Thirteen Things about MissMeliss 13 of my favorite Flowers Classic Daisies: While they may seem ordinary, there’s something inherently cheerful about them. Irises: Tall, striking, and yet rather simple. I realize they’re technically blue, but I interpret them as purple. Either way, I find there’s nothing quite so elegant as a tall rectangular vase of irises. Carnations: Natural carnations have this amazing clove scent, and actually do come in a few interesting colors. The dyed ones are fun in a different way. For Christmas 2006, I had red and white carnations in a 2:1 ratio in vases throughout the house. Stargazer Lilies: Can you tell I favor tropicals and exotics? Stargazers are riveting. And their fragrance isn’t heavy enough to be cloying. Calla Lilies: I’m not sure if it’s the work of Mapplethorpe or other influences, but Calla Lilies always make me smile. Again, elegant, they remind me of crisp white linen, with a punch of yellow for emphasis. Tulips: I’m forcing some right now because I forgot to refrigerate them. Tulips are just sexy, and not because of the old organ joke, either. Daffodils: Cheery. Yellow. Stalky. Daffodils mean springtime to me, and remind me of a favorite title rep who always used to gift us with them for Daffodil Days. Orchids: These sensitive exotics first came into my life through a certain fictional detective, Nero Wolfe. Since then, I’ve tried a few times to keep them alive, but I’m not that skilled. Gerbera Daisies: Bolder and brighter than their more pedestrian cousins, these happy flowers always make me smile. Morning Glories: These are somewhat of a family favorite – my grandmother got us all hooked on them. I’ve yet to plant them here in Texas, though I have seeds waiting to be set into the earth. I need to figure out where to put the lattice, first – probably outside my bathroom window, since it gets first light. Petunias: Probably the easiest flower to grow, and great for landscaping, because you can pack them close together and they thrive. They come in more colors than most people realize. African Violets: were another of my grandmother’s favorites, she would cheerfully talk to hers and pet the undersides of their leaves with extreme gentleness as she misted them each morning. Their tiny blossoms are really just precious. Sunflowers: Bold, vibrant, and wild, these are my very favorite flower, and Fuzzy laughs at me when I tell him so. He thinks flowers should be flashier, I guess. What I love about sunflowers, though, is that they’re resilient, and they’re everywhere – along highways from SoDak down to Texas, along the edges of fields in California, and even in sand dunes in parts of New Jersey.

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My mother isn’t the type to be angry about her age being revealed, because at 57 she really doesn’t look much over 40. I used to complain that I still look twelve, but as I get older, I’m finding it to be less a problem, and more a feature of our genetics that most of the women in my family don’t really look their age.

She was born, as she’ll tell you if you ask, in Valley Forge, PA, on what was then Washington’s Birthday. As a small child, and a Catholic school student as well, she and her younger sister, born on the day of the Immaculate Conception, both got their birthdays off from school. Of course, it took them several years to realize it wasn’t all about them. Actually, I think my mother has yet to truly realize this.

I complain about her a lot. She runs my life, even from Baja Sur, she re-arranges my house to suit her, and uses a different mug for every cup of coffee, many of which travel upstairs, never to be seen again. I sometimes think we’ll find a treasure trove of old coffee mugs under the guest room bed if we ever leave this house. She has lost the art of conversation, since leaving the States, making strings of declarations without pausing for breath, or to allow a response. More frightening, is that she seems to have also lost the art, the joy, in being alone. I don’t mean permanently, I mean, she’ll say, “I want quiet time,” and then five minutes later she’ll be talking, as if the quiet she used to revel in has suddenly become oppressive. Watching this, I wonder if older people become slightly batty as a sort of self defense against being inside their own heads. Not that my mother strikes me as being ‘older,’ in any sense other than ‘older than me.’

The thing about mothers and daughters is that even when we hate each other, we still have a bond. There have been times when I’ve wanted to completely purge my mother from my life. I’m sure there have been similar moments on her part. Ultimately, though, the umbilical cord, the metaphysical one, is still connecting us, even though it’s often stretched thin to the point of breaking. The other thing about mothers and daughters is that even when they hate each other, they love each other unconditionally, or at least, that’s how it is in my family.

