georgia on my mind and my flight itinerary.

going back to georgia doesn’t happen as often as it should. i can usually sneak in at least one trip a year, two if i’m lucky, depending on how much of the year is dedicated to commitments in randard places that i can hardly locate on a map.

georgia is the land i love and the state i never should have left. it’s pretty much perfect.

[well, aside from that little mishap known as atlanta. don’t get me wrong; it’s a fantastic little town. it’s just that it’s a total engineering disaster. like city planners never thought more than 3 people would ever be driving down the road - any road - at any given time.]

soon enough, this fine state will bear witness to the trifecta of all collisions.

because i get to see these 3 people . . . . . . and some others.

the last time all 4 of us were together was the georgia-florida game 2009. as seen above. georgia-florida defines debauchery. and i may or may not have done keg stands in that dress. (hint: i did)

[L-to-R: catherine who i know through the other 2 but who i wish i’d known forever because she is just.that.cool. … then me … then kristen, who moved here from charleston, rearranged my life and my social schedule, and then moved away leaving me a little broken hearted … and then there’s corbin who is my pledge sister and college roommate who taught me how to have 5:00am dance parties, nightly, while also making straight A’s … i owe her a lot.

this upcoming rendezvous serves a different, but equally as dangerous, purpose . . .

it’s the truth. kristen is tying it up. and hearts will splinter coast to coast.

but the southern trip won’t end with bachelorette ruckus.

no, no.

THEN i get to see this one. and she is one of my favorites.

this sequin dress makes her a bit of a rockstar. not that she needs it. she’s a rockstar in her pajamas.

OH, but i also get to see this one . . . and she’s been circulating through my repertoire for many years. also a pledge sister, i like her a lot because she wears funny hats and drinks vodka tonics. and for countless other reasons which are far more tribute worthy.

and we might even make another attempt at amateur hour with stogies . . . although i doubt it because we weren’t very good at it. despite our best efforts to not inhale while also looking cool and sexy. 

and if brooke hadn’t up and left and moved all the way to DENVER, then she would certainly join in the fun, too.

we’ll be sure to skype you from our phones. unless, of course, callie shatters hers on the floor of the havana club.

which we know is likely.

betty ford, eat your heart out.

the learning channel has this show called “my strange addiction.”

holy wow.

there was a marathon edition airing the other day and i found myself sitting indian style on the floor thisclose to the television, setting so many DVR recordings that my TV went into overdrive and flashed one of those warnings that went like this:

“hey, babe. your DVR is almost at capacity and it would be a shame to not have space left over for something equally ridiculous like, say, the bachelor or jersey shore. just a heads up.”

the warning really should have read something like this:

“YOU CRAZY BITCH, YOU ARE ABOUT TO MAXIMIZE YOUR LIFE WITH 300 HOURS OF PEOPLE DOING STUPID SHIT THAT GOES AGAINST ANY AND ALL LAWS OF REASON AND SANITY! WALK AWAAAAYYYYY!!!!!”

but of course i didn’t.

instead, i spent waytoomuchtime watching some crazy chick eating couch cushions.

would you like a side of sweet baby rays with that??

she has eaten 7 couches.

s-e-v-e-n couches. COUCHES.

DOESN’T ANYONE NOTICE THAT THEIR FURNITURE IS MISSING?!?!?!

and then i watched this girl cramming her stomach full of pottery and cigarette ashes.

just wash it back with some bourbon. no one will notice that you just licked the bottom of an ashtray and it might take the edge off that burning sensation that indicates your esophagus is ON FIRE!!

i’m adding this to the list of shows i want to intend to work on.

let me know if you want tag along on one of the shoot days. i’ll need a good assistant standing by with a catheter as i try and control the urge not to pee all over myself.

[p.s. i don’t mean to sound insensitive to the subject of addiction. i know how very real it is. this is just my off-the-cuff reaction to watching someone chew on flower pots and cigarette ash all day long. i.mean.come.on.]

one year later and it still sucks.

dear g.money:

it’s been a year since you’ve been gone.

to the day.

a year since i screened that phone call while i sat inside that pub on 14th street. having a beer that was so insignificant i’m sure my liver did away with it in under an hour. having conversations so insignificant that i don’t even remember what they were about. laughing about things that were probably not even that funny.

i screened the call because i thought it was an ordinary “just checking in” call and i figured i’d return it later. when i wasn’t in a pub. drinking insignificant beer and having insignificant conversation.

i was wrong.

i have never been so wrong.

i was only blocks away from london terrace. had i known then what i would know only an hour later, i would have run to you. i would have run myself out of my heels and poured myself over you. desperate for one more minute of you. your kindness. your wisdom. your ever impressive wit and unfailing tell-it-like-it-is. your hand inside mine.

i would if i could. but in some ways, screening that call saved me.

