OH! Also...

Jeremy wrote this and I lost my mind,

"When did people start thinking that sending out group text messages on Holidays was a nice thing to do? When did we get that impersonal?"

UM. CAN I GET AN AMEN!??????

The first few texts I got on Christmas Day I was like AW! A text! THANK YOU!!!!!!!! And then as they went on I realized I was among the generic masses, receiving text after text just because I was in someone's phonebook. That? sucks. People who never call me were all ohhhhhhhhhhh here's a text and I was all ohhhhhhh my tech savvy/obsessed generation SUCKS.

Also? These are most likely the people that belong to My Space and/or Facebook, etc.

I think that these websites are markers of an era. Much like tamigachis and pogs.

But I mean who am I to talk? Was I not GRATEFUL for the generic text? Dan sent me one that said "Ho, Ho, Ho, Yo" and then we kind of almost had a text message conversation so THAT was good. But can we get to the point where we can talk on the phone? It remains to be seen.

AJ sent me a text message and THEN a follow up Instant Message and we are going to hang out and THAT was fruitful, yes.

But...the rest? Oy. And really, I can't really speak ill of such people because I'm all LOOK AT ME I HAVE A BLOG I AM SO TECHNOLOGICAL AND IMPORTANT THAT I POST STUPID THINGS FOR THE INTERNET TO READ! AM SO FABULOUS! CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF SELF!

But I'm also self-centered. And at least I admit to all of you that I WOULD NEVER send y'all a generic text message. I'm more likely to text you, "Where the hell have you been?" or "Let's meet at Chipotle at 4!"

PS I found out that the tortillas at Chipotle are 340 calories. JUST FOR THE TORTILLA. *SIGH* Looks like I must make my burrito a salad from now on. And I wonder why my weight is creeping back!? DAMN YOU CHIPOTLE! DAMN YOU!

We are having an amazing party at my apartment tonight. It is going to be amazing and I am not going to text everyone to come because it is a very important party. I know it is important because Lindsay is making a chocolate pudding/graham cracker dessert to share.

My friends? Are all 40 year-olds. For REAL.

Speaking of which, I'm ashamed that I have to add "40 Year Old Virgin" to my list of movies seen. I was SO anti but really...

IT WAS SO FREAKING HILARIOUS?!?!!?

I mean Steve Carell is great but Paul Rudd takes the movie to an entirely new and amazing place.

In fact, he's done that before.

WET HOT AMERICAN SUMMER?!

Why can't Paul Rudd be in every movie?

I bet he would've made Gigli watchable.

Why can't Paul Rudd be my husband?

WHY ARE YOU ALL SO MEAN TO ME?!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay. I'll text you later. Peace.

How I Hate The MTA: Part II In A Series

A few months ago I posted a humorous entry about one hellish day on the NYC subway and how it took me a few hours to get home and how I caught a cab with a Greek man. It was funny. But I was angry. SERIOUSLY. I can't even count the number of times the subway trains never come, the train is rerouted due to construction, there's an "incident", a fire, a conductor who mumbles or slurs or is plain inaudible in his announcements, etc. Living in Astoria, I depend on the subway to get to work. I NEED IT. There are no other options for me.

Today, as we all know and hate, the MTA went on strike. I have not met a single person who supports them or endorses such an action. With four shopping days to go before Christmas, I am stranded with no way to make any money. What doesn't help the situation is that I contracted a stomach virus (a bonus of nannying 15 month old twins!) and cancelled work yesterday due to the fact that I was in fact, glued to the toilet.

Jeff Jarvis explains the MTA's ridiculous demands in his blog which can be read here. For some reason the MTA has a sick sense of entitlement, walking out on their jobs and ruining the lives of millions of commuters. I personally could not think of a WORSE time for this to happen being that I have $67 in my checking account, five more Christmas gifts to buy and a JOB in manhattan that I cannot physically GET TO. There are mighty evil feelings brewing in my poor sick stomach. Of that, you can be certain.

I'm finally able to hold down water, chamomile tea and a few saltines. I seriously cannot remember a time when I was as sick as I was yesterday. Vomiting is horrendous. Vomiting alone in Queens while your roommate is vacationing in the Cayman Islands is TEN TIMES WORSE THAN THAT. I kept drifting in and out of consciousness last night as my phone would ring. One of the phonecalls was Tom.

