Why I Run

I was doing intervals at the track the other night. Yea, I’m crazy. I'm not training for anything at the moment. And tonight, I'm tired. I've worked all day. It was a blah day. I'm thinking of stopping, walking home, and eating lots of icecream. Just as I'm about to veer off the track, I hear a Coach say "On your marks, get set, go!" And out of habit…I’M OFF!

I start picking up my speed, lengthening my stride. I feel great! And then, some 8 year old punk comes up on my right and passes me! What?! You are 8 years old! I can’t let this happen. So I pass him, remembering Dad’s words, “If you’re going to pass someone, PASS someone.” So I’m sure to keep my sprint up. Well punk apparently heard this piece of advice, too, because up on my heels he comes again, with his buddy, and they PASS me! I can’t let this happen. There are probably cute guys on the sidelines who are watching me. I PASS the little kids and reach their coach first. “Good job boys” he says to them, but I know he means “Good job, woman” to me.

I’m glowing with pride when Coach shouts, “Ready! Set! Go!” And…I’M OFF! Again?! I can’t help it. My legs keep going as 2 different punks are riding on my heels now. And these hot-shots are chatting! Unbelievable. I’m not letting THEM beat me. I hold off my lead on these losers, again reaching Coach before them, and just in time to hear “Ready! Set! Go!” And…I’M OFF!

Dear Lord, what am I doing?! I’ve haven’t ran a faster 1200m since…well, since I ran the darn race senior year of high school. I can’t believe I’m holding off round three of the third graders. Must…keep…going…I…am…strong…Cannot…let…8…year…olds…cough…beat…cough…me…cough…

My heart is pounding. My lungs are burning. My breath flew out of my chest at around the 200m mark. And my mind is flooded with thoughts of inspiration. My tough little sister who was Western Mass champ in a few different events, my other determined little sister who used to beat me in Cross Country races, my brother who plays sometimes 3 or 4 sports games a day, my mom who ran my first half marathon with me, and my dad who is running his 10th or so marathon this Sunday in New York City (sorry, I lost count around 7…). I start thinking about Dad. And Boston 2009. We were all waiting for him at Mile 20, and he was running behind schedule (pun intended).

He should have ran past us by now. Where is he? Did we miss him? Is that him?! No. That’s not him. He should have been here 3 minutes ago. Do you think something happened to him? I’m worried. He should have been here 6 minutes ago. I’ve never felt so anxious. My dad, who is always there for us, is not here. This is not like him…

To train for a marathon, especially Boston and NYC, is no small feat. Months of training, mentally and physically, take a toll on you and your family. Your whole lifestyle is affected by your training. Scheduling in long runs, what you eat, when you eat, when you sleep, if you take the elevator or the stairs. And if you don’t perform well on race day, well, you’ve basically thrown away the past 8 months of your life. So where is Dad? I want him to get his PR. I want him to finish. Now I just want him to be happy. We are standing outside Kristen’s dorm room at Boston College. The same place Dad went to school. Where he met Mom, too. He usually achieves his PR with each marathon. He's a Boston qualifier, which is a mark of success for any marathoner. But today is colder than anticipated. Something wrong must have happened this one time...

“There he is!” shouts one of us. He comes around the corner and I cannot remember a moment I’ve felt so relieved. He runs right up to us and we all wrap our arms around him. Hold onto him for dear life as he says “I’m so tired, girls.” Something you never hear Dad say. And we shout “You can do it!” And we run with him for a few moments. Giving him our strength and energy and love until he crowd envelopes us and there he goes off onto the next 6.2 miles and we get back on the sidelines, tears streaming down our cheeks, overcome by so much emotion that I’m exhausted and feel like I’ve just ran the 20 freakin miles.

People scream and cheer and yell and run alongside their loved ones and cry and jump up and down and this is such a crazy thing to experience and I love it with every ounce of my being. Kristen and I stand out there for another 2 hours, cheering everyone on, reading their names on their arms or shirts. Isn’t this the least we can do for these people? We can’t go inside now, the rest of the runners need us! We lose our voices. We lose our energy. Seriously, being a spectator at this sport is almost as draining as being a participant.

“Ready! Set! Go!” I’m snapped back into reality at lap 4. These punks looks a little bigger and faster. Have they saved the best for last? Well, they’re not beating me either! And I pick it up a little more.

I'm not sure what I'm running towards. Or what I'm running from. Living on my own, running makes me feel connected to my family because we all share a passion for this sport. And living in this crazy, busy city, running makes me feel at peace and quiet with myself. Basically, I run because it makes me feel happy. I run because it makes me feel good. I run because it makes me feel.

And now I feel like I have to puke…but at least that’s feeling, right?!

So go get ‘em this weekend, Dad. I’ll be cheering you on with the other 44,000 runners who remind the rest of us that there are truly inspiring people out there. Each running at a different speed, each for a different reason. And someday I’ll be one of them. That is…if my legs can ever move after this 3rd grade track practice…

Doctor Stalker

We all know the only reason I like my hostessing job is because it’s in TriBeCa and I get to wear dresses and be pretty and smile. Easy! The downside is the amount of creepy people who take that as a signal to start a friendship with me, hit on me and/or stalk me.

First there was Carrie, who quickly earned the nickname Crazy Carrie, because she was at the restaurant every day while coping with her divorce. I feel bad for the woman, but after 2 months of seeing Carrie everyday, I was sick of hearing about her divorce. Carrie quickly started saying things like "well, you know what I mean, cuz we're friends," and "I can tell you, because we're friends," and "keep this just between us because we're friends." No Carrie! We're not friends! We're only talking because you've cornered me at my host stand!

