Miscellaneous

1. Yesterday, we did our first and only elementary school show. By that I mean, we did the show in a gym-atorium...on the stage, as the kids sat in rows on the gym floor. You could see every child's face, every single expression of awe and excitement. During one of my scenes as the mother, Junie B. explains her worries about getting new glasses:

Junie B.: What if no one likes me anymore? And no one wants to be my friend?

Little Girl In The Front Row: (screaming) I WILL!!!!!!!!!!

2. As second assistant stage manager, I get $6 extra per week to help Margot with the sound equipment. Usually, I do the bare minimum, which involves getting out the wireless microphones and preparing them for the show. We put condoms over the microphones to prevent sweat from getting on them and interfering. Apparently, it's a pretty well-known practice though we didn't do it in college but hey, I went to public school.

Margot has a large bag with hundreds of condoms to choose from. She told me that during her last tour, it was kind of awkward the first couple times she went into the store and purchased 150 condoms at a time. At one point, she felt a little uncomfortable as the cashier rang up her items and so she decided to offer an excuse:

Margot to the Store Clerk, Pointing to The Condoms: Um...They're for work!!!

*awkward silence*

Store Clerk: Ohhhhh.

3. No one agreed with me when I told them I would exercise on this tour. In fact, everyone laughed and said it would never happen.

I have clocked in approximately three runs per week, each totaling between 30 and 45 minutes. Horrible compared to my New York stats, but impressive nonetheless. I've really enjoyed exploring new neighborhoods except for that time in Augusta, Georgia where I was followed for about a mile by two overzealous dogs. And so I just want to say to all those people that doubted me: I DID SO EXERCISE. You owe me a party.

4. Candy received a text message the other day from her boyfriend, letting her know that he put $50 in her bank account and to please treat herself to a nice dinner and glass of wine on him. She was teary-eyed, moved by his kindness and I have to admit that I was too. It's a sweet gesture, no?

First, I thought about how I have NEVER given my bank account info to a boyfriend. What!? People do that? Really!?!?

More importantly, I thought about how it must feel to have someone think of you like that: Someone actually relating to how hard this is--trying to stretch a $53 a day per diem on hotels and food, trying to save money to pay the rent when you get back, trying not to kill cast members with your bare hands, etc. Someone who sympathizes with you and knows that when you sit down to eat, the first thing you look at on the menu is the price. And how much that sucks.

I got a little sad thinking that I didn't have anyone who thought of me that way. Well, there ARE people that think of me that way but no one who could actually help me out, mainly because I don't give them access to my bank account. This would require me to melt the ice around my cold black heart and actually accept money when I need it.

But I don't.

And then my mom gave me a hundred dollars.

And I accepted it because oh my God, FREE MONEY!!!!!!!!!

5. I have seen twelve movies since I've been out on tour.

6. I have read six novels.

7. I have reintroduced chicken and turkey into my diet and have decided, along with the girls, to start the Master Cleanse AKA Lemonade Diet when I get back. You know, for fun.

8. My archive links don't work right now. I don't know why. Blame Canada.

9. This past Sunday we picked up a new cast member in Detroit. Jon is leaving early to participate in Something That Is More Important Than Doing Children's Theatre in Michigan. (I know. What could it be!? NOTHING IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THIS.) So Jon is gone and in his place we have Vegan Mike. We've had numerous discussions about eliminating dairy from your diet. I think this is important information though I wonder if veganism is contagious. Ick.

10. One week from right now, I will be in New York City. And right now, nothing in the world sounds better than that.

Thanksgiving

This is the first Thanksgiving in 23 years that I didn't spend with my family.

Instead, I spent it in Canada.

I watched Grey's Anatomy in my hotel room and had dinner with Margot at the diner across the street: a Greek salad and THEN I allowed myself french fries AND a chocolate shake.

I do not remember the last time I had a chocolate shake.

