I.n.d.e.p.e.n.d.e.n.t

That title is a nod to that terrible song that came out a few years ago that spelled out independent as its chorus. What a pathetic attempt at music. What an awesome way to get your friends drunk and try and get them to spell words.

I'm having one of those "I love being an adult" moments, so I'm going to savor it. Let me start by saying that if I were, oh, ten years younger, maybe even 8, I'd be sitting politely at my parents' dinner table eating with a fork, wearing pants, a shirt, and a bra, probably already showered, drinking water, and most definitely enjoying an assortment of vegetables before any sort of sugary dessert.

What I'm currently doing right now is binging on yogurt raisins and cashews (I know, gross, right?), chugging water (I just got back from the gym), wearing a towel (pre-shower), downing a bottle of wine (I'm only 2 glasses in, but I have high hopes for this bottle), and thinking about skipping dinner in favor of raw broccoli and more wine.

This is a pathetic post, but I've fired up some endorphins or something and I'm feelin' good so deal with it. (Yes, I'm already on glass three) Must be time for a shower...can I bring wine in the shower? In college I used to take beer showers all the time–not showering IN beer, mind you, but showering with a beer, lest I get sober long enough to make a good decision. Something tells me, though, that wine isn't meant for water sports. Although, wine and slip-n-slide go together like half a velcro and the other half of a velcro, but that's a tale for another Friday night. I've got a surprise party to go to, and we all know what happens if you're late to a surprise party...

...nothing in this case, since I don't even really know the surprise-ee, I'd hardly ruin anything by walking in next to him. But alas, there's broccoli and wine to consume.

Have a good weekend, champs.

A

That's what she said...

This is another thing I found when I was cleaning out computer files. I wrote this a few months ago. Check it.

I recently read an article that stated that if men weren’t trying to impress women they’d stop working so hard at their jobs, stop working out, and stop being healthy at all. Now, this struck me as sort of obvious. I’ve often wondered if I wasn’t pursuing a career as an actress if I would care as much about gaining weight, because my motivation to lose weight is almost always that every single successful actress working is either two dress sizes below me, or two above. You see (and not to make this about me, but the point needs to be made), I am a normal sized human. I am reluctant to use the word woman because that makes it sound like I’m trying to make a point about femininity and the way that women’s bodies are viewed by society, and I’m not (entirely). I’m simply trying to point out that there are no normal sized women (okay fine, women) making a decent living as actresses, unless they have been famous for so long that it no longer matters what size they are (see: Meryl Streep, Susan Sarandon, Diane Keaton–not to say that these women are anything other than stunning, but they no longer have to starve themselves to fit societies standards of acceptability–they’re accepted)

Back to my previous point, however, the sole reason for trying to look “the best that I possibly can” from my point of view is to be competitive with the other actors out there. It is obvious that if I go in for a role and so does another girl with long, dark, wavy hair and big brown eyes and we both do a really solid reading but she happens to have really defined cheekbones and on camera she looks sleek and evokes movie star she’s going to get the part. Because on camera I look like I am the supporting lead in a local sofa commercial.

Now, I do want to digress here again for a moment and point out for a moment that there is an increasing market for people who look like they belong in local sofa or mattress store commercials, and that is the faux-reality show. Shows like The Office and Parks and Recreation LOVE normal looking people. But I’m probably not going to get cast on one of those shows, or in anything else as a “normal looking person” and this is precisely why…I am too pretty. I know, “kill yourself” you’re saying, but seriously it is a curse. I’m a normal sized, very pretty person. In the real world this is a huge asset, in fact it’s never been a problem for me, until now. I’m not going to get the “hot girl” roles, because I have man shoulders, and I’m not going to get the “Pam” secretary role because my features are just too gosh darn striking. Maybe I should go into radio, or stop eating.

