FYI

It is very unsettling to have dinner in the East Village on Halloween because you are never really sure who is wearing a costume.

Everybody Knows: It Hurts To Grow Up

Tomorrow, I am going back to a corporate job. This has been in the works for awhile for numerous reasons but up until now, I was never really sure it would ever happen. On Monday, I had an interview which was painless and a job offer which was painful. I'm not sure why I even got the job, considering I actually used the phrases "like" and "you guys" in the interview as in "So, do you guys, like, have a fairly large team?" I couldn't believe it escaped my mouth but in hindsight, what was the better alternative?

When I left the building, I had been offered a job with a better salary than my last corporate venture a year ago at an office four blocks away from a major audition location and a boss who told me she was totally cool with letting me audition as I needed to. And I panicked. I nearly threw up. I called my brother. I called Alayna. I called everyone in my phone and asked them if I should take the job and if I should take this job WHY THE HECK AM I FREAKING OUT!?

The answer? Because I am mentally deranged.

Also? Because this had stopped being an "If I go back to work..." and had immediately become a "When I go back to work on Thursday...".

For the past few weeks, I've been buying myself new clothes. I needed office-appropriate attire since it's been a year since I've been at a desk and the last time I was there, it was the Summer of 115 Degrees. But although I may have needed some corporate staples, I found myself sneaking other purchases that I thought I would like--black cable tights, unnecessary gray heels, a cream colored dress, etc. as a way to soothe myself. "It's okay, you will get through this, I will fill your closet with goodies so you can get up in the morning and get out the door."

But I realized that it doesn't matter how I spoil myself, I still have to go. There I was, in a pinstripe skirt, walking through cubicle farms and past a kitchen with a coffepot and an overstocked refrigerator and I began to hyperventilate. I thought about how unnatural this was for me and how it kind of makes me a failure because I wouldn't have to go back to a job like this if I could just book a show for once, that'd be nice, eh? MAYBE IF YOU HAD ANY TALENT.

And then I felt guilty for even having those thoughts. And I feel like a baby even typing this out like, don't I know that EVERY SINGLE DAY for YEARS AND YEARS AND YEARS, people get out of bed and haul themselves off to a job they kind of don't like? Or perhaps just tolerate? Or maybe really really hate? Why do I think New Yorkers are so crazed and insane and some are so jittery? Because this is what they do all the time. Forever.

It's just that when you've spent almost eleven months with these guys, it's hard to get back to the grind. And oh, yeah, the thought that I won't pick them up from preschool tomorrow is enough to make me want to curl up in bed and cry a million tears. I love those crazy crazy twins.

Stayin' Alive from The Spectrum on Vimeo.

River Speaks from The Spectrum on Vimeo.

Laundry Day

I was home on Long Island today to catch up with the folks and various siblings and to do some laundry. At some point, the outfit I was wearing got dirty and I decided to throw it in the wash too. I ran upstairs to find something else to wear, forgetting that I've been pretty diligent about cleaning out the closet in my parents' house. There are not many articles of clothing left for me to wear since I've given most of them away or thrown them out. Torn between my high school graduation gown and a t-shirt from my 9th grade production of "Godspell", I decided to do laundry in my senior prom dress.

Ah! Am a total trophy wife! Doing laundry in Suffolk County! Tra la!

Aside from being wrinkled and being SUPER DEE DUPER COTTON CANDY PINK! I think it was totally appropriate atire for the task at hand.

It got old after awhile and in the way, so I decided to run upstairs and throw on something more comfortable. I won this t-shirt in a 4th grade poetry contest about saving the environment. What does it say about me that I still have it in my closet? I don't want to know.

I can't find the original winning poem but I just want to make sure you all notice that
1) There is a puff-painted Earth on the sweatshirt
B) It says "REDUCE, REUSE, RECYCLE" on it
c3) It fits me perfectly. Why would you give this size sweatshirt to a 4th grader? Because you weren't sure the size of the child who was going to win the contest? Surely, you could've been certain that there weren't any 4th graders standing at 5'5 tall. Right? Or not?
IV.) This sweatshirt was enormous on me at the time of literary victory and therefore, I WORE THIS SHIRT EVERY SINGLE DAY AFTER I WON THIS POETRY CONTEST. It was hobo chic, a precursor to my 6th grade days of wearing my brother's flannel shirts and my dad's army jacket. Oh Laura. You were soooo cool back then. Almost as cool as you are now. Wearing a puff-painted SAVE THE EARTH sweatshirt from 1993.

What would you say if I told you I forgot I was wearing this sweatshirt and drove back to the city with it on, possibly stopping at Trader Joe's and purchasing some 99 cent Luna Bars in it? What would you say to that? If you were smart, you wouldn't say anything because I would cut you.

