April 4, 1996 (#11) (and before ...)

Well well my excruciating beauties,

Spring descends upon my winter withered body like oil down one of those 70s string art lamps and don't I feel lucky. We all anticipate the blooming of the desert flower and personally I can't wait.

I did manage to sneak back to New York City last week to help my girls move from west to east. I know, my my little wildebeasts, I made such a fuss last time about going home and how I couldn't. But with the deep personal stress of the move upon my little ones and mostly because I starved to see dear Mr. Jewel and then Sister Martika wanted to accompany me to the opera ... well I got out the black sling-backs and took a plane.

I left a myriad of instructions with the trailer-sitter for Sir Lancelot and Abattoir. (There is no way Abattoir can run this trailer by himself, but he is a stunning valet). I was Continental bound (and gagged more like it) and soon was swept up by the roar of NYC.

The move itself was not nearly as painful as I thought it would be. Smart gals, my girls, they remembered the shaker and I was all set up in their new space, cocktails ready for the boxes. We moved under-cover of night as there was so much terribly dear machinery and well, the truck rate was cheaper.

Their new offices are in one of the most desirable locations in the city - the baubles district. Hardly ten feet from their front door you can find wigs, rhinestones and even true Indian saris! I almost moved back.

But then Sister Martika, sans habit, dragged me to the opera. Now, I do like warbling, but please sweeties, Lincoln Center should have their heads examined. We saw something called the Voyage by a Philip Glass that floored me - from ennui. Very impressive staging. And the dancing ... As I recall this year's Oscar telecast was missing it's production number lovingly choreographed by Debbie Allen - well I know what she did with her off time and it wasn't pretty. Sister Martika was appropriately punished.

I tried to reach dear Jewel. But that sir was out visiting the whole time I was there. I don't mind a snub, but he and I have real problems of his that I am ending up dealing with. But who am I to unload my burdens on my adobarables.

Since my last writing, just about everybody you have come to love, has made contact with their Trudy. I have news from Betty with more reviews, Le Stud Palermo has revived himself from the holidays, my really scary nephew is descending into hell somewhere and amuses himself by letting me in on it, Mr. I'm-to-busy-with-my-love-life-and-the-theatre Jewel has sent in his impressions of the state of the theatre, Verlene, my international soul sister, tries to keep my up to date or at least in this century, Lance continues to growl at big government and even the gorgeous but lazy crew at "and of course, Barbara's" managed to squeak out another episode before reruns.

My, but isn't life full. Well, I'm home again. Perhaps it's time to redecorate. Out with the formica, in with Corian.

Until I raise the money, I remain true to the original decor, and you,
Trudy