Then there was Pete. Real nice guy. He was stopping in before working as a PA at a film shoot. What started as a quick macchiato break turned into a two hour story of his life and how his recent diagnosis of ADD suddenly made his whole life make sense. Believe me, I felt bad for the guy's history, but I was running out of comforting, friendly things to say.

I'm not sure why these people feel the need to divulge their intimate stories with me, a stranger. But the worst is if they interprete my listening skills as genuine interest and make a habit of visiting me at the restaurant.

Doctor Garrett is a good looking guy. He’s fit and works out. Muscular. He’s a doctor, too. He lives in TriBeCa in one of those apartments that I only dream of someday renting. He can afford it because he’s a doctor. He’s 37 years old. He’s a doctor. Smart. Did I mention he’s a doctor? Doctor Garrett is also 100% obnoxious. And 100% my stalker.

"Jodieeeeeee. What’s happenin’?” Oh great, Doctor Garrett’s here to visit me again. I am only here 3 days a week!
“Oh, uh, hey Garrett.”
“I was just walking through the neighborhood. How you doin’?” No you weren’t – the waiter told me you came by twice earlier today looking for me.
“I’m good. How are you?”
“Gooooood. Just got back from the gym. Those reps killllllllled me. Don’t be alarmed that I’m in my workout gear and not my doctor scrubs.” Nope, not alarmed. More alarmed when you wore your scrubs here the other 3 times, actually. Do you even own a regular t-shirt and jeans?
“It’s cool. Got the day off?” Why am I continuing the conversation by asking questions?!
“Yea. So I hit up the gym hard.” Yes, we’ve established that. Oh wait! ---- you mean!, you work out?! Oh wow, I’m so impressed!
“Was thinkin’ of headin’ to the beach. So nice out. You like the beach? (lightbulb goes off) What you up to?!”
“Duh, I’m working.”
“HAHA! You’re so funny!” *slap*

The *slap*: the slap is when Doctor Garrett means to give you a little “love tap” like one does while flirting, and instead literally slaps my forearm, right below the elbow. It hurts.

“Ow! Careful with those muscles there!” He smiles. Why is this guy confusing my friendly “just doing my job” smile with a flirtatious invite?! I am cordial with you because it’s my job. I answer you when you talk to me while you’re getting a drink at the bar next to my host stand because it’s my job. I say “How are you?” and “Hope to see you again" not because I really care or want to, but because…it’s my job! And I know you know what a job is, because you have one, and you remind me what it is every time you come in here to stalk me.

I’m sorry – there’s a few different ways to hit on a girl and stalking her at her place of work is just not one of them. I have no choice but to humor you. I mean, literally, no choice. My job is to stand here by the door and smile. At you.

“Well when’s your next day off?” Oh dear, here we go…
“Oh geez. They are working me into the ground here! It’s like they want me to have no life and just make friends with the people who come through the door!”
“You are so funny!” *slap!* Ow!! How is that funny?

Cell phone rings. “Oh uh, hang on. Gotta take this.” Please do…I’ll just get back to my JOB.

Doctor Garrett proceeds to stand in the middle of the doorway, yapping into his cell phone. He keeps giving me the one-minute finger, as if I am his date and he’ll get back to me asap. No worries, dude. Take the call. In fact, take the call OUTSIDE. Are you even dining here today? Did you want to get a drink? Can I HELP you?

“Blah blah blah…fixed gross income…blah blah blah…yea it’s that high…blah blah blah…yea I know, my accountant couldn’t believe it either…” (covers earpiece) “One second Jodie, I’m so sorry.”

ARE. YOU . KIDDING. ME?

There are girls who fall for this. Who are so impressed by a man’s ability to bench press and obtain an insanely high grossed fix income as a doctor. But I am no such girl. In fact, I’m the type of girl who says:

“You know, when you slap me…it hurts.”

Because if we're going to be friends, dear restaurant regulars...then I'm going to be honest.

“No! That’s a good thing! It means I like you.”
“Yea, I know that’s what you want it to mean, but it’s not working. Because you’re slapping me. You’re hitting me. It hurts. I’m just letting you know so that, for future reference, when you’re flirting with women, you shouldn’t do that.”
“Haha. You are so funny! You’re so cute!”

Ahhh…and thus the abusive flattery and forced frienships continue. Just trying to pay my way through grad school and an acting career by working this silly hostess job. Just gotta find the humor in this situation to make it less creepy. Just another adventure for our ingénue.

Someday I'll Buy Iced Tea

I bought an iced tea at the convenience store around the corner from my house yesterday and it was the best thing in the world. Not the iced tea, itself, although I do love iced tea. But the experience was awesome. How amazing could a trip to the convenience store be?, you ask. Well, need I remind you that it's the little things - like talking to strangers and turning the age of my birthdate- that make me happy.

When I was little, I thought it was a shame we didn't live near a convenience store because I thought it would be so cool to just be like "Hey Mom, I'm popping to the store real quick to get an iced tea real quick! Be back real quick!" And then I could walk or ride my bike down the street all by myself, spend that mysterious green thing called money, and drink my iced tea while making my way back home. Real quick. But in Feeding Hills, we didn't have a convenience store around the corner. Our convenience store was conveniently located 4 miles away. Nor did I walk home from school, so I couldn't stop for a malt shake at the malt shop(pe) on my way home, like all the kids did in the 1950's of my imagination. My suburban town has some rural sections, and we lived in one rural part that was rapidly growing residencially with big new neighborhoods full of big new houses and no little old convenience stores.

