We Like To Party, We Like, We Like To Party

Ashley sent me an e-mail last night with the word "putrescence" in it. As in, did I "want to come over and wallow in our mutual putrescence?" I realized, while reading that e-mail, after I went and ran and got the dictionary and looked up the word, that Ashley is a well-stocked arsenal of all the amazing qualities I look for in a friend. I mean, last week, she took me to the 92nd Street Y Open House where we took a free pilates class AND received a complimentary bag full of coupons and new socks. And this, I think, is why I keep Ashley around--an extensively impressive vocabulary and tons of free stuff. I'm going to try to incorporate "putrescence" into this entry, in her honor. Moving on.

Apparently, when you take on the responsibility of planning your mother's 50th birthday party, you are bound to get a little bit...stressed. Oh? You didn't know I was planning my mom's 50th birthday like the kickass daughter that I am? Funny, because you HAD to have known as I have successfully invited the entire tri-state area. This is a lot of work, people. The invitations, the dinner, the cake, the decorations, the gifts, my LORD, this is like planning a freaking WEDDING and frankly, I'm a little miffed because even with all my hard work, I'm not getting a honeymoon out of it or a husband.

My cellphone's been ringing constantly as people call to ask questions and/or RSVP and by people, I mean priests. The big bash is set for this Saturday and though my mom knows about it, she has NO IDEA how much ridiculous fun it's going to be. She also has no idea that the amount of people she invited is most likely going to cause a fire hazard and that I will most likely get arrested for breaking numerous Occupancy Laws before the night is over.

In typical Rita fashion, she originally handed me a tentative list with about 65 names on it. This was doable. I proceded to HANDWRITE invitations AND envelopes and make them all cutesy and adorable because I'm The Crazy and apparently have never heard of gadgets like a computer and a printer. Then of course, mom realized she left some people off the list and then had several Catholic guilt trips about not inviting people she said hello to once at the grocery store and so over the course of the last three weeks, she's been e-mailing me names and addresses of MORE people to invite.

GUYS. We invited 114 people. WHAAAAAAAAAAAA?

How does that HAPPEN?!

And the sad thing is, since my family doesn't use birth control, I think at LEAST 1/2 that is immediate family alone. This is so unfair! Does this mean that when I DO finally get married, at the ripe old age of 48, that I will automatically have to have at least 100 people on the guest list that's JUST FAMILY before even getting to all my celebrity friends?! That is so preposterous. It makes a really good case for elopement. Or marrying a friendless only child husband who's parents died in a car crash. Yes. (Where are you, husband?)

My father rationalized with me that at least one-third of the guest list would RSVP "No, I can't come, I have to stay home and wash my hair", thereby saving me the hassle of ordering 8,000 bottles of wine and drinking them all myself just to get through the evening. Well. Sure, some people RSVP'd "no" since they had things to do like cure AIDS and stuff but most people are so in love with my mother that they are going to great lengths to show up and really? THAT IRKS ME. I've had phonecalls like:

Guest: So, we'll DEFINITELY be there! We're SO EXCITED!

Laura: Are you sure you want to come to the party? I mean, it's just a party...

Guest: What?

Laura: I don't know, there's not a lot of room to park your car and it's just that February is cold and there could be black ice...

Guest: Um...

My brilliant tactics didn't work and people are just hellbent on coming to a party that celebrates that my mother is totally old. And I support that, I really do. My mother is notorious for the "Half-way to..." comments regarding your age. These comments are incorporated into conversation like this: "Wow, Laura! Your birthday's coming up! You're almost half-way to 48! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!?"

If she wasn't my mother, I would cut her. With my steak knife. And I'm sure other people feel the same way. So now, we're actually throwing a party, rejoicing in the fact that my mom is officially half way to 100. I think this is the main reason why so many people are coming to the party. It's just their little way of saying HA HA HA We've been waiting for this moment FOREVER! Also, it could be the free cake. Mmmm. Cake.