Also, if you couldn't tell from these photos, I am kind of a brunette now. I mentioned to my hairdresser today (I'm sorry, my stylist) that I've always had the desire to chop off all my hair and dye it chocolate brown. She said no to the cutting and no to totally brown but gave me highlights around my face that are SUPER blonde and then lowlights underneath that are SUPER SUPER DARK. I kind of died a little bit inside when I first saw it, thinking that it was Super Long Island White Trashy Highlight Extravanganza.

Especially when my roommate called it Kelly Clarkson circa 2001.

But apparently, he meant that as a compliment. And it's growing on me now.

Maybe if you're lucky, next time I'm home, I'll see if I can squeeze into my 8th grade semi-formal dress. Worthy of note: It was bright white and I wore baby's breath in my hair with WHITE HIGH HEELS. I danced to Celine Dion's "Power of Love" with some other girls in my class because um, the boys were kind of not into me.

Don't you think that's TOTALLY WEIRD?


Me too. It's very clear that coolness and awesomness are bound to follow me the rest of my days. It's quite simply unavoidable.

A Typical Phonecall Home

On Wednesday, my dad's middle school threw him a retirement party at a local restaurant. Due to work scheduling, I wasn't able to make it. A whole slew of teachers and family and friends ended up going and dad gave a small speech. I called him the next day to see how it went.

Dad: Hello?

Laura: Hey dad, it's me.

Dad: LAWRA.

Laura: Heyyyy. How did the party go!?

Dad: IT WAS SO GREAT. There were a lotta people there. Do you know like 40 people paid 40 bucks to come party with me!?

Laura: WOW!! That school loves their math teacher!!

Dad: I KNOW!

Laura: How was everything?

Dad: Good! You know, we all were there and then I gave my speech and did my tricks and that type-a thing.

*pause*

Laura: You did...your tricks?

Dad: Yeah! I thought I'd do two magic tricks after my speech!

Laura: Ohhhhhh. Um...

Dad: I did the disappearing coke bottle trick and the one with all the rainbow scarves.

Laura: THOSE ARE YOUR BEST TWO TRICKS!

Dad: I KNOW. Plus, everyone got a balloon animal!

Laura: What kind?

Dad: Mostly I made those teddy bear balloons sitting in a heart. I made FIFTY of dem!

Laura: HOLY COW. Those are AWESOME.

Dad: I KNOW.

Laura: I'm so glad it went well! I'm so sorry it couldn't be there!

Dad: I know. I think it's going down in history as one of the school's best retirement parties ever.

Laura: It has to be. I mean, what other teacher got up and did magic tricks and sent everyone home with a teddy bear balloon at their retirement party!? Who else DOES THAT?

Dad: Exactly. No one. Just me.

Indeed.

Abstinence

My roommate and I decided not long ago to take charge of our lives and cut out things that were causing us much pain and misery. I originally wanted to eliminate Ann Coulter completely, like, off the face of planet Earth say? But apparently you can't do that. Who knew? So I needed to find something more feasible, especially now that my therapy sessions have come to an end. (Hooray! I'm now totally uninsured! I Heart America!)

So yes. Where was I? Cutting out suffering and agony, yes. After realizing that The Roommate and I are already meat and dairy free and neither of us wanted to give up the deliciousness of chocolate or my new famous pumpkin muffins, we decided to keep it simple. I vowed to stay away from any and all members of the opposite sex for six months and the roommate decided to lay off The Drink. For the record, this is a generalization and does not mean to imply that my roommate is an alcoholic and that I am a dirty slut. I have not tongue kissed a single boy in a very long time. So what.

I thought I made the right choice until one of my friends countered, "But...what if you meet the Man Of Your Dreams during Month #4?" Well, dear friend. He ain't the man of my dreams because if he WAS, he would know that he can't possibly show up until my birthday or, even more possibly, at least for another few years. But then I got to thinking that maybe once you say "NO MORE!" the Universe thrusts that very thing on you, just because. And I thought a LOT about that. And then I promptly forgot about it and went to eat some cereal. (Peanut Butter Puffins!)

That is, I didn't think of it again until I was waiting to meet up with my roommate for a fun evening of No Drinks and No Boys which included screaming like a tween at the Maroon 5 concert. (Shut up. We were really there for Sara Bareilles, the opening act, who is my New Favorite Artist but am I going to lie to you and tell you that when Adam Levine came out and started singing that I did not give a care at all, that I did not jump and down and scream like a twelve year old and dance and sing along to every song? Of course not. We totally did all that and more because it was hot hot hot hot and Madison Square Garden was sold out and we had floor seats and STOP SNICKERING AT MY MUSICAL TASTE because, as my roommate said, it was better than intermittently tongue kissing and nursing a whiskey sour. IT TRULY WAS.)

