Confirmation That I Am Really As Stupid As You Think

Remember how I spent the last post talking about spinning? (If you don't, you should read it or you will not understand the sheer lunacy of what I'm about to say.) I went on and on about my first spinning class and how it BURNS and how I was wheezing like an asthmatic, etc. etc. I told EVERYONE I knew that spinning was harder than running, harder than Bikram yoga or Mr. Tom's advanced jazz class, harder than LIFE ITSELF.

Um.

So.

Apparently? There is this knob on the spinning bike which moves the resistance up and down? And on Tuesday morning, the instructor would scream out periodically to turn the knob to the right and therefore up the resistance until I wanted to DIE. I wondered to myself, between anticipating an oncoming heart attack, how everyone could pedal so much faster than me when it was JUST SO HARD.

Um. I took spinning class again yesterday and realized something.

I realized that on Tuesday morning, I did not turn the knob all the way to the left at the beginning of class. (NORMAL, SMART PEOPLE WOULD KNOW TO DO THIS.) I simply started class with the resistance knob already halfway turned up, where the person before me had left it. And so as the instructor screamed for us to TURN THE KNOB TO THE RIGHT and everyone was pedaling furiously, my muscles were screaming in agony as I huffed and puffed and strained to make the rotations.

Apparently, when you start class with the knob all the way to the left, at zero, the class is a lot easier.

You'd think someone who graduated college with a 3.899 would've noticed this. Nope. I took note of this WAY too late. In fact, I took note of this YESTERDAY, when I walked out of class and could still feel all the muscles in my body and was no longer in fear of having a stroke. Spinning is hard but it's not THAT HARD.

I blame my mother for this; I have no choice. I'm going to add "Knowledge About The Spinning Bike Resistance Knob" to my list of "Things My Mother Should've Taught Me But Didn't". Other items on this list include:

--How To Not Dress Like A 40 Year Old Woman
--How To Ski
--How To Learn When To Shut The Hell Up Before You Get In Trouble
--How To Avoid Speeding Tickets At All Costs
--How To Find An Older Man To Marry

These are all things that I've had to learn MYSELF. (In fact, I haven't even learned them all yet. Like, skiing!? HOW DO YOU DO THAT?!) You can certainly understand my bitterness, can't you? I shouldn't have to do things by myself, EVER. Independency and free-thinking and "forming your own opinions" are all highly overrated. Doing things by MYSELF means I have to learn life lessons and grow as a person and frankly I don't have the time.

Point of story: When you have kids, teach them about the Spinning Bike Resistance Knob so that they are not in danger of dying of stupidity-induced asthma at the age of 23.

On the flip side, if you want to burn about 12,000 calories in 45 minutes, follow my lead.

Peace.

I Don't Take No Crap From Nobody

My work week has just doubled in size. As of last Thursday, I am approximately working between 61 and 82 hours a week until mid-July when hopefully that will decrease to just 60 or so. That's right, kids. I am banking the cash (errr, paying off my credit card) and praying my agents don't call me with audition appointments because I JUST DON'T HAVE TIME. I've been blessed (?) with a corporate job until the beginning of September, covering for a woman who is out on maternity leave. I already know that she gave birth last Thursday, that the labor was 25 hours and that it resulted in a botched c-section. Why? Why do horrible labor and delivery stories follow me every where I go?

The corporate demons demand my presence from 8:30-5:30 during the weekday and I've kept my part-time job at the twins, which begins at 6 pm, not to mention my 2pm-midnight shift on Saturdays. Not to mention I'm going away with them for the 4th of July from Sunday-Tuesday. Not to mention I have another babysitting gig in the Hamptons the weekend of July 8th. Not to mention I'm so tired I can't breathe. Not to mention, above all this, I thought I would join the gym and take a 6:45 am spinning class yesterday morning before work.

Let's just vocalize outloud what we've all been thinking for some time: How much crazier can I get?

Have y'all ever taken a spinning class? Do we understand the pure agony of a spinning class? I went into it assuming it would be difficult (a 45-minute non-stop cycling class with pulsing dance music and an overzealous instructor, CHECK!) but also having a bit of an ego, admitting I run a few miles every day, how hard could it be?! (Lance Armstrong wannabe, CHECK AND CHECK!) Um. I don't know if it was because I'm more out of shape than I realize or if it was because it was 6:45 am OR if a spinning class is really God's way of preparing me for being drawn and quartered in another life because, OH.MY.LORD.PEOPLE.

