The Baby Boy

I'm heading out to Long Island in a few minutes to attend my littlest sibling's high school graduation tomorrow morning. This doesn't really make sense to me since I'm still 17 in my own head which would make Jem approximately 10. But hey, apparently people grow up and stuff. WHO KNEW.

Jem, for those who don't know, is a nickname for Jeremy. Jem, like, Scout's brother in To Kill A Mocking Bird. Not Jem like, Jem and the Holograms, a mid-1980's cartoon show that I used to watch while my dad made me chocolate chip pancakes.

I remember waking up one morning when I was seven and seeing my neighbor in the kitchen pouring me a bowl of Cheerios. She explained that mom and dad had gone to the hospital to have a baby. All I wanted to know was if my mom would be back in time to get me off the school bus.

I don't think she was. But when she did finally make it home, she brought Jeremy with her, a pudgy, adorable little butterball bean. My older brother Paul and I used to try really hard to make him laugh because the sound of it would crack us up forever. We taught him how to walk by holding his hands as we passed him back and forth on the carpet on the upstairs hallway.

My mom left me to watch him once, while she ran an errand. I got distracted by the television and Jeremy had crawled off, unbeknownst to me. I only realized he was gone because he slipped attempting to climb the stairs and fell, landing on the foyer tiles below.

I'd like to say that it's my fault that he is the way he is but I seriously think he had problems wayyyy before that fateful day I was left to babysit. I mean, come on.

Jem is my little brother, always will be and now he's all grown up. On his 18th birthday last month, he went out and got himself a tattoo. He curses, he moons people, he laughs like a hyena and I would throw myself in front of a bus for him. A sensitive, kickass amazing dude. Congrats, little bro. Don't ever change.

Mothers & Daughters & Carbs

"You are not listening to what I'm saying!" I'm raising my voice, struggling to be heard, tears pouring down my face walking home from the subway.

"I am, Laura!" my mother insists, "Would you just shut up and let me finish?"

"No because you aren't even on my SIDE! I don't want you to fix it!"

"I'm not trying to fix it!"

"YES, YOU ARE. YOU ARE TRYING TO FIX IT AND I DON'T WANT YOU TO FIX IT."

"I AM NOT! I AM TRYING TO UNDERSTAND!"

I called home as soon as I stepped off the subway, reeling from a really hard day. I had a disappointing audition and then had worked on my show a bit, only to come under some unexpectedly harsh criticism. The good thing is that I get over obstacles and frustrations very quickly. The bad thing is that when they occur, I take them very personally, sometimes feeling enraged and depressed and hysterical over a very small detail.

Alayna went away for the summer and doesn't have any cell service. I have not heard her voice since last Friday and okay, fine, maybe I'm admitting I have a girl crush here, but it's harder than I thought it would be. I left a message for Tom, who was in acting class. And then, I hit the entry on my phone which is titled ICE, for "In Case of Emergency".

"I had a bad day," I announced to my mother, as soon as she said hello. She listened for a bit and then pried me for more information. I started crying immediately, having bottled up the urge for at least 25 minutes so I could appear sane on the subway. It's amazing that she could manage to understand me through the incoherent muttering. She always can.

My relationship with my mother is not perfect. I am a very sensitive, emotional person. I am anal-retentive, type A, organized. My mother is tough, edgy, always late, usually frazzled, relaxing and easy. We clash, as mothers and daughters do, but lately, those times are few and far between. 

When we fight, it is usually because she does not say what I want her to say. (Are you surprised? Someone not doing what I want and me having a fit? CAN YOU IMAGINE?) This is often talked about in regards to the female vs. male scenario: females want sympathy, men want to fix things. This is why I'm not marrying anyone who doesn't have the psychic ability to read my mind. Anyway, I encounter this same exact situation with my mother, time and time again.

When I say, I am having a bad day, I am the suckiest person in the history of suck, I want her to say, "I'm so sorry! I feel so bad for you, no one in the world has it as bad as you. I just want you to know that you are amazing and fantastic and I LOVE YOU!"

