leaving the wicked stage: the grieving process

Life upon the wicked stage ain't ever what a girl supposes.

It's more.

The casts, the curtain calls, the exquisitely tailored costumes built just for you--everything about singing and dancing for a living has surpassed my expectations. And the applause ain't bad either.

Until.

One day your alarm wakes you up at 5:30 am. You glance over at your backpack that you, a 30-something adult, have packed with tap shoes, character shoes, ballet flats, dance clothes, hot rollers, hairspray, Russian Red MAC lipstick, non-dancing heels, a wrinkle-free audition dress, and a three-ring binder of sheet music. You peek out the window and see the snow starting to stick. You know that to secure an audition appointment, you'll have to arrive at the audition by 6:30 am, but you may not be let into the building until 8.

Once inside the building, you'll have to sit on the floor (if you're lucky) in a room packed with hundreds of women with similarly bulging backpacks, all fighting to use three electrical outlets and talking in overly bright voices about nothing. If you're unlucky, you may find yourself standing up, shoulder-to-shoulder, in a hallway with a frazzled building manager charging you with the impossible task of not being a fire hazard. 

It's now 5:40 am. Is it worth going to all that trouble to compete with two hundred girls for two spots in a show that will give you five weeks of work at $600 per week? 

I used to think it was worth the trouble. Though I would complain about auditions, I would enjoy the challenge and the excitement and the camaraderie of my true friends, girls that I went to happy hour with after auditions, and my "audition friends," girls whose names and resumes I knew but that I didn't see outside the audition holding room.

Auditioning is exhausting--but what's my other option? Working nine-to-five at a job where no one applauds for you? Where's the fun in that? 

I know I need to move on. But it's not easy.

Someone recently described leaving the theater life as a grieving process. And thinking about shelving that part of my life really does feel like a loss. Living your dream is intoxicating. It's hard to walk away, to move on. But more often than not, I find myself wanting to put down that backpack.

I keep hoping that the thrills of the "real world," like getting a weekly paycheck and going to one place everyday instead of running to five auditions in eight hours, will outweigh the addictive high of booking a job. And slowly, I'm beginning to appreciate the little things--like walking out the door with nothing but a small purse. (My non-sagging shoulders love it, too.) 

Can stability really ever win over excitement? It's hard to say. Will I ever really leave theater behind? That's hard to say, too.

But I do know this: the thought of leaving my tap shoes, character shoes, ballet flats, dance clothes, hot rollers, hairspray, Russian Red MAC lipstick, non-dancing heels, wrinkle-free audition dress, and three-ring binder of sheet music is getting more appealing by the day.

For now, I'm still watching the snow fall and considering my options.

"I can't. I'm in tech."

Ahhh, the joys of tech.

Never heard of it, you say? Then you must not have watched the so-bad-it's-good episode of Smash in which Karen told her live-in boyfriend that she couldn't decide if she wanted to get married because she's in tech.

Once an entire show has been taught and practiced in dance studios, the director and choreographer work with stage managers, designers, and other members of the crew to put the show on stage with lights, microphones, props, scenery, and more. This is a slooooooow process with a lot of stopping and starting. It often means very long hours and very little sleep.

We all moved into the Radio City theater yesterday. Because it's such a huge space (6,000 seats!), we are assigned different quadrants to lounge in--Rockettes are mid-house left, singers are lower house left, and dancers are upper house right. And lounge we do. When not working or watching others work, we chat, snack, play on our iPhones, and even write blogs.  :)

Where were we before this, you may wonder? Well, the Radio City stage is used for a ton of concerts (the JoBros sold the joint out two weeks ago), so it's off-limits for us during the early part of rehearsal. Because there are only two rehearsal studios in the building, neither of which is nearly as big as the actual stage, we rehearse in a church basement on Ninth Avenue. Seriously. It's a giant basement that is big enough to be divided into two stage-sized spaces, 4 common rooms, a lunch room, a music room, a physical therapy room, and several offices. There are sprung dance floors, soundproofing equipment, mirrors, and more. The amount of work that goes into transforming the basement for just a month of rehearsals is insane.

We started at the top of the show yesterday (Spoiler alert--it's a 3-D movie staring Santa Claus!), and after working 1pm-10pm yesterday and today, we are only at the fifth number in the show. Sometimes, I kind of hate tech. It's just so slow and boring. But there's something different about teching at Radio City. The house is just so huge and grand. It feels like a privilege to be here when it's virtually empty. It makes me feel like Annie when Daddy Warbucks takes her to the movies. I mean, how many other people get to do this?

Please remind me of this feeling in a few days. I'll probably have forgotten it by then.

Movin’ on Up: The Quest for the Perfect NYC Apartment (Part 1)

It’s finally happening. I can hardly contain my excitement. I WANT TO WRITE IN ALL CAPS.

Because…

I’M MOVING TO AN ELEVATOR BUILDING!!!!!!!!!

WITH LAUNDRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AND A PART-TIME DOORMAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This may mean nothing to the large portion of suburbanites who read my blog, but let me tell you: This is BIG TIME.

How big is it? Well, to completely understand the monumental nature of this occurrence, let’s take a stroll through my apartment history, shall we?

Apartment 1

Location: Hell’s Kitchen

Floor: 3

Details: 2 br, 1 ba

Length of Stay: 4 years

Roommate(s): An aspiring actress named Erica Kane (No, not that Erica Kane, though she was once contacted to be in the audience of The Rosie O’Donnell Show when Susan Lucci was a guest.)

Features: Slanted wood floors and a bathroom so small that you practically had to sit sideways on the toilet.

