Last One. No Really.

Months and months and months have gone by since I said I was going to take down this blog and I still haven't done it. Not because I'm too nostalgic, it's really not that, it's because I'm too lazy. I just don't want to deal with having to archive or download or copy-and-paste or whatever it is that's going to be required in order for me to not have Frosty-Licous up anymore. I just don't want to bother with it. And besides, I still dig this website. I dig the growing up I did when I was writing it, and I like to refer back to it once in a while when I'm writing A Serious Girl.

Which is why I've decided, once and for all, not to take down this blog. Also? You never know when I'll get the urge to post something supremely inappropriate on the Internet.

In case you're here for the first time, let me just warn you that what you'll find among these posts are the rantings of a Valley Girl in her early twenties, newly married, living in a tenement apartment in Hells Kitchen, Manhattan with her husband and four animals, and freaking the fuck out because she just moved three thousand miles away from everyone she's ever loved in her entire life. Of course she has her wonderful husband, so kind and gentle is he that he never even complained when she nicknamed him Poompy at one point, thank god she grew out of that. Anyway, that girl was me, and when I was thinking back over 2009 on the eve of 2010, I decided I wasn't that girl anymore and I wanted a new website.

Of course, as it turns out, I'm absolutely still that girl, I'm just that girl with a little bit more life under her belt, a better understanding of what she wants and enough confidence to finally go after it. You can read about my more recent antics on ASeriousGirl.com. Thanks for visiting!

A Serious Girl

Welcome to 2010! A shiny new year, a clean slate, a brand-new beginning.

Frosty-licious started in May of 2007. In the two years and seven months I've been writing this website I've shared hundreds of snippets from my life, dropped tidbits here and there, told stories and jokes, all the while hiding behind a mask I've worn my entire life: A Girl Who Is Pretty And That's All That Counts. The more I wrote the more I realized how I hide behind poop jokes, how I play dumb, that I'm the girl who proudly wears balls on her forehead. And frankly? I'm tired of it. I'm tired of being a cute-but-dumb joke. I'm tired of conforming to the image I think people want to see. Sure, I'll always laugh at my teabag photos, but I'm realizing there's a lot more to me than that. In 2010 I want to embrace my smart side. I want to grow up and become the role model I want for my daughters. I want to become the woman I know I can be.

This New Year is the year I will throw off the pretty little mask. This is the year I will explore and learn and wonder and fail and stand up again and be proud of what I manage to accomplish, whatever it is. This year I will let myself dream big, silly, wild dreams that could never come true because as much as I believe, unicorns don't exist. I will let myself dream sweet dreams and secret dreams and self-indulgent dreams and grown-up dreams.

This year I will stop saying mean things to the body I see in the mirror. I will feed myself and my husband healthy meals and I will exercise in ways that let me move and dance and feel good. I will love my body the way it is instead of wishing it would be different. This year I will cut out alcohol and caffeine, except for one cup of coffee in the morning and the occasional pint of beer with good friends. I will enjoy my life alone with my husband, so that when we finally have children we can say how much we looked forward to them while appreciating the time we spent before them. I will support my husband while he works and studies and I will do whatever I can to help him succeed.

This year is the year I will go back to school. My application is in, I'm just waiting to see if I am accepted and when I can start. I'm not sure what I'm going to study, but I'm leaning very far towards math and sciences. It turns out I really enjoy math, of all things, and Mike, who's been tutoring me, says I have an innate ability for it. And I've always secretly loved science, I just never thought I was smart enough to study it. I will also take a Spanish class this year, one that requires that I sit in a seat and practice with other students, out loud and in person. This year I will work and save money and we will pay off our credit card debt and start saving so that having a family won't feel like a financial disaster. This year I will go home at least once to spend time with my brothers and sisters, niece and nephews, cousins, friends, my Nani, my parents. I will fly to Seattle and spend time with my family there so I can remember where I come from.

In celebration of the new year and all I hope to accomplish, I have started a new website. A new blog. A place for me to stretch my arms without the superficial, saccharine-sweet label 'Frosty-licious'. I hated that name the moment I chose it and I've carried it around for nearly three years. I've been eager to shed that persona for a long time, I just didn't know how. Frosty-licious is too much the girl I used to be and not at all the woman I hope to grow into. She's too weighed down by the garbage I wallowed in the first two years I wrote here. It's time to clean house. Get rid of the clutter. I want room to spread out and explore. A bigger closet so I can try on different hats. A longer road for all the different shoes I walk in. An empty room so I can dance.

I'm really excited about the new website. I've been working on it for several months and I've had the opportunity to collaborate and receive guidance and advice from some wonderful people. It is an entirely new adventure and it is definitely a work in progress. I'm not sure what will happen with Frosty-licious. I may not be completely done here and the new site may turn out to be different enough that I could write regularly in both. We'll see what happens. In the mean time, I am very proud and very excited to introduce you to my new blog: A Serious Girl.

Thank you for being a part of my journey, for rallying with me, for reading my words. May 2010 hold blessings for you all. I hope to see you on my other side.

I've finally decided my future lies beyond the yellow brick road

I've been thinking about my New Years Resolutions for several days, but try as I might I can't write about my resolutions without writing about all that has happened in the past year. How can we look forward without first learning from our past?

In another life I was a Certified Family Law Paralegal. I was really good at it and the certification was something I worked very hard to achieve. I wanted to be a lawyer. I studied for the LSAT. I worked for several years at something that I didn't really believe I was smart enough to accomplish and every time I reached a new milestone I wondered how I'd managed it. I figured I was just doing a really good job of fooling everyone. I felt like a fraud. Only one person in my life saw me as I saw myself. She was a lawyer in the office where I worked, a bitter woman who, whenever I asked her a question, would snort and say, "It's a good thing you're pretty." Like I said, she saw right through me.

It turns out she and I were both wrong. That's probably the most important thing I'm taking away from 2009. This was the year that I learned I'm smart. I've spent my entire life believing that I'm pretty, but I'm not very smart, so being pretty is the best quality I have. The very best thing about me is the way that I look. My favorite feature's are my eyelashes and my feminine little feet, but I also like how long my nail-beds are and the way my bellybutton is shaped. Never in a million years would I ever tell you that I like my sense of humor or that my favorite feature is the part of me that loves doing math problems.

That's kind of messed up, I realize. But this year I realized it. I became aware of it. That's pretty awesome.

This year I learned that the way I look doesn't actually mean anything. It doesn't matter. It's an accessory. I don't have to play dumb anymore. It isn't endearing or cute or funny and it doesn't feel good. I also learned a lot about my priorities. I learned what I will and won't do for my career. I learned that it's wonderful to make plans and it's wonderful for those plans to change. I learned that what I want will always grow and change because as I reach my goals they will undoubtedly shape-shift and that is the nature of the beast. That is being human.

This year was the year Mike worked his way onto the Deans List with a 4.0 GPA. He finished thirty-four credits and will be eligible for his AA by the end of summer 2010. He became a New York City Emergency Medical Technician. He unearthed all our art supplies and discovered a gift for painting and woodcarving. He spent twenty-one days hiking the JMT with his brother.

This year we learned how to be a family. We learned how to be our own, unique, special, crazy little family. We started talking about babies this year. It's still a ways off, for a variety of reasons, but for the first time in our six-year relationship we're on the same page about babies.

This year we began to explore parts of the City we'd never seen and in doing so, discovered a city we fell madly in love with. This was the year that I found space to stretch out and practice yoga. I rediscovered my love of writing. My blog went from being a place where I whined and ranted and wrote silly things I didn't really care about to being a place where I found peace and solace and comfort and joy.

This was the year I learned how much I love my extended family; my wonderful siblings and my parents, my niece, my nephews, cousins, aunts, uncles. I realized how important my roots are, and how much I have to learn about Michael's roots. I learned that I have a support group in my family; a pep squad and a team of coaches. That even when we make mistakes and hurt each other and get angry we still love one another and we are still a family.

This year I wanted a white Christmas and I got two.

The most memorable moment was when Mike said this is the year he's been happier than he's been in his entire life.

This year I fell in love with my life.

I'm really excited about the new year.

Just because you can't put a bow on it

Oh, how I long to live a simple little life. When I was little I would dream about how romantic it would be to be married to a writer and live in a tiny apartment in Paris and work at the flower shop downstairs, knowing that my husband was upstairs tap-tapping at his typewriter (because of course it is more romantic to write at a typewriter than a computer). I would stop at the market on my way home and pick up greens for dinner. After, we'd sip wine and he'd dry the dishes while I washed. Then we'd curl up in bed and read until we were too sleepy. And the next day we'd get up and do it all again.

