Why Online Dating is like Auditioning… or Sorority Recruitment

Equity has Wi-fi!  This has already improved my life immensely.  Obviously I brought my computer to do work and therefore am going to write a blog post instead.

I thought about writing something about why being here at all is a bit ridiculous to begin with.  Yesterday I left the house to go to an EPA and had to turn around after walking a block and a half to change my shoes because it was SO SLIPPERY out because HI it snowed on Monday while I was working a 13 hour shift outdoors.  I then took an $11  cab to the E train at 53^rd street (thinking this struck a good balance between cost-effectiveness and making up for lost time) to arrive at 8:10 or so for 9am sign up for a 10am call to be the 15^th EMC on a list that by 5pm they hadn’t event gotten to.  At least I wasn’t there all day; I was dashing around town carrying an excessive amount of stuff, including extra shoes which I never changed into because then I would have had to carry my snow boots.  In almost two years I have yet to find the patience for a full day of waiting.  Not worth it dude, not worth it.  But we’re not going to talk about that… obviously.  (For those of you who thought I slipped into a foreign tongue for a second there: don’t worry about it. We’ll talk NYC actor acronyms another time.)

FML.

Instead, I want to talk about online dating, because as busy as my schedule has gotten over the past few weeks, it has remained a prominent fixture in my life, and you know what?  It’s really a lot like auditioning.  You go online, maybe you use a number of websites, maybe you use just one, and you “submit” yourself to various roles (or people) you might be right for.  (...And if you can’t spell or use proper grammar I probably won’t submit for you…) Sometimes, you go weeks without getting called in for anything and then all of a sudden you’ve got more auditions than you can possibly prepare for!  You might have to turn some down.  Sometimes you have two in one day!  You probably go on a lot of them, and every now and then you get a callback.  Though actually getting the part, well, those opportunities are few and far between.

By the way, Lena Dunham had this thought (wah wah I swear I had it first) but girl, let me tell you, you don’t even know.

Ugh OkCupid is the worst.

The other analogy I’ve made (somewhat to my chagrin perhaps) is that once you’ve gotten to the first date step, online dating is a lot like sorority rush.  Now, this may not be an analogy that too many people identify with as I don’t know if seeking males online provides the same effect, but I mean, I almost feel like I should be taking notes on who I want to come back for second round.  It’s too bad I can’t get all of my potential first dates in one room and have 30 of my closest friends talk to them in rotation for 5 minutes each and let them decide who they think should make it to house tours.  We'll give you free hot cocoa and cider while you wait!

Really, we're all lesbians.

I have accidentally become a serial first dater.  It’s like, the super innocent version of a slutty phase.  And of course, all of the auditions and all of the dates feel like they’re happening at once.  And I’m almost always wearing the same outfit.  It’s clean, I promise!

But with all this being said I would like to make a note to my past/present/future online date.  For all I know, you’re out there googling me right now.  So,  I want you to know that I am not any less interested in going out with you just because I'm dating a lot.  Please don’t take it personally.  Just like with auditions, it’s important to cast a wide net.  You don’t want to put all your eggs in one basket.  If I said I wanted to see you for a callback, I meant it.  Besides, both parties have to think they’ll work well together before a casting decision can be made. 

Also, I think I may be developing a rush crush, and whether you know what that means or not, trust me, it’s a good thing.  Rush doesn’t last forever.  Bid night may be here before we know it.  Auditions, well, I suppose those do just keep on coming.

(For more casting call and audition antics, check out my new tumblr: Awkward Casting Calls.)

(*Photo credits to: words of war, the atlantic, hercampus)

The Public Eye

So, the other day I was chatting with my therapist about my new blogging endeavor (why do I still live at home guys? ‘cause in NYC, therapy is cheaper than rent.  Bu-dum-ching.  Also my parents are still willing to pay for therapy.  I guess they figure they screwed me up, so now it’s their job to pay someone to fix me? They will not pay for my rent.  Though really guys my parents are great, pretty sure I managed to do most of the screwing up on my own, BUT ANYWAY I DIGRESS).

So, we were talking about the blog and the responses I got from people between posts one and two (ok I know there are more posts on this blog before the one I'm calling post one, but we're going with this as post one) and she cautioned me to think about how public I actually want this blog to be.  Yes, the point is for me to be all raw and exposed all over the internet, but maybe (probably) sometimes I want to talk about SEX or DRINKING or whatever and while these things are perfectly normal parts of most peoples’ lives, does my grandmother/aunt/former boss/future boss really need to hear about these things from me?  Probs not.  Do I expect them to click and read if they see a link pop up on their newsfeed?  Grandma yes, old boss probably no.  But then there's the whole issue of what you put on the internet staying there forever, and while I'd like to think the things I say as a 23 year old won't come back to haunt me in the future, who's to say?  I particularly like to think that we are all evolved enough that I will never be judged on my personal life in a way that will affect me professionally, but isn't that a rosy and optimistic view of the world?  And also a hypocritical view 'cause c'mon, I'm a master of self-judgement!

They're watching.

C (my therapist) posited that I consider blocking all family and professional contacts, but I protested that there is no real way to do that, especially considering how closely intertwined some of my friends and professional contacts are in this industry.  I do think it is important to navigate a split; I get why people have different facebook pages for personal and professional purposes, but it's really such a fine line.  Some of the things I have to say here are about my art and the industry and these things might be relevant or maybe even interesting to some of my more "professional" acquaintances, even if they don't also need to hear about the OkCupid date I went on the other night.  (Though knowing a lot of them, they might be amused by that too.)