Reason for Leaving: Went on tour with a Broadway show.

Apartment 2

Location: 3 blocks from Apartment 1

Floor: 4

Details: 2 br, 1 ba; railroad apartment (meaning I had to walk through my roommate's bedroom to reach mine)

Length of Stay: 5 months

Roommate(s): A middle-aged former casting director/poet

Features:  A washer and dryer! But the washer was kept in a closet and had to be rolled out and attached to the kitchen sink and the dryer would only dry ten socks at a time.

Reason for Leaving: She moved to the west coast and the landlord refused to rent to an actress.

Apartment 3

Location: Across the street from Apartment 2

Floor: 5

Details: 4 br, 2 ba

Length of Stay: 7 years

Roommate(s): Too many to count. Actually, I just counted. 14. Wait...16.

Features: Unofficial roof access (meaning we’re not legally allowed to be up there and could possibly fall to our deaths), stunning exposed brick that crumbles because it's never been sealed properly, and a landlord who never, ever responds to repair requests (see pic).

Additional features include: Lack of hot water, 97 steps, windows that never fully close and therefore let tons of dirt in, and street noise so loud that people think I’m outside when I’m talking on the phone in my bedroom.

Reason for Leaving: If you don’t know why I’m leaving, reread Apartment 3.

Apartment 4 (THE NEW APARTMENT!!!)

Location: 2 blocks and 1.5 avenues from Apartment 1

Floor: 6 (Get it? Get it? I’m literally movin’ on up!)

Details: 2 br, 1 ba

Length of Stay: At least 1 year

Roommate(s): My BFF

Features: Bright, sunny rooms, giant closets, a shockingly clean basement laundry room, a tiny elevator that may or may not be reliable, and a part-time doorman who may or may not be a hobo who happened to wander in and park himself behind the lobby desk. (I have a lobby!)

Reason for Leaving: None, I hope!

Want to hear more about my adventures in NYC real estate? Tune in next time to read about rent control, rooftop baby pools, naked roommates, fifth floor floods, and street thugs in the stairway… 

She Works Hard for the Money

In honor of Donna Summer's passing, I'd like to share the video I made with the Spangles Dance Company several years ago. Enjoy!

Living the Dream? Or Smash-ing It?

Smash, that lovable/terrible/fascinating/aggravating show has brought a touch of NYC theater to the small screen in small towns across America. As a result, many people have asked me about the show’s content—What’s true? Is it realistic? Is there a Terrible Ellis in every production?

For these burning questions, and many more, I suggest checking EW.com, Vulture.com, and Sharon Wheatley's SMASH Fact or Fiction? on a regular basis. But for a day in the auditioning life of a small town girl (like Karen) who has been in the biz for a while (like Ivy) and who has made some questionable fashion choices (like Julia), read on…

I hate to break it to you, but the chances of a complete unknown getting an appointment to audition for the lead of the workshop of a new Broadway show are slim to none, even if you’re stunningly gorgeous and your voice is second to only grey-haired blues singer (and Teen Angel) Taylor Hicks.

Rather, you’d probably have a day like I just had: you do your hair and makeup, you pick out an outfit, and you schlep a three-ring binder full of songs you sing well and two pairs of dance shoes, and you arrive at a chorus call, where you sit on the floor like a kindergartener in a room full of 100-200 girls. When they call your name, you dutifully file into the room with a group of 20-30 girls, learn a dance on the spot in 30 minutes or less, and perform it in a smaller group of 3-5 while the casting director, choreographer, director, and various assistants whisper about your height, your hair color, your experience, your looks, your shoes…oh yeah, and your talent.

When everyone in the group of 20-30 has danced, the casting director calls names of the women that the creative team would like to stay to sing. Sometimes you can sense a pattern (all the girls are 5’ 6” and above), and sometimes it can seem completely random. And on very bad days, someone who looks exactly like you can get kept and you don’t. The girls who are asked to sing have to stick around until all 200-300 girls have danced, and then they file back into the dance room one by one and sing 16 bars (about 1-2 pages of sheet music) of a song of their choosing. After that, they are dismissed in a, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” sort of way. Meaning, the casting director might call you to come back again to dance or sing or even to read a scene—but if you don’t get a call, you don’t get a call. They don't call you to tell you the job went to someone else. You only know that you didn’t get a call when you read someone’s Facebook status that says: “Soooooo excited to get my dream role in Show X at Theater Z!!!!” Then, you immediately text your friends to meet you at the corner bar.

A singing chorus call works in much the same way—you gather in a room of 200-300 ladies, except this time, you’re sitting on the floor in a party dress and heels. You line up in a group of 20, and you file into the audition room one by one to sing 16 bars of your choosing. The creative team (which is sometimes represented by a casting director’s assistant’s intern and the theater producer’s coffee boy) writes cryptic notes about you on your resume as you sing. Sometimes they’re on their phones. Or the computer. Or eating lunch. Your job is to ignore all that and sing pretty. When you’re done singing, you often just get a, “Thank you,” and you walk out of the room. Sometimes they’ll ask you to sing a second song, sometimes they’ll call you back to dance, and sometimes they won’t call you at all. I dragged my sister to a singing chorus call when she came to visit, and her analysis is as follows: “People wore unusual outfits and tons of bright lipstick. You had to wait around forever and were only in there for two minutes. Some people seemed genuinely excited, some pretended, and some were too old to be there.”

And this is what we go through on a daily basis. Sometimes multiple times a day. To top it all off, booking a theater job isn’t like booking a regular job—chances are that the job you did all the above work to get will last for less than three months. Then you’re back to the drawing board.

