Bitch Sugar

My fixation on signs began a few years ago.  I can't stop collecting them.

This first sign was posted in a dorm at a college in Iowa.  

I like the severity of its words in contrast to its pink hue.

I like the exclamation point at the end.  

I like that some event or events must have prompted its adhesion here.

Breeches and Hose

breeches (/ˈbrɪtʃɨz/breeches or britches) an item of clothing covering the body from the waist down, with separate coverings for each leg, usually stopping just below the knee, though in some cases reaching to the ankles.
hose 1. are any of various styles of men's clothing for the legs and lower body, worn from the Middle Ages through the 17th century, when the term fell out of use in favor of breeches and stockings. (See alsotrousers.) The old plural form of "hose" was hosen. The French equivalent was chausses.
hose 2. are sheer, close-fitting legwear, covering the wearer's body from the waist to the feet. 
ho 3. (ho)  n. pl. hos. Slang A prostitute.

I never wanted a job that asked a dress code of me.  I spent twelve years in a Catholic school uniform where any expression of individuality was squelched (save for colorful socks and creative hair styles; see Bang Bang Perm Fringe)  Even my extra-curricular activities required uniforms: field hockey, ballet class, and that one feeble attempt at a season of Track...  So, these days, I love clothes.  I, in fact, dress-up for a living, sometimes changing up to five costumes in the course of a two-hour play, each with its own set of undergarments and accessories.  Outside of work, I am frequently accused of over-dressing for events.  Yes, as far as I am concerned:
Life is a Party.  Dress up for it.

Bang Bang Perm Fringe

This is the story of hair.  The story starts in 1988 because that's where things started to get interesting.  Before that it was all ponytails, pigtails, and buns for ballet class.  

BORING.

My mother would not let me get highlights or a perm while I was still in grade school.  Hmm, I can't imagine why.  (See below.)  In 1988, during the summer between 8th grade and Freshman year, I got The Perm that lasted me for the whole four years of high school.  The term "permanent" was accurate and the results were unfortunate...

Balls

When I was young I figured I would grow up to be an actor.  Or a professional Ballerina.  Or a nun.  (Nunhood was a fleeting ambition cut short by the unhidden laughter of my sister and parents.  I'm pretty sure that what I meant was that when I grew up I wanted to be Julie Andrews and spin around in the Swiss Alps and then marry Mr. von Trapp... like so many nuns do.)  I had been told that actors don't make a lot of money and that even modest-paying jobs are hard to come by.  I was prepared to struggle.  I was right to...

Animal Crack

I
When I was in sixth grade we got a cat.  Or rather, a cat got us.  In human terms, it was as if a slutty teenage girl had been kicked out of her house, taken a liking to my mom, and flattered her mothering characteristics until there was no other choice but to take the wayward girl home and care for her.  We girls loved that delinquent to pieces!  Sure, she got into fights in the neighborhood a lot, and yes, of course, she inevitably came home pregnant (we still don't know who fathered those four kittens), but we loved her all the same.  Though Mom insisted that we share the duties of cat food and litter box, ...

rural, urban, city, burb

Left the city.
Back in the 'burg.
I'd spent my week-off at home in Queens, but yesterday I returned "home" to Ohio to resume work and take up residence with my parents in central Ohio.  Reynoldsburg, Ohio is a suburb east of Columbus proper (the capital city with a fine downtown), pushing its way into farmland, but not quite there yet.
There is a ten hour drive sandwiched between these two dwellings.  My adult life has taken shape in a small but tidy 3rd floor walk-up with two bedrooms, one bath, and zero driveway in Astoria, Queens, NY.  My parents' home, which is not the house I grew up in but inhabits all the same things as that which I did, is spacious, well-decorated, and can accommodate two cars in its garage and three more in the driveway.
Home vs. home.
A little bird woke me this morning.  A little bird, perched on a branch on the blossoming tree just outside the window of the second floor of the house where M & D live, in which I am allowed to stay when I work in downtown Columbus.  I might have liked that little bird, that quaint touch of country-like living, had it not come to sing before six A.M.
(Daylight savings means nothing to the Robin Redbreast; he's like "heeeyyy all you paartay people!  Let's get ready to Roooooock!  It's Friiiiiiiiiiiiidaaaaaay!")
This is a non-occurrence in New York. . .

Break a Leg

I am one of those actors, one of those people, in fact, who abides by certain traditions, rituals, okay... superstitions.  But particularly in the theatre.  You've had heard it before:  "good luck is bad luck in the theatre," which is why we don't tell one another 'good luck" before a performance.  We say the words "break a leg," or in the dance world "merde," which for the non French speaking, is the fancy-dance-pants way of saying "shit."  Or, numerous other opposites of well-wishing.  My friend Jarvis used to say "go pee."  Basically, it's always Backwards Day backstage.  (Except for my husband, who likes to turn a joke around three or four times and then tell it three or four hundred times.  He learned this fun trick from an older seasoned actor and has repeated its utterance to many a younger actor in his own career.  He waits until "places" is called.  The nervous young actor awaits his/her entrance.  The lights dim, and then the older seasoned actor whispers low, but articulately:  "don't fuck up," and walks onto stage, leaving the fledgling actor sweating and peeing himself in the wings just seconds before he is to enter.)
There are other things, too. . .