Internet was supposed to end in July, according to my records, and I did not have to call in order to terminate, according to the representative I talked to before this whole fiasco began. The contract was supposed to run out and NOT automatically renew, or so I was told. What a scam. So I make the call.

At first, they have no record of my account number or telephone number. Strange, right? They eventually find it, however, and this is where it gets bad. I explain the situation, sure to note how stunned I am that what is happening now is exactly what I hoped to prevent by calling way back when, before my contract was even up, but the representative says that the only call she sees is one I placed to update my credit card information, which is funny because I updated that using their automated service and then chose to speak with a representative regarding my contract, and during that conversation, I annoyed the representative by repeatedly confirming that I would definitely not have to call again in order to end this contract... have I lost you? I promise I have a point... Anyway, panic sets in. What is my problem! I have lost my breath, now breathing shallow; My voice is quivering, and I sound like a nervous child too young to even be calling about a credit card charge; As usual, my body is also trembling. No joke, I have to wrap myself in my blankets and breathe heavily into a pillow while I wait to be transferred to the supervisor who might be able to refund these charges, because ACTUALLY I was supposed to call to prevent the contract from automatically renewing and even then I had to do it 30 days in advance, so I'm going to be charged another $24.99 in October. I'm convulsing. Do you guys get this anxious about telephone confrontations with Verizon representatives? What is wrong with me? Why does my voice do that? And what the frick is wrong with my body?

In the end, they cancelled my contract and refunded me the $49.98, but I fear it's only because they mistook me for a frightened child and pitied the small voice on the other end of the line. Whatever. It gets worse...

Yesterday, I'm speeding down the Schuylkill Expressway, I take the exit to Mommom's house (the exit is actually labeled "Mommom's House") and my tire starts vibrating and making some noise, it's worsening, even worse now, okay, there's a problem - I pull over on the stupid Expressway, get out and find that I have a flat tire that is literally falling off the car. Fuck. I pull up my hood to conceal my face from the cars speeding by. WTF? I was making record time! Do you know what traffic is like on the Expressway these days? Do you even care? Have I lost you again? Stay with me... I'll skip the details of my long wait for Uncle Mike to come help me - blah, blah, we replace the tire, which is completely worn down to the steel threading, pop on the tiny wheel-barrow tire these hybrids have for spares, and great, all done. But guess what. IT GETS WORSE...

I get in and BAM, battery is dead. I was not meant to leave this highway (nor was I supposed to leave the headlights on for so long...) The Channel 6 chopper flying overhead is surely reporting on the disabled vehicle that has been sitting sideways on the ramp for the past hour - soon to reach two - and the hooded figure that has been scurrying about it. Now Uncle Mike is off to get his truck and cables. In the meantime, I'm cleaning up the funion chips that had long ago fallen from Stephen's mouth and settled into the creases in the seats, and I'm wondering why there are seven bottles of dirty water on the floor in the back... but then! Hark! Poof! Lo and behold! Da-d-d-d-da-da-da-dah! IT GETS BETTER...

A freak tornado funnels out of the sky, a cow floats by, and a strike of lightning hits my engine and starts my car! Just kidding. You still with me? Only a bit more to go, I promise... In reality, I spy a portly man shuffling toward the car, which now has it's hood up to validate it's awkward position here on the ramp. He's struggling to fit a bright orange vest over his sweatshirt, which reads, "I am not A Morning Person." (You know the type - that ridiculous catalog shopper, that is. What is it? Bob's blah blah blah? No doubt he has a "Beach Bum" wife beater in his hamper at home.) Surely it's the afternoon by now, and this man, this sleepy samaritan, offers to jump me. YES!

It turned out to be quick and easy - he only punched me once and took my wallet and then went on his way. Just kidding... but that wouldn't be the first time I've been jumped by a giant in broad daylight.

