Celebrate Good Times. Come On.

I'm in the middle of a blog post and it's just not coming out the way I want it to. Harumph.

In other news, I went to Regina's bridal shower yesterday. We had a lovely brunch and I was very careful not to say anything embarrassing around the older women. I quietly sipped mimosas and made Regina a lovely hat out of all the bows and ribbons from her gifts. And then most people left and I sat down to have a serious chat with her and I BROKE A CHAIR. In half. Regina and Tom laughed so hard they were crying and then they took my picture:


Why does stuff like this always happen to me?

In other news, in true Long Island fashion, I went to my cousin's SUPER SWEET 16 on Friday night. Black and white attire was suggested as the birthday girl was wearing a bright red dress. It was so Long Island and I loved every minute of it. WOO! Sweet 16! In other Long Island news, my mom and dad cooked me a vegan birthday dinner yesterday and I flickrd some pictures from it here.



So, I turn 24 on Thursday. Thanks mom for the vegan cupcakes and for giving birth to me. So much of my life is awesome and so much of it is because of you.

Itemization

So. I'm sitting here doing my taxes because you know, that's exactly how I like to spend a snow-filled March weekend. This is the first year I will be itemizing, which means I have to add up all my receipts and figure out what I can write off and it initially sounded like a huge headache and it's taking forever but you know, in the end, terms like "itemizing" and "deduction" and "Huge Ass Refund Check" kind of turn me on. I'm not gonna lie.

So I have to fill out some paperwork but I've enlisted help in the actual tax preparation since Equity does your taxes for free. And I love all things that cost free. Vegan Mike clued me in to this free-tax-preparation awesomeness though it required getting up super super early a few months ago and getting in a line full of actors in order to secure a slot. FUN.

Side Story: As I signed up that morning, totally bleary-eyed and bitter, a man whipped out a camera and ordered Vegan Mike and I to pose with a tax volunteer.

"What!?" I sputtered.

"Can I take your picture!?" the photographer asked.

"Um...I guess so?" I asked, still incredulous.

And before you know it, Vegan Mike and I are smiling at the camera with a tax volunteer man, who you can see is wearing a smashing yellow silk shirt and numerous gold chains. This picture goes down in history as one of my absolute favorite pictures taken, ever. For the record, I was told to "pretend" to sign in and hold my pen rather excitedly. This was because I had ALREADY signed in a few seconds before the cameraman approached me so then I had to go back and PRETEND to sign in to make the picture look spontaneous. And this is why I'm an actress, you guys. Because frankly, I'm good at it.



As this picture was being taken, I asked Mike through clenched teeth, "WHY DOES THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME?" He didn't really have an answer but kind of agreed that this kind of stuff does indeed happen to me. I eventually shrugged it off and signed up to get my taxes done and forgot all about it. Until.

Until the photographer called me this week and asked if I could come in for an interview about TAXES so that he can publish the INTERVIEW and the PICTURE in an upcoming edition of the ACTOR'S EQUITY NEWSLETTER.

Um. I've asked it once and I'll ask it again, WHY DOES SHIT LIKE THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME?! Now the entire acting world will know that not only do I look cute in a winter coat but that I am a GIGANTIC TOOL who is SUPEREXCITED about getting her TAXES DONE.

Sigh.

I'm thinking of finding that tax volunteer guy's number and asking if he's available to grab a drink sometime. Just a thought. Something about that shirt. Anyway...

In order to fill out all the paperwork, I had to pull out my receipts. Turns out I was absolutely terrible about keeping receipts for 2006. (Until I left for tour that is.) From January to September, I think I found about five receipts that could be used for write-offs. Well, I FOUND seven but I don't think I can write off my speeding tickets from 2005, can I?

However, from September through December, I have every receipt ever printed out from anywhere, ever in the history of the world. Margot, my roommate on tour, advised me to keep everything, EVERYTHING because it would all be important come tax season. And oh, Margot, let's make out because that was SUCH A GOOD IDEA.