Okay, so back to my original point about the purpose we have for being attractive. As someone who has grown up in the film business I can tell you, although I wouldn’t be breaking the news to anyone, that movies are full of attractive people. We, as a culture, are obsessed with looking at attractive people on the big screen, little screen, in magazines, et cetera. It is a fact that a movie full of attractive people will do better at the box office than a movie full of average looking people. We want to spend two hours staring at someone that we’d like to have sex with, not at the lady who’s in front of us in line at the convenience store. This is just the way that it is, we are a culture obsessed with celebrity, vanity, and sex. This isn’t some revelation, this is the way that the world operates right now. This isn’t to say that at some point in the future this won’t change, although I’d be willing to put money on the guess that it stays this way for a very, very, very, very long time.

Future Career Goals

It's hot, I'm tired, I can't stop eating blueberries, and my limbs feel like they're going to fall off from excessive exercise and an especially unexciting spinning class this morning, so you're getting the bottom of the barrel today.

I give you, a list of occupations I might not suck at if I wake up one day 35 and a non-working actress:

1. Spinning Instructor (I'd have more energy than the instructor I had for this morning's class if I was on muscle relaxers and Ambien and listening to Joni Mitchell on my ipod...I could definitely do this)
2. Event Planner (I'd rather organize a party than go to one. Well, I'd rather go to one that I've organized than go to one that anyone else organized. Almost. No. Definitely. I'm a control freak)
3. Restaurant Reviewer (I'd be fat and happy, and use words like satiated and repulsive on a daily basis. Mmmmkay)
4. Blogger (click those damn ads, people)
5. Psychic (You don't want to know how good my "feminine intuition" is...)
6. Crack addict (I like silverware, I like being skinny. Downsides? I like humanity, possessions and being lucid.)
7. Yoga Instructor (I can put my legs behind my head, but probably don't have enough deep breathing in me to keep a straight face throughout a silent retreat, so maybe not. Read: I'd be the asshole sticking string beans up my nose when we were supposed to be meditating)
8. Mom (This is so non-progressive that it makes me want to hit myself over the head with the bag of English Muffins directly to my right, but, weirder things have been suggested)

There you have it. Call me in ten years or so to remind me of this list, unless I'm already on TV, in which case, pretend you never knew me, I don't owe you anything.

A

PS: I'm totally kidding, you can be my entertainment lawyer or maid or something, I already have a personal assistant, pool boy, accountant, chef, and clothing-iron-er lined up, though.

Relics

I'm forcing inspiration today, I've been "all business" lately, and am having a hard time thinking of something worthwhile to post, so you get an English Sheepdog and its puppies, because that's what I'm thinking about right now other than my "She & Him" Pandora station (full of perfect music for my afternoon of transferring computer files and writing emails, letters, and more letters).

Let's see, what else do we have...I've gotten better at juicing things. Well, actually I kind of stick to carrot juice, but it's really good! I...ate a tuna sandwich for lunch again. God this is pathetic. Not just because I'm always writing about eating tuna (mercury poisoning anyone? Just kidding, I only eat it once a week or so), but because I just can't think of anything moderately interesting.

Lucky for you I've been transferring files all day so I'm going to copy and paste you something I wrote when I was in Italy in 2006. I was 20 at the time and entering my Junior year of college. The title is ironic, by the way. Here goes:

What is Art? Who am I?: America

I sit here on a stone patio looking over Lago di Como in Northern Italy, my sleek silver laptop with the apple facing outward towards the foothills of the Alps. Sailboats whiz by on this extra breezy, overcast day in the mountains. The village on the other side of the lake looks miniature. The wooden cross adorning the top of the mountain we spent nine hours hiking up to earlier this week isn’t quite visible through the thick clouds. A fisherman heads around the curve to my left, to a portion of the lake where all the locals know George Clooney’s vacation home is situated. It is Wednesday, August 16, 2006 and I should be savoring every last bit of my three remaining days in this European paradise. Instead I find all of my thoughts drifting across the Atlantic to a much different lake. My mind wrestles with the possibility that after twenty years of dreaming about coming to Europe I am craving the scenery of the shores of Seneca Lake. Hobart and William Smith: Population 1,800. What has changed me in the past two years to make me fall so in love with the place that I could hardly breathe in at first? I'm starting to think that I am on the verge of an identity crisis.