Instead, my mother first attempts to fix the issue. "Well, what did he say? What should you do? What are you going to do?" 

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M GOING TO DO, YOU ARE STRESSING ME OUT!"

"I'm not meaning to stress you out but let's see what happened and what we can do. Now, what if you did X, Y, Z? What if you did just Y? Do you think you can do X and Z at the same time? Would that work? You should stop doing Y because that isn't working for you..."

And by this point, I am tearing out my hair in a frantic manner.

And then she starts in on what I like to call the "Pull yourself up by the bootstraps!" speech which is, like everything else, well meant but extremely sucktastic and useless when I am sobbing on the other end of the phone.

"Well, this is the tough part of life, Laura! It's the crappy part. But you have to go through it! We all do! And it always ends well! It's always worth it! You have to STOP TAKING THIS SO PERSONALLY. You just LET THINGS GET TO YOU! You really do! You have GOT TO STOP THE EMOTIONAL ROLLER COASTER!"

And I just let her go on and on because I know what she's trying to say but I don't want to hear it so I just hold the phone with one hand and continue to rip out hair with the other.

After about twenty minutes of I KNOW WHAT TO DO! and SUCK IT UP, WOMAN! variations, she then gets to what I wanted her to get to at the beginning. Right as I am about to hang up on her because she's just NOT LISTENING she DOES NOT UNDERSTAND ME she is the WORST MOTHER EVER, she says,"Oh, I love you, Laura! You are so fantastic and amazing! I'm so sorry you're having a bad night! YOU ARE BRAVE AND STRONG! You are such an inspiration to me and you will get through this and I will be here for you."

And then, how can I be mad at her?!? I mean, technically I could, with good reason, because at this point, I'm bald from the stress of talking to her. But seriously, how can I stay angry? She dumps the love and affection and admiration on me AFTER I want to strangle her to death. AND THIS IS SOME KIND OF SICK MOTHERLY ART, ISN'T IT!?!?!? Make me want to kill you and THEN and ONLY THEN do you say the EXACT THING I'VE BEEN WAITING TO HEAR? Because you and I and my therapist all know that at 25, I AM STILL BEGGING FOR YOUR APPROVAL?

I will tell you this: my mom is an ace at making sure you don't stay angry with her. I remember her pissing me off so much when I was younger that I vowed silently never to speak to her again. I would mope on the couch, totally ignoring her, seething. Then she would perch next to me and start poking me with her finger.

"Lawwwwwda!" she'd say.

"STOP IT, I HATE YOU." I would threaten, while silently thinking Don't smile, Don't laugh, She is not funny, she is NOT FUNNY.

But she is. She's hilarious. And she would poke and then say something witty or put on a funny voice and I would be smiling and laughing and she would hug me and then offer to make me a tuna sandwich. Alls well that ends with food.

So, tonight was a big misunderstanding. I wanted sympathy, she wanted to fix it. And what I understand now, which I didn't always, is that she comes from a good place, the best place: a fierce need to love and protect me. She doesn't want me upset, she doesn't want me unhappy, so she offers up all the ways to undo the pain. And then she tells me, which she is really telling herself, that suffering is a part of life and that I will pull through.

There was a pause in our conversation after we had both calmed down.

"So," she said, "Are you at least eating something containing chocolate?"

"No," I said as I chewed, "Just cereal."

"Cocoa Puffs?"

"Corn flakes."

"Ew."

"Sweetened with fruit juice."

"Ugh."

"With rice milk."

"WHO'S DAUGHTER ARE YOU!??!?!!?" 

And I laughed. I don't have a problem delving into chocolate when things get rough, but I'm on Day #4 of the cleanse described in "Quantum Wellness". No sugar, no gluten, no caffeine, no alcohol, no animal products. This could be the reason I was so hysterical to begin with tonight.

"Seriously," my mother said. "You did not get that crunchy natural healthfood gene from me."

"I know," I said.

We professed our love for each other and hung up the phone. I couldn't help but think that I missed out on a lot of her genes. Physical attributes, personality traits, things of hers that I don't have and maybe kind of secretly wish I did. I mean, I can do without the sugar addict gene. But where is my strength? Where is the womanly power that she so easily exudes? How come I still can't figure out how to fold a fitted sheet? Why don't I have her toes!? Mine suck.