Anyway, I really haven't come to a verdict on this issue, but I do think I will try to make sure links to my blog posts aren't popping up on my Grandmother's newsfeed.  I mean, don't make me tell you the penis cake story (we'll save that one for another day).  Also, I make her sound way more facebook savvy than she is.  She really doesn't know how that shit works, it's pretty entertaining.

I spent way too long on this hamster I don't even want to talk about it.

(Look you guys this is turning into a blog about blogging and I haven't really even blogged anything yet.  How boring meta!  Don't worry, the hamster wheel inside my head is turning and formulating posts about clothes and food and online dating so I promise you’ll get to see me discuss other frivolous topics soon.  Also maybe I'll actually post some pictures other than my awkward hand drawn doodles.  Are you excited?  Oh I bet you are.)

If a tree falls in a forest, does it make a sound?

After my post the other day, I got a few responses, and I think I was a little surprised. Which is quite silly of course, because if you post something on the internet in a very public way, well, someone is bound to read it. I don’t know that I thought anyone would. My gut reaction was to jump to defend myself, but then I realized, there’s nothing to defend, and having my thoughts on public display here is entirely the point. And if it makes me a little scared, that’s entirely the point too.

Writing in a private journal doesn’t have the same effect; that’s not putting anything on the line or anything at risk. That’s not opening up. If a tree falls in a forest and there is no one there to hear it, does it make a sound? I have spent too much of my life trying to be perfect and right and I am here to be open and honest and vulnerable and flawed. We are all human beings, we are all deeply imperfect. I am here to embrace that and to start being me.

And while yes, this is a whole lot of talk about ME and MY FEELINGS, I want this blog to be about you (all four of you) too. I don’t want what I write to read like an angsty twenty-something’s emotional ramblings.  (We won’t talk about how while drunk-drafting part of this post last night I just realized that emo is short for emotional.)  I want to create in a way that makes people think and respond. That’s why I act too. I won’t deny the enjoyment of being in the spotlight, but I act because I want to affect people, to reach them. If I ask you what you thought of a performance I’m not looking for praise or validation – ok, maybe a little – but what I really want to know is how that performance affected you, changed you. Granted, not everything is quite so profound or serious (and I don’t plan for this blog to always be quite so serious either) but even if something was light and silly, well, I’m hoping it made you laugh or smile.

And isn’t that why all artists create? It’s about expressing ourselves, sure, but it’s about striving to connect with other human beings through that expression. To show people, and to show ourselves, that we are not alone. That’s all we’re really doing as human beings, aren’t we? Constantly striving to connect. And here we are, I think we’re already succeeding. I had some thoughts, then you had some thoughts, and now I am having some more. We’re connecting. A dialogue is forming.

   
 I don’t think it’s a coincidence that this came up on my newsfeed while I was writing this post. 

A dam has opened within me, and I am so happy to share whatever flows forth with anyone who might come across this page.  Even if it means my computer savvy grandmother thinks I need help getting out of a funk (hi grandma!) Even if I do need to navigate the line of what really belongs in this space.  I am finding my voice and you, however many or few, are helping me do it.

Yesterday’s post inspired one of my best friends to reach out to me. He wanted to connect and to tell me that I made him think. My initial response was a little defensive towards his desire to see if I was ok, but I realize, wasn’t this a success? I reached someone and affected them, and if part of that effect was that another person wanted to reach back out to me to let me know that he is there for me, well, aren’t I lucky to have a friend like that?  And he left me with a beautiful quote, and left me to think some more.

“There is no distance too far between friends, 

For friendship gives wings to the heart.”

(I also got to think really hard about my affects vs. effects while writing this post.  So there's a bonus grammar lesson in there too.)

(P.S. I just started watching Bomb Girls and it is the BOMB.  And by just I mean I apparently managed to watch the entire first season in one day.  Hey, it was only 6 episodes.  I don't need to defend myself.)

On opening up

Sometimes I feel that since graduation I have been living only as an extension of other people.  I was M’s girlfriend and I am A’s friend or S’s friend or J and O’s friend but there are so few people with whom I am simply me.  I continue to find myself in situations where I am the new girl and I’m afraid I don’t stay in any one situation long enough to allow anyone to know me. 

When there is no one in a group that I am an extension of, when I have to just be me, I close up.  I make myself small, try to hide in my own skin, become nobody, inconspicuously invisible.  Like I am afraid if people see what’s really there, they will want to walk away.  Have I always been so guarded, so paralyzingly shy, so incapable of opening up? Did I simply used to be better at denying it?  A false extrovert, putting up a front?

I think I was always drawn to the theater, to acting, because of the mask, because it’s about creating an illusion, and to my dismay I realize that in order to succeed you must break down those walls and be open and honest and oops well now what am I to do?  I have no practice at openness and only practice at masks.  My whole life has been about masks.  I spent at least four years hiding my sexuality and another four hiding an eating disorder.  And I am still, intentionally or not, hiding these things every day.  Just by walking down the street as a pretty, feminine female of average size, I feel like I am hiding.  I am my own mask; an impenetrable layer that cannot be seen through.  And in order to pursue my passion, in order to get a job, I must stand up in front of strangers and be open, be honest, be me?  Impossible.

Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t pursue science, or something to that effect.  I was good at it.  I was good at a lot of things.  Maybe I could be discovering universes.  I always dreamed of outer space.  But the theater was romantic and it seemed so much better, so much cooler, to be an artsy outcast than a nerdy one.  And theater was where I found my friends.  Theater was where I found a place to fit in.  Well where do I fit now?

Not that I can think of anything else I want to be doing.  And there’s the rub.  Is this something I ever had a natural capacity for, or something I forced myself to do because it was a challenge, because people told me no?  I have always been good at taking the path of most resistance. 

I feel the same way about writing.  At least it’s a creative outlet not reliant on another’s willingness to cast me in a role.  But I have the same problem.  My thoughts are a big jumble all tied in knots and I can’t get them out, so instead they swirl around inside me and the knots just get tighter and tighter and tighter.  I can’t be open.  And the knots just make more knots which makes the blockage worse.  Like arterial plaque.  The blood can’t get through.

So here we are, at a cross roads, it’s time for open heart surgery.  It’s not easy performing this kind of work on oneself.  Some days the blood flows freely and other days the blockage is so tight I feel like I might burst; I feel like I can’t breathe.  But I have to do it.  Because we all know what happens if you forgo surgery when you need it.  So it’s time to put it all out there, everything on the table.  Stop editing and cut the crap.  Mix my metaphors and go.  Sure, the procedure is a risk, there’s always a risk.  But they say the reward is greater, don’t they?  Or is that the other way around?   There’s only one way to find out.

Today I was on the subway, changing trains, and I noticed myself in my usual closed off, tuned out state: book in hand, ear buds in ears -- typical of so many New Yorkers in transit.  I decided to take a moment to open up, to really look around me and breathe life in, and a man running down the stairs slammed right in to me and almost knocked me off my feet.

There’s my poetic justice.

Maybe I'm back.

Oh look.  It's January 3rd and I am recommitting (or something) to writing a blog.  HOW ORIGINAL.  I don't actually have a plan here, but I do know that I like to write and I think doing more of it in 2013 may help me to be less of a crazy person.  Or more of a crazy person on the page, and therefore less of a crazy person in my head.

Even though it has been over a year (and one more blog-starting attempt) since I've written here, this feels like the right place to pick things back up again.  When I started this blog the August after graduating from college, I had subtitled it "a post-grad story."  Now, after a year and a half of being "post-grad" in the "real world" (or so they call it) my life is exactly the same.  Except that's a lie.  My life is totally different.

In 2012 I shot my first commercial, made my first appearance on a television show, and worked on my first project with a multi-camera setup.  (Most of this was less fancy than it sounds, but still, it happened.)  I was also going to say I voiced my first cartoon but that was so 2011 it hurts.  I ended my first real grownup relationship while continuing to sleep in an Ikea loft bed.  I traveled to Bermuda and Israel almost for free and rode camels in the desert with a bevy of gay 20-somethings.  I got my NYC sightseeing guide license and failed to begin work as an NYC sightseeing guide.  I went to Kathleen Chalfant's house, had drinks with Celia-Keenan Bolger and rekindled my love for the [title of show] crew when I saw Now. Here. This.  I discovered anti-gravity yoga, went to my first friend-wedding, and worked (...and got wasted at...) my first pet industry trade show.   I got paid to dress up as a large banana, and as Super Mario, to teach people how to play snake, pass out fliers in a prom dress, pose as a secret agent, dance with Pop-Tarts mascots at a Gym Class Heroes concert, and to get stepped on by Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen.  I was so busy it hurt and so not busy it hurt.

In 2012 I struggled with a lot of things that I think I may write about here in 2013.  Or maybe I will write them somewhere else.  We'll see.  What I know is that I like to write, and not in journals, because my brain thinks in a narcissistic 21st century 20-something thought catalog kind of way.  Sometimes I think in blog posts while I'm walking to the train.  I need to start carrying a notebook because I always forget them by the time I get to my destination..  Actually, I am writing in a notebook on the train right now.  Or, I mean, I was, until I got home and typed this up.  I know it's self indulgent and self-indulgently, I don't care.

So anyway, here goes.  Let's see what happens 2013.  I think we're off to a pretty good start.  I rang in the new year in style with an appropriately, but not overly, messy party at my abode, ate lots of seafood noodle soup and saw Water by the Spoonful and The Event of a Thread (both great) with old friends.  Tonight I'll be checking out some improv and tomorrow morning I will be going off to work as a banana.  I guess things can only change so much in a year.

January 6th, 2012.
"Does this banana suit make me look fat?"

Sometimes it's good to write down your dream as soon as you wake up because someday you might want to adapt that

This morning when my first alarm went off, as is typical, I reluctantly rolled over, climbed down my loft bed ladder and pressed snooze (aka reset the alarm for 15 minutes later because snooze is only 5 minutes and that's too short...) However, as soon as my head hit the pillow again, I realized, I needed to get this shit down.  So here it is, re-checked for post-coffee (ok mid-coffee) coherency:

Last night I dreamt that Tim Ostrander taught me how to levitate hovercraft style with reddi-whip, except that I was running late to a performance at Looking Glass so naturally Jenny Tindall was going to kill me.  The reddi-whip levitation was supposed to get me to my call time faster than the elevator or stairs... but naturally took much longer, made a mess, and while ultimately I did levitate, that did not get me to the theater.  (Highly insignificant detail: one can of reddiwhip was fat free, one was regular... anyone want to try this with me sometime? ... )  I think it's possible the performance I was running late for was God's Ear.