So, the point is, I'm a little stressed out. But it's totally okay because the party is something I can hold over my mother's head for at least a year in a "DON'T YOU KNOW WHAT I DID FOR YOU?" kind of way. AND even better than planning the party, I was lucky enough on Friday to get the flu! Isn't that AWESOME!? Aches, pains, fever, congestion, etc.! It's so amazing! Even better, it has since settled in my throat, causing me to miss every single audition this week since my singing voice? It is gone! Completely! Sweeeeet!

Sigh.

Very frustrated when my body lets me down. Especially my voice. At least I still have my pretty ankles. But they don't sing that well, so damnit, this sucks.

I ventured out yesterday afternoon to get some materials for my mom's party and by materials, I mean a pretty dress to wear. I attempted to grab the train back to Astoria from 59th and Lexington and as I walked down the steps to the platform, I sensed that something was very, very wrong. Overwhelmingly wrong. And surprisingly enough, it had nothing to do with the girl next to me who was excitedly opening up her new Yanni CD.

The platform was a mob scene. An uptown train hadn't come by in a very long time and people were standing so close together that I was afraid people would start getting bumped off onto the tracks below. I've been in these situations a few times before and for someone with severe claustrophobia, I do not handle it well. It's the threat of a riot, the inability to move, the lingering putrescence of people who don't shower. the best thing I can do is breathe, sing a happy song and silently make fun of other people around me. (The girl with the Yanni CD was a prime candidate for this because oh my GOD, Yanni!? People listen to that?)

By the time an R train came, the crowd had grown so much that people were waiting on the staircase since there was no more room on the platform. This created a severe logistic issue when the doors to the train opened and the people exiting had nowhere to go. There was much chaos and yelling and people getting accidentally hit with briefcases. Pandemonium, one could say. Because really, you can't go UP the stairs when there are people waiting to go DOWN on the same set of steps. (I know, weird, right?!)

But the R train left and there were less people waiting on the platform and I found myself pushed forward to the edge when an N train came bumbling into the station. In true rockstar fashion, I found myself strategically placed right in front of a door to the train. Because I am a model citizen, I tried my best to step back a bit and let people off, knowing what a nightmare it was going to be. Unfortunately, there wasn't a lot of room and the commuters could only find room to exit in a single file line which, understandably, took a lot of time. The crowd around me started to grow impatient, muttering that they were going to get on this train NO MATTER WHAT.

I joked aloud to the girl next to me, "At least it's rush hour! HA!" And she started laughing and told me how much she LOVED large crowds of people. This was not amusing to other members of the herd, particularly a young lady with huge hoop earrings and a dead animal for a coat. She directed her anger at me, probably because I was laughing and probably because I am awesome.

"WHY DON'T YOU MOVE THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY?!" she screamed.

I wasn't sure what to do. I mean, there were a lot of things I WANTED to do. First on this list was to turn to her, cough on her and maybe lick her so that she could catch my amazing illness. When I realized this wasn't an option since she was standing too far away, I decided to do the next best thing which was to give her my best "You are fucking crazy" look, just in case she didn't know.

The girl next to me spoke up and yelled back, "Where do you want her to go!? It's a little crowded, in case you hadn't noticed."

Crazy Girl was having none of it and shouted, "JUST MOVE OUT OF THE WAY AND LET THEM OFF THE #$%^@ing TRAIN!"

I couldn't really take more screaming because I'm a delicate little flower and so I started laughing. The whole situation was so absurd and hilarious to me and I think she really appreciated me bursting out in hysterics right in front of her face. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "You need to RELAX!" and boarded the train.

It turns out that there were so many people trying to cram in, she didn't make it on the subway car. The doors closed in front of her face as the man next to me muttered, "Everyone's got an opinion, huh?"

"Yeah," I replied and smiled broadly at her face through the graffiti-ed glass as we started to pull out of the station. Her hoop earrings and middle finger were the last things I saw before the train rattled its way through the tunnel into Queens. It was a shame that I didn't have more time to spend with her, time to converse with her over the annoyances of the mass transit system of New York City. Instead, dirty looks were exchanged, dirty words were said and a certain dirty middle finger was flipped in my direction. If only I had more time, I could've asked her what I REALLY wanted to ask her in the first place which was, "Do you want to come to my mom's birthday party?"