I seem to have painted a very bleak picture today (probably because I have the post-audition blues, a very common side effect of this lifestyle), but I must say that the upside of this business is huge. HUGE. You never know when you may get a phone call that will change your life. For example, on my very worst financial day ever (the one and only time I had to ask my parents to help me pay my health insurance), I got a call that I had booked my very biggest show ever—The Radio City Christmas Spectacular—a show that would solve my financial problems for what turned into four years! And you’re always just one audition away from that all-important phone call—just inches away from the carrot dangling in front of you. You get addicted to the feeling of success being just around the corner.

But…

That darn carrot is tricky to grab. In a (very) recent fit of exasperation, I asked a friend, “Why do we torture ourselves?!?!” She hit the nail on the head, pure and simple: “For the clapping.”

Any questions about show business or Smash? Ask away!

Blame It On the Rain

Ugh. I get SO annoyed when it rains in Manhattan. It's just miserable. Miserable. MI. SER. A. BLE. So miserable, in fact, that I apparently feel the need to break down the word in syllables.

It's miserable anytime it rains anywhere in the world, but usually you just run from your house to your car and from your car to your office. Sure it's annoying to cart around an umbrella, but you're generally unscathed save for some splashes on the toes of your shoes and a little rain hair. In Manhattan, however, you are fully exposed to the elements for a much longer length of time. Chances are you'll have a ten-minute walk to the subway or a wait for the bus, and then you'll have to walk from your drop-off point, too. Unless you're Blair Waldorf and can hop in a private car 24/7 to visit your bf's hipster loft in Brooklyn. But I digress.

Here are just a few of the multitude of reasons NYC rain really dampens my spirits:

* Umbrellas. No one knows how to use them. If you think Manhattan sidewalk etiquette is bad, it gets ten times worse once pedestrians start wielding weapons in their untrained hands. Expect to have your eye poked out at least once a day.

* Umbrellas 2.0. You never have one when you need it. You may have bought eight different $5 umbrellas from the umbrella vendors who seem to pop out of the sewer grates every time it starts to sprinkle, and three of those umbrellas may have even survived their two-use average, but you will not have any of those umbrellas when it starts raining. Even if you brought an umbrella with you every single other day that week. You know the day God rested and you decided to rest your paranoia about being caught in the rain without an umbrella so you decided to leave your umbrella at home? It'll rain that day.

* Puddles. Lots of them. Big ones. HUGE. I'm not talking about your typical little puddles that make you look really cute as you daintily hop over them. I'm talking giant, deep, river-like puddles that extend ten feet on each side of the corner and five feet into the street--puddles that are too big for you to jump over even if you get a running start. It's almost as if plate tectonics caused a sinkhole to develop just to ruin your new Tahari leather flats. Who cares if you got them on sale at TJ Maxx for $39.99? They're still awesome name-brand shoes that you were planning to keep for years since their style is so classic and timeless. You were not planning on having them (and your feet, for that matter) completely covered with water that may have collected from the rain or from run-off or from the backed-up sewer. This is why you can never buy nice things. Don't believe me? Check out this article about a puddle on 33rd Street: "The oily green-tinged water stretches at least thirty feet long and is several inches deep, overflowing onto the sidewalk where it mixes with garbage and cigarette butts and accosts locals with its putrid smell."

* Rain boots. Rain boots seem like the obvious solution to the puddle problem, right? Wrong. It is extremely difficult to find a pair of rain boots that will not spring a leak within the first ten wearings. And even if your rain boots are not holey, you're still wearing rain boots. This means that each time you lift your foot, it weighs an extra two pounds. And you don't exactly look chic. You either have to carry a second pair of shoes to change into once you get to work or keep them on all day and look like a moron when the rain has cleared up and you're walking home from work in the bright sunshine still wearing your clunky rain boots. 

* Cabs. Don't even try to hail one. They're all full. Save yourself some heartache and pretend that cabs are dead to you.

* Rain hair. It's bad. Really bad. Every rainy morning, like this morning, I curl or straighten or scrunch my hair, thinking, "Thank goodness I got that new hairspray that combats humidity." Or, "I'll just put some scrunch spray in my hair and let it dry naturally. It'll save me oodles of time and I'll end up looking like Kate Hudson." Or, "Good thing I washed my hair yesterday. The oil buildup will combat flyaways." It doesn't work. None of it works. I hate to break it to you, but there is NO HOPE for your hair on rainy days. None. You end up looking like Richard Simmons no matter how many ways you try to prevent it. The second you step outside--and I mean the very second--your hair is down for the count. Save yourself some time and effort. Throw your hair in a ponytail and use the 30 minutes you would have needed to fix your hair and use it to watch last night's episode of "Khloe & Lamar." It's a much better use of your time.

* Crowded buses. Since no one wants to walk, the normally manageable buses, which are usually inhabited by the old and infirm, are packed to the gills. This causes all of the windows to steam up, which, if you're standing (as you inevitably are) has the unfortunate side effect of blurring your field of vision and increasing the possibility that you'll miss your stop because you can't see it coming. Steamy buses also do nothing for your hair.