My muscles did not truly BURN as promised, they just sort of stopped working. My quadriceps and butt muscles just refused to endure such excruciating, ongoing affliction. They didn't scream out, as they were overcome with lactic acid, they just refused to pedal. My muscles simply gave me the middle finger and stormed off the set. As the women in front of me cycled as if in the last leg of the Tour de France, I was lucky enough to attempt a few achingly slow rotations per minute. My instructor screamed to the point of whining as he furiously cycled and reminded us that he had FIVE MORE CLASSES LEFT TO TEACH. I blanked out most of what he said; I was too busy wheezing like an asthmatic.

I really was breathing THAT hard. The back of my throat burned and my heart raced like never before as I struggled to gasp enough oxygen. I seriously wonder now if I have asthma. Or, perhaps, pneumonia. OR MAYBE just a severe, deadly allergic reaction to intense exercise with a group of people that are skinnier than me. Spinning class is satan's work. Truly. And therefore, I'm getting up tomorrow to try it again.

And so, at approximately 8:00 yesterday morning, I sweat out every last remaining molecule of waterfrom my body, I showered and dressed while trying to adhere to this company's RIDICULOUSLY STRICT DRESS CODE. I spent 8.5 hours at my desk without time to take a lunch, but definitely with time to observe that I'm going to be stressed at this company and then I raced to the 6 train to get to my other job. THIS job, at least thankfully does not involve much beyond filling the dishwasher with bottles and trying to tell screaming 22 month-old twins that really, in America, we wear clothes. WE HAVE TO WEAR CLOTHES and I don't know what is so difficult about putting your pajamas on seriously, boys, do you know how lucky you are?! I HAVE TO PUT ON MY OWN PAJAMAS EVERY NIGHT. WITH NO ONE'S HELP.

Sidenote: I think babysitting is spoiling me for parenting. When I give birth and go three months without sleeping more than two hours at a time and try to put pajamas on my screaming children who would rather be naked, who are throwing tantrums and also fried rice all over my pinstriped pants, I'm going to look at my husband, if he is even home from work yet, and casually mention, "You know, I used to get paid between $12 and $15 an hour for this shit."

Point is. I get on the subway to go to MORE WORK and I'm tired. Tired from spinning, tired from corporate dramatics, tired because I need 10 hours of sleep to function properly because I am an old lady. As I stand up on the 6 train, there is a 10 year-old gangsta ghetto boy sitting near me, who is making fun of pretty much everyone in the subway car. Rather loudly. His older sister is trying to quiet him but she can't help laughing and I rest my head on the back of my palm and close my eyes.

"Hey you!" the kid calls up to me, as I stand over him, clutching the filthy silver handlebar. "Yeah, you, Jessica SIMPSON!"

I suppose things could be worse. Jessica Simpson is HOT. This we know. Teenage boys everywhere daydream about how her boots are made for walkin' and God knows what else. She's not, however, known for being intellectual and so I'm mildly insulted. Until he says,

"No, no, ASHLEE SIMPSON! Hey ASHLEE SIMPSON! Yeah, yeah! You're ASHLEE SIMPSON!"

I know he was teasing with the Jessica thing but Ashlee? She who lip synchs and yeah has some catchy tunes but is not only stupid but also ugly? WHY?! Why are kids so cruel? I learned my lesson in 7th grade, didn't I? When my friends would gang up on me and call me annoying and I was left to listen to the Annie soundtrack in the privacy of my own room!? CRUELTY! And now, now I was the object of scorn from a TEN YEAR OLD GHETTO GANGSTA RAP BOY ON THE 6 TRAIN!

And then he started singing the words to that God awful Ashlee Simpson song.

"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH," he sang, "It feels like I can finally rest my HEAD ON SOMETHING REAAAAAAAL, I LIKE THE WAY THAT FEELS! OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" and on and on, reciting word-for-word the entire song with interjections of "ASHLEE SIMPSON! YOU ARE ASHLEEEE!"

