The Grown Up Magic of Christmas

The Polar Express is one of my all-time favorite stories because I think it best captures the magic of Christmas. My aunt Barbara Jean gave me the book when I was very young and even wrote a little message for me on the first page, which when I was in elementary school didn't make much sense to me, but was supposed to when I grew older - just like the message of The Polar Express.

A quick recap if you don't know the story: a little boy takes a trip via the Polar Express to the North Pole and Santa Claus lets him pick out the first gift of Christmas. He chooses a silver bell from Santa's sleigh. But on the train ride home, he finds a hole in his pocket and the bell is gone. Under the Christmas tree the following morning, the bell reappears - wrapped up under the tree from "Mr. C." The boy and his sister can hear the beautiful ring of the bell, but their parents cannot. It must be broken, they say. The bell, after all, only rings for those who truly believe.

That part gets me every time. Including the other morning as my co-teacher read it to our Kindergarten class. As we read, I couldn't help but let myself revert back to my Kindergarten self (which isn't that hard for me to do) and remember what it felt like on Christmas as a kid. Magic was that feeling on Christmas Eve night, as we rush home after celebrating with the whole family at my grandparents house - will we make it home before Santa arrives?! Dad reading us Twas The Night Before Christmas in funny voices. Opening presents with my sisters Christmas morning, always blown away by the beautiful array of wrapped gifts Santa magically placed out while we were sleeping. Getting the house ready Christmas Day for the guests to arrive and the smell of Mom's cooking throughout the house. My brother was born at just the right time - my sisters and I knew the truth about Santa, but got to keep up the act for my brother. Santa visited my house until I was about 17.

As we grow up, Christmas becomes different. I'm no longer excited about Santa or presents. Instead, I'm excited about going home. Seeing my sisters and brother again. Catching up with my relatives. Feeling like a kid again for 4 days while I sleep in the bed with the quilt my Gramma made me.

I might not have the same type of excitement and anticipation that I did when I was four years old, but the magic of Christmas is still very much there, in new grown-up ways each new Christmas.

This year, there were 9 stockings on our fireplace, our family growing with the addition of my sister's new husband and our dog, Rocky (and of course there's a stocking for our old cat who no one ever really runs into, but she supposedly still lives at our house). And Christmas day started on Friday the 23rd when we all arrived in Agawam again and got to share a nice dinner together before the chaos of the next day. Christmas Eve was at our house this year, with my sisters and I helping my mom with the food. (Well, mostly my sister Lindsey helping with the food, and me providing moral support.) On actual Christmas Day we crammed all seven of us into the car. We all sang along to the carols on the radio and then sang our hearts out to Adele as she oddly popped onto the radio mix.

In that moment, I felt that 5 year old magic again. Because magic when you're a grown up isn't finding Santa's presents under the Christmas tree - it's finding those moments when love and happiness are so present that you can't help but sing at the top of your lungs because you feel how lucky you are.

So with this Christmas season, I leave you with my aunt's hand-written note:

As you grow older, may the magic bells always ring for you.

Going Insane

Remind me when I'm having kids of my own not to have 20 at once...

My Kindergarten class is a handful, to say the least. I'm coming home with marker stains on my hands and shirt, cupcake frosting in my hair, a headache, a hoarse voice, and a quenching thirst for red wine.

All day long I hear, "Ms. Jodie! Look!," "Ms. Jodie! Help!," "Waaaa! Ms. Jodie!"

"Peter pushed me!" "Kyra kicked me!" "Jayvon hit me in the eye!" And Peter, Kyra, and Jayvon all say, "Jayrel hit me first!"

"Stop hitting each other," I say. "Keep your hands to yourself," I say. "Don't touch each other," I say.

But a minute later, they're at it again. So either 1.) They don't listen to me, or 2.) They hear me and choose to hit anyway. So maybe I should just stop saying "Stop" and let them tear each other apart? Hm...something seems wrong with that solution.

Maybe my true test this year is to see if I can remain sane while insanely repeating the same things all day long? They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Well then I'm officially insane: I keep telling these kids to stop hitting, expecting them to listen to me and stop - even though they never have, and it seems they never will.

I don't know what's driving me more insane: their constant bickering or my own voice saying "Stop!"

Regardless, in the ingenue's effort to remain ever-positive, I must focus on the joys these 5 year olds bring to my day in order to retain some bit of sanity. Today I had them pick a name out of a hat of another student in the class. They then had to make a card for that person with nice pictures and nice words on it. Then I made a big deal of presenting each child with his or her homemade card. Even the meanest kid in class made a card! And putting my acting skills to use, I made the biggest deal of these cards. "Oh my gosh Shakira!!! Maxwell made you a card!!! Isn't that so nice of him?!" (as if it was his own unique idea, not my explicit directions...)

