Sunday, August 29, 2010

Like the hokey pokey: that's what its all about...

First of all, I want to thank you all for the really great feedback on my last post. The only thing I like more than reading something inspirational and beautiful is when people tell me I've written something beautiful and inspirational. Oh, shut it, we're all that full of ourselves. I just lost my new followers for being a self-absorbed asshole, didn't I? In all honesty, thanks, it means a lot to me when you guys like what I'm writing, that's the whole point of this, isn't it?

So I'm not even embarrassed to say that I'm watching the Emmy's right now. To be fair, I'm getting paid to do so. No, I haven't sold out and decided to live-blog awards shows for money, don't stress, I'm just babysitting. Anyway, I'll put this out there too, I get upset watching awards shows. Why? Because it's like standing outside of a classroom, peering in through the little window in the door and watching all the kids in the club that you want to be in, but you're not allowed in yet. Do I want to be an actress to win awards? I mean, sure, but that's not why I want to do this, but do I want to be an actress? Yes. Would I like to be a part of that club? Yes. When Jane Lynch just won the award for Glee she worded it pretty well when she said that she was happy to be a part of a group of actors, "we have no other choice or just no marketable skills". I mean it's not like I'm not good at anything, it's that I've never really tried to be. I've put all my eggs in this basket, my parents have invested tens of thousands of dollars so that I could take acting classes, and what if I can't do it? I know that's no attitude, but what if I just don't make the cut? What am I going to do with my life? Sorry to get all quarter-life-crisis on you here, but it's been on my mind quite a bit lately, especially with this big move to LA.

Also, I'm just gonna go there, I've been watching the Emmys so it's at the forefront of my mind: I went to high school with Lea Michele. I know she's not like, Lady Gaga, or anything, but she's getting pretty famous. I don't harbor some resentment or anything, but I do hope that she doesn't often do google searches of her name and find who's writing about her on their blog. That would depress me. It just seems like such a huge marker in her success and my lack of success. Which is silly because she had an agent when I was still picking my nose under my desk in fourth grade, so it's not exactly a fair competition. It is fair to say that picking my nose was a bad choice. So was not owning a pair of those plastic Sketchers, but what can I say, I wasn't destined for cool. Or the red carpet in 2010, apparently. Because instead of wearing Oscar de la Renta and smiling at Jon Hamm tonight, I'm wearing a grey American Apparel t-shirt and hoping these parents stay out late so that I can pay my credit card bill.

Oh, life.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Breaking Up: A Love Story

I just need some time apart.

I have to find myself.

I need to try out something new.

I'm too comfortable.

We're perfect for each other, but I'm not ready for that kind of commitment.

You have everything that I want, but I'm not sure that's everything that I could have.

It's not a break-up, it's just a break. I know I want to come back to you, I can't imagine it being any other way later on, but this isn't right for me now.

We've had a long history. My heart has belonged to you since birth, it seems like. Maybe more than I think can be attributed to my parents and their acceptance of you. I've always known we'd be together like this, and I was right all along; you really are perfect for me. This isn't to say that we haven't fought, boy have we fought. You've hurt me and I've bled for you, I've gone broke for you, but I've always wanted to come back because I know every curve and corner of you, yet you consistently surprise me. Just when I think I know everything about you and I'm growing bored, you shock me with your intelligence and it's like I've never even met you before and I fall in love all over again.

When we were on a break before, in college, I bragged about you to everyone. I came home to be with you and when I was away for too long I would get drunk and get mad that we couldn't be together all the time. I was waiting with baited, bittersweet breath for graduation. When that day came and we could really be together I smiled all night. Even sleeping on a mattress on the floor, light pouring through the window in my east 3rd street apartment, I didn't mind your quirks and pitfalls, I was more in love than I ever knew I could be. You helped me discover my own nature and embrace it. You make me laugh and smile in such a pure, honest way that I don't know if I can ever feel this way about another again.

I still don't regret going to London and cheating. I was so happy for myself, so happy I'd found something that made me feel almost as good as you did. I felt independent, and maybe that's why I need to do this now, to feel independent again, maybe not. But towards the end there, I realized that I needed you back, that you were it for me and nothing else could make me feel that way. When I got to JFK and saw you again I cried exhausted, happy tears at the sight of you.