Obviously, not much has changed since 7th grade. I'm still a dork. I still listen to showtunes. I'm still misunderstood by my peers 99.9% of the time. However, I'd like to think that ten years later, I can at least stand up for myself sometimes. I'm not always strong enough but SOMETIMES, I can hold my own when oppressed, humiliated and/or hugely insulted as I was yesterday by this young boy. And so I took it upon myself to put him in his place.

As the train stopped at City Hall, the boy had finished singing and was looking at me with a grin as I readied myself to leave. Right before I moved, I gathered up my weary self, looked him in the eye and declared, "You must be the most popular boy in your school since you listen to Ashlee Simpson! It's so cool that you know all the words to her songs!" The boy's mouth dropped open and his sister fell over on the seat in hysterics.

I gathered whatever dignity remained and exited the train. Take that you little wiseass. Ashlee Simpson indeed.

Peace.

A Blog of Brotherly Love

As of June 1st, 2006, I had been living in New York City for one year. I have spent $6,804 on rent alone. I moved all my crap into my apartment completely by myself except that I realized I didn't really have any crap and enlisted the help of my two brothers to take me to IKEA. After stuffing ourselves with Astoria gyros and after Paul and Jem took tedious measurements of my tiny tiny front bedroom in Astoria, we headed out to IKEA, which is also known as the Overcrowded, Inexpensive, Swedish, Where-The-Hell-Can-We-Find-Parking!? and Ooooo Meatballs! Store.

While I may have bought a bed frame, mattress, nightstand and dresser for under $400, I had little to no part in moving or assembling any of it. While my brothers pushed around a huge cart full of various wooden pieces, I looked around at the pre-made bedrooms and debated getting under a beautiful maroon comforter and never leaving the store. At the cash register, I absentmindedly handed over my Visa card to a young teenage girl, who snapped her gum and I tried not to think about the fact that I had just moved to New York City with no job in sight.

While Paul and Jeremy loaded up my mother's Toyota RAV4, I licked my 99 cent ice cream cone and watched the Spanish family next to us struggle to load up a minivan with the entire contents of the "Living Room" section. And then later, I went to park the car while my siblings walked my furniture up two flights of stairs and into my new apartment. They screwed together planks of wood and matched piece Flooeyhousen up with piece Damitscheapya and I think I just sat on the carpet in Queens and marvelled over the exquisite cheap pine smell that was now my bedroom. They were setting up my new life and battling with dresser drawers that wouldn't shut goddamnit and I kind of just sat there and blinked, feeling kind of tired from all the commotion.

I highly suggest you get yourself some brothers if you can. They can be super useful. Especially to me. I believe that one of my many talents is passing off work to other people. I never do it maliciously. It just sort of happens, kind of like how you say you'll hold your college boyfriend's gin and tonic while he plays softball and you take, say, one sip of it and then wind up horribly hungover the next morning wondering how could that be, as vague memories collect of your boyfriend joking, "You drank that whole thing? I told you to HOLD it for me, not DOWN it for me!"

Yeah. It kind of happens like that, without warning, without planning. Maybe it's because I think I'm better than most people and shouldn't lower myself to the task at hand. Or maybe it's just because I do what my body feels like doing 99.9% of the time and my body rarely ever feels like lugging 800 pounds of furniture up two flights of stairs in June. It feels like dancing. It feels like crying at Meg Ryan movies. It feels like eating pudding. It does not feel like vacuuming the kitchen floor mom, no, it doesn't.

Growing up, my mother was routinely up in arms over my entire family's seemingly lack of interest in housework. Saturday mornings would erupt in the "You All Are So Lazy" speech (Family Lecture #485), where she would rant about cooking and cleaning and slaving and the least we could do was THINK about doing the dishes or NOTICING that the counter we're eating off is covered in crumbs and grape jelly so help her baby Jesus, how did she raise such ignorant unhelpful children!?

And in the spirit of helping others, while my mother stormed around the house spewing unrecognizable wrath, I would leisurely wipe the grape jelly off the counter and my brother, Paul, would make me an omelet. Mom would eventually make her way in and around all two stories of the house, slamming objects and doors, throwing our dirty clothes and bedsheets down to us until it landed in a forgotten, twisted heap at the bottom of the stairs in the foyer. We knew it was useless to try and interrupt her. Once she went off, she was off. And so, we would sit at the kitchen table, two partners in crime, reading the comics and eating eggs.