saved me from seeing things i know now i would never want to see.

because my last minutes with you were perfect.

and i miss you every single day.

thirty days, ninety days later.

i caught a lil' bit of heat for not putting on some sort of over-the-top performance (read: slideshow presentation) of my nationwide tour upon my return. i thought i did my best in dropping snippits here on the bloggity and making calls to the homestead to tell all the loved ones how the trip was going. but apparently my best wasn’t quite good enough.

they.wanted.fireworks.

with music.

my parents (who think facebook is crazy – and are probably right) missed all the mobile uploads and 3:17am status updates when, well, that was often all i had time or energy for.

the facebook iPhone app has, in fact, made it easier to drop a quick “hey look at me, i’m standing on a sand dune!” rather than to sit down and rummage through thousands of photos that, for the most part, were just a part of my jay-oh-bee. a job that requires me to take an absolutely absurd amount photos. and often times when i’m done with them, they just get offloaded to my external hard drive and left for dead.

until i need to reference them for the next film or commercial.

so alas, mom and dad (and all the various people who requested individual play-by-plays) . . . here they are. well, not all of them because, for heaven’s sake, i have enough sense to know that you aren’t all that interested in seeing 90 photos of a football field and associated equipment locker in the middle of phoenix. or 45 images of the stairwell in the sears tower. and you could probably do without seeing all 17 soccer fields in west chester, pennsylvania. because they all look the same. and they all look like grass and not a whole lot else.

by default, work photos and play photos got systematically separated during the trip. usually at 2:10am while i sat sorting, categorizing, labeling, and ftp'ing them from inside the 4 walls of a hotel room that i would spend no more than 7-10 hours in. before moving on to the next hotel. and then another one after that. but then again, work was play and play was work so it's all kind of mixed together. this assortment will undoubtedly have really great moments left out and will certainly include things which are of no interest to anyone, but what’s left here is a collection of about 275 which sums it all up pretty well.

except that it doesn’t really sum it up at all.

that would be impossible.

[i don't exactly know how to embed an entie album here in the form of a simple link, nor to i have the patience to figure it out. all i know is that if you click on the picture below, it will take you to the rest of the album. have at it.]

i didn't forget, but apparently i didn't remember either.

m&d and friends and world:

i know i promised i'd post the 30 Days photos.
like 2 months ago.
and you keep asking.
i'm sorry.
they are coming.
soon.
maybe later today.
or maybe tomorrow.

but i figured if i put it out there -- here -- then i would have to be accountable. so here i am. being accountable.

here's one i pulled from my phone to keep you at bay.

are you at bay? no?

then stay tuned and don't give up on me.

i played every game on my iPhone and then stared at the ceiling fan for an hour.

i thought i would be a big girl tonight and not take a unisom or an ambien before going to sleep. the unisom has become about as routine and brushing my teeth before bed and i'm starting to think that's not okay. i don't like being dependent on anything, least of all blue gel capsules that are designed to help your body shut down in a way that it should otherwise do on its own.

my mom swiped the bottle of ambien from my stepdad when i was home over christmas, tucked it in my purse, and told me if i needed more to either call her or go source out a new doctor.

[my doctor is this russian woman who wears pointy shoes and scares the piss out of me. a couple years ago, i asked her if she would prescribe something to help me sleep because i sometimes have to keep weird hours or work overnight and sleep during the day or change times zones without a lot of notice . . . she told me "no" while simultaneously cutting me in fifteen pieces with her russian pointy-shoe glare and i never asked her again.]

it's bloody 3:57 in the morning.

i'm supposed to be on a conference call with a director i've not only never met but never spoken to in like . . . . . . . . soon.

he's gonna think i'm a total crackhead.

this is going to be less than awesome.

Location:bed. but not sleeping.

a 2nd editor’s note and some other things including a piggly wiggly shout out.

the black swan post brought upon more feedback than i had anticipated.

it appears that a second round of clarification is necessary. or maybe it’s not, but i’m doing it anyway.

first: the photo is not of my leg. and to those of you who though it was, i ask: in what world do legs look like that?? this particular eruption of blood vessels landed between my rib cage and my hip bone. and when asked “did it hurt?” ………… yeah, you could say that.

second: the horse tranquilizer was a shot. the good ol’ fashioned kind. nothing racy.

in other news that is really not newsworthy w.h.a.t.s.o.e.v.e.r. . . . .

this has been just about the single most unproductive day of all time. but after an evening with sweet georgia brown (a new york city legend that you really should track down if you ever find yourself in the apple on a friday or saturday) followed by a corona-infused evening that ended with a multi-hour discussion debate over egyptian politics and the risks involved in traveling to israel, i’m pretty much just spent.

i called my dad to wish him happy birthday. that was productive.

he was in the backyard chopping wood.

typical.

he had also taken a ride to my grandfather’s old farm to “check things out” which probably included some form of harmless trespassing.