I thought about this as I put the phone down, my head pounding from crying. My mother is a complicated woman but I felt so grateful in that moment, just to have her in my life, just to have her to fight with. In her honor, I walked to the toaster and popped in two vegan gluten-free waffles with flaxseed. When they were done, I spread them with some soy butter. As I watched the cream melt and ooze into the crispy squares of waffle, I smiled, satisfied that I had a piece of her in me after all.

UTI's and CSA's

Thanks to my last entry, I now have people finding my blog by googling "my urethra is wider than normal".

Um. I'm sorry about that but I don't think I can help you. Perhaps I can refer you to the Actor's Fund health clinic?

I have finished my antibiotics and am waiting to see if I am all healed. Despite the overwhelming advice in the comments section that FREAKED ME OUT COMPLETELY, I will most likely NOT be going back to the doctor for a post urine culture NOR will I be getting a catheter NOR will I be eating anymore swiss chard. I will probably call tomorrow and make sure I was given the correct antibiotic because like someone commented and like my doctor told me, there are certain medicines given for specific bacteria and since they have to wait a few days to confirm which bacteria I have hangin' out inside me, they sort of prescribe medication for UTI's a bit blindly. That was the longest sentence ever.

And now we are all properly educated on urinary tract infections.

And now onto the chard.

I was notified right before Memorial Day that I was bumped up off the wait list for the Astoria CSA.

"HOORAY!!" I shouted loudly from my bedroom.

"SHUT UP AND SLEEP!" responded my drowsy roommate.

"I cannot sleep!" I gleefully announced, because this is sometimes how I talk, "For soon the harvest shall be bountiful and we shall reap the fruits of the peasants' labor!"

"Seriously," said my roommate, "Stop."

This is the third week of my vegetable and fruit delivery, though the fruit delivery is rather pitiful at this point in the season and includes a pint of strawberries. That's it. Though they are the juiciest strawberries in the history of the world, um, hurry up and get here July and August so Mama can have some peaches and blackberries and MAKE HERSELF A PIE!

I'm proud to say that I've used up every single vegetable except for three sad stalks of rhubarb from last week.

I asked the Queen of Eco-Blogs what to do with rhubarb and she was all, "Um, compost it?"

Dude, I meant like eating it. I know, I could bake a strawberry rhubarb pie! But...but...I only had three stalks of rhubarb and surely that's not enough for a pie, is it? So I thought about it a lot because I felt SO GUILTY that I wasn't EATING IT because PEOPLE ARE STARVING AND DRIVING SUV'S AND RUINING THE PLANET and here I was letting perfectly good rhubarb wilt in my fridge! Every morning, I opened the door and stroked the little red stalks. "We'll find a way, little rhubarb," I cooed.

But it was not to be. I eventually got lazy and thought "Surely, the rhubarb will be back one day and I can figure it out then!" And then I also read something on the reliable internet that said rhubarb leaves were poisonous and I thought I was way too stupid to figure out what was a leaf and what wasn't and I would probably die a painful agonizing RHUBARB POISONING DEATH. So I took Deanna's advice and sent it to the compost. And by sent it to the compost, I mean I took it on a morning run and set it free in Astoria Park. Stop judging me. I'm not the only woman running while holding wilting stalks of vegetables, am I?

Deanna also mentioned that swiss chard was the bane of her existence when she belonged to a CSA and rarely was ingested. I must tell you that I LOVE ARUGULA. I LOVE FRESH SPINACH. I LOVE KALE. NOM NOM IN MY BELLY. Y'all? I do not like swiss chard. I do not like them in a house, I do not like them in a mouse. But I ate it because unlike some people, I'm not a quitter.

