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Jackie’s Cat Cafe

15 Jan

Today I was informed that in Tokyo people pay money to enter cafes solely based on the activitiy of cat-petting.

Actually, I was told this piece of information a long time ago but I’m so soaked, wringed out, and soaked again in cynicism that you couldn’t have actually expected me to believe it.

But yesterday I was at work and amongst the filthy ruins of my corporate emails was a gem- a precious gemstone in the wastelands: a YouTube video featuring a Japanese “cat cafe” where visitors pay up to $16 for unlimited petting privileges of a variety of felines.  The Cafe was lined wall to wall with perch stands, where cats were lined up like items on a shelf for the picking.

Do you understand what this means?

All this time I’ve just been trying to figure out a way to do theater, pay my bills, and absolutely nothing else.   I’ve come up with clever inventions, hoping they would be my one-time payoff to fame.  Like Oscar the Elephant, a children’s cartoon about an elephant who was unpopular because he was overweight. 

A lot of my ideas seem to revolve around the creation of a children’s cartoon featuring an animal with a glaring physical challenge that accounts for its being ostricized from the rest of animal society, e.g. Larry the Lump-Necked Giraffe.

But it turns out that all I’ve had to do all along is open the door of my apartment to vagabonds and prostitute my cats. 

Hey.  Don’t judge me.  One of my cats is antisocial and the visits could do him some good.  My other cat is absolutely insatiable.  I can pet her for an hour and she will still ram her head into my hand like a black rhino.   This will be good for them both.

Except this could seriously  interrupt my constant watching of Arrested Development and my playing of Fat Princess.  So I’m going to have to divide the apartment into people I would be okay hanging out with all the time while they pet my cats and people that I really don’t want in my house at all but need money from.

The only thing stopping me is my questionable neighbor down the hall.  She, like all crazy ladies, is incredibly fond of cats – present company inluded.  In fact, upon spotting my cat in the window of my apartment, she has since requested to visit simply to pet them.

What a brilliant marketing tactic:  I’ll be like Subway and Starbucks and stick my merchandise right in the window.  And I’ll have Questionable Neighbor there, demonstrating proper petting techniques.

No.  …No I can’t possibly play Fat Princess and watch Arrested Development with crazy cat lady in my window.  It would be super weird.

I guess it’s Oscar the Elephant and Larry the Lump-Necked Giraffe: a children’s cartoon about love, friendship and above all, acceptance. *cue music* ♣

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The Underground Bathroom Society

14 Jan

I haven’t ever seen anyone at work on my floor go into the restroom.

I have scoured the entire top floor in an attempt to find the secret restroom and I can’t.  I can’t find it anywhere.

Where do these people put their pee?

The restroom I utilize at least twice every day is right outside my office door.  I could probably chuck my stapler from my desk hard enough and make the door to the bathroom push in ever so slightly.  In theory, I have every ability to make an accurate calculation of how many office citizens use that particular restroom on any given day. 

But no one ever comes. 

I can only deduce the following options:

1) There is a secret tunnel entrance to the bathroom of which I am not yet aware and it is only coincidence to blame for the fact that I never see anyone whilst inside. 

2) Everyone else on my floor is a robot.

3) Corporate issued an “Executive Cup” that everyone keeps in their drawers under lock and key and uses it to relieve themselves in an attempt to increase efficiency in the workplace.

4) People are using Potions of Invisibility to play an unbelievably intricate and petty prank on me.

5) There is a curse or evil spirit haunting the bathroom that I am using and everyone goes to another floor to use the restroom out of sheer terror.

6) The floor I work on is only a figment of my imagination in which my brain can comprehend my need to pee but cannot deduce the same need for others, thus accounting for its oversight in my constructed reality. 

I don’t think it’s any of those.

I sometimes wonder if this is part of a very intense, very specific test aimed at discerning my willingness to thoroughly wash my hands on a consistent basis.   The only clues I really have to go on are the fact that the bathroom soap only seems to deplete on (and not between) my visits and the fact that there are a ridiculous number of posters of all shapes and sizes surrounding the inside of the bathroom that emphasize proper handwashing procedures.

Let’s be honest here – do you sing Row Row Row Your Boat all the way through before you stop rubbing?   Do you?  