[my dad’s definitions of trespassing are rather flexible. he can always justify why he is standing on any given piece of property. this is the same man who used to take me to the marriott hotel to go swimming -- year ‘round -- because, at the time, we weren’t members of any pool. i thought everyone went to the marriott to go swimming. imagine my surprise when i learned you actually had to be renting-by-the-night to make use of their facilities.]

my grandfather used to own this farm in rural north carolina where he had horses and the likes and wore blue jeans and cowboy boots and taught my dad and his brothers how to shoot guns and drink wild turkey.

i don’t know exactly how long he owned the farm, but it was a long time. and it fueled some of the greatest childhood memories a kiddo could hope for. every easter, my dad and uncles would go to the piggly wiggly and buy a whole flock of baby chickens and bring them back to us in a big brown box. i can recount hours spent standing on my tip toes hovered over the box watching the baby chickens. waiting for them to do something.

for the life of me, i have no idea what we ever did with the baby chickens after easter was over.

we sure as hell didn’t take them home and raise them. i can promise you that.

although we probably should have.

and i think i’ll let the marriott topic resurface next time i talk to my parents.

i mean, why do they spend all that money on country club dues when they can just swing on over to the hotel by the airport?

i don’t ever remember us getting thrown out . . .

editor’s note.

i danced for 15 years. however, only the last 4 or so required the 40-hour weeks that i mentioned. i was not living a sweat-shop life at the age of 7 and my parents were not slave drivers.

just wanted to clear that up in case any of you did the math and thought whaaaaaaat??

kthanksbye.

resigning to the fact that i just didn’t like it.

i haven’t done a movie review in a while and as much as i want to refrain from even touching this topic, i just can’t.

black swan.

ugh.

so the consensus across the globe seems to be “I LOVED IT!”

well . . . i didn’t.

i  mean, did we see the same movie? WTFFFFFF DID I JUST WATCH?

[was precisely my response as i peeled myself up off the theater floor and ran home as quick as i could to take a shower. not unlike the crying game. minus the whole gender recognition fail.]

as a 15-year ballet veteran, i can certainly appreciate the art and the performance. for crying out loud, natalie portman owned it. the dancing, that is. (if you can forget, for a moment, that she spent the entire two-hour span crying. which straddled a very thin line between annoying and down right crazy.)

i can also appreciate the fact that the life of a dancer can (and likely will) make you a little bit nuts from time to time (or in her case all.the.damn.time.). try spending 15 years of your life standing half naked in a room surrounded by mirrors on 3 out of 4 walls next to a horde of other half naked girls – for 40 hours a week, every week – while trying to redefine the meaning of perfection several times every minute and then come back to me and let me know how sane you actually feel.

and you can’t discount the toll it takes on your body. and in my case, still is.*

hello, 3 knee surgeries. you have been a real blast.

[and if you’re one of the lucky few like me, whose stomach can’t handle painkillers all that well, then you might get to live out the scene where your surgeon makes a bedside visit to your home at midnight to jam a horse tranquilizer in your ass because the pain is off the charts and you are screaming so loud that your parents are afraid child protective services are already en route. with sirens.]

putting all of that aside, i will say that ballet was one of the greatest things that ever happened to me. it was by all accounts my first love and i’m just going to leave it at that.

okay, but back to the film.

it’s bananas.

and that’s really about the extent of my review.

the sexual innuendos were absurd. the masturbation was unnecessary (and there were two – count them, TWO – of these blessed scenes of implication. one, of which, included an elderly man on a subway . . . do i really need to elaborate??)

i just wanted it to end.

and fortunately it did. and then i could go home and watch rainbow brite or something.

*sometimes i practice ballet moves at home. which i hardly recommend doing unless you live in a mansion. and i do not.

this is what you get for lacking a sense of spatial recognition and forgetting that your 9’ x 4’ room made for cooking is not, in fact, a very safe place to dust off your fouettes. which is french for “whipped.”

yeah, i’ll say.

bill macy makes it acceptable to watch the same episode twice in a 14-hour period.

shameless <--------- if you spend the extra monthly nickel for a subscription to showtime and don’t know what i’m talking about, then i suggest you figure it out. and quick.

and if you don’t have showtime . . . . get it. 

i amour william h. macy and have ever since working on transamerica (a gut-wrenching experience journey job that i still try to block from my memory. but not because of bill macy. he is a rockstar. it was other things that made me weep blood pretty much daily for about 4 months.)

mills asked me tonight if i thought this show would be fun to work on.

ummmm, yes.

don’t think i’m not already finagling my way onto the crew for season 2.

i want to have some face-to-face with the writers.

they are out of their trees.

week/end in review. i’m too tired for anything other than photos.