Why You Shouldn't Follow Trends

Last winter, I spent a lot of time posting rants about the fact that girls were walking around NYC tucking their jeans into their boots. I'm not sure WHY I was so offended by this. Maybe because I'm not a trendy person and therefore, was not exactly leaping onto the skinny jean sporting, tuck-'em-in your boots kind of fad. In a gay musical theater way, I thought it broke the line of the leg, making people look awkward and clunky. In a street talk way, I thought it made girls' legs look fat.

I'm pretty damn critical of anything having to do with legs. I LOVE legs. No. I love PRETTY legs. Musical theatre legs. Rockette legs. Alayna Barton legs. I want all girls to have impressively curvy gams with no cankles in sight. (Mom, "cankle", is the phrase the young kids today use for thick ankles, ankles that are not slim and more of a continuation of the calf as in calves+ankles=cankles. See also: Tom DeTrinis.) So, why, pretty ladies, do we make our legs look fat by stuffing our jean-clad legs into boots? I did not understand.

You would think that since I'm utterly vain satisfied with regards to my own legs (except for those damn spider veins, WTF!?), that I would've hopped on the skinny jean bandwagon at least, if not the boot-wearing. I mean, come on! My legs are the only thing about myself that I can stand! Skinny Jeans! They are for people with skinny legs! Skinny jeans are a trend I can embrace. (The belly shirt? Not so much. Wait. Belly shirts were never trendy, were they?) So, straight-leg clingy jeans that draw attention away from my stomach my pimples other things I don't like?! Genius!

No. I did not squeeze my way into a pair of skinny jeans until my birthday party last March and after that, I didn't bust them out again until the end of the summer. So I'm not that fashionable, whatever, here's the point:

Can I tell you why I was hesitant about the skinny jean trend?

Did we all forget about the stirrup pants from the 80's?
Because I didn't. My mother owned several pairs and wore them to various church events, along with shoulder pads and a super curly perm. (Hi mom! You looked great!)

But this scarred me for life and Skinny Jeans just seemed a little too much of a throwback to 1988. While I'm usually a fan of anything from that decade, I thought it best that we should let the stirrup pants die along with my pillow person. (The pillow person that I finally threw away after going through my closet over Christmas. I love you pillow person, may you rest in peace with my autographed headshots of unknown actors, farewell.)


Speaking of 80's, two events transpired recently that warranted a trip to Radioshack this afternoon. 1) My headphones broke and B) I was in desperate need of a tape player. I know, I know. Who uses a TAPE PLAYER? As in CASSETTE TAPE PLAYER?! But I recorded a session with a vocal coach on his tape recorder only to bring the tape home and realize that I do not have the adequate means to listen to such a tape because, I don't know, I live in 2007 and who owns a tape recorder anymore!?

So I walk into Radioshack and quickly assess the situation and come to an embarrassing conclusion: I can solve problems 1 and B efficiently if I purchase an archaic piece of technology known in its heyday as the "walkman".

You heard me.

A walkman. THEY STILL SELL THEM! Who KNEW!? See, I didn't want to spend the money on a tape recorder because I eventually want to get the little recorder that you stick on your iPod. I'm not going to purchase a REAL LIVE tape recorder because this means I'd still be living in 1994 and let's face it, I did that and I have the emotional scars and the Jock Jams CD to prove it. So, I figured, buy the walkman which COMES WITH HEADPHONES! and then I can have headphones AND listen to the tape and be done with it.

So I approach the register and lay down the walkman ($15.99! What? Shouldn't it be like $3.50?) and the clerk gives me a look. I laugh uncomfortably and I say, "Yeah, who BUYS stuff like this anymore, right!? HA!"

And he doesn't laugh and points out, "You do."

UM.

And then, "Why don't you just buy yourself an iPod or something?"

I tell him I HAVE an iPod and it's awesome and then I cut him with the steak knife I always walk around with and leave the store. WHAT A JERK.