For those who care, I received two kinds of lettuces which I made into a salad with arugula, radishes and chick peas (which, obviously, were not from the CSA,). I tossed the spinach with garlic, olive oil and pasta one evening. And for lunch this week, I made kale, swiss chard, broccoli and sun-dried tomatoes (another non-CSA ingredient) with linguine in a cashew cream sauce. This was my most successful venture except for the chard because UGHHHH my heavens, those peasants better stop growing that stuff. I mean, what on earth is the point when even cashew cream sauce can't hide the taste?

I'm nervous about this week's share because on the list is "kohlrabi" and "garlic scapes" and I'm just not sure how much of that I will have to take on a jog with me. I can only hold so much in my hands, you know? I mean, that's crossing some kind of line, isn't it? What would YOU think if you saw me? Some crazy blonde chick, breathing hard, running with her pink iPod in one hand, keys in the other, bopping to Beyonce's "Lost Yo Mind" while her mouth is full of kohlrabi. She reaches the park, sprints towards the shrubbery and promptly spits out her vegetables, all in the name of composting. WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO!?

Where I Go Into Too Much Detail About My Urethra

Well.

It happened again.

Almost exactly a year later, I am once again suffering from a raging urinary tract infection.

Urinary tract infections are caused by any number of things, anything that can get bacteria inside a place where it DOES NOT BELONG. The most common is sexual activity and this is the saddest part of the story. I mean, obviously, there is no tonguekissing to be had 'round these parts and it makes for a depressing story.

UP NEXT: Single woman gets Urinary Tract Infection from...drinking wine and watching the Tony Awards!!

It's just sad.

Yesterday at work, I IMed my coworker.

Me: I have to pee a lot today.

Co-worker: Laura, you pee a lot ALL THE TIME.

And I do. Today, while trying to self-diagnose myself, I read that the average person pees 6-8 times a day. I laughed very hard at this because I think I average at least twice that. Whether this is because I drink a lot of water or I have a small bladder or both, I have no idea. I just go a lot. I used to pee right before leaving my house, drive thirty minutes to my ex-boyfriend's apartment where he would open the door wide and gesture inside so I could run frantically toward the toilet. What can I say? I'm a romantic.

The point is, yesterday, I kept having to go. And go. And go. On my walk back from the bathroom to my cubicle, I had to go. And I just knew, I KNEW! IT WAS A UTI! The bane of my existence, along with menstrual cramps.

The difference between this year and last year is that I have no medical insurance at the moment. (THANK YOU, AMERICA!!) So, in a panic today, when I realized that the over-the-counter stuff was just temporary relief and would not cure the infection, I tried to figure out how the heck I could get someone to cure me for free dollars.

My co-worker suggested the company health clinic. And after I took two trains to get there and after I got lost and after the lady at the front desk ignored me, I was put on the phone with a man who told me I needed an APPOINTMENT and what is the name of my HR representative and when I said I didn't have one, I am only a temp, he said he COULD NOT HELP ME and at this point, my memory gets fuzzy because I started screaming into the phone about the burning sensation in my urethra.

"You're a man, you have a penis, don't you? NOW PICTURE THAT PENIS ON FIRE!!"

It was at this point that I swallowed the last of my over-the-counter useless medication that would at least stop the pain for awhile. (Though it did not stop the urge to pee, can you explain THAT??) I met my dad for lunch and cried into my tofu, telling him I didn't have insurance and that I was going to die from a UTI and would he please speak at my wake? Say something nice, okay? Like, how I always was on time for school, right?

It was then that my dad offered to take me to the doctor himself and just pay the bill outright and I said, "Awww dad you are the BEST!" and then, "Are you kidding? I'd rather die than take your money!" which was totally true except I let him pay for lunch. And Starbucks.

I ended up calling the Actor's Fund health clinic and by the grace of God scored a 2:30 appointment. I wasn't sure what to expect. I mean, the website said it was free for qualifying actors and the word CLINIC was involved and if it's funded by, um, ACTORS, were they going to cure me or was I going to leave with more diseases than I came in with!? I mean, how much would I have to pay?! Would I qualify? Is the equipment sterile? Did the doctors graduate high school?