Oh, how I long for a simple little life. How tired I am of the city and living in a little apartment, how tired I am of chasing dreams and not knowing and worrying over the future. How I often feel like I'm being punished because I didn't choose a more direct career path, and that maybe, if I'd picked a "grown-up" career, I could have all the little things I want so badly. The little things like waking up in the morning and just being able to sip my coffee and visit with Michael while he gets ready for his day. Little things like having a little home and a little garden, where I could bake and cook and grow vegetables and take care of my babies and at the end of the day we'd all curl up and read a little and love a little and sleep a little. And the next day it would all start over again.

The other night I was folding laundry in the bedroom while Mike was working on some writing, Theo curled in his lap, Valentine curled on the bed amongst the clean socks, Feist on the stereo, our bellies full of something wonderful Mike had fixed for dinner, dishes drip-drying in the kitchen, and I realized what an asshole I am. I already have a simple little life. I'm lusting after something I already possess. My life couldn't possibly be any littler or any simpler. It may not look like it belongs in the pages of Better Homes & Gardens, it may not have a white picket fence around it, it may not be the cookie-cutter shape I grew up thinking it should be, but it is exactly the life I am dreaming about.

Does that happen to you? Do you ever catch yourself talking about wanting something and then realizing that what you want is actually right in front of your face, if only you'd take a moment to appreciate it? I'm really working on that. I'm really working on learning to appreciate every little moment as it happens because it is the only thing we really have. This moment right now. And when I am able to take a deep breath and stop fretting over the future, and not obsess over the past, I realize that what I've got right this second is actually pretty perfect.

And the other thing? Right here and now I resolve to never again accuse myself of not having a "grown-up" career. My career is not only something grown-ups do, but it's something that brilliant, world-changing, noble, courageous grown-ups do. In the words of the great Helen Hayes:

"When I consider how many of the world's greatest minds -- Sophocles,
Aristophanes, Shakespeare, Goethe, Moliere, Ibsen, Shaw -- have clothed their
ideas in The Dramatic Form; when I consider the enjoyment, the enrichment, and
the enlightenment that The Theatre has brought into the lives of countless
millions down through the ages -- I Become Very Proud of My Profession."

Yes, I know I've said this before, but what needs to grow-up is me, not my career. And I'm working on it, I really am. A little bit every day. See?

This Title Is Definitely Not "Homeless Lady Feet"

Homeless Lady Feet

This photo has attracted 4,312 views on Flickr since I posted it in June of 2007. A whopping 33% of that traffic came from search engines. Apparently there are people in the world doing google searches for "homeless lady feet". I've lost track of how many Flickr users I've blocked because they leave comments like, "I'd love to lick your toes" or "I want to stroke your feet with my penis" or "I'd like to put those dirty little toes in my anus." Is that supposed to be flattering? Because it isn't. Just saying.

The above photo is also the reason why I had to write this warning on my Flickr profile last year. Despite my profile warning, the Crazies insist on commenting on that photo and then adding me as their friends on Flickr. I know they're Crazies because when I check out their profiles to see who is adding me, all of their photos are x-rated. Not normal, run-of-the-mill x-rated. No, no. That would be creepy enough. These photos? The photos the crazies post? These photos are x-rated photos involving food products and squid tentacles and kitchen appliances and poop.

At first I thought it was funny. I would click on the profiles and look at the photos and laugh and then block them. (Hey, FAIR WARNING. You didn't read my profile? You didn't know I'd block you? SUCK IT.) I don't think it's funny anymore. Now it just gives me the creeps.

Today, I removed the photo. I'm taking my power back, Flickr Crazies! I will no longer be fodder for your twisted imaginings! I will no longer allow my pretty feet to be exploited, lusted after, or defiled because at some point in your toddler-hood you found comfort in the mess in your diapers or because your mother punished you by walking on your back in spike heels. No! No. I resolve, here and now, to never post a photo of my feet on Flickr ever again. I've learned my lesson.

(Although possibly not well enough to prevent me from posting the photo on my blog. Does this mean I'll start getting more traffic to this site? Because I think I could use it.)

If there is one donut on the sidewalk and Theo eats it, how many donuts are on the sidewalk?

Yesterday at work somebody tried to pay for a $56 session by handing me three twenties, a five and a single. I looked in my drawer to see if I had a ten dollar bill to give as change, but all I had was a five and three singles.

"I'm sorry, all I have is a five and three singles." I say to the nice man.

"That's ok. Just give me back my five." He says.

"... What?"

"I thought you might have a ten, but you don't, so just give me my five and your five."

I look down at the money in my hands. "Um... but... that's not right. I will still have three twenties. That's not enough change."

He cocks his head to his left shoulder and studies me for a moment. "Yes it is."

"No, no, it can't be. I'll still have three twenties."

"Right, but you'll have given me correct change."

I look down at the money again. A line is starting to form behind the nice man waiting for his change. I spread the bills across my desk. Three twenties, a five and a single, plus the five from my cash drawer. Seventy-one dollars. If I give him five back, that's .... what is that? I put my five back in my drawer and start over. The line is growing restless. I can hear people tapping their feet impatiently, sighing heavily, coughing. My palms begin to sweat. I take a deep breath. Three twenties, a five and a single. Sixty-six dollars. Take away his five. Now I have sixty-one. I take the five from my drawer and put it with his five. I still have sixty-one dollars in front of me. How could I still have sixty-one dollars?

"Just pretend I gave you sixty-one instead of sixty-six." he says, trying to be helpful.

My vision starts to go black around the edges and I can hear my own pulse. I laugh, nervously. "I don't understand. I ... um .... sixty-six minus five is sixty-one minus five is - " I CAN'T REMEMBER WHAT SIXTY-ONE MINUS FIVE IS. 

"Fifty-six."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"Um...."

"That's the correct change."

"Then why do I still have three twenties?" I'm pretty sure the look on my face is what Michael would call 'Valley Girl Vacant'.

"Would you like me to just pay with a credit card?" Sweet, kind, patient man.

"No! No. I can figure this out." I grab a pen and write down 61 - 5 =

I got nothin'.      

61 - 5 =

FUCK.

61 - 5 =

And then I count on my fingers for the answer. 

61 - 5 = 56. 

I stare at the equation. I look at the bills on my desk. There are three twenties and a single. Sixty-one dollars. There should only be fifty-six dollars. WHY ARE THERE STILL SIXTY-ONE DOLLARS?

I don't know what that sweet man thought of me, but he should get a special place in heaven for being so patient. Ultimately I figured it out, but it took him and two other people to explain to me HOW MAKING CHANGE WORKS. There is a reason I am an actor and not, say, a veterinarian. Can you imagine me with a scalpel and my nerves, trying to perform surgery on some poor animal? You'd bring your dog in to be neutered and you'd get him back with a second butt hole.

Mustang Smelly

Sometimes when something goes wrong, like when my bathroom ceiling collapses on me while I'm in the shower, or when cockroaches are climbing the walls of the hallways in my apartment building, or when it's 20 degrees for the eightieth day in a row, I get really frustrated and I think to myself, THIS WOULD NEVER HAPPEN IN LOS ANGELES. But the fact is that things go wrong wherever we live and sometimes it helps to remember that life is never perfect anywhere.

When Los Angeles was home, there was a brief period of time during which Mike owned two cars. He had purchased a truck to replace his red Mustang convertible (which he wanted to replace because while a red Mustang convertible seemed like a good idea when we bought it, it really just drained us of money and caused lots of near brain explosions) and until he sold the Mustang, he had both to deal with. Before he sold her (we called the Mustang Ginger and so she was a 'her') he spent several days washing her and waxing her, he shampooed her carpets and oiled her leather interior, he detailed that car like a car has never been detailed. She was absolutely gorgeous when he was done, so gorgeous that I wanted to go for a ride right then and there but he would not drive her. He wanted her to stay pristine while he was showing her. And so Ginger sat alone, perfect and un-touched, in front of our sunny little bungalow.

