weekend update (how's that for a snazzy title?)

Guess who had a hot date on Friday night? And guess who had to dab a bit of the concealer on her neck on Saturday morning before boarding a NJ Transit bus to celebrate her godchild's birthday as well as the 40th wedding anniversary of her parents?

While I realize that Britney Spears is perhaps a more suitable response to the second question, the correct answer is me, sillies!

Yup, I had a wonderful evening out with a beautiful woman we'll call Glamour Puss... on account of she's all hot and gorgeous and fashionable and stuff. It was an excellent first date -- good food, great conversation capped off with a rather spirited round of snogging. It was good times. I look forward to Round Two.

On Saturday, I went to my sister's house to hitch a ride to a birthday party down near the Jersey Shore. That night, I slept on the trundle bed in my 7-year-old niece's room... on pink gingham sheets, covered by a comforter with ponies and princesses on it. 'Twas a far cry from the prior evening's activities and surroundings, to say the least.

In other news, my 2-year-old nephew has become quite talkative. He's been chattering away for months but the difference is now we can actually understand what the boy is saying.

He's starting to identify his family and friends by name. Before when he'd see me, he'd shake his head back and forth as an acknowledgement of what I'd do with my curls for his enjoyment. But now that he's found his words, I've earned an actual name instead of just alarming head banging.

Last week he addressed me as "Aunt Money" over the phone. His sense of irony is already well-honed for a toddler.

Now, I don't know if this can be considered a step up or down, but when asked to identify me in person yesterday, the nephew responded as such: "Butt."

Not sure if that's a remark about the size of my ass or how sweet he thinks it is. Either way, it's a disturbing development.

i'm so not going to hollywood, dawg

Last night I dreamt I auditioned for American Idol.

I don't know. Just bear with me.

So there I was sitting in a big ass holding room along with all the other hopefuls at some hotel. I can't say for sure but it might have been the La Quinta in Secaucus, New Jersey. But don't quote me on that.

Then, suddenly, I was whisked into a smaller room where I was told by a production person that I was going on in a few minutes.

There were about four people ahead of me waiting to perform, Kenny Rogers and Paula Abdul among them. Like, Paula actually had to audition to be a judge and stuff. FYI, she and Kenny both got cut and Kenny looked positively devastated. I don't remember what happened to Paula. I was too transfixed by Kenny's sad face.

As I sat waiting for my turn, I tried to figure out what song I would sing... 'cause I'm well-prepared like that. I considered singing "Happy Birthday" because, apparently, my subconscious thought that timeless tune would really wow the judges. I suppose I would have had a big finish with an elongated and dramatic "to yoooooooooooooooooooouUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!" at the end.

Other options I considered: "If You're Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands" and that song that goes "Down down baby, down by the roller coaster."

Because I'm five.

Anyhoo, I was led into the room and there sat Randy and Simon Cowell... right next to the hotel reception desk. I voiced my concern about having to sing over the din of people checking in and out but I was ignored. And then I asked where I should stand because there was no "X" on the floor marking the spot. Simon got all sorts of bitchy with me and threatened to throw me out and then he made me stand in an area where there were a ton of hanging plants which were swinging back and forth in a most precarious fashion. Naturally, I totally whacked my head on a terra cotta planter. That shit hurt. He was a real dick about things, that Simon.

And then it was time to get down to business. Randy asked if I was ready and I responded in the affirmative and let fly with a deep-yet-nasally version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." I don't remember making that decision to change up the song but in retrospect, that was quite the daring impromptu move. Go me.

Granted, I mangled the words at times but neither Randy nor Simon cut me off so I really started getting into it. I actually believed that I was quite possibly going to Hollywood.

I finished up my number and waited to hear my fate. I don't remember what Randy said because, well, he's Randy and I never pay attention to him. But I'm sure he used the terms "pitchy" and "dawg." Just a hunch.

And then Simon said, "I quite liked your lower register but no. Sorry." And then he put his arm around me and walked me to the door. That was nice of Simon, I guess.

What does it all mean? I have no idea. However, my voice today is a bit hoarse and ragged which leads me to believe that I actually sang a deep-yet-nasally version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" in my sleep.

Thank God I don't have a roommate.

vote for creamy

My booty-shaking friend, Creamy Stevens, has been honored with a Golden Pastie nomination for said booty-shaking abilities.

If you don't mind, kindly take a moment to vote for Creamy as "The Best Booty Shaker in Burlesque." I realize many of you have never seen Creamy shake her booty but shake it she does, I assure you.

Look, here's Creamy...

Okay, so she's not exactly shaking her booty in that photo but still, doesn't she just exude a master booty-shaking vibe?

I think so. If you do too (and you KNOW you do), please click here to vote. The awards will be handed out at on September 2 at this year's New York Burlesque Festival.