Despite my reservations, I hauled it over to 10th Avenue, got in an elevator and pressed 4 and was magically transported to the land of Pleasant Doctor Office Experiences. I kid you not, this was the BEST experience at a doctor's office I HAVE EVER HAD IN MY LIFE! And not just because I could read Us Weekly undisturbed! Truly!

There was only ONE girl in the waiting room while I was there. She was not talking on her cellphone or crying into her husband's lap. She was just sitting there. Being quiet.

The woman at the reception kindly (!!!!) asked me to fill out paperwork which I LOVE DOING MORE THAN ANYTHING! What is it about doctor paperwork in particular? Is it the clipboard that comes with a medication-advertising pen? Maybe it's the way I feel like a grown up because I'm all by myself without my parents at the doctor's office?

Is it because I like to fill out forms about myself, my medical history contained in perfect little boxes? Maybe it's the perfectionist in me who gets off on the fact that I get to check NO to every question. Asthma? Diabetes? Congenital Heart Failure? NO! NO! NO! Am the healthiest person alive! Except for my urinary tract that is full of rusty nails! WOOT WOOT! Please give me a gold star!

The receptionist asked me for my Equity card which she then photocopied and handed back to me. She showed me to my room, TWENTY MINUTES EARLY, and asked for a urine sample. I informed her that I had taken over-the-counter-useless-as-hell pills and that it made my pee a lovely orange, so BE PREPARED, my urine looks like napalm!

She laughed and said that was fine and later, when I handed her my jar full of warm pee, she said "Thank you" so genuinely that it sounded like she actually meant it.

A tall graying doctor came in with bright blue eyes and when I explained that I probably had a UTI, that I was prone to UTI's, please help me, sir, give me a sex change if necessary, he actually LISTENED TO ME. He explained that they had to send the urine out for confirmation and the results wouldn't be in until Friday but it was most likely an infection, the receptionist will give you a vial of antibiotics, take two a day for three days and it should go away.

Is that alright?

UMMMMMMMMM! YES IT IS, I LOVE YOU.

I loved him even when he said, "If tomorrow morning, you wake up with a bright red rash from neck to torso, please stop taking the medication and call me."

This startled me a little bit but I'm not allergic to anything ever so I still kind of wanted to kiss him even AFTER he said this because oh my goodness, he was being so patient and thoughtful and kind. He wanted to FIX ME! CURE ME! He believed my self-diagnosis! He gave me antibiotics that were ALREADY ON HAND! He asked if there was anything else I wanted to talk about!! (Of course there was! Like, the lovely weather we've been having! And what a pretty clinic you have! And hey, do you think I need Botox?)

"No, no!" I said and thanked him profusely. The receptionist handed me my antibiotics and I asked her how much I owed her.

"Nothing!" she said.

I stared at her blankly because this could not actually be real life. This could not be MY real life.

"You're an Equity member! So, it's all free!"

Just like that. I almost cried in the elevator thinking of my good fortune, despite the fact that from floor 4 to floor 1, I had the pressing need to empty my bladder which was, for the most part, already emptied. I stepped into the bright sunlight and popped a pill into my mouth, swallowing it along with a sip of water. As I walked back to work, the only sound I could hear were the other five little pills jostling around in my bag, eager to get out and work their magic.

An Insight Into Working For The Man

So last night around 6:15 my boss says to me, "Hi Laura! I'm going to be at an Important Offsite Meeting tomorrow and I was late getting my presentation to the printer soooo, tomorrow, would you mind heading to XX Location and picking up the printouts and then taking them to XXX Location?"

Me: (blank stare)

And then

Me: Um. Sure! But, when I deliver the printouts of the presentation, will I be...interrupting a huge conference room full of people?

Her: Yes! But just come on in anyway!

Me: Great! Because I always like to know in advance when people are going to be staring at me and I'm going to be mortified. THANK YOU.

So, I got about 5 hours of sleep last night since I went to bed around 11:40 and then kept getting up at 2 AM, at 4:40 AM, etc. to, I don't know, think about my life and alternately move from sleeping on my couch to sleeping in my bed because HEY! LIFE IS SHORT! SLEEP WHEREVER THE SPIRIT COMPELS YOU! I also got up at 6 AM to meet my personal trainer at the gym at 6:30 because two days ago, I decided that the Thing I Needed Most In The World At That Moment was to sign up for three personal training sessions.

