Musically Theatrical

Hi-yo.

Where the heck have I been? I wish I knew the answer to that question.  I'm truly afraid that the answer lies somewhere along the I-10 Freeway between Santa Monica and Miracle Mile, where my soul dies every day.  Twice.

Woah.  Enough with the melodrama already, right?

Today I'm going to talk about something that inspires me to be a better person, and wear too much makeup, and burst into song and dance in my kitchen with only my poor mother and sisters to spectate and laugh.

Musicals.  Oh, how I love them.  I will pay a lot of money to see a speck on a stage dance about and sing their heart out and hear the orchestra swell.  I've seen a few in my short 23 (!) years (still not over that one, folks) including, but not limited to:

Magical.  Dancing grass, need I say more?

Oh what a night.  Oh!

If I were a rich man...

And a darling dancing boy. 

Last night I was graced once again by one of my faves...

Now THIS, folks, is a show.  There's drama, comedy, romance, some fantastic music, and magic.  And a green girl.  It's fantastic.

I dooooo have one small complaint.  I think I was spoiled the first time I saw this show, because I saw the Megan Hilty version of Glinda- and she is just too perfect.  Now, in defense of Kristin Chenoweth, I never saw her perform Glinda- so I will resist calling Megan Hilty the best Glinda EVER, but I think she is just a hoot and a half.  The woman must drink 4 Red Bulls every night before showtime...

Last night's Glinda was good... but she wasn't this good.  Ah, well.  Can't win them all.  Still a fabulous show.  If you are in LA, make it a priority to go see it.  You won't regret it.

And this brings me to my favorite musical of all time...

Oy, vey. I shouldn't even get started, as I'm tearing up just thinking about it.  Maybe it is the first love phenomena, because I saw Phantom at a young age in San Francisco, but this show has a firm grip on my heart, my emotions, and my tear ducts.  I find the Phantom to be the most tragic hero of all time, and he just gets me.  

I saw this show this past year in Austin, and the poor friends I dragged with me had to witness me at my most emotional sappiness.  It's the music, I tell you.  It just moves you in such inexplicable ways. 

If you haven't seen Phantom and plan on seeing it in, oh, I don't know, 10 years when it comes back to the stage (an outright travesty, I tell you!) then you might want to stop reading.  Because I'm about to re-live the most tragic and melodramatic moments. Sorry I'm not sorry.

Most tear inducing scene- Act 1: As Christine and Raoul croon to each other on the roof, the Phantom looks on, heartbroken, and sings... "I gave you my music- made your song take wing... And now, how you've repaid me, denied me and betrayed me..."  and then he sobs.  And let me tell you- when a masked figure sobs over his lost love, I sob too.

As if this isn't enough... Act II really punches you in the stomach when you're down.  I'm not going to post the video, because it's 11 minutes long and I don't want to admit that I actually spent 11 minutes on this... 

Anyway- just watch "Final Lair" when you have a spare moment and want to have your heart ripped out and danced on.  When Christine begs of the Phantom to have mercy on Raoul, he shouts in reply, in agony, "The world didn't have mercy on me!" 

Oh, come ON.  By the time the poor, tragic Phantom belts out, "You alone can make my song take flight- It's over now, the music of the night..."  I'm one big fat blubbering mess wondering why I like to torture myself in this way.

I think there might be only one musical more tragic- 

And I'll be waiting anxiously in line the day this lovely comes to town.  

Because there is nothing as uplifting as listening to the haunting melody of "On my Own." 

And I shall ask again... why do I do this to myself?  

Pampered Hands

**Disclaimer:  This entire post is about nails.  Yes, the ones that grow out of your fingers.  If this isn't your cup-o-tea, check back soon for something that might be a bit more relevant to your life.

 Okay, I'll admit it.  I have a bit of a nail obsession.  I blame this completely on the fact that my mother's nails have always been perfect and she throws around the term "pterygium" like it's no big deal. (Word to the wise- DON'T GOOGLE THIS.  It's horrifying.)  Come to think of it, my mother's endless knowledge about illnesses and drugs are probably the reason I'm a certifiable hypochondriac too...

But alas, I digress.  So I like my nails to be absolutely perfect at all times with very, very few exceptions.  I spend a lot of time perusing All Lacquered Up to make sure I haven't missed something vital, like a new O.P.I. collection debuting or the introduction of Shellac into the market.  