I've been sitting here just flipping through the receipts and I have to admit something that I don't really want to admit: I miss tour. I know I know! I couldn't wait to get home! Actors are crazy! Children's theater at 7:00 in the morning! Sucks! I know! But I can't tell you what going through this paperwork does to me! Receipt after receipt after receipt and of course, they all look something like this:

CRACKER BARREL
WENDY'S
SUPER 8
CRACKER BARREL
SUBWAY
SUBWAY
SUBWAY
TARGET - FOR LUNA BARS AND LUNA BARS AND LUNA BARS AND DETERGENT
SUBWAY
RED ROOF INN
RED ROOF INN
CRACKER BARREL + RED ROOF INN + LUNA BARS

And that is how I spent my life on tour. Just so you know.

I ate really really well on tour. I was the girl, at every meal, who made you feel like a jerk for ordering anything with calories. I was queen of the chicken sandwich, no mayo, side salad with fat-free dressing, thank you but I'll save you the trouble and kick my OWN ass. But this combined with my consistent jogging successfully kept me healthy, sane and only mildly annoying.

Oh by the way, apparently, I also enjoyed buying live farm animals. And it's true, look how cheap things are in the South!

So anyway. When I wasn't purchasing side salads and livestock, I did like to cheat. And I didn't really cheat by ordering lots of french fries or steak or ice cream. I cheated with the best possible thing you can cheat with: pancakes. Because, my lovely loves as you should all know, I LOVE PANCAKES SO INCREDIBLY MUCH. There would come a time when I could no longer order turkey sandwiches without cheese and vegetables with a side of vegetables and in those times of great need, I turned to the one and only, Cracker Barrel.

Cracker Barrel is a phenomenon that I TOTALLY GOT INTO. Cracker Barrel AND Bob Evans, actually. For similar reasons. But, as we say on the street, Cracker Barrel was my boo. And we were in love. Margot hated The Cracker Barrel. With a vengeance. But. What. REALLY!? I mean, I guess I get it. Listen, I am anti-chain restaurant for the most part. They give me hives, what can I say? But I will GLADLY choose a Cracker Barrel over an Olive Garden and do you want to know why?

Of course you do.

Because Olive Garden is a crappy evil place that pretends to serve "home-cooked" "Italian" food. Are you KIDDING ME?! It's a LIE. I have a hard time believing that my grandmother wants to go to Olive Garden because it tastes like the food she grew up with in Tuscany. A VERY HARD TIME BELIEVING THAT. You know why? Because Italian grandmothers don't throw prepackaged breadsticks in an oven and call it Italian food. That's why. Cracker Barrel, on the other hand, doesn't put up an overindulgent marketing masquerade. Cracker Barrel claims to be exactly what it is: a place where everything is saturated in tons and tons of butter.

In fact, on their website, they totally avoid giving any nutritional information whatsoever. Why do you need it? They base their menu on Southern cooking and in the South, butter and lard and grease are STAPLES that not only enhance the meal but MAKE THE MEAL. Observe:

Is nutritional information available for your menu items? Here at Cracker Barrel, we pride ourselves on using recipes and ingredients that are authentic, genuine, and of the highest quality available. We strive to prepare and present these food items to you in a way that upholds those authentic traditions of days gone by. Cracker Barrel certainly understands the health-conscious concerns that some of our guests have. While we are unable to give you any exact calorie or fat content information...

Of course you can't give me exact calorie or fat content information because if you did, Cracker Barrel, I would NEVER frequent your establishment. Ever. But I did. Because you serve up mighty nice turkey sausage and buttery pancakes. That's why. And the point of this entire thing is that I MISS THAT.

Things would be very different if I went on tour again, especially now that I'm vegan and no longer enjoy my pancakes with a side of cow hormones. And also because I would never be with that same group of people again. We still hang out, some of us, and others, I run into at auditions but the thing with tour life is that forces intimacy. You learn to exist in a bubble with six other people and your life revolves around communicating with them. It's kind of like being in a spaceship. Well. No, it's kind of like college where you can always find someone to talk to and someone to go to dinner with and someone to rub your back while you watch bad television. I miss college for these reasons and I miss tour-life, too.