Earlier that day (that dream?) I had been walking down 57th street to Looking Glass and down Broadway to my left I (somehow?) saw that they were putting the finishing touches on the new World Trade Center (with a big old hammer on top, very Mario/old school video-game style).  Naturally, I started to cry and run down the street (still towards the theater, not towards the World Trade Center, mind you) after the balloons that started to float down from the sky.  I also saw some fireworks off in the distance, in the daylight.  Suddenly, I realized my hat was gone, and I ran off left looking for it - to find it and snatch it back from atop someone's head.  They were not pleased, but I ran off again, back towards the theater, but I noticed the hat was now very heavy.  This was because there were five beautiful blue eggs, like robin's eggs, but very speckled, and the size of chicken eggs, nestled under some sort of covering on top.  The eggs were also still warm.  I ran into a little boy who gave me a basket which seemed to be made to hold them just so, and also contained a little pink satin tooth fairy pouch which clearly had something inside.  (Do you remember those pouches you would put your missing tooth in before putting it under your pillow?  Yeah?  One of those.)  I put the eggs in their special little spots in the basket and carefully continued my dash to the theater, where I arrived just in time to monitor (aka wait outside of?) the final audition.  I definitely talked to/saw one of the directors (maybe Katherine) and maybe some of the interns upon arrival but for some reason I never did get to look inside that tooth fairy pouch.

THE END.  or THE MIDDLE.  sort of.

A True New York City Morning

October 1st.  Fresh, crisp, fall.  I head to Union Square and am greeted by the sight of police, barricades and chanting girls clad a variety of creative and bizarre outfits ranging from "Hot Topic" to "Hair."  It was the SlutWalk aka, as so eloquently put by a friend of mine, "every NYU lesbian's ex-girlfriend parade." 

(...Actually, when I was in Ithaca last week, Cornell's slut walk also passed by me... the sluts are following me?  At the same time they happened upon a group of 80 year old alumni taking a campus tour... after which the fratty male tour guide found himself forced to attempt an explanation of the situation...)

Anyway, I head away from Union Square, as the "sluts" stream towards me, and head to my audition, one of the only logical reasons in my mind to be up and at 'em before noon on a Saturday.  I arrive at Theater for a New City, a cool (and large!) space, which appears to have been pulled right out of RENT, that I must have passed by a number of times in my life but never really noticed.  I walk in and am greeted by a younger Johnny Depp rocking this look (and I dare say, pulling it off) minus the facial hair, who of course turns out to be the director of the film I'm auditioning for.

oh hey.

But wait!  Minor major snafu!  The e-mail with the audition information, which was slightly unclear to begin with, only went out the girls... who were supposed to read with the guys... so this is going to be a "practice" audition... and we'll have the "real one" sometime next week.  Ok...?  Out of 21 girls invited to audition during the vague time frame of "noon-5" (apparently narrowed down, along with 18 guys, from a pool of 650+, as we were so informed in our e-mail...) only 5 of us are there by 1pm.  One of them is not a day under 35 (though she resembles a taller Kristin Chenoweth) and another, while also super cute, has an exotic foreign accent (and I do believe the type here was supposed to be all-American girl next door, age 20-28, but hey, I'm not one to judge!)

oh hey.

I have my "practice audition" and the adorably sheepish director who clearly has no idea what he is doing gives me a high five and compliments (at least, I think that was a compliment... was that a compliment?) my "obvious" theater background.  Then he makes note of some possible line edits and asks if I'd like to read again in a bit or if I feel ready to come back in next week to read with "the big dogs" or "hot shots" or some other cliched term.  I choose option 2 and exit with a friendly smile and a wave. 

Back to Union Square where I pick up a not-as-healthy-as-it-looks lunch from the Whole Foods salad bar and the fall air inspires a clearly very necessary pumpkin cookie to go with it.  I pop on the train to Herald Square to spend my in-between audition time hiding out at my mom's office, a convenient resting spot for those awkward chunks of time where the upper east side seems far to far away, but killing 3 1/2 hours at a Starbucks seems entirely unappealing.

As I exit the train, I feel loud music wash over me, and what's this?  More barricades, police, and a gigantic red and yellow clad Asian-marching band?  Oh good, it's the tail end of the "Korea Times Parade."  Well then.  After a bit of crowd-darting and an elevator ride in which a student who appears to be moving two floors blocks me in the elevator with her cart, I am safe and sound, finally quiet and at peace... where instead of hunkering down to learn lines and review sides I plop down in front of instant netflix and determinedly write this blog post despite the fact that firefox crashes three times before I can finish.  Thank goodness blogger saves drafts.

Barely 3pm, it's pouring now and I have two more auditions and my final monologue coaching session spread out oh so conveniently (note the sarcasm) in time and space before this day ends.

Happy October New York.

P.S. I was thinking of holding on publishing this post on the off-chance that someone (perhaps even Mr. Depp Jr. himself) were to come across it before the completion of the casting process for this film and it were to hurt my chances. However, I decided to take the risk. If you are reading this Johnny Jr. I hope you will disregard it or look on it favorably, as something charming that perhaps a witty and sarcastic character, such as Kaitlyn herself, would write, and know that none of it was meant in an insulting manner. I would love to work with you on your super cute film and think that if you want your Kaitlyn to be 22 years old, I'm your girl ;) Also, If you're still having trouble with the dog's name, I think simply "Murphy" is much better name than "Mr. Murphy Lee."  I think the kind of girl that names her dog "Mr. Murphy Lee" is probably really annoying. Thank you. That is all. I think.

