Teach me!

With my wedding 2 months from today, things are getting a little crazy in CarrieLand. My mind is so filled with my To Do List that it seems that's all I can think about. (Even with a really laid-back wedding, there is a lot of stuff to think about!) I don't want to blog about my wedding. Can you say snoozefest? And I certainly don't want to blog about all that other stuff I've been doing--my job and my improv/comedy stuff. Zzzzz...

So I would like to take this opportunity to reach out to you--the 2 or so of my monthly readers and the 3 or so random South Americans who wander here by googling "Denise Richards"--and ask you for ideas of stuff to write about.

All ideas are welcome, within the realm of decency. Inspire me. Get creative, and I'll try to too.

I may not use your idea. It might be stupid. But at least I'll laugh at you and your brainless ideas. Kidding. Sort of. As amazing as sexy story about a racy love affair between Christopher Walken and Drew Barrymore sounds, I will probably not write that. I'll leave that to the kid who lived on my brother's hall his freshman year of college.

In all seriousness, it may take me a while to get to your idea or find a way to make it work, but I'd love to hear it nonetheless. So, on the count of three use the comments feature of this blog to give me an assignment.

1...
2...
3!

The Christian Science Reading Room

One morning about 2 years ago, while cabbing it to work, I struck up casual conversation with the driver.

"I used to live in Marina City Towers. We had a balcony with a great view of the Christian Science Reading Room. In the five years that I lived there, can you believe that I never once saw anyone enter or exit that building?" he told me when we drove by the monolithic stone building. "Not once!" he incredulously exclaimed. "And I drive by it all the time now. Still haven't seen anyone. Kinda strange if you ask me."

Ever since then, I have paid careful attention to the building, about a block from my office, with its dark and shadowy entrances. And like him, I have not once seen anyone come or go.

Not once! Kinda strange if you ask me.

The Love Affair of Egg and Sperm

From the College Vault:

Worms

The sunflower that was given to me as a birthday present and that sits on my desk beside my computer, it has worms. When I received the flower from my coworker last week, I nuzzled my nose in its soft brown center and breathed in its sweet perfume. The next day, I saw a few flies swirling around its gold petals and a little green bug manically hopping around from leaf to leaf. A few days after that there were worms; tiny spring-green guys inching around the petals, snacking on microscopic goodies at the flower’s center.

At first, I was fascinated by this sudden infestation. Where were these little fellas when I was inhaling the flowers fragrance? How curious that they had waited until after my birthday to surface. How interesting that an entire microcosm of insects and other squirmy little things was living in a flower that was sitting in a vase in a fluorescently lit office; a flower surrounded by paper, plastic and electricity and that was hanging on to the illusion of life several days, possibly a week, after it had been cut from its stalk and taken from its home in nature.

I sat next to this infested flower for a few days after that. Every day, I’d monitor the progress of the little zoo. Each day, as the golden petals browned around the edges, the worms got a little bigger. After a few days had passed, I could barely discern their little mouths, always eating, perceptibly smiling. The way they’d stand, balanced on their one little leg, they started to remind me of Richard Scarry’s Lowly Worm. In my comfortable office without predators--birds and spiders and Mother Nature--and with the abundant feast of an enormous sunflower, they were growing exponentially and multiplying all the while.

I am generally squeamish of all things creepy crawly, but it didn’t occur to me to be grossed out by these little worms and bugs. Until yesterday, that is--when I looked up and wondered where they suddenly had all gone. The brown center, their favorite chomping grounds, had been deserted. Then, I noticed the ten or so worms were stop the petals at the crown of the flower reaching, stretching their quarter-inch bodies up to the sun of my desk lamp doing what looked like a belly dance in unison. It was a worm ritual of sorts and it creeped me out.

I sat beside this squirming spectacle for about 30 minutes. Each time I looked over, the worms seemed to get more assertive and my stomach soured a little more. I tried to put mind over matter, to enjoy the last days of this beautiful flower, but I just couldn’t so I made an impulsive decision to lay to rest the drooping sunflower.