But life in Astoria gets better, kids, as I decided later on in the evening to venture out to Key Food, a supermarket I usually enjoy because watching old Greek people complain about discounts and coupons never gets old. But the Key Food is a good five blocks away and the problem is that I can only buy what I can carry home because I refuse to be that girl who walks around with the geriatric shopping cart on the sidewalks of Astoria. Seriously? No.

So I start getting excited thinking about the fact that I don't have to work tonight and that I can buy ALL THE GROCERIES I WANT because I can have the food DELIVERED! Ah! I am a spoiled goddess! I can buy all the heavy things my little arms cannot usually take home! Soup! Kidney beans! Soymilk! Small children! It will all be mine!

I decide this is almost as good as going on a date, so I get on my skinny jeans! I bought a new pair this weekend which brings the total up to two. I love love love them and since a significant amount of time has gone by, I was thinking maybe I could try out the boot-tucking thing. JUST ONCE, JUST TO SEE HOW IT LOOKS.

In all honesty, I did the tuck-the-jeans-into-boots ONCE BEFORE, while on tour on a snowy day in Michigan for a total of 5 minutes, while I ran out to the van to get my laptop and bring it back into the hotel room. Margot and I agreed that it was just not a good look for me, probably because they were the wrong kind of boots and the wrong kind of jeans. I don't think that's a coherent sentence, but it made sense at the time. Shut up.

So I put the jeans on and I put on lipgloss because hey, why not? And then, in the last second before leaving the house, I TUCK THE JEANS into my knee-high boots and leave the apartment completely TREN-DAY! But I forget my mittens. And I forget that the temperature dropped to about 15 degrees. No matter. I can put my hands into my coat pockets because WOO GROCERY DELIVERY Y'ALL!

I get to the store around 6:15 and ask the clueless high school junior young lady at the customer service desk how late food can be delivered. She tells me 6:45; I have a half hour to go nuts. KA CHING! I hit up EVERY AISLE of that grocery store--vegetable soup, tofu, grapefruits, cereal, pasta sauce, string beans, oreos (they're vegan! who knew?!), everything I've ever wanted ALL AT ONCE because I don't have to carry it home! Wooo!

You know where this is going right?

You know that at 6:38 pm, EST, while I'm on the check out line, the DUMB ASTORIA CLERK GIRL announces over the loudspeaker that there are no more deliveries for the evening. Wait. No. Absolutely not. Unable to believe my ears, I march up to the pimpled cashier sipping his Dr. Pepper in Aisle 7 and tell him that I heard the announcement but I need a delivery. He stares at me for awhile and then tells me that the delivery guy just went home.

"WHAT?!" I sputter.

"Yeah," he says, snapping his gum carelessly, "He went home."

I calmly say okay, even though it was definitely NOT OKAY, and cut him with my steak knife. Then I reason with myself that I didn't get THAT much stuff and that I can leave out a few cans of soup and still carry it all home.

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

You guys? I carried home about 50 pounds of groceries, fingers frozen and aching from the plastic bags that were digging into them. Bulky cereal boxes slamming into my thighs because I didn't possess the physical strength to hold them farther away from my body. At one point, I pondered sitting down under the Hellgate Bridge for awhile, throwing cans of kidney beans at the passing train above.

And oh how pleased was I to be walking 18 million slow miles in BOOTS. UGH! The damn boots were the worst idea ever but maybe not as bad an idea as the lipgloss, since the wind was blowing wildly and my hair kept whipping into my face and getting stuck on my lips. Since I was carrying the entire grocery store home, I couldn't push it out of the way so it just stayed there, lovely blonde hair, hanging out on my glistening lips. Hot.

When I got home and dumped out all the groceries on the counter, I looked down at my ensemble and decided that tucking the jeans into the boots?

So not for me.


And as much as the skinny jeans remind me of the stirrup pants, I'm still entirely into them, especially when worn with pink snowflake socks:




So, yeah. No boots over jeans. But now, I'm thinking of busting out the walkman and carrying it around the city. I'm just going to insert a Pat Benetar tape and cruise around Manhattan as if totally out of touch with reality, with what's "in", with fashion trends. Because really guys, what the hell is the point?