Because I can tell you that I don’t and I think they’re on to me. ♣

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Baby Bunny Face for the Win.

13 Jan

I know I’ve officially emerged from the muck and mire of sickness when it all comes out of my face at the same time.

You know what I’m talking about.  That day after a sinus infection when you blow your nose for five minutes straight, wondering where it’s all coming from and whether blowing harder will mean pulling your brain out through your nostrils. Yesterday was my day.

It started out as a simple, ordinary nose-blowing session and once I realized the depth of the situation, I nonchalantly made my way to the bathroom so that I could complete the disgusting task in peace.   Dave, (King of the Man Purse Tribe) sensing what was about to happen, proceeded to follow me and begged to see the tissue when I was done.   Actually, “followed” is not an accurate term.  He proceeded to chase me. 

There is little in this world I hate more than being chased.  It doesn’t matter if it’s playful and it doesn’t matter if it’s someone I know won’t harm me.   It could be Mr. Snuffleupagus behind me and I would still sprint into the far horizon screaming bloody murder.  There is something about running with something intentionally running after you that scares the living daylights out of me instantly and without fail.  Dave knows this and will often accompany the chase with raised eyebrows and cold, murdering eyes, darting like a fierce mongoose through the jungle of furniture in our apartment.  He chased me through the dining room, around the living room, and past the hall to the bathroom where I found my refuge and begged for release. 

I absolutely cannot stand being interrupted while I’m in the bathroom.  In fact, if there’s one thing I hate more than being chased, it’s probably being interrupted in the bathroom.  It’s the only place in the world that I can be alone without having to answer anyone, listening to my phone beep at me, or being responsible for missing out on the goings-on of the world.  

Showers offer me a rare and golden moment of solitude in life.  

 Dave also knows this about me and sometimes tests me while in the bathroom, shouting out ridiculous questions that I clearly cannot answer in my current state,  like where the remote control is.

The beauty of his method is that he does everything that makes me crazy all at once so that he only has to suffer the repercussions of one incident when he’s actually managed to commit several major crimes.   And I can’t blame him because it really is a brilliant methodology.

Unfortunately, our bathroom door is old and complicated and doesn’t lock and since Dave clearly knew that I wasn’t using the restroom for naked purposes, he barged into my fortress of solitude and waited until I had to bring the tissue down from my nose.  I stood there, unyielding and still wide-eyed from the chase.   Like a frightened baby bunny, I coiled in the corner, heart racing with fear, waiting for him to sink his sharp teeth into my tender neck for the kill.    He relented and exited the bathroom so that I could finish my business in peace.  

I’m pretty sure it was my baby bunny face that did him in.

And so I have regaled you with my nose-blowing adventures.  It is the final chapter in my blogging about my sickness.  Because on this, the 13th day of January in the 2011th year of our Lord, after a high-speed chase and a little bit of my brain pulled through my nostrils, I declare myself officially cured. ♣

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A Luck Dragon Would Be SO COOL.

12 Jan

I have emerged from my sickness cocoon.

Yesterday, for the first time in 4 days, I was restored to my full dual-nostril nose breathing capabilities.   Behold the power;  I shall use this newfound oxygen intake to do large-scale and bewildering things. 

I had the energy to hang out again –  I wanted to be social.

Of course, when I say I wanted to “be social,” it’s like a 13-year old Mormon girl saying she wants to “get freaky.”  

So maybe not social.  Maybe I just thought it would be a really awesome idea to watch  The Neverending Story at the exact same time as one of my friends and to text each other about it while it played.   But I thought there’s no way I’m going to be able to make this sound cool at all. 

I called up my friend Scott in Chicago and sheepishly asked him what he was doing and if he maybe wanted to start The Neverending Story at the exact same time as me and then text back and forth about the experience while it was happening.   ABSOLUTELY he says, but he’s on his way to a theater gig and can’t hang out and maybe tomorrow.

Damn.  There’s absolutely no way I know two people who I can talk into doing this with me right now.

But then I remember I’m a new woman.  I’m an oxygen hogging, dual-nostriled breather and I can do new and amazing things.  So  I call up my friend Karl-with-a-“k” (also in Chicago) and ask him what he’s doing right now and does he want to watch The Neverending Story and text each other about the experience while it’s happening.  He says:

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea to me.  Let me just get it on the screen here.  I mean I’m not really doing anything except walking around in my apartment.”