"Hey...I'm barfing..."

"Oh I'm sorry! Hey at least you'll lose that weight you were gaining..."

Thanks Tom! Also, in between consciousness and phone calls I may or may not have mumbled something about needing a stomach transplant. Apparently even sick, I am amusing to some people. But really, I was dying. Or pretty sure I was dying. This morning I chugged a huge glass of water due to pure dehydration and just said a prayer that it would stay in my stomach. So far, it has complied.

So I'm poor. The dirty dishes are overwhelming me, the carpet needs cleaning, the few Christmas gifts I've purchased need to be wrapped, more importantly, I NEED TO GET ON THE SUBWAY TO MAKE SOME MONEY SO I CAN PAY MY BILLS. I'm seething. REALLY. In between throwing up of course, I AM SO SO SO ANGRY!!!!

I don't think I'd be so bitter if the MTA had a REASON. If they were fighting a just cause, I'd say heck yeah I'll sacrifice my LIFE for you. BUT WHAT?!?!?!? An 8% pay increase over three years? RETIRING AT AGE 55? You have to be JOKING ME. My father is almost 61, teaches 8th grade math to ghetto children in Wyandanch and is NOWHERE NEAR RETIRING!? PLEASE. Please just get over your ridiculous selves and drive the freaking trains. I know you have an important job--my grandfather was a subway conductor. But really? If he was alive today, he would not be marching with you in your picket lines because HE? was cool. Granted, he was also extremely racist and used to beat my dad with a belt but really, who are you to judge my ancestors?

I say, get yo' asses back to your jobs and let's call it a day. Let Laura go babysit the twins who gave her a stomach virus so she can buy her little brother the first season of Pete and Pete on DVD for Christmas. HOW CAN YOU DENY MY ADORABLE LITTLE BROTHER COMPLETE SETS OF OLD NICKELODEON SHOWS ON CHRISTMAS?! HE IS SO CUTE! God. This sucks.

I'm going to go make a nice bubbly glass of gingerale and possibly go home so my mom can take care of me. Because really? I'm really really sick of throwing up all by myself. I want my mom. And money. Lots of money.

Peace.

Update 12/22/05 Still no trains but I thought I should say that I realized it's not the MTA--it's the TWU. The MTA are the people resisting the stupid demands of the TWU. So. Sorry!

"It's comin' on Christmas, cutting down trees, putting up reindeer and singing songs of joy and peace. I wish I had a river I could skate away on..."

I'm in Buffalo and there is threat of a blizzard/sleet/snow/rain/ice storm and so I called to cancel my catering gig tomorrow night. I'm thinking I might stay in Buffalo forever and ever and never return home. I'm watching my fabulous cousin perform in The Santaland Diaries for which he is getting RAVE REVIEWS. Read about his brilliance here.

Tom and I have been doing very important things in Buffalo like eating at Cafe Aroma and popping our pimples side by side in the bathroom. This is love people, love. I've been restless lately, sad and lonely and anxious and Tom is a source of comfort that I feel so grateful for. Watching him perform last night I felt inspired and strengthened. At least with that aspect of my life, I know I need to keep trying, keep plugging away, keep auditioning. I loooooooooooooooove him.

OH. Speaking of auditions. I showed up Monday morning for an audition and the place was packed. The unofficial lists were up on the wall and though I had a few pens in my bag, they were under all my crap so I asked the girl ahead of me if I could borrow hers.

"UM. Well it's not MY pen. It's HIS," she pointed to a man sitting down in the corner with a leather jacket on.

"Excuse me," I say to the man, "May I borrow your pen really quick?"

He turns.

"You know...you really need to start bringing your own pen to auditions."

"Um. Sorry. I have a pen in my bag, just forget it."

"Well FINE I mean use it but God GET WITH IT."

It's? a pen. You? are the most terrible person I've ever met.

Seriously you have never met vile people until you show up at an open call in New York City. The End. Love, Laura. Audition went okay. Nothing great. I'm starting to lose my focus in the audition room. I find my concentration shifting and it's really scary. Gotta get back on track...holy COW Tom's ghetto roommate is blasting rap and singing along. HE IS SO BRILLIANT. His name is Freddy. He is also smoking an exhorbitant amount of weed.