For the most crucial parts of my life, our family, the nuclear version of same, was just Mom and me. In a slightly grittier, more politically active version of Gilmore Girls, the two of us faced the world as a united front. It’s like soldiers and their buddies, only cleaner, and with less bloodshed. Some of the lessons from my mother still resonate with me. Some I have yet to learn. Most have helped to form and inform the person I am today, and I mean that in a good way that goes beyond, “Always wear clean underwear.”

Random things my mother taught me include always having odd numbers of design elements, like flowers or candle sticks, because even numbers look weird, and that when decorating for holidays, you should carry the decorations throughout the house. She taught me how to write the ultimate sales pitch for MS read-a-thons, and that you don’t have to marry the first person you sleep with. She gave me my love of reading, my joy in music (despite her complete and utter inability to carry a tune), and my adventurous spirit with regard to foods, places, and culture. She weaned me on coffee, served me my first bloody mary, and taught me how to make the perfect meatball, but she also gave me the ability to write sincere thank-you notes, and to enjoy giving gifts as much as receiving them. She’s tolerated every experiment with various religions, and equally various hair colors, not even shrieking (much) when I came home one year with gothic black hair and fuck-me-dead red lipstick. She learned to make hats for me, and made sure I had tap lessons, cello lessons, voice lessons, and entry fees for writing competition, even if sometimes that meant she didn’t have money for lunch.

The present I WANT to give my mother today is a real, face-to-face coffee date, where we’re not constricted by schedules or other plans, followed by a walk on the beach.

The present I’m actually sending is a gift certificate for Amazon.com, so she can buy a frou-frou magazine and have it sent down to Mexico once a month.

Happy birthday, Mom.

Last night, surfing the feeds that Google Reader had pulled for me, I came across the Improv Resource Center, which was a new site for me. Bored, I surfed the message boards there, and became engrossed in a thread about what various improvisers like to wear on stage.

I’ve seen troupes with matching t-shirts, and troupes who just wore whatever. At ComedySportz, obviously, there is no choice, but for late shows, those who participate wear black t-shirts and jeans.

Aside from giving a sense of uniformity while still offering some style options – there are many types of jeans and varieties of black t-shirts – I think it’s a classic casual look. Black t-shirts and blue denim have become my default mode of dress, actually, when I’m home working, because I’m “dressed” enough to be in a mental “workspace” but it’s not at all corporate. With the right earrings, or lipstick color, a woman in a black t-shirt can be edgy, saucy, flirty, sexy, or just fun. And men in black t-shirts tend to look hot no matter how pasty their winter skin tone.

Basic black, classic blue.
What could be better?

I’m beginning to think someone somewhere really wants me to fall in love with BPAL‘s scent called “Aureus.”

I say this because not only was it among a mystery pack I ordered from the forum, but it was a frimp (that’s free imp, or free sample) in my first BPAL order, as well as in my 3rd, which just arrived today. And this isn’t bad, exactly, except that it’s a bit to light and happy for me, and I keep giving away the imps I have of it, only to receive another.

The actual order was a bottle of Intrigue, and imps of Dee, Eclipse, Jolly Roger, Queen, Queen Mab, and Thaleia. Frimps (in addition to the afore-mentioned Aureus) are La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente, and Thalia.

The excitement of a new box of BPAL, btw, has boosted what started out as a great weekend. First, despite being in a blue funk, I fought through it and we had a great show last night. Then, last night over spinach and mushroom omelettes at IHOP, the waitress complimented my hair, and this morning, not only did I get to have a relaxing facial but I had my free eyebrow waxing, and Jennifer did an amazing job, though I’ll miss Monica.