That’s why I love Scott. And that’s why I love Karl-with-a-“k”.   Because this morning I bought a Groupon  for drycleaning and felt like I was getting old. 

But then I thought about how at any given time I have two people in the world who think it’s an awesome idea to sit down with me wherever they are, play The Neverending Story at exactly the same time as me and text about the experience as it’s happening.

And hey – as long as that’s true, at least I know I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to grow up. ♣

 

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Excuse Me Sir, Do You Have Any Bangers?

11 Jan

Hey guess what? It’s Lollipop Tuesday! In case you missed the first installment of the Lollipop Tuesday series, you can catch up on the deal here.

So today’s new adventure?  Bangers ‘n’ Mash.  That’s right: Bangers ‘n’ Mash – a classy dish for a classy dame.  With pictures!

Last night, trapped indoors by an incredibly inconvenient bacterial infection monster (let’s call him Gary), I resorted to my two brand spankin’ new cookbooks I got for Christmas.  I handed them over to Dave and told him to pick something ridiculous.  For some reason, he kept picking things that had “Big Beef” in the title.  Like I said… he’s a man’s man.

  After repeating the recipe for “Big Beef Balls” with Something-or-Other and giggling, he finally pointed out the winner: Rachael Ray’s recipe for “Fancypants Bangers ‘n’ Mash” from her “365: No Repeats” book (I couldn’t help myself). It just so happens that yesterday at noon, the teaser was released for the short film I directed this summer, Code Monkey.  Given that it features a song called “Fancypants,” I couldn’t help but make the big sausage and potato mess in celebration.  (Check out the teaser here if you just can’t live with the curiosity).

I sent Dave to the store for the necessitites and prepped the kitchen.   In the duration of his absence, he managed to call me 3 separate times with very specific questions regarding my needs.  Turns out “bangers” isn’t really an American term.  Apparently it’s not the kind of thing you can just walk into a grocery store and ask for.  Not even the butcher knew what the hell he was talking about.

I googled it and found that “bangers” is a term for “British bangers” and is just a type of white sausage. 

Mmm... Bubbling Pork Butt

After telling Dave I had no idea and just get something that had pig butt in it, he came home to find that Rachael Ray had made a note in the side comments that any sort of sausage would do.

Let it be known: there are times in this world when reading a book is actually more efficient than googling something.

And so Dave returned with the goods I began my journey into the sloppy world of onions, mashed potatoes, and pig butt.  Delicious.

Gary, the bacterial infection monster, kept me lightheaded the entire time and zapped my sense of taste and smell.  I had to enlist two hungry boys for their expert opinions and actually got some pretty rave reviews.

Final Analysis:  Fancypants Bangers ‘n’ Mash: a stupid name for a recipe that tastes far better than it looks. ♣

 

Thanks to this cool cat taking the time to lay it out on her recipesfromkari blog,  you can check out Rachael Ray’s Bangers ‘n’ Mash here and give it a go yourself.   I recommend playing with the pig butt before cooking it.  It’s mushy and mysterious and will occupy at least three solid minutes of your time.

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Dave, King of the Man Purse Tribe

10 Jan

Man, I’m so hot right now. And not like Megan Fox hot (she totally is, don’t lie).  Like I’m-working-up-a-sweat-just-typing-and-I’m-on-my-last-box-of-tissues-hot.

I have to admit that there has been an upside to how incredibly awful I’ve felt these past few days and it came in the form of a bowl of soup.

I should preface this by saying that I never task Dave with making dinner.   This is usually because doing so will mean I am barraged with very detail-oriented questions regarding times, spices, and temperatures out of sheer terror that he will mess something up.  Which I think is adorable.  But when it comes down to it, I’d rather just do it myself.  Kind of because I get easily annoyed by questions and kind of because I’m more of a “go with it” kind of cook.  I can’t really tell you what makes my burgers delicious;  I don’t pay attention. 

But on this particular weekend, just being awake was such a chore.  My super awesome Dave – after working all day – went to the grocery store and bought the necessary plants, animals, and chemicals and came home to spend the next 2 hours concocting the best chicken noodle soup I will ever see in my life.   It was so beautiful I just wanted to take a picture of it.  But I’ve learned to stop doing that because two days later, without fail, I check my phone, call “Jackie two days ago” a moron, and delete 15 random pictures of food from my phone.