Overheard In My Apartment

Roommate #1: It was just awful because as I sobered up, I realized that he was just NOT the guy for me.

Roommate #2: He couldn't have been that bad.

Roommate #1: Seriously? YES HE WAS! He admitted to me that his friends call him "Disco."

Roommate #2: Wha??

Roommate #1: That's his nickname, Disko. And oh yes, that's with a "K".

Awkward Is My Middle Name

It's been a rough couple days, kids and I'm having some trouble blogging. This is because 1) I'm busy and b) I've been in a happy mood as of late and last week, when I tried to blog, it kept coming out like this:

I am super busy hanging out with amazing friends and rocking out at auditions and fingerpainting with twins and I no longer consume the rotting carcasses of dead cows, chickens or turkeys! Weeeee!

But now, my hormones are all over the place and now I feel like writing this:

I hate my backfat and I'm kind of tired and auditioning stresses me out and I'm running on the treadmill at the gym watching Oprah and she has those boys who were kidnapped on the show and now I'm CRYING, SOBBING on the treadmill, I can't run uphill on a treadmill with tears in my eyes because I'm blind and I'm going to fall off the machine and break my legs and never work again ohhhhh WAHHHHHHHHH.

*stuffs face with vegan chocolate raspberry cake*

Sigh. Okay. Stable.

So for lack of anything better to say, here are some photos that represent my feelings:

This picture explains how I was feeling AFTER watching Oprah but BEFORE eating cake:



This picture explains how I felt directly after eating cake:


I look totally hot in these pictures, yes? My parents have some stellar genes, eh?

Which reminds me:

My vocal coach stopped me the other day as we were talking about various theater people and he said, "Wow. I can't believe you recognize the names of ALL the people I'm talking about."

And I replied that I was rather ugly and awkward as a child and found solace memorizing original cast albums and playbill bios.

He laughed uncomfortably as people do when I say that, accompanied by an eyeroll and a "Yeah, riiight, whateverrr" because he assumes I'm THAT girl: the girl who was never anywhere near ugly but just says it because she wants a compliment.

Um. Let me just state here and now that I realize that I'm the queen of self-deprecation. Within two minutes of meeting me, you will realize that I hold the crown and title and do not challenge me: I will throw comments into every day conversation such as "I'm not that smart" or "What do I know? I'm blonde!" or "Eh, I don't know, I just wasn't good enough."

In fact, you don't need to hear me speak to know this about me. Maybe you'll just catch sight of me as I get stuck in between the closing doors on the N train, holding three bags full of music, gym clothes and groceries, with my mittens-on-a-string-so-I-don't-lose-them hanging out of my coat, heaving an exasperated sigh. And then, I don't need to say anything because that image has self-deprecation/loserdom stamped ALL over it.

Keeping in mind that I play the self-deprecation game, I am not exaggerating about this ugly thing. I'm not hanging my head, Eeyore style, whining over all the years I could've been making out with boys. It is simply honest: I was not that good looking. I'm not saying that other kids called me Quasimodo or that I had extra limbs removed or that girls threw tampons at me in the locker room and then I set the prom on fire. I'm just saying that I was unattractive. And I don't think that's untrue or a big deal. Plus, I have proof.

Case in Point: Upon returning back home from my first semester in college, I ran into a high school classmate at church. I hadn't seen her since graduation and at least six months had gone by. She ran up to me and squealed, "OH MY GOD. Laura! You're...PRETTY now!"

Awesome! Apparently, the trick to getting hotter is: move to Buffalo, break up with high school boyfriend, take 21 credits, fall into depression, wear lipgloss, go to church.

If I could only have had that information 5 years sooner!!! UGH. (The boys! The boys that would've kissed me!)

You still think I'm joking around, right? That it couldn't have been THAT bad, right??

How about when it comes up in conversation with my family?