Remember how good things were in the summer of 2008? Remember how new everything felt? How exciting? I couldn't even sleep, thoughts of you consumed me altogether. Sure, you were a little bit abusive early on and I got angry with you and needed air and space, but I always knew I'd be back. I just wish there weren't so many people who felt the same way about you. You're too cool and you know it. I wish I could feel like no one else will ever care about you the way I do, but I know that's foolish.

I guess I just want to thank you for all you've given me and say that I'll be back. It's not you, it's me. I might be making the biggest mistake of my life by leaving you now, but I'll never know unless I just go. Maybe I've been wrong all along and you and I aren't meant to be. It hurts me more than you'll ever know to even think that. I don't think I'm ready to love another, or that I'll even like it, but it's enticing. I know I'll miss you, but I hope I'll be able to be happy without you. I think I might be. I might even be able to fall in love again, with time. I think I'll be able to focus more and drink less. I think you might be a bad influence on me after all, but it's not your fault. I can't control myself around you, I'm too emotional, I'm too intense, I'm too comfortable.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is, let's enjoy this next, last month together and not think about the consequences. I don't want to miss out on anything, I want all of you, I want your unconditional you-ness until I leave. Already I can feel myself falling into you and with each step I take I am mourning the end of us. Around every corner lies a memory and a deep dull pain grows with every reminiscence about our time together. Please, don't change too much while I'm gone, because I'll be back and I want to be with you forever. New York, I love you.


Monday, August 23, 2010

Revenge of the...

What's going on with Robyn? I know I'm a few weeks (months? years?) late on this discovery, but she came out with a dance album? I'm not going to lie, I downloaded some of it to hear it. It's awful. I had to download "Do You Know What It Takes" just to reaffirm my faith in the Robyn of yore (read: my childhood). So yeah, thats what I'm doing right now, listening to 90s Robyn albums and trying to get myself to stand up and make this couscous that goes along with the fish I have marinating in the fridge. I know, I'm so fancy. I figure, if someone gives you a cookbook, you should probably at least try and make the recipes in it. This may be the most exactly I've ever followed a recipe from a book, so we'll see how it turns out.

Also, Mel B has a tv show. I mean, at this point, why do I care? I know that pop stars of years past have always tried to reinvent themselves to be current and extend their careers, but I just can't get myself to give a hootenanny.

So I guess this post's title should read "Revenge of the Pop Stars".

Since we're on the topic of music, and I seem to be downloading hundreds of songs a day lately, I'm going to just share an observation I had the other day upon listening to the Zooey Deschanel cover of  The Smiths, "Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want" from 500 Days of Summer. First of all, I love The Smiths. I mean, really love. Second of all, I hate that I like Zooey Deschanel. It's so cliche, I mean why wouldn't I like her, she's an offbeat brunette with good bangs and pretty stellar style (except when her pants clasp dangerously close to her boobs; high-waisted and breast-squishing are NOT the same thing), but man do I hate that I want to watch her in anything, even those damn cotton commercials. And then I started listening to She & Him and I hated liking her even more. But I do. And I like her cover of The Smiths, mostly because she gets away with it and if I was as skinny offbeat able to sing as she is I'd probably try and do the same thing. Gross.

Sea Bass calling...
PS: I tried to upload a picture of ZD, but it wouldn't upload, and then realized that I'm pretty sure I've already put her picture on this blog. Which sucks even more. I need to change the song on my itunes now. sigh.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

The Bridge

The skyline flickers on, like a tired parent flipped a switch in the living room after putting the kids to bed. The deep grey of the sky melts into the surrounding mountain tops, their jagged tips and edges dusted with out of season snow. The Manhattan Bridge creaks above my head as I look around wondering where the mountain at my feet sprung from. The sky seeps down the atmosphere, engulfing me in night, dripping into the horizon. The bridge shines against the navy backdrop, more silent than usual. My feet are firmly planted and ready to assist my ascent. The team I travel with is made up of familiar, nameless faces. Something is wrong, the air reeks of it.