Sometimes I think food is just breathtaking.  It’s part of the reason I was such a fat ass in high school.  No joke –  the year they changed our volleyball uniforms to include spandex shorts was a startling dose of reality for me and everyone in the bleachers. 

But this chicken noodle soup was seriously amazing.   I kind of felt bad about being shocked by how good it was.  It’s not that I didn’t think Dave capable… it’s just that, well, I tend to harbor some rather traditional ideas of gender roles and Dave is most certainly a man’s man.  I could strip him of everything but his underwear and drop him off in the woods only to come back three days later and discover him the king of some crazy man tribe, complete with forts, trolleys, and a fully-fledged hunter-gatherer society.

But then I got to thinking about him making mention the other day of his newfound desire to attain a man purse.  …What if he’s transforming?  What if he’s being taken over by some sort of nurturing side that is set up like a time bomb in his body to mature and fully reveal itself when he hits 25?

Hey – if it means I get more picture-worthy meals that I don’t have to cook myself, then I say bring on the man purses. ♣

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My Martin Luther King Jr. Tree

9 Jan

My Christmas decorations are still up.

As I type, my Christmas tree is leaning in my general direction as if begging me to spare it the embarrassment of being seen outside its proper timeframe. 

 

I’m usually pretty good about this sort of thing.  Though I’m no Martha Stewart, I like to consider myself somewhat skilled in the way of domestic goddessry.  It’s just that at this particular moment, my movement in the apartment can be tracked by a trail of used tissues and drips of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy Ice Cream and taking down my Christmas tree is not high on my priority list this weekend.

What if I just leave it up all year?  And not in the way that my white trash hometown leaves up their Christmas decorations on their trailers all year, but in the way that maybe I can help this tree aspire to more than it ever imagined when it was birthed at the synthetic tree-making factory.  I’ll bet when it was in the truck on the way to Wally World, it had no idea that it would only see the light of day for one month, max.    It is my duty to help this tree meet its personal goals.

Of course, one glaring problem is the fact that I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day (more on that next month, I’m sure) and we have basically no other holidays between now and Easter.    Whoever laid out the American holiday calendar severely favored the latter part of the year.   Of course, I have the option to decorate it in time for Martin Luther King Jr. Day, but aside from little scrolls bearing stories of victory for blacks in history, I have little to work with in the way of decoration.

Keeping my tree in my living room also poses another wee issue in that I live in an area of the city that is rich with Orthodox Jews.  I’m talkin’ old school Jews.  Even our Dunkin’ Donuts is kosher.  I have the feeling that keeping a “holiday tree” vibrantly displayed in my window might make certain members of my neighborhood feel that I’m pushing the issue.   Besides, it’s not like any of my neighbors are going to venture indoors to find that for 11 months out of the year, it’s not actually a Christmas tree but a MLKEasterSpringIndependenceDayBirthdayLaborDayHalloween tree.

Perhaps I should just take it down.

The only thing I’m looking forward to about tearing down the leftovers of Christmas cheer is that it’s that time of year where I put little surprises in the stockings so that next year at Christmas I’m greeted with money and cryptic notes from the Jackie of the past.    That’s correct: I use my stockings as a mini time capsules.

All right, I’m about to be buried in the huge mountain of used tissues that has accumulated in this time I have been stationary.  I have to move on to throw off my trackers.  You know, in case the Jewish neighbors are hunting me down for my Christian decoration deadline violation.  ♣

Hey, I made buttons today. And I think that’s awesome.  Check out the beautiful stalker tools on the top right.  And many thanks to this Jackie for having the only how-to that put it in terms my small brain could comprehend.

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Larry, the Lump-Necked Giraffe

8 Jan

Oh man, I haven’t even been blogging for a full week yet.    Is it possible that I’ll find something worth babbling on about every single day for another 359 days?  Yeah, probably.  I mean, as long as the world continues to harbor such great inspiration for mockery (e.g. Sarah Palin, the Sun Chips bag recall, my disgustingly obese cats) I think I’ll be just fine.  Onward.