The past five months have been consumed with thoughts of Europe. I told everyone I met that I had every intention to become a fabulous ex-patriot, become fluent in French and Italian and never leave. And now that I’m here my mind wanders back to comforts. The Special K isn’t as crispy and I cannot seem to find a veggie burger anywhere. Don’t even get me started on my craving for a burrito. And Italian isn’t coming as easily to me as I expected, even with my laminated verb cheat sheet. I’m also not quite sure that the men here are the answer to my dating problems. I think an attitude adjustment and a year’s worth of yoga classes are the answer to my dating problems. The furthest in conversation I’ve managed to get with a local, tall, dark, and handsome Italian was some guy borrowing my goggles and returning them with a civil, “grazie.” Oh well.

Let me backtrack a little bit here. I am not taking my three-week Italian vacation for granted. I am very happy to be here and despite the difficulty of traveling with my parents and two younger brothers am having a wonderful time. This does not change the fact that my thoughts wonder back home a little more than I’d like them to. Maybe being an ex-patriot requires throngs of other ex-patriot friends escaping the two more years of the Bush administration, the drinking age that is ten months too far away and running away to Eurotrash and a ghastly exchange rate (although I will point out that my new shiny black leather purse was still a quarter of the price it would have been back home).

I sure hope everyone else is as conflicted about the next ten years of their life as I am, otherwise I am in need of some very serious counseling. Not to mention a few talks about my increased intake in vino rossi from Toscana (another thing that I wouldn’t mind having back home: delicious red wine for $4 a bottle, think about it).

This is the point in my ramblings where I’d normally try to reach some sort of conclusion, or moral, but I don’t have one, so I’m not going to try to make one up. Let’s be honest here, I have no idea whether or not I’ll ever come back to this lake, why I love HWS so much, or when I’ll finally be able to afford my own apartment in Manhattan, I do know that being twenty years old means taking some risks and making some mistakes. So I guess that’s what I’m here for.

The grass just might always be greener on somebody else’s lake. 

Here's a picture of my room on Lake Como, circa 2006. Sigh.

A

PS: a) I did need an attitude adjustment and a year's worth of yoga classes to find a worthwhile guy. b) Bush administration anyone? c) Afford a Manhattan apartment? haha silly youth, still can't afford it, but I'm here. d) That purse is navy. I found that out the next time I looked at it in the light. I still have it. 

Marking My Territory

Having my oatmeal and jasmine tea in the kitchen this morning, reading the New York Times on my computer. Oh, technology, and that "cold" front that came in after the rain yesterday. Man, was that a welcome change. I mean, New York, NY, July 26th: 75º and Sunny? Yes, please!

I'm thrilled that this weekend is over, I spent far too much time in transit. Vans to New Jersey, to East Hampton, back from the Hamptons at 3 am packed in like a sardine with a collection of sweaty, food-covered cater waiters, a mini-van to Philadelphia, a NJ Transit train from Secaucus to Penn Station. Just happy to be in the city, where there's a breeze. I know, who woulda thunk? I got back last night around 7 and decided that I needed to go for a little run, to feel human. I laced up the sneaks and hit Central Park, and then I hit a stride, and then I hit the pavement. I ran five miles and watched the sun set, pink, over the Hudson river. Talk about reversing your bad mood! I hate how cliche this is, but damn, exercise really changes your mind state.

In looking at the paper online this morning I stumbled upon something that I'm sure is going to ruin my life. Here it is. That little search feature has made my morning consist of looking at properties in Montauk, the Hamptons, and Brooklyn. I'm just mapping out my life, kids. You see, I made an important decision on Saturday, one that I've been trying to figure out for the past ten years or so. I know where I want to live "when I grow up" now. I want a place in Brooklyn and one in the Hamptons. No worries, I plan on acquiring some cash flow one of these centuries. I figure I won't be grown up until I'm about 67 anyway, so lets go! According to these mortgage calculators that means I'll only have two monthly payments of $4,500 for the rest of my life to keep up both properties. Victory. Since my current income is roughly -$32, this should be fine. Oh, and I can only have one child live in Brooklyn, the other one can live in Montauk, I think that's kosher.

I'm going to leave my real estate dream now and go get paid to play with children.