* Subway entrances and exits. What would you do if you walked up a staircase and into a rainstorm? You'd want to open your umbrella as soon as possible, right? Well, so would I. And so would the twenty people around us. The problem is that not everyone can open their umbrellas the second they hit the open air. It's physics. Which I am extremely knowledgeable about. As hordes of people exit the subway staircase, all trying to open their umbrellas in sync (as if they were *NSYNC performing their awesome rendition of "Bye Bye Bye" from the groundbreaking album No Strings Attached), hordes of people are entering the subway staircase, none of whom want to put down their umbrellas a second before they have to. And when they close their umbrellas, you and the subway exiters often get splashed from the rain sitting on top of the umbrellas as they snap shut. It's a lose-lose. You get soaked both ways.

* Wet seats. I know you probably want to get your wet umbrella as far away from you as possible when you finally sit down on the subway or bus. But guess what? When you put your wet umbrella on the seat, it leaves a nice little puddle of water behind, meaning that seat cannot be sat in for hours. Or at least until a Good Samaritan wipes it off. Or a Moron like me doesn't notice and sits down anyway, unknowingly sopping up the puddle with her pants.

* Being splashed by speeding cars. You know those scenes in the movies when the heroine is in a bad mood, or a good mood, or a super rush, and then a car zooms through a puddle, drenching her from head to toe? That happens in real life, too. According to my very scientific meteorological study, it happens in Manhattan 98% of the time. Usually when you're on your way to work or an audition. It never happens when you're bumming around in your old clothes and look like a mess anyway.

* Hidden buildings. It's really creepy to see fog or clouds obscuring the tops of buildings. I mean, I know they're still there. I'm not two. But seeing cut-off buildings makes me feel claustrophobic. Like the sky is falling Chicken Little-style and may eventually squash me. Here's a pic of the Empire State Building that I took this morning on Fifth Avenue. If I were a computer genius (or even as computer savvy as a seventh-grader), I would include an arrow to point to the spot in the middle of this image where the building should be. But since I'm only as computer savvy as a third-grader, you'll just have to do the legwork to figure it out.

* That lovely rain sound. Manhattan even robs us of the soothing sound of rain drumming on the roof, which is often the only perk of a rainy day. Even on the top floor of a building, you generally can't hear the rain. Unless you happen to hear it splashing on your air conditioner. Which just reminds me that I can't hear it pelting the roof. Which makes me sad.

Wow. I've been complaining about the rain for so long that the sun has come out again. But don't worry--it's supposed to rain again later this week.

Worth a Thousand Words

If you haven't seen them already, check out the AMAZING photos of old New York that were recently released: Click Here.

$5 Hurricane

The worst part about being trapped in Manhattan in an emergency situation...is being trapped in Manhattan in an emergency situation.

Okay, so I semi-stole that from an iPhone ad campaign, but the principle totally applies here.

I'm no stranger to Manhattan emergencies. I've survived 9/11, two blackouts, and various incapacitating snowstorms. New Yorkers are a hearty breed--they're not phased by much. But when we're sucker punched with an emergency, panic sets in and one of two things happen--people calmly take stock of the situation at hand and make informed decisions...or they flail about, making bad choices that exacerbate the issue.

I ended up doing both things this weekend. I happened to be in Boston visiting my sister and spent most of Friday entirely convinced that Hurricane Irene would be nothing more than a passing shower. I laughed at the commotion, expecting the whole thing to be like Maryland closing schools because of an inch of snow. I was scheduled to return to NYC on Saturday, but my New York friends' Facebook updates started getting jittery. And the subway closing announcement was made. And Broadway shows were canceled. I did exactly what I planned not to do. I panicked.

At that point, I had no idea what to do. I was too far away to feel the pulse of the city, and without the connection, I felt like my air supply had been cut off. Should I return to Manhattan (which I REALLY wanted to do) and go with my gut feeling that everything would be okay? Or should I take the safe route by staying in Boston and re-wearing the two outfits I brought in my backpack until Megabus was able to safely bring me back home again?

In the end, I chose to stay in Boston, and here's why: The last place I want to be in an emergency is on an island with millions of people and only a couple of exit options. It's a concept that's difficult to understand if you live in the 'burbs and have a car. Cars make you mobile. So even if droves of people descend upon your neighborhood supermarket and buy all the flashlights and batteries, chances are that you can drive around until you find what you need. Similarly, if your area suddenly happens to be in the path of, say, an incredibly destructive hurricane, chances are that you can drive to your aunt's house in Albany or your sister's place in Utica. That's not possible on an island fueled by public transportation. If Irene took a turn for the worse and all of Manhattan was ordered to evacuate, there would be no way for everyone to leave.  Especially if the Holland Tunnel and the subways weren't running. It's kind of like in the movies when a submarine floods and the commander decides contain the water by sealing the door, even though his best friend is trapped on the other side. I didn't want to be one of the Manhattanites left to drown after they sealed off the city. So I stayed in Boston.

(And by the time I decided to return, all the buses were canceled anyway.)

Thanks to the hospitality of my sister and her husband, I ended up having a delightful Irene weekend. I went to my first driving range in the pouring rain, explored the marvels and mysteries of Jordan's Furniture, and celebrated the Feast of St. Anthony in the North End. This all seems much more interesting than being confined to my apartment in a rainstorm. But I must say (now that everyone I know is safe and dry) that I feel like I bailed on my city. I ditched my worn old doll for a shiny new Barbie. I feel ashamed for taking the easy way out.

But you know, I'll take lobstahhhh over emergency ration canned goods any day of the week.

My Irene Weekend:

                                                                Lobster traps at Marblehead, MA

                                                                       St. Anthony's Feast in The North End

                                                                An animatronic big green monster eating a Yankee
                                                                at Jordan's Furniture

AAAAAAAAnd back in New York City:

                                                                       Empty shelves at a Queens store

                                                                       What to do with all your canned goods?