My Personal Trainer This Morning: And what are your goals?

Me: I'm tired.

Etc. Etc.

THIS IS A TANGENT. I APOLOGIZE.

Point is: I am very tired and decide before I pick up the photocopies to get an iced coffee. Just think about how smart I am: juggling an iced coffee and my bag BEFORE PICKING UP PHOTOCOPIES...

Get to the place, the man says HAPPY FRIDAY HERE IS A BOX FULL OF 40 COPIES OF A PRESENTATION! IT WEIGHS APPROXIMATELY 900 POUNDS! OKTHXBYE!

I juggle a hugeass box of photocopies (that has no lid!), my bag (why did I take my bag!??!) and my treasured iced magic coffee.

I walk from Park to Lexington.

As I am walking, the wind causes three pages of presentation to fly away. Two fly out of the box, one gets caught in my armpit. A random lady collects the two pages and tells me HAPPY FRIDAY. (Wtf?!)

So, I get to the second location AKA the FBI Building and I head to the elevators and the security man says

"Hi. These elevators are for the odd numbered floors."

Um. I need to go to 14.

"You need to go downstairs."

I need to go downstairs to go up?

*blank stare*

"Yeah."

So, I go downstairs, almost wanting to die because my arms! ARE WEAK! CANNOT HOLD...BOX OF PHOTOCOPIES...

Hi! I need to go to 14.

"You need to go upstairs."

............................

What? They told me to come down here.

"No, our security lady isn't here today, you need to go upstairs and get a pass."

This is the part where I give the security man a look of death and threaten to set him on fire.

He reconsiders.

"Well, why don't you leave the box down here while you go up and get a pass?"

GREAT! OKAY! I say, and put the box on the counter while laughing maniacally.

So I head back upstairs and I'm all HEY WUZZUP BITCHES! I need a pass to 14 and NO LIE THE RESPONSE IS:

"You need to go downstairs for 14."

So I punched three people in the face and then calmly explained that they SENT ME UP HERE, THE LADY WORKING DOWN THERE ISN'T HERE TODAY.

"Yo Mohammed, Mary is out today?"

"Yeah, man."

"Oh. Sorry lady. I'll give you a pass."

He gives me a pass and waves me through to the elevators and says, "So, these are the odd numbered elevators. So go in one, push a button to take you to any odd numbered floor and then push 14."

WHAT?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Uh. It won't go UP to 14, but it'll go DOWN to 14."

WHAT?!?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So just as my head is about to explode I shout out, OH MY GOD! I forgot! I left a box of photocopies downstairs with THOSE people! So, uh NEVERMIND!

I GO BACK DOWNSTAIRS. Retrieve the box, tell them I have the pass, can I just get on the f'in even numbered elevators for the LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY.

I get in the elevator, still carrying too many things and a man in a business suit, thinking he's funny says, "You are carrying lots of things! I was watching you try to get in the elevator, I thought you might spill that coffee everywhere! HAPPY FRIDAY!!!"

Ha Ha! You are so funny! The funniest part about you is that you are a SELFISH ASSHOLE WHO DIDN'T OFFER TO HELP ME IN ANYWAY. When are you free? Let's go on a date, dude!

So, we tongue kissed in the elevator until I got to 14, I bid him a teary goodbye and then walked into a conference room full of people, walked to my boss, tapped her on the shoulder, set the photocopies down on the floor and went back to work.

And by tapped her on the shoulder and set the photocopies down, I mean I started screaming and crying about odd and even numbered floors and the wind and the presentation and threw the box at the nearest person I saw, causing the entire contents to go everywhere and now I'm fired.

AND HOW WAS YOUR MORNING!?????????????????????? HAPPY FRIDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Where I Ramble and Use Too Many Exclamation Points

Hello.

I think I shall once again resume posting on a regular basis.

You're welcome.

Things have been hectic, what with people dying and me planning a show and going to an audition EVERY SINGLE DAY THIS WEEK.