In reality, he jumped me and didn't charge me, but again, I fear it's only because he took pity on the strangely tall, child-faced boy he happened to find stuck on the side of the road while he was looking for some sucker to charge for a tow to the Pep Boys just 10 minutes away and down the street from Mommom's house.

The moral of this story? A penny saved is a penny earned.

Just kidding - It always gets worse before it gets better.

THE END!

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow...

Dear friends and readers (do we have one single reader who isn't one of us?),

I am sad to announce here on the blog that PHD is no longer. After two full days of packing, ditching, cleaning, and selling, the gathering spot of our youth is empty. I thought about posting some favorite memories from PHD, but instead I would like to share with those of you who weren't there some of the final PHD memories.

Ellen and I literally cleaned PHD for 24 hours (totally gunning for those pangs of sympathy and guilt you must all be feeling after reading that). Being the strategic gals we are, we scheduled a garage sale to raise funds for cleaning supplies and also eliminate the inevitable amounts of clutter accumulated by four girls in two years. The sale was set for the first few hours of our cleaning project.

Our first customer was unforgettable.

1) A small, old, asian man came to PHD and it will never be the same. After scoping out all of the clearly marked "FOR SALE" items laid out in the living room in a beautiful flow-conducive pattern, our friend wasn't satiated. He wasn't finding the "custom jewelry" and "electronics" he came for. Then, as we walked him toward the front door, he made a bee-line for the kitchen. He opened the cabinets and seemed captivated by the ten year old rices and pastas Ellen has carted around most of her adult life. He swiftly began stockpiling desirable items--in the middle of the living room where the sale was actually taking place. It looked like he was on "Shop Til You Drop". As Ellen and I watched in masked horror/hysterics, he added a few items from our bookshelf that weren't for sale (Broadway's best Love Songs, Amy's old Opera sheet music, A bottle of vermouth) and asked us "how much for all this?". Seeing as this was our first potential sale and he has amassed about 18 items that weren't even on sale, I tried him out with $20. Nope. After much haggling, I stepped out of the situation and Ellen secured $7.

2) Apparently the guys moving into out apartment are HOT. So says Katie, who informs me on garage sale day that she met them and they want to buy the dining room chairs. Well OF COURSE!!! Sure!! Email them and see how much they can pay!! After no word for 24 hours, I decide to call, as the chairs aren't selling at the big sale. On Sunday afternoon at around 2 O'Clock PM, I had a speakerphone conversation with four completely inebriated boys who not only called me "Hardly" for ten minutes, but who also spent the bulk of our conversation time talking to each other and forgetting I was there. Needless to say, I couldn't procure any money, and was forced to sell the chairs to THIS GUY...

3) Coincidentally?, another asian. He calls me and expresses interest. I give him chair measurements (all dining room chairs are uniformly 18" high). I tell him the price that is on my ad that he read. He low-balls me because "there are a lot of chairs on sale right now". His words. He asks if there are any stains on the chairs. I say no. He asks again, because apparently he went to pick up a couch yesterday that he was told had to stains, only to find an enormously stained couch. I accept his ridiculous price because time is running out. He is two hours late. He calls and says he is sorry he is late, he had to buy some wine. One hour later he arrives with asian girlfriend in tow. He sits in chair. He asks for me to hold his tape measure (indicating table height) in front of him sitting in chair. Girlfriend gives this a try. I am still holding tape measure. This simulation isn't sufficient. He asks me to find something in the apartment "this" high. I find something 6 inches short. He brings over chair. He asks me to find "some books or something" to put on top that corrects the incongruity. Katie and Steve (both present, thank GOD) find a box of cereal and a text book to stack. He likes it. Girlfriend gives it a try. He asks to use my internet. SOLD.

4) On garage Sale Day, Ellen and I realized we hadn't eaten. So we ordered a giant Bravo pizza, half plain half Pep (as Schwayman says) and we sat down in the middle of several unsold items. We heard a knock at the door, shouted "Come in!", and didn't offer to move ourselves or the pizza as our latecomer perused the PHDelights scattered around us.