Back That Thang Up

A fascinating phenomenon occasionally occurs on 8th Avenue between 34th and 42nd Streets. It's called People Who Purposely Wheel Their Wheelchairs Backward and Cause Chaos With Every Turn of the Wheel.

This happens. I've seen it. Multiple times.

The first time it happened, I was shocked. I was walking up 8th Ave at a crisp pace when I spotted a wheelchair on the sidewalk in front of me. Just as I started making an arc to pass it, I realized that it wasn't moving slowly with the traffic--it was moving against it. And quickly. Towards me. I barely had time to jump out of the way. After the chair zoomed by, I immediately turned my head to follow the path of destruction--people were jumping out of the way, yelping, ooo-ing, tsk-ing, cursing, and staring. The woman in the wheelchair did not seem phased, nor did she look behind her. She was putting all her might into the task at hand--wheeling backward as fast as possible for no apparent reason.

At the time, I chalked it up to something I had learned when I spent a month in grand jury duty: a relatively large amount of drugs are sold on 8th Ave outside the McDonald's that advertises McDonuts. (I also learned what a glassine envelope is. And that crack is more reasonably priced than I would have guessed.) But even so, I can't imagine how many drugs you'd need to think that blindly wheeling yourself backward would be an entertaining way to pass the afternoon. 

Wheeling backward this woman did, though. I saw this shockingly handi-capable mischief-maker wheeling herself backward on the avenue again and again. Luckily, I was ready for her and had no problem jumping out of the way. I was not prepared, however, for the sight of her wheeling backward through traffic while crossing the street! I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared like a tourist at The Today Show. As if that wasn't enough, I later saw a second person--a man--wheeling himself backward along those same 8th Ave sidewalks. Is this behavior contagious? Did he see her and think it looked like a good time? Do they buy their crack from the same dealer?

Readers, I cannot answer these questions, and I cannot make sense of this occurrence. Can you? Have you spotted a backward-wheeler? This is one NYC trend I hope does not catch on in the suburbs.

Let's Go to the Movies!

"I'm at the movies."
Pause.
"I SAID I'm at the movies!"
Longer pause.
"My Big Fat Greek Wedding."
Exasperated pause.
"MY. BIG. FAT. GREEK. WEDDIIIIIIIING!!!"

Sometimes bad movie behavior occurs next to good people. A rather large woman to my left whisper-screamed the above conversation into her cell phone at a theater on 42^nd Street in the summer of 2002, which is also known as The Summer I Decided to Soak Up Air Conditioning at Movie Theaters Instead of Buying an Air Conditioner For My Bedroom. As you can imagine, I entered the theater feeling hot and bothered, and listening to the chatterbox yapping to my left didn't help matters any. Unfortunately, the theater was completely packed, and since I thought she might sit on me if I informed her that the majority of the audience would appreciate it if she hung up the phone, I moved to the only other available seat. In the third row.

You see, the general rule of thumb in Manhattan is as follows: If you decide to do something—anything—chances are that at least 2,000 people have thought of the same idea. Thus, the movie going experience is significantly more difficult than it is in the suburbs.

As a high school student, I would roll into the movie theater parking lot in one of my parents' matching Taurus station wagons, clutching the ticket I bought for $4.25 with my Wegmans employee discount, about two minutes before showtime. I would find an empty row of seats, which generally wasn't difficult. I could put my feet up on the seat in front of me, place my coat on the seat next to me, and generally stretch out, knowing I had at least a three-seat radius to myself.

In Manhattan, however, you can take the subway early to show up an hour before previews with your $13.50 in hand, and still be shut out of a movie. This happened to me twice with Angels & Demons. (I know, I know...I'm not sure why I cared enough about Angels & Demons to try twice.) You can buy your ticket online to be assured of a spot, of course, but because movie tickets are so astronomically expensive, my staunch bargain-hunting brain won't allow me to pay the extra $1.50 surcharge. Even if you manage to get to the theater early enough to score a ticket, you must arrive a good half hour early to score a seat. And don't even dream that the seat next to you will be empty—that'll never happen.

If you've arrived early, purchased a ticket, and found the perfect seat, you're still subjected to the very vocal whims of a host of New Yorkers. I'm not sure why they enjoy commenting on whatever action is happening on screen, but comment they do. And loudly. At times, it feels like being at a live taping of The Maury Povich Show. For example, when the trailer for Tangled appeared before some romcom I was seeing, the dude behind me, who had obviously been dragged there by his girlfriend, yelled, "Daaaaaauuuumnnn! That little girl's hair is looooooooong!"

Actually, my most perfect movie going experience happened when I went to see Tangled several months later. A friend and I went to a tiny theater that was so far east it was practically in the East River. It was a weekday at 2pm. And for two magical hours, we were the only people in the theater! I felt like Annie when Daddy Warbucks took her to see Camille at Radio City. It was heaven.

I'm fairly certain that was a one in a million experience.

Given that movie going in the city isn’t quite the same magical experience that it is in the suburbs, why do we go at all? Well, my cousin and I went to see Crazy, Stupid, Love. this weekend. Though we were surrounded by people on all sides, it happened to be a respectful crowd. On the escalator ride out of the theater (movie theaters in NYC are tall, not wide), she looked out the giant window onto insane, noisy 42^nd Street and said, “Oh! I totally forgot we were in New York.”

And that, my friends, is why we go to the movies.

Local Store Makes Good

I'm not sure if you're aware (well, if you're reading this blog, you're probably totally aware), but Wegmans is famous. Way famous. Like, prime time famous.