You can imagine my excitement upon moving to New York City, with places for me to grab iced teas all the time, any time. Although, at $3 a pop, I don't grab a drink every day. I save my $3 for special occassions. Like for when I'm really thirsty. Or bored. And hence why yesterday's trip was such a treat: because I have now developed a love for Arizona's teas in huge cans for just (drumroll please) 99 cents! It is such a bargain! It's like 2 drinks for the price of half of 1! At this price, I can make up for all the drinks I wasn't able to buy as a little kid!

I knew when I was 12 that I was moving to NYC when I grew up. And so I knew then that I would someday live my dream of buying cans and bottles of artificially sugared drinks with fancy names like Snapple. Unfortunately, there were some other things that I aspired to when I was little that haven't lived up to their potential. For one, I played for hours upon end with my mini kitchen when I was young, and now I can't stand cooking. All those hours I was looking forward to doing the "real thing" and then it just panned out to disappointment. Also, I always thought it'd be cool to have my own set of keys and open the door to my house on my own. This movement we go through at least once a day as adults is often more of a burden than a simple routine, as my hands are often full of bags and the mail and my cell phone and my over-priced beverage from the convenience store, and the key always gets stuck while my screen door likes to hurl itself at my face if it can't be shut again in 1.3 seconds. And one more thing - when I was little, I couldn't wait to write out checks in a checkbook that was all my own. I practiced my signature every second I got. Now the thought of writing out a check is associated with a cringe as I think about my bank account, and my signature, although I think is pretty, is often misread, for I'm told my cursive "U" looks like an "N," and thus I possess the tax returns for Jodie Pfan.

Aside from those inconveniences, being a grown up is still just as cool as I thought it would be. I mean, I don't even have to ask my Mom whether or not I can grab a quick drink at the store - I can just go all on my own without asking anybody! Although that comes with it's drawbacks, too. Sometimes I could use a little help opening the door and definately with the cooking. And I wouldn't mind if Mom wanted to come to the convenience store with me. Drinking iced tea together is more fun. Whether you can get it real quick across the street or have to drive a million miles to get it.

Turning 24

Turning 24 was a dream come true! My whole life I was waiting to turn 24, because I would be 24 on the 24th of June! How cool would that be? I always envisioned something magical happening that night. Turning 24 meant turning into a woman. Growing up. Having it all figured out. Living in New York City. Being an actress. Having a boyfriend. Wearing mascara. Wearing pencil skirts. After all, my mother had me by that age, and so, I, too, would have everything I needed at 24.

And now, 24 has come and gone. What now?! There's nothing exciting about turning 25 because nothing can top "24 on 24." And, on top of it all, everyone thought I was crazy last year for saying it was my Golden Birthday - that once in a lifetime birthday when your age matches your date. Everyone looked at me as if I said "When I turn 24 I'll be able to fly!" and they all said "You're making that up!" And for awhile, I was convinced maybe I had made it up! My dreams got in the way of my reality, and I had imagined the existence of an expression! And now, what do you know, everyone is either 1) wishing me a Happy Golden Birthday, or 2) saying "Aww, too bad you missed your Golden Birthday." I didn't miss it!! You did!! Where were you well-wishers when I WAS celebrating my Golden Birthday? Why couldn't you have been happy with me then? People are saying "Golden Birthday" left and right this year - as if I talked about it so much last year that the idea spread like wild fire and finally caught on. My use of the expression all of last year triggered its tipping point. I put this golden idea into everyone's heads and now they're forgetting who gave them the idea!

You know what, since you all missed out on the cool factor of last year's birthday meaning, I'm just going to have a second Golden Birthday. Can I do that? I'm going to. 25 is going to be just as awesome as 24. Since y'all know what a Golden Birthday is now, you can all owe me that "Happy Golden Birthday" you missed last year. And sidenote, I did consult Google, and a Golden Birthday is in fact everything awesome I claim it to be.

Even though I had waited my whole life to turn 24, I can't now have nothing to look forward to. What sort of ingenue would I be if I lost all my hopes and dreams now? Maybe turning 24 and my Golden Birthday was just the start of the next wonderful chapter of my life.

And so now begins the story of Turning 25...

Survivor vs. Miss USA

OMG The Survivor finale is on tonight. I cannot wait. I wouldn't call myself a fanatic, just a fan. Although I have wanted to be on the show since high school. I finally sent in an audition tape last year. They didn't pick me. I don't understand why they didn't. Although if I got picked, it would have been for Season 19, where Russell, the most villanous villain quickly voted out all the smart girls. So, just as well. It would have been a shame to have arranged my schedule for the trip to a remote island somewhere halfway across the world and been voted out by Russell right away, and therefore not have that much of an impression on the viewers and therefore not become a recognizable face, and therefore not secure the in with casting directors. (Sidenote, I already have a recognizable face. I don't resemble anyone specific, except for that mysterious ambigious person people always think I remind them of. Who is this twin of mine? Where is this cute girl and why is she meeting everyone before me? My friend Elliot is convinced that the famous person I look like is Violet Incredible - the daughter in the movie "The Incredibles." Yes, the cartoon. But I'm not a cartoon. I know this for sure.)