Let me explain... Shellac (or any number of "gel" manicures, now there a million and a half off-brands that do the same darn thing) is a gel-polish hybrid that is painted onto the natural nail, "cured" under a UV light, and sticks there for at least 2 weeks.  Like glue.  And then you can either rip it off, (unfortunately, along with the top layer of your nail) or spend an hour soaking your fingers in potentially toxic liquid to make the stuff crumble and fall off, leaving you with brittle, dry and basically useless fingernails.

Needless to say, this stuff is a miracle.  Because let me tell you... for the two weeks that it is on, your nails are flawless.  Shiny, chip-free, and strong.  (Or at least they feel strong... which is most definitely an allusion.)

So I try to get my nails shellaced (can I make this a verb?) every two weeks, and this serves me well, for the most part.  We get into trouble around a week in, where I can start seeing my cuticles, and thus having a panic attack.  So I've devised a system to sustain the long, strong nails- and keep my devil cuticles in check.

Here goes.  I begin by filing my nails (with shellac on!) back to a reasonable length.  Then I push back and trim my cuticles. (I'm afraid I've become de-sensitized to that and it's really gross.  Sorry.) Which brings me to this point...

Yuck.  Let's move on quickly...

I then buff them to take away all traces of shine- and make the surface a bit more tactile (tactile? tacky? what am I trying to say here?) and to smooth the line of demarkation (I'm totally making these terms up tonight...) and get a nice surface.  Like so.

Double yuck.  Make sure to wash your hands thoroughly before painting to get rid of all the nasty chalky biz.  You don't want that on your canvas.

And then you paint. Just in case this isn't glaringly obvious, you must use a similar shade or darker on too of the original Shellac. Durr.

And bada-bing!

And you have perfect, cuticle-free, Shellaced nails for another week.

You're welcome.

If for some weird reason you don't have all the aforementioned tools at your convenience, well, get yo-self to a beauty supply store and start working with those cuticle nippers.  Your life will never be the same.

Until next time, when I'll hopefully have something of a bit more substance to talk about.

Magic

Next week will be magical.  I've called it. Yes, I know that Halloween has passed, which only means that my favorite time of year is here.  My toes are blue and purple and numb and Starbucks has red cups.  And I'm going to Texas TWICE in the next TWO months.  Holy cow.

But back to this week...

I will not have to dread the day of my birth coming about (although I am very curious as to what my roommate has been hiding from me from my parents- they text) and I have many, many magical events on the agenda.

First and foremost, I get to see my sweet Daddio in seven mere days.  I absolutely adore the fact that he sells giant chunks of aluminum in this strange land I'm living in, because it means spur-of-the-moment, make-your-Thursday-brighter, trips.  I'm picking the fanciest restaurant in town with the most expensive steak that I can't afford and making him take me on a date.

Also, my boss surprised me with an invitation to the premiere of "Immortals," only the movie I'm most excited to see in this whole opening weekend.  Okay, really though, I've been excited about this one for awhile, due to this face.

I'm sure we will meet on the red carpet and fall madly in love and he will abandon his horse-back riding fiance for me.  Or I'll see him from a few yards away and try not to embarrass myself or my boss with my star-struckness.

I loved him first.

I'll leave it at that.  Talk to me in a few months when you fall in love too.

Twenty Something

I am approaching a milestone in my life.

Oh, okay, more like a worthless birthday, but whatever.

I am a little unnerved by my upcoming 23rd birthday.  My mother kindly reminded me that I did this whole panic-attack routine last year, lamenting the fact that I would never be 21 again, and I've managed to not fall apart in the past 12 months.  I was sure it would be the same with 23.

Until I turned on the dang radio.

(I know, I know.  The day I find a blog post that is not inspired by XM radio I'll know I've really made it.)

Today's instigator: Blink 182.  And the line...

"That's about the time she ran away from me... Nobody likes you when you're 23..."

Geez, now I'm really thrilled.  You see, I have this small issue with age and the fact that I'll never be 17 again.

If you're reading this and you're under 17, (are there any of you out there, by the way?) you have this whole holy grail of sorts looming in your future that will pass too fast for you to even realize that you've made it to the pinnacle of your life.

I kid.

Kinda.  Think about it.  How many songs do you know that talk about being 25? Or 32?  Or (gasp!) 40?

I mean, 17 has a whole publication, for Pete's sake.  Taylor Swift is perpetually 17 in her songs. The Dancing Queen is only 17.  Liesl von Trapp feels so strongly about her approaching age that she can scale whole gazebo's in one leap.  In Strawberry Wine... oh, nevermind.