The screams pierce through the night, echoing off the peaks and skyscrapers, and I don't need to look to know what has happened. But I do. The bridge is lined with girls. Seemingly normal, upper middle class white girls holding hands on the outer edge of the steel suspension. They are jumping. They are contemplating jumping. They are crying and screaming and full of pain. I can do nothing but watch and writhe with discomfort, begging my eyes to open, begging the screaming to stop, begging myself to remember this moment. Waking panting and wondering why these dreams repeat themselves.

Monday, August 16, 2010


So this is my 100th post...and it leaves me wondering what this blog is for. At first it was a way for me to document my "freelance" lifestyle after I quit my job, but now that I'm moving from New York to Los Angeles I've noticed that what started as a glimpse into my stressful life, through rose colored, comedic glasses, has become a lot less light-hearted and a lot more ridden with diary-esque rants and frustrations. I'm not sure that I like that.

Basically, with my 100th post I want your input, readers (yes, all of you, even you who don't comment because you email me all day long from work and we're "real life friends"). What kind of posts would you rather read? Do you like my rambles and rants about everyday life? My fiction stories? My depressed rants about abusing my teddy bear? My photo tours of life? When I use outdated song lyrics to represent my mood? What do YOU want?

It's 1:23 am and I have to get up at 5 am for work, so I can't believe I'm even writing this now but I just got home from Boston and needed to unwind for a few minutes before falling asleep. I'm going to leave you with lyrics from three songs that I can't stop listening to these days, if you read them in succession they completely represent my state of mind:

I know you've supported me for a long time
Somehow I'm not impressed
It is up to me now, turn on the bright lights 
-NYC, Interpol

New York, you're safer
And you're wasting my time
-LCD Soundsystem, New York I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down

Oh great calamity,
Ditch of iniquity and tears
How I abhor this place
Its sweet and bitter taste
Has left me wretched, retching on all fours
Los Angeles, I’m yours

-The Decemberists, Los Angeles I'm Yours


Thursday, August 12, 2010


I've been trying to find a way to blog about this without offending you, and myself, but there just isn't. I always think I like boats, and I always get excited about going on a boat. Sometimes, I even start singing that stupid SNL song, "I'm on a mothaf*ckin' boat!" and laugh about grown men saying "flippy floppys", but I rarely have fun on a boat. Most of the time, I can't wait to get off the boat. There are definitely exceptions here, but it's like being stuck on an elevator with a view, you just can't leave! I mean what if you don't have the right snacks? You're on a M*THAFUCKIN BOAT! You can't just pop into Duane Reade and pick up a carton of yogurt raisins!

I'm ranting about this because I went to a Rocks Off concert on Tuesday. I don't know if you guys have ever done this, but they're boat concerts. The boat goes around the tip of Manhattan, stops by the Statue of Liberty, goes under the Brooklyn, Manhattan and Williamsburg bridges and its a beautiful ride. But then the band plays, and you can't even see them. Because they're playing inside on a little boat. Now, The Felice Brothers put on a great show. They were very energetic and *jeeeesus* they're young! I didn't really realize it until I noticed them before the show hanging out on the boat's top deck drinking beers with their girlfriends (who were CLEARLY almost still teenagers). But come on guys, I couldn't even see the band, and I couldn't stand on my chair because, again, we were on a mothaf*ckin boat, I would've fallen over.

I like boats where I can lay down in the back and get tan. Or boats where they pour champagne into my mouth and feed me mini quiches, but I don't think I can handle the boat concert again. Maybe I could do a boat like this:


Wednesday, August 11, 2010

The Void

It never ceases to amaze me just how cyclical the world is.

Just yesterday I heard news that a girl who I briefly shared the stage with in college (she had to leave after one semester to go back into treatment for Leukemia) had lost her battle with the cancer. Although I barely knew her I'd followed her story on Facebook-as cliche as that is-and was devastated to hear of her passing. Maybe its my current fragile emotional state, but I flat out erupted into tears when I read the Facebook message that her ex-boyfriend sent to her friends. And then, just now, I got an email from a member of the improv troupe that I used to perform with announcing the birth of his second daughter. I've had a rough day and that piece of news put a smile on my face.