Following that, I hung out at Barnes and Noble in Cedar Hill, nibbling on a cheese and tomato panini and sipping an iced latte – yay for the return of sun and mild weather. I also bought books, which will eventually appear over on the bookblog, including two which were signed by their respective authors, who were in the store celebrating Black History Month. Both were warm gregarious people, and invited me to email them with my thoughts, after I’d read their work. In a perfect display of balance, one author is male, the other female, one book is non-fiction, the other a novel. And then there was the OTHER $84 I spent on books.

There was a side-trip to Bath and Body Works, where I bought four bottles of antibacterial hand soap for $10 (total, not each), and, there was also the aquisition of pink lip gloss (‘grapefruit’) from Aveda while I was there.

Back at B&N, I also bought the latest offering from the Gipsy Kings, one of my favorite musical groups ever, because they always sound so soulful and lusty in that loving life and sexy but not particularly sexual way.

I’m off to shower now, and then will go help out at CSz.

Yay sunshine, yay weekend, yay music, yay perfume, yay improv, yay me!

It shouldn’t be surprising that this toy was featured by Dave Barry last year. After all, he’s always been one to know about the edgy, the subversive, the just plain disturbing. (And I swear I’m not making that up.)

It also shouldn’t be surprising that I first heard of this toy, not from Mr. Barry’s column, but from my friend The Fabulous Klae, who is just as much in the know as any Miami humorist, and also makes amazing cappuccino. (He does Improv, is on the hot-button of the Funny, and makes espresso drinks. *Swoon*)

What is surprising is that I, who have never really been a doll person, since purging my house of Barbie dolls at the age of ten, and who really doesn’t need any more small cluttery items that might be tempting to chew-happy dogs, am intrigued by this doll. I think it could be an excellent stress reducer, for one thing. Or even a bizarre kind of weapon. (“But Mooooom, she shot a HEAD at me.”)

You can order the very fine Marie Antoinette Action Figure here.

Improv Everywhere has long been on my radar as a group I’d love to be a part of some day, because rather than formal shows, they do happenings.

What’s a happening? Wel, about a month ago, the folks at NYC based group had their 2007 No Pants Subway Ride, in which their various agents boarded the subway, removed their pants, and rode the train to a specific stop, before turning around, and riding back to their point of origin.

Past versions of this event have included pants sellers, who collected the cast off garments then “sold” them to other participants. (According to the website, this was discontinued because some people didn’t get their pants back.)

Thirteen Things about MissMeliss 13 Games I Love to Play Clue. It’s classic, and you can turn it into a light roleplaying game. Monopoly. Especially when I get to be the banker. What? No, I’m NOT hiding an extra $500 under the board! Scrabble. Because it’s all about those 50-point words, baby. Jeopardy. Trivia is so much fun. Zuma. There’s something Zen about making those colored balls explode. Woosh-Bong. An improv warm-up. Sort of like a virtual video game married to invisible pinball. (Every troupe uses their own variations – we have “Sheild” instead of “Denied,” for example.) Phase 10. Gin Rummy meets Uno. Much more fun than it sounds. Weffriddles. Granted, I got distracted around #58, and never went back, but it was amusing while I played it. What? It’s played in cars, mostly. The object is to avoid using the word “what” (or its equivalent in any known languages) while trying to get fellow players to use the word, during the course of a “normal” conversation. Rigmarole. It’s much like the improv game “Story,” except that the point is to actually tell a story to conclusion, and there’s no eliminations. A really good example of it can be found in the novel Little Women. The Sims, except I don’t really play it, as much as use it to release my inner psychopath, by finding new and extreme ways to kill my sims. My early favorite was to stick them in a swimming pool and remove the ladder, but I’ve branched out since then. And yes, I do name them after people who’ve pissed me off lately. Cranium. Charades, trivia, and purple clay, all wrapped up together. Much fun! Balderdash! The ultimate word game. Can be as complex as players care to make it. We generally throw away the board, and just use the cards.

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If there was a personal theme for the show last night, it was one of being out of focus. I wanted to be there, I wanted to play, but I just couldn’t focus. And then, I was terrified, not merely nervous, and I clammed up during 185, which is something I’ve been working on NOT doing. I just…couldn’t push past the fear.

