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I'm gonna have a drink and walk around
PEERS Mardi Gras des Vampires was quite stellar, I think. Le Theatre was "Jo, the Vampire Slayer" (Buffy Meets Alcott, for an audience that reads.)

I was Lestat's mother/thrall, the ageless Gabrielle (who, in this piece of 18X0's New Orleans, should have been in the jungles of South America, which I vaguely evoked by dressing in male clothes with my hair and Prue's hair styled somewhat excessively kawaii kitty ears and black ribbon woven through the braids at the back of my head to evoke spots, and a serendipitous-albeit-synthetic animal-print scarf/cravat purchased less than 24 hours before the ball at Beverly Fabrics. I sort of loved my costume, I think I captured Victorian fancy dress; clothes with hints of What The Costumes Is. Of course, that's what costumes are now, except that for women...well, you've heard that rant!

My usual kitchen crew was MIA, but Dolly and her minions (I had sub-minions!) were splendidly helpful, and it was especially nice having enough crew to carry out four quarter-sheet cakes provided (and nicely forewarned and asked if this was OK) by the charming Rex.

After the band was back announced ("Ladies and Gentlemen, Baguette Quartet!") after first set, I began "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow," and the volunteers and the crowd joined easily as Rex took center floor in his jester mask and bowed gracefully.

"Mortals!" I announced, "Say 'Thank you, Rex!"

"Thaaaaank yooooy Reh-ex!" called most of the 200+ people on the floor.

I got in two waltzes and a grand march with Charles and one Lancers with our splendid vampire child Claudia (played by the lovely Frannie, who can KILL with that thing she did with her eyes when Lestat called her a little girl. Seriously, I didn't know it was possible to shriek "I am going to burn this house to the ground with you in it and you will spend eternity in HELL!!!" without saying a word.) The crowd had a good time despite being a crowd, they got the jokes, they partook of the bar with great gusto but no incidents that I heard about (except me, mildly learning that Beth, brandy and bread knives don't mix well. My finger is still intact and I didn't bleed on the food.).

One of the more enjoyable PEERSes, IMO.

Trinke! Trinke! Trinke!
Ear is OK, PEERS meeting tonight, updates sporadic, talk like Tarzan.

Why not a couple of drink recipes?

1. 21 Shirley
Pour one shot of cherry brandy over ice in a highball glass, fill with 7Up and add a maraschino cherry.
What you have here, folks, is a Shirley Temple that gets you tiddly. It is not a pink drink, it is a red drink. It was cheerfully stolen from the late, lamented Carnelian Room's menu, and will appear at the next PEERS event as an Unholy Temple. You should order one.

2. Hot Buttered Rum a la Jeremy's Girls

The recipe is adapted from Emeril Lagasse's, but is probably about thrice as tasty
Cream a stick of unsalted butter with 2 cups of dark brown sugar
(light brown is for sissies), two tablespoons of ground cinnamon
(because you can't freaking taste two teaspoons), ½ a teaspoon of grated nutmeg (that's plenty of nutmeg) and about ½ a teaspoons worth of cardamom (because cloves make your tongue numb and don't have the warm taste of cardamom.).

Put into Tupperware and refrigerate until needed. It is splendidly portable this way, and will probably keep for months--it's just butter, sugar and spices. Butter keeps in the fridge, the rest keep forever if ants don't find 'em, which they won't--fridge! When ready, spoon three tablespoons into an 8oz mug (two isn't nearly enough) and add a shot of rum. One shot, or all you can taste is the rum. This isn't about getting you 'faced, it's about a pleasant mingling of flavors that warm you up.

Fill to the top with boiling water, or you can slowly microwave the whole thing if you are somewhere without easy access to boiling water (it happens.).

3. Bananas and Milk a la Catherine
I have been making this since I was old enough to reach a blender, and passed it on to the kiddo. It can be made with soy-milk for your lactose intolerant neighbor boy, ice can be added (if your blender is sturdy) to make Frappucinos, it is a healthy kid-snack that no parent can disapprove, yet it is tasty like a milkshake.

Catherine was recently inspired by a viewing of Ratatouille to play with the little jars of green on the kitchen shelves.

In a blender or with a stick blender, blend three large, slightly brown-spotted bananas, a dollop of vanilla, and three good shakes of cinnamon with enough milk to bring the measurement up to 28 oz. Blend until it has frothed up to 32 oz. Serves two, with straws.

However, if you are Catherine, slowly add basil and parsley to taste, ask your mom if it needs anything else, and grin as she says it's really, really good, and she never would have thought of adding parsley and basil, and maybe a few cloves of cardamom. Start throwing in whole cloves until your mom shows you, smiling fondly and holding back proud tears, how to open the cloves with the side of a table knife. Throw them in. Drink. Make more because it's good, and make sure your Grammy gets some.