Don't believe me? Check this out:

That's right--Wegmans was the special guest star on The Office. Jim carries a Wegmans Shoppers Club card! If you remember my previous blog, you'll know that this isn't the first time Wegmans has played a role on the popular sitcom.

According to Syracuse.com, no agreement exists between the show and the greatest superstore on earth. Rather, the Scranton, PA branch of Wegmans simply provides set pieces as needed to create a sense of authenticity on the set.

The Dunder Mifflin paper company may be getting a new boss next season, but I truly hope they keep shopping at the same store.

The Almighty Butter Lamb

It's Easter Sunday, which can only mean one thing--the return of the Butter Lamb.


For those of you who've never heard about this magical holiday creature, let me back up and explain. A Butter Lamb is butter molded into the shape of a lamb, decorated with peppercorn eyes and a red ribbon necktie. It also has a red plastic "Alleluia!" flag sticking out of its butt. Kind of like the religious springtime version of Frosty the Snowman. The Butter Lamb is apparently a Polish Catholic tradition (shocking that it ended up at a table full of EYE-talians!) with its roots in Buffalo. The Broadway Market began selling Butter Lambs to herald the beginning of spring, and the tradition has continued for years and years.


Picture it--you're sitting around the dinner table with a soft hunk of Italian bread in your hand. You want to smother your bread in butter because butter is so obviously better than margarine. You reach toward the butter, knife in hand...and carve a giant slice from the Butter Lamb's right flank.

Weird, right?

 

I totally understand that lambs are symbols for both spring and Easter, but who on earth decided that spring/Easter needs to be represented by animal-shaped butter? In essence, we are taking something that comes from one animal and molding it in the shape of another animal. It's kind of like molding a ham into the shape of a goat. Wouldn't it make more sense to remain true to butter's milky origin and create a Butter Calf instead? Wait--were there cows wandering around Jerusalem in 33 A.D.? There must have been, since a fatted one was slaughtered in honor of the Prodigal Son's return. So why isn't there a fattening Butter Calf on my family's Easter table?

That being said, I love the Butter Lamb specifically for its nonsensical weirdness. I mean, how many other foods do you eat that remind you to rejoice? Alleluia, Butter Lamb! Alleluia! I truly rejoice in the Butter Lamb's arrival every Easter and I mourn its loss when the butter is gone and only the peppercorn eyeballs remain.

Farewell, sweet Butter Lamb! I'll see you next April! 
    

"Seat's Taken:" A Guide to Getting Your Own Seat on the Bus

I’ve ridden many a bus in my day. And I’m not talking the M11. I’m talking long distance, people. Greyhound, Greyhound Neon, Adirondack, Trailways, Bolt Bus, Megabus, Fung Wah, Lucky Star. You name it—I’ve ridden them all.

As if riding that many buses isn’t unfortunate enough, I also fit the profile of an ideal seatmate: a diminutive, English-speaking, non-smelly food eating female old enough not to pee my pants…and young enough not to pee my pants.

It’s a problem.

Until I wised up, I always ended up sharing my seat on the bus, even though almost everyone else got a solo seat. What’s so bad about that? I’ll tell you what’s so bad about that. Sharing means you can’t put your feet up on the seat next to you. You can’t curl up into a little ball and lay across both seats. You can’t make phone calls with any degree of privacy. Your seatmate can see what you’re reading, listening to, watching, and eating. You run the risk of being trapped in a pointless conversation with a stranger. For HOURS. And as always seems to happen, your seatmate will take up all of his seat AND half of yours.

Though it sounds terribly mean, I made the conscious decision to keep people away for my own personal comfort.  I mean, I would never actually tell anyone they can’t sit with me, Forrest Gump-style (see below). That’s rude. If the bus is full, I will obviously share. But in most cases, I look at it this way: There are 44ish seats on a bus.  If 10 people end up with solo seats, why shouldn’t one of those people be me?

The easy way to get your own seat is to talk to yourself, or develop a tick, or foam at the mouth. But you don’t want everyone to think you just escaped from Bellevue. Being subtly selfish is totally the way to go. After all, bad seats shouldn't happen to good people. So here’s a quick acronym to remember:  ALONE.

ADD SPACE

         However big you are, increase the boundaries of your personal space.  This could mean putting your bag on the seat next to you, lying down across the two seats, or stretching your legs to the side.  Anything to make it seem that you require a lot of space.  This tip is key for smaller-than-average people.  

LEFT SIDE

         Because most people are right-handed, they veer toward the right as they walk toward the back of the bus. Always choose a seat on the left side. Ideally, choose a seat in the middle of the left side.  You want to sit far enough back so that you won’t be the first open seat, but close enough that people will pass you by because they’re still hopeful for better prospects further back. 

OPEN BAGS

         People tend to like calm seatmates. To get that solo seat, open your bags and rifle through your stuff. Pretend you’re looking for something, nothing, anything. The idea is to give the impression that you’ll be restless the entire bus ride, making you a terrible seat partner.

NEVER LOOK

         Eye contact is the kiss of death. NEVER make eye contact with the people who are walking down the aisle and looking for seats. People will try to catch your eye for permission to sit down. Don’t give it to them. Absorb yourself in reading, or playing with your iPod, or talking on the phone. ANYTHING to keep your eyes downcast.

EAT!