I've always hated receipts. Still do sometimes, especially when the cashier hands it to me in the same pile as my change because then I need to separate the money from the paper and oh, whatever, I hate sorting it out. But the more I think about it, the more I think that a receipt is an anal retentive's dream. It's one more way to compartmentalize my life. After all, they are a meticulous recording system, stamped with date, time, place and my server's name (Brittny B.) They leave a paper trail that notes where I was, what I was doing and that I had a fruit cup instead of fries. Above all though, these particular receipts ignite an emotional response in me; they are my memories printed out on glossy slips of paper.

Sitting outside in 85 degree heat, above the Gulf in Mobile, Alabama, trying a hushpuppy for the first time.

Our 7-day sit-down in Cleveland, Ohio where Margot and I ate at the Winking Lizard Tavern EVERY SINGLE DAY.

Eating pasta and drinking wine on a freezing cold day in Brampton, Ontario.

Going for a run in Raleigh, North Carolina and discovering a secluded quaint neighborhood that I wanted to move into. Buying a Dasani water at the CVS on my way back home.

Eating Thai food twice in a row with Vegan Mike and Margot because, well, because. Thai food is vegan deliciousness.

Killing time with Melissa and Rance, nearly 3 hours, in a Cracker Barrel while we waited for the van to be fixed.

I remember this clearly. We were talking about auditioning and the ups and downs and I confessed to them that right before I booked the tour, I had made up my mind to give up trying to get work as an actor. Maybe it would've been a temporary break, maybe it would've been permanent. But I was done with the rejection, done with mistakenly taking it all personally, done with caring. And then I booked the show. And left New York. And there I was, in Augusta, Georgia at a Cracker Barrel.

And they shared more stories of theirs, crazy hilarious audition stories. And I was laughing again, forgetting how close I had come to missing out on the entire experience. I was happy to be there, in the air conditioning, sitting across from two strangers that would quickly become TV buddies and dinner companions and people who still text me and tell me that they miss me.

I miss them too.

Oh and I had a cup of vegetable soup, a hot tea, turkey sausage and pancakes.

It says so on my receipt.

Single Life 101

Friday Night, meet Laura. Laura, meet Friday Night. Cheers.

Not A Shred Of Evidence Exists In Favor Of The Idea That Life Is Serious

Quick question.

Setting: Changing Room At Audition Studio

Girl turns to me and says, "WOW! I LOVE your stockings!!!"

I say, "Thanks".

There is a pause and then she says, "They remind me of what I USED to wear when I was a LITTLE KID."

So, what I want to know is, in this particular situation, compliment or insult?

(For the record, they are the stockings I am wearing in this picture.)

Pardon Me...

I had the best audition of my entire life yesterday and it was for someone important. And though, I'm 99% positive I'm not right for the show, I left a wonderful first impression and I am so happy about that. It has a lot to do with the class I just finished and learning that I have the power in the audition room and that my job is to go in and sing something that I love. And I did. And what I'm saying is, you should make out with me because I'm awesome.

Moving on.

I've changed up my workout routine lately. For the first time ever, I have consistently incorporated weight training into my exercise regimen. In college, I would sometimes stare blankly at the machines and wonder how to use them. When Tom finally showed me, I'd set it to 5 or 8 pounds, work it a couple times and then get bored and distracted by some super cute poli sci major. I figured that THINKING about picking up a weight counted as weight training. Power of the mind and all that.

I've always been good about cardio or yoga and pilates but weight training? I am a girl! See how cute and twee I am! I can barely lift my dainty fingers to bake you a cake! Tra la! Well. I started to get pissed off about my girly girl status and so I decided to take some serious action. (You know, because I want to be hardcore and all that.)

I finally ripped out the section of Shape magazine entitled "BIKINI BODY COUNTDOWN" and took it with me to the gym. It's a series of exercises meant to tone my body and make me beautiful and ready to wear a bikini. HAAAAAAA. As Alayna says, I am now THAT GIRL. I am the girl that has her magazine article layed out neatly on the floor beside her. Like a total tool. And that's not all, I'm also the girl that hordes ALL the gym equipment. Towel, yoga ball, medicine ball, and a set of 7.5 pound weights. (7.5 pounds! HOW COOL IS THAT? Not quite 8, not a girly girl 5! WOO!)