A few days later I came home from work to a very, very unhappy husband. In the middle of the night, someone had broken into the truck and stolen all of Michael's tools and all of his work equipment. Several thousand dollars worth of equipment. And then they had stolen the spare clicker to the Mustang, which he'd thought would be safe in the truck's glove compartment. Not the keys, mind you. The keys were in our house. Just the clicker that unlocked the doors. The good news was that Ginger was still parked right where we'd left her. The bad news was that someone had made her their party lounge for the night. Burger King food wrappers littered her interior. An over-turned cup of soda was stuck to the drivers seat, dried coca-cola sticky on the leather. Cigarette butts and used matches overflowed from the ashtray and littered the carpet. The leather seats were pocked with burn marks. A ratty, filthy blanket was draped across the front passenger seat and the seat was pushed all the way back so someone could sleep on it comfortably. The battery was dead, apparently because they'd left the inside lights on all night. And the crowning achievement? The icing on the filthy cake? The back seat carpets were soaked in urine.

Do you know what I said when Mike showed me the ruined car? I said: THIS WOULD NEVER HAPPEN IN THE VALLEY.

More embarrassing than getting tea-bagged by a bronze bull.

I recently started going back through some of my old posts and oh man. Most of that crap is the rantings of an angsty teenager. Except I wasn't a teenager when I wrote it. Um, hi! EMBARRASSING.

I'd really like this website to be full of writing I can be proud of, whether the stories are funny or touching or sad or pointless, I don't want to be embarrassed by them. Ever since I made this realization about Growing The Fuck Up, I have really been trying to focus on the positive aspects of my life and that includes getting rid of all the self-pitying junk I've posted here in the past. Also, I think it's time I start taking myself a little less seriously. So, I'm going through all the old crap, deleting posts that are unsalvageable, and rewriting posts that I think can move from the Little Whiny Bitch category into the Could Possibly Make For An Interesting Story category. I've been at this for four and a half hours today (it's the weekend, give me a break) and so far I've made it through August 7, 2007. I've got a lot of work ahead of me.

This is where I will encourage you to take a look at some of the posts I've rewritten. I have yet to master the task of turning painful situations into funny stories, but I think I've been able to turn them from full-fledged pity parties into stories that are actually readable. If you have a minute to check them out, I'd love your thoughts. Some good examples of rewritten posts are here, here, here, and here,  although I started at the beginning and have rewritten nearly everything I've ever posted, if only to get rid of the obnoxious over-use of the word 'like', exclamation points, ellipses and my apparent inability to know when to turn off the caps lock key. 

Thanks for putting up with me you guys. It means a lot.

That's what you get.

One of the best pieces of advice my father has given me is: If you want to be a top student, always sit in the front row. Of course, I was a teenager when he said that to me, and too young/ignorant/bull-headed/self-conscious (take your pick) to pay attention to him. I'm much smarter now, so when Mike started school in January, I passed my father's advice on to him. And seeing as how Mike is much older/wiser/more confident/cooler than I was at 13, he actually took it.

On Tuesday he called me from school to tell me that several of his classmates had come up to him while he was studying in the library to ask for help with their homework. And they had said things like, "You're so on top of it, man. How do you do it? I want to be the kind of student you are." I could hear him beaming through the phone.

Wednesday he came home with an A on his health quiz and an extra hop in his step.

Thursday he came home with an A on his English paper and a story about the girl who sits behind him who asked if she could read his paper so she could "see what a good example of an A paper looks like."

Today he came home from school with an enormous, shit-eating grin on his face.
"How was school?" I asked.
"I sit in the front row in all my classes, right?" he begins. He looks so giddy I think his head might explode.
"Right. Because you're smart."
"Right. So, usually I'm the only person in the front row. But today, all of a sudden, there was a kid on either side of me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And they were both LOOKING AT MY WORK."
"Like, copying off you? Are you sure?"
"YES."
"Oh no! You're gonna end up being that dorky kid with the glasses who hovers over his work and hides it under his arms so no one can copy! I hated that kid!"
"Well, actually, I just wrote in all the wrong answers."
"What?"
"Yeah. We were doing this kind of quiz where the teacher writes all these equations on the board and we're supposed to work them out on our paper and then he calls on us randomly to go up and put our work on the board. So I just wrote down a bunch of random numbers that didn't make any sense because I knew I could wing it if I got called to the board. But the guys on either side of me copied exactly what I'd written and then, they both got called up to the board where, of course, they just wrote what they'd copied from me."

"Oh my gosh." 

"So of course the teacher nails them because not only do they both get the wrong answers, but their work doesn't make any sense. And I just start laughing. One of the guys looks at me and says, 'Dude! What happened?' and I said, 'That's why I'm not the teacher' and my teacher starts laughing too."

"But why would you do that?"
"Because I'm pretty sure no one will want to copy off me again."

No, but seriously. Seriously.

Have you ever wished for something only to realize after the fact that you had it all along? Maybe you didn't have exactly the very thing you were wishing for, but what you had was pretty damn close? Like in that South Park Christmas episode when the boys are really upset because they are so busy saving the world that they miss their annual Christmas adventure? Or the one where the boys are battling aliens who've stolen their game console, and the whole time they are talking about how bummed out they are that they're not at home shooting aliens on their game console?

Recently I reconnected with my seventh-grade best friend. (Thank you, Facebook!) She's doing great. She's married to a fireman, she has a Real Grown-Up Career, she and her husband own a two bedroom house in a nice suburb outside of L.A., and they are trying for their first baby. They have my dream life. She asked what I was up to so I told her all about our bitchen, how our tenement is only 12 foot steps from the front door to the back wall and how we lie in bed at night listening to the ceiling disintegrate. I told her about pounding the pavement, the daily rejection, and how we're so broke we never know whether or not we can afford food. And she replied: "You are living my dream life." I was like, WHAT? ARE YOU CRAZY?

And then I had this flashback. November, 2006. I'm sitting in my cozy, sun-drenched kitchen, in my beautiful Hollywood bungalow, across from my 100-grand-a-year-earning husband, crying into my soup about how unhappy I am and how I would just be happy if I could live my dream of moving to New York to pursue a career on Broadway. He says: we'll be broke, it will be hard, we'll spend a lot of money on a tiny, crappy apartment. I say: I don't care, it will be an adventure, it will be totally worth it.

Fast forward two years. February 23, 2009. Present day. The two-year anniversary of the Cross Country Move. Interior tenement apartment. Girl writing email to friend, bitching about how much she hates her life. She pauses, suddenly, realizing she is living the exact life that two years ago she claimed was her dream life.

How quickly I take for granted the things I once spent so much time pining for. Sure, my dreams have changed shape, but they had the freedom to do that because I accomplished the goals I set out for earlier. And how awesome is that? I've spent most of the last two years complaining about how hard and horrible everything is, instead of enjoying the adventure of it all. Yes, it's been hard. But I think it's time for me to quit my whining and learn how to pat myself on the back for checking goals off my goal list. And it's definitely time for me to start enjoying where I am right this second. I won't be on this adventure forever. Before I know it, I'll be looking back on this period of my life as something I did in my past. As my wise mama always reminds me, all we have is this moment right now. Love it. Because it too, shall pass.

Happy Anniversary, Dream Life. I'm sorry I said all that mean stuff about you before.

ASS-U-ME

The other night, Archie* wanted to take me out for a celebratory cocktail - his celebration, not mine, but who am I to turn down a cocktail? - so we headed to a gay bar around the corner from the tenement. Now, keep in mind that I am a married woman. For me, a gay bar is like a license to let loose. Put me in a room full of gay men and you've just given me a free pass for a wild night of shameless flirting. In a gay bar I can be as seductive, as dazzling, as gregarious as I want to be, because none of the boys have any interest in me. I can bat my eyelashes, laugh loudly and dance the night away without worrying for a second that I've given someone the wrong idea or that I'm asking for attention that I really don't want. I love gay bars.

We settle ourselves on a couple of bar stools and order two dirty gin martini's from the bartender. Minutes later, we're approached by a second bartender, a tall bartender, a gorgeous bartender with lustrous hair, full lips, broad shoulders and bedroom eyes. He just wants to make sure we've been taken care of and he makes us promise that if we need anything, we will yell for him. And then he starts chatting with us and he lingers, just a moment too long, making conversation. As soon as he walks away I jump on Archie.

"OH MY GOD HE'S GORGEOUS AND HE TOTALLY WANTS YOU."

"He's so hot! Do you really think he likes me? He's soooo hot." Archie has become a drooling, incoherent 12-year-old. That's what gorgeous men do to him.

