In Praise of Older Women

My mom is 50. She is a smoking hot woman. Regardless, she is uncomfortable with her age and all the implications it carries with it. But considering that these days, many women over 50 give women my age a run for our money daily (and in my case, I can't hold a candle to any of the lovely ladies listed below), I want to take a minute to recognize some of the hottest women around--who just happen to be more of the fine wine as opposed to grape juice variety. I can only hope to one day look half as good as these women. And, by the way, even if any of these women got plastic surgery, botox, dyed hair whatever, doesn't bother me--they still had to have something to work with, so more power to them.

So, onto 10 hotter than hot hotties who make 50, 55, or even 60 look fierce.

1. Shohreh Aghdashloo--Age: 55



2. Isabelle Huppert--Age: 52

3. Charlotte Rampling--Age: 61

4. Bo Derek--Age: 51

5. Diana Ross--Age: 63


6. Rekha--Age: 53

7. Jacqueline Bisset--Age: 63

8. Cheryl Ladd--Age: 56

9. Shabana Azmi--Age: 57


10. Lena Horne--Age: 90...and still a red-hot diva


Do not go ugly into that good night. I tip my hat to you, ladies.

Atonement

So, I was thinking about two things today..."Atonement", the movie version of which is coming out shortly (and I am ecstatic--for once, I have really high hopes for Keira Knightley's performance) and its writer, Ian McEwan.

While the two topics are linked, I've been considering them separately which means this blog is probably going to make even less sense than usual. Let's look at each in its turn, starting with Ian McEwan.

I used to be freaked out by Mr. McEwan. His books, which tend to deal with the darkest subjects that haunt the human soul, also tended to strike me as somewhat misogynistic. Women as harpies, sexual objects, succubi, obstacles--all caricatures of people. However, his male characters don't tend to fare much better--wishy-washy, sexual obsessives, pathological liars. There is no human flaw that Ian McEwan cannot or will not exploit to its fullest potential. But I'm not really doing him justice. These human flaws are not synonymous with his plots, which tend to be rich and deep.

Not only that, but I wonder if Ian McEwan's female characters belie his own personal fear of women, particularly strong, vocal women. I'm not sure why I feel that there's a tie-in there, but I suppose I just see such a struggle between the genders in his novels, generally where the woman has the upper hand and the man either succumbs to her will or to some fatal flaw and is then lost to the world. Spoilers below, but I just wanted to exemplify my point a little more...

Look at "The Cement Garden" which explores the odd family dynamic shared by four siblings who live on their own after both their parents die (an event that they hide from the rest of the world). The eldest sibling, a sexually precocious girl, understands that her sexuality can wield power over men including her younger brother who eventually succumbs to her advances (really a self-fulfilling prophecy). The sister is clearly the aggressor in the scenario, whether her brother was ready for the opportunity or not. She ends up providing the mechanism by which we see him ruin himself psychologically through incest.

In "Enduring Love", which is in my opinion one of McEwan's best (not that I've read that much of his work, but still) at least in terms of exploring a psychotic personality profile, we have a woman who represents an obstacle to one man's love of another man. The man who is the pursuer feels that his prey is essentially owned by this woman who must be dispatched.

In "Atonement", the entire plot hinges on a young girl whose lack of objectivity, and particular biases end up ruining two (or three, or five depending on how you look at it) lives and, to be honest, I don't know that I could see her character as a male. Briony, the girl who is the fulcrum of the story, has a strength coupled with a self-centered naivete that seems particularly female, but in the worst way. Her personality seems to combine many traits that I imagine men fear: strong will and stubborness coupled with self-righteousness. Men seem to love innocent women, but when women guard their virtues with strong words and determination, they lose their appeal and gain a new, scary set of teeth.

I could be way off, but this is how I see Ian McEwan's perspective on women, or strong women at least. They may be rife with issues and negative character traits, but they are traits that have equal and opposite complements in their men. I suppose I should read more of his books, but to be honest, they're so emotionally draining, I'm not sure I'm up for it. But he is an excellent and evocative writer, and "Atonement" is going to be a big deal for me. I can't wait to see it.

The idea of "atonement" is an interesting one for me right now. I remember one of the first times I ever really heard it discussed was from Louis Farrakhan. It was utterly crazy. He was describing the day of atonement, and what atonement meant to him. In the way only he has, he started breaking down the word as such. I am not kidding:

A tone--like a harmonic sound, a tone that calls us, blah blah something like that.
At one--we are all one entity, blah blah.
At one men (I told you, I'm not kidding)--something that didn't make a lot of sense to me because it just seemed to build off of the "at one" idea in a redundant way.