I also do not remember the last time I looked at a chocolate shake and didn't have to fight the urge to mentally tally calories and possible grams of saturated fat. I dismissed the nagging nutritionist voice who resides in my brain and drank the chocolate shake. Well. Okay. Half of it. And it was delicious.

I miss my family.

Some people on the tour remarked that Thanksgiving is just another day, just another meal. I couldn't disagree more. Thanksgiving is when I go to 10:30 mass with my family and sing America The Beautiful beside my tonedeaf father. Thanksgiving means sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top and listening to my grandfather remind everyone that he will not eat ANYTHING made with white flour. Thanksgiving is downright awesome on so many levels.

Thanksgiving isn't just another day or another meal. It's a time for me to stop obsessing about what I lack and reflect on the gifts that I do have and all my blessings. I hope you had a wonderful holiday in America. Here is my abridged list of Thanks:

I AM THANKFUL FOR...
by Laura Elizabeth

* My bulging bank account
* Making a lot of money doing children's theatre
* Choosing what I love over what will bring me lots of money
* The fact that while I am dumb, other people are a lot dumber
* The little girl who met me after one of our shows and said, "I love it every time you sing."
* Text messages from Dan
* Candles that smell like cinnamon
* Chick-Fil-A
* The Indigo Girls, Ben Folds, The Dixie Chicks and Beyonce
* My skinny ankles
* Ugly Betty
* The men I have dated who have respected me, loved me unconditionally and politely declined to comment negatively on my backfat.
* Alayna
* Homemade pasta sauce
* The people at Mac
* My parents, who tell me that my happiness is more important than how much money I make
* My blog, who is approximately seven and a half years old
* The sound of a piano
* The sound of Owen and River laughing as they splash in the bathtub
* Climbing up the stairs to my apartment and hearing the television on, a reminder that I have two wonderful roommates to come home to
* Suze Orman
* Tom in LA, Ashley in NYC
* Taking a shower and rinsing off every single second of a bad day
* My ability to run, dance and crack my neck on command
* The people who read my blog and just by commenting and saying hello, make my day a lot lot brighter.

I love you all. Happy Thanksgiving.

Blame Canada

So after spending last week in popular tropical vacation destination, Detroit, Michigan and its surrounding areas, we have crossed the border into Canada. We're spending the next ten days here and I've shut my cellphone off so as not to incur any insane charges. I called Sprint to ask how much a phonecall from Canada would be and the customer service representative informed me that she would be happy to change my plan to International Roaming for only $1,000,000. I decided to stick with my American plan and shut the phone off while I'm here. I think it was a wise choice since Sprint seems to charge me extra money simply for thinking words like "Canada".

Canada has always been a near and dear friend, a place that welcomed me with open arms while I attended college at the nearby University at Buffalo. It was a place where the American dollar was actually worth something and more importantly, a place where you could drink legally at age 19. Any bad day in Buffalo was made a little bit better by getting in the car in the dead of winter and crossing the Rainbow Bridge to the Land of Universal Healthcare.

I remember being lectured at Freshman Orientation by the head of the Honors Program, Dr. Josephine Capuana. "Josie" as she was called by her peers, would eyeball us intensely with a threatening glare and speak about the dangers of going into Canada to drink. She incorporated curse words into the speech, for dramatic effect and probably shock value, as she fulminated against the decision to cross the border to get "shit-faced drunk".

"You have no rights at the border!" Josie Capuana bellowed, the veins bulging out of her neck. "They can search your belongings, they can search your car, they can search you...internally." I doubt this speech prevented any single freshman from going over to Canada though maybe some of us thought twice about smuggling drugs in our various orifices. Either way, we all found it highly amusing and it came up in conversation throughout my college career. "Josie says don't go to Canada," I would tell my friends and in unison we would shout, "TO GET SHIT-FACED DRUNK!"