I have been sleeping early, but sporadically. It's amazing how something as minor as an ear infection can throw you off your feed so much. My sleep schedule for the past few days has gone something like:

8:00-ish PM, doze off
9:15--wake up, make good-night call to Cat if she's not with me (if she is, she amuses herself), do groggy prep for the morning.
10:00-ish doze off
Midnight-ish wake up, note with wonder that this is the time I generall go to sleep,
&;nbsp &;nbsp take ibuprofen for pain, read
2:00-ish doze off
5:30-ish wake up try to sleep until alarm goes off at 7:00, fail

I have been hitting REM cycles, having boring but vivid dreams. For example, I dreamed two of my college freshman classes, in their entirety, with a full cast that I'm pretty sure was made up of actual professors and fellow students--Speech and Comparative religion. Nothing unusual or dreamlike, none of the tip-offs that I'm dreaming that my subconscious often throws out (for instance, I'll dream that I'm a kid, living with my parents, but Catherine will be there.)

I think the swelling is down some, but it seems to hurt more--maybe the swelling was cradling the pain, like holding your toe when you've stubbed it. Maybe it's the ciprofloxacin viciously battling the infection. I plan to spend most of this weekend quietly at home. I have work Monday (this is actually a good thing, hours keep increasing because client-load keeps increasing), and want to be functional.

Do you hear me? Do you care?
I understand that, compared to the people of Haiti or even those of many of the people waiting in the same clinic, this is a very minor problem.

On Tuesday, a tiny little, very slightly painful something just inside my left ear didn't respond, as these things often do, to Neosporin or warm compresses, and became a huge and somewhat more painful thing which has made the gland on that side swell and the left side of my face be somewhat wider than the right.

Actually, pain is a strong word, it's just this annoying throb, but of the sort that makes everything just a little more unpleasant. I can mostly hear through it (it's just the swelling blocking my ear--if I plug the right ear, I can hear at about 1/3 volume) and it doesn't hurt more if I pull on my earlobe (if it did hurt, it'd be a bad sign, it tends to mean that things are wrong with the actual hearing apparatus, rather than just basic blockage.)

I need 5 minutes of someone who knows what s/he's doing to lance it and give me a round of antibiotics, and I'll be right as rain.

If I have to wait for a place to open and wait for my same-day appointment to come up, it's nice to be able to do so in somewhere as interesting and memory-filled as the San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury. I'm writing this about a block from where

gormflaith used to live, and the clinic itself is two blocks from the first place I lived on my own when I moved from my parents' house.). Stores are missing, but many of them (including Mendel's) are still here, and I need to come back and play with the art supplies and thrift stores when cash is flowing a bit more freely.

ETA: Appointment went OK. Nothing to lance, "it's just swollen" The ear is so swollen that ear drops probably wouldn't make it in to do their job, so I have a 'scrip' for ciprofloxan which I hope starts doing the job ASAP.

Call me!
I know the psychological implications of losing things, particularly communication devices, particularly in this post-Dickens season.

If you were in my cell phone (and you have the number if you were), give me a call or send a text so I can get you back into my contacts (Same number).

My Razr became one with the cosmos (or whatever) sometime on Monday, and no searching or calling proved fruitful (there is a tiny possibility that I lost it on Muni, and their Lost and Found system is labyrinthine and, in the case of phones or keys, pretty much fruitless by their own admission), the ransacking I did left no possibility that it's in my house somewhere), so I broke down (and took advantage of the insurance and the fact that it's been long enough that I'm entitled to upgrade free-ish if I don't get greedy. I'm QWERTYed now; it's like being in the 21st century, yo!) and got a slightly shinier model.

Don't assume I have your number, I probably found you by name when I called in the past. If you don't have mine and want it, message me at this internetriffic place.

Ta ever so.

We are, we are
Not so terribly much to blog. Dickens was mostly fantabulous, PEERS' Twelfth Night Ball was, as

tsgeisel put it about another even "Its usual good self," with the added bonus of Jeremy's Girls getting to sing and spending much of the evening in the general configuration of the icon used for this post, and then I got bonus Jeremy and Jenny time on Monday with bonusier salmon sandwiches, PG Tips, not-quite-scones, and gin.

Work's been fine and is picking up so that my hours are picking up again (hope trend continues), and I am managing to book difficult studies, albeit slowly, and got to spend a few hours with an easy study yesterday. I am mostly caught up on LJ, quite behind on facebook ("black," btw) and haven't finished a new-to-me book yet this New Year.

Computer is still down, and time to post more isn't in the offing just now, so here, read Roger Ebert's beautifully written and not-actually-depressing take on not being able to eat, drink or speak and you shouldn't feel like whining about the minor blahs and badnesses of most of our lives.

See some of you soon.

That's Fred, he's a metro-gnome
I had a vague "Need to get healthier" resolution. What I'm going to do is drop the soda from my workday (already started last week). It's not easy to tell from looking at me, but I have a few healthy eating habits anyway, but some have slipped; soda and potato chips/crisps and french fries/chips have slipped back into my diet. But I still manage the "half the plate is fruits or veggies" rule. I walk a couple miles a day (at least on workdays).

My end goal with dropping the useless few calories here, few calories there is to get back in my gnome jacket.

Over twenty years ago, I had tix for David Bowie's "Sound and Vision" concert, supposedly his retirement tour. Accordingly, and being a helluva a businessman, he had set up some sort of 900-number for people to vote which songs they'd like done on the tour. A group in England, calling themselves "Just Say Gnome," wanted to hear the horror that is The Laughing Gnome (hit the top link to hear.).