Tom's parents arrive tonight to see the show and I really hope the weather holds until their plane lands. I drove here and it took the EXACT mapquested time of six hours and forty minutes. I was going the LEGAL SPEED LIMIT THE ENTIRE TIME. It's amazing how good I'm getting at not breaking the law. I spotted a few cops during my trip and automatically slammed on the brakes to slow down out of habit, not realizing that I actually was not going 90 miles per hour. No speeding tickets for me! Tickets for lots of SUV's and one particularly weaving speed demon Toyota Camry. BUT NOT ME! I ruuuuuuuuuule!

Tom and I got Starbucks in Williamsville and the snow is covering everything and I feel so nostalgic. I seriously am so in love with this little town. (And by in love I mean that I alternately hate it with a fiery passion of hell because it is blizzarding AHHHHHHHHHHHH!) But there are lots of good times here and I need to stop using blogger so I can post an amazingly beautiful PHOTO ESSAY of my time in Buffalo. Daaaamn blogger and your useless photo mechanics.

ALSO, I was denied entrance to the gym to work out this morning because now they swipe your UB card instead of just LOOK AT IT? and obviously my card isn't active anymore. She wouldn't let me in! I'm like GOD just 20 minutes on the elliptical! THIS IS MY ALMA MATER! (I didn't really say alma mater but how funny is that!!?!? How old am I?!) So I went around the building and secretly snuck up to the jogging track and got a workout in that way. So funny how I travel back in time and keep expecting to run into Steve Fecarotta or a few dance majors or just someone I know, anyone. But no. Nothing. Just me.

I luckily ran into Maria and got a quick inspirational talk fix. She is a lovely lovely woman. Other than that, I've been hanging with Tom and his roommates. JB came over to talk and we were all up til at least 3 am. Whenever I come to Buffalo, I really really miss Keith. He is all over this city and I want to get some wonton soup from Jasmine's and mail it to him because seriously? He would LOVE THAT. However, the postal workers? Probably wouldn't.

So yeah. I really had such a blast living here. I know it's Buffalo and it's dumb and snowy and cold but this was just my entire life for so so long. It's realllllllly nice to be back. I just always need more time. I need a Higher Grounds fix and long chats with Lindsay and walks on the bike path with Troy and on and on and on it goes. You can never really go back though, can you? Just forward.

And so I'm off to go downtown to watch my darling little cousin in an elf costume. People are responding so well to this production and I jumped to my feet at its conclusion last night. He continues to amaze me and inspire me. I am always filled to the brim with pride whenever I see him on a stage. He gives me the reassurance I need to say that one day, I can do that too. His comic timing, his facial expressions, the ease in his presentation, the relaxed state of his body. He is, at the ripe age of 21, so far ahead of his time, so so beyond talented.

Last night, out to eat at a restaurant, we were dissolved into hysterical laughter over and over and over again. Catching up and making new jokes and reminiscing, we have a bond that I know will never ever be replaced. Joking with the waiter, addressing a serious topic, his brown eyes sparkling, a mischievous smile at his lips, Tom continues to amaze me, impress me, and make me laugh every second of the day, especially when all I want to do lately is cry and cry. I am, really, just awed by every aspect of his character.

Especially when he pays for dinner. YUM.

Peace.

In The Ghetto

Today I took my car to a Midas in Queens to get a flat tire looked at.

The verdict? Unfixable. Also? I need three out of four tires replaced as the threads are nearly bald and gone. The grand total? $245. (Read: All my Christmas shopping money).

Cue: Having an hysterical crying fit in the lobby of the Midas as the front desk manager looks on, completely ghetto, completely trying to take me out on a date.

"Why you cryin'? You so beautiful."

Thanks. Sniffle. Sob. Have to...get my tires..fixed...lots of money, fight with my mother...sniffle. Hiccup.

"You wanna go smoke a joint?"

Excuse me?

"You wanna go smoke a joint and feel better?"

Um. No thanks.

"You have kids?"

What?

"I have a daughter. She's 12."

Oh.

"I take you out to lunch, Laura. You call me, okay?"

Can you just fix my tires?

"Oh. Sure, beautiful."

Seriously? Why does this happen to me?

No. Seriously.