And for five brief minutes, no one hit and no one complained and no one was mean and Ms. Jodie didn't have to say "Stop!" For five brief minutes they were nice to each other. And that gives me hope that I'm not insane - just persistent.

The Trifecta

A girl only needs three things: a boyfriend, a perfect job, and a cute apartment.

I'd like to take full credit for this idea, but I stole it from one of my beloved chick-lit novels (from which the genre of my existence is based upon): Single girl trying to establish her career and love-life while trying to find time to breathe amongst the excitement and challenges of the big city. The typical heroine, a 20-something single gal is a little quirky, a little insecure, and sometimes loses her balance while juggling a few shopping bags while wearing really cute heels. But when she achieves all three basic needs, the stars align, the clouds part, and she enters womanhood. This is called The Trifecta. (And I can take full credit on the name.)

But for most of the girls out there, struggling in rise to the top of our entry-level jobs, sifting through the eligible and not-so-eligible bachelors of New York City, and living in shoe box apartments the size of the closets from our suburban childhoods...the stars very seldom align. In fact, studies show that most New York girls balance on a 2 out of 3 ratio. Which, if you were dealing with a Devil Wears Prada boss or a Sex & the City line-up of men, probably isn't all that bad. Mediocrity, in this scenario, is pretty common place. But in a quest for beating the odds and achieving her Trifecta, this New York City Girl started getting closer to not 2, but all 3 of her essential ingredients to the good life.



Things started turning around for her when she kissed goodbye to her quiet Astoria apartment and sought the greener pastures of Manhattan. She found a 2-bedroom converted into 5, complete with 5 other roommates, including the chocolate-eating mouse that likes to hide in dresser drawers and ovens, with an open room that fit her things but couldn't fit a window. Doesn't look so hot on paper, but it was Manhattan, baby!, and that was what mattered.

Apartment: Check!





Then she met a guy who not only helped her moved into this new shoe box, but offered to! And took her out and cooked her nice dinners, and came to see her in plays, and made her laugh. And listened to her when she complained about the mouse, and laughed at her when she imitated the kids she taught, and made her heart beat faster than the express train she was now taking every day.

Boyfriend: Check!





Then she started getting more teaching artist jobs, and didn't have to hostess at the fancy french restaurant anymore. Then those jobs lead to a full-time job. And finally she was getting benefits and paid to do what she loved. Like a real normal person!

Job: Check!


She had done it! The Trifecta was in place! Her world was shifting and birds were singing and people were dancing as she walked down Broadway and life was one giant music video.

And then, on July 19, 2011, between the hours of 3:30 and 4:30pm... it happened. "We're cutting the theatre program," and "I think we're going to lose the apartment! Something's wrong with the lease."

It was too good to be true... She knew it. The odds were too low of actually achieving the true, eternal bliss of being a woman.

She met up with the boyfriend, who asked her what happened. And instead of crying, or screaming, or crumbling to the ground and disinegrating into thin air as she would have done four years ago... she laughed. Because somehow she knew, in that moment, that the world wasn't going to end, that she had what it took to get through what was just a bump in her road. If there was one thing she had learned in New York was that if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere...

Besides, she still had one element of the Trifecta. And that one was a pretty good one. And really, somewhere hidden in the meaning and value of what "boyfriend" stood for, she realized all this time that she had been aiming for the wrong elements in the Trifecta. Silly girl! All that mattered now was surrounding yourself with the people you love, believing in and loving yourself, and staying on the path to fill your life with joy by doing what you love.

A girl really only needs three thing: Love, Love, and Love.

Two Truths & A Lie

I like my life. Pretty much everything about it. Even my name. But let's not forget I'm an actress. So sometimes...I like to lie and pretend I'm someone else.

Let's also not forget we're in NYC. A very neighbor-friendly city where people like to chat you up on the street and the subway or in line at Whole Foods. And as a young woman, you just want to be careful that you don't give out too much information to a stranger. Unless you want him to stalk you or take you out on an awkward date.

So here I am in Whole Foods. (Which describing that scene could be a blog post in itself because that store is massive, crowded, and overwhelming.) I'm picking up snacks last-minute for a friend's house party as everyone else is stocking up on organic, free-range, soy products for the impending blizzard. I have 1,2,3,4,5 things. An express line would be ideal. But I get herded like cattle into what the salesboy is calling "the checkout line" at the same time as 12 other cattle. Five minutes later, as I'm holding my 5 items awkwardly, still in line, a voice to my left says, "Hey, do you mind me asking...if you've only got 5 items, why didn't you opt for the 10 Items or Less Lane?"