It's only 7:03. I have 57 minutes to go before my very own Superbowl. What's on TV now that I can watch while I wait? 60 minutes on prescription drugs. Boring. 20/20 on missing girls my age. Scary. Miss USA. ... REALLY? We're STILL doing that beauty pageant?!

I find myself morphing from eager excitement to sudden rage. Amidst all the known pressures of society on women and the consequent body-image issues - anorexia, bulemia, bullying, low self-esteem, "Mean Girls" - we are STILL promoting Miss USA? We women today are bombarded everywhere we go with advertisements and images of beautiful women with their bronzed, toned bodies in bikinis and heels impossible to walk more than 5 feet in. We complain to each other about our weight, our height, the wrinkles on our face, the fat on our triceps, the width of our child-bearing hips. We can't open a magazine without feeling like we don't look young enough. We can't watch a TV show without feeling like we're thin enough. We can't leave the house without makeup, a stylish outfit, and our hair done. And we can't talk to our girlfriends without feeling guilty for having a cookie the night before. Why is EVERY woman faced with these issues? Why can't we avoid it? ...And why am I so entranced by the glitter on the TV???

Turn it off! I snap at myself. Don't give this bogus show the satisfaction of your viewer rating! But I can't help but think "Wow, her abs look great." "Tennesse is definately the cutest!" "Yes, my homestate is one of the prettier ones!" "Glitter!"

Ah! Stop! Do not let the glamour suck you in! All the girls hair and smiles look exactly alike. (Except for Colorado, who's hair is up in a ponytail. She's making a bold move, there, deviating from the norm. She's out.) Wow...their bodies are perfect. Maybe I shouldn't have that mint chocolate chip icecream I was saving for my Survivor finale...

Stop! When did Barbie come to life? And when did we decide Barbie was perfect? And when did we learn that promoting beauty over anything else was self-destructing? Oh right - we haven't officially learned that yet.

But this is not a plea for America to change. I could make assumptions about the general group of "women in America," or I could recount the specific times in my own life when myself or someone I know has been affected by society's defintion of beauty. This week alone: A girl at the gym today kept complaining to me about how she hasn't lost the last TWO pounds from her pregnancy. My girlfriend and I got drinks the other night and the whole time she kept reminding me - or herself - that it was ok to order food and another beer because she only had a salad for lunch. The 10 year old girl I babysit wants to start exercising more because she doesn't like the fat on her belly. Hearing all these comments breaks my heart.

I want to shake all these women and tell them "Don't worry about how you look or how much you weigh! You are wonderful just the way you are!" But they won't - and don't - believe me, because society is showing them otherwise. How did I become confident and why don't I let models in magazines get to me? Maybe it's because while other girls were worried about the right outfit and the right diet in high school, I was off running track, doing homework, and being in plays. My confidence with my body was an indirect effect of the confidence I had in myself growing up. (Ask my sisters - I didn't have much fashion sense in high school. One day senior year I tried wearing one of my favorite red sweaters and they shoved my 7th grade school picture in my face and reminded me that it's unacceptable to wear the same sweater 5 years later and I was dilussional if I actually thought it still fit.)

I don't have the answer yet, but it is becoming more and more of my mission in life to redefine beauty. There are others out there doing the same - Dove's campaign for real beauty, the recent addition of plus-sized models in Glamour magazine, the Girl Scouts, and Glee's recent episode with the cover of Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful." Some of my girlfriends and I formed a group in college that did just that - redefined beauty on our campus and got women talking about their bodies and their insecurities. Through devised-theatre, we broke free of stereotypes and formed a support group where we could share our insecurities, mount them on the stage, and somehow come out at the other end much more confident. Someday, I hope to have a theatre company that does just that - transforms people's confidence and makes people - young women AND men - not just believe, but KNOW, that they are enough just the way they are.

Someday we might get rid of Miss USA, too. Or maybe we could adapt it, by crowning the winner for her skills and talents, not her good looks. I know that the winner goes on to do good in the world - providing assistance in Haiti, visiting the children in Africa, and saving the whales and all that - but can somebody please tell me why we need a SWIMSUIT COMPETITION to decipher which of these do-gooders will volunteer her efforts around the world? I know it's hot in Africa, but they don't wear swimsuits all day long. (You can ask my sister about that, too, because she's going back there this summer to do some real good.)

I don't mean to be indignant towards the pageant or to stir up controversy. I'm just hoping those 10 year old girls out there, especially the one I babysit, aren't watching it right now and wishing they were somebody else, or worse, try to change who they are. I hope that this pageant isn't devastating future generations of women who could actually change the world and maybe cure cancer if they weren't so obsessed with their dress size. I'm simply sharing with you something I'm passionate about. Speaking of passion...it's 7:59 and I do believe I have some Survivor to watch. And some mint chocolate chip icecream that goes with it.

A Pirate's Life for Me

Arrrrgh! No, that’s not the sound of 5 year old children pretending to be pirates in a zealous game of “Magic Rocks” in my acting class. That’s the sound of me, once again frustrated with – well, I guess being 24 years old in New York City in this career track I’ve chosen called life.

I woke up on Wednesday January 20th and said “Oh no! It’s 10am! I need to get out of bed!” And Bed said, “No! Stay with me! Why are you rushing – you have nowhere to be.” “Yes I do!,” I defensively retorted, “I have things to do, places to be!” But Bed said, “You teach at 3:30. Stay in bed.” I was a little bit tempted. He was so warm and cuddly lying underneath me. I could stay here – I really don’t have anything to do, and isn’t my peace and happiness the only thing that really matters anyway? But then the drive in me forced me to say, “No! I am an important person and I have important things to do.” To which Bed very snarkily remarked, “You don’t work.” Exhausted with being determined, I caved in this round, “You’re right. I don’t work – that much. And I’m sick of not working. I’m sick of looking for work. I know what I want, and it’s time to get it.” And with one swoop motion, I jumped out of Bed, kissed him good-bye, and danced out of the room, ready to conquer the world.