You get the point.  I get really sad when I think about the fact that 17 is gone forever.  Maybe I should write a song? It could be called "Seventeen is Gone."

Clever, huh?

Which brings me to my next theory... I have a theory that when we get to Heaven, God is going to offer up a plethora of sorts of characteristics we will get to have for all of eternity.  And since it is heaven, we will all choose perfectly and be forever perfect.  I've long ago decided that I will be tall in heaven, as I have no idea what the world looks like from anywhere higher than 5'2''.  I'm convinced this will happen.

Now I've decided that I will be perpetually 17.  It's about the age I feel, and my interests tend to skew in this direction.  I don't think this is something that will change with time, either.  17 is my soul age, I'm afraid.  I'm certainly not 20, or anywhere close to where I should be given the clock.  There is, however, a large possibility my soul is about 35, but that is a depressing realization that I'd rather skip over.

So, on Friday, when I become unlikeable to everyone, I'm just going to pretend I'm turning 17.

Because I can't miss out on that twice.

Drops of Something

I'm a little tired today.

Also, my ears are incessantly ringing because I stood too close to the speaker at the Pat Green concert in Hollywood last night.  Yes, that Pat Green.  I haven't seen so many boots and cowboy hats in Los Angeles since the Rose Bowl.

I'm also a little emotional.  I have no reasoning for this, so just bear with me.  I was reading this charming little book called "Koala Lou" to my boss' 7 year old daughter last night and I literally had to choke out the last page through my tears.  She laughed hysterically.  Oh, to be 7 and not know the bittersweet stepping stones on the path to adulthood.

Oy freaking vey.  It's sad though.  And it just made me want to hug my mom.  (Love you, Mamasita.)

This whole mess adds up to me being nostalgic (Pat Green) delusional (lack of sleep) and a big blubbering crying mess (Koala.)

Therefore, I've come to some revelations.

And they probably won't make any sense to anyone other than myself.  Here goes...

I am terrified of being a "Drops of Jupiter" girl.

Did ya catch that? Really, no?

Suffice it to say that Train and Sugarland are having a battle in my head.

Drops of Jupiter-this song comes on the radio all the stinking time.  If you know me at all you know that I place great value upon the songs that I hear on the radio.  It's weird and superstitious and wrong.

Take a listen...

So my fear here is that I'm the girl who's wandering around the atmosphere, (hopefully my head is glistening with drops of something) and that someday someone will say to me "Did you sail across the sun- did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights are faded, and heaven is overrated... And tell me, did Venus blow your mind- was it everything you wanted to find and did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?"  "Me" in this case being all of my lovies back in Texas.

I am terrified of finding that I have spent my time frivolously chasing after "faded" lights and an "overrated" heaven.

But I tell you- the second I start wondering these things too much, Sugarland pops in to save the day.  The current radio message is "Settlin'."

Now, I would like to point out that I am taking this from a "life" point of view as opposed to a "love" point of view.  Such girl power going in this one, right?  She's not settling, or setting the bar low, or giving up, or fearing that she is wasting time.  And I shouldn't either...

So you see my conundrum...

(And I'd like to point out- I'm not plagued by this like it might seem, I'm just feeling needy today.)

The only answer I've found for all these wanderings comes from the place where all my answers lie...

"For the LORD gives wisdom; 

From His mouth come knowledge and understanding;

7 He stores up sound wisdom for the upright; 
He is a shield to those who walk uprightly; 

8 He guards the paths of justice, 
And preserves the way of His saints. 

9 Then you will understand righteousness and justice, 
Equity and every good path."

-Proverbs 2: 6-9

In all these things, I am exceedingly comforted by the fact that as long as I am seeking Him wholeheartedly, I cannot be led astray.  My path is not some elusive needle in a haystack that I am searching for, rather my path is my everyday interactions, my work, my conversations.  

Seek ye first...

Amen.

Things to Note

What have I become?

I lamented the other day that my life has become this dizzying array of predominantly worthless things that I am stringing together to try to make a meaningful life for myself.  And before you start thinking that I am unhappy- you just need to take one giant step back.

Because even though the things I do might seem small in certain ways, I am without a doubt aiding and affecting more people's lives than I probably ever have before.  And that is kinda beautiful. 

So, in the midst of all this, I have realized that I really only have about two things I can speak on with any authority at all.  And those things are... drumroll please...