Anyway, that was what I remembered from that speech (which probably meandered off, as his tend to do, about the significance of the number of steps in the building he was standing near, or the number of pillars around him, or the number of eyes he has or whatever). I didn't really feel like I got a clear idea of what he actually thought atonement was. What's the difference between atonement and apologizing? Or atonement and contrition? What makes atonement so special that in many cultures and religions, the idea gets its own day?

If you look up the word you see that, though archaic, the word was once associated with the idea of reconciliation, specifically with God. I wonder about that though, what does one need to do to atone and reconcile with God? How do you know you've had a falling out? What kind of mistakes or offenses require atonement?

I like the idea of it though. For some reason, apologies these days seem valueless and common. You end up torturing a bunch of animals in a dogfighting ring, then apologize and serve some time--or you cheat on your spouse, drunk drive on the road and hurt someone, etc. etc. and apologize, and that is supposed to give you tabula rasa. But atonement implies that you understand that there exists a breach between you and the idea of an ultimate good and that only you can repair the rift. An apology just implies that you understood that you did something wrong and regret that it has been done. Atonement shows that you are willing to make amends.

That seems dignified to me. The desire to make amends as opposed to feeling gratified for admitting an error in judgment. I'm certain that, as usual, I've oversimplified everything (I blame lack of sleep and an imminent food coma), but I have to say that I'm pretty grateful that for once in a long while, I can consider my ideology thoughtfully. I never realized that those kinds of musings were in fact luxuries for me.

Wistfulness Writ Stupid

Every time I come back to DC, it's the same thing. I am gratified to see my mom and my friends (who despite their intelligence have not made the right choice to leave DC for less snarky pastures, but whatever) but immediately break out in hives. Even though I grew up approximately 30 miles from DC, I've never considered DC to be my home. After living here for four years, I considered DC even less my home. At no point did I ever take up the mantle of DC and parade around touting the merits of our Metro system, our timeless monuments, or our quirky traffic circles that tourists tend to be drawn to like a black hole such that they twirl around in the middle of our city like they're on a merry go round from hell.

There are very very few positive things I can say about DC. I fly back here with clenched teeth. I plan my time here meticulously to distract me from how annoying I find this place: breakfast here, lunch with this person, dinner at this time, museum rounds on this day, copious shopping the rest of the time. I don't know why that is. DC seems to make quite a few people happy. But I feel nothing but a soulless, transient world around me when I'm here. Last night, I met up with a friend and owing to the fact that nothing is freaking open in the area where we were at 10pm, we ended up spending most of our evening at the Barnes and Nobles. Could we have gone to Georgetown instead? Sure. I also could have punched myself in the face repeatedly or hurled myself down a flight of stairs--what's your point?

I spent four years in Georgetown. A good 16 hours daily were spent around M street between work and school and walking around in a daze because I couldn't see through my tears. Some people would love to trade places with me. What's not to love about Georgetown? Wisconsin Avenue? Washington Harbour? The Rhino Bar? It is my own set of personal defects that prevent me from looking at DC the way those people do.


It would be too hard, and with no payoff, to analyze why I am allergic to DC (as much as it seems to be to me). All I know is that the allergy seems to extend to the Maryland suburbs, elderly Asian ladies in outlet stores (and their sharp little elbows!), and Finger 11. Don't get me wrong, I have had a wonderful time here, so far, but I don't tend to dwell on the positive. Who here wants to read about how awesome it was to run into a friend from high school, or bonding with mom, or teaching the cats how to be less annoying, or writing part of my one-act, or taking pictures all over the place? No one. I don't even want to write about it because for some reason, overanalyzing my happier times takes all the joy out of it. I am an odd little monkey.

Anyway, the bad points. Well of course, all elderly Asian ladies aren't bad, but the ones I saw at the Coach outlet in Hagerstown had apparently sharpened their elbows and patellas on diamonds because they poked the hell out of me even when I was trying to get out of their way. It reminded me of when I went to Hanuman temple in Delhi a few years back and was just trying to get a pooja done, and standing a full head and shoulders taller than everyone else and being embarrassingly American, I tried hard to politely let the others in the temple kind of go on about their business only to have them throw arms and elbows and shoulders around me in a whirlwind of limbs, all pointy enough to take out an eye. "Go ahead!" I practically yelled as I tried to protect my vital organs from these desperate worshippers. There is absolutely nothing more terrifying than a determined lady pushing 70. I'm not even sure mace would take these lasses out.