The post I should have written.

So life got busy.  Or something.

I should have written a post about that time I was granted free VIP access to the Johnnie Walker Whiskey tasting tour (access I clearly did not deserve seeing that I originally wrote "Johnny" Walker) and discovered that Johnnie Walker Red and Orangina is a tasty combination (read: does not taste like whiskey).  After that my invitee and I (no, invitee is the wrong word, I was the invitee, what's the opposite of invitee?  inviter?  That doesn't sound as cool) kicked back a few beers with the event's security personnel before being swept off to a rooftop party at the Hotel Gansevoort (Really?  This happened?  Really?)  I turned out to be a pro at not paying for anything and finding all the bathrooms.  Typical.  If someone ever asks me again if "my life is like gossip girl" (a popular question circa freshman year of college) I guess now I have a story?

That night ended with drunk pizza, apparently I ripped my dress, and the next morning I had breakfast with a group of girls preparing for a spartan race that night.  What?  Seriously, look it up, it's ridiculous.

*see below

Since then, I started at internship with The Looking Glass Theatre where the people are baller and cleaning the costume room turns one's snot black (ew), made a short film in which I ran around the woods in a little red dress, wearing a gas mask and carrying an airsoft gun (*see above), had the first of four (count 'em, four) rehearsals for the show I'm in, did a lot of collating and wrote a really long run-on-sentence (just now.)  I also ran into more people.  Some of them I said hi to, some of them I awkwardly pretended not to notice.

If you've been to Cornell's collegetown semi-recently, 

you know what this is, if you haven't, just go with it.

I also spent approximately 45 hours in Ithaca during which I saw outdoor theater indoors, served a lot of people my two minute "here's what I'm doing with my life at the moment" elevator speech, ate approximately 4 meals and 17 desserts, attended a 10 person party which was delivered a noise violation by the cops around midnight even though "they couldn't even hear the music outside" (cranky neighbors), and brought home wine and concord grapes in the backseat.  Also I saw bag-pipers on Ho Plaza and Johnny O's has been closed by the Tompkins County Sheriff.

Court order.  Served.

You know, I never meant this to be a "let me list the things that are going on in my life" kind of blog... but then again I guess I don't know what I was really expecting to write about? ... And I guess I felt like I needed to check in with myself or the world wide web or something.  That way someday I can look back and say oh that's what I was doing then, man that was crazy or wow that was lame and oof why did I think sharing it on a public forum was a good idea?  Did I think it would make me seem weird or charming or quirky or cool or something like that?  I don't know.  I guess I'll leave that up to you, internet folks.  Meanwhile I'm going to go to bed or probably watch another episode of Dead Like Me or something like that.  I feel like I've earned a little bit (read: this afternoon/evening only...) of a rest.  P.S. has anyone else discovered how weirdly amazing this show was?  I don't know.  I love it.

Finally, I leave you with this brilliant and all too true posting from one of my favorite tumblr's:

Click to make them bigger because if you can read them like this you have really great vision, congrats.

I love the old people at equity.

Seriously.  I do.  Like the monitor with the red dyed hair (à la Angela Chase), bad bangs and bad glasses.  The other week she was the monitor at an audition I was at and spent the whole time prattling about how she had gotten a call for this commercial audition that afternoon but she's monitoring (at equity auditions there is pretty much always an equity member working as a monitor to sign people in and make sure the call is run under union rules) and oh of course this kind of thing only happens when you're monitoring and it's only a few blocks away and well why couldn't it have been during the lunch break instead of an hour later?  Now she has to call 50 other monitors to see if someone can cover for her and oh she finally found someone but now she has to go all the way home to get a swimsuit...!  Because that's apparently required for the audition and why couldn't she have just known about this sooner!?  And really, I don't mean this to sound pointed and/or rude, the right sarcastic, amused intonation is hard to capture in writing... but I honestly can't think of any product whose sales would benefit from having a commercial featuring you in a swimsuit... whoops?

Then today, the only call at AEA was for Steel Magnolias (aka, an all female cast) and there were all these old men ambling about.  Now I get that they might have other business to attend to there (and the convenience of the equity lounge as a resting place in times square is not lost on me) but there was this one guy who kept answering his cell phone loudly (you 're really not supposed to gab on your cellphone in the lounge...) and who then sat next to another old guy with the gravelly bellows of a longtime smoker, reading the paper and shouting repeatedly at each other about how it was Roy's or somebody's birthday.  There's definitely a punchline in there somewhere.  (The following to be read in an exaggerated old person's "Jewish accent"):

"Normy?  Normy!  There were only three people at the pool today!"
"What's that? There was free pizza at the pool today?  I wish I was there!!!"*

But like, really, what are you guys doing with your lives?

Anyway, red-haired lady was monitoring again today with the same level of verve and vigor and it got me to thinking... these people, all these equity monitors are actors, or at least, were actors... like, at some point, someone decided they were worth paying money to see perform on a stage.