  (my rockband band mates.)                                    (70s afro wig. it’s okay if you’re jealous.)

that’s all for today. i think. although i could change my mind and write a sonnet. doubtful, but anything is possible. it is monday, after all.

okaybye.

winter storm number nine and thoughts about where and how dogs pee.

i picked a really good year to have a renewed change of attitude towards winter.

but okay, snow . . . . . we get it.

this little number has been taped to my front door for a lot of days.

it reminds me that unless i want to go ice skating on my front stoop, i should take precaution and spend an extra minute or two negotiating (read: pole-vaulting) my way over the 3-inches of solid ice immediately outside the door.

i don’t look good in a neck brace. and yes, i’ve worn a neck brace before, so i know.

it’s days like these that i’m a little thankful i don’t have a pet. i can’t help but think about my friends and their fur children and wonder: wtf do you do when there’s a blizzard outside, a hundred feet of snow on the ground, no cleared sidewalks, and your pet has to peeeeeeeeeee???

i suppose this would be where those indoor fake grass patches come in handy. cleverly named “the potty patch.”

apparently you don’t have to change it but like every 300 uses. i’m sure that doesn’t inundate your world with all kinds of bacteria. not to mention a rancid fragrance circulating around the chosen corner of your home (don’t let the infomercials fool you. there is no such thing as “odor proof.”)

there’s no question that tier 3 is a real party in a plastic pan. walk.slowly.when.emptying. otherwise this as-seen-on-tv purchase will deem itself useless and you may as well just let your pup pee all over the floor like he or she really wanted to do in the first place.

OR (and this is by far my favorite option) you could put on your best snow suit, walk outdoors, try to maneuver this ever-so-graceful pose, and hope for the best:

[just pretend there is snow on the ground. use your imagination.]

or . . .

[and this is the least desirable option, but knock yourself out if you must]

you could run around the corner to the nearest bodega, grab a box of pampers, return home, crack a beer, sit on your couch, and wait patiently for the humane society to come knocking on your door.

do you have a cat? . . . . . . . . . well then hot damn you’re in luck.

a cat diaper with suspenders.

omfg.

tangled. the unanimated version.

before reading, please know that no, i have not been in a coma for the last month. and yes, i know exactly how many days have passed since christmas . . .

moving on.

disney: with your 4-to-84 demographic monopoly, you can suck it this time.

[and not because i’m pulling out the mama-knows-walt card. yet. i’m saving that one for the array of children i do not have. and when i say mama, i truly mean mama. not myself. i would never refer to myself as mama. ever. unless i had kids. otherwise, it’s just weird. although i hear people do it all the time and i think they sound stupid. especially when boyfriends call their girlfriends mama. i mean, come on.]

tangled, over here at the perch, is in no way related to cartoon animated chicks who have 300 yards of hair extensions and are grossing a gross number of dolla-dolla-bills, of which i definitely don’t understand. but maybe i would if i saw the flick. but i haven’t. so i don’t.

rather, there are 300 yards of twinkle lights involved in this real-life-no-movie-magic-no-paid-actors-or-cartoons (which is awkward because how do you pay cartoons? they are crayons and computers) scenario.

the issue: down with the twinkle lights? . . . . . . . . . or leave them up.

i vote: LEAVE.

note: we are not dealing with sad charlie brown christmas trees here, those which are one lone needle away from total collapse. we are not dealing with wreaths. nor bushes. nor anything other than sheetrock, truthfully. which, in short-bus terms, means there a’int shit that’s gonna go up in smoke if we so decide this nice hint of post-post-post holiday glow needs to remain plugged into the wall on a 7-by-24 basis. for an indefinite period of time. until we get sick of it.

[call me in march. or beginning of april.]

it creates a nice hue throughout the living room and sets an ambiance worthy of candles and a wood-burning fire. if i had a fire place. and if i were lumberjack enough to drag in some seasoned oak, axe it up, and turn that pile of splinters into a source of energy that i’d very much like to turn my white scottish arse towards.

until it gets too hot.

then i’d turn around. about face.

[might even do a full salute here. could happen.]

second note: i am not actually full red-blooded scottish. but with the last name McKenzie, someone along my blood line was bound to be. i should research that. and then take a trip to scotland to celebrate my heritage that i embarrassingly do not know enough about.

so if you still have a little unlikely leftover twinkle and are undecided about the fate of the so-called holiday decor and want my opinion (which you probably don’t, but here it comes anyway):

don’t make me have to de-bah-humbug yo’ ass . . . even though it is the first day of february.

them twinkle lights you had wrapped around your banister, nailed to the 90-degree angle of the wall and ceiling, and/or staple-gunned to your balcony looked mighty perdy when you shut off all the lamps and watched the snow fall.

more snow is comin’.

keep ‘em.