As I picked up the flower with its large sunny face and walked to the office kitchen, I felt conflicted. But then I noticed a few of the tiny worms were now dangling in the air down from silky threads they were somehow making with their bodies. I immediately pictured other such expeditions on my desk and, worse, my person. I high-tailed it to the kitchen holding the vase and flower far from me like a peeing baby and dumped the flower in the trashcan without hesitation. I spent the rest of the day swatting invisible bugs from my body.

Today at the Farmer’s Market, a farm stand was selling sunflowers for $1/bunch. I picked up 3 bunches and arranged them on my desk, in the same place as the old one. We’ll see what happens.

SneezeFest

It is a beautiful day. The sun is shining and the sky is cornflower blue. While I am sitting under the umbrella of a table in the Thompson Center Plaza, at least 6 people walk by and sneeze. Usually multiple times. Always in the same spot. Weird.

Success

The elation of success, especially creative success, is such a fleeting feeling. It’s a hunger, much like that for food. You may go a long time feeling hungry, with an heated pit in your stomach. Then one day, you find it; you gobble it up; you are warm and sated in the moment and for some time after. But no matter how much you devour, how full you feel, you always end up hungry again. Unless you are grounded and are at peace with yourself, with a steady stream of mind and body nourishment, you will always end up feeling empty inside. And the search for food can take you farther and farther away from home, through rough and rocky terrain. The key is to making success last, is keeping home in your heart and making sacrifices for the things that really matter (things that pump blood) in a way that won't breed resentment, which can eat away at your stomach as much as hunger. It’s a hard balance to strike.

Don’t come to breakfast at my house...

If I hear his fake laugh one more time—that slanted cascade of cackle paired with wild eyes and a gum-exposing joker smile; those booming guffaws; the come-and-go-lightly hoot that is habitually preceded by some lame comment and stalked by a sharply punctuating sigh-moan—I will rip my intestines out, twist them at intervals of 4 inches, hang them in a smokehouse for a week, brown them on a sizzling skillet and serve them with eggs and pancakes.

Laughter should never be forged.

You are what you eat...

From what I can tell its mostly crap.

Crap that pickles organs and corrodes pipes like rust.
Cancer-causing, memory-deflating, a second cousin to plastic, third-arm growing crap.

Frozen dinners that have a huge sub ingredient list for Chicken.
Shouldn’t it just say chicken?
Why does “Chicken” need 25 other ingredients, mostly chemicals, to make it Chicken? At least list it as “Chikin” so there can be no mistake.

My lawyer friend says that KFC is called KFC because it’s not technically chicken and to call it such would be false advertising.

Our food should be made in kitchens--not factories and labs.

Can’t a girl get a good tomato without having to take out a loan?

I’m about this close to selling my possessions and moving to The Farm.
Hell, I’ll drink the organic Kool-Aid, although my vendor can’t afford the organic label.

Call me granola.
(Make me some granola—with homegrown fruit and homemade yogurt.)

Play me some Yanni.
(He’ll be the most synthetic thing I’d love.)

Give me a turban.
(I’ll use any excuse to wear a turban.)

I yearn for the simple life.

I just love the city too much.

Furrowed Brow

She sort of regrets shaving off her eyebrows. It seemed like a pretty good idea at the time. Her eyebrows were thin and scraggly. No amount of plucking would give her the plush sexy arched brow she so desired. So in a fit of frustration she swiped a pink Lady Bic over the right one. She looked at her face in the mirror. Her face looked eerie and lopsided. The razor took care of the left one too. She felt liberated. The skin was so smooth and sensitive. And she looked so much younger—like a baby, almost. She was free to create the brow of her dreams.