Point is, I'm using a lot of crap and sometimes I feel bad about that but if I'm paying $75 a month to use the gym, then I get to use all the gym crap, right? And there's more than one of each item, but not THAT many and oh...I don't know. I just hate when other people are using things that I want. Granted, I try to go to the gym during off-peak hours when no one is around. This is, of course, to feel less guilty about using all the equipment but mostly it's because I hate people. And I hate gym people most of all. So there you go.

Anyway, today, I had all my beautiful things lined up: bright blue yoga ball, towel, 7.5 pound weights, 10 pound weights, 1 kg medicine ball and a 6 kg medicine ball. I love these pieces of equipment. I love that my body has to work to lift them and maneuver them. I love that they are making me strong and changing the shape of my body for the better. I love that for the first time ever, I am starting to feel physically powerful. And so, I was in my own little "Look At My Biceps!" world when a woman came over to me and innocently asked,

"Are you done with your balls?"

And that, my friends, is when I lost my mind. OH GOD! So many wonderfully inappropriate things could be said to that woman! I wanted to remark that I am NEVER done with my BALLS! Never ever! Who is, really!? HA HA! Immature testicle reference! So amazing! Just made my morning COMPLETE!

I had to stare down on the mat to prevent myself from laughing in her face and after I took a second to collect myself, I quietly responded that yes, I was quite done with my balls and that I didn't mean to horde my balls because it's rude to keep balls to yourself and really, I would like nothing more in the entire world than to share my balls with her.

And then she took them with her and held them while she did some squats and I must say, I was sorry to see them go.

I Hold Onto My Life With The Grip Of A Vice Up On The Airplane

I arrived back in New York around 1 am this morning after the most turbulent landing I have ever experienced. Earlier in the afternoon, I sat in the 78 degree heat in San Diego, watching the Weather Channel. I was absent-mindedly fiddling with a glass of ice water, alternately sipping it and resting it against the slight sunburn on my chest, the result of a beautiful afternoon walking around the San Diego Zoo without any sunscreen.

The forecast for San Diego came up first: High of 78. Sunny. Perfect.

And then the forecast for the northeast: Heavy winds, up to 40 mph, moving toward New York from the midwest. The high for Tuesday, with wind chill, -5 degrees.

It's good to be home. Hum.

Back Story:

Growing up, whenever there was a crying child in church or a screaming child at the deli, my father would turn to us and say half-jokingly, "Ohhh shut that kid UP!" I say half-jokingly because I do believe that while my father would really prefer silence over anything, he was smart enough to realize the futility of such a wish. I would think that after raising four children, he would wisely understand that a loud, inconsolable child is a loud, inconsolable child and that all parents must eventually reach a point of surrender.

It's easy to think that my children will be different. Or that I will be better than other parents. I like to think that I will avoid going out in public with my child until they are at least, I don't know, 13 years old. In this way, I can avoid any tantrums, meltdowns or screams of I WANT CANDY. (Instead, it will be I WANT A CAR.) But I think the acceptance of a realistic attitude is better, knowing that should you decide to have children, at some point in your life, embarrassing power struggles with your child are inevitable. And they will happen in the public eye. Your child WILL throw all the plates off the restaurant table or throw HIMSELF red-faced down in the middle of the grocery aisle and scream and you would be wise to avoid cajoling and soothing and bribery and just admit mortified defeat.

Front Story:

As the twins and their mother and I boarded the flight home to New York, we were seated in front of a crotchety woman with stringy silver hair who took one look at the twins and audibly uttered, "OHHHHHH, Jeeeeeeeesus CHRIST." And a few minutes later, as we were settling into our seats, a lovely drawn out, "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck."

I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. What was the cause of such rancor? Perhaps she had Tourrette's? Perhaps she just realized that someone stole her wallet? I know how she feels after all! It could happen! But the real reason behind her outrageous expletives was the fact that she was not a "kid person" and would probably rather sit next to a terrorist than two year old twin boys.