For the record, I have never been shit-faced drunk. Also, though the Honors Department told me that majoring in musical theatre wasn't a worthwhile academic goal, it did provide me with blog material. And for that, I am grateful.

We made it into Canada pretty easily and by easily I mean that the Americans didn't sign all of Margot's paperwork, requiring us to go through customs and then park at a warehouse on the Canadian side so the van could be searched. We then waited for Margot to go meet with a broker, go BACK to the States to have the paperwork signed and then re-enter Canada with all the paperwork intact. If this was not completed in a "timely fashion", we were informed that we would be fined $1,000. Everything worked out in the end and it only cost us two hours of waiting in a van playing Madlibs.

The itinerary we were given lists the hotels that we are staying at and the cost so that we are prepared in advance. The hotels in Canada are higher in price than any of the American hotels we've stayed at and we were assured that it was alright because hey! It's in Canadian dollars! Awesome.

Now, when I was in college, way back before leggings were reintroduced to society, if something cost $10 Canadian, you could rest-assured that it was the equivalent of no more than $6 or $7 dollars. The exchange rate was pretty decent and I was eager to come here, knowing that I would be spending a lot less money. But then we crossed the border. And I kid you not, I looked up and saw a sign that read "MONEY EXCHANGE HERE. 10 CENTS FOR EVERY AMERICAN DOLLAR. "

I'm sorry, I must be going blind, what did that say? TEN CENTS FOR EVERY DOLLAR!??!!? WHAHAAHAHAHAHA!?!? And I dissolved into a mixture of hysterical laughter and tears, not quite processing the information. Margot had to spell it out for me.

Margot: So, if you spend ten Canadian dollars, it's only nine American.

Me: *sputtering* But...but...that's impossible! That's....like...NOTHING!

Margot: Well, yes. Kind of.

Me: KILL THE QUEEN!

Margot: Um...

Sooo, who can I blame this on? I don't really want to blame Canada because they have health insurance for everyone! And maple syrup! And cute immigration officers! So. Can I blame our economy? Our God-fearing president? WHO WHO? I need someone to blame because I feel incredibly old saying "Back when I was young, the exchange rate was SO MUCH BETTER THAN THIS." But sadly, it's true.

So, we're in Canada. I keep reminding my castmates not to drink the water but for some reason, they aren't listening. The saddest part of all is that I will be spending Thanksgiving here in this foreign, foreign land. Is nothing sacred? I can't even celebrate America's greatest holiday, where we remember that we kicked people off their land and onto the Trail of Tears. Where's my sweet potatoes!? Where's my aunt being moody in the corner?! WHERE'S THE MAIZE!?

Not here, folks. Not in Canada. Here they use the Metric system, which caused me to run very slowly on the treadmill yesterday as I tried to figure out exactly how to convert kilometers to miles. When the machine prompted me to enter my weight in kilograms I entered the maximum, 136 kgs because I had no idea. Apparently, 136 kilograms is the equivalent of 299.2 pounds. That could be why, after a 40 minute run, according to the treadmill, I burned over 750 calories! Weighing 299.2 pounds rocks!

Oh, Canada. Horrible exchange rate aside, you are running a real close second to my native land, omnipotent superpower, America.

In fact, you may have even surpassed it.

Claustrophobia

We pulled into Detroit around 8 pm this evening and I can safely say that for the first time since I left New York, I don't quite feel safe. It may have something to do with the gangs that roam the hallways or the drunk convenience store clerk in the lobby. But mainly, it has to do with the elevators. Namely, that they exist. And also, that they are the most terrifying elevators I have ever seen in my life.

My mother told me that if I was going to have a fear of elevators, I probably couldn't get by in New York City. Surprisingly, I've done pretty well. The first step is to separate elevators into two categories--those that I can get into and those that I cannot. This way of compartmentalizing makes perfect sense to me though I understand that if I attempt to explain it to others, I risk being labeled "Mentally Unstable".