The Cubicle Cliché: The Corporate Christmas Party or Why It Isn't Any Fun When You Can't Drink Alcohol Too

So in order to fit in with the "I STARVE FOR MY ART" motif, I've been catering. This paints the completely stereotypical picture of the young actress in the big city who waits on other people while they themselves wait for their "big break". Frankly, I'm not waiting for a big break. I kind of just want enough money to pay off my parents' mortgage and fly my mom to the Vatican on a holy pilgrimage. I don't think that's a lot to ask. Seriously.

Tuesday night I was called in to cater Japanese make up company Shiseido's corporate Christmas party. It was held in a three-story brownstone which sounds really chic, doesn't it? Until you realize three stories = running up and down three flights of stairs holding trays of irritatingly fancy food. So fancy that it in fact doesn't taste that good. Think salmon and asparagus wrapped in a crepe with dill creamcheese. Um. Ew? (This is just my opinion of course and let's remember that I find salmon to be the most vile thing one could ever ingest--the wealthy NYC elite however, find it thrilling.)

I arrived at four and wandered around setting up the tables for the fortune teller and the tea leaf reader. (UM. WHAT? Yes. At this corporate Christmas party, not only can you drink to your heart's content and dance and sing karaoke but you can have tea leaves read!) The little WARNING bulb went off in my Catholic head because fortune tellers and tea leaf readers are on the list of Things That Are Satanic and Forbidden according to my mother.

Other items on this list include: playing with/looking at/thinking about a Ouija board, tarot cards, reading your own horoscope and anything to do with astrology. These things are scary and pretty much satanic and evil because you are opening doors to the Underworld. Or purgatory. Shit, now I'm getting my religions mixed up. ANYWAY.

PS/Sidebar/Off Topic: I have to say that this one time, I was playing with my neighbors at Abbey Camillary's house and she whipped out a Ouija board and even though I KNEW IT WAS WRONG, I was tempted. And I should've gone home because that's what my mother said to do in that type of situation but I STAYED. I stayed and yes, I put my own fingers on the secret little white triangle, knowing for sure I was going to hell. AND THEN TO MAKE IT WORSE, I decided to purposely move it in order to scare the crap out of my friends. Abbey asked about some spirit and how we would know it was there and I made it spell out "BECAUSE I CAN FEEL YOU" which sent Abbey and Jamie and Sheri and Samantha SCREAMING out of the room and downstairs to her mom. Also? Afterwards? I think Abbey needed her inhaler.

Of course I never owned up to doing that, until now. (Though the following Easter, I did confess it to the priest. I think he was trying not to laugh but oh the guilt. I was crying so hard I was hiccuping.) I'm not a vicious person mind you, but I think I thought I was getting revenge for the time Abbey made me ask her father if "flying buttress" was a real thing. I thought for sure that they were setting me up because really, "buttress" could not be real. But I asked him anyway while he was watching a special on the Playboy channel and sipping a Manhattan on the rocks and he gave me a real "You are a dumb person" look which I really hated. Because I was 10ish and how was I supposed to know flying buttress was a REAL THING?

I think what I'm trying to say is that as soon as I heard of the fortune teller/tea leaf reader I should've BOLTED because the signs did not look promising. Also? My boss is crazy and speaks in run on sentences and is completely disorganized and let's just say they have medication for people like this. With ten minutes to go until the party starts, she realized that she didn't have any paper towels. She threw fifty bucks at me and said:

"Laura, I need you to run down to Greenwich Ave. Do you know where that is? Not Greenwich Street, Greenwich Ave. and 10th Street. Is it 10th Street? Yes. Okay. The paper goods store on the corner, get paper towels. Not ugly towels. Cream maybe. Yes. Cream or brown. No, not brown. Not the cocktail napkins okay? The longish things. The paper towels. For the bathrooms. Enough for two bathrooms. Okay? GO."

SIGH. Hey it's 20 degrees out and about 8 blocks away but heyyy at least it's not setting up tea leaves, right? Nothing satanic at the paper goods store. By now my tummy is rumbling and there is really nothing worse than catering on an empty stomach. And of course I tried to stuff myself with food around 3 pm before I left but now it's nearly 6:00 and gosh darnit I am STARRRRRRVING. So, on the way to the paper goods store (where there were NO cream towels, so I chose royal blue and maroon) I happened upon a pizza joint and promptly ate two pieces of pizza.

