Where the Hell Have I Been Anyway?

I totally went AWOL on you. Sorry. It's been a little action packed around here.

Let's take care of some business:

First, I want to say thank you, you wonderful people you. A bunch of you out there e-mailed me or left comments telling me that after my last post you went out and bought tickets to Slava's Snowshow. I can't even begin to tell you how touched I am that you would read what I wrote and then go out and do something so lovely and extraordinary.



This blog thing and all that it creates really amazes the hell out of me on a daily basis and so do you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. For just being there. It's beyond cool.

A special thanks to Lisa who went out and bought tickets to the show for herself, her husband and three kids for the Christmas Eve matinee because she wanted to do something special and different with them on that day - God, I love you and your impulsiveness and your crazy fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants ways and I will seriously kiss you full on the mouth if I ever get to meet you - The fate of Lisa's children's Christmas Eve rested squarely in the palm of my recommendation and that might have been frightening except for the New York Times review that came out yesterday and totally vindicated me with a BIG FAT RAVE! I am posting it here so that Lisa can read it and breathe a little easier that I have not totally trashed her kid's Xmas memories. It will be magical and fun day, Lisa. No worries.

A note to my readers who are going to see Snowshow:

1. Don't worry about your hair as you might get spritzed with water by a clown climbing over your seat and then, you'll be pissed that you ruined your $250 hair cut and blow dry. Just go looking like a freak and enjoy yourself.

2. You will invariably carry handfuls of snow home in your purse. You may think you pulled all the snow out of your hair and from out of the collar of your shirt before you leave the theatre, but you will end up with snow stuck down in your bra and all kind of sweaty and plastered to your breasts. It happens to me every time. It's nice in a weird sort of way.

Lastly, something amazing happened at the show's opening night party on Sunday. I finally got to meet Saint Tigerlily, who is a very clever and funny writer on her blog, but it also turns out is a complete hottie - long blond hair, legs from here to Cleveland, all statuesque and "I'm so pretty, but unaware of it at the same time" and I think in this regard I was very disappointed.

I was hoping she would be a little more frumpy and dour. Someone with a lace collar and sensible shoes. Someone who might want to enter a convent and then, make fun of the nuns behind their backs. Someone who has to be funny because she has few other virtues and a face like the back end of a ham.

But, oh no. Tigerlily was all standing on the table and shaking her moneymaker to the music and showing off her boob job to the menfolk panting at her feet. (Those breasts were like lighthouse buoys. They have to be fake. They just have to.)

This is Tigerlily:


You be the judge.

By the end of the night, a crowd of gay men had gathered around her as she laid out across the baby grand piano, applauded wildly and begged her to sing one more chorus of "Over the Rainbow", which she did in perfect pitch.

I kinda hate her.

The last time I saw Tigerlily, a line of people were forming at the bar to do body shots off her rock hard abs. We might be friends for life.

xxoo YM