Congrats and good luck, Creamy!

reincarnation

I snapped this picture today during a bike ride in Prospect Park:

As I was reviewing the day's photos, something about the composition of the above seemed familiar to me. After inspecting it further, it occurred to me that the photo is a near carbon copy of a picture I took a few summers ago in Brighton Beach:

Striking similarities, no?

urban compassion

The doors of the uptown 1 train open and a mass of people step out onto the platform at the 50th Street station. We behold a figure sprawled out on a bench. He's largely ignored but several of us do cast a quick glance over our shoulders -- without breaking stride -- to check if he's still breathing. Upon seeing the slow rise and fall of his chest, it's determined that he's merely passed out. A palpable sense of relief washes over the crowd... mostly because now we don't have to interrupt the remainder of our commute by trying to find a cop, or more elusive, a helpful MTA employee.

I need a vacation.

holy cow

First Merv Griffin, now Phil Rizzuto. Several TV fixtures of my youth have passed this week.

Oh man, I hope Carole and Paula aren't next. I really don't think I can handle it.

knockers

A knock on the door at around 7:30 this morning startled me from my semi-conscious state. My alarm had gone off about 30 minutes prior but I was enjoying that half-hour lazy grace period I always allow myself.

I didn't quite register the knock on the door at first because, at the time, I was entrenched in a very vivid dream. I can't for the life of me tell you what happened in that dream now because it's long forgotten. And for that, I'm certain you're all grateful because, really, is there anything more boring than hearing about someone else's dreams? I think not.

But as I was saying, the first knock on the door fell victim to the disorientation that ensues when I'm unceremoniously rousted from my slumber.

I lay in bed all confused, my eyes darting from side to side trying to figure out if I actually heard a knock or just dreamt it.

And then came a second knock on the door. It wasn't the same violent pounding and aggressive bell ringing I experienced during a carbon monoxide false alarm a few months prior so I ruled out the New York Fire Department.

After the third knock, I got up to inspect. My plan was to look through the peep hole and assess the threat level of the person on the other side. If the person looked like a potential murderer, I was going to pretend I wasn't home. Even if the person didn't look like a potential murderer, I was still going to pretend I wasn't home because I certainly didn't want to deal with whatever bullshit this person deemed important enough to address at 7:30am. Fuck that noise.

Anyhoo, I tiptoed gingerly across my apartment taking great pains to not step on any squeaky floor boards. I quietly lifted the latch on the peep hole and cautiously peered through.

On the other end was a young guy in a t-shirt and from what I could tell, shorts. He didn't look like a potential murderer but I was still uncertain as to whether I should alert of him of my presence.

As I was pondering my options, he yelled, "Tricia, let me in!"

And for reasons I still don't understand, I responded as such: "Um... I think you have... the wrong apartment?"

You know, if there was ever a scenario where it would be completely acceptable to respond, "You're in the wrong building, dumbass!" this would be it. However, for reasons I can't explain, I haltingly responded in the form of the question as if there was a possibility that maybe, just maybe, this Tricia lived in some hidden alcove or wing of my tiny wee studio previously unknown to me.

Fortunately, he didn't pick up on my uncertainty because he was too busy hauling his embarrassed ass out the front door.

Now if you'll excuse, I'm off to find this Tricia.

well, believe it or not, i invented post-its...

I met up with my friend Kelly today for omelets at a greasy spoon and then a jaunt to Brooklyn Bridge Park in nearby DUMBO.

DUMBO is one of my favorite neighborhoods in all of New York City. I could do without the high-rise condos and chain stores littering the area of late but it's still a gritty, raw, artistic space with killer views of the Manhattan skyline and the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges.

What I particularly love is that it's not at all unusual to stumble upon random sculptures and displays of art while strolling through the neighborhood's trademark cobblestone streets.

Kelly and I were fortunate enough to happen upon this interesting art installation on Front Street:

The display was created by Illegal Art to encourage "passersby... to write down their own 'to do' lists and add to the collective consciousness of personal promises, social commitments and the yet to be done."

As you can see, some people did just that...

Others, like Kelly and myself, opted for a looser interpretation of the rules. Kelly paid homage to her homeland. And just like the rest of the world is prone to do, I disparaged mine...

For more photos, check out my DUMBO set on Flickr.

bingo!

I have a meeting at the obscene hour of 9:00 tomorrow morning. Gawd, isn't it still dark outside that early? I fully expect a bugler to be blowing Revele during my march to the subway.

That is the ass crack of dawn for Internets [sic] folk like myself. My dainty ass doesn't roll into work until at least 10:00. I don't willingly schedule meetings for myself until 2:00 if I can help it. I don't have a healthy relationship with mornings, you see.

Making matters worse is the fact that I have to attend this meeting with people renowned for saying things like "touch base," "low-hanging fruit" and "moving the needle."

Ew. Even typing that makes me feel all pukey.

Looks like I'm going to have to arm myself with some Irish coffee and Jargon BINGO to get me through.

I expect to have a full board by 9:10, 9:15 tops. I'll "circle back" and let you all know. Please be sure to "reach out" if I fail to "follow-up."

Best,
Curly