I mean, there are the 50-something monitor guys for whom everything is stand-up comedy hour, and even the lady today who thought my name was Nathalie Frederico... these people, ok, I feel like I can get these people.  But some of these other characters?  Well, I guess that's what they are/what they played... characters.

And all this got me to thinking.  Am I completely crazy?  Do I expect people to pay money to see me perform on a stage?  What's so special or interesting about me?  Maybe these old, lovable crazies are more worth seeing!  Now I know this is like, a major actor trap to fall into... like how we get all depressed about wanting to be liked (which is not the point of acting, or at least, not supposed to be the point) and that's what drives our careers to an earlier end...  And honestly, today was a good audition day for me.  I felt really solid about some of the work I was putting forth, ran into like a gazillion people again, and made some new friends, which is always fun.  But really, what am I doing here?  I mean, I sang today for crying out-loud.  The last time I really sang was my senior year of high school when I played Mabel in The Pajama Game and I was SO nervous I mixed up the words to "I'll Never be Jealous Again" every damn time!  And then I did a Southern accent?  I mean, I'm just goofing around over here.  Is someone really expected to hire me for this shit?  I mean, I know there's this thing called talent and all, and sometimes I even think I have some of it, but I'm not sure talent is really what's going on right here... and I'm not sure talent is even what people often get hired for!

And this isn't any sort of a self-loathing reflection... I promise, I can do self-loathing... this is just really, a musing on the whole thing.  And it's probably two blogs posts that got wrapped around together in my brain right when it was time for bed so I'm tired and not fully coherent but I still wanted to write it down.

I think it probably all boils down to what Angela Chase/Claire Danes/actually probably a writer somewhere said about being introspective (can you tell I'm marathoning My So-called Life right now?)

"What I was thinking, as like a New Year's resolution, is to stop getting so caught up in my own thoughts, 'cause I'm like way too introspective. I think... But what if not thinking turns me into this shallow person? I better rethink this becoming less introspective thing. Okay, so I'll stay introspective, but I do resolve to stop doing Jordan Catalano’s homework."

Or maybe it boils down to the fact that last night my mother had a dream in which I auditioned for a Broadway musical while comatose... and got cast.  I thought this was hilarious and laughed until I cried for a good five minutes but my father seemed rather offended for me.  My mom: "no really, you were good... we like, propped you up or something... I don't know." (beat) "You're a better singer when you're unconscious?!"  (Further laughter ensues from both of us, and also I think maybe I gave her the finger for a second there... and like, guys, also, I don't even really audition for musical theater!)

...Of course, the night before last my mother dreamt that she had a tiny kitten in her pocket that kept flying away... so I don't know how credible a source this is.

But yeah... something like that.

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*Let it be noted that this is a real conversation that once transpire between two of my grandparent's friends, one of them no longer with us, may she rest in peace.

Obligatory Irene blog post.

Things New Yorkers do to prepare for a storm:
1. Stock up on alcohol
2. Make extra coffee in case power goes out (or invest in french press)
3. Tweet complaints about how bored they are
4. Troll okcupid and send messages to strangers because bars are closed
5. Turn Times Square into a slip 'n slide
6. Host hurricane parties

Things New Yorkers do after a storm (in pictures):
1. Obey "park closure" signs:

2. Take their kids and dogs out to play:

3. Hang out along the east river, ignore the cops:

4.  Go to Gristedes... and the liquor store (not pictured):

5. Keep it classy:

6. Gawk:

7. Return home and continue to tweet about how bored they are.
8. Plan the hurricane after-party.

These things happen.

So, has anyone every rejected someone's request for their phone number with the line "thanks for the offer but..." ?  Because, apparently, I just did that.  Really?  I mean, really?  I apologize random stranger, you deserved a smoother move than that.  At least a false "I'm here with someone" (I mean you asked, you practically handed that one to me!) or the gentle and oft used lie, "I'm taken."  I suppose honesty is not always the best policy.  However, I do think your inquiry about my age within the first three minutes of our conversation, which you initiated, probably means you deserved my less than suave denial.  You also asked me to guess your age, another great play on your part, and when I offered a generous 26, you assured me I was way off base.  Well sorry for trying to be kind.  Yet still, you want my number?  Well, "thanks for the offer but..." now I will proceed to awkwardly turn my back to you as if the past four minutes did not occur and thank goodness my friends were ready to leave anyway (I was telling the truth) so uhh goodbye.  Although I suppose you did manage to make an impression if I am still thinking about this awkward moment upon my return home.  Perhaps you would appreciate that if you knew?  I give you kudos for your gumption. A for effort.  It takes balls to approach a stranger in a bar.  But now, moving on.

And then I arrive home, where I am informed via email of a new okcupid message (yes, I concede, I am a member of said site, it was bound to come up sooner or later) from an 18 year old straight girl with a myspace style boob-shot as her profile picture.  She, apparently, has a level of eloquence comparable to my own: "Hey :-* how are you?"

Apparently, these things happen.  Good night.

Note: I will let the record show that I did write this last night, at the end of my evening, and despite my almost sober state, I do not condone tipsy blogging, nor want to project that image of myself (clearly I am doing a very good job here...) and so waited for an AM proof-read before posting.  All clear.

It's a small city after all

Every time I go to an audition, I am reminded of how small this city, and especially the theater world, really is.

Anyone up for a game of 6 degrees of separation?