Later, when all the wait staff would pass me and roll their eyes and whisper, "Aren't you STARVING?!" I would sympathetically nod but really, I was lying because mmmmmmmm PIZZA! Also? My boss opened the bags of paper towels and shrieked, "YOU CHOSE BLUE!? GOD LAURA!" Um. And maroon? The maroon is pretty!! I SWEAR!!! And then, "LAURA. YOU NEED TO START PASSING FOOD. NOW." As if I'm the slacker because I just walked a gazillion blocks to get you ugly PAPER TOWELS?!

The majority of the people at the party are Asian, due to Shiseido's Japanese base. (Actually, I have no idea if that has anything to do with it at all but, hey, good theory, no?) ANYWAY, people are loving the stupid salmon rolls but more than that, the open bar. The DJ is playing some music and people are lining up to have their fortunes told. (I figure I do them a service by saying a rosary as I walk by, albeit silently.) All of a sudden the music stops and they announce--KARAOKE TIME. I realize karaoke is meant for cheesy things like corporate events but also more importantly, really really drunk events. I realize that I now have to suffer through drunk Asian karaoke while completely sober. The words "torture" and "agony" come to mind.

Mr. Mikado starts off the sing-a-long with "Walk The Line". I don't know if you've ever heard Johnny Cash infused with Asian flava but hey man, it's brilliant. NOT HALF SO BRILLIANT HOWEVER as a particularly intoxicated rendition of "I Left My Heart In San Francisco" by a man known only as Mr. Shoe. Mr. Shoe does some sliding back and forth while he sings, slurring his words into the microphone and trying his best not to fall down.

It's around this time that I realize I stepped in something with a pasty texture and it is stuck to the bottom of my shoe. The waitstaff can't figure it out and neither can the chefs. I'm perplexed because it won't come off and yet it's sticking to the floor every time I take a step. "OH!" exclaims my boss as she laughs in my face, "It's SUSHI! You stepped on SUSHI!" which cues the entire staff into hysterical laughter as I stand there and try to pretend that I am not getting made fun of. The sushi is still on my sneaker as we speak. The rice is caked on fairly well and is now mixed with a combination of wine, gum and dirt. MMMMMMMM. Funny.

The company, Shiseido, is made up of mostly women as well as a few gay men. However, there is one straight man to be found who is relatively cute. He is in the process of getting hammered and decides it would be an appropriate time to sing "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction". His voice is actually on key for the most part and the crowd is screaming along with him. I'm extremely tired from running up and down three flights of stairs. (Apparently, I am in the house where The Real World NYC: 2 was filmed. Is this supposed to make me feel better? Because I couldn't really care less at this point.)

After his rockin' Rolling Stones cover, he chugs an Amstel Light.

"Nice song," I mutter, amused.

He stares at me, completely drunk and miserable.

"I meant every word," he slurs. Um.

"Excuse me?"

"I meant every word. Nothing's going right for me. Nothing. I. Can't. Get. No. Satisfaction," he spells out for me.

"Right." I smile and hold out my tray. "Mini creme brulée?"

He glares. I excuse myself and start cleaning up martini glasses while the president of the company belts out "Sweet Caroline". There's nothing left to do but hum sweetly along. And think about the flat tire on my car that needs to be fixed. And so, the party wraps up around 11:30 and I get home wayyyyy late, the sushi squishing on the sidewalk. (Alliteration: Friend or Foe?)

The next evening I'm back to catering at another corporate Christmas party. This time there is more alcohol, more men and now spouses to boot. One lady decides to drink ten martinis. Ten. One man decides to elbow me in the face while talking on his cell phone, spilling salmon wraps everywhere.

"You should be more careful," he says before getting back to his cell phone conversation.

I realize that these people are heartless because they spend all day inside in a cubicle. But really? You should be nice to the people who are carrying around trays of food while you get to drink copious amounts of alcohol.

There is a heavy set man sitting alone in the corner, in charge of sound. He keeps winking at me and stealing red glasses of wine from the open bar. At one point he waves me over.

"You smile is so beautiful," he says in broken slurred English.

"Thanks."

"You know what the difference is between a pretty face and a sexy woman?" he asks me.

Sigh. "What?" I say, trying to be polite.

"You." He says.