But she failed to anticipate the amount of effort involved in the daily brow draw. Often, she had to try several times before they’d look symmetrical. For many weeks she looked confused, angry, sad, astonished because of slight deviations of the drawn eyebrow’s curve. Before she invested in waterproof brow pencil (which wasn’t truly waterproof) her drawn brow would run down into her eye on a rainy or sweaty day, leaving her looking run down and crazy. Forget ever going on a swim. That’d be a disaster!

But growing them in is a test in patience and humility. Patches of dark hair will pop up unevenly in undesired places—off the beaten brow. Her decision to make friends with her razor had sealed her own fate: Either she will have to endure the embarrassment of a scrappy looking halfbrow for a good couple of months weeks while she waits for her hair to completely grow back or she’ll have to resign herself to getting up earlier to pencil in that damn brow.

McSorley's Old Ale House

This past weekend, I was in NYC to perform a little long form improv. For a large part of my short 48 hours visit, I was alone. Not in a lonely, sad way; I'm fairly independent and not afraid of being alone. But I lacked the funds and complete knowledge to know what to do for a random hour, so there were times, I'll admit, I was a little bored. Not to mention more than a little hot. With temperatures in the high 90's, New York was a sweltering, sweaty and smelly mess. I lost my desire to move. But, excuses aside: boredom is a sin--especially while on vacation.

I'm very comfortable in Manhattan. I know my way around on the subway and, with the exception of Harlem, I'm pretty well-travelled on the island. So on Sunday afternoon, with 3 hours to spare before my last show, I wandered off to Astor Place in search of McSorelys Old Ale House. Established in 1854, its the oldest continuously operating bar in NYC. And it really hasn't changed a bit.

I first read about it in Joseph Mitchell's "Up in the Old Hotel," a compilation of essays and articles, many of which he wrote for the New Yorker in the 1930's and '40s. Even in the article, Mitchell alludes to a feeling of stepping back in time in McSorely's tavern. I promised myself to stop in, so on Sunday afternoon, with no one to sip an ale with, I went down to SoHo to see what it was all about.

I walked in, looked around. The sawdust floor was soft under my feet. The smell was uniquely 150 years of spilt ale and tobacco smoke. In the bright afternoon, the room was dark and filled with quietly talking patrons. The air was dusty, and though smoking is no longer legal in NYC bars, I could almost imagine it thick with pipe smoke. I took it in for a few short moments and then walked out.

On my way out, a drunk regular asked me where I was going so fast, "Grab a beer and stay a while." Caught off guard I replied, "I'm looking for a friend."

He grandly waved his hand to the large black dog tied to the bar, "Your friends are here."

"Hi, Dog" I said, not wanting to be rude. His dog, like its owner, had sad, friendly eyes. Then I smiled and said goodbye.

I truly regret that I didn't pull up a stool and start talking with this nice man. Instead, I put on this whole, "One shouldn't drink by onesself at a bar". I should have been more fearless. For someone who loves people (and reading stories about people) I'm so shy sometimes. I probably would have brought home with me some interesting stories--tales of strangers, like those I love to read in the Joseph Mitchell book. But intead, I came home with a lesson learned: put yourself out there. You only live once. You will be rewarded as long as you aren't wreckless about it.


Check out this link

I am here, you just can't see me.

I am working on several projects that are taking up much of my time. But I am still here, lurking in the shadows. More to come soon.

Thank you for stopping in!

A Realization

Her mother never dreamed she would see her daughter drunk in a hot tub, engaged in foreplay to a house orgy, but ever "The Real World" season started her mother began to realize her daughter wasn’t who she appeared to be during family dinners at the kitchen table.

A Beautiful Sight!

A bike ride along the lake on a hot summer day. A posse of skater boys slogging up the hill on their boards. I am coasting down with the wind in my hair. I pass 30 or so hot faced fellas skating in a band under the glaring summer sun. That’s a lot of skaters to see in one place. An assault of the senses, they continue to go by. 50 red cheeked dudes, ages 10 to 35, pushing down the trail, their collective wheels roaring loudly. 200 guys with long, hair and dirty jeans, propelling themselves onward on all sorts of boards and wheels. 500 men and boys, with their hair glued to their faces with sweat, skating together.