"Oh, I didn't know there was an express line. I just got shoved into this one."

He laughs at me. "Yea, you can save yourself time next time. You're the perfect candidate for that line."

I laugh at him. "Yea, I don't really ever shop here, so I didn't know that."

Which was also - I guess - my invitation for him to continue speaking. "Oh, where do you normally shop?"

It's Saturday. We're in a very long line. I'm in a good mood. I like talking. I like people. So...I decide I will let this man flirt with me. But I will change a few things about myself so he's not actually flirting with me.

"TriBeCa. That's where I live." (Lie. That's where I would want to live. If I become a famous actress or go back in time and was reborn as a trustfund baby.)

"Oh, are you a student at NYU?"

Yes, I still look 20!, I think, as a coyly respond, "No, not anymore. I work in advertising." (Lie. And please don't ask me where...Oooh, I can prevent that!) "What about you?"

And this goes on, and we make comments and jokes on the line and Whole Foods and the blizzard, and he asks me where I'm going tonight.

"A friend's house for a get together." (Truth.)
"Where?"
"Uptown." (Lie.) Are you kidding - I'd be stupid to reveal my evening's location. I have a prestigious degree in Adverting, after all.

Aww, I know where this conversation is going. The poor guy is going to ask for my number because we've had a pleasant conversation and I'm not going to give it to him because he thinks I'm somebody else. Even if we went out and fell in love I'd eventually have to reveal my true identity and he'd never forgive me for lying. I can always resort to "I have a boyfriend" if it comes up. Then his heart won't crumble into 10 pieces or less here in the checkout line.

But he doesn't ask for my number. Instead, at that moment when I'm about to proceed to the cash register, like a gentleman he holds out his hand and says "I'm Rob. Here, let me give you my card." He's a senior assistant district attorney. "Give me a call if you're ever in trouble...."

"Taylor." (Lie.)

"Taylor. You look like a Taylor. Good talking to you, Taylor."

Need I prove why I love my life? (Truth.)

Sunshine

I. Hate. Snow.

Yes, a strong objection for the girl who has "LOVE" written on post-it notes all over her bedroom walls. But seriously, I hate it. And can you blame me right now? It snows every other day. And no, New York City does not magically expand to accomodate for the massive amounts of snowfall.

As you avid readers might recall, a year ago as we entered 2010, I vowed to fall in love with winter. And fall in love, I did, for about two weeks. Seriously, Mister Winter, how could anybody still be happy after we've had the snowiest January EVER in NYC?

So now, I vow - and challenge all of you, too - to ignore the snow.

That's right - ignore it. It's not there. Like when little kids cover their eyes and think they've disappeared and you can't see them. I am covering my eyes to the snow. (My family likes to remind me I will always have the mindset of a 4 year old, here.)

In fact, noticing now that there's no snow outside, I'm feeling better. In fact, I'm radiant daydreaming about all the things that do make me smile (besides a sunny day):

~ When my students give me hugs and laugh at my funny faces...and make them back at me
~ When I go to the theatre and Chris gives me a huge hug because we've chosen working at a children's theatre over making lots of money a few more blocks downtown
~ When I make my tea in the morning
~ Yoga class
~ When my students say the simplest things that make me laugh or want to cry, like when I say "repeat after me" and they actually say "repeat after me," and "Miss Jodie! Look I'm a cat!" when all they're doing is running around in a circle
~ When we get into heated debates in grad school about the necessity of arts in the schools
~ When I saw my sister at her track meet a couple of weeks ago
~ When my dad texts me something like "it's the weekend, time for a beer" and thinks he's tweeting
~ When the 2 year old I babysit reads books to me
~ When a good song comes on the radio and I get up and dance in front of my mirror
~ At improv, supported by a group of genuine, down-to-earth friends
~ Wrapped up in a certain someone's arms
~ When I'm onstage
~ When I'm playing a character and she feels something so incredible I feel so lucky I get to, too
~ When I feel something incredible
~ Walking around the city exploring new places
~ Looking at the skyline of New York City from the subway platform in Queens and thinking..."yea, I made it. Here I am."
~ Running along the river, thinking..."yea, here I am."
~ Being with those I love, thinking..."yea, here we are."

So I was walking through the mist of a light wintery mix this morning and a bluejay stopped right in front of me. I couldn't remember if I've ever seen a real bluejay up this close. I smiled. And stood there for a minute. In the gross snow and sleet and slush and cold and wind in the dead of winter. I thought, this is where I am right now. And that's really all I've got. So smile - even if the sun isn't out.