I try to make sense of this and can't. I also can't resist pointing out his poor grammar.

"That doesn't make sense," I say.

"What?"

"You asked me what is the difference between a pretty face and a sexy woman. There has to be an answer. You can't just say "me". That implies that *I'm* the difference? That doesn't make any sense. You need to formulate a better answer than that because really, you're just going to make women confused."

"Oh," he says, taking a sip from his wine glass. "I was trying to say you is a pretty face AND a sexy woman."

"Oh," I say. "Well then you should say something like, 'You are the perfect combination of a pretty face and a sexy woman'. You know? Like that."

"Ohhhhhh," he nods. I walk away. He later tries this trick on another caterer. I mean I guess I didn't HAVE to help him with his cheesy pick up lines but really, what would you do. Honestly.

It's another late night and ten-martini-Jane is falling all over the place as her friends desperately try to get her to eat some lobster croquettes. Ladies, it's too late. No amount of lobster puffs are going to make your friend any less plastered. TEN!? TEN MARTINIS!? I mean I almost want to compliment her. If I had ten martinis I would most likely be hospitalized. She deserves a raise. Or maybe a free gift bag.

There was a funky international band playing really trippy music so naturally, they are in a back office drinking wine by the bottle with the VP and rolling a ridiculous amount of joints. I'm cleaning up as best I can and cursing silently because really, can they go smoke pot somewhere else so I can go to bed? The drummer sees my agitation and says, "SOMEBODY wants to go home!"

I say, "Yeah. That'd be me. But it's all good."

"Joint?" he offers, holding a little thing in his hand that I learned in DARE was VERY VERY WRONG.

"Um. No thanks." Point for me! Saying no to peer pressure!

The vice president of the company says, "Are you sure, sweetie?"

"Maybe later," I say and shrug. It's not that I was seriously considering it, it's just that I was too tired to think of something witty to say.

I was just SO annoyed at all the drunk and high people. No matter what they say, it isn't any fun when you can't join in. NOT THAT YOU NEED TO BE DRUNK TO HAVE A GOOD TIME ALL YOU YOUNG IMPRESSIONABLE READERS. I'm just saying when I hear dance music and see people eating and drinking, I want to get ON that. I don't want to walk around and offer them food and have them hit me in the face with elbows.

I guess what I'm saying is that catering is nowhere near as bad as waiting tables. But it's still SERVING people. It's still a degrading and thankless job in the end. Though it makes for good stories.

I CAN'T GET NO
SATISFACTION!

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm superior to all things living and shouldn't be putting up with this CRAP.

Is that going to be a problem?

*Scrapes sneaker*

Sushi? Anyone? Anyone at all?

Peace.

The Roller Coaster of Life: A Tragic Tale With A Hopeful Ending

One of my Republican Christian Conservative aunts once told me that I should have stuck to teaching piano lessons when I told her I moved to the city to pursue an acting career. She told me acting was like "this" and moved her hand up and down in an S-curve.

"It's a roller coaster," she said. "Teaching, on the other hand, is very stable."

After silently counting to ten and walking away, Tom and I reached the conclusion that ignorance was to blame and have since been mocking the hand movement whenever possible. If we're having a bad day or we feel like being particularly obnoxious, we just tell each other, "You know, acting is like *this*," and move our hands excitedly up and down. I think the reason we feel we have to make fun of her is that we already know that. And life? is up and down too.

If I wanted to go into something stable, I wouldn't have picked this. Maybe she thought she was preparing me, maybe she thought I didn't already know. Or maybe underneath her VOTE FOR BUSH bumper sticker, she really thought it was a poor decision or at the very least, scary. Well. Duh.

Yesterday there was a call for a show that I'm totally right for and unfortunately, so are many girls in the tri-state area. (Read: Bye, Bye Birdie) Usually pretty high on the sign-up list, I decide to get up at 6 am because let's face it, NYC girls are psychotic and practically sleep out on the street to sign up first. I arrive at the studio at 7:15 and it is empty except for two people. It turns out that they are here for a different show. So...

It's just me. At 7:15. I have officially turned into one of the psychotic GET THERE BEFORE EVERYONE ELSE girls.

Um. Cricket. Cricket. Tumbleweed.