If I have to get into an elevator, I prefer that it has any of the following distinctions: shiny metal walls, mirrors, a real life elevator operator inside it or those small televisions that show me the latest headlines and stock prices. I can also tolerate elevators that are bigger than the average bathroom, elevators that shoot up to the floor so fast that I don't even have time to ponder the "what ifs" and also, in an ideal world, elevators that have windowed, see-through walls. (See also: Disney World, NYC Marriot Hotel)

I don't know what the shiny factor has to do with keeping me sane but for some reason, anything metallic soothes me and gives me the impression that maybe I will live after all. Televisions are obviously wonderful distractions whereas fast elevators eliminate the time I spend wondering how much longer I have until I die. Mirrors are soothing because I can tell myself that if anything happens while I'm inside the mirrored elevator, I can at least pass the time by popping my pimples. This calms my troubled soul immensely.

The list of Elevators I Cannot Ride Alone is long and excessive. Here are some excerpts:

-- Anything entirely wood panelled as this gives me the feeling that I am inside a coffin and therefore already deceased.

--Any elevator that was built before 1990. I consider anything pre-New Kids On The Block to be old and unstable. I cannot tolerate any elevator that jerks, bumps or creaks unnecessarily.

--Elevator doors that take a long time to open up. (See also: Clemens Hall Elevator, University at Buffalo). When the elevator reaches my floor and the doors pause for awhile before opening, I consider the elevator to be stuck in place and therefore, I consider suicide.

--Any elevator that is smaller than my bathroom.

Of course, I live in New York City where there are things like apartment highrises and very very tall office buildings. These things tend to contain elevators because apparently, unlike me, the average person does not want to walk twenty flights of stairs to get to work. Being out on the road has taught me that in hotels, people do not want to take their luggage up the stairs either. And so, God created elevators.

It seems that 75% of the time, we have stayed in motels that do not have more than three floors and therefore, do not have elevators. Margot is ecstatic when we find a motel with an elevator because this means that the motel is usually of nicer quality and also that she doesn't have to lug her suitcase up three flights of stairs. For awhile, when we stayed in these places, Margot convinced me to ride the elevator up with her, distracting me by talking about important things like Beck’s new album or whether or not we should have dinner at Arby’s. This worked a few times until one moment of jest where she jumped and yelled inside a Comfort Inn elevator, just to scare me and I screamed my head off and vowed never to trust her again.


Now, when we reach these places, I enter the elevator after Margot, deposit my suitcase inside it, gently extricate myself from the Tiny Space of Death and hightail it up the stairs to meet Margot on the next floor up. This system works rather well though people seem to view it as...oh what's the word...retarded?

I was discussing my severe case of claustrophobia with the director of my show and at one point he laughed and said, “You do realize that if the elevator DOES get stuck, you’re not going to DIE or anything, right?!”

Um. Actually? THAT IS PRECISELY WHY I DO NOT GET INTO ELEVATORS.

No, I have never been stuck. No, I cannot recall a scarring childhood memory involving a small space I could not get out of (see: Robert Langdon, Da Vinci Code). I just do not like them Sam I Am, simply because elevators for me spell out IMMINENT DEATH.

You see, should that elevator stop for whatever reason and get stuck, my heart will stop beating and I will keel over and die. They will find me days later, eaten by magical elevator maggots who are feasting on my brain. Do not tell me I can press the help button or pick up the little phone and scream bloody murder. And do NOT, stupid idiot sir who told me this, tell me that you can just pry open the doors yourself when you get stuck. TRUST ME. YOU CAN’T.

As soon as those pernicious doors close, I begin to have trouble breathing. A bucket of fear drops in my stomach and when things get really bad (i.e.: jerking of elevator, audible screeching of wires), I start to hum the psalms. I do not know why I am crazy. I just know that I am.