I’d been afraid to go for it for awhile, afraid it meant giving up on acting, afraid it meant “settling,” afraid it meant “being ordinary.” These fears of mine suddenly washed away, when I realized what I’d actually been afraid of was admitting that I’ve always known this is part of who I am and what I was called to do. When I was 4 years old, I didn’t want to be a dancer – I wanted to be a dance teacher. Every summer I was a theatre camp counselor and wanted to grow up to take over the summer camp. Here in New York, I’ve lately been so focused on teaching artist jobs and so inspired when I talk to other teachers. So my decision is made: it’s time to get my degree in teaching. Now that I’ve admitted this to myself, allowed myself to say it, it’s like the floodgates have opened and clarity and confidence about my future are pouring out.

Although today, I’m arrrrghing like a pirate once again. Because in all this pumping myself up, I had a job interview at a certain late night talk show I used to be a page for, and didn’t get the job, which made me feel, once again, worthless and undetermined and like getting a job is impossible. And my old boss asked me, “Where do you see yourself in 5 years?” And I threw a fit and yelled “This question is irrelevant in this economy and for 20-somethings – can’t I just see myself as happy doing whatever it is I’m doing? Does it matter WHAT I do, as long as I’m happy? If I answer, I want to be a TV producer, will you see me as driven and give me this job? If I say I want to be an actress, will you see me as following the wrong path and not give me the job? Can’t I just say the truth, which is, in 5 years I just want to be employed doing something enjoyable. But please, I’m begging you, give me a job because I’m bored without one.” To which she would have responded, “Get out of my office” if I had in fact ranted like that. But instead I said, “I want to someday open up my own children’s theatre.” And then I walked out of there thinking, once again, why do I always say that in every interview? And, argh, what am I doing?!

Does anybody know what they are doing? No. In panic mode, I called Mom.

“I just feel like I used to be so driven and hard-working, and lately I’m lacking purpose and stability. Why am I having such a hard time getting a job? I thought I knew what I wanted – but now I just want to be happy.”

“You do have purpose. Every afternoon those kids and parents are counting on you to show up and teach them. Yea, maybe they’re just running around like sharks and monsters, but you are important to them. And it’s not hard to get a job – you’re just limiting your options to something specific in a specific city.”

Mom saves the day once again. From panic attack, to feeling empowered.

Maybe there is no such thing as knowing exactly what you want. Maybe it’s enough to just know that you want to be happy. What is happy anyway?

Happy is seeing the sun sparkle on fresh fallen snow and thinking “that’s pretty.”
Happy is going to improv class and laughing with your friends.
Happy is going home to see your family and eating birthday cake.
Happy is trying a new recipe and not burning it.
Happy is when the most annoying kid in class gives you a hug afterward and says, “I love you Josie,” and you laugh because even though your name’s not Josie, the other part of what he said was true.

Arrggh. Really? That simple?

So…off I go. Setting sail to the high seas of the post-graduation existential crisis ocean. We might find us some treasure, or discover new land, or encounter another pirate ship, or maybe we’ll just get seasick. But when the waves get rocky, looking out at that sunrise on the horizon should be enough to keep us going. A brand new day is straight ahead. And whatever we choose to do with it, will be enough.

Yet Another Encounter with Dumb People

That is the last time I go to Dunkin' Donuts. Ever. I know, I said that the last time. But this time is officially the last time.

What is so hard about regular coffee with cream a sugar? Isn't that the standard way to take the beverage? Every time I go there, it ends horribly. Here's how my first Disastrous Dunkin' Donuts trip went that then initiated a wave of disastrous trips:

Me: Hi, I'd like a medium iced coffee with cream and sugar please. Just a little bit of ice, though. (I really want French Vanilla, but can they handle that? They'll probably screw up the ice if I ask for French Vanilla.)
DD Employee: Plain?
Me: (Ooo, maybe this one's competent.) French Vanilla, please.
DD Employee: Ok, you want it iced or hot?
Me: (Didn't I say this already?) Iced, please.
DD Employee: Ok....(goes to get iced beverage cup).....(a minute goes by)....
Me: (Do I remind her just a little ice? I'm nervous.)
DD Employee: You want what size?
Me: Medium! (The one you're holding, dummy. I can't say "please" anymore.)
DD Dummy: Ok. (puts ice and coffee in...finally) You want skim milk, right?
Me: No!!!! (You idiot!) Cream! I want cream. And sugar. (Just because I'm thin she assumes I want skim milk?!)
Stupid: Ok. Sugar and skim milk.
Me: Cream! Not skim milk! (Why is this so difficult?! This is not a fancy Starbucks where people order their Grande Non-fat Iced Cinnamon Mocha Latte with Soy, No-Whip. I ordered a Medium Iced Coffee with Cream and Sugar. That's three words short of a fancy Starbucks order! And they still can't get it right?!)
Dumbo: How many sugars you want?
Me: (Oh my gosh - how did you get hired? - the regular?!) 2?
(...another what feels like 5 minutes go by...)
Einstein: Here you go. (handing over a plain, full-of-ice iced coffee with what looks like a dash of skim milk.)