Now, it's possible that Bowie was a poor sport, or simply had SOME need to preserve his artistic beliefs, and probably more likely that the fact that the song is owned by his first, not-so-good-for-his-career label (which has released and rereleased the songs he recorded for him again and again, usually with a current-at-the-time-of-release picture on the cover (these releases coincided with various comebacks and huge hits on better-known labels) made it legally impossible for him to perform it, even if he actually wished to do so.

As for those Deram recordings, I rather like "The London Boys" and "In the Heat of the Morning" and I adore "Let Me Sleep Beside You" (though I prefer the harder-rocking version from "Bowie at the Beeb."_)

Anyway, I was charmed by news of Just Say Gnome, and glued beads in the shape of those three little words onto the back of a thrifted leather jacket, with a gnome's hat forming the A in "SAY" and his face forming the O in "GNOME" (And the words "SOUND" and "VISION" on either side of the gnomeadic centerpiece). I wore it on occasion for at least ten years. It was a bit loose when I first had it, and now, it barrrrrely zips (and forget the snaps over the zipper.). So my goal for this year is for it to zip easily. If you see me in it, you'll know that my resolve stayed resolute.

Deep in December it's Nice to Remember (2009 reading)
I just made it to 100 new-to-me books read in 2009, the annual goal of the last few years (yes,

meopta, I know it's not THAT many, but years ago, I read someone's resolution to do a hundred in a year, and wondered if I didn't do that anyway. I have to push, particularly when I'm working full-time [I've noticed that I look out the window and people-watch more on commutes than I used to] or when the computer seems extra tempting.)

The list is mostly YA and kidlit, mostly sequels, previously read authors and what I think of as "colon books," semi-educational bits, not too thick, with a colon in the title ( examples ) (the last was quite fascinating and took much explaning; not the best thing to read on a public commute.)

Fell far short of the

50bookspoc goal, at 18 (does it "count" if the POC is not referencing their race. For example, The Taste of Sweet was written by an Asian woman, but was about food in general.). I wasn't trying too hard, most of the POC's were by Jacqueline Woodson, who writes lovely, slim volumes of the longing of being human.

The Hunger Games (and its sequel Catching Fire) by Suzanne Collins were definitely among my favorite new fiction read this year, I recommend them whole-heartedly, especially if you have a love of dystopian futures AND a love of old school (like Laura Ingalls Wilder or Jean Auel) deconstruction; how to hunt, make medicine, how to fend! Fend they have to, because the government is evil and they're on the wrong side of history. AND there's a reality show subtext, AND brilliant characterization.

I also adored Lucky Breaks, the sequel to The Higher Power of Lucky, one of my fave-raves ever (Lucky Breaks wasn't quite as good, IMO, but I'm still looking forward to the promised next book about Lucky and the other residents of Hard Pan, CA.). Also, I managed not to find out that there was going to be a sequel to The Nanny Diaries (which is a go-to book for me, one of those books I've read enough that I can open it anywhere and fall right in) until about a month before it came out, and, as I had hoped, my gift in the work secret-Santa exchange was a Borders gift card. Had to special-order, they were out, but shipping was free and I had it in my hot little hands 48 hours later and read about three hours after that (including a break for dinner and wrapping.).

Lord and Lady PEERS bullseyed as usual with their Christmas gift; I got The Children of Dickens, which will definitely get me to reading the Dickens books from which its chapters are excerpted, with gorgeous illustrations by the glorious Jessie Wilcox Smith.

Didn't fulfill any resolutions, reading has become for pleasure; sometimes my pleasure is Dickens or other classics, sometimes it's weighty tomes, mostly it's fiction with an ear for dialogue and a very interesting new plot (or an old one told awfully well.), or a colon book that finds the balance between educational and entertaining.The biggest best-sellers I read, I believe, were Audrey Niffenegger's The Time-Traveller's Wife and Khaleed Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns. Both full of lovely prose and interesting characters (one is old-fashioned science-fiction, one is the same wonderfully-observed "Afghanistan is both horrible and beautiful" subtext that made The Kite Runner so interesting and readable.) I have no urge to see the movie of TTTW, I just don't think it can do it justice.

( Here are the books I read in 2009 )

From morn to night blow out your kite
So, one of my regular gigs at Dickens is joining to Costermongers' Tea, at 4:00 PM (currently across from the Three Cripples pub). It's a good crowd-pleasing gig; walk through the Streets of "London" singing "Oranges and Lemons," plunk down, pass teacups from a cart, drink tea while telling jokes; taunt the Temperance Union, leave singing "Boozin'." Very few of the jokes are planned, just some oldies but goodies volunteered by whomever feels moved to do so, with an occasional new (but period) one thrown in, which can become an oldie but goodie fast. For example, one person shouts out "What did one wall say to the other?"

Everyone repeats, because A)it makes it clearer to audience members who didn't catch it, and alerts them to listen carefully for the punchline and B) it encourages audience partipation after a few "What did one wall say to the other?"

"Meet you at the corner!"

"AAAAOW!" (sort of a laughing groan, in Cockney).

These are interspersed with songs, generally "There's a Tavern in the Town," "They're Moving Father's Grave to Build a Sewer" and "Jingle Bells."