"Um, yes! He was totally flirting with you!" And then in a sing-song voice: "He wants to marry you. He wants to have your baaaaabies." I am also a chattering, incoherent 12-year-0ld.

Archie is squealing. And panting.

"Five bucks if you get his number."

Panting. Squealing. More panting. "Ok. Ok. This is why you're my best friend. You put money on the table, so now I have to do it."

As soon as the first bartender drops our drinks off, Talldarkandgorgeous is back, to make sure we're happy. "Need anything else? Extra napkins?" His biceps are pulsating. "Extra olives? A foot rub?"

Archie and I start giggling. We're drunk on fantasy. Archie, no doubt, imagining a stellar romp in the sack and me, well, I'm picturing their wedding, the dress I'll wear, how I'll rent out my womb so they can have a child of their own. This is love at first sight and I am going to play Cupid. 

"I'm Trish. This is Archie."

"Justin*. It's nice to meet you." He shakes my hand and then takes Archie's. I watch, on the edge of my seat, as their fingers meet. Their eyes lock. The energy between them is palatable. I grab Archie's knee under the table and squeeze. Justin walks away and Archie and I press our foreheads together in ecstasy.

"HE SO WANTS YOU OH MY GOD."

"I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW I'M DYING!"

"ASK FOR HIS NUMBER."

"HOW?? I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY!"

So we start plotting. Whispering about how Archie will coyly, cleverly acquire this beautiful man's phone number. Archie is uncharacteristically nervous. That's how gorgeous this guy is. I mean, Archie always dates gorgeous guys, but this guy is an Adonis. We come up with a plan and we calm down a little, our conversation developing a natural flow. All the while, Justin is dropping by to check on us, joke with us, tease us, and shamelessly, relentlessly flirt. Before we have a chance to finish our martini's, Justin has brought us shots of something pink, sweet and wonderful. They're double shots, on the house. Just because, he says. A few minutes later, he's back with more. This time he takes a shot with us, proposing a toast to "New Friendships". We are giddy with the attention. Me, because it is fun to be fussed over by a gorgeous boy, especially if that boy prefers other boys, and Archie because, he's going home with a number! (It is that obvious.) When Archie wants to smoke a cigarette, I offer to stay and watch our stools, but Justin says no way, I should go, and he makes little signs out of napkins, to reserve our spots at the bar for us. I follow Archie outside and not thirty seconds later, Justin is outside too. I want very badly to get these two together, so I start asking Justin all about himself, to get the conversation going and also because Archie is too love struck to speak. Justin and I have a great conversation, and because I can, because it's safe, I'm totally flirting with him. Laughing at his jokes, complimenting him, batting my eyelashes, saying witty things. You know. The usual. 

The three of us head back inside, Archie and I squeezing each others hands because HOLY CRAP THIS IS A NIGHT TO REMEMBER, THE NIGHT ARCHIE MET THE MAN OF HIS DREAMS. Even though we swore to only have one drink and now we've had a drink and a couple of shots, we settle at the bar and order two more martinis. We can't leave now. Not before Archie gets the digits. Justin makes the drinks right in front of us and makes us extra - now we each have a full martini glass and a tumbler-full of gin. Dear God. And the three of us are giggling and laughing and having a wonderful time. Justin is flirting, I'm flirting, Archie is grinning so wide his face is about to crack. Archie mentions that I live just down the street and Justin says he works every Saturday and Sunday and we should come in more often! Why haven't we been in before? I ask him what else he does and he says, nothing, he just works at the bar twice a week and auditions the rest of the week. I'm floored. You only have to work here two nights a week? And you make enough to live? I want to be a bartender! How do I get a job as a bartender! And Justin says, "You just walk into any bar, say you want to work there and make sure the manager can see that gorgeous rack of yours."

"Did you just say I should show the manager my boobs?"

"Well, no. Don't be a slut about it. Just, you know..." and then he pulls his shirt off and picks up an ice cube. "You know, you shouldn't like, -" as he's talking, he starts running the ice cube up his perfectly sculpted, naked chest and around his nipples. He's trying to be sexy, and it is sexy, but it's also funny. He's doing a comedy routine. (Or else we're just that drunk.) He's prancing around behind the bar, swaying his hips like a girl and in a high, breathy voice, saying all the things he thinks I should NOT say, were I to interview for a bartending job. "Hey, looking for a bartender? Because I have lots of special bartending skills. I'm really good at making drinks, with my rack, I'm really pretty, and I have a great rack..." he bends over towards us and pushes his arms together, as if to create cleavage. I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe. Now in his regular voice, "You know. Don't do that. Just be yourself." He smiles, winks, and walks away.

I'm bent over with laughter, still, but Archie looks dubious.

"Oh my god. He is really funny. Weird, but funny!" I say, catching my breath.

"Um, yeah, Trish. And he's straight."

"What? No, he's not. He's been flirting with you all night! He just took his shirt off and pranced around for you."

"Gay men don't use the word 'rack'."

"What?"

"He said you have a 'gorgeous rack'. A 'great rack'. A gay man would never say that."

"Oh, whatever. Straight guys don't bartend at gay bars."

Archie waves at bartender #1 and he comes over. 

"Hey, we're just wondering. Is Justin gay or straight?"

Bartender #1 smiles. "Straight. And his girlfriend just broke up with him a couple of weeks ago. Maybe you can help him out, sweetheart." And he looks right at me.

"No. No. No, nonononono." I hold up my left hand. "Married! I'm married. Married. Happily."

"Oh, too bad. He's been flirting with you all night."

"Me?? No, no, no. He's been flirting with Archie all night!"

"No, honey. He's been flirting with you. I'm gay, though." And he winks at Archie. Unfortunately, he's short and round and funny looking and not at all Archie's type. 

Archie sighs, a huge, heavy sigh. "Well, I'm glad I didn't ask for his number. And hey, at least we got all those free shots." He looks disappointed. I think he's trying to cheer himself up.

"Oh my god." I bury my face in my hands. I'm completely humiliated. Here, I've been acting like a trollop for the last two hours, all because I thought I was safe, I thought it was harmless, I thought I was helping a friend. And really, I've been doing THE EXACT OPPOSITE. I've made a complete ass of myself. So much for that free pass to a wild night.

So. Embarrassing. Seriously. 

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

The Intrepid Looms

The Intrepid Looms.

It's snowing for the first time today since it snowed on December 19th. Ok, it has snowed since then, but only little sloppy bits of snow that turn immediately into rain and suck my ass. Today it's snowing in a pretty way, in a way that suggests it might actually stick around long enough to pile up so that I might actually get to build a snowman this week. I wonder if that would lift my spirits?

I'm not sure why, but I've spent the last 24 hours in my Black Hole Of Despair. Meaning: I spent all day yesterday in my jammies, on my hands and knees scrubbing the tenement floor, sobbing. At least now the floors are really clean. I mean, REALLY clean. I went over them three times. I had a lot of crying to do. But Ah! Such Clean Floors!

I have no reason to be in the Black Hole Of Despair (BHOD). Things are good! Mike registered for classes on Thursday - his schedule is great, he's taking a full load and his work schedule won't interfere with his classes at all. Except that he won't get to sleep much. Oh, and he won't ever be at home. But I'm not complaining - I'm really excited for him and I want to do whatever I can to make this easier on him because I know what a challenge it is to be a full time student and have a job. Although, I was lucky enough never to have to work full time when I was a student, a luxury he does not, so far, have. I would like him to have that luxury, I really would. Which is, ah ha! part of why I'm so freaked out. He also applied for his student loan, which we are waiting to hear back about. NERVOUS. That's what I am. I'm very very NERVOUS. School is expensive and we can barely pay our bills. I'm seriously wondering if we can get by without cell phones. And internet. I mean, I could just check my email at the library down the street, right? And if people know to email me instead of calling me, I could live without a phone, couldn't I? I could make phone calls at the pay phone on the corner, couldn't I? That is totally reasonable. And how important is electricity, honestly? We could just light candles at night. It could work. No, no, I'M NOT JOKING. I NEED SOME HELP.

Yesterday we got three letters from three literary agents that Mike queried. The first one was from a woman to whom he'd sent the first two pages of the book and a synopsis. She wrote asking him to send her the first fifty pages of the novel. HOW WONDERFUL IS THAT? I was elated. And then we opened the other two letters. Thanks, but no thanks, they said. I took it much harder than he did. He shrugged and said he hadn't expected anything else and he was just happy that one person wanted to read more of his work. It was all I could do not to throw up. I wanted to die. Seems this is going to be harder on me than it is on him. Is that what threw me into the BHOD?