The people who work at Dunkin' Donuts are dumb. They can barely speak English. I'm always charged something different for the same drink. And I'm always there 10 minutes more than I need to be. And the worst part of it all is --- I don't even drink coffee anymore!

Due to complications of the digestive track (Tmi? Oh, it's coffee. You've got problems, too.), I can no longer drink coffee on a regular basis. And regular for me was three cups a day: two in the morning, one when I'm feeling sluggish around 3:00 in the afternoon. Now, I just drink a cup of tea in the morning and am learning how to curb my afternoon caffeine craving with a glass of ice water, some quick energizing exercises moves, or just reminding myself of the pain inflicted when I take a sip of coffee. You'd think it would be easy to steer clear of Dunkin' Donuts these days.

But no. There is something so special about walking down the street holding your cup of coffee. On a cool day, that cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup in your hand makes you feel warm. Happy. Important. It's idyllic to pop into a coffee shop and grab a quick coffee and walk down the street with it. Something I couldn't do in the Land of Cars that is suburbia. And so, every now and then, despite my condition, I like to indulge in a piping hot beverage in a Styrofoam cup.

Today I'm babysitting. And the weather and my stomach agree that today would be a nice day for such a treat. And lo and behold, the giant plastic D's are glistening in the sun, beckoning me to spend 3 bucks on a Chai Tea. Baby and I stroll into the store to find only 3 people in line before us. In the 15 minutes that I'mwaiting to get to the counter, the 5 employees mess up 2 people's orders, burn a bagel, and charge the same guy twice. I want to shout, "There are more of you than there are of us! Get your act together! You people are incompetent!" But then I remember the wise words of my sister: "It's not worth it to argue or reason with dumb people. They're dumb." Finally, it's my turn to order. I brace myself as I approach the counter. It's a simple order. "Medium Chai Tea please."

.......Three minutes later.......Doesn't he just have to push the "Chai Tea" button?... Seriously! It takes him three minutes to get my stinkin' Chai Tea?! I'm angry. I reluctantly hand over my precious 3 bucks. The stroller is stuck on a cracked floor tile and now the wheels flipped in the wrong direction. Get me out of here! I nearly spill my drink on the ground as I try to maneuver the stroller out of the narrow doorway. Unbelievable. I'm never going there again. Every single Dunkin' Donuts is the same. With the same dumb employees. Who forget that they're working at a fast food place. Apparently, they're also forgetting they're at work doing work and you need to do good at your work. From this moment on I refuse to set foot in another Dunkin' Donuts ever again. I refuse to spend money on an institution that hires dumb people. Quote me on this. I dare you to. I will never ever go to Dunkin' Donuts again.

Oh, it's been awhile. I bet my Chai Tea has cooled down by now along with my temper. This better have been worth it. They better not have screwed up my...Oooooo...Mmmmm...Yum. This is good. I had forgotten how good Chai Tea was. The vanilla, the spices, the frothy foam. And I look so cool holding my Styrofoam cup. Ok...maybe it's not so bad. Maybe I'll go back someday...maybe...just once more.

Someone Has to Be the Rabbit on Easter

I didn’t get to go home for Easter today. We had two performances of “The Velveteen Rabbit,” at Manhattan Children's Theatre and people actually bought tickets to see a show on Easter Sunday, so I couldn’t go home to Massachusetts. It wasn’t even like they were all non-Christian. I think these people were celebrating the holiday by taking their kids to the theatre. But rest assured, my Dad has been sending me text updates all day on the Easter at Home. The first was while I was still sleeping.
8:45am: Egg Hunt 2010: Lindsey: 32, Michael: 30.
And then,
8:49am: Make that Lindsey: 34, Michael: 33. Forgot the foyer.
Then several picture texts of everyone at the party. Oh, and the empty parking lot at church, to prove that he was one of the first to arrive at mass. Good job, Dad.

Of all the important holidays, I’ve only missed one Thanksgiving because I had to work at Letterman. That was sad, but I spent the night with other friends stuck in town and we actually cooked a really good turkey dinner and made three different pies, which we sampled in three different sittings and got full three different times. Gramma’s Old-Fashioned Apple Pie, Awesome Chocolate Cream Pie, and Casey’s Attempt at Pumpkin Pie. I guess that Thanksgiving was memorable in itself if I still remember the names of what pies we ate.

Anyway, this was my first Easter not to go home. I’m a little sad, but anticipating my loneliness, I conveniently scheduled a random 3-day vacation last week to visit the fam. I got my Pfau Pfix and was able to brave my Easter Sunday with a smile on my face. Very necessary, considering I had to be the velveteen rabbit and make all the kids smile today. The show must go on, right?! They all came in wearing their Easter outfits and carrying their new baskets. It was cute. But it still didn't quite feel like Easter. (Although you'd think the parallel between the Easter "Bunny" and my character of the Velveteen "Rabbit" would be enough...) After the shows, all I wanted to do was head back to my apartment and go for a run in my park. Well, Astoria Park. But I call it my park. Even though, the reason I wanted to run more than anything was because I knew at the park I would see families and friends barbecuing, playing soccer, laughing, talking, being together. Some of them don't have yards of their own, so they take their tables and chairs and food to the park. Seeing these strangers celebrate made me feel good. Even though I wasn’t sitting celebrating with them, I still felt like I was part of something. And it was such a nice day out. And I’m just convinced nothing can go wrong when it’s a nice day out.