I believe, in the end, that my brother Paul got more Laziness Lectures than I ever did because unlike him, sometimes my body actually DID feel like doing housework. The problem is that it came and went in HUGE waves and still does. I will clean the entire house, top to bottom, reorganize my shoes, give away my out-of-date-and-too-small-clothes, read over my third grade essays, dust the computer and clean the toilet all in a few hours. And then I will do nothing for a month. This is cleaning, to me. This is, as my mother would yell, "staying on top of it". Sure, I would do dishes and laundry on a regular basis. But that's about it. Until I entered the real world AKA Living With Clueless Gay Men.

How far I've come in a year! Life is no longer pretty IKEA furniture and 99 cent ice cream cones. Now I am my mother, begging my roommates to please do the damn dishes, is that so hard to ask?! They will pile up and pile up and no one will think to wash them. If they DO, they won't ever put them away and they will just stack higher and higher on the dish drain until I think to remove them. I want to know what's so hard about any of this. To keep something neat OTHER than your own personal tie collection. To pick up your water glasses off the arms of the chairs in the living room? To straighten the bathroom sink, to replace the toilet paper for baby Jesus' sake am I the ONLY ONE WHO NOTICES THESE THINGS?!?!?! Whether or not my body FEELS like it, I'm doing things because I have to. And ohhhh do I hate it.

A year in New York City and I'm out $7,000 and way bitter because of it. I have switched roommates 80 million times. I have exactly a 1 out of 3 callback rate at any given audition according to my track record for the year. People that were my friends took "space" from me and I'm still not sure why. And now I'm cleaning my apartment on a daily basis and not just my crap, but EVERYONE'S CRAP. This is not something I wanted to do. Ever. (Mental note: Never have children.)

Paul knows a lot about doing things you don't want to do because he is married. His 3rd wedding anniversary is on Monday and his 25th birthday just passed. Three years ago, I wrote him this. I didn't think he would see it before the wedding, but it turns out he was up late that evening and clicked the link to my blog. I saw him before the ceremony and he enveloped me in a hug and confessed that he read it and thought it was beautiful and that he cried. And then I started crying. And then he married a Jewish girl outside on a misty July afternoon.

And due to many many reasons, only one being the fact that my roommate uses the toilet paper up and doesn't replace it, I have made plans to vacate my apartment come September 1st. I just want my brother to know that I really really appreciated the help a year ago. And that I love him. And Happy Birthday. And Happy Anniversary. And will you be available in the fall, preferably with a huge moving van? And one more thing, when the hell can we go back to IKEA!? because one of my dresser drawers won't shut goddamnit and it's pissing me off.

Peace.

Question for the Masses

About two weeks ago, I was riding the subway on my way to the ballet with Dan. It was a relatively warm evening and my white spring dress stopped right above my knees. I was sitting on the N train, with my legs primly crossed, working peacefully on a Sudoku puzzle when the man near me was overcome with allergies. Or, perhaps, a slight tickle in his nose. Either way, without any warning, he sneezed.

All.over.my.bare.legs.

What's the grossest thing that's ever happened to YOU?

June Observation

Two of my biggest relationships have ended because of my career. Well. Not like I have a semblance of a career and not like the men said something like, "Oh, you're an ACTRESS? I'm OUT OF HERE!" (Which, they should've. Duh.) But because DUE to a career I wish to have in the near future, I have been unable to compromise on the city that I live in, the hours that I work and time and effort put into said relationships. I wonder if this will always be the case. What am I working so hard towards? And at what cost?

Is it wrong that when I think about stuff like that it makes me pause for a really long while?

And maybe blink a few times?

And wonder, after only a year in New York City, if any of this is really worth it?

And then I eat lentil soup and make macaroni and cheese and I start to feel better immediately.

I thought that I wanted to date other people. You know, be a big girl and go on DATES and have men buy me dinner or maybe an alcoholic beverage. I would frolick around the city like Carrie Bradshaw, getting into all the clubs and restaurants and have three witty beautiful friends I would meet up with later for brunch. The truth of the matter is that I don't really want to date anyone at all right now. The thought of it overwhelms me. I don't want to meet anyone new, particularly because I know I'll judge them and I'll know immediately in the first 10 seconds that they just aren't the SAME as the person that I want and then I have to sit there for the next few hours and pretend that they are EXACTLY what I want.

