I am convinced that somewhere in the world I am the very image of popular local beauty.

Well, it's one of those things I have to believe, or I'll go mad.

Same with fairy tales.

I have to believe that some day my prince (or princess) will come, and all will be right with the world, or I'd go bonkers.

But I think I may be right on the beauty thing.

Old East Indian men stare at me a lot, and ask me if I'm from Lebanon (I don't know if I'm beautiful in Lebanon, but they always flirt with me when they ask).

Old Italian men flirt with me first, and then ask me if I'm from Italy. Sometimes they speak Italian to me before realizing, by my blank stare, that I don't speak Italian.

Maybe I'm just beautiful in Old Man Land?

My stage manager of this show, Bonnie, asked me what my heritage is (English/Irish on my mother's side, and German-Russian/Yugoslavian on my dad's side). I really show the Russian (in physical build, dominant facial features, and colouring; no one ever guesses the English/Irish).

She then told me I could be a model (totally not; I'm a size fourteen, and I have a nose on me that looks related to Barbara Streisand). I was flattered, though, because she really meant it.

She was looking at me in that peculiar way people sometimes do just before they tell me they think I'm beautiful.

It's a funny sort of look. Usually accompanied by the slowing of movement, and a long, thoughtful stare at my face, like I'm a flower they've been watching and they've just realized I've bloomed.

It makes me a little uncomfortable, the quiet pause. I always squirm in it.

I don't know if I really believe that I'm beautiful.

I don't know what I believe.

I definitely don't believe I'm ugly; there's nothing to be gained in that.

I try to be reasonable and practical, but in matters of my own attractiveness, I am constantly questioning and never sure.

Mostly, I don't care.

Whether I'm beautiful or not has not, can not, and will not affect who I am underneath the physical.

If I were beautiful, I would still love to sew, and bake, and scream karaoke.

If I were ugly, I would still do the same things.

As it is, I'm just what ever I am, and I'll continue to do the things that make me happy.

Speaking of which, I have The Most Enormous tiramisu in the fridge right now, chilling.

One of the dude's coming over for dinner tomorrow is on Weight Watchers, so I tried a different tiramisu recipe (most have you fold the custard into whipped cream, but the rest have you fold it into beaten egg whites; I normally do the whipped cream one, but I had no whipped cream on hand, and it's So Fattening).

Anyway, I totally ate some of the batter. It was blah, so I deviated all over the recipe, until it was Pretty Good.

I soaked the lady fingers in a mix of coffee, kahluha (sp?) and vodka. Basically, coffee and Black Russians.

I don't know if it will be sweet enough, honestly. I always cut down on sugar, but I made the custard *barely* sweet enough, and while the Black Russian is sweet enough to drink on it's own, I used mostly dark black coffee, which is rather bitter.

Oh well. I shall inflict it on my guests. At least I'll have plenty of other food that I can stuff in their faces in an emergency.

Anyway, sleep now.

Food tomorrow! Huzzah!

.

Rosie.

Before&After