Lucky for me, this Detroit hotel has the oldest set of elevators I have ever seen. The doors are something out of the 1920’s, gold-plated but not in a happy metallic way, more in a nightmarish “The Shining” kind of way. The inside is eerily carpeted with stained blue and red patterns and the walls are a deep oak. It would resemble a coffin except for the graffiti etched into the wood with knives.

Naturally, placed in this situation, with a room on the top floor, I am going to choose the stairs over the elevator. And this, my good friends is why I have gone up and down nine flights of stairs a total of six times so far. Not only is it an amazing cardio workout but I can sleep peacefully knowing that when I die, it will not be inside a ghoulish hotel elevator in Detroit, curled up in the fetal position, clutching my heart in frozen agony.

Politically Incorrect

Location: The Winking Lizard Tavern where Margot and I have gone to dinner four times this week because, why not?

Atmosphere: Hockey game on TV. Justin Timberlake's "SexyBack" bumps in the background.

I am contemplating whether or not to order grilled cheese and tomato on rye for the fourth time this week. Margot is contemplating beer.

The waiter appears.

Margot: Can I get a black and tan?

Margot will later explain that this is a drink containing both Guiness and Bass.

Waiter: May I recommend a Black Christmas instead?

Margot: Which is...

Waiter: Guiness and Great Lakes Christmas Ale.

Margot: (quizzically) Is it better?

Waiter: Definitely. I like the taste of the Christmas Ale more.

Margot: Will I like it more?

Waiter: Definitely.

*pause*

Margot: Even if I hate Christians?

Real Quick

I miss a lot of things about New York.

Things that could fill up eight million blog posts forever and ever.

Today, though, all I miss are these two amazing babies.




And contrary to his face in this picture, River is rarely ever that cranky.

But cranky or not, I miss those baby beans.

All The Little Kids Growin' Up On The Skids Are Goin' 'Cleveland Rocks! Cleveland Rocks!'

Oh Mylanta you guys, I GOT MY LAPTOP BACK!!!!!!

Seriously. I'm typing on it RIGHT THIS SECOND. You can hardly stand it, right?

The good news is that my father shipped my repaired laptop here to Cleveland, where I have the glorious good fortune of staying in a beautiful hotel for SEVEN.STRAIGHT.DAYS. No putting up the set, no driving to the next town, for a WEEK! Rah! Cleveland! The bad news is that Mac charged my credit card $820 and I have trouble breathing when I think about that. But I'm trying to get that resolved because I still firmly believe that I NEVER should've been charged over $800 to fix a four-week-old computer. Apparently, Mac agrees with me.

My castmate Rance called up Apple on Saturday and explained the situation. I decided to hand over my cellphone to Rance because 1) I was driving the van at the time and b) I am terrible with confrontation. During moments of direct communication, I can't seem to construct proper sentences, I tend to be excessively emotional, and I start to get flushed and sweaty, overwhelmed by the fact that I'm talking to a REAL LIVE PERSON who might say things that I'm not smart enough to respond to. In fact, if I called up Apple myself, the conversation would go like this:

Me: Um. Hi.

(extremely long pause where I try to remember how to speak English)

Apple Customer Service Representative, Let's Call Him "Slater": Hello?

Me: Ah, yes. Hello. You see. I have this sort of problem with my computer. Well. I HAD a problem, but someone sort of fixed it but it's wrong. Not that they fixed it wrong but it's wrong that you had to fix it. Well. No. You had to fix it, that's right but I didn't want to be charged for it.

Apple Slater: I'm sorry...what?

Me: *deep breath* I have a computer of yours and it broke.

Slater: What kind of computer?

Me: A Mac thing. *palms begin to sweat*

Slater: Right...well. They're all Macs.

Me: Okay, a Mac...book?

Slate Dawg: Okay.

Me: Well, it broke and I only had it a month and I took it to the Apple Store in Atlanta and they told me it would cost $800 to fix even though I had AppleCare and they took it away and fixed it and I kind of want that money back. *sweaty hands begin to shake*

Slater: I'm sorry but that's our policy.