5) Ellen and I found a cache of beer in our fridge (I won't divulge what condition the fridge was in before I cleaned it...and don't you dare ask ellen about that stove). We had thrown away our bottle opener, so we opened beer with a hammer all night.

6) We made a combined 10 hour playlist.

7) We accidentally threw away several of Katie's personal items. She dug through the trash for some, and for the others we are just plain sorry. We owe Katie a pair of shorts and a new razor, among other things.

8) Ellen was convinced she could sell her crutches (I bet her dinner she couldn't), and though she won't receive any money, her new craigslist friend Steve is coming to pick them up and donate them to Africa tomorrow morning.

9) During the first hour of cleaning, Ellen and I heard noises coming from Mychal's old room, and discovered a puppy.

10) Somebody LOVED our purple TV stand (it is BEAUTIFUL, Amy) and PAID MONEY for it.

11) We received endless comments about how great our apartment is. And it was very difficult to explain why we would ever want to leave.

That's a small taste of all that occurred. I truly wish each and every one of you could have been there to say goodbye. Great. Now I'm crying.

H

Everything I need to know, I've learned from living in Springboro, OH.

First off- I suppose I should apologize for not having written sooner. My only excuse is that I've been distracted by everything the great town of Springboro has to offer (some of which you will hear about later in this post). I HAVE been reading, though, and have been thoroughly entertained. Posting just isn't my cup of tea. Like E L, I am intimidated. I haven't written for fear of being called lame in comparison to my fellow blog writers. I thought I was off the hook, because anytime Yeldah Knorc has badgered me about my lack of blog posts, I've been quick to point out that I'm not the only one who is MIA.  "Hell-Kat hasn't written yet either!", I would remind her. This worked remarkably well until yesterday, when Yeldah informed me that Hell-Kate posted a little over an hour ago. 

So here I am. 

I would like to share with you some of the insight and wisdom I've gained from my 10 weeks of  living here in Springboro. You won't find Springboro on a map (trust me, I tried). It's between Dayton and Cincinnati, just in case you were wondering. And the lessons I have learned here, I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

Enjoy.

Helpful Piece of Insight # 1: People lie.

On La Comedia's website, you will find their clever, catchy motto: "La Comedia: a taste of Broadway." On the first day, the technical director of the theatre told us that "if it happens on broadway, it happens here at the La Comedia." This is bullshit. My bet is that on Broadway, Annie wouldn't slip on a piece of BUTTER and fall flat on her ass at the end of act 1. I bet the man who yelled "THANKS, OBAMA" at the end of "Hooverville," a song making fun of president Herbert Hoover, would have gotten kicked out. Or how about when an entire piece of set ran over my foot, causing me to rush to Urgent Care to get xrays and wake up the next morning with a bruise the size of a frisbee on my foot? Does that happen on Broadway? Lies, I tell you.

Helpful Piece of Insight # 2: I take New York City for granted.

Since I've been here, we have done SO MUCH fun stuff- laser tag, baseball games, trashy bars, theme parks, water parks, outdoor concerts, roller skating nights. I actually started pouting when we we started our last week here, because I'd have to "get back to reality" in NYC. Then I realized that I was being ridiculous. If I would just seek out fun things to do in New York like we did here (mainly because our only other option was to sit in our rooms all day), I would never feel like New York is overwhelming or a burden. So guys- let's find new, fun things to do when I get back. Restaurants, bars, activities, neighborhoods we don't usually visit- there is SO much to take advantage of (ALMOST as much as here in Springboro). 

Helpful Piece of Insight # 3: Dayton is NOT a big city.

Helpful Piece of Insight # 4: Honesty sucks. You should lie to everyone. Refer to # 1.