Ten minutes and over 2 miles later, the skater procession keeps coming. All in all, a parade of nearly a thousand boys on skateboards. All unseeingly unaware of the power in their numbers, most unassuming youth.

It’s a scene from a movie. A seventies movie, its film has faded with time, too much cyan and magenta. Its stars all raw and pure, a mix of innocence and corruption. Salty, sweaty air, the wind and their wheels a loud howl in my ears, the sun searing my skin and broiling my blood. A spectacle to behold! I am giddy with delight. My 14 year old self would have been blushing.

The Lost Sock

When I was transferring my laundry from washing machine to dryer, I discovered that a tiny baby sock accidentally had been washed in my load. It must have been separated from the washer’s previous batch. (I pictured a baby doing his own laundry. Imagine a baby sized washer and dryer! It’s too much to bear.)

I decided I would dry the little sock and leave it on the counter for its owner to claim. My heart melted into a puddle when I felt its thick white cotton in my hand. Imagine teensy toes nestled inside the sock. My ovaries twitched.

When it came time to pull my warm dry clothes from the dryer, I inspected the sock once more. It was so warm and soft and fuzzy and it smelled so clean and fresh. I pictured it laying unclaimed on the soap-sticky laundry room counter. Surely the building supervisor would sweep it into the trash after too long. I couldn’t bear that thought. So I did a very emotional and perhaps inappropriate thing: I kept the sock.

When I got up to my room, I felt happy with my decision. It is unlikely that the owner would have realized that the sock was missing until it was too late. My apartment (albeit babyless) is the best home for this little lost sock. My satisfaction was cemented when I found that it fit perfectly on the paw of Asta, my wire fox terrier stuffed animal with the name “Asta” embroidered on the colorful kerchief around his neck. I’ve always loved to hold onto Asta’s front paw, I derive a lot of comfort in that. Now it is especially warm, soft and squishy when squeezed.

My Dark Secret

I have a dark secret: I stalk my neighbor’s dog. His name is Toby and he’s a wire fox terrier. The dog, that is, not my neighbor. My neighbor is a nice elderly man named Mark. I know this because when I first introduced myself to Toby, Mark offered his name and address. Mark is married to Anna who is equally warm to strangers such as me.

Toby is a good dog. He has curly white hair with caramel and grey spots and a cute black nose that wriggles and sniffs. He has a little clipped tail nub that wags when he’s petted. He likes to walk on a leash, bark at squirrels, walk over to groups of people to see what all the fuss is about, but mostly he can be found patiently watching his parents as they stop to talk with other neighbors. On the rare occasion when Mark and Anna are taking a walk without him, he likes to sit in their front window and watch them to make sure they're okay. His two front paws will be rested on the windowsill and his little nose will be fogging up the glass. He can barely reach the window. That is my favorite glimpse of Toby and the scene I watch. I've been known to ask my sweetie, Chris, “What goes on in that house?” prompting him to reply, "Toby lives there." Maybe, I do that every single time I pass his house? What's wrong with that?

Mark doesn’t know that I am infatuated with his dog. Sure, I’ll stop him on the street every time I see him. I’ll admit, to get Toby’s attention, I often make high pitched squeals that only a dog can hear. All right, I spy on him out of my 4th floor window and run down the stairs to the street, where I’ll coolly walk by him as if I’m going about my business and just happened upon his company. But Mark doesn’t know all of that.

Of course, I’ve told Mark and Anna, on numerous occasions, that I love wire fox terriers and have loved them ever since I saw the famous movie dog, Asta, in the 30’s screwball comedy, The Thin Man. But they are both aging and do not remember my stories, thus. I’m casual during my encounters; When Mark points to his apartment and tells me to stop by anytime for the name of Toby’s breeder, I crane my neck and ask, “Now, where do you live again?” as if I haven’t figured out this information on my own and pass by his window daily to spy on his pup. To be safe, I'm sure to lament that I’m not allowed to have pets in my apartment. Nor do I have the time to care for a puppy, I'll say sadly, hoping he'll offer to let me come by and play with Toby.