It seems to me that people are divided into groups when it comes to kids or in particular, when dealing with loud, inconsolable kids. First off are the people with sympathy, who give you an understanding nod or cluck of their tongue. These people are saying "It sucks. I feel for you." Then there are the people that are somewhat disgruntled and cast a dirty look your way or just sigh heavily. And then there is a group of one: this bitter old woman sitting behind us, wearing black velvet pants, who actually told Owen to "sit down" and "shut the fuck up". Um. He's two and a half? And while I don't think he understands the intensity behind that statement, YOU do and so maybe YOU should shut the fuck up. I don't know. Just a thought.

As you can tell, I got a little angry. I didn't want to confront the woman because it was a lost cause from the beginning. I would never win. Also, airport security confiscates my steak knife EVERY SINGLE TIME I travel so I was completely unarmed. Where is the fun in a confrontation if you can't cut the person? I ask you!

Now, listen, I can understand not being a "kid" person or just not liking kids. Well. Actually, no, I can't because my family is baby CRAZY and I nanny twins and I have 45 first cousins and all that so, yeah. Hm. I'll rephrase. I can understand being irritated by kids--children screaming or kicking the back of your seat or punching you in the eye while showing you their "muscles". (It happened once. It hurt.) I understand this, I do. But the fact is that everyone, everywhere was once a child. And I guarantee that very few were well-behaved all.the.time. Some understanding would be nice on everyone's part, no?

Apparently not.. For the first hour of our flight, the woman muttered rude things under her breath, almost daring me to turn around and smack her in the face. What frustrated me the most was that the boys were being SO great! Barely a whine in sight. River was making Play-Doh unicorns or watching "Oswald" on the portable DVD player while Owen sweetly placed flower stickers on a piece of paper and named all his favorite colors. When I laughed at something they did, a voice jeered from behind me, dripping with sarcasm, "Oh, yeah, go ahead and laugh, that is just HILAAAAAARIOUS."

After we were cruising at 32,000 feet, the comments began to die down as her Royal Ascerbic-ness found comfort in her blue iPod mini and her dog magazine. Yes. She flipped through a magazine about DOGS. And I must admit, it felt so good to watch her gingerly run a finger over a glossy page full of cocker spaniels. I don't even feel sorry for the thought that crossed my mind which was, "Wow. You are a, hmmm, what do they call it? Oh right. A LOSER."

I settled myself down for the rest of the ride. I counted to ten as she mumbled how disgraceful we were to travel with kids. I breathed deep and slow as she spewed forth curses that tumbled awkwardly out of her wrinkled dog-loving mouth. I tried to remember that it always helps to feel compassion. She wasn't so much an anti-kid person as she was an anti-life-in-general person. Life had turned sour for her long ago: she was old, she was moderately ugly, she needed a new wardrobe and some leave-in conditioner and oh, yes, a new personality. Surely, I could summon up some compassion for her, somewhere, couldn't I?

Well. No. I couldn't. Because I was SEETHING and also because who tells a two year old to shut the fuck up!?!?!??!!?!? WHO?!

Due to the 40 mph winds, the descent into Newark was absolutely unbearable. Flying comes in on Laura's Top Greatest Fears Of All Time at an impressive #3, so you can imagine how much I LOVED it when the plane bucked and dipped and then flat out swayed side to side like one of those awful pirate ship rides at a gawdy amusement park. I thought we were going to die. And apparently, so did Old Saddlebags behind me. In fact, she exhibited Scared-To-Death-On-A-Plane Behavior that was eerily similar to mine--she shut her eyes tight and clutched the armrests for dear life. The only difference between our tactics was that I was muttering the rosary and she was muttering, "Oh FUCK this is BAD BAD BAD."

We did land safely and by that point, the boys had been sleeping soundly for a few hours. When the lights came on and people began to move about the cabin, they started to wake up and whimper a little bit, completely disoriented. I felt the same way since the turbulence on the plane created an awful bout of nausea in the pit of my stomach, something that rarely ever happens to me.

And you know? I was glad for it.

I was glad because as the boys woke up and started to cry, I knew I had some ammunition should the old lady mutter a SINGLE inappropriate comment to them. I didn't have my steak knife with me that night but I did have the satisfaction of knowing that should she open her mouth, I would turn to her and open MY mouth and promptly throw up airplane food all over her.

What?

Is that out of line?