Lean Cuisine Steamers and new Fall television.

I know... I know.  I would like to retain a shred of dignity by pointing out that no matter how helpless I become, I will not go back to the days of regular Lean Cuisine's.  The horror... Oh no.  I am firmly rooted in the Steamer category, and feel that in some ways this gives me a sense of cultured sophistication.

...I should stop trying, huh?

So here are my observations based on weeks upon weeks of scurrying home for my gourmet dinner at 8:30.  I work long hours, folks.  These things are godsends when it's 8:30 pm.

Er, some of them are.  Read on.

Chicken Margherita: Last night I had the great displeasure of experiencing this.  Let me tell you... it was rough.  The green stuff (still not quite sure what it was) clumped up and became super soggy in the microwave, the tomatoes turned orange and the chicken required a steak knife to cut.  My rating: 3/10. Next!

Chicken Poblano: I was really looking forward to this gem.  It came highly recommended by my sister and I looked foward to the spicy goodness inside.  And, well, the green beans were funny.  They didn't taste like green beans.  Maybe that is an effect of the freezing, thawing, and cooking with weird sauces, but they threw me off.  And my pack was LOADED with green beans.  Rating: 5/10.

Shrimp Scampi:  I should know better than to try frozen shrimp.  There is just a disconnect somewhere... Possibly due to the fact that they have been dead for months now.  Eww... Rating: 4/10.

Sweet and Spicy Ginger Chicken: Now we're talking.  Although I could certainly do with less broccoli, (who couldn't?) this just might earn a regular spot in the freezer.  The flavors were interesting enough to keep me from contemplating the meat quality too much, so that makes it a winner in my book.  Rating: 8/10.

And last but certainly not least: Chicken Pot Stickers.  These babies are good.  Ironically they were the first ones I picked up, and there is almost nothing offensive in these.  Pot stickers (I mean, come on- in a LEAN CUISINE?) edamame, (which is basically a food group in my life) and water chestnuts.  What are these things, by the way? Do they fall into the potato category?  Do they grow in those small discs?  I don't know and I don't really care because they just have such a satisfying crunch to them. The only problem I have with this one- sometimes if the sauce isn't totally covering the stickers, you can end up with weird hard crunchy patches.  Nevertheless, 9/10.  Winner winner chicken dinner. 

And on to the second regular feature in my life... the ever-elusive and thrilling television.

It's been a good premiere season folks, and I feel it is my duty as a resident of Hollywood to tell you what I think about all things entertainment related.  If you don't agree- well you can stop reading.  I am fairly opinionated about what I think makes the cut- and as Taylor from "Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" would say, "I finally found my voice and I'm not afraid to use it."

And there went my credibility.

Anyhoo... I have found three favorites.

Revenge, Hart of Dixie, and American Horror Story.

Revenge is kinda great, even though I'm shamefully only one episode in.  Whatever.  I'll catch up.  The poster alone makes it worth watching.

Hart of Dixie: Aside from the fact that I think Rachel Bilson is a terrible actor, there is something really charming about this super cheesy, super old-school WB feeling show.  I mean, one of the lead character's names is "Lemon" for Pete's sake.  But Jason Street makes many appearances, and has so convinced me.  Dillon Panthers for Life.

And last but certainly not least...

I'm going to go ahead and vehemently recommend that no one under the age of 18 and no one over the age of 30 even give this one a shot.  It is weird and scary and certainly nothing like the Tami Taylor I know and love.  But it's also fascinating.  Who is that man in the weird black rubber suit?  Why do the house residents think it's okay to keep pickled bottle parts laying about?  So many questions, so few answers.

But Tami Taylor is still rocking that hair.  Between P-Dubs and Tami Taylor, I'm really wanting to dye my hair red.  I mean, we're talking about two of my role models here, and they are both redheads.  Now, before you go crazy, I would be aiming for the strawberry variety. Thoughts? Opinions?

Until next time, I'll be eating pot stickers and watching bad reality television.  I just won't tell you about that part.

Roller Coaster Living

The highs and the lows and the round and round...

Here goes:

Current high: In less than 24 hours I will be en route to TEXAS. This is the high I've been waiting on for weeks.

Current low: Car wreck. Oy freaking vey.  Such. A. Headache.

No serious damage, just a loss of pride. And a few tears.

I need more sleep.


SEE YOU SOON BUDDIE OL' FRIENDS! TEXAS FIGHT!