While running I realized I am lucky in the regard that what kept me from visiting home today was doing what I love. I was performing a show that is very near and dear to my heart. A show about love and family and the sacrifices we have to make if we’re going to love and be loved. How fitting for today.

I guess I am getting older, and part of living on your own means not being able to celebrate every holiday with your family. And that’s ok. I’m in the stage in my life where it’s ok to do things on my own, be by myself, and embrace independence. Someday I’ll have a husband and kids of my own and wish I had this solitude and silence.

Nahhhh! I’d never wish for this again! Part of growing up, part of life, is accepting where you are in the moment. So today, I am alone on Easter. And that’s ok. But another part of life is striving and hoping for your dreams. So today, I’m also comforted by the faith that I will not always be alone on Easter.

Ooo, text from Dad.
7:21pm: Mom just found another egg!

You know, with all these new fangled text messaging things - I'm not really alone at all. :)

Random Luck

Ew. Bird poop just landed on my head...and my purse...and my shoulders...and, yuck, down the sleeve of my North Face. "Oh great!" I mutter, up to the bridge above me, hoping that darn bird will hear my pain. I pull a used tissue from my pocket and begin wiping the disgusting goo off of my jacket.
"Here, let me help you," says a Greek man, about 30 years old, who I noticed walking near me, and must have witnessed the whole crime go down. "There's some on your back, too."
"Oh, thanks," I manage a courtesy laugh: "Haha. What a way to start the day, right?" I joke. I'm not mad. I mean, I guess it could be worse. And, I'm only on my way home, not off to a job interview or anything like that.
"Here," Greek guy says as he takes my used, dirty tissue, with snot inside and wipes the dirty bird goop off my shoulders, "let me help."
"Oh, thank you. That's nice of you. Thanks."
Should I feel uncomfortable right now? Or grateful? Weirded out at all? A stranger is brushing my shoulders.
"Do you have another one?"
Huh? Another dirty tissue? Yea - but do you really want to have it?
"Yea." I pull out a second used, dirty tissue from my pocket, and he takes it to wipe more green stuff off of my tainted jacket.
"Haha. Thanks, wow, that's a lot, huh?" How much poop can a bird possibly have inside of him? Aren't they small animals?
"It is good luck to have that."
"What?"
"It means good luck. You will have luck come to you now. Maybe with your boyfriend, your husband, or career."
"Sounds like someone just made that up to make positive out of this situation. Cuz there's really nothing pleasant about this." You know, like whoever said "It's not about whether you win or lose," obviously lost. And the guy who said "There are no small parts, only small actors," was clearly a five foot man playing Servant #4 in one of Shakespeare's tragedies.

Either way, I decide I could use some luck in those departments - who couldn't? "Well, I'll take the luck." I tell my new friend, as if this Greek guy is going to now offer me 3 wishes.

"Yes, it is a very good sign."

Now we're awkwardly walking side by side. I can't just take off ahead and speed away. He just used my dirty tissues to wipe bird poop off my shoulders for cryin' out loud. What a guy.

"So you go to school or work?" he says. As if this is all normal. The walking together. The bird poop. The tissues.

"Both. I work at a school. Yourself?"

"I work. I'm going there now."

"Cool." Ah-ha! The weather! Default stranger conversation starter. "It's cold out today, huh?"

"That is good for me."

"Oh?"

"I hope it snows. It's good for my business."

Wouldn't it be great if this story ended with him saying he was joking about the snow, and would I like to go with him to Greece and marry him and live happily ever after?

Only in a fantasy world. Where things like birds pooping on you doesn't exist. And neither does snow. Now, THAT, would be lucky.

We reach the end of our journey together.

"Good bye. Enjoy your luck."
"Good bye. Thanks for your help."

I'm not sure why moments like this fascinate me. Maybe it's because I think there's something so special about strangers sharing genuine moments. That strangers can have genuine moments. Or maybe it's because growing up in a small suburban town, where everyone knows each other, you don't have these moments with strangers. Or maybe it's like in the movie "UP" when the little boy is reminiscing about eating icecream cones and counting red and blue cars on a curb with his dad and he says, "I know it sounds boring, but it's the boring simple stuff I miss."

These simple things fascinate me. The fact that a bird using you as his toilet supposedly brings good luck. The fact that a stranger doesn't mind helping you clean yourself off. And that these 3 minutes this morning have inspired me to write a blog.

So...here's to embracing random moments with random people. And making the most out of what could be bad day triggers. Here's to my good luck!

Oooh, a quarter on the ground! That is lucky!!! And I sign to take this jacket to the laundromat sooner rather than later.

It's a Man's World

I love being a girl. I love wearing heels. I love watching George Clooney movies. I love going to aerobics classes. But gosh darnit, sometimes I want to be a guy.

I went for a walk in the park this morning because it was 40 degrees out and saw a bunch of guys playing a game of football. I was jealous. I want to play football. Why can't girls play football too? When I was little, I spent my weekends playing soccer, riding my bike, playing with my sisters in the yard. Most kids in town participated in organized sports. Sports for girls, of course. On a team with other girls. Against other girls. I never had the desire to play football or be a guy because, well, I guess I was getting my fill of outdoor activity.