Anyway, many and many a year ago, Rosie 'Awkins, (aka the Costers formidably talent director Paula) realized I had a penchant for, umm, being Prue-ish (as she said to Jeremy the first time I demo'ed Prue's walk at a rehearsal "Your new tarts are TARTY!"), and would occasionally (still does) remind me to keep the jokes PG-rated (or, in parlance sayable in front of customers "Remember there are CHILDREN!"). I decided to try a joke I'd heard "What's the difference between a [insert occupation] and a pot roast?" with a variation.

"Wot's the difference between me...and a joint of beef?"

There was a grin and a slight "Oh, no you WILL NOT!" threat under Rosie's expression as she replied "What's the difference between YOU???...and a joint of beef?" I hadn't wanted to say "What's the difference between a Coster and a joint of beef?" because that would've been biting the hand that literally was feeding me. But it only occurred to me at that second that it would sound like the set-up for a rather filthy rejoinder. But I went ahead and gave the original punchline:

"A joint of beef can feed a family of four!" AAAOWWWW! I changed it to "What's the difference between Charley and a joint of beef?" when the tarts accompanied him to Tea, but otherwise, I tell it on me.

Last night, I set it up for Catherine, not knowing that it would go like this:

Me: "What's the difference between me...and a joint of beef."
Catherine: "Lipstick."

Lettin' the days go byyyyyyy
For years, my allergic-to-chocolate daughter has sighed at the chocolatiness of advent calenders, because she'd like one. I've always vaguely resolved to make her something and put, like, peppermints or other her-friendly sweets in them, but never quite gotten to it.

Way back in February, I found a Thrifting Serendipity Holy Grail, at least it seemed so at the time.

At the Goodwill on International Avenue, I found, for the completely-non-prince(ss)ly sum of $4.99, a Barbie Advent Calendar, still shrink-wrapped. She still plays with Barbies on occasion, though they are often used to check out a play she's written for her friends to perform. The Barbie Collection lives at my house, in the same Rubbermaid bin they've lived in for some 8 years, because I can occasionally be persuaded to play Barbies, too.

I carefully hid it in a certain spot that wouldn't be intelligent to post, in case she ever starts reading this LJ, and even noted it on Thanksgiving when I was doing some pre-Dickens cleaning.

Then I remembered it tonight, after we watched A Year Without a Santa Claus, which holds up pretty well, and The Miser Brothers' Christmas, a heartless sequel that seems to have been made in two days, with one of the animators double-dog daring another to make a character more stereotypically gay than either Miser brother. "Hell, I'll give you one gayer than Heat and Cold!" And thus, the North Wind. Ugh. Hope springs eternal, but I don't think I've whole-heartedly adored a new Christmas thing since A Muppet Christmas Carol.

Anyway, advent calendar of pink girliness; "Cool," she said calmly, and had to have the Advent calendar concept re-explained. Her face darkened slightly as she remembered the torture of chocolate Advent Calendars (which Trader Joe's gives FREE to every child who comes in the week after Christmas "Take more! Take ten!"), but she cheerily found stickers, a gingerbread house, "some kinda charm thing, maybe?" (I realized it was meant to be a Barbie-sized necklace), a pink purse, a "KITTEEEEE! AWWW!", a hairbrush, a makeup kit (stickers in a tiny, openable plastic case, and a hat. "I wonder what's under the ninth?" she asked casually.

"You'll find out tomorrow. Please make sure those get into your Barbie Bin."

"Can--may I put the Christmas stuff in its own bin." One of my few peccadillos of OCD housewifery is every few weeks making sure all the Tupperware has lids (gives me just that much control over the world!) so it was a moment's work to find a medium-sized one with a red lid. I puttered a bit in the living room, cleaning up the remains of decorating (no tree yet, but lights hung from the hooks I put up last year and my Nana's Nativity set up and running).

When I checked on Catherine, she had done a few minor chores in the bedroom, and was calmly brushing one of her International Princesses' hair with a the brush, with the hat on the doll's hand, ready to be worn and the cat on said doll's lap.

Love her so much. Rest ye merry, all.

Sister, sister, he's just a baby
Prue reached a new low today, completely unintentionally. There I was at Mad Sal's, and there was this mother, dressed somewhat Victorianly, but the fact that it was later period than we do at Dickens and that she was pushing a modern baby carriage let on that she was a customer. The baby was a gorgeous blonde cherub of maybe a-year-and-a-half old. He was playing with his tongue, sticking it out and flicking it with his finger and making the same noises that you make when you flick your lips and go "blb blb blb bla."

So, Prue is not just a dirty tart; like me, she likes children once they're old enough to seriously interact with the world (not that I dislike infants, I just like 'em better once they're walking and interacting) and 21st-century Beth-me knows that one of the best ways to interact with customers is to interact with their beloved small children. So I let loose with a volley of Cockney motherspeak "'allo, Baby! Is that fun? Do you have a tongue? Is that fun? Is it? Is it fun? Is it silly?" and began blb blbing my own tongue with my own index finger.

The baby lit up at the attention, then someone at the card table said "Prue, what are you DOING?" I realized that this adorable innocent action done by a 1.5 year old looks completely different done by a blowzy tart of, well, let's just say over 16.