         Don’t be afraid to make yourself momentarily seem like an undesirable human being. One way to really drive this point home is to eat while people are loading the bus. I’ve found that the best thing to pull out is a Subway sandwich. The paper has just the right amount of crinkle so that it makes noise, but it’s not so obnoxious that people will complain. The idea is to give the impression that you’ve been starving for hours and this is the first chance you’ve had to eat something. No one can fault you for that. And people will give you your space out of politeness…and the desire to keep mayonnaise from accidentally plopping on their clothes.

Add space
Left side
Open bags
Never look
Eat!

Now that I have given you the secrets to getting your own seat on the bus, I caution you to use these secrets wisely. If you know the bus is going to be full, there’s nothing you can do—you’ll have to share a seat. But if ten minutes of pretending to be annoying can get you a four-hour ride with a seat to spare, then for heaven’s sake go forth, my friends, and be as temporarily annoying as possible!

The Urban Updater

I wanted to update you on a couple of fronts.

First of all, I just spent several glorious days upstate, where I was shocked to see snow on the ground. And not just a little bit--sometimes a LOT. I spent a ton of time uploading old family photos (which I fully enjoyed!).  If you're a true fan of my blog, you may remember my Halloween post, which mentioned the most amazing Halloween costume ever, my Care Bear costume, created with love by my creative and competitive mother. I mentioned that my costume won second place in our town's costume contest, but apparently it only captured a bronze. Take a look and tell me--just TELL me--that this isn't a first place costume!

Secondly, you may recall my struggle with a particular bridal shower gift in my last post. Yes, I'm talking about the coffee maker that seemed to double in size and weight every five minutes. Well, as you know, I managed to get the thing home, but that was only half the battle. I still had to get it all the way across town to the bridal shower.

I wasn't sure the best way to transport the gift, especially since the bag from Bed, Bath, & Beyond bit the dust on my journey home. In the end, I threw in the towel, shoved the gift in a giant black garbage bag, and took a cab.

On the way to Alice's Tea Cup, it occurred to me that whatever trouble it took me to get the present to the shower, it would take the bride-to-be the exact same amount of trouble getting the giant box home. But you know what? It ain't my problem. I dropped that thing on the gift table and washed my hands of it!

Field of Suburban Dreams

If beauty is pain, then Manhattan should be on the cover of People magazine's 100 Most Beautiful People issue.

The Big Apple took a giant bite outta me twice this weekend. I went to a 10am dance audition on Friday morning, even though I had given myself whiplash at an audition the morning before. I have this bad habit of not warming up before auditions and paying the price afterward. Anyway, this particular audition was pretty brutal. It was abnormally long and included two giant flamenco-style lunges. By the end of the 75 minutes, I couldn't breathe and both my neck and my quads hated me. But I'm not complaining about the audition or about my poor warm-up skills. My complaint is the fact that after all of that dancing, I still had to walk 10 blocks home and hike up 97 stairs before I could finally get to my ice pack.

Now, I understand that there aren't a lot of dance auditions in the suburbs, but I'm sure that many people go to the gym and may sometimes work out just a tad harder than usual. This was that same feeling. The difference is that in the suburbs, a post-workout routine would probably include settling into a plush car seat and stopping at Taco Bell on the way home. At least, that’s what I would do. The only additional physical effort would be leaning far enough out of the driver's seat to be heard by the drive-thru sound system. In my case,  my brain had to give my feet specific instructions about hitting the pavement one at a time or else I would have made no forward movement.

Other than a throbbing right quad, my injuries--caused by self-inflicted idiocy--had pretty much cleared up by Saturday morning, when I journeyed to Bed, Bath, & Beyond to pick up a bridal shower gift. A friend and I agreed to co-purchase a coffeemaker, and since I lived closer to the store, I volunteered to make the trip. It never occurred to me that a medium-sized coffeemaker would be contained in such a monstrous box. And somehow, after being swaddled in complementary gift packaging (Thank you, BBB!), it seemed five pounds heavier and five inches wider than before.

Since I am used to lugging things around the city (as you may have read in previous postings), I thought that even though the 20-block walk home would be an uncomfortable one, I could probably make it. Well, that thought flew out the window within a half a block. The giant bag that housed the giant coffeemaker barely cleared the ground by an inch, and that was only if I leaned to the left while holding the bag in my right hand. Since my frugal/hearty little soul couldn't stand to give in and take a taxi, I waited for the bus. Luckily, I didn't have to wait long, but the box was too big to put on my lap or underneath my seat. So I put it on the floor next to me, which essentially blocked the entire aisle, causing people who passed by to tiptoe around it and curse me under their breath. I just gave them bright, unconcerned smiles and said, "So sorry about that!" while secretly seething inside. I thought I was home free when I got off the bus, which (thankfully!) stops right across the street from my apartment...but of course the bag broke while I was jaywalking to get to my side of the block. I had to awkwardly clutch the bag while making sure cars weren't about to flatten the both of us. 

And I still had 97 steps to contend with.

Once again, I was left feeling completely jealous of suburbanites. If only I could have thrown that coffeemaker into the trunk of my minivan and called it a day. How wonderful it must be to select a shower gift based on your taste, her registry, price, and availability without once considering weight and portability! What must that be like? I'm sure people who live in the 'burbs have other obstacles to contend with, but in my urban head, things seem so easy out there. I picture legions of women shopping for shower gifts in Donna Reed-style outfits and heels, daintily setting them in their cars, then using the extra time and energy they have from not carrying and and not walking to skip with joy around the parking lot. If I ever come face to face with such a person, I imagine this Field of Dreams-style conversation would ensue:

  
"Is this heaven?"

"No, it's the suburbs."


*****

Getting Personal

It's funny when life turns out exactly as you planned.