Let's forget about how I've been called big-boned by my family members. Or how my teeth have been compared to ...what was it? Oh yes, "VAMPIRE" teeth. Or that my hips are "unnaturally larger" than the rest of my body. (Wait. You forget it. I won't because I need something to talk about in therapy, don't you know it.) Those things don't count because I'm a big girl now and I grew into a person with pretty hair and nice ankles. We are talking about BEFORE.

Not only will my mother nod in AGREEMENT about this topic, she'll then say cautiously, "Well. Laura had a very long...awkward stage." She believes this is protecting my feelings when in reality, I'm not at all HURT about this because I'm the first one to point out how awful it was. (You are all making that clucking sound in the back of your throat and thinking, "Denial. If she wasn't hurt about it, she wouldn't be TALKING about it. Well. Shut up. I need something to talk about.) Actually, as I was living it, I'm pretty sure I woke up every morning and looked in the mirror and uttered a "DAAAAAMN! That is FOUL!" kind of exclamation.

My dad won't comment so much on the physical hideousness but will definitely start laughing as he remembers how klutzy I was and how I would literally walk straight into walls and fall down on my ass. My older brother will most likely bring up physical characteristics--crooked teeth that were SO crooked I needed a palate expander and 2 years of braces and let's not forget how dreadfully skinny I was. How skinny? "Like a starving child in a third world country," he'll say. So skinny, in fact, that when I would jump off the diving board into my cousin's pool, my head would never go under the water. I would just bob there in the deep end, reciting all the colors to Joseph's coat from "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat".

So, klutzy, crooked-toothed, skinny, horrible bangs that I tried to grow out in the 9th grade, etc. Yeah. Mom will try to call it an awkward stage but my cousin Tom minces no words:

"Awkward stage?! She was UGLY AS SIN. We BOTH were."

And then we'll pause and laugh and he'll finish, "And it was incredible."

Because it kind of was.

Tell you what, I'm going to go through my old junior high photos and scan some in and post them here, in case any of you try to dispute this very well-known fact. (Who wants to see those!? SERIOUSLY! AMAZING.) But for now, just gaze at the beauty I've evolved into because MAN she is one fine piece of booty:

Heyyy baby, what's your phone number!?

Tick...Tick...Boom!

I called Lindsay this morning to finalize plans for her 25th birthday celebration, which was going on later this evening. I wasn't sure where we were meeting, what time, on a scale of 1-10 how cute I needed to look, etc.

Lindsay: Hello?

Laura: HEY! Happy YOU ARE WAY OLDER THAN ME DAY!

Lindsay: Laura...I cried four different times this week.

Laura: What? Why?

Lindsay: Because I'm OLD.

Laura: Wha...

Lindsay: The first time it was because I don't have a baby. The second time it was because I COULD have a baby. The third time was because I don't WANT a baby. And the fourth time was because of this show on TLC...have you seen the coming attractions for it? It's called "In The Womb"?

Laura: No...I can't believe I missed it...

Lindsay: Yeah. It's about multiples and how they, like, open and close their hands in the womb, they HOLD HANDS and they have this CONNECTION.

Laura: Wow.

Lindsay: Yeah. My biological clock is no longer ticking.

*pause*

Because it fucking EXPLODED.

And I Am Tellin' You...

Happy New Year, guys!

It's been crazy these past few weeks as my body adjusts to the phenomenon that is "spending prolonged periods of time with my family". The holidays were wonderful; I got a crapload of great music, a plethora of novels to dig into and an electric toothbrush which, WOW! I've actually been late for appointments and meetings because I'm too busy brushing my teeth over and over and over again...

I've been working a lot which has been really good for me and I'm slowly getting back into the swing of things. I caught up on some theatre too, which is lovely. Apparently, I had to make up for only seeing three Broadway shows in 11 months, so in a week, I saw three more. I've been on one audition already and now that I've gone to one, I'm officially back in the saddle, back to the grind, back to wait...what am I talking about?

New Year's Resolutions Include:

- Stop going out in public in sweatpants. Ugh.

- Stop being an old lady. i.e./Go out more, make plans with people, solidify friendships, etc. Basically, stop being so anal about staying in and getting enough sleep and putting on that yummy-smelling face cream so you don't get wrinkles. That is for people who are old. Like, 30. Not for twenty-somethings. Twenty-somethings PARTY. So. Go party. Or something.