Another annoyance: Finger 11. God, I hate you guys. I hate you so passionately that just the name is making me scratch myself violently. I know it's random in a blog about DC to just vent irrationally about this band, but I've been hearing them ALL OVER the place, aaaaargh. First, they plagiarized from Peter Gabriel's beautiful Solsbury Hill to create some toothless facsimile that warbles something idiotic like "if I traded it all for one thing, wouldn't that be something"...I mean you guys didn't bother to write the music for the song, could you guys have at least devoted more than 15 seconds to writing the lyrics at least? Or was there a tight deadline at the Intellectually Impaired Camp for the Musically Incompetent?

Then, on top of that, they have a new song (probably like a year old actually because I don't listen to the radio anymore--sorry, I tend to stick around 1997 as the pinnacle in musical achievement) whose lyrics are even more nonsensical and plagiarize from an even better song. This time, they've massacred Franz Ferdinand's "Take Me Out" to create something that sounds like (I'm paraphrasing, so I'm guessing the lyrics are even stupider than this) "I'm not paralyzed but I seem to be struck by you/I want to make you move because you're standing still/if your body matches what your eyes can do/you'll probably move right through me on my way to you."

To me this makes about as much sense as when Bush gave us this clip where he talks about "in Texas there's a saying--fool me once, shame on...shame on you. Fool me can't get fooled again." Well folks. Finger 11 has fooled us again. Can they be arrested? Can we quarantine them from the general public? Why do I have to listen to this? Yes, I changed the channel, only to have these guys pop up on another one. And they're on t.v. They're freaking everywhere, ready to plagiarize every decent song they've ever heard. Will they lose track of what they've plagiarized and eventually plagiarize themselves? One can only hope.

Oh wait, I just remembered something that made me blissfully happy today. I was taking Mom to the airport and while driving home, I got to hear "Personal Jesus" TWICE. To me, that's a good omen. I love that song. I love anything Depeche Mode. So thanks DC, for throwing me a bone--while I was getting lost trying to find New Hampshire Avenue amongst the crackheads and other denizens in the NE, you helped me keep my cool with one of my favorite songs of all time. Yaaay.

I sound, and am, bitter and exhausted. Chicago, I miss you. Please don't laugh at me when I reach Midway and collapse on the floor from relief and joy. Chicago, you and I have chemistry. Let's make this last.

An Open Letter to My Homies Back in the Motherland

Dear Indian people in India,

I beg of you, please stop doing the following:

1. Setting widows on fire.
2. Marrying dogs to atone for something.
3. Sending one legged homeless people after me to take my money. Despite the absence of an essential limb, those guys still run faster than me.
4. Erecting temples devoted to rats.
5. Raising furor over things like Richard Gere pecking Shilpa Shetty on the cheek, while ignoring the thousands of sexual assaults on women that occur daily in the country. Shilpa gets kissed on the cheek and there's a call for Gere's head--my cousin gets groped on a train and no one bats an eye. That's beyond messed up.
6. Dumping piles of trash right next to your own domicile.
7. Sending your children out in the mid-day sun to beg for money while you sit in the shadows threatening to beat them with shoe leather.
8. Having babies with four extra limbs. I know that's kind of out of your control, but maybe taking in more folic acid would help? I'm not sure. I'm the one Non-Resident Indian who's not a doctor.
9. Asking me when I'm getting married. I'm just going to keep telling you that I'm married to God, okay?
10. Embarrassing Indian people around the world by doing any of the above.

Seriously. I have worked my entire life to free myself of the stereotypes I was shackled with the moment I emerged from the womb wearing this year-round tan. I am immensely proud of my heritage, my family, and myself, but that pride begins to ebb when I read in the news about some enormously idiotic thing some bumpkin has done in Biaora or some random place in India. Every time you guys do something like burn Richard Gere in effigy, it ruins my credibility a little bit.

In fairness, India has a lot of beautiful things going for it. But its PR is terrible. Just like the rest of the world thinks that America is a gun-toting, crack-smoking, den of iniquity, violence, and arrogance, the world sees India as a hot, nasty place filled with equal parts snake charmers and outsourcing phone personnel named Tim, Mike, David, or Chuck.