But, Toby knows that I love him. Although he doesn’t think I know he knows. I can see a twinkle in his eye every time I see him. When I walk past him, he nonchalantly sniffs my leg. His tail perks up and his head cocks to the left when I’m within his eyeshot and, on occasion, he’s even looked up to my fourth floor apartment window.

I mean, really, does it count as stalking if the Stalked is also in love with the Stalker??! No offense to sweet Mark and Anna, but Toby and I are meant for one another and we both know it. He just doesn’t know how to say it yet. But he will. Oh, he will.

For Sale: Luxury High Rise Condominiums

For the couple of weeks, construction crews have been dismantling one of my favorite buildings in Chicago. I haven’t been able to tell if anyone has lived in the building for the last 2 years that I've lived nearby. Although it seemed to be okay structurally, boards went up over the lower floors’ windows about a year ago. I would walk past the house and fantasize about the al fresco dinners I could have on one of its terraces and dream of the vintage ports I could savor inside in its sitting room.

It was a very stately brick building, probably built in the 1950s. While it had the air of a single-family home, its grandness led me to believe it was comprised of several luxury units. The building’s log spanned two streets so that it had two entrances; one on my street and another on the next street over. It was nestled that way between two towering apartment buildings, Charleston-style, so that the side of the building, with its shuttered windows and porticos, was actually the front of the building. The walls that faced the street, although stacked upon one another at different stair step levels, were relatively unornamented as though they were actually the sides of the building.

Earlier this year, I noticed two tall pylons had been erected on the street side of the building. I grew excited. Obviously, someone who saw in that building the same potential that I had seen was going to fix it up so that I may one day inhabit it. But a week later, a mammoth advertisement was slug between them. “For Sale: Luxury High Rise Condominiums.” I drooped when I first walked past it. Chicago doesn’t need anymore luxury high rise condos. What we need is more quirky, but stately buildings like the one on its deathbed behind that ugly sign.

The building remained untouched for several months. I was relieved when the sign was knocked down in a windy storm. It was never replaced on my street side. I hoped that the investors had backed out or the building was saved by folks as caring as me. It wasn’t until I was riding past the next street over that I noticed that the sign had been re-built at the building’s second entrance. That street has more traffic. More traffic meant more money.

Then, about a month ago, the construction crews came. Every morning, I heard their destruction from my room while I was getting ready to go to work. Loud and ugly sounds. Scraping and tearing and banging. I couldn’t stand to think about my future beautiful terraces being smashed to the ground.

On my way to work I surveyed the damage and my sadness was replaced by awe. It is rare to get to see a literal cross section of a building. As each day came and went, new treasures were uncovered. A powder blue tiled bathroom with a crystal chandelier; Scarlet velvet covered bedroom walls that conjured Rosemary’s Baby-esque images; Mahogany kitchens fit for a chef; interior windows acting as portals to other rooms. Everyday, I stopped and read these stories of past-tenants lives. Each room was every bit as quirky as the building’s exterior and told a very particular tale of its inhabitants’ existence; a story of which I wanted to be a part.

I kept telling myself that I was going to take photographs of these rooms. I imagined that my photographs would reveal mysterious “mists” in each room, the ghosts of residents’ past. But I never got around to taking those photographs. In some way, I think that is appropriate to the life and death of that building.

Then last week, on my way home from the bus, I saw that the building was completely gone. All that is left is a flat, barren and dusty lot. And an ugly sign that says, “For Sale: Luxury High Rise Condominiums.”

Lost Dialogue

. . .