I'm a ball of anxiety. I need another job. I applied for eight different jobs yesterday. I'm terrified that we won't be able to cover our February rent. I hate this apartment. I want to move as soon as possible because the rent is eating us alive. I don't see how we will be able to move considering our current financial state. My agent hasn't sent me on an audition since before Thanksgiving. Since my LIFE ON MARS audition. That was nearly two months ago. Oh god, the world feels so hopeless today.

How do you keep from losing your mind when you feel like this? I'm assuming I'm not the only one who feels like this sometimes? I'm exercising, I'm taking my serotonin-enhancing vitamins. I'm trying to keep a positive attitude, but I'm sick to my stomach. I'm so terrified I feel paralyzed. And I'm starting to get paranoid about little things, like the pimple on my left cheek that doesn't look like a pimple and has been there for over two months. I think it's skin cancer. I'm probably dying. And I'm tired all the time. I have horrible black circles under my eyes even though I'm sleeping ten hours a night. My neck muscles have been sore for the last three weeks. I think the cancer is spreading to my lymph nodes. But I'll never know because we don't have health insurance, so I can't go to the doctor. And this is all ENTIRELY MY FAULT. I AM THE ONE WHO INSISTED ON DISRUPTING OUR EASY LITTLE LIFE IN CALIFORNIA. I AM THE ONE WHO INSISTED ON MOVING TO NYC WHERE WE ARE BROKE AND HAVE NO HEALTH INSURANCE AND LIVE AMONGST FILTH IN A NASTY TENEMENT ON THE HUDSON RIVER. You might be thinking, So why don't you just go back to California and quit yer whining? Well, I just can't. I just can't. I want to figure out a way to get through this. To survive this. To beat this. I can't chicken out now, when things are just starting to happen. I'd never forgive myself.

But wouldn't I make a great sitcom character? The crazy neighbor who lives without electricity and gets really depressed and convinces herself that she's dying of cancer when she's clearly just being a drama queen? Are you laughing yet? Please laugh. Please, someone, get something positive out of this. I'd like to, ONLY THIS IS MY LIFE. THIS IS REAL FOR ME. I ACTUALLY THINK I'M DYING. 

Alright, alright. Enough is enough. I refuse to spend the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself. I refuse. In fact, right now, I'm going to pick myself up off the couch, wash my face, get dressed, and do something productive. HEY. BLACK HOLE OF DESPAIR, YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME. HEAR THAT? YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME.

UPDATE:
I just sent an email about a job and they asked me to write all this stuff about my life goals and whatnot, and IT MADE ME FEEL SO MUCH BETTER. At the end of the email, I actually thanked them. And then I re-read this, and the gloom has vanished. Really. Everything is going to be ok. I'm sure of it. (Insert huge sigh of relief here.)

Touched by the Christmas spirit. Not in a creepy way, don't worry.

Surprised by a day off - I thought the temp agency was going to call me for work today but they didn't - which is too bad because, holy crap, I'm unemployed - but it's also good because who really wants to spend a snowy, wintry day stuck in some crappy cubicle at some crappy temp job? I mean, really.

Anyway, since I've some spare time today, I thought I'd tell you the story of how the Christmas spirit touched me this week. It all started this past weekend when my husband and I had a little falling out because I felt like he wasn't taking Christmas seriously enough and he felt like I was being childish. And maybe I was. I don't know. Christmas has always been my favorite holiday and the weeks leading up to it have always been my favorite time of year. In my family, as I imagine in most families, Christmas really is a wonderful celebration of, well, family. And it's not just the 24th and 25th that are special. Weeks before, we gather together to drink eggnog and trim the tree. Even after all of us were grown and had our own trees in our own homes, the trimming of Mama and Papa's tree continues to be a family tradition: A chance for us to joke and laugh and talk about our Christmas wishes and admire all the ornaments that we'd made throughout the years. My parents tree is not draped with store-bought balls and trinkets. No, no. My parents tree is hung full of memories - each ornament has a story, a memory attached. The family Christmas tree, hugged by hundreds of ornaments made by each of us over the last forty some-odd years. Here are egg-shell ornaments made by Nana before any of us kids were born, here are the milkmaids and geese-a-layin' and golden rings made by Mama when her children were babies, here are ornaments made by my brothers and sister when I was still just a glint in Papa's eye, here is the first ornament I made in pre-school, here hangs Sweetie's scarf, here is the glass ball gifted to me by my brother when I was five, here is the little cardboard Santa put on Mama's dinner tray when she was still in the hospital after Trina was born, and it goes on and on, this tree shrouded in the past of my family. 

I am married to a wonderful man who cares deeply about the environment and what Earth will be like for his grand-children. This means that he does not believe in cutting down a tree to put in one's living room for a couple of weeks just so that it can end up in a landfill by January 1st. Then there is the matter of us being Adults with Responsibilities and A Budget and the fact that one of us (me) is Unemployed. So even if he did believe in the cutting down of balsam firs for the holidays, a Christmas tree is not in The Budget. Especially not an environmentally-friendly reusable "fake" tree. And this is largely due to decisions I have made that affect our life, so please do not think I am laying blame. I am not. But as a result, I have been feeling very sad at the absence of Christmas in my life this year - because that's what it's felt like. 

Maybe you, like my husband, think I'm being ridiculous about the whole thing. But in my childhood family tradition, the tree is always at the center of things, like a symbol of the family. It is hard enough to spend such an important day away from my family, but to have to do it without any semblance of the things that make the day special for me? And of course, I left all of my Christmasy things in a box in my parents garage in California, apparently to give myself a reason to feel blue for the holidays. I know, this is a superficial, first-world problem. If this is the worst thing that happens to me all year, I am extremely fortunate. I know. And I try to take comfort in that. Call me ridiculous, but maybe I would be further comforted if I thought my husband felt as strongly about the holiday as I do, because then at least I could believe that we would make our own holiday magic. But instead I think that for him it is really just another day. He's spent more Christmases at work than he has with family, so it doesn't hold the same kind of importance for him. And so I feel very, very alone.

Until last Sunday.

My dear, sweet, wonderful husband went against his beliefs and brought home a Christmas tree. When I walked into the living room Sunday night and was met with the spicy sent of pine and the beautiful tree sitting there, proudly spreading her boughs, I nearly collapsed in a pile of sobs. And he started laughing and wrapped his arms around me and whispered sweet nothings until I was laughing too. And I suddenly realized how silly I've been because I am not separated from my family this Christmas. My childhood family is in my heart and my husband, my chosen family, is right here with his arms around me. It turns out I was all wrong about him - he's thrilled to share the Christmas magic from my childhood and he is eager to make our own memories and traditions. This is our first Christmas as our own little family, just the two of us and our animals. So our first tradition? Crying over the tree. No, no, I kid. We started by making our own special ornaments to hang on the tree. A tradition in my childhood family, and now in my married family. We pulled out my collection of craft supplies and combed the tenement for things that could be turned into ornaments. We dedicated a whole evening to making ornaments. And years from now, our children and grand-children will recognize these ornaments as the ones we made for our very first Christmas alone and together. 'Here is the cork from the bottle of champagne they opened on their wedding day,' they'll say. 'And here is the lacy snow drop Papa Mike made, here is a broken crystal saved from great-great-great Aunt Sue's crystal lamp, here is a wind-up toy from Mama Ish's 2003 Christmas stocking, here is the box of Christmas Cheer that great-Grandmama sent to New York for their first Christmas away from home,' and on and on.

I've been told over and over that it is time for me to grow up and become my own family with my husband. I don't want to have a separate family from the one that I was born into, but I suppose that is the way it works? My parents had to separate from their childhood families in order to create the family that I so treasure. I am just so thankful that I found such a wonderful person to do it with. Not to mention that whenever life leads me back home to California, Christmases spent with my childhood family and my married family all together will be treasured that much more.

It's still on my mind, pretty constantly.

Remember when I posted this? About all the sacrifices that actors make? Well, it was recently brought to my attention that that quote suggests that if you aren't some kind of an artist living an exciting life, then you must be a regular old boring home owner. And I was really unreasonably hurt when I discovered that someone I love and respect thought that I was trying to say that. The thing is, that is not what the quote meant at all. Not even a little bit. At least not to me.