I maybe went to an audition yesterday and got called back to dance later in the afternoon and who was the choreographer who taught me the combination? 

This guy:

He is a choreographer on "So You Think You Can DANCE!" 

Everyone knew this except me. Go figure.

I found the combination easy but as always, needed more time. They cut me but I was not sorry at all that I went. I was kind of flying high the rest of the day from my free ballet class with a super famous choreographer. (So super famous, I had no idea who he was. Right.) The best thing about the callback was that the studio didn't have air conditioning and that it was 99 degrees outside and we were all wearing leotards and tights.

...

Later, I called Alayna and was all, "And now, after sweating more than I ever thought possible, I am going to the gym."

Alayna: To work out?

Me: No. To shower.

And I did. Ladies and gentleman, if you are ever walking around NYC during a heatwave, directly after ballet dancing at a callback in a studio without air conditioning and you don't have time to go home before you need to meet Important People, take my advice.

Go to the gym. Take a cold shower. Put your clothes back on. Aaaahhhh.

Then, go to Sephora, reapply make up, spritz perfume, tra la! You are ready to great the rest of your day.

It sounds kind of insane but look who's telling you this!? Exactly.

Actually, I AM SO GLAD I de-sweatified myself because while walking through TImes Square, I ran SMACK into a boy who was in my FIRST GRADE CLASS! That Christmas, when we were six, he made me a Luke and Zelda Christmas card and signed it "LOVE, S." Also? At his pool party? He knew all the words to Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start The Fire". IT WAS LOVE I TELL YOU! LOVE!!!

Hm. Well. At six it was. Running into him was kind of amazing and totally random and why is it that I always run into people I know in Times Square? The most crowded touristy place on Earth? Why, I ask you, why?! It doesn't matter. The point is: I looked refreshed. Take note.

So! Let's talk about something else! OKAY! What I really want to tell you is that I went to my friend Mike's karaoke birthday party last week because Mike! Loves! Karaoke! 

I kind of have mixed feelings about karaoke. And by mixed feelings, I mean someone usually has to push me into doing it and I am always for some godforsaken reason 100% completely sober and I HATE IT SO MUCH and then after it's over I'm like OH! I HAVE A GOOD IDEA! I WILL NOW SING 80's BALLADS WHILE DOING AN INTERPRETIVE DANCE!

...

Apparently, from this picture, I am singing later on in the evening where I have already decided to bust a move with my friend Stefanie. For the record, we are singing "Hit Me Baby One More Time" by the inimitable Britney Spears. (I am either closing my eyes for emphasis or I am looking down at the screen because I do not know the words to this song. Which is it? You decide.) Please also note my exceptionally long Muppet arms.

Dear Mike, 

Thank you for taking pictures of me singing karaoke. And by thank you, I mean PLEASE DO NOT DO THAT EVER AGAIN.

Though this one is kind of cute, I will say:

You can see the rest on flickr.

The parts of karaoke that were NOT captured on camera include:

* an Asian man singing "Born in the USA". (Guess what? He most certainly WAS NOT.)

* a random frat boy singing the "Saved By The Bell" theme song. I wanted to marry him.

* a midget singing "What Is Love? (Baby Don't Hurt Me)". I couldn't make this up.

* the token Debbie Downer karaoke girl who sang horribly off pitch to both Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful" and Shakira's "Underneath Your Clothes". PLEASE! NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOU SING A BORING POP BALLAD AT KARAOKE UNLESS YOU SING LIKE A ROCKSTAR.

I always stick to 80's tunes, duets or a good jazz standard that everyone loves. Oh and apparently now, songs by Britney Spears.

Okay, well I wanted to post and say HELLO! and WORD! and No One Else I Know Has Died Recently! So, that's fantastic. I am working on my cabaret and I promised my mother that though the postcard says "Growing up Catholic on Long Island", I am not really making fun of Catholic people. There will be no blasphemy in the show except the part where I kneel down and worship a copy of The Da Vinci Code.

Am I kidding? You're just going to have to wait and see.

So, there's that.