GLENN: I used to go muddin’ in my daddy’s pickup without his permission when I was 17. ... As mayor I believe we should help those in our community who may have alcohol or drug problems or mental illness. We should help them to get better, we shouldn’t lock them up. Unless they’re drunk or bothering other people with their illness. I had a father--

LORI BETH: Awww. Bless your heart.

GLENN: (Confused.) Thank you. (Back to the matter at hand.) I had a father who had dementia, which can be a mental illness. He would sometimes believe that people were in his house with guns and were about to kidnap him.

LORI BETH: (Matter-of-factly) I was kidnapped once.

GLENN: When was this?

LORI BETH: Two weeks ago. But enough about me. You know what sounds like dementia? Paprika. (Sprinkles Paprika on biscuits they are making.)

LORI BETH: (Awed) Are those your real eyes?

GLENN: (Pause) Oh! You mean my colored contacts. Without them, my eyes are a dull gray. Certainly not swimming-pool-blue like Paul Newman’s.

LORI BETH: (Alarmed) He was in a swimming pool?

GLENN: At some point I’m sure he was. He probably even has a pool. But I was referring to his eyes.

LORI BETH: I love Henley.

GLENN: (good-naturedly) Well, as mayor I bet I love it more.

LORI BETH: (laughing) No, I love it more.

GLENN: (laughing) No, I disagree. I love it more.

LORI BETH: (still laughing) No, I love it more!!!

GLENN: Well, then ... I guess we’re at a stalemate.

LORI BETH: What’s a stalemate?

GLENN: Well, it’s when two people ... you know what? You win. You love Henley more.


. . .

(Written by Carrie Barrett and Robert Cass)

Selling Out

I dislike the term “sellout”. It doesn't really mean anything to me. Its a blurry, shady area that is almost impossible to define because we can never truly know the motivation of others. Likewise, it is difficult to uncover the real driving force behind our own actions. Only rarely does time allow us the genuine objectivity needed to expose the truth behind our own reasons for making any given decision. Or maybe I'm just terrified of being a sellout. I definitely have it in me.

Over a year ago I wrote this email to my Sweetie:

Last night, I was researching old Chicago night spots when I recalled that one of these old haunts still remains intact in the basement of my old dwelling on Astor Street. As you may remember, The Astor Tower was once an extension of the famous Ambassador East Hotel. It was alike in its chic, but it was reserved for long-term guests – many of them entertainers with longer Chicago engagements. It was the stage for the major Beatles press conference wherein John apologized for declaring that the Beatles were bigger than Christ. It has a history of its own.

When I lived on Astor Street, I was fascinated by this old basement haunt. Its only entrance was through the back doors of the building, from which I only exited once – when I was escorting my mother’s friend, Robyn, to the car. I only caught a shadowy glimpse of its entrance. The bright red carpet in the entryway was only a tiny indication to the rest of the restaurant, but it spoke volumes of another era - one filled with a lively and elite set of Chicago’s finest. Robyn told me that it was an exact replica of Maxim’s de Paris, a very famous restaurant in, you guessed it, Paris. She also mentioned that it was only used for private events.

During the year and a half that I lived there, I only recollect Maxim’s being used twice. One of these times, I was stared down by a gang of strong men in tailored blue suits. As I walked outside, I saw that the street had been barricaded and there were helicopters flying overhead. Naturally, I was very curious as to what was happening. It was an hour or so later than I got my answer: President Bill Clinton was in town and was being entertained at Maxim’s. If my memory serves me, it was also used months later for a wedding reception.

So I knew that it was still being used, and was nice enough to accommodate the President on one of his rare visits. But, I didn’t know the full story behind it until last night, when I came across this website:

http://www.cityofchicago.org/CulturalAffairs/Maxims/

Now, as you can imagine, I am fully obsessed with it.

I am getting married in Maxim's in November.

Please call me Henri

I am eating what I believe to be Old Frenchman's Lunch. Two thin slices of dense rye bread, bits of cheese, green olives, a mini cucumber and yellow melon. I think its the best lunch I've ever had. If only I had a glass of red to go with it.