McD's and dirty faces

When I was little, and I stayed home sick from school my mother would get me a happy meal at lunch.   That was the only time we got McDonald’s really.  My mom was so careful about what we ate that she’d mark on the family calendar when we ordered pizza – so as to never exceed our once a month rule.  Because ordering pizza twice in a month?  Preposterous.  Perhaps that rationing is why I got so fat in college… oh well.

But I think because of my Happy Meal sick-day regimen, now that I’m an adult, anytime I feel less than stellar; all I want are chicken nuggets and French fries.  I don’t know why my body craves something that makes me feel like crap when I’m already feeling crappy, but it does.  As if I don’t feel lousy enough, let’s add in the worst edible offerings to upset things further, shall we?

Yesterday I had one of those days where I felt like the universe was out to get me.  I started crying on my walk to the train – pulled myself together.  I cried on the train – pulled myself together. And took two walks during the day to avoid crying at my desk.  I missed my morning workout because I forgot to turn on my alarm when setting it (helpful tip – if you want it to go off in the morning, you need to turn it on) and I felt lazy and fat and terrible.  Emotionally I was also a wreck, so clearly, passing a McDonald’s several times on each walk did my will power no good at all.  That place is like a sick or sad person magnet.  I stopped in, of course, and then, not immediately because it takes my body a full 15 minutes to realize what I’ve done, but 15 minutes later I wished with all my might that I’d just gone elsewhere and ordered a salad.

I am paying for yesterday’s mistake today. 

Oh, speaking of today - for the third year in a row, it took me seeing four people with soot on their face before I remembered it was Ash Wednesday.  I just kept thinking they were dirty, and how did they not notice? 

If I ever walk into a church again I will be struck by lightning.   Happy almost Lent. 

Paying for clean clothes.

This morning I did something I swore I would never do.  I paid someone to do my laundry.  I dropped off my 31 pounds of dirty clothes and can pick them up clean this afternoon.  I won't of course, pick them up today- the Laundromat will close long before I'm home, but in theory- I could.

I am horrified that my life has come to this. I am actually, not figuratively - actually too busy to wash my own clothes. And I'm out of clean underwear, so dire straights are happening right now. 

I just got home from an amazing 4 night cruise to Mexico and while I meant to do laundry before I left, it didn't happen. And maybe it's because I've spent 5 days feeling pampered and spoiled, but the thought of paying to have clean clothes came just hairs ahead of buying new clothes instead of washing them myself.

At Christmas this year my mother said "that living in New York has changed me", and while I didn't agree at the time, I now see that she is right. 

Rules of Improv

I have spent the last ten years of my life studying and performing improv.  I was incredibly lucky to meet and learn from some of the best and most brilliant improvisers in Chicago and New York, and now that I spend a great deal of my time coaching and teaching, I have come up with a list of personal truths about the art form.  The best improv is always changing. The best improvisers are always willing to learn, and aren’t afraid to fail as they work on new skills. 

• So, take it or leave it, here is my list of rules for being the best you can be.
  
  
  ·      The smarter you are the better improviser you’ll be.  This is true about almost everything.  A stupid but true joke an old teacher of mine used to say was “play to the top of your intellect not the bottom of your ass”… or something like that.  So read books, pay attention to the news, follow what's happening in politics and know and understand the importance of at least three current pop culture references. 
  ·      The more you do outside of improv, the better improviser you’ll be. If all you do is improv - night after night of improv - your improv will get boring and stale.   You have to have a work/life balance.  
  ·      The more people you know and meet and observe, the better improviser you’ll be.  When I start to feel like my characters are getting boring or repetitive, I start watching people on the train.  If you find someone interesting, study them.  How do they walk? What does their voice sound like? The more perceptive you are of the world around you, the more interesting and real and honest your characters will be.
  ·      The more you’ve loved and lost, the better improviser you’ll be.  If you know what it feels like to experience human emotion – you can and should use that in your work.  Don’t be a robot – they are only interesting to the people that designed them.
  ·      Remember to have fun.  We call it playing for a reason.  If you aren’t having fun improvising, take a break or find a different team to play with.  If you aren’t having fun, than neither is your audience.
  ·      Make your scenes about the other person and how your character feels about them.  Too often we focus on ourselves and on the hilarious jokes we are sure to make if only our damn partner sets us up properly – if you focus on making your scene partner look good, and they do the same, your work will be so much stronger.
  ·      Don’t be a dick. One liners are only funny once -- then what?
  ·      Find the reality of your world and settle into it.  If you jump into weird town half way thru the scene for no reason you’re going to lose your audience.  If you start there and everyone commits to it, then sure, go for it!  The audience will go anywhere with you if you earn it and honor it.  Don’t build a world only to tear it down again. 
  ·      For the love of God - do something with your hands! No one stands around like a talking head all the time. Ever.  We all fidget.  Don’t forget that your characters are also people; or dogs, or dragons, or aliens.  All of whom are rarely still.  The exception to this rule is when you play inanimate objects – but if you’re going to do that – commit the shit out of it.  
  ·      Move outside your comfort zone; try new things. The best improv comes from people willing to take risks; but, you have to commit to the risk – you can’t half-ass a bold move.  To the audience this just looks like an improviser dicking over the scene.   Commit!
  ·      If someone makes a bold move - match them! Don’t drop it and make them look like an ass - find a way to repeat it and you’ll all look brilliant!
  ·      If it scares you, do it more.   Susan Messing used to say this to me all the time at iO, and while it’s taken me years to really understand the importance of it – she’s right.  If something scares you, Do. It. More.
  