"He's trying to make a girlfriend at the dockside" said the mother, laughing.

"Well, if he--" One of the reasons that I am in Jeremy's is that, playing middle-class, it was difficult to keep the filthy puns and generally quick but gutteriffic words inside. But even Prue realizes that you DO NOT. However, Baby's mother finished my thought "--keeps doing that he'll find one."

KILLLLL MEEEEEE! "Yes. 'appy Christmas. 'appy Christmas, Baby."

I am going to hell. As

kimmaline says "Pack shorts. It's hot down there. Suncreen. Sunscreen might be good."

Sure they'll steal your heart away.
So, there was I and there was Faith (aka

miss_mimsy). Or, as we say when telling stories backstage at Jeremy's "No sh*t, there I was...!") and we were chatting with an acquaintance who plays Irish, but whose accent is variable. I commented, and she said "Comes of being 'round us," and we giggled over how Cockney is the only disease you'll pick up from a Jeremy's Girl. "There's a new Sal's Scum I gotta introduce you to, lovely accent, don't know if it's genuine, never heard it drop." It is lovely; not an "Alway AHHHFter me LUCKy CHARRRRMS!" lilt, but one of those sweet, soothing Northern sorts (I think it's Northern, anyway). I'd like to put my head on his lap and have him talk me to sleep. And my love of Irish accents is nothing compared to Faith's.

Later that day, Faith was only semi-Faithing, because her RL kids showed up and she was being a mum, and I was Faithless and dicing with the Sal's Scum (brilliant gigging they're doing with customers, making them play and bringing out character bits and it's doing what it should be and Wiolet should be so proud of the work she's done with them) and told Johhhhhhseph (that's how he pronounces his name) that I had to introduce him to me mate Faith, she'd probably give 'im half price.

With one thing and another, 6PM came around and we were teasing the Temperance Dark Garden Window ("Mr. Byrd would NEVER!"" I said. "Astonishing likeness, though, they even got how he dresses on the right.") when I said "Faith! C'mon, got a bit of a Christmas present!" We half-ran the bay to Sal's and there was Johhhhhhseph. "Oy, Johhhhhhseph, darlin'. This is Faith. Say somefink Irish!"

"Somethin' Oiiiirisssh" he obliged.

Faith lit up, put herself in his arm and said "Oh, I LOIKE you! I'm Faith, everyone has me."

I swear I had not told her what I had said nor suggested the following "And with that accent, you can have me half price." I love my friends. One is silver and the other's gold, innit?

Other bit that occurred during the day. A woman was watching two men and learning Five-Dice (if you play Farkle on Facebook, you've got the rules) and I said "One of 'em your 'usband, miss. You could give him me for Christmas and give yourself a night off!" She smiled and said "After almost 50 years, I could use one!"

"Fifty years? Do me a favor! You see any green in my eye?" I said, sincerely despite the Cockneyisms--the woman looked younger than I do, and people tend to take me for younger than my 43 years. Not a plastic-surgery youth, but her Eurasian heritage and general effect made her look goooood!) "Even I know you're not allowed to be married before you're even born. You ain't seen fifty years a bit!"

"I was 18, and we have been married 48 years."

"Which one's your 'usband?"

She pointed to a balding man who, though looking a bit older than she, didn't look like a man in his late sixties.

"Darlin', I should 'ave 'im for free if YOU'RE the result of what he does for a woman." She giggled. "Sell 'im as a youth serum!" I added, then realized just exactly what I had said and was glad that my rare blush didn't show under the yellowish Sal's lighting.

"Honey, this lady says you're good for women!" she yelled over the din.

"'Allo, I'm Prue Moore'ead" I said, wishing I'd brought my remaining calling cards.

Anyone else missing the heck out of Dickens these lonnnng five days between weekends?

That she'll last a good deal longer when she's tough
+ More Jeremy's cast than I'd expected or even hoped.

++Sal's Scum

++ Customers who play with us and with Sal's Scum

+++Marines who are very good at Poor Pussy and who play with us and with the Sal's Scum

- Sunday without Faith

++Sunday with Jeremy

+Mikado, particularly

reichmarshall's Koko
+(non-yellowface Mikado!)

+Jokes about the luck of the Irish

+"You do know why my surname is Moorehead? Because it was my father's name! Whadya fink?"

++Making a man of Shut Up Charley in room 3 (me, then Isabella, then two more girls, then two more girls and Sammy)

- - Upstaging a show and upsetting the director and stage manager

+ Taking a newly made and extremely disheveled man straight to tea

+Jokes about Youthful Energy

- - Upset tummy

-Missing the first Bill Sikes mob of the season due to above -

+Peppermint tea

++Lovingly brought by Jeremy and his wery dear (whose new character is Louisa. She's a h'anthropologist!

+Drinking half a cup of peppermint tea, taking a bizarre 20-minute twilight-sleep nap, and waking up mostly right as

+Pyke making certain character was broken at the end of the day after Blow-Out, by standing on a table, being tall enough to reach an overhead mike, and imitating a flight attendant "We know you have a choice in your Holiday entertainment..."