Has the US earned its reputation? Somewhat. But we as Americans feel that we are often misunderstood despite our good intentions. I hope no one wakes up in this country feeling guilty for being a US citizen. I am so grateful for what I have here, my opportunities, my lifestyle, my freedom. However, I think every sentient American recognizes that once you leave our airspace, you are liable to hear someone from another country complain about our government. The weird thing is, I often find myself in defensive mode when that happens. It's like when you complain about your parents--you are allowed to complain about your own parents, but not anyone else's. If it's out of your family, it should be out of your purview for complaining purposes.

Anyway, take the US's situation and take away the cultural influence the US has on others, and add cows, lepers, roaming dogs, beeping trucks all over the freaking place, and mustachioed men who think nothing of trying to stare you down in public places (which is why you need to adopt my method of making irritating crazy faces at them to make them back off--let me know if you want advice) and you have India's reputation in the global marketplace. People, do you want to keep up your FDI-initiated growth rates that are enabling you guys to buy from Levi's and Pizza Hut and Marks and Spencers? Then stop turning my birthplace into an international joke. Because right now, companies are looking at Brazil with their hot women, Carnivale, and cheap plastic surgery and for my part--I know the choice would be easy (not that Indian women aren't hot, but seriously--unbraiding the hair occasionally could go a long way, ladies).

And I haven't even gotten started on the monkeys. When you get to the point where monkeys frighten a politician to the point where he falls over a balcony to his death--really, what more needs to be said?

In a way, much of India's idiosyncrasies is what makes the country quaint and unique. There is much about India that I hope never changes. But there is a not-so-fine line between "quaint" and "all-out-crazy". Your aunt Gertrude dressing up the cat for Halloween is kind of quaint and kooky. Aunt Gertrude dressing the cat in a onesie and parading it down the block in a stroller is completely crazy. India--you're getting close to cat-in-a-stroller type craziness.

Again, I want to reiterate how much I love India, and how much I love to go back and visit my family, see the natural wonders and the thousands of years of history laid out in our monuments--the reason I complain is because I care about you as a country, and I know we all deserve better. You deserve better than the undercurrent of misogyny that runs through much of the place, the blind religious devotion that can go from absurd to deadly in a matter of minutes. You have history, literature, music, culture that is transcendent and glorious, elegant and uplifting. But we are completely betraying our legacy with our willful ignorance and closed-mindedness. Woman wears a low-cut shirt in Delhi and she's branded a whore. A man marries a dog to atone for his crimes against other dogs and he's labeled a devotee. There is something seriously wrong there. Please stop forcing me to explain my country to other people. I just can't do it.

I'm Thinking of Somewhere I Want to Be

Something I probably should have mentioned earlier is that I have a travel blog. I haven't updated it in quite a while because I haven't traveled anywhere worth mentioning in quite a while, but I hope to remedy that shortly.

The blog, in case you care to read it, is www.indienne.blogspot.com and has some pictures and anecdotes from my trips to India, Tanzania, London, and Paris. Some of my most memorable and beautiful moments have been spent abroad and my feet are really itching to wander again, the sooner the better.

One regret that I have from the last few years is that I haven't seen Sanchi in a long, long time. Sanchi, which is a few miles away from Bhopal, my birthplace, is a place that I think of fairly often. It seems odd to me that hills, which are generally roundish tracts of land covered in grass or some herbaceous being, look different in India than they do in the US. I don't know why that is.

In Sanchi, especially, there is something especially beautiful about the rolling hills, the Buddhist relics, which are called stupas, are supposedly the oldest Buddhist relics in the world. The time I went, there were rolling grey clouds and light misty rain. I was with my cousins, aunt, uncle, bhabhi ('sister-in-law', or as much as one as an only child can have), and mom and a few other people. There were some random wildlife as well, perhaps most notably a little calf that my youngest cousin liked to run after.

For some reason, I felt very peaceful at Sanchi. It's designed to be that way, but I can't understand why. What is it about the crumbling stone, the round stupas, and maudlin day that was so comforting? I can only assume that it's because that's all there is there. I don't remember any raucous restaurants nearby, or crazy internet cafes, or loud huge trucks beeping the way only big Indian trucks can beep.

Somehow, the distance from all that insanity makes Sanchi feel sacred. Even if you're not Buddhist or Indian or ideological in anyway, Sanchi is a beautiful open-air monument. It forces you to meditate, slow down, and breathe in.

By the way, the picture above is of a stupa. I didn't take this picture and don't know who did, so I apologize for not giving appropriate credit.