Me: *dissolving into hysterical tears* Um. Okay.

*hangs up phone*

Rance, on the other hand, is a freaking rockstar with confrontation. He's the kind of guy that you'd want on your side whilst arguing about, say, your laptop screen shattering right after you purchased it or maybe arguing the NYPD over the four parking tickets you got last year. So HE called up Apple and amazingly enough, the customer service rep AGREED that charging me $800 after a month of ownership was complete and utter bullshit. Come to think of it, I don't think the Apple Guy used that exact phrase, but you get my drift.

But first, the guy on the phone tried to blame ME by telling Rance that the Apple Store I took it to in Atlanta was the one who charged me and that I shouldn't have let them do that. He tried to say that the store was in no way connected to Apple.com, somehow implying that if I had contacted Apple.com directly, they wouldn't have charged me the $800. This launched Rance into a tirade where he managed to formulate the following argument: "I'm sorry but that is an UNACCEPTABLE answer. Whether it's the Apple store or Apple.com, you are all underneath one big Apple tree."

See? This is why I hand over the phone to Rance! He not only calls up the Apple Store and pretends to be my brother, but he actually argues in English! Throwing in a pun or two! Making valid points! That I cannot! Because I am an alien and incapable of interacting with humans.

Rance was eventually directed to the Customer Relations department, which is only open Monday through Friday. So, I have no conclusion yet but let me tell you, if Rance can actually get Apple to refund my $820, you are all getting awesome Christmas gifts. Like ponies.

So I've been under the influence of Margot for this entire weekend which only means goodness and fun times. She introduced me to an old pasttime, a practice that's been going on since the beginning of time. A practice that the cavemen enjoyed, the Spanish conquistadors too and sure, maybe even some of Christ's apostles. I'm talking, of course, about the phenomenon entitled "barhopping". Even better than that, we added a special element to the glamour of barhopping, an element I like to call "Watermelon Rum."

And if things couldn't get better, today, Margot persuaded me to join her for something I will now label "Going To The Movies All Day Long". I have never seen more than one movie in a day though I know the common practice of you crazy young kids nowadays is to pay for one movie and then sneak into others for free. This has always appalled me because I am a stickler for proper protocol and you are supposed to PAY for a movie and THEN see it and possibly eat gummi bears and THEN leave. I never participated in such sneaky, unscrupulous behavior because I was raised with things like morals.

Anyway, Margot and I took a cab to Cleveland Heights to an indie film theater and managed to see THREE totally random films in a short span of eight hours. We did take a break in between for some food and peanut m&m's and then it was back to the theater! It was really hard to sneak into the films (NOT THAT I THOUGHT ABOUT IT) because it was a tiny little theater and Margot and I were there all day so we started gaining the notice and sympathy of the concession stand workers.

We ended up paying for all three, nearly squeezing the very last drop out of my weekly paycheck. As I slid over my credit card to pay for our final flick, I finally confessed to the young teen working the ticket counter that we'd been there ALL DAY and sweetly asked if could he give me the last movie at the senior citizen rate of $5.25?

You know what he said?

"Oh man, not a problem. I thought for sure you guys would just kind of sneak in anyway."

WHY WAS I RAISED WITH FAMILY VALUES? WHY? It gets me NOWHERE!

Anyway, seeing three movies a day is a little intense, especially indie films. We saw "Shortbus", "The Queen", and "The Science of Sleep". I thought they were all pretty entertaining and isn't that what a movie is supposed to be? It's been a great weekend in Cleveland so far.

However.

I must confess that after all those films, my brain is teeming with lots of disturbing thoughts and images and I'm pretty sure that when I go to sleep tonight, I am going to dream of Helen Mirren sandwiched between two naked gay men, flying away on a horse made of fabric. I leave you with that. Goodnight.