+Singing Hallelujah Chorus

Everything is food for thought
Nothing spectacular happened at Dickens, nothing horrible happened. All the quickie improv bits I remember involved food.

Tarts Tea was not eventful; we have to train our new mark to respond, but he's new and needs to learn the teashop as well as how to play with us. RIP, Mr. Jenkins, we miss you. But I had my first sip of proper PG Tips in nearly a year (I could have it at home, but it doesn't taste right) and moaned "Mmmm! Oh, blimey, that's good." Pierce Hymen, aka

edge and some lady who's really too good for the likes of him had joined us, and he said "You never say that to me!"

"You don't pay enough. 'S an extra tuppence for approving noises. Mmmmmm!" I said again, sipping deeply.

We stuffed our corsets with saucers, spoons and knives. Faith grabbed the teapot and I grabbed the plates and ran out of the shop and nearly literally ran into Bill Sikes.

"Prue, wot are you doing!"

"Brung ya a sandwich, Bill! 'Elp yerself!"

Smiling his bully-smile, he daintily selected a cucumber one and said "Well, thank you, then!" and I ran like bejesus to backstage.

Later, Faith, aka

miss_mimsy and I decided that we were hungry, and split a duck platter from The Tippling Toad. As we waited for it to be served, we looked through the windows at the small, posh dining room. "Why's it deserted?" I asked. "It's for dinner," Faith reminded me. "Remember? You get a big posh multi-course meal and VIP tickets to French Postcards." "'At's right," I said. Well, too nice for the likes of us." When we got our food, the owner of the booth, an old friend of Faith's, came darting out and said "Where are you taking that?"

"Down Sal's, most like'."

"I have a better place you could eat it." And he let us into the dining room, where we partook of duck and discussed how we really need to get some of our friends who play toffs to gig with us in it.

"Oy, Faith," I said, handing her the plate. "There's lots of juice left. Drink the duck juice--'cos you can!"

Faith tilted the plate and drank the juices and spices, then I finished it off by licking it clean as we walked.

"Must be good!" commented a customer!

"S'lovely!" I breathed.

Finally, Pierce again, bringing me dessert. He held up an oatmeal raisin cookie and said "Want a bite, Prue?" I made it as obscene as possible ("Hold it lower next time!" Wiolet commented to him), biting deeply while making eye contact, and chewed. And chewed. And chewed. Really, too big a bite.

"Yes, please, I'd love one," I replied.

"Still alive?" he asked.

"Very much alive!"

"Oh, good!" he replied, taking his own first bite.

Silly day. My contacts were itching, so I took them out and spent most of Dickens in an Impressionist painting.

I have a new pair of gel pads in my shoes. They have an arch support that supposedly reduced knee strain, which is a good thing (I don't ever want chondromalachia again), but they do change my gait some, and, rather than my feet hurting a bit, my ankles hurt a bit. I am hot-bathed and massaged, though, so they should be all right by morning.

Someone with taste and tiniest waist
Yeah, right! But, after last week's gerryrigging with safety pins, spit and bubblegum, I managed to corset down enough to get Prue's skirt 'round me, with room to spare. Maybe I'll get someone to re-lace me when I get in, but I get better and better at getting myself corseted.

ETA 7:50 PM: Forgot to leave room for saucers at Tart's Tea, but settled in and was reasonably comfortable all day.

Food, food, food, it's so good to savor
I am thankful for doing nothing. Well, there will be some somethings, buuuuut...

My work wanted to do pre-Thanksgiving potluck, but all the vegetarians made irritated murmurs and somehow we ended up with veggie burgers. Sweet PM, who is one of the veggies and who doesn't eat sweets (the only real peeve I can relate to her. When there is birthday cake, you nicely take a slice and either eat it and say "Yum" or mess it up on your plate a bit, and still say yum. Birthday cake is as much about fellowship as about cake. I wish people who don't and who do like cake would remember this.) offered to pick up side dishes from a deli, and we all chipped in a few bucks.

Side dishes were: fried rice, scalloped potatoes, mashed potatoes and potato chips. Yes, you just saw the letters P-O-T-A-T-O three times, and the fourth side was also a starch. Whitest plate of food I have ever had before me.

Another food peeve; people who say that things "taste just like" other things. They. Are. Wrong. Veggie-burgers do NOT "taste just like meat" (some, including the ones we had yesterday, are VERY good in their own right, but they Did. Not. Taste. Like. Meat.) Diet Coke doesn't "taste just like regular Coke." I understand how you get can used to it and prefer it, but it doesn't taste anything like the same. Sugar-free desserts don't taste "just the same," and I've already ranted in this space about how much I hate "NOW WITH HALF THE SUGAR" when the other half is replaced by sugar substitute. Americans eat too damn much sugar, I am up for, down with and into not being OK with that. Sugar can be halved in a lot of things (especially mass-marketed things) and not bring down the tastiness, in fact, it would be better to, say, taste the strawberries in the strawberry pie than to taste a slight strawberry tang under gallons of syrupy sweetness. But when you cut half the sugar and replace it with Splenda or whatever the hell you're putting in, I can tell. Splenda is better than the other subs, but it has a wildly bitter aftertaste to me, and ruins the brief sweet beginning.