I’m incredibly ill today.  Turns out that I probably should have called off work this past week because by the time I made it to UrgentCare this morning, I was a pretty big mess.  Suffice it to say that my left tonsil is so huge that it hurts to move my neck. 

I keep thinking of ways to use this for the good; maybe I can use it as inspiration for a cartoon character – perhaps a giraffe that leans to the right and is shunned in social situations involving cooler, straighter-necked giraffes.  Or maybe I can just turn myself into a circus act.  Hey – with my developing Bikram Yoga skills, maybe I could contort myself into some kind of killer pose that accentuates my newly acquired neck tumor.  Then when Point Park sends me that damn theater alumni survey, I can finally check the box that indicates I am supporting myself solely by working in my field.

But alas, my illusions of carnie grandeur and children’s book author fame were nipped in the bud by a fancy pharmaceutical concoction called a Z-Pack. 

I must admit: I had absolutely no idea what a Z-Pack was until today.  Probably because the last time I had health insurance, it wasn’t one of the best-selling antibiotics in the world.   Back in my day, you had to take a whole bottle of antibiotics to get better -none of this 5-days-and-we’re-done stuff.   I suppose a shout-out is in order for President Obama.  Like him or not, the man got me healthcare.  And I’ve been working full-time ever since getting out of school, so keep your ignorant assumptions about me deserving to pay an average $250+/visit in your mouth please. Thanks.

By the way, if you think other people should be able to have affordable healthcare, you might want to speak out against the potential repeal.  Or even get involved.  Think about it.  Otherwise you might have a lot of up-and-coming children’s book authors and sideshow starlets that you’re not prepared for, America.

And so my weekend shall be spent indoors and unshowered, in the company of my overly obese cats and my PS3.  Well, actually, that’s how all my weekends are spent.  It’s just that this time it appears I actually have a reasonable excuse. ♣

P.S.  As promised, I’m actually, like, doing things to the site.  Check out the new “About” tab above and the ability to rate a post.  Stay tuned for more exciting changes to come.  I will be a force to be reckoned with.

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12 Tips for Not Completely Sucking at an Open Mic

7 Jan

I’ve been spending a lot of time at open mics lately.

Let me rephrase that.

I don’t really ever go out, but when I do, it’s usually to an open mic.  Mostly because I have a musician for a boyfriend and an apartment that chucks a hippie in your face upon entry and my life has just sort of developed into this strange, artsy, music-y strangeness.  Yes, I said strange strangeness.  It’s technically legal to say that.  Just one more sign that English is failing us.

So because I tend to harbor unnecessarily strong opinions about things that I have little or no expertise in, I’ve decided to stay true to my nature and compile a list of tips for Open Mics.  That is, if you want to play at them.  If you want tips for being in the audience – I only have one: drink.

So here I give thee,

How to Not Completely Suck Playing an Open Mic

1)   Don’t have an expression on your face that is more intense than your song.  It’s a one-way ticket to douchebaggery.

2)   Tune.  And not into the mic, doofus.

3)  Try to avoid “jamming.”  There are few people in this world who can bring anyone joy with jamming: people who are already rock stars, and grandmothers.

4)  Pay attention to the sets that are played before you’re up.  Don’t follow a cover of  “Closer” (originally by Nine Inch Nails), for example, with an original song entitled “Lollipops, Babies, and Kitten Kisses.”  Which brings me to…

5) Consider your venue.  Consider your genre.  If they don’t match up, stay in the audience.  It will save you 10 minutes of performer’s hell. 

6)  Know when it’s your turn and have your big sack o’ stuff ready to go.  There is absolutely no excuse for lugging your guitar case up front in a crowded bar, unlatching it all the way around, taking out your guitar, and (ugh) tuning  [refer to tip 2]. 

7) Get to know the other folks playing up there.  Like their stuff or not, they’ll be your biggest supporters.  Even if you suck really, really hard.

8 ) Do not, I repeat, do not get drunk before you get in front of the microphone.  If this proves difficult for you, show up earlier and get higher on the list.

9) Write new songs.  People who go to open mics enjoy hearing fresh music from up-and-coming hopefuls.  Chances are you’ll get a group who comes every week, and after the 4th week in a row of hearing your working rendition of “Lollipops, Babies, and Kitten Kisses,” they’re going to get tired of your face.