I decided to walk in the theatre wearing sweatpants and no makeup one day. Immediately upon entering, one of the stupid little girls I share a dressing room with says sarcastically, "Wow, Mychal- you look awesome." I brush it off and head upstairs when one of the locals in the show, Charlie, a 60 something year old man who left his wife in his 40's to be Blanchard, his "black partner", yelled, "Mychal, come here for a second!" When I walked over to him, Charlie looked me up and down and said "Hmm. I don't know if it's the buffet or what, but you've gained a few pounds." I'm sure I turned white, because he then recovered by adding, "No! It looks sexy on you! I love it!" When I finally make it to the dressing room, another little girl tells me I look tired, and asked if I got enough sleep. WTF?

Helpful Piece of Insight # 5: Southern comfort and coke might or might not be the best alcoholic beverage ever. 

Helpful Piece of Insight # 6: Children are stupid.

One night, as I walked down the aisle to make my entrance as star-to-be wearing a khaki trench coat and a funny hat, a child yelled, "Look, mom- there's Mary Poppins!" 

Helpful Piece of Insight # 7: When looking to invest in a piece of real estate, immediately cut out anything that is located directly next door to Mcdonalds.

Helpful Piece of Insight # 8: RAID Ant killer doesn't work. 

This morning, I woke up with an ant CRAWLING ACROSS MY PILLOW. This has gone TOO far.

Helpful Piece of Insight # 9: When I am old, I will participate in Bingo Nights, not live theatre.

There is an man in our show, Ernie, who is gross and old and has a huge birthmark across his right cheek. In our 2nd week of rehearsal, Ernie added me on Facebook (why are old people on Facebook?) and proceeded to whisper in my ear the next morning, "thanks for giving me something great to dream about last night." Gross. Ernie also forgets his lines on stage. Constantly. Instead of making something up or just standing in silence and letting someone else pick up the cue, Ernie mumbles something that no one can understand. 8 times a week at the top of the show, when Grace enters, Ernie is supposed to say "Good afternoon, miss Ferrell." Ernie forgets Grace's name about 30% of the time, and says, "Good afternoon, miss Fhfushsdfjhse." Ernie also tries to touch my ass every day in during "Hooverville."

Helpful Piece of Insight # 10: People in Springboro like to take advantage of the "Missed Connections" section of Craigslist. 

Our Rooster has gotten a shout out by a man wondering if his moves are as good in private as they are on stage. And then during tech week, I went to Mcdonalds every morning early to get breakfast (hold your judgement, please). Sure enough, at the end of the week, the girl who plays Grace found a posting on Craigslist for a girl who was ordering early Tuesday morning at the Mcdonalds in Springboro (there is only one). The subject? "Wish I could have ordered on of you to go."

Helpful Piece of Insight #11: I need every one of you back in my life. I love you all and miss you so much!

Enough said.

Twyla. I can call her that now.

Oh my goodness, fellow bloggers.

I have been trying to think of something to blog about for DAYS now. I have started about ten entries in the past week, but every time I end up simply wasting a half hour. Until TODAY.

As many of you may know, I now work for my brother's ex. Pshhhh, don't I know it! I believe all of you have met her. Her name is Michelle. And she is a goddess.

I began work only five days ago, and today, on my fourth day of work, Michelle asked me the following:

"Would you like to go see an invited dress rehearsal of Twyla's new show?". Just like that. No pomp. No circumstance.

(If you don't know who Twyla Tharp is, look her up. She is a famous choreographer who did "Movin' Out" among many other remarkable things)

So. I freaked out. And said yes. Michelle couldn't come to the dress rehearsal because she had patients during that time, so she sent me in her stead. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And may I just say it was the best three hours of my LIFE. I was five feet away from Ms. Tharp herself (who is crazy and amazing and inspiring and pictured above), and the whole thing took place in a rehearsal studio so I was about five feet away from the dancers (read: incredible athletes from another planet).