My Ideal Weekend

This weekend, I'm going to have "the ideal" weekend, where everything I do has purpose and a place and I work on enjoying the entire 48 hours I'm given. But wait, you may say, you have recently quit your job and are looking for a new one--can't you just do what you want all the time? Ah, grasshoppah, I wish it were so. But generally on weekdays, I am looking for jobs, working on a business plan I've concocted, running errands, writing, and/or cleaning. Looking for a job, as the cliche goes, is like a full time job, even more so if you don't quite know what you're after.

So anyway, here goes my ideal weekend:

I wake up on Saturday morning to a clean apartment, the coffee maker having been set the night before. I drink my coffee, read CNN online, and stretch a bit so I don't feel like such an old lady. I get into my gym clothes and pack my swimsuit, and then head to the gym for a nice long session.

After about two hours at the gym, I head home, take a nice long shower, and fix myself a nice lunch which I do while watching one of my favorite movies. Probably "Hot Fuzz". Lunch will probably be something I don't usually cook because it feels like too much of an effort...perhaps sauteed tofu with green beans. I eat it and it's delicious.

After lunch, I let my stomach settle a little bit. Maybe around this time, I call my mom to chat for a bit, get her advice on my evolving business plan. Maybe I call my cousins too because I haven't done that in a while. Then, I head out with my digital camera to snap pictures around town. I won't just focus on the usual art deco buildings that I love, and I'll probably take myself to the Art Institute as well and visit some of my favorite exhibits, taking pictures of them.

A few hours later, I'll upload the pictures to my computer, and upload the best of those to my photography website which I haven't updated in quite a while. At this point, I'll probably be ready for dinner. I'll probably have some leftover pizza dough, so I'll make myself a small pizza with sundried tomatoes and fresh mozzarella. It will likely also be delicious.

At this point I'll relax because I need to. Around 7, I'll head into the shower again to kind of wash the day away and also to get a chance to redo my hair. I'll be going to Soundbar with some actors-turned-friends later that evening and would prefer to have straightened hair which is a little easier to dance with since curly hair gets poofier and less manageable every minute I spend in a club. So, that pretty much takes care of the rest of the night.

Sunday morning, assuming I can pull myself together early enough, I will head to the gym again, take a shower and then head to Second City to watch our amazing teacher Jay block through some scenes of ours that are going to be put up in January. I'll take notes and make sure to use her as a guide for what our group is attempting to do at Gorilla Tango.

Later that evening, I may or may not have plans to go to dinner with a friend of mine. If dinner happens, that will be excellent. If not, I'll probably walk back from Second City and make sure to spend a lot of time browsing through different stores on Michigan Ave to see if I can get some inspiration for my holiday shopping. My mom's birthday is four days before Christmas, so the heat is on to get her some nice stuff.

I'll come home on Sunday night, relax a bit, write a little, keep my place tidy, make my plans for the week, maybe bake some cupcakes for rehearsal the following night.

So now we all know how incredibly boring I am. This, in a nutshell, comprises my ideal weekend. For now, anyway. Maybe it's healthy that I keep my expectations low. That's what we'll go with.

Dessert Recipe: Crepes

So part of this blog was supposed to explore my love of dessert making, but I haven't yet posted any recipes. One of my favorite recipes in the world is also one of the easiest and comes from someone who created a great web page that will walk you through the motions of crepe making in a great, encouraging way:

Crepe-making or How to Use a Jar of Nutella in One Morning

You will need only the most basic ingredients to make the crepes themselves--the filling is a bit more exciting:

4 eggs
Pinch of salt
2 cups of flour
2.25 cups of milk
1/2 stick of melted butter (equal to a quarter cup)

The website, you will notice, has some helpful pictures and is fairly specific about the order in which you combine the ingredients. I myself am not that careful and haven't had any problems just tossing everything together. One thing I have noticed however is that sometimes the butter will start separating itself out if the batter has been left to sit. This isn't an indication of any spoilage or anything, just that you want to be vigilant about making sure all the ingredients are properly combined so you don't have any issues when you cook.

In actually making the crepe, me and M. Roy differ a bit in our techniques. I have a 10 inch pan and, maybe it's because I'm inefficient but I generally need about a 1/3 cup of batter in order to get the whole surface coated. But the operative word is "coated"--you don't want a thick layer of batter. You want it to be thin enough that when the batter starts to dry out a little bit on top, you can see some of the lacy pattern forming at the bottom.