Now I run and go for walks to get my daily dose of Vitamin D and soak up good weather. And when I'm bored, I go for another run or walk. Walk after walk after walk through the park by my house. On a really nice day I make up errands for myself just so that I can walk down the street. Like even if I have dish soap already, I'll walk a half mile to CVS to pick up an back-up. Or I'll walk all the way to the post office to mail something instead of just putting it in the mailbox across the street. Maybe I should get a dog so that I don't look so silly walking in circles by myself all day long. If I had a dog, he'd be a good excuse to go for lots of walks. I wouldn't look so silly power walking for hours on end. Yea, maybe I'll get a dog.

I hate dogs. But maybe I could learn to love mine?

Adult guys are lucky. They can play pick-up games of football and basketball with their other adult guy friends. They can even join leagues! And play hockey or softball or soccer every Wednesday night at the YMCA. The Young MAN'S club! They can even go to the park and just play catch with each other. But not girls. No. Adult girls don't play pick-up games of football on randomly warm Saturday mornings in January. We go to the gym for our aerobics class. Which don't get me wrong, is tons of fun, but it's just not like a game of pick-up football. And after my aerobics class this morning, I still had the urge to go for a walk in the park.

So why not play with the guys, you ask? Well because I've tried. And I'd like to think I'm athletic since I run half-marathons and go to those aerobics classes and all - but guys who play pick-up football are ... not like the girls in my Step Class. One time a boyfriend asked me if I wanted to play football with him and his friends one day, because he knew I secretly wanted to be him. I went, even though no other girls went, and said I'd only play if they had an uneven number and needed me to play, and then prayed that an even number of guys showed up. Let's just say, athletic or not - I lack a couple of things guys have. Like a competitive this-game-is-the-most-important-game-of-my-life fight, really strong arms that can throw footballs really far, the knowledge of all the rules of football, and no concept of how much it hurts a 120 pound girl when you pummel her to the ground and all 200 pounds of you falls on top of her.

One girl cannot play football with 9 guys. Well, I can't. Maybe you're out there somewhere, Awesome Girl, but for now, I'm just advocating that we athletic and optimistically outgoing girls get together and start a football league. Or a walking club. Or do our Pilates Class outdoors. Anything that remotely resembles an attempt at an organized sport outdoors. Hey, it would give me one more reason to enjoy winter. And one more reason not to get a dog. I really don't want a dog. I hope it doesn't have to come to this.

Wicked Winter

January 1st
New Year's Resolution 2010:
To fall in love with winter.

Why? Because I hate winter. I hate everything about winter besides hot cocoa and my leather boots - but those are two things that I'm not exactly longing for in summer. And for 24 winters of my life, I've just accepted the fact that I'm not a winter person. But I realized that winter in New York is 4 months of my year. That's 1/3 of my year. That's 1/3 of my life! That's a long time to be miserable. In an effort to be more positive, I am going to fall in love with winter. And try to love it just as much as summer. Maybe I'll find I love winter so much that I'll actually look forward to it! Maybe when people ask me what my favorite season is, I'll now have 4 to choose from! Maybe my friends will think of me as the winter-loving girl. They'll say "Oh Jodie's always in a good mood. She loves all seasons. She's such an any-weather-loving girl."

Good-bye to my list of reasons why winter sucks!

WHY WINTER SUCKS:
1. It's cold.
1a. You always wish you had one more layer on.
1b. You are uncomfortable walking anywhere.
1c. You feel lazy for staying in your apartment because you are too cold and uncomfortable to walk anywhere.
2. It's dark.
2a. Less time for playing outside.
2b. It's proven that the Vitamin D of the sun makes you happy.
3. Hats make my hair flat and static-y. (Is that a word?)
4. I takes forever to put on hats and gloves and scarfs and coats and long socks. Time that could be spent doing more enjoyable things. Like sipping iced tea on my porch in the summer.
5. Snow
5a. Snow makes sidewalks slushy and dirty, which make your shoes gross.
5b. Snow turns to ice, which makes you slip and fall.
5c. Snowstorms cancel things, like school and after-school activities.

(Ok -- yes I was the kid who was upset on snow days. When other kids were excited to build snowmen and have snowball fights, I was secretly sad that I could not go to school and see my friends and learn things. And snow was always getting caught between my mittens and my coat and it would be so cold. My mom would sometimes cut a whole in a plastic sandwich bag and then secure it between the elastic of my coat and the elastic of my mitten. I don't remember it working too well.)

"Why Winter Sucks" continued...
6. You think winter will end in March...but it doesn't!
7. There aren't any fun holidays in winter. (Don't kid yourself that Valentine's Day is fun.) And Christmas just passed, so now what do we do?
8. I like tank tops.
9. Beach trumps everything.
10. My radiator is 100 years old and clanks all night long and I don't sleep. At all. For 4 months.

But I am not dwelling on the negative anymore! New Year, New Me, New Favorite Season. There are a lot of things to enjoy in the winter! My sister and I went for a run today, New Year's Day - not to kick-off most people's resolutions of exercise in the new year, but to kick-off our Fall in Love with Winter Crusade. Hello list of reasons why winter's awesome!

REASONS WHY WINTER'S AWESOME:
1. Running through a snow-filled park - when the sidewalks are clear and it's not too cold out - is really pretty.
2. When there's snow on the ground - and it's sunny out - it's pretty.
3. My winter coat is pretty.
4. You can drink hot cocoa.
4a. And have a cookie with it.

That's all I have for now. I'm sure I'll find more as the days continue.

January 2nd
WHY WINTER IS AWESOME TODAY:
1. It's not snowing today.

January 3rd
WHY WINTER IS AWESOME TODAY:
1. It's not snowing or raining today.