The show, like movin' out, is a "jukebox" dance piece but instead of Billy "cradle-robbing" Joel, this one is set to Frank Sinatra's music. And about 90% of the movin' out cast is in this one too. And now I don't have to pay $100 to see this when it comes to Broadway! Now I am getting boring.

Theme of this post: MY BROTHER MARRIED THE WRONG WOMAN.

Also, I see none of you have replied to my email. I sent it well over one hour ago. I see how this is going to be. Don't ask me why nothing is dedicated to you people.

H

Update from the Den

No top 10 list for you scallybags tonight.  I'm sitting here, pantsless in my den, eating celery and hummus.  And I thought of all of you.

Pants can just be SO restricting.  I know Yeldah knows what I'm talking about.  They are especially suffocating while choreographing at 11pm in the den, which, otherwise would be much too small a space except for the fact that it has been completely cleared out due to the infestation of fleas there, a problem almost as bad as the fruit-fly situation in the kitchen and bathrooms, but not nearly as bad as the fact that I am now choreographing pantsless to invisible music in my head about the Creation of Man and Earth.  But yes, fruit flies: flash me back to that first PH D summer of the flies.  Anyone remember??  How the hell did we get rid of those things anyway?  Right now I've tried the dumb red-wine-vinegar traps, which are effective in killing but ineffective in the destruction of spawning.  Then I tried pouring ammonia down the drains, which some online housewife swore to be the trick.  Next morning, the nuisances were back like a heart-attack.  Then, after a phone call with Tim at Athens Pest Control, I poured bleach down the drain.  I will see tomorrow whether he knows his shit or not.   The strangest thing is not the swarms of gnats that confront me as I pee but more that I AM THE ONLY ONE IN MY FAMILY WHO GIVES A SHIT ABOUT THIS CRISIS.  There are tiny little bundles of hell with wings flying all over MY AIR, landing on MY FOOD, buzzing in MY EARS, WATCHING ME IN MY PRIVATEST OF MOMENTS and no one else seems to CARE.  I really considered the idea that all this time alone without friends was getting to my head.  Hallucinations!  Doc?!  Meds?!  My latest theory is that  God is sending the plague into this home to clue me in on the lameness of a 24 year old living with her parents.  Well, God, I WOULD move out, except that my garage apartment is part of a home that was as of a week ago put on the market.  So here I am sleeping and dancing with fleas and fruitflies. 

Anyway, all of this is to say that in searching, pantslessly, for some choreography inspiration, I dove into my mother's extensive collection of footage from plays I was in back in the day.  And I came across some of hadley and I singing "In His Eyes" from Jekyll and Hyde at the Access Broadway competition.  Hello-larious.  I dangle it carrot-style to all of you who have opted OUT of the late September trip to GA.  My stick-style strategy is to yell threats via fb messages like Yeldah does.  

Mike, I teach a bunch of 8 year olds now and all their moms want to be friends with me on FB , so keep the fast-pooping comments to yourself.  NOT!  KEEP EM COMING.  

That's all

amy

I forgot?/MEALPLAN

So I've been sitting at work with nothing to do for...mmm, I'm going to go with an hour, and with building frustration, I almost said aloud, "what else should I surf on the internet," which is when I realized what I had done.

I've ignored you, and I'm sorry. The problem is, though, I have no lists, no top-tens, because I spend my days working-watching lost (!!!!)-sleeping-repeat. AND, since the cafe is indefinitely A-BUST (don't get me started), I fear this will be the beginning of my future. ugh.

so instead, I'll just let you all know that TODAY I GOT A MEAL PLAN! you have no idea how happy this makes me. After weeks of Amy's frozen burritos for lunch everyday (I bet you didn't know that Amy has been making me burritos, freezing them and sending them to me everyday--did ya, did ya?), our meal allowances have finally been enacted, with people ready-and-waiting to make me salads! pasta! sandwiches! smoothies! potatoes-au-gratin! It's like college, but different!