It started with a soda can. I needed something fizzy to drink when I got to the arena, and bought a Coca-cola. I sipped about a third of it before getting distracted by something else. And then we started warm-up, but, like the wine-glass teetering on the edge of a table, that pulls focus from actors on stage, I was more worried someone would kick my soda can, than I was about the warm-up game. More than once another player chastised me – gently, and rightly so – for not being all there.

There’s this deep pressure in my brain that’s pushing me to break through some invisible barrier and figure out a way to release the sparky vivaciousness that’s always been a part of my personality, and that I keep repressing, but there’s also an equally insistent inner voice that reminds me I like to write about dark spooky things…and the clash between the two is getting harder to mediate. I’m 36 years old and I still don’t know who I am.

Clay and I talked about creative personalities and a sort of non-clinical bipolar effect that we all seem to have, where we’re either going non-stop, or sinking into misery and plodding doldrums. Sometimes, it just makes you want to chew a couple of lithium cells, or move to a foreign country.

Speaking of which, I’ve felt a very strong urge to really learn to speak and read French. I’ve always loved languages, I usually pick them up pretty quickly, and my smattering of French isn’t enough to achieve what I want to achieve these days.

Back to the show. Overall, it was good, but I’m not pulling my weight, and I KNOW better. I mean, intellectually, I get it. I just feel sort of…lost in translation.

I posted this originally exactly two years ago, but it stands as my favorite Valentine poem ever, and so I’m posting it again. The words belong to John Fuller.

Valentine
The things about you I appreciate may seem indelicate:
I’d like to find you in the shower
And chase the soap for half an hour.
I’d like to have you in my power and see you eyes dilate.
I’d like to have your back to scour
And other parts to lubricate.
Sometimes I feel it is my fate
To chase you screaming up a tower or make you cower
By asking you to differentiate Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.
I’d like to successfully guess your weight and win you at a fte.
I’d like to offer you a flower.

I like the hair upon your shoulders,
Falling like water over boulders.
I like the shoulders, too: they are essential.
Your collar-bones have great potential
(I’d like all your particulars in folders marked Confidential).

I like your cheeks, I like your nose,
I like the way your lips disclose
The neat arrangement of your teeth
(Half above and half beneath) in rows.

I like your eyes, I like their fringes.
The way they focus on me gives me twinges.
Your upper arms drive me berserk.
I like the way your elbows work, on hinges.

I like your wrists, I like your glands,
I like the fingers on your hands.
I’d like to teach them how to count,
And certain things we might exchange,
Something familiar for something strange.
I’d like to give you just the right amount and get some change.

I like it when you tilt your cheek up.
I like the way you nod and hold a teacup. I like your legs when you unwind
them.
Even in trousers I don’t mind them.
I like each softly-moulded kneecap.
I like the little crease behind them.
I’d always know, without a recap, where to find them.

I like the sculpture of your ears.
I like the way your profile disappears
Whenever you decide to turn and face me.
I’d like to cross two hemispheres and have you chase me.
I’d like to smuggle you across frontiers
Or sail with you at night into Tangiers.
I’d like you to embrace me.

I’d like to see you ironing your skirt and cancelling other dates.
I’d like to button up your shirt.
I like the way your chest inflates.
I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurt
Or frightened senseless by invertebrates.

I’d like you even if you were malign
And had a yen for sudden homicide.
I’d let you put insecticide into my wine.
I’d even like you if you were the Bride of Frankenstein
Or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’s Jekyll and Hyde.
I’d even like you as my Julian of Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan
How melodramatic
If you were something muttering in attics
Like Mrs Rochester or a student of boolean mathematics.

You are the end of self-abuse.
You are the eternal feminine.
I’d like to find a good excuse
To call on you and find you in.
I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin. And see you grin.
I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe,
I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin,
I’d like to make you reproduce.

I’d like you in my confidence.
I’d like to be your second look.
I’d like to let you try the French Defence and mate you with my rook.
I’d like to be your preference and hence
I’d like to be around when you unhook.
I’d like to be your only audience,
The final name in your appointment book, your future tense.