Today, I went to an EPA (Equity Principal Audition) at AEA (the Actors Equity Audition center) and ran into my friend Lys (who has her own blog about her adventures in NYC) who I studied abroad in London at BADA with.  I had also run into her at an EPA earlier this summer just after she moved here.  She was talking with a guy (Preston) who I recognized from running into an old elementary school friend (Julia) at another call earlier this summer -- I ran into her and he ran into her while we were talking, so we met briefly.  Preston, Julia, and Lys all know each other from Springboard NYC where Lys figured out that she and Julia had actually studied abroad at the same program (BADA) at different times (Julia went in the fall of 2009, Lys and I both went in the Spring of 2010).

The audition went fairly quickly -- as an EMC (Equity Membership Candidate) you are only seen if there aren't Equity members waiting to be seen at that time so sometimes it's hard to say if and when you'll make it in the room -- and Lys was going to another audition downtown at Chelsea studios, which she informed me was pretty empty so I decided to hit that one up as well.  Lys was gone by the time I arrived, but when I got there I ran into Ugo, who is a member of The Bats at The Flea Theater with my good friend (from high school and college) Amanda.  I also ran into Jacqui, a girl I went to summer camp with as a kid, who also happens to be the former roommate of my friend Jodi who I met at a party last summer.  Another friend of mine, Helen, actually met Jodi at Northwestern, before I met her, and thought we would already know each other because we also went to the same summer camp and did circus together.  We did not, but figured all this out when we did meet (she vaguely recognized me and asked me if I had gone to French Woods - I did) and figured out our other mutual friend connections, like Jacqui, with the help of facebook.  Small world.

Confusing much?  And all before noon.

The problem with mid-August: a fashion post

The problem with mid-August, I find, is a little something called "back to school."  Throughout my childhood, I had varying thoughts on the subject, ranging from "I don't want to go back" temper tantrums to sleepless nights of eager excitement and anticipation.  However, mid-August and I have now reached an impasse, because while this is the first mid-August where I will not be going back to school, many of this country's youth still are.  What?  You mean the world does not revolve around me?  Nonsense I say!

Invitations to free campus concerts, events and friends' shows aside, mid-August begins the inundation of back to school shopping.  Ads hit your e-mail inbox and your TV set, and fall clothes hit the stores, sometimes accompanied by cheeky signs that remind you far too prematurely that "summer is over" (it is not I say.  It is NOT!)

Not that one doesn't sometimes need new clothes for work or whatnot when fall rolls around, but there are some purchases (at the moment, read: all) that simply cannot be justified when you are not only not going back to school, but are not working (and therefore, do not have an income) either.  You are also entirely out of excuses for your parents/grandparents to buy you that new backpackskirtshoesjeansdresssweater.  "But I need it" (aka "but I want it") just doesn't hold the same clout as "but I need it for school."

Exhibit A: Backpacks
When you were in high school, you always wanted to be that cool girl who carried a shoulder bag and therefore probably inflicted lifelong damage on her back... so why do backpacks now seem so darn cute? I know a person could theoretically still use a backpack... I still need to carry a lot of stuff around for auditions, but every time I see someone walk into an audition with a backpack I tend to think "ew, un-classy."  My awkward combination of a large purse and a tote bag?  Clearly so much classier.  Does anyone else think this?  Probably not.  Am I a judgmental freak?  Probably yes.  More practically speaking a full backpack is a pain on the subway (and you know, the large purse that I tend to bang into every second person isn't).

 

{Herschel Supply Co / Threadless}

 

 {Fjallraven / Rugby}

  

{Sandqvist / Ecote}

Exhibit B: SHOES.  Everyone loves shoes.  And I mean, these would all be totally appropriate for dashing to and from class in (especially across the snowy Ithacan hillsides) amirite?  (Can I even walk in half these shoes? Probs not.  But given the opportunity, I will try.)

  

{Anthropologie}

 

 {Marais / Madwell}

 

{Ilse Jacobsen / Kimchi Blue}

Exhibit 3: Sweaters.  Because if it's not summer, that means it's fall, right?  So it's cold?  So we need sweaters? 

  

{Anthropologie / Levi's}

 

{BDG / ASOS}

 

{j.crew... really, just all the horribly overpriced j.crew sweaters plz.... especially cashmere. k thnx.}

LOIK OMG CAN U GUYZ TELL WHERE I LIKE 2 SHOP?

K I could go on but I'm done.  Really.  Maybe I'll do another fashion post at some point.  But seriously that was way too much work, and after reading it through was a lot shorter than I expected it to be after all that effort.  At least there are a lot of pictures?

Oh clothes.  Le sigh.  I guess I need to get a job...

Top 10 reasons I should still be a college student

(and by top 10 I mean the first 10 I thought of)

1. I still consider a microwave burrito (Amy's of course) mutilated and consumed with improper utensils (a knife and spoon and bowl?  Sure, why not?) a balanced meal.
2. No matter how hard I try, bedtime is still around 1:30/2am and wake-up time 10/10:30am unless I am forced to wake up earlier for something "important." (see: "class?")
3. I watch 95% of my TV on my computer, often with a second window open for multitasking.
4. Drunk pizza.
5. My proclivity for setting off fire alarms.
6. I still look like my freshman year ID picture... I mean, last year I got carded buying a lighter.
7. I am adept at living in considerable mess (see: suitcases, boxes, laundry bags, etc all over my room.. and rooms that are not supposed to be my rooms)
8. I spend far too much time on facebook, and twitter, which I didn't start using regularly until I graduated.  (That's a bad word.)
9. I somehow manage to procrastinate even when there is nothing to be procrastinated.
10. I still have to go downstairs to do laundry.  And while I don't need quarters (we have a card, though sadly no laundryview) I never have enough quarters when I do need them (see: reasons why I probably got a toll violation this weekend...) 

