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.

-----------

*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.