Someone once told me that as soon as you leave a place someone else comes and immediately takes the position you once held. I've always hated this sentiment, because it cheapens individuality, and it made me upset to think about graduating from college and having someone "replace" me in the social sphere there, but it's kind of beautiful to think about now. I'm not saying that the baby born today is a reincarnation of Melissa, who passed away yesterday, but somehow, at least for me, the two are undeniably linked in the universe.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Are you my mother?

If I was still in high school [like I was 6 years ago. christ, six years] this would be the kind of night that my mom would have had to come downstairs and talk to me for several hours. Remind me never to have an emotional train wreck for a daughter. Remind me not to have a daughter. Remind me not to have children. You see, I've been hysterical for about a half hour now. The kind of hysterics that would not have even existed if I still lived downtown and shared a wall with my roommate. Hysterics that my larger apartment is much more conducive to.

You see, when I was in high school (and the greater part of middle school), I'd occasionally have *one of those nights* where I'd be a bit farklempt in the evening and then once I was alone in my bedroom I'd erupt into the Mt Vesuvius of pre/during/post pubescent meltdowns. I'd try and be quiet, knowing that my parents' bedroom was above mine, but secretly try not to be quiet because I did actually want help. And then my mom would come downstairs in her nightgown and knock on my door, ask me if everything was okay, I'd probably throw really bear across the room or maybe sniffle and try and pull it together, then she'd make me some tea and we'd talk about it. But I'm a fucking adult now so the only part of that I can recreate tonight is this:
(no stuffed animals were harmed in the taking of this photograph)

All kidding aside, I'm a disaster right now. I'm supposed to move in less than three weeks and I don't have: A) a car yet, B) nearly enough money, C) a moving date, D) a job, or E) a plan for where to live after September 3rd, when my subletter moves in. I'm supposed to go meet the rest of my family on their Lake Placid vacation Wednesday-Sunday and have no idea if I should make the five hour drive to go or stay in the city and try and make money. I have no idea if the amount of money I'd make is worth the amount of money I'd spend. I have no long term plan for life. I have no realistic goals. I have not lost ten pounds. I have to get up in seven hours. My eyes hurt from crying. Really Bear is calling DYFS on me. And I'm fucking hungry again because its 3 am. 

I hope you all realize that in the short time it took for you to read this, you just became my surrogate mother. Congratulations, you're the proud parent of a whining, broke, 5'5", wayward actress. Have a cigar.

PS: I got my 20th follower today! Sorry to refer to you as family already, but welcome, it's always better to jump right in, right!?

Monday, August 9, 2010

Why I Quit...

Holy moses filled poptarts I'm tired.  I've worked the last five straight shifts waitressing at the restaurant I used to work at (that's Friday night, Saturday double, Sunday double, in case you're counting) and I officially remember why I quit. They are very understaffed right now and I was happy to help out by covering a *few* shifts, but jeeeez it's just not fucking worth it. Before midnight tonight I hadn't been home since yesterday morning, hadn't showered since then, and felt like there were jackhammers affixed to my heels. I've been unable to resist the temptation of free pasta (fuck you, carbohydrates) and suffered the pain of a restaurant on a weekend in August. Pasta, slow, busy, slow, slow, slow, busy, salad, slow, busy, slow, bread, busy, olives, busy, walnuts, suicidal-busy, mimosa, bellini, mimosa, mimosa, espresso, slow, slow, slow, pasta. That's the play-by-play.

But also I should mention that I have the common sense of a ten year old hopped up on adderall, faced with a skateboard and a bonfire. That's to say that after a relatively (read: hugely) mundane social life of late, I picked last night to stay out all night. "Hold up," you say, "after a Friday night, Saturday brunch, and a Saturday night dinner shift you needed a drink!" Yes, yes captain I did. I did not, however, need to go meet a group of people at a bar, nor did I need to obsessively drink beer, nor have some rum, I definitely didn't need to agree to stay out and go to a rooftop party at 2:30 am, I most certainly didn't have to buy a 40 (class comes out my pores, Secret Powder Dry or not), nor did I have to finish it. And I definitely did not need to stop at the deli and buy my boyfriend a sandwich at 5 am. I did however, have to stay at work until midnight Saturday night, and I had to be back by 11 am Sunday to work my twelve hour shift.