There are probably better reasons than this.  And I'm sure there are more.  I really only started this list after scrutinizing myself eating lunch today (see #1) but decided it should probably be a list of 10.  10 felt like a good number.

The recent passive aggressive inner thoughts and semi-unreasonable pleas of an NYC commuter

1. STAND on the left of the escalator, WALK on the right.  Please.
2. If at first you don't succeed, swipe at a different speed.
3. Dear subway conductor, I appreciate your trying to keep us informed of weekend train changes--so few conductors do--but must you really make the same two-minute long announcement at EVERY. SINGLE. STOP?  With the doors open?  Letting out the AC? And not getting me where I'm going?  For no apparent reason?  And then make it again in between stations?  We heard you.  I promise. Really, we did.  Even those people who just got on at the last stop... they've already heard you twice. 
4. Tourists: I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you we need you I hate you I hate you I hate you we need you.  If you really must stand and ogle at buildings, would you kindly step to one side of the sidewalk?  Same goes for large groups waiting for tour buses.  Pretty please?  Or, I mean, can THIS just be real?
   
   
   [improveverywhere.com]
   
5. I know we're getting spoiled by these new fangled digitized signs that tell us when our train will arrive... but when we've come to expect them at certain stations, "current train arrival information is not available" (or whatnot) it is really quite unacceptable.  On that note, why isn't bus time a thing yet?  Everywhere please?  And more weekend evening trains... have you noticed there really aren't less of us?

And one from the not so New York City commuter:

• You, yes you, with your blue headlights and fancy rimmed wheels.  You traffic weaver you.  What do you think you accomplished by passing me from the right and then squeezing into the two car length space in front of me, only to then be trapped by the car in front of you and the car to your right? Did you gain a whole 3.5 seconds there?  Maybe you did.

Was all that mean?  Maybe it was.  Maybe it was.

My hungover audition

For some reason this post title reminds me a little bit of my drunk kitchen.  It sort of rhymes. You should probably check that out.  Also, she has a video called Frederick.  That's pretty neat.  Even if she may or may not ask "Frederick" to take her in the butt...

Anyway. For the past two weekends I have been partaking in an incredibly responsible and professional behavior (sarcasm)... attending weekend morning auditions after an evening of drinking and revelry with my friends.  I may tell myself I will not drink much, that I will go home early, but I quickly begin to care exponentially more about the present moment than about the next morning and inevitably do not listen to my better, soberer self.  I stay out far too late and ingest far too many alcoholic beverages for my new status as a post-grad lightweight.  However, no matter how irresponsibly I may behave, I eventually get me to my bed, consume large quantities of water, and go to sleep for far fewer hours than I would like.  When my phone obnoxiously blares Tilly and the Wall's "Rainbows in the Dark" at me, I groan, but get up, get dressed, force myself to consume more water, coffee, and something resembling food, make myself look somehow presentable despite the dark circles under my eyes, and I go.  Honestly, my hangover isn't really that bad, I'm just exhausted.

I walk to the train.  My hungover audition sees your walk of shame and is judging you, however hypocritical this judgment may be.  My hangover audition also sees Minnie Mouse and someone dressed in full bridal-wear singing R&B in Times Square and doesn't know how to deal with this.  My hungover audition wonders why people hold auditions on weekend mornings anyway.  Don't people know that actors like to drink?  Is studio space just cheaper on weekend mornings?  (Probably).  Is whatever my hungover audition is for a worthwhile project anyway?  (Probably not.)

I arrive at my hungover audition, just barely on time, freshen up, and go into the room.  I have to confess, I feel like I nail my hungover audition.  Perhaps my current state of exhaustion means I didn't over-think my performance and I really hit the mark?  Or perhaps my hungover audition and I are so tired and hungover that we are deluded into thinking it went well, when in fact, it did not.


My hungover audition is over, and for the most-part, so is my hangover, but we're going to run with this concept for the rest of the post anyway.  Why?  Because I like it.  It's time to go and my hungover audition really, really does not want to deal with your subway drumming, your weekend train delays and cancellations and the number of slow moving tourists in Times Square.  All my hungover audition cares about now is what terrible, probably fried, nourishment it is going to find for lunch.  It debates for a while over french fries, chicken tenders and pizza, but eventually my hungover audition and my unlimited metrocard decide that it is a good idea to stop in the Grand Central dining concourse for samosas.  My hungover audition thinks it gets two samosas with it's order, and when it gets three, decides it will be virtuous and find a homeless person to receive the spare.  However, after a moment of contemplation, my hungover audition eats the third samosa.  My hungover audition is fed and satisfied and decides that now we can go home.  Though first my hungover audition will walk me around for a while to contemplate finding further, unnecessary sustenance and may or may not buy some fro-yo on special at c-town.

Then, finally, my hungover audition decides it's time to take a nap.

Something wakes me up.  Oh, what's that?  I just got a callback from my hungover audition?  Well there you go.

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The tone of this post also somewhat inspired by: "my period takes me shopping."