We decided to meet before the concert outside Subtle Tea, which, um, you should be going to at least once a week. May I suggest an iced almond cookies green tea? Take a sip. Let it sink in. And accept the fact that there are few things in life better than that. (My roommate agreed it was better than cuddling during a scary movie while sipping pinot noir.)

While waiting on the corner for my roomie to show up, I held up my phone to capture a great picture of the Empire State Building against the night sky. Cue a man walking by who ACTUALLY SAID:

"You know, your phone would work a lot better with my number in it."

*blink*

*blink*

I paused. Stared. And uttered a high pitched, "SERIOUSLY!?!?!??!?!"

He grinned a bit sheepishly and said, "Yeah. Hey. I'm Louis."

My initial thought was, "WHERE IS MY ROOMMATE? HE MUST BE CLOSE BY."

He wasn't.

So I did what any normal girl would do. I just stared back at the man blinking, willing him to go away. But it didn't work. He kept trying to talk to me and I was raised to be polite so I would answer his questions and I'm never smart enough to make up lies about my life so all of a sudden I'm spewing things like, "Oh! I'm a nanny! And oh yes! I am going to a concert! And oh man, this tea place is great! For real! It tastes like COOKIES!" At the very least, I managed to keep ending chunks of dialogue with a pause and a "Soooo....nice to meet you Louis!"

But he didn't take the hint.

He just said"Yeah!" And stayed there. And talked more.

Over the course of fifteen minutes, I learned that Louis lives in Croton-On-The-Hudson in Westchester. He enjoys his job as a graphics designer of a sorbet company. This sorbet company makes sorbet without using dairy as an ingredient. Even in the chocolate, they use coconut milk! (Granted, this last part, I asked about because, you know, important information and all.) Louis even gave me a coupon for a FREE PINT of dairy-free sorbet which is now tucked safely in my wallet.

I totally freaked out my roommate when he arrived by introducing them energetically. "Roommate! Meet Louis! Louis, roommate!" Louis seemed happy, even when I denied giving out my phone number, sweetly explaining that I just can't give out my number to anyone who approaches me on the corner of 30th and Madison. I JUST CAN'T. During this last exchange, Roommate was shooting me looks of "YOU SAID SIX MONTHS. SIX MONTHS AND ALREADY YOU ARE PICKING GUYS UP ON THE STREET LIKE A HOOKER?!!?!?!?"

But I wasn't! Louis was a nice man! But, just, what? Really? Do you really use lines like that to pick up girls!? Especially girls that do not want to be picked up but want to enjoy a green iced tea that tastes like deliciousness mixed with cookies mixed with butter mixed with sparkles and unicorns?!

We talked about Louis all the way to Madison Square Garden and agreed that at the very least, the dude has guts and that is very admirable. Then, later, the Roommate tried to tell me that he only pledged to swear off the Booze until the first snowfall. Despite my protestations that he is a LIAR and a SLEAZEBALL, he swears that that was the original plan and that the "Six Months" rule was all my doing.

For all we know, it could snow tomorrow and then all I have is a drunk roommate on my hands and a coupon for vegan sorbet. It seems highly unfair. But then I went to a concert and screamed my head off and danced my legs off and I rode the subway home with my roommate, our bodies and legs intertwined the entire way home, the comfort of someone who is always close by, rolling their eyes behind someone's head outside a tea shop.

Six Year Old

On Wednesday afternoon, I made my way over to an audition, arriving around 4:15 for a 4:40 appointment. (Don't ask me how it went! Okay, ask me! It was fantastic! Until I lost my high B! Where did it go? I have no idea! But it temporarily vanished! Amazing!) This particular casting office casts projects across the board, often holding auditions in their building for musical theatre, commercials and film on the same day. As I stepped off the elevator, I was greeted by the sight of ten thousand children running around the waiting room as ten thousand stage mothers talked on their cellphones. Apparently, someone needed some kids for a Marshall's commercial.

After changing and putting some makeup on, I eased myself into a chair against the wall and concentrated on inhaling the steam that was lazily rising out of my tea container. I was halfheartedly organizing my music when a tiny little girl materialized in front of me. She sized me up and down and perched herself on the couch across from me. Without saying a word, she leaned back on the couch and kicked her legs up over her head in an impressive attempt at a gymnastics routine. Her legs were splayed open as she scissored them back and forth and abruptly came back to a seated position.

Her eyes stayed on me, trying to figure out what I thought of her maneuvers. She raised her eyebrows knowingly and then opened her mouth to speak.

"Good thing I'm wearing a skort."

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm wearing a skort. It's shorts UNDER a skirt, that's how come I can move my legs around."