If we're all smiling, maybe we'll create enough sunshine on our own to melt all this snow.

Library Love Affair

Me and the New York Public Library don’t exactly get along. Odd, I know, considering both myself and libraries are for the most part non-confrontational. If I had to personify a library I’d say it was the quiet, docile, wallflower type. Perhaps my outgoingness is clashing with the library’s more reserved features?

I was so excited the day my library card came in the mail in 2007. My membership will let me borrow books for the price of nothing! It will let me pour over play scripts and musical scores. It will provide me with entertainment and enlightenment on my 45 minute commute into the city. I intended to take advantage of my membership like no other little actress has ever taken advantage of the Public Library system before. And did you know, there’s over 87 branches of the NYPL and you can use your card at any one?! So many possibilities!

How quickly you let me down, Library. The first time I went to drop off my books on their due date was a Friday in November of 2007. It was cold. And raining. It was just a quick stop to the library before taking the train to visit my boyfriend in CT. But the doors were locked. That’s weird, it’s 10:32…aren’t libraries open by 10 on weekdays? Oh, well I’ll drop these off in the…where’s the drop-off box? I circle the whole building, twice, as the clock ticks and I suddenly realize I’ll be late for my 11:15 train. No drop off box? How are you supposed to drop off books if there’s no drop off box? Oh! Security Guard! You can’t hear me because there’s a huge glass door between us, but can you read my lips: “Where – Do – I – Put – These?” He must have read the anxiety on my face because he’s coming over to me. Hopefully to take these books off my shoulders. Did I mention their heavy, too? They’re hard-cover musical scores of Cinderella, Kiss Me, Kate and Songs For a New World, along with a Neil Simon play.

“Sorry, miss, we’re not open,” says the little old Indian man. He’s rolly-polly and about 5 feet, and his front teeth are chipped. “Oh, ok,” I smile ever-so-politely – as that’s the only way I know how because I’ve only been living here for a month and not quite a New Yorker yet – “can I just drop these off, then?” “Oh, no, you can’t do that. We’re not open. We open at noon.” WHAT?! What about us morning people? We go back and forth because I’m having a hard time fathoming this flaw in the library system. And I really can’t wait for 12pm. Then I’ll definitely miss my train. “Well, would I be able to hand them to you, and you can drop them off for me at 12?” “Oh no no no, miss,” and he turns his back on me as if I’ve just asked him to give me his first-born child. With desperation in my voice, because it’s hitting me that I am just a little girl in this big evil city and that even the rejection of the little jolly old elf-looking security guard at the library can knock me off my feet, I ask “Well then what should I do?” He points to the north. “One block up, there’s another library.” “Thank you! Thank you!” I shout as I run with my track-star speed down the stairs of Lincoln Center, my heart lifted again at the hope this city offers and the pay-off of my persistence.

I approach the giant doors of Library #2 of 87. Good, I see people inside, that means…wait, why is this door locked? Hello, can you let me in please? Three librarians stare at me as I try to break in. C’mon, you are right there on the other side of the door, just let me in. They shake their heads no. I put my hands in prayer position and mouth a “please!” Point to my figurative watch. Motion I have to go. They shake their heads no. I slowly drop my plastic bag of books to the ground and put my arms up as if I’ve just dropped a weapon and am backing away slowly when the tall hipster librarian man shoots me a glare through his black rimmed glasses and mouths “don’t’ you dare.” Fine! I throw my arms up in anger and disbelief, shooting an equally menacing (in attempt) glance back at him. It’s 10:59. If I run, I will make my train to the safe haven of CT and although I’ll have to pay a fine for overdue books, at least I’ll have a good weekend. And I do. Until I find out that the fine for my late library books is $11.50! I could have bought one of the darn books for that! Or a cocktail!

The fury of my late fee, the absurd hours, and absence of drop-off boxes has put an end to my love affair with the library. In fact, I don’t go back until a Monday in January. I've even looked up the Monday hours on the website. Full of optimism and forgiveness I march up to the glass doors to find out... it’s closed! For Martin Luther King Day! Strike again! Reminder notices should be posted around the city and the internet that things like libraries are closed on holidays such as this.

My relationship with the Library has been a long, difficult road these past three years. Every time I try to learn from a mistake, I seem to then make another. In fact, I’ve taken up an affair with Barnes & Noble to curb my reading fix. Inspired by the new year, though, I logged onto the Library’s website ready to request some books last week. After 20 minutes of selecting my browsing and selecting my books, I find out…my library card expired…yesterday.

This relationship is just not meant to be. Good thing there's other things in this city to take advantage of...