I want to be by myself. Really and truly. I've never been a girl who desperately wishes for a boyfriend anyway. I've just always kind of dated people who fell into my lap. And magically and luckily for me, they were so so incredibly amazing I couldn't say no. I feel like such a spoiled brat saying it but I never had to go out and FIND a boyfriend. And I don't want to now. I want to go it alone and see if this career thing is all its cracked up to be. I'm a crappy girlfriend when it all comes down to it and someday I'd like to be a SUPER DUPER GIRLFRIEND who can turn into a SUPER DUPER KICK ASS WIFE WHO MAKES GREAT TOMATO SAUCE.

I can't do that right now.

I'm just too tired and too poor.

I'm just afraid that if I take time now to be alone and do ma THANG, that I will wake up at 30 and have no one. I'm battling the voice inside that tells me that I better hurry up and find a man or I will die alone with many cats. I'm trying to trust that inner feeling and all my mother's friends who reassure me that in the grand scheme of life, 23 is really very young and why rush things? But...but...I'm very competitive and in the race to find love and a family of my own, I don't want to lose.

PASS ME THE BATON, SOMEONE!!!!!

Um. Maybe...just...not right now. Right now, I'm taking a time out. It's half-time, y'all. I'm trying to feel good about this decision. Positive. Trusting in God's mysterious and magical plan. But...but...daaaaaaaaaaamn trust is HARD.

Especially when people from the Disney channel keep getting cast in Broadway shows.

How can I compete with that?

Answer: I can't.

Peace.

I Have A Dream, A Song To Sing, To Help Me Cope With Anything

I'm going to post a description of a dream/nightmare that overtook me on the evening of Tuesday, May 30th. I don't think I shall drink a Miller Light before bed ever again. This is, verbatim, from my personal journal where I record dreams and also, mean stuff about people that piss me off that I can't post in public. Enjoy!

DREAM - Awoke May 31st, 8:42 am, Feeling Scared and Also Bewildered

I just woke up from a dream set during the Revolutionary War. The first part of the dream involved me singing a song to the troops 1940's style. It was a musical theatre power ballad about betrayal and heartache and the soldiers were REALLY into it. The dream then took a dramatic turn when the troops invaded. (And by troops, I mean men with ponytails donning purple soldier uniforms.) I sought shelter on a pier where my good friend, Phil Badazewski from Buffalo had a gun and was "The Bad Guy".

"PHIL!", I screamed, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" as Phil pointed the gun at my torso.

In heavily Buffalo-accented English, Phil calmly replied, "Killing all you guys!" He then proceeded to SHOOT ME IN THE STOMACH. I clutched myself in agony and looked down at the damage only to find no blood, but pregnancy-induced stretchmarks.

Cut to me being in a tower, seeking refuge. And by tower? I mean a New York City apartment with a great view of the Empire State Building. I was resplendent in a 1700's ballroom gown. My father was also there, as George Washington and together we watched as the troops rode horses on the Hudson River and killed each other. My father, glorious in powdered wig and riding boots turned to me and in heavily accented Brooklynese said only, "Oh my GAWD! This is gonna totally affect my gas prices!"

Suddenly, my little brother Jem, as Ben Franklin, appeared in the apartment, warning all of us that the soldiers on horses were entering the tower (how?) and we all had to get out. In my dream at this point, I distinctly remember thinking, "Oh, good! An escape scene! This dream has GOT to end soon!" No.Lie.

Naturally, I was right.

The dream culminated as a claustrophobic's dream should--the elevators were all busy, so we took the stairs. However, there was quite a bit of time that lapsed between my brother/Ben Franklin's warning that the British were coming and me running down the castle stairs toward freedom. In true Laura fashion, I could not vacate the apartment right away because I could not find my shoes. And not just any shoes. Nope. Shoes from summers gone by, the hot pink plastic sandals that adorned my feet in all their squishy glory. Yes. I'm talking about my jellies.

And the dream really was entirely appropriate to how I would react in such a (Revolutionary?) crisis. I'd take the stairs but not as fast as I should because I've misplaced my favorite shoewear from 1989. And really, that was indeed the BEST part of the dream: Everyone rushing out the door and me, screaming at my inventor brother in a hurried rage, "But the JELLIES, Ben, where the HELL did I leave my JELLIES?!"

Peace.