David Ackert, the guy who I quoted (and who, by the way, I don't know anything about except that he said that and I love it) is not referring to, let alone idolizing, celebrities and famous actors. Celebrities are freaks of nature - and I mean that in a respectful way. I believe that Mr. Ackert is referring to your average working actor. He's talking about me. He's talking about the fact that I am pursuing a dream despite the very real possibility that I may NEVER own my own house. I may NEVER be in the appropriate financial situation to purchase a new car, let alone a weekend cottage. I may NEVER be in the right situation to feel comfortable starting my own family. He's talking about the fact that every single morning when I wake up, I have to deal with the reality that I have no idea where my next job is coming from. I have no idea how I will make my rent in two weeks. I don't even know if I will be able to pay my electric bill. And on top of that, my refrigerator is literally nearly empty. Not packed full of food and I just don't like what's in it. No. It's literally almost empty. Open my refrigerator and find some expired condiments and the stale heel of a loaf of bread. And I have to figure out a way to make a meal out of that. But please, don't think I am complaining. I live this way by choice - because I believe that if I persist, if I am patient, if I work hard, I will get another acting job and it will have been worth it.  (And besides, most of the time I earn enough at whatever J-O-B I'm working that I end up able to cover the rent and stuff, so it isn't all THAT bad. But sometimes it is. And that's why I'm consumed with credit card debt. And also why I no longer socialize with friends. It's too damn expensive.)

When I get called for an audition, I devote hours, days, sometimes weeks to developing a character and researching the role - I give my heart and soul. And then I walk into the audition room and open my wrists and let my heart-blood spill on the filthy floor and 99 times out of a 100 they knew before I even opened my mouth that they would not hire me because I look too young. Or I look too old. Or I'm not pretty enough. Or I'm not tall enough. Or they really wanted a redhead. But I do it anyway. I have no security, no way of knowing for sure, no health insurance, no IRA, no 401k, no savings account. But I have hope. And I work my ass off. And it's fucking terrifying. It is the most terrifying thing I have ever done in my life. Sometimes it is so terrifying that I spend months in a black hole of despair, unable to do more than function on a most basic level. And in those months, I disappear from the internets because I can't think of a single positive or funny thing to say. That's where I was for most of September, all of October and the majority of November. And then, miracle of miracles, my hard work paid off and I booked a role on ABC's 'Life On Mars'.

I posted that quote as a way of trying to clear up the despair that was fogging my brain. It had been so long since I'd had an acting job that I'd forgotten why I choose to live this difficult life. I wanted to feel a connection with other actors and feel like I'm not the only one who feels as if she is giving up everything. Because the truth is, if I'd taken another career path, I'd probably already own a house. I'd surely own a car. Maybe I'd even be getting ready to welcome a baby into this wild world - an event I have dreamt of my entire life. I do not feel like people who are not actors aren't worthy or loyal. I envy them. I envy their lovely lives and pray I might have that life one day, too. I just wanted to feel like what I'm doing has some sort of purpose. And it does.

It hurt me that that quote was taken so out of context. It's taken me a while to respond because I couldn't figure out why I took it so personally - I know I'm being ridiculous. Surely my beloved family member didn't intend to hurt my feelings. I know I have a tendency to take things WAY too personally and I'd really like to be the kind of person who lets stuff like that slide off my back. I've really had to think about it and I think what it comes down to is that I felt grossly misunderstood. And terribly unappreciated. But why should anybody appreciate the choices I make? In some ways, my life must seem pretty ridiculous. Why would I choose to be so broke that I risk having my lights turned off and I can't afford to make a grocery run? Why do I spend my electric bill money on another acting class? It's fucking crazy. It's absurd. But if I spent the time and energy it takes to earn a larger income, I would not be able to spend the time and energy required to book that next acting job. So I make the trade off. I am broke and I won't get to spend Christmas with my family because I can't afford the plane tickets or the days off from the J-O-B, hell, I can't even afford a Christmas tree. (Have you ever had a Christmas without a tree? This is my second one. Talk about bleak.) But what I get in return is the time to go to auditions. And I can't give more of an explanation than that. I can say that I've just spent a week on the set of a network television show and EVERY SINGLE DAY I had to pinch myself because I couldn't believe I was actually there. For a full week, I sat on set looking around at the lights and the props and the other actors and the make-up crew and I felt absolutely breathless. It took every ounce of self-control in my body not to break out dancing like a maniac to the constant chant in my head of "THIS IS MY JOB THIS IS MY JOB THIS IS MY JOB!" And I may not know when the next job will come along, but I know that my rent is covered this month, thank god. And I believe that another job will come along eventually and if I get to be that blissfully, perfectly happy for another couple of days, than the weeks and months of hardship in between will have been totally worth it.

You don't have to understand. You don't have to care. I just had to explain it. Maybe more to myself than to you. Believe me, I quietly envy your beautiful home, your weekend cottage, your gorgeous car, and your happy family. And I hope and pray that one day I might have a life like yours. I respect you and all that you do. I love you. And if I never get to achieve the many things that you have worked so hard for, well, maybe you'll invite me over for dinner so I can live vicariously through you? And anyway, life is a journey and I will have to find whatever good I can along the way. I am blessed with a loving family, an exquisitely supportive husband, and the wisdom to enjoy what I have - despite the fact that it is nothing like what I thought I would have at my age. 

P.S. Just in case you're wondering why my husband doesn't get a higher paying job so that we don't have to be so broke, it's because he is also an artist and he is making the same sacrifices I am making so that he can pursue his dream. This is our gift to each other. The ability to recklessly chase our dreams until we succeed or decide that another dream is calling our attention. And it is worth it. It is worth it.

P.P.S. Yes, I realize that in our current economic crisis, many many many people wonder how they will make their mortgage, rent, buy groceries, etc. I realize that I am not alone. I know that I am actually lucky, because at least I don't know how I'll pay my rent by choice. But were we not in this horrid economic crisis - fuck it. You know what I'm trying to say. Hopefully. If you don't, nothing I say will make you understand. And when I say "you" I'm not talking to anyone in particular, but to everyone and anyone who reads this. 

P.P.S.S. Can I get an award for Worlds Longest Blog Post Ever? And also maybe an award for Girl Who Takes Herself Way Too Fucking Seriously? I have definitely earned that one.

This is what's been on my mind, pretty constantly, for the last several weeks. It's keeping me awake at night, so pay close attention.

Actor David Ackert said this on his website. A good friend of mine, who is also one of my mentors, sent this to me a couple of years ago, probably when she was the age I am now, and feeling the way I've been feeling.

Actors are some of the most driven, courageous people on the face of the earth. They deal with more day-to-day rejection in one year than most people do in a lifetime. Every day, actors face the financial challenge of living a freelance lifestyle, the disrespect of people who think they should get "real" jobs, and their own fear that they'll never work again. Every day, they have to ignore the possibility that the vision they have dedicated their lives to is a pipe dream. With every role, they stretch themselves, emotionally and physically, risking criticism and judgment. With every passing year, many of them watch as the other people their age achieve the predictable milestones of normal life - the car, the family, the house, the nest egg.

But they stay true to their dream, in spite of the sacrifices. Why?

Because actors are willing to give their entire lives to a moment - to that line, that laugh, that gesture, or that interpretation that will stir the audience's soul. Actors are beings who have tasted life's nectar in that crystal moment when they poured out their creative spirit and touched another's heart. In that instant, they were as close to magic, God, and perfection as anyone could ever be. And in their own hearts, they know that to dedicate oneself to that moment is worth a thousand lifetimes.

Discuss.

Bare-assed and grinning.

This one time, about two years ago, I was at a callback for a new musical theatre workshop. I had auditioned the day before with a song and they had really really loved me. The director actually said, "I really really love you. You are so good-looking. Will you go out with me?" All right, I'm kidding. He didn't ask me out. But he did say, "I really really love you, will you come back for a callback tomorrow? You're the most good-looking and talented girl I've ever met," (Or at least that's what I chose to hear.)

There are about twenty other girls at the callback and a choreographer. And a boombox. And a shiny hard-wood floor. And the walls aren't walls, but giant floor to ceiling mirrors. And it becomes clear to me that I'm going to be asked to dance.