  

Peeing on trash.

My dog pees on trash.

Not in the "oh, i want to mark this garbage bag” kind of way, I mean, that when my dog has to pee, she actively looks for trash to relieve herself on.

A few months ago some woman saw my dog peeing on a discarded piece of newspaper, and asked if she was paper-trained. I laughed and said no. My dog, a stray from the streets of Puerto Rico, has never been paper-trained. After she was brought to the states, she has gone to the bathroom indoors exactly four times. Twice with her foster parents and twice with me - both of which book-ended a near death collapse and subsequent hospitalization.

My dog would rather pee outside, and for whatever reason- she chooses to do that on trash. Leaves will do, too.  She doesn’t discriminate.  Yesterday she peed on a lost glove. I hope the owner has another pair. She is particularly fond of plastic grocery bags. I once watched her patiently wait for the wind to die down so she could pee in the exact center of a bag.

A dear friend of mine has wondered multiple times how I managed to find a dog who is as weird as I am.  We rescued each other, I suppose.  And I will always make sure to never litter indoors.

MTA Opera

Growing up my family moved a lot. Not like a military family, but way more than most. My mom always said that she’d start feeling at home in our newest town when while out and about, be she’d recognize someone she knew.

I’ve been in NYC for three years.  And the people I see and recognize are the homeless and street performers on my train.

There is an opera singer on the 7 train. He pushes around a grocery cart with huge battery powered speakers and sings in a rich and somewhat off-pitch baritone, and usually in a language I don’t understand. I see this man more than I see most of my friends.  Especially those friend who live in Brooklyn – compared to them, this Opera guy and I are besties.  I see him maybe once or twice a month, and I see him enough that tonight I noticed that he’s growing his hair out. Why I wonder? Why would a 60 year-old balding man want to grow his hair? Did he just start boycotting haircuts? Or is it a political comment? He also has replaced his cart twice since I started paying attention, so his panhandling must be going very well.

While this man is not the best singer, I have to give him major props for singing on the train. I don't know if I’d have the courage to do that. In this city if you're committed and loud enough you can literally get away with doing anything on the train.

Sing? Sure.

Scream? Go for it.

Cry? Have at it?

Yell at the empty space beside you? We'll make room for those ghosts, no prob.

I try to save my money for street performers, there are so many brilliant ones. A violinist in Herald Square once made me cry he was so good. (And yeah, I may have been on my period but he was still wonderful.) I’ve seen the harp-est in Grand Central three times.  I don’t even like the harp, but this guy is great. 

So, tonight, I gave my bff, the Opera Singer a dollar.  I hope he uses it to get a hair cut.

What's on your shirt?

A couple weeks ago (well a few more, but I’ve been lazy and not in a write-y type of mood) I was hit on at the gym.  I was so taken back by the experience that honestly, I wasn’t even sure it was happening until it was over. 

I have never been one of those people who go to the gym to meet people.  I am a head down, sweat it out and leave type of person.  I am also one of the sweatiest humans ever made, so I was really chucked into that category before I even knew it existed.  I have also never been one of those people who understand what it would be like to be one of those people who go to the gym to be seen rather than to work out.

When I lived in Florida, there was a girl at my gym, who I just called “Eye Shadow”. She would show up to Zumba class in head to toe matching work-out ensembles – with the brightest eye shadow I have ever seen – which obviously matched her clothes perfectly.  She barely moved her body at all, but always pushed into one of the coveted spots up front.  I never once understood the point.  I was paying an exorbitant fee to be a part of that gym, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t sweat enough to make every penny worth while.  And now living in New York City, paying New York City prices for everything, that feeling has grown exponentially.

Anyway, it was a Sunday morning and I was nearing the end of my work-out, and a man, not a guy or a boy, a man – easily in his mid-late forties, came up and asked me about my shirt.  Drenched in booze-oozy sweat, and red faced, I looked up from my book (and yes, I am one of those people who can read on the elliptical), pulled out my ear bud and answered his question as efficiently as possible – totally expecting that he’d walk away.  He did not.  He kept standing there, in front of my machine, making awkward conversation.  I kept trying to put my ear buds back in – but to no avail.  It was exactly four minutes of his standing there that I realized what was happening.  Much too late to push in a ficticious husband or talk about the convent, and he after seven minutes, asked if I wanted “to grab brunch sometime?”  My normal reaction to these things is to shut-down and flee.  However, on that day I was feeling especially lonely, and said to myself “self, this guy may be bald and old and weigh less than 100 pounds, but maybe he’s super interesting or best friends with the man of your dreams?”  So, while I declined his offer for brunch, I found a scrap piece of paper and gave Tom my phone number.   Five days later, he had not called and I gave up him completely.  He called that night, (but five days is too long to wait old man… step up your game), and I let it go to voicemail and did not call him back. 

I’ve seen him twice since this happened, and the first time was so stressful I panicked, looked at the floor my entire work-out and ran home.  The second time I was less awkward, but only slightly. 

So this is what I don’t understand – why would you ever want to meet someone at the gym?  The inevitability that it doesn’t work out is so high that when you see each other again, the feeling of peace and satisfaction you get from working out is overwhelmed by awkward. 

While I give Tom credit for being ballsy enough to ask me out in the gym, I think he’s an idiot for waiting so long to actually call.  But I’m also grateful that he did.  Because I might have gone to dinner or a walk or whatever, and that would be two hours of my time lost forever. 

Moral of this story?  If you don’t want people to talk to you at the gym – don’t wear branded clothing.