If your pan is at a good temperature (I prefer it between medium and medium high), your crepe will start to dry out almost immediately--for me, each crepe takes about 45 seconds to make. Your first crepe will likely be too soggy or too dark/crispy. Just take that as a test-crepe and use it to figure out what temperature works best for you.

Then, it's easy as pie (or easier really): pour batter around pan, swirl pan around until the bottom is coated, wait until top is dry, flip over and finish cooking, then put crepe on a plate for future (or imminent) consumption. Pretty easy. M. Roy's recipes usually yields me about 16-20 crepes.

Now for the filling. My favorite options are:

--Nutella and Bananas
--Dulce de Leche and Bananas
--Mandarin Oranges
--Strawberries and Whipped Cream
--Berry medley (blueberries, raspberries and blackberries, can be bought frozen from Trader Joe's) and Whipped Cream

What if you prefer a savory crepe to a sweet one? No fret. Try:

--Hardboiled eggs and a Mexican cheese blend (try Sargento's) and a tiny bit of salt
--Asparagus and Cheddar Cheese
--Mushrooms and Cheddar Cheese

Basically, cheese tastes amazing on crepes. I would recommend a softer, sweeter cheese on your crepes. Somehow, the idea of goat cheese or bleu cheese strikes me as a little strange (though I suppose if you added some sun-dried tomatoes to the goat cheese, that could be doable). But I recommend you raid your fridge and cupboards--odds are, you will find something that will be lovely with your crepes.

Bonne chance.

A Little Help from my Friends

Thank you, JM, for validating me and resurrecting my paltry, fragile online ego that had lately been feeling the brunt of rejection from a theatre-type that will remain unnamed despite the fact that no one reads this blog and even if they did, I'm not sure said person would be offended.

Anyway, I've had a lot on my mind during my hiatus away from the blog. Luckily, I Love New York 2 has proved to be an effective opiate for me and has reduced my need to think about life at warp speed, which is normally what I do when I'm being quiet--yes, those 23 minutes a day when I'm quiet.

I really do love New York. There is of course a fakeness to her, enriched recently by mammary enhancements that dwarf my own the way Jupiter dwarfs Io. The thing is, my voluptuous, lusty frame can take what I've been given--New York constantly looks like she's about to pop and spray candy all over the place like a great pinata, or like she's going to fall over because her center of gravity is now somewhere in her clavicle. It's uncomfortable to look at, yet I cannot look away. Mainly because she's my hero. She's says what she thinks, and more importantly she says what everyone else is thinking. And she does it while rocking a weave that is as luxurious as it is flammable. She is equal parts sylph, savant, and skank.

But beyond the world of New York, what else has been going on? I've been baking cupcakes by the gross because I find it relaxing. I've been writing a lot, not much of it good though, and I've been thinking about the future. I'm at a place where I have a number of wonderful options to pursue, though the main obstacle is turning out to be a) a lack of focus and b) complete and utter laziness. I'm beyond blessed to have a mother who is discouraging me from looking for work just because I feel like I have to and is instead beseeching me to try to carve my own way and bravely take on the unknown, at least making the attempt before I decide to rejoin the world of firms and 401k's and what not. There is absolutely nothing wrong with working for a firm. But I'm never again going to make the mistake of taking a job for the wrong reasons. I'm proud to say that I've realized money, for me, right now, counts as a "wrong reason".

It could be that I'm living in a delusional state of bliss right now because I'm in the process of directing a show--an experience that leaves me high every time I think about it, even more so when I'm working with my colleagues. My fellow writers are brilliant, kind people who inspire me to do my best and who make me laugh every time I see them. The actors I'm working with are incredible to the point of making me feel humble with gratitude. I walk away from rehearsals having laughed so hard that I can't breathe and my weak, sad abs throb with pain.

The idea that I'm working with nine intelligent, funny, capable people who were all complete strangers to me only a few months ago is very odd--the fact that I look forward to seeing all of them weekly is a total blessing. It makes me wonder what it's going to feel like when the show is over. I'm glad I'm already thinking about the next show--I'm not sure I could live without theatre now that I've gone through this experience.

So, if anyone's paying attention, that singular person might realize that I haven't really talked about what my mind has been racing about except to touch on points briefly. But I'm censoring myself slightly so as not to bore you to death, and to avoid prolonging the mental blitz I inflict on myself every time I sit down for 10 minutes or more. Whatever inertia my body feels, my brain makes up for by competing in triathlons. So, my brains going to sit the rest of the night out and just fade out with a manicure...or maybe baking a quiche. Let's see if the milk's still good.