ANyway, back to veggie-burgers. No tomatoes. No lettuce. No pickle (OK, pickles on veggie-burgers are gross, but I love 'em on beef burgers.) No nothin' but veggie-burger, bun and cheese-if-you-want-it (at least it was decent medium cheddar cheese.) When I have a burger normally, there are more actual vegetables on it than were at my entire workplace yesterday.

Those people aren't vegetarians, they're just non-carnivorous. They're starchitarians.

Made up for it at home. Since Catherine goes to her Dad's side of the family (this was my idea last year, and it works for everyone) for Thanksgiving, she, Mom and I have our feast the night before. Turkey breast (only three of us, even a small turkey would be daunting amounts of leftovers. I'm not talking some weird semi-food-like filet, I'm talking breasts still attached to ribs, with skin.)

Mom, kiddo and I had Thanksgiving dinner last night. Turkey breast (the actual whole breast with ribs and skin still attached, which can be and was stuffed with the best frickin' sage-and-onion stuffing I have ever had), mashed potatoes, the best freakin' stuffing I have ever put in my mouth (our family mostly spices with sage with lots of carrots and celery grated into it, again, more veggies than at my entire workplace yesterday), then cranberry sauce (a bowl of the homemade kind surrounded by tangerine slices, carrot sticks, stuffed celery, and black olives (those last three are things without which it is simply not Thanksgiving to me.). NB how many crunchy, lovely, healthy vegetables and fruits there were on our ominvore's table.

At grace, Mom said she was grateful that we both have jobs, that we are all housed and fed and relatively healthy and can spend this time together.

Catherine said she was glad that she had good grades, that she met her newest friend this year and that she could do Dickens and had two parents and Grammy and more family that loves her.

I said that I had been hearing a lot of "Ugh, I have to go spend Thanksgiving with my family! Siiiiigh," and that I was grateful that my two nearest kin were also people with whom I would choose to spend time even if we weren't related.

This morning, I got up around nine-ish, watched some of the Macy's Parade with Catherine, finally got around to doing my assistant elf assignment for the Maud Hart Lovelace listserv's ornament exchange, realized that Catherine really doesn't have a party dress (will remedy) noticed that her Peppermint Fairy boots (I haven't posted about those, have I?) were the exact same red as a swishy black skirt that I took in and loaned her for a dance recital (on me, it's knee-length, on her mid-calf) and got her into that and a beaded black t-shirt of mine (always been too small, I tend to wear it under other shirts) over one of her plain black ones. I did her hair the same way she used to wear it when she was eight, high braids looped up. Then, it was cute and made her look younger. Now, as I suspected, especially with the dark clothes her height, it makes her look like a teenager.

I am invited to a couple of feasts, and considered going (paricularly after reading one of the menus on LJ--homemade butter!), but I don't want to be greedy and I will be seeing the darling people tomorrow. There is a long bath and probably a re-read of A Little Princess in my future, though not at the same time (I've only owned one waterproof book in my life, and am surprised that the market isn't bigger!).

Me, I want a hula hoop!
If I happen to be up at 3:00 AM, I hope to heck that I would be doing something MUCH more interesting than shopping at Old Navy!

If you know what I mean!
I am grateful to be surrounded by so many amazing people; they're just forces of nature. They make things happen and I am happy just to let my little dingy ride on their waves. No, that's not meant to sound obscene.

We discovered on Sunday that Jeremy and the girls get blamed for all sorts of things. I admit, I can let my filters down. I say things in front of under-18s that may be R or even NC-17 rated, but they are words. I don't mean the f-bomb sort of words, I mean things like...
well, here's an example from Sunday, except it wasn't me!

The Costers and the finely sliced Escorts were playing Minute Monologue in between character bits and basic Fair survival for the newbies. In Minute Monologue, you are given a boring topic and have to try to speak interestingly on it, with people shouting out random emotions to work into your speech.

So, someone got up and someone suggested he speak on "a pickle!"

"Pickles aren't boring!" he replied. "You can do lots of interesting things with a pickle, just ask Prue."

I have not lost my capacity to blush, but it turned into something else when several people looked at me and shouted "Prue!"

"I didn't say it! He did. One o' yourn, one o' your bleedin' deserving poor!"

"You bring it out in people," said a Coster lady.

"I'm just standing here!" (I realize only now that my accent went from Prue to posh "I have NEVER done anything untoward with a pickle, let alone that he can see!" (I desperately wanted to say "And now I never will, lost your chance, aintcha!" but realized that it wouldn't help my case.)

Several other untoward things were said, none of them by the Escorts, but people kept LOOKING AT JEREMY, who'd say "Wha'! Why is everyone lookin' at ME!"

And most of the untowards were followed by "THERE ARE MINORS HERE!"

OK, the youngest minor was 15. Now, I understand the responsibility of taking care of someone else's impressionable teen, I truly do, I've done it myself (Hi,

kimmaline, and Shannon, you are so beauty-ful, to meeeee!). I believe that teenagers should be treated as adults, within legal boundaries. Don't have sex with 'em, don't give 'em booze or cigs, certainly don't get them mixed up in illegal activities for adults. But, except for the most graphic jokes or visuals, if they're old enough to understand it, they're old enough to hear it.