It occurred to me that this first grader was already quite familiar with the concept of modesty, already had a bit of self-awareness of the inappropriateness of doing gymnastics in a dress, had probably already been reprimanded (on more than one occasion?) to close her legs and for goodness sakes to sit like a lady. But, little girls are still little kids and tend to forget manners like that and I could see her mother rejoicing at the skort, on the sale rack at Kohl's in the Children's Department--dainty looking for commercial auditions but with the added bonus of practicality!

I made an obvious announcement.

"I am not wearing a skort today."

"Yeah," said the girl, who was also wearing a button down white shirt, rolled up to her elbows, with a purple sweater vest on top of it, white socks, folded over once and mauve Mary Janes in a suspicious fabric, velvet?

"When I get home," she continued, "I'm going to take THIS off," (purple sweater vest) "and roll THESE down" (button down white shirt sleeves).

"Oh," I concurred, "Who made you roll the sleeves up in the first place."

She didn't give a verbal response but instead clocked her head to the side and pointed a finger down the hall, obviously indicating her mother. If she was a teenager, there would've been a huge eye roll and a smacking of Bubblicious Watermelon Wave gum. Her adolescent mannerisms alarmed me.

"How old are you? Seven?"

"Six and a HALF."

"Oh. I like your vest."

Eye roll.

"I have to wear it because I stained my white button down shirt and now I have to use the sweater vest to cover up the stain but when I get home, I am totally taking it off."

"You don't like sweater vests?"

Sigh.

"This is my career girl outfit."

"Your career girl outfit? That's the part you're going in for?"

"Yeaaaaaah."

"You have...other outfits you wear to auditions?"

"Yeaaaaaah."

"Like what? Like, party girl outfit?"

"Um. Yeah."

"Like, you know, birthday party girl outfits? Or maybe exotic beautiful lovechild of a couple on Days of Our Lives outfit? Maybe, kidnapped first grader for Law & Order: SVU outfit? Do you have THOSE kinds of outfits?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"I'm SAG and AFTRA."

"Oh."

"Well. I think so, I mean, I'm definitely union."

Never one to step back from a challenge, I fired back immediately.

"Are you Equity?" I asked her, my voice dripping with superiority. It was the same question (and tone of voice) I was asked once at a Halloween party gone bad and after I gave my answer, which at the time was a feeble "no", the High Inquisitor scoffed and walked away, finding nothing else of interest to say to me, and I slugged my way over to the punch bowl, where I remained for the next hour and a half.

"I'm not sure," said she. "I always get them confused."

"Ohhhhh. Sure."

"But, I do voice-overs, commercials AND print."

"Neat."

"Maybe you'll be in this commercial with me! You could be my fake mom!"

Now I was offended.

"Do I look old enough to be your mom?"

"Well...how old are you?"

"Twenty four...AND A HALF!" I stated proudly, suddenly becoming ashamed that not only was I trying to one up a first grader, that she was totally beating me in all arenas, particularly career.

"Well. My mom's thirty eight."

"That's awesome. Um. Where...is she?"

"There," she pointed down the hall, "long black hair on her cellphone?"

I tried to get the mother's attention, thinking she might be wondering if her daughter was okay or in any danger, chatting up a total stranger who could have pedophilic tendencies, who could have gotten pretty excited and then disappointed by the whole legs over the head gymnastics routine since it was done in a skort and therefore, rather tastefully. Her mom gave a slight nod of the head like "Yes, isn't she precious? I know." And The Girl kept talking.

"My mom won a beauty pageant in the Philippines."

"Recently?"

"No! When she was young."

"Ohh. I bet she talks about that a lot."

"Yeah."

"Was it her crowning glory?"

"Um."

"Never mind."

"My dad's thirty eight too. It was his birthday yesterday."

"Oh. Did you throw him a party?"

"Yeah! I made confetti."

"Isn't confetti such a mess? I always regret having confetti when the party's over. Well, usually confetti and drinking that last cocktail."

"No, I THINK IT'S FUN!"

I sighed, a little tired.

"Yeah, I guess so. I mean, what's a party without confetti and a seventh whiskey sour right?"

"What?"

"Nothing. So, what's your name?"

"Juliana."

"Cool."

"I hope you're my fake mom."

"Well, Juliana, we aren't auditioning for the same project today, so that seems rather unlikely."

"Oh! Well. I got a haircut two days ago."

"Yeah? I really need one too, my split ends are wreaking havoc on my personal hygiene."

"Yeah," said Juliana absently.

And then they called her name. And skort and all, she skipped away, her Know It All attitude and air of natural popularity trailing behind her like toilet paper stuck in a shoe. I could see exactly how her life was going to pan out, gorgeous-looking, sure of herself, being taken out of school to star in a discount merchandise retail store commercial. She was six and a half going on Homecoming Queen "I Have A College Fund Thanks To The Commercials I Did When I Was Six" High School Junior. And oh man, thinking back to all our high school experiences, who didn't love that girl!?