You may not know this about me, but I'm really not a dancer. I am super bendy and really strong because of all the yoga I do, but I am not a dancer. In fact, I believe myself to be a very bad dancer, so the very thought of dancing in a room full of strangers is enough to send me into Full Panic Mode.

So here I am, in a room full of dancers, surrounded by mirrors, and a very uptight and irritated-sounding choreographer is there and she's yelling at us to chasse and patada and releve and she might as well be speaking French. Which I actually think is exactly what she's doing. The dancers are dancing all around me and I'm trying desperately to copy what they're doing. And I think, considering that I am not a dancer, that I'm doing pretty well. I'm actually kind of having fun. I'm actually not panicking. And then it happens.

In the midst of my pathetic attempt to patada, my foot gets caught in the leg of my very stylish goucho pants and in less than a second, the waist of my pants is wrapped around my ankles, and I've fallen on my face in the middle of the room. The dancers continue dancing around me as I feverishly try to get my pants up where they belong, but because my feet are so tangled in the fabric of the damned goucho's I am not having much luck. Instead, I'm rolling around on the floor like an upended beetle with my bare ass hanging out (because of course I'm wearing the ittiest bittiest thong I own) and I can see myself in the mirrors, red-faced and grappling with what seems like yards of unending fabric and my ankles are completely tied together and I just keep rolling around on the floor, my ass in full view and the dancers are whizzing around me and hissing at me to GET OUT OF THE WAY.

I finally righted myself and got my pants back in place. But after that, it didn't really matter. The director, who'd seen the whole thing, looked - well, he clearly wasn't impressed. Neither was the choreographer. I tried to keep a smile pasted on my face and I tried to keep going, but it was only a few minutes before they said, "thank you, we'll give you a call," and I was (blessedly) allowed to go home.

No, they never called.

And yes, I made a similar mistake another time, but this time in front of a Tony Award Winning Playwright. No, I didn't get that role either. I am awesome.

Rocky the Grizzly Bear

Yesterday, 'Rocky' the five-year-old grizzly bear that wrestled with Will Ferrell in 'Semi-Pro' bit his trainer on the neck. His trainer, Stephan Miller, died from the injury. Click here to read a news article about it.

I want to offer my prayers and sympathy to the family and friends of Stephan Miller.

Now I want to say that when a human being makes the decision to "train" a wild animal such as a grizzly bear, they are making the decision to risk their life. The California Department of Fish and Game (DFG) will be conducting an "investigation" to "decide" what should happen to Rocky as a result of his trainer's death. It is very likely that Rocky will be destroyed.

I URGE you to contact the DFG and protest Rocky's euthanization. I am very sorry that Mr. Miller was killed. I think it's terrible. But Rocky is a wild animal and wild animals do what their instincts tell them to do. Rocky is NOT a cruel or calculating killer. He's just a bear. He does not deserve to die. He never asked to be kept in a cage and "trained". Can you imagine how he must have felt as humans were "training" him? He must have felt as if he was being teased and taunted almost constantly. HE DOES NOT DESERVE TO BE DESTROYED.

If you agree with me, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE write a letter and/or send an email to the DFG. I did both. The mailing address for the DFG is:

DFG Headquarters
1416 9th Street
Sacramento, CA 95814

Click here to send an email.

Below is a copy of what I both emailed and hand-wrote to the DFG. Feel free to copy it, or of course, write your own.

My heart breaks for this bear. I pray that his life is spared.

To whom it may concern:

Regarding 'Rocky' the five-year-old Grizzly that killed his trainer Stephan Miller at the Predators in Action facility on Tuesday, April 22, 2008.

I understand that you are conducting an investigation to decide how Rocky should be 'dealt with' since he killed his trainer this week. Please, please, please take into consideration the fact that human beings who choose to "train" these wild animals are also choosing to risk their lives. Grizzly bears are wild animals. They are not cruel, calculating killers. Whatever reason Rocky had for biting his trainer, he had his wild grizzly bear reason. I feel terrible for Mr. Miller and his family. However, I am certain that Mr. Miller would have admitted that when he decided to work with a grizzly bear, he knew he was risking his life.

As you well know, grizzlies are a rare breed that must be preserved. To euthanize this bear because he followed his instincts would be cruel and terrible. He never asked to be kept in a cage and made to do tricks. He does NOT deserve to be punished because he behaved as what he is - a wild animal.

Please be thoughtful and wise in making your decision regarding what will happen to him now. It would be a travesty if he were to be destroyed as a result of human choices.

Thank you.

The Sweatshirt.

I have this sweatshirt. I bought it at the Salvation Army in 2002, while I was in college. I think it cost $3.00. I bought it to cover up my body, because I was a little bit chubby at the time and I was ashamed. It's dark heather grey, a pull-over with a hood and a pocket in the front, the kind you can put both your hands in at once. A kangaroo pocket. I called it my "fat shirt". It's big and baggy and I wore it religiously, every day, no matter the weather, because I thought no one could tell how fat I was underneath it.

Shortly after I bought it, because I thought it would be funny, I wrote "I'd rather be dead" on the front of it in very small letters with a black sharpie. It caused a huge controversy at school that led to one of my teachers calling me on a nightly basis to make sure I was alright, as well as practically mandatory counseling sessions with the school counselor. (All right, to be perfectly honest, it wasn't just the sweatshirt that caused this. It was also because when asked what I was grateful for in a class exercise one day, I said I was grateful that "suicide is always an option" but I was only trying to fuck with my classmates, whom I loathed. It worked. A little too well.)

"I'd rather be dead" has faded now so that one can hardly read it. Some time ago I ripped holes in the cuffs so I could hook my thumbs through, almost like the sweatshirts sleeves turn into little mittens at the end. Fingerless mittens. There are bleach stains all down the left sleeve, from the time Jackson caught Parvo and we had to bleach the whole house. The pocket is torn on the right side, it's ripped halfway off, but I don't care. In fact, all the seems are frayed and pulled apart. There are holes in several places too, but I barely notice them. It's my favorite sweatshirt. Still. Even though it is no longer necessary to hide underneath it, it still feels like the coziest thing in the world to pull it on. It's not even soft anymore. It's been washed so many times the inside of it is scratchy. But I don't care. I ignore that. If I was a teenager, my mother would beg me to throw it out, but I would refuse. If I was a dude, my girlfriend would beg me to throw it out, but I would refuse. I'm certain that the only reason Poompy hasn't asked me to toss it is because he has a t-shirt that is in similar condition, which he wears almost as often as I wear my sweatshirt. It's long since lost it's aesthetic appeal, but I love it still. It's just so comforting. It's like slipping on an old friend.

But I wonder.... what is it exactly that I'm holding on to? I own several other sweatshirts, all much nicer, softer, very comfy. It certainly doesn't look cool or fashionable or even cute. It looks like a fucking disaster. But I wear it anyway.

How often do we find ourselves holding on to things that we don't really need? What about relationships? How often do we stay in friendships that we don't really belong in anymore? Do I hold on to things and people that I should really let go of? Is it possible to grow out of a friendship, but fail to be aware of it? The way I've grown past this grimy old sweatshirt, but refuse to part with it? What do you do when the only thing holding you together is a hidden stash of dusty old memories?

What do you do when you suddenly realize that someone you've grown up with isn't who you thought they were? Or you realize that you are no longer who they think you are? And for the first time, you notice all the little ways they have boxed you in, refused to see you changing, refused to believe that you may not be the child you once were. All of a sudden it's glaringly clear that this person's expectations of you are so low, it's actually insulting? How do you continue in a friendship with someone who absolutely cannot see past the past?

At least I still feel comfortable and safe in the sweatshirt. In the friendship, I just feel trapped.

I am the unlicked cub.

Excerpt from Four Dogs and a Bone by John Patrick Shanley.

Bradley: I'm gonna tell you a little story.
Victor: Oh, please don't.
Bradley: Once there was a great big pregnant bear.
Victor: Are you really doing this?
Bradley: And after a painful labor, she gave birth to seven baby bears.
Victor: Seven.
Bradley: So she was very tired.
Victor: Sure.
Bradley: And she looked at her seven babies, and they were all gooey and slimy with afterbirth. And in that miraculous way that Nature has built the bear, she felt in her heart a tremendous welling up of material feeling.
Victor: Maternal feeling.
Bradley: Right. And this maternal feeling filled her with strength, so she licked and licked and licked her babies, one after the other, rendering them clean and fresh and beautiful. That is until she got to the seventh little bear. Right then, she ran out of gas, hadda seizure, and dropped dead. Muerto. And the six, well-tended little bears, with their beautiful brown coats, shed a tear, a tender tear, and bounded off into the woods. To have wonderful lives. And the seventh cub, the unlicked cub, went into show business.