On another note, if any of you aren't busy, and have an interest in catching some tennis, the qualifiers are free and open to the public all this week! and you could come see me! wouldn't that be fun?

alright, i must go. someone might need me. probably not, but you never know...

Stories from the Bronx, yo!

Here's the thing...

blogging intimidates me.

i feel like i can only write something if i have something really either important or funny to write. But no matter what I write, I fear I'll always be lame compared to my fellow bloggers.

I guess I'll share a few of my favorite stories from the Bronx. That's somethign to blog about, right? Remind the rest of you (who have moved away from or plan to move away from the city) what you are missing.

Here was my summer.

1) I was hired as the drama instructor to a 300 kid day camp at a middle school in the Bronx and directed a musical version of "Aladdin."

2) I was the only white person on staff or in camp and the youngest instructor. My nickname became "white legs" (a nickname made by the girl who on the first day stood up in my class, snapped her fingers in my faced and said "why the FUCK do i have to respect you?").

3) I had to teach kids from the Bronx how to rap. Note: the only rap I'm familiar with is "Men in Black," which i mastered in the 7th grade on my karaoke machine, and Mike and Caroline's "Chocolate" rap.

4) After I taught them how to rap, I had to choreograph a rap. That was fun.

5) I witnessed a near shooting THREE times

6) They sell cinnamon rolls the size of my face for $1 in the Bronx.

7) I had either a large Diet Coke or a $1 icecream every day from McDonalds, because it was the ONLY way I could get through my day

8) One of my co-workers name was "Xi-u." She introduced herself as "hi! I'm She'an...but I spell it with an "X."

9) CORNBREAD. For those of you who don't know what that means, I'm sure you will be told at some point.

10) I have never felt so fulfilled in all of my life. I met the most amazing children and people and feel that I have been forever changed from my experience this summer.

Ellen. out.

My Being the First Response

Allow me, dear friends - I'll be the first to respond, AS USUAL. Tell me, do you all hate reading my blogs? I think you do. Do you? Oh god... I have this fear that you hate reading my blogs and also that you see how pathetic it is that I'm always first to respond. And now you're reading this and nodding you're heads and laughing, oh you're laughing!, and you're happy that I finally realize how much you hate my blogs.

But now you're not laughing, you're frowning and you're cocking your heads to the side because, alas, I continue to blog.

It's my duty, bitches. As first responder (and licensed doctor, need I remind you?), I offer here a medical report regarding our ailing blog:

Name: PHD-lite
Age: 1 yr
Condition: Comatose
Pulse: Once, sometimes Twice/week
Diagnosis: Multi-system failure
Treatment: More blogging!

Oh god, this is why you hate my blogs! Because I do cute things like this? It's totally annoying, right? Oh god... get serious, Mike! Law school! Logic games! Yes, logic games, Amy, are indeed my favorite! Yes! But I need to start doing them again - I took a brief hiatus to... watch TV and stuff. But, heretofore, henceworth and so on, I shall return to the law! An esquire I shall be!

Also, Amy, I would love to do a road-trip! Now, Memorial Day weekend is early in September, right? I really should be practicing then, though. And how would I get home again? I don't know. We need to figure this out. You know, I can't go. No, final answer. Well, who else is going? Can I phone a friend? Wait, no. No, final answer.

You know, Amy, you and I could just use this blog to pen-pal with each other. Would you like that? I realize that you usually address your blogs to everyone, and also that you seem to avoid any direct conversation with me (You made me #10 on your Top Ten and only wrote a few short sentences to me about some factory that I do not work at, which I thought I had cleared up in my previous blog. Throw me a bone here, Amy!)

As for the rest of you haters... I have nothing more to say. This is Doc, signing off. This visit, being a house call, cost you each a hundred dollars. I take personal checks, certified checks, money orders, cash, coins, chocolate and Trident original gum.

My entry is now over. Happy? ARE YOU HAPPY?!