- Stop making jokes about being boyfriend-less. It makes you sound desperate and unhappy and in reality, you aren't, so shut up, no one cares.

- Stop beating yourself up.

- Eat more fiber. Eat more vegetables. Teddy Grahams do not a meal make.

Which brings me to an announcement. A HUGE announcement and after I announce it (with flair and aplomb!), I'm probably not going to touch on it for awhile because I've noticed that as soon as I say it, people get all defensive and crazy and jump down my throat and yell at me about it when most of the time, they have NO IDEA WHAT THEY ARE TALKING ABOUT. Granted, you can't yell at me on my blog so...I think this should be a rather peaceful situation and by peaceful I mean, I get to write and you get to read silently to yourself and nod with a smile on your face and think, "Gosh, she's just so darn cute!"

Apparently, veganism IS contagious. I've been doing a lot of reading and after my Lemonade Cleanse, I decided to eliminate meat and dairy products from my diet until further notice. My mom and dad were really supportive at Christmas (I decided to go vegan BEFORE the holidays so that it couldn't be a New Year's resolution that was easily broken by February) and though I did indulge a few times in some non-vegany goodness, most of the time, I stuck to my guns and it's been working well for me ever since. My little brother, Jem, has been having the most fun with it and I appreciate that. While out for Vietnamese food for my father's birthday, in between forkfuls of steak he would rub his stomach and call down the table to me:

"Laura, this is AMAZING..."

"The steak?"

"No. The poison that I keep shoving down my digestive tract. MMMMM. I can feel it FERMENTING."

Granted that is sort of an exaggeration of conversation because Jem doesn't have much of a vocabulary. (Hi Jem! Thanks for the Ben Folds piano book! Kisses!)

Anyway. Yeah. I'm one of THOSE people. Save the animals and all that.

So. I'm sorry this post has gone from Lame to LAMEST. You know I'm searching for topics when I start blabbing about a dairy-free diet. Onto something else. Something somewhat meaningful:

I want to seriously state that if in the past, I have ever offended you with an entry on this website, I apologize. I want to think that at my age, I know what is appropriate but sometimes I make mistakes. It was brought to my attention over the holiday that many members of my extended family read this blog and while I expected that, since it's on the internet and well, I'm kind of famous, I sincerely don't always take into account the impression that I paint of them

I'm not talking about my parents here because they seem to enjoy every single slandering second of fame I give them. But there are others who pointed out a few words here and there that did not appear very flattering. And though no names were mentioned or other specificities given, it still wasn't exactly right of me. So, I hope in this New Year, you can forgive me for sometimes being kind of a jerk just like I can forgive you for not always leaving enough comments telling me that while seemingly aloof, I come off as endearing most of the time.

I feel like 2007 is going to be my year.

(I don't know what that means.)

For those geeks who care, the mainpage of the website has been updated so you can all catch up on my final Movie List/Reading List/Theatre List for the year and see how I spent 2006 being a total and utter loser. You can also click the bottom and see previous years' noteworthy lists of amazingness. (By previous years, I mean 2005 since that's when I started keeping track SHUT UP SO WHAT?!)

I may be taking a break from posting for awhile. Though as soon as I say that, I'm sure something witty and imaginative will come to me and you will find eight blog posts here by Monday. But generally, life is hectic and I want to make sure that the things I write are representative of the person that I'm trying to be. I hope you all had a great holiday and I'm going to go brush my teeth OVER and OVER and OVER again because oh my God, an ELECTRIC TOOTHBRUSH you guys!!! Another amazing invention that allows me pure bliss for half the work.

Wait. That was totally not representative of the person I'm trying to be. The person I'm trying to be would've had an electric toothbrush YEARS ago. HELL, the person I'm trying to be INVENTED THE ELECTRIC TOOTHBRUSH.

All who think I need to be heavily medicated for my own good, please raise your hand.

Good. That's what I thought. Cheers.