A

Status Update

So the plan to lose 10 pounds by August 15th was going really well, for a week. This week is not really happening. Not like I'm sitting around eating cupcakes and drinking Bud Heavy, but I have literally no motivation to work out. I went for a run yesterday for the first time since Friday and it was lovely and all, but now my right ankle is super sore and I woke up feeling like I took three boot camp classes instead of just the two and half miles I ran. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I ran a half marathon in March, that's 13.1 miles. I should be able to handle two and not wake up the next morning feeling like Jane Fonda on a Sunday. I was going to do Tae Bo today but now I'm not. It's literally that simple. I might get in a few measly ab exercises before heading up to babysit for the brady bunch (Mom is two years older than me and pregnant with her third child in three years. Not judging or anything, but that is not for me).

Additionally, I spent way too much money yesterday on things like sushi, frozen yogurt, and Inception. I only regret one of those, and it was definitely the one that involves raw fish, but the idea of tuna from a can for dinner again was too depressing for me to even handle. So, delivery.com strikes again in aiding my financial demise. I need to figure out what to do with these kids for three hours today, we can't leave the apartment because its a fourth floor walk up and I'll be damned if I'm carrying a HUGE 18 month old up and down those steps, and there's only so much Wonder Pets a 24 year old with a BA can handle. Maybe I'll just do sit ups and ask them to sit on my abs.

Oh sweet, just got called to "play" a victim on SVU tomorrow. Maybe I don't have to regret that $15 sushi dinner anymore.

Time for some sit ups.

A

Westbound

Your face hurts.

I'm sorry, what?

Your face hurts.

Excuse me, but I have no idea what you're talking about.

It's going to hurt.

Are you going to hit me?

Why would I do that?

I have no idea. I have to go.

Does it hurt yet?

Sorry. Bye.

Wait.

Look, it's cold out here, I don't know you.

But you do. I helped change your tire.

I don't drive. This is New York.

You did drive.

My face is cold.

I told you.

You told me it would hurt.

Cold is a kind of hurt. It was last summer, by the bank, you were waiting for AAA.

How do you remember me?

Can I buy you a coffee?

I have one right here.

I know. Can I buy you a hot one?

I told you, I have to go.

Then why haven't you gone.

Do you see that branch there? The one by the water?

Yes.

It's completely frozen.

It doesn't look like it.

It is, I touched it. That's why I'm still here.

Because the branch is frozen?

Because I'm frozen. I think I can't move.

Do you need my help? I'll get you a cab.

No. I'm being dramatic, I get like that here.

In New York?

No, by the river.

The water makes you complain?

Very funny. I'm not complaining. The water makes me think, its why I come here.

That's kind of a cliche, isn't it?

I hate when people say that. Look at it? The sky is so intense in November, the sun is just kind of waiting around for something to happen, and there's no one here. It's a cliche because its true.

It is pretty empty here.

Have you ever been here in the summer?

No. I'm not from here.

This place is crowded from April until October. Where are you from?

Illinois.

Usually people just say Chicago.

I prefer to be unusual.

That's a cliche.

Because its true.

Touche. So how did you recognize me.

Your earrings.

My earrings?

Yeah. My housekeeper growing up had hummingbird earrings.

I was wearing these when you changed my tire?

Yeah.

I don't get it, you live in Chi–Illinois, but you changed my tire on the New Jersey Turnpike a year ago?

Right.

That explains nothing.

I've been here before.

Here isn't here, though.

It never is.

Stop. That was forty miles from this park.

Give or take, yes.

So how did you find me?

Don't flatter yourself, I wasn't looking for you. I like this park, I remembered your earrings. The world is a much more interconnected place than we like to think.

What are you, a buddhist or something?

The man laughs and readjusts his wool cap, pulling his coat collar up to his chin he stands and walks towards the river and sits on the ground near the edge. Our lady stays on the bench, her scarf flapping against her body. An old, small homeless woman pulls cans out of a trashcan nearby. Traffic on the West Side Highway buzzes in the odd silence. A frozen branch cracks and disengages from its tree. The clouds are thin whisps in the sky; they monotonously separate as the sun sinks behind New Jersey and travels endlessly westward.