I start an unofficial list which ends up being honored, which is lovely because I AM NUMBER ONE ON IT, BITCHES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The most amazing girl ever, D, arrives after me and she is number two. We decide about five minutes into meeting that we are best friends. She decided this because she thinks I'm funny. I decided this because she doesn't have a New Jersey accent and when asked about this, she tells me she went to boarding school in Rome and the only thing she got from Jersey was the big hair. Ha. HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. She is FUNNIER THAN ME?! She is my friend! D!

Slowly, the girls (and three boys) trickle in over the course of a few hours, the list grows to over 200 people. They start at 11 am and I am first to go and I realize that some obsessive things I do (Omg what if she's singing the same song as me? Omg that girl told me the director was mean! omg!) are unnecessary now because, I'm first and the director has seen NO ONE before me.

I walk in and she asks me what I'm singing and what role I'm going for. She decides the two don't match, can I sing something else? I'm on that like tailgaters on the LIE are on my Ford Escort. I pick a lyric soprano and she cuts me off after TEN SECONDS and right before I inwardly groan, she says, "Can you come back to read at 4?" I utter a meek, "yes" and she apologizes for cutting me off but I just sounded beautiful and that's all she needs to hear.

I leave the audition. AM A ROCKSTAR. AM THE MOST AMAZING PERSON TO EVER GRACE THE AUDITION WOODEN FLOOR. NO ONE HAS EVER COMPARED TO ME. I got a CALLBACK and I'm going to READ and no one can do it like ME and I am SO BRILLIANT HOLY COW I PRACTICALLY ALREADY WON MY TONY AWARD.

*Laura spends next few hours traipsing around Central Park acting like she snorted an exhorbitant amount of cocaine. She debates ice skating and then realizes she might break a foot and not get cast*

Sidebar: This is the high point of the Republican Acting Roller Coaster. For example, I called my mother and freaked OUT. (After of course vowing to myself ages ago that I'd never tell my mother anything again because she just gets excited. But. I'm excited and really I don't want to call anyone else.)

I realize that I sound a little bit...ridiculous. But when no one ever wants you and then finally someone tells you they MAY want you, a little bit of euphoria ensues. The door that is slammed shut time and time again is slightly ajar and there's a little heavenly light coming through it. Of course, this gets complicated when you get your hopes up only to be crushed later. Sometimes, I'd rather not have the callback and just get cut first. Wait. I lied.

So I cancel my job for the day and go back to read at 4:00. There are nine other girls reading the same part as me and eight are really nice. The one who isn't is 18 and still in college and says inappropriate things and peeks through the curtain at the people before her. I decide that I hate her. Errrrr. Severely dislike.

Lots of girls are reading the side the same way and I'm one of the last to go in so I do it a little differently. (For all y'all who did Bye Bye Birdie in high school, we are reading the scene where Kim finds out she's going to kiss Conrad Birdie and she's FREAKING OUT and really excited, etc.) The director isn't that into my take. Ah. So, I wait in the hallway with the others to be told who can come back tomorrow to dance and who can go home and slit their wrists.

The Obnoxious Girl comes out of her reading shaking.

One other girl: Oh my God, are you alright?

Obnoxious Girl: Oh my God YEAH I just had this, like, REALLY amazing sense memory and I'm like SHAKING ALL OVER and it's like AMAZING.

Um. Did we catch that? The girl emotionally prepped herself for BYE BYE BIRDIE. I'm sorry. BUT HONESTLY PEOPLE.

In a bit, they come out with only two headshots out of the ten of us. One is this adorable girl who's sitting next to me. The other girl? Is the obnoxious 18 year old who keeps kvetching that she's going to be late to her remedial writer's class at Manhattan Borough Community College. The girl who came up with an emotional prep in order to shake excitedly.

My balloon is deflated and not only that, I'm totally bitter because one of the girls they chose over me really needs to be heavily medicated. I head back to the holding room and Obnoxious Girl follows me. I'm not lying when I say she was skipping. She shouts over to the other girl who was called back, "SO. I'll see you tomorrow at the DANCE CALLBACK!!!!!!!!!!!!" Mind you, all the rest of us who were let go are in the room getting our stuff together. I breathe and remember that really, I hate her.

She must pick up on that vibe. Because she turns to me as I'm tying up my sneakers and bubbles, "I guess that shaking really paid off for me, huh!?!??!?!?!" I breathe. I go to a happy place. Milkshakes. DSW Shoe Warehouse. I ignore her and pretend I think she's still talking to the other girl. SHE PERSISTS.