10) Tell the audience if it’s an original.  Sometimes….rarely… but sometimes, someone actually writes an original song that’s really good and the audience will chalk it up as a cover unless you tell them otherwise.  If you’re lucky enough to be able to write something people want to listen to, make sure you take credit for it.

11)   There’s a difference between good musicians and good performers.  People want to watch someone who is both.  So make that happen.

12)   If you like something you see someone else do, figure out what it is and make it your own.  Sometimes, that’s what seeing the up-and-comers is all about.

So there you have it: my list of how-to’s, written from the perspective of someone who’s never done it.  But hey, I watch it a lot.  And I have a public medium with which to express my uneducated opinion.  And I’d like to think that counts for something. ♣

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Elevator Tetris

6 Jan

Had I not gotten a degree in theater, I’d have aggressively pursued sociology.  …Well, the fun parts of it anyway. 

I’m a people-watcher.   I love to study them, the way they move, their quirky, inexplicable habits.  Trying to capture these details with my own body is my way of immersing myself in the study of people and of society and is one of my favorite parts of being an actor.  And it is for these reasons that I just adore watching office folk.

I have an office job by day because I need something to help feed my theater habit at night.  It’s a cruel, addictive cycle.  In my time amongst cubicles, elevators, and important titles, I am continually amused by the society that has been created there.  I am an outsider – a Jane Goodall, throwing herself into a world to live amongst these creatures and to study their interactions.

One of my favorite parts of the office is Elevator Space Relations.  This is true in any elevator scenario with more than one person, but I find it particularly interesting at the office. 

I was heading down from the top floor today and joined the 5pm elevator party just after a particularly high-level executive. 

Before we got on, however, he did me the good service of pretending to be interested in how I was today and I did the same for him.  I told him I was good and he told me he was good.  This is another fun one for me…because let’s face it: when anyone asks that question who isn’t your best friend or family member, they don’t really want an honest answer.  I totally felt like junk today.  I came in to the office to see how long I could make it because I’m a moron.  When he asked how I was, an honest answer would have been something like, “Oh, I’ve been better.   My head was a giant, disgusting hot air balloon filled with evil pixies smacking their wands on my frontal lobe and making it through this day was no small feat but I was too afraid to call off and look like a flake.”

Something told me that would have made the last 10 floors even more awkward. 

And so we stood in silence…the entire time from the top of the building to the bottom.   There’s only so long one can stare at the blinking number at the top of an elevator before they feel like an idiot.

It’s like we all got together one day and decided that there wasn’t enough time between point A and point B on an elevator and that since no one knows how many people may join on the way up or down, there is little possibility for discussion outside of the weather and the number of days ’til Friday.  So we just stopped talking altogether. 

My next favorite thing is how beautifully people will align themselves in an elevator.  It’s like one big spatial relations puzzle.  Every time someone new enters the picture, people in the elevator, without talking or making eye contact, will naturally work together to adjust themselves so that they leave as much room for a personal bubble as possible for everyone involved.

 It’s like the bathroom stall game, where if there are three and the nearest one has someone in it, you go to the far one.  Who made up these rules? 

I’ll admit, I like to rebel.  Sometimes when someone asks me how I am, I actually tell them.  And sometimes, I actually follow-up when they lie and tell me they’re good just to see if I can shake a human answer out of them.    Furthermore, I sometimes make people uncomfortable by choosing the stall directly beside them. 

I get myself through my day job with these little games.  I’ll admit that just a few days ago there were 3 people joining me on an elevator ride and I didn’t move from my space.  Yes, I felt the air thick with anticipation.  I felt their discomfort with the fact that there was not even spacing between the 3rd and 4th temporary members of the steel ride society but I was comfortable and deemed that everyone had an adequate amount of room.  And then an amazing thing happened: everyone else adjusted to me. 

I felt powerful.  I felt like an elevator goddess, directing human traffic with my mind.  I was the awkward T shaped tetris piece and everyone had to start a new row to adjust for my addition to the stack.  It was glorious.

I think I’ll start to use these powers for my rise in human society.  I will be the immovable force around which others must accordingly adjust themselves.   And slowly but surely, I will make my way to the top of the corporate world.  One awkward elevator ride at a time.♣

 

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