In only slightly-related news, the American Music Awards were censored for the West Coast delayed airing, something to do with Adam Lambert kissing a guy and women on their knees. Now, all the kids I know and love well would react either with a shrug because Uncle Bobby is married to Uncle Johnny or say "That's SILLY! Boys can't kiss boys!" which you can make a teachable moment or let go, depending on your own sensibilities. Most questions of "Why are they doing that?" can be answered with "They're just being silly!" most of the time, or, how about SEND THE LITTLE NIPPER TO BED. And as George Carlin said "Those two buttons on the TV, one changes the channel, one turns it OFF!"

Considering that Mr. Pickle Comment used to recite his newly-learned filthy limericks to the Escort Service when he was barely post-adolescent, and he didn't learn 'em from us, well, what's up with us being these horrific epicenters of all that is depraved? And seriously, do most of you, as adults, remember being teenagers? Most of you heard things above your age-level. Most of you thought about it. Some of you were acting upon your budding sexuality. I can't imagine that any of you used to be an innocent stereotypical Victorian lambling.

(Later though, I went up to Mr. "Just ask Prue" and said "That's all right. I like yer. Yer one o' my best customers...so quick!" And not in front of any minors. And he laughed, because it was funny. That's the most important thing about bawdy humor--make sure that a good quorum will actually find it funny!)

Hush ye, my bairnie, sleep wi'out fear (Prue's 'At Grows Up)
Many of you know the Legend of Prue's Killer 'At. But I don't think it is, anymore. The butterfly got turned into a lump of nothing in the rain, and didn't make me (or Prue) happy, no matter how much I tried to convince myself that it was lovely, that it was a lump of bright color and it makes sense for a tuppenny-tart to have something so disreputable. But I didn't want it, and no other butterflies presented themselves until last Friday.

I bought that butterfly (about a third the size of the feather one, which, in its prime, really did look like a monarch had landed on Prue.), but it really didn't fit, and I moved bits around and tried to force it and it didn't work and I kind of knew. So now, Venetia is still dead and it's not because there's a butterfly on Prue's hat. I've been finding things, the usual buttons, yes, but also icons that might frighten people, in some way, and I realize on Saturday night that the message of Prue's 'at (soon to be Prue's bonnet) is "Don't be afraid."

The butterfly will come off, but the medal with the tiny depictions of Mary, the Holy Ghost and the Christ child that I bought on the same Thriftown trip will stay on (I like it much better than the more modern-looking crucifix I saw first); it and the tiny Krshna are to let us know not to be afraid of organized religion, it can do good (I have a Star of David somewhere, I'll throw that on, it adds in not to be afraid of Fagin, which Prue can't afford to be, and also not to be afraid of stereotypes, to question them and correct them.

There's a pair of scissors, and they may seem a vicious joke, and I must admit that they were in the frame of mind I was in when I found them at a flea market, but I realized they are really there for me, to tell me not to be afraid of my past, not to be afraid to admit my wrongs and try to right them as best as I can.

There's a cat and a bird and a fish, and they're to say not to be afraid of predators (as well as the animals themselves).

The bird is a parrot, left from a long-ago PEERS event, not a rousing success but great fun to say not to be afraid to try again and to remember that you can't please everyone, and don't be afraid of that, either..

Every feather and flower is for Louisa Gradgrind Bounderby, who used to wear the same hat, and who was afraid of illogic. And Louisa should look at the heart, and not be afraid of love--we should none of us be afraid of love.

The ribbon rose was made for having switching from playing Mrs. Bounderby, because I wanted a flower for her (and Sissy Jupe's) longing for pretty but illogical fripperies. But I made it myself from ribbons, because I wanted it somewhat period-ish, but mostly because fake flowers are nearly always Made in China. Don't be afraid to stand up for your beliefs, and don't be afraid of doing a little extra work if taking the easy way out hurts your heart and soul.

The feathers are also to remind me, black-white-blue wearing me, not to try to fade into the background, to, if I don't actually wear the feathers, carry my head high and greet life smiling as does the tart who hears "I like your feathers!" 20 times a day. Prue stopped aging around 16 or so. I embrace what I've learned and know and my 21st century "Wow, we live in the future!" life, but I have to honor the girl I once was, and I can't be afraid of aging, because she's in there still, and she's a lovely person. She would never have gone for the vividly red feather I bought this year. Don't be afraid to shake things up a bit.

However, as a bonnet, the hat will be a bit more subtle, and I won't be afraid to be subtle sometimes, when it's better for the overall show. I've never been afraid of not being the exact center of attention, as long as I get a bit. Quality over quantity, and so many of you give quality attention.

The Christmas tree was also bought before it became Prue's ~~Killer~~ Don't Be Afraid Hat. It called Prue's name from a case at Saver's the year we were told to put Christmas on our hats and most people responded by buying 3yd/99c sparkly ribbon. But it's to tell us all not to be afraid to celebrate. Don't be afraid of other people's happiness. Don't be afraid of pagan ways so old no-one really knows how they went. Don't be afraid of foreigners bringing their customs. Don't be afraid of Different, because, in nearly two centuries, Different may become Tradition.

Don't Be Afraid.