Suffice it to say that I should A) already be sleeping B) have probably turned down that babysitting job tomorrow morning , and C) am not looking forward to the final shift I am covering, tomorrow night.


PS: I have a Proscuitto sandwich and three artichoke ravioli to have for breakfast tomorrow. Who likes pasta in the morning?

Friday, August 6, 2010


So yesterday I did a little bit of inventory on what's in store for the rest of my summer and this is it, in pictures:
Lake Placid, NY...hopefully in 6 days, if I can get my shit together

My cousin is getting married at MIT next weekend

The following weekend is Lake George with a big group of alcoholics college friends

This is Kentucky. Oddly enough, the state I'm most excited to drive through en route to California.

Not ready to discuss this yet.

So that's that. I can't believe that summer is almost over. It feels like yesterday that I was joking with friends about how January was already booked and I had no free weekends. Now it's August. Where does time go? Oh...well, I mean I slept until 1 pm today, so maybe time is drowning in my bed along with my inspiration and will to live.

Yesterday I was discussing my magazine proposal with my dad and this was his suggestion (this is an actual quote, exactly)

"Why don't you pitch and idea to Playboy for an article on New York to LA, the best places to have sex."

I took that opportunity to utilize the "pregnant pause" and retorted with, "Sometimes I don't think you remember who you're on the phone with", and hung up.

The problem's a really good idea.

Let that marinate while I try and get my ass up off the couch.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010


The inside of my head is like a swarm of bees, I can't get it to shut up long enough to decipher what's going where, and its all just a lot of buzzing. 

Yesterday I saw two guys get into a fight over a bike in Columbus Circle. One of the guys hit the other one over the head with a bike lock. He was bleeding from the head. I have no idea whose bike it was.

A pretty, well-dressed, young blonde girl sang "Man In The Mirror" on the uptown A train at 11pm.

I stood on the north side of 23rd st staring at the Chelsea Hotel for ten minutes.

I don't want to miss the fall on the east  coast. I thought about my rain boots and coat today and got sad.

I already miss Billy Bell on SYTYCD.

I'm trying to come up with a proposal for an article/story about my drive out west and I need recommendations for places to eat or food festivals, or just cool places to see in the following states: Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia, Kentucky, Missouri, Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, Southern California. Blogland, GO!

In the meantime, there's a bag of yogurt raisins that aren't going to eat themselves, folks!


Tuesday, August 3, 2010

...wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today...

Forgive the cheesy Led Zeppelin lyrics in the title arena, but there's just not enough snark in my step today for witticisms. I'm faced with the very real reality of moving to California and I'm overwhelmed with questions and concerns. I've been trying to enjoy New York in all its free summer glory, but its not distracting enough.

I mean, look at what I'm doing right now:

In case you didn't catch that, it's a map of LA, craigslist for shitty restaurant jobs, the used car I want to buy, and Yelp LA. What if I just can't handle it? What if I'm not ready for this? How can I make myself better prepared? 

I want to apologize for the direction this blog has been taking lately, I'm all *wah wah, my life is changing, I don't know what to do, help help, wah wah*. But you're cheaper than therapy so keep reading. Please?

I think I'm doing that thing that people do when they're getting ready to leave something or someone where they detach from it and pick fights. New York, you bitch, you're getting fat and you never call enough, fuck you. I used to do this at camp when I was twelve, you remember, you probably did it too, you'd know there was only another few weeks/days/hours, whatever left, so you'd start getting mad at your friends and you'd tell them you hated them and that you weren't going to be friends next summer and that you knew they kissed blankity blank and didn't tell you and you just wanted to feeecking kill her for it. That bitch. That's what I'm doing to New York right now. Kind of. I mean, I haven't been walking around in a track suit mumbling to myself or anything, but I just haven't been able to enjoy the city. I found everything wrong with the movie in Bryant Park tonight, I picked fights with Brooklyn Bridge Park last night, and I almost cut the subway's hair while she was sleeping this weekend. I exaggerate, but I don't know how to stop. I want to love it here, I do love it here, I just need to make myself hate it a little bit so I can go without spending the last week crying and pulling my hair out and hoarding marshmallow fluff under my pillow and staying up all night eating it–oh, wait, that was summer camp again. I'm going to cry and pull my hair out.

What am I doing?