"I can't wait to call my mom and scream and shake for REAL! OH MY GOD I'm going to have to take off work! OH MY GOD OH MY GOD THIS IS SO GREAT!" I think about the fact that I'm bitter. I think about the fact that I envy this girl who is throwing it in my face. I think about the fact that she doesn't know what she's doing because really, she's a baby and doesn't really know how she's acting. I think about the fact that if I was her, I probably would be that happy too. Though I? do not do sense memory for Bye, Bye Birdie readings. HOWEVER, maybe this is a lesson learned. Maybe it is NECESSARY. Ha. No. She's still dumb.

I call my mom and let her know I was let go. The air on 8th Avenue, is, as usual, putrid. And now it's cold. I need to buy a hat and mittens but the rent is due today and that will have to wait. I shove my hands in my pockets and walk dejectedly to the subway train. Tears threaten to drop from my eyes and I think that might make me feel better but they change their mind and do not fall. I walk.

At 42nd Street, a train approaches relatively quickly and all I want is to be home in my warm bed in Queens. I pull out a crossword on the train so I do not have to think about the excitement and the disappointment and the hurt. Everyone says you're better off when you don't take it personally. You just accept you aren't what they were looking for. How can you not take that personally? I hate when people tell me that. Acting is personal. This? is personal.

I glance up from my puzzle, after getting particularly frustrated with 54 across, an extinct bird, and I see a sign for 36th Street. Um. What? Where am I? The train picks up and arrives at Steinway St. I realize that I am indeed in Queens but that I have BOARDED THE WRONG SUBWAY TRAIN. For the first time since I moved here, I blindly got on the wrong one and sat on it for a good 15-20 minutes.

I scramble off and realize I'm far from home but at least am not in Brooklyn. Steinway Street is ablaze with Christmas decorations and music and shops. Perhaps I need to clear my head. I stop in front of an Italian restaurant, the tiny Christmas lights, threaded through the shop. I watch the couples inside, warm and happy and eating. I go to pull out my ipod and realize it broke a few days ago. I have reached the bottom of the roller coaster.

I decide to walk home. It is the equivalent of approximately eight avenues. I walk. I think about how I was walking on air earlier this morning. I think of how good it feels when an unknown stranger in a position of power tells you that you are wanted. What is it about an actor's psyche that longs for that answer? Why do we care? I think many of us say we don't care. I think many of us lie.

I think we wait and walk and stick out the rejection. Over and over, the very PERSONAL rejections, the "too tall", "too blonde", "too soprano-y" for the single moment where we are the perfect height, the perfect race, the perfect voice. It seems a tiny moment in the universe, when all the stars align and somebody calls us with an offer, a part, a validation of our very existence. We are wanted.

We go on auditions like job interviews and dates, only to be rejected time and time again. Yet we go back because we hope someone will choose us. Will date *us*. Will fall in love with us and all that we know in our hearts we can do. We are the persistent lover who keeps begging to be taken back. We as actors, choose this roller coaster, because to ride on the ferris wheel is simply not enough. We are too passionate, too intense, too creative to choose the stability and predictability of something else.

After the longest walk of my life, my key turns in the lock and I'm home and safe, my cheeks and hands red with the new December chill. My roommate bounds out from his room.

"GUESS.WHAT."

I have no idea.

"I GOT THE ROLE OF 'JIMMY' IN THE TOUR OF 'THOROUGHLY MODERN MILLIE'!!!!!!!!" Before I can even speak I am jumping up and down. My friend! My roommate! THE MOST AMAZING MAN EVER WHO NEVER DOES THE DISHES?!! The stars have aligned for him, the door has burst open. He is grinning in a way I've never seen and I feel my face begin to hurt from my excitement.

And there once again, is a peak on the roller coaster.

We are screaming at the top of our lungs in our empty living room that does not hold any furniture because we cannot afford any. I am yelling and shrieking and my heart is suddenly so light and so full. I hug him forever and before I know it the tears smart in my eyes. There is no jealousy here, no envy, no misery. There is pure joy.

I throw my arms around his neck and as we stand together, hugging, we know that this makes it all worth it.

Peace.