When I was at home a couple of weeks ago, my brother gave a drive that could read all of my old disks from college. Wait, so I'm not very tech savvy. I have no idea whether it's "disc" or "disk." I also think they might be called "floppy" even though they're hard and not at all like the actual floppy disc/k/s that I used in computer class at St. Mary's with our Apple 2C's. 

Anyway, one of the many fascinating files I found was the personal statement I wrote for grad school. In it, along with some brown-nosing, I told grad school admissions teams that I worked in theater and wanted to study children's literature. I did so with a shoe metaphor that was extremely clever, if I do say so myself. (Bragging alert: This personal statement did get me into two schools on full scholarships.) Strangely, a number of years later, I am working in theater and children's publishing. And I'm still wearing tall shoes. Very tall.

It's quite strange how everything worked out, actually. Obviously, life threw me some curve balls along the way, and the path I took to get to this place hasn't been smooth. But the bottom line is that I set out to accomplish something and I actually accomplished it. Isn't that crazy? I'm not sure if it's the Secret or the Power or Fate or God, or a combination of all of those, but whatever it is, it worked. You know, maybe personal statements are where it's at. They force you to sit down, evaluate your life, and hoodwink important people into thinking that you're setting goals. Maybe we should be required to write personal statements every four years or so. It might really help us shape our futures.

Errr...maybe I'll start mine later. Jersey Shore is on now.

My personal statement for grad school:

     “Miss Rosanne, do you wear those shoes just because they make you look taller?” asked one of my little urchins. 

     “No Steven,” I said, “they just have thick soles.  I wear them because they keep my feet off the ground.  Shouldn’t you be on stage now?”

      When Steven ran on stage to join his other partners in crime, I really started to think about what he had been asking.  I know that he was just trying to get a laugh for his friends by poking fun at his play director, but the question seemed to have more meaning than he had ever intended.

      That summer, I was trying to make myself seem taller.  I had to put on a strong front to keep order for thirty-five active kids in the middle of their summer vacation.  Not only that, but they actually had to give a decent performance in four weeks.  Talk about pressure.  When I went home after rehearsals, I cried to my parents and asked myself why I ever took on such a huge responsibility, but every morning from nine until noon, I donned my tall shoes and became “Miss Rosanne.”

      The graduate school application process again reminds me that tall shoes are an excellent foundation.  My undergraduate work has provided me with a solid basis, lending support and security to almost any future path.  With this base under my feet, I feel that I am ready to narrow my studies from a liberal arts background to English Literature and Composition.  Even more specifically, I hope to edit, publish, or review children’s literature.  Kids, like Steven, ask some darn good questions, and books either stimulate their curiosity or add to their knowledge.

      When I was younger, I always used to fill my summer hours with books of all kinds.  As I grew, I spent the school year reading and reviewing books for my mother, an elementary school reading specialist, when she did not have time for the task.  From sixth and ninth grade, I fell into a gap between the preteen books and the adult novels.  Since I could not find any interesting reading material, I reverted back to my mom’s elementary books.  Although this neglected spot has been partially filled since then, I want to make sure that the gap is closed permanently.     

      My play went on, of course, and many community members said that it was one of the best shows in years.  Steven, my favorite little critic, suffered from several bruised toes because he chose to wear sandals.  I told him that he should get a pair of taller shoes.

Hazy Shade of Winter

I'd forgotten how white snow is.

I mean, I've seen snow in NYC, of course. We just had a whole snowstorm full of it. It swirled around, piled up, and ended up coating my cell phone even though it was hidden in the depths of my coat pocket. From my bedroom window, my roommate and I watched snowflakes float lazily to the ground as we laughed and pointed at people who were slipping and falling in the snow on Ninth Avenue. But I had forgotten how pure and blindingly white snow actually can be...until I went home to Canandaigua.

As I drove in the family minivan--actually, I was being driven since I haven't been behind the wheel since August and no one trusts me to drive in the winter--I passed lawns and fields and hills that were blanketed in blindingly white, sparkly bright snow. Completely smooth and untouched. The kind of snow that hurts your eyes. Basically, the snow's so bright, you have to wear shades.

The best part about this brilliantly white snow is that it stayed brilliantly white. All ten days of my trip. Sure, the two feet closest to the curb became grossly brown, and it really put a damper on my plans to trek around the outdoor outlet center. And the Wegmans parking lot was full of disgusting slush. But the snow made everything else look like a picture print by Currier and Ives.

Now that I'm back in Manhattan, I'm trying as hard as possible to keep that perfect snowy image in my head. Especially when I see city workers throwing all snow remnants into the street, hoping that cars will reduce it to slush. Which really just adds insult to injury. Not only is city snow immediately gray, it's also trampled on by millions of pedestrians and thousands of cars. The snow's beauty is completely destroyed, kind of like when Mary Poppins slums it with the chimney sweeps on the roof and gets all sooty. Only worse.

It seems as though there's a legal limit to the snow here; however, I did have one brief shining moment of snowy glory in Manhattan. Picture it: a crisp, sunny afternoon on the Radio City roof with snow up to my knees. No one had been on the roof yet (probably because it was dangerous and forbidden), so a friend and I ran and jumped and slid and made snow angels. Being from Florida, he had never made a snow angel, and being an adult, I hadn't attempted one in at least 15 years. It was thrilling.

But even that was just a tease. We had 100 square feet of snow on the roof, which is roughly the size of my parents' backyard. If you're into snow, upstate is where it's at. No contest. In short, there's simply not a more congenial spot for snowily-ever-aftering than there in upstate New York.