I am not sure why, but somehow I am the unlicked cub. Not just because I chose to go into show business (well, let’s be honest here. I didn't really choose to go into show business. I mean I did, but seriously, my other option was an early death and since I seem to be some kind of a survivor or something, I chose show business) but because I am terribly self-defeating. It’s a daily struggle. Not to be self-defeating. It’s much easier to trash my self-worth than, you know, feel good about myself. (In case you haven't noticed) I've been really negative lately. That’s the unlicked cub in me. The good news is that I’m pretty aware of it, so I’m trying to counter the negative crap with some positive, flowery, butterflies-and-rainbows crap. Sometimes it works. Other times, not so much.

We all remember the miserably humiliating audition I had a week and a half ago. I was still so shaken up from that experience that I managed to completely sabotage my audition this past Monday. Let me take you back to Monday morning so you have an idea of how I treat myself. I got up that morning and I started to get ready for the audition. I ate a nice breakfast. I warmed up my voice. I took a shower. And then I looked in the mirror and I said, “You are so ugly. Your face is disgusting. What’s wrong with you? You’ll make a complete idiot of yourself if you go to that audition today. You’re pathetic. Moron. Idiot. You’re fat too. Just so you know. Ugly and fat. And disgusting.” Meet my inner-monster, Dip Shit. Dip Shit is the one with the vocabulary of a sixth-grader who says all those mean things to me whenever I look in the mirror. She isn't even creative about it. I hate her. But she managed to keep me in front of the mirror for over an hour, rambling on and on about what a disgusting, ugly, nasty, worthless-piece-of-human-flesh I am. By the time Poompy woke up, I was a tearful lump on the bedroom floor and I refused to go to my audition. Picture this: Poompy standing over me while I crouch on the bedroom floor crying that I can’t go to my audition because I’m too fat and ugly. Reading that as I type it, I see how ridiculous it sounds. But our words have a lot of power and I let myself ruin my day. However… an interesting thing was in the works. Is in the works.

I recently had a dream about Sandra Oh, who is an actress I have a lot of admiration for, where she sees me in a play and comes up to me afterwards to tell me that I, little old me, am her favorite actress, that she has all kinds of respect for me, and that I inspire her. And then she promises to always be in the audience for any performance I ever give, every time, ad infinitum. It was a truly fantastic dream. I tell my mom about it and then forget I ever had it. Then I get an email from Mamacita and she p.s.’s “What do you think that dream about Sandra Oh is about?” and I don’t answer her. But it gets me thinking.

Tuesday night Poompy met me at work to walk me home, just for fun. We decided to walk across and down through Central Park, even though it is longer, because it is so lovely. Walking through Central Park is heaven. It strips me of any sorrows or stresses or frustrations. We held hands like young lovers as we walked. We stopped at Turtle Pond and watched the turtles. We stopped at Bethesda fountain and sat beneath her and talked. We marveled at Cleopatra’s Needle. By the time we were back in Hell’s Kitchen I was totally relaxed and comfortable. So Poompy asked me what was going on and why did I sabotage my own audition the day before? I couldn’t answer. But I told him about my Sandra Oh dream. He asked me what Sandra Oh means to me and I told him he’s turning into my father. (My dad is wonderful at dissecting the meaning of dreams. But that’s always his first question when you tell him about a dream: What does [insert subject of dream here] mean to you?) Poompy ignored my smart-ass remark and reiterated his question.

When I think of Sandra Oh, I think of Dr. Christina Yang from Grey’s Anatomy. Dr. Yang is my favorite character on the show. She’s f-ing awesome. She’s a total hard-ass. She doesn’t let any personal crap get in her way, ever. Being a surgeon is her number one priority. Nothing gets in her way. Nothing. She fights tooth and nail to make sure she gets in on all the best surgeries, all the best cases. She’s a total Lion. She knows she’s a brilliant surgeon. She knows she’s the best intern at the hospital. She knows she’s got more talent in her little finger than 99% of the world’s best surgeons. And she’s not afraid to tell people exactly that. She’s all like, “Screw you! I’m the best surgeon in this hospital! Blah!” She’s not pompous or self-absorbed, she just knows these things about herself because they are true. And no one second guesses her because they know she’s right. She’s honest about everything, too. She’s not afraid to tell people Exactly What She Thinks. She doesn’t give a shit about what people think of her. She doesn’t cover up her feelings out of politeness. She doesn’t bend over backwards to please other people at her own expense. If she were auditioning for Broadway shows, she would not even think about letting an accompanist tell her to change her audition piece just as the audition was starting. I envy her. I envy everything about her. She’s my secret-fantasy of myself.

So I tell Poompy all of this. And he gets this very serious look on his face. And he says, “You know that Christina Yang is you. In the dream. Every one in your dream is you. So, there is a part of you that is just as strong and forward and honest and hard-assed and confident as Christina Yang. And that part of you came forward in your sub-conscious, while you were asleep, to tell you that she admires you. That she thinks you’re talented and wonderful. That you inspire her! The part of you that is Christina Yang has just promised you that she will never leave you. That you are so captivating that she must be present for every single one of your performances.”

It’s kind of thrilling to think that there is a part of me that is Dr. Christina Yang. And even more thrilling to think that that part of me actually admires the rest of me. So maybe there is a part of me that is a little monster, a nasty little monster with a tiny vocabulary and nothing nice to say. But if I know that there is also a part of me that is Dr. Christina Yang, I think I can survive this. I know I can survive this. I will survive this. I will survive. One day, all these little trials will make for some awesome chapters in my biography. I just have to remember that.

Ouch

Tonight was supposed to be the first meeting of the study/support group I'm starting for actors. I sent out the email invitations a week and a half ago. I invited all of the (12) actors I've met in this city, whose work/work ethic/character I admired. I invited them to each invite an actor friend whom they admired. I asked them all to bring a monologue they'd prepared, to share with the group. I have been looking forward to this for weeks. I had been looking forward to this for weeks before I even invited anyone. I even came up with the perfect name for the group - Actors Study and Support, or, A.S.S. It's perfect, right? Just imagine it. Wouldn't you like to be an A.S.S. member? 

All but four of the actors responded that they'd be in rehearsal or on vacation or otherwise unable to attend, but that they thought it was a great idea and wanted to participate in the future. Four people said they'd definitely be there. I was pretty thrilled. Four people is a pretty good start, I thought. Poompy and I went shopping on Tuesday and bought a beautiful baked brie and some lovely crackers to go with it, a gorgeous bunch of grapes, soybeans in-the-pod, cherries, soda and sparkling water. I raced home from work today and I baked chocolate chip cookies and brownies and made iced tea. Then I set everything out using all my lovely serving ware that I got as wedding gifts. And then I sat and waited. And waited. The meeting was to start at 8:00. I was ready at 7:30 in case anyone showed up early. But no one did. Finally, at about 8:15 I checked my email. Three of the four people emailed me after 2 p.m. today to tell me they couldn't make it. There was one more possible guest. I called her. I got her voice mail. About five minutes later she called back, very apologetic, she'd forgotten that it was tonight, she was at a bar with some friends, but she'll definitely be at the next one!

I feel like the nerdy girl in the movie whose mother throws her the beautiful Sweet 16 party, and then not a single guest shows up. I know, I know. I get my expectations all worked up over things that are beyond my control. But even still. I shouldn't have gone to so much trouble. Without being aware of what I was doing, I tried to turn this into a little party - a celebration of what it is to be an Actor in NYC. But no one else wanted to celebrate.

I guess the thing to remember is that at the end of the movie, the nerdy girl always gets her Dream Guy. So if this were a movie, and I was the nerdy girl, Broadway would be my Dream Guy. So fuck it. A.S.S. doesn't have to be important to you because no matter what, it will always be important to me. I love A.S.S. I can get A.S.S. all by myself. I don't need a group of people to get something important and meaningful out of A.S.S. I can do it alone.

One day, I'm going to be a Broadway Star and when I am winning my 7th Tony, you'll be telling your kids, "I used to know her! She invited me to be a part of her A.S.S. and I never showed up to the meetings......"

So there.

A.S.S. is for winners.