Yes

"Miss, how is this Theatre class gonna prepare me for college?" "What do you think, Keandre?" "I dunno. You're making us stand in a circle and say 'yes' to each other. What's the got to do with college?" "Good question, Keandre. What do you think?" "I dunno. I'm gonna do my work at college, not talk to people." "Why don't you think you'd talk to people, Keandre?" As a first year teacher, I am being told to ask questions of the students and encourage them to do the thinking and talking. I feel pretentious responding to a question with another question. And I'm sure Keandre thinks I'm really dumb. But, if I did give him the answers on Week #1... there would be nothing left for him to discover himself. I wouldn't be saying "yes" to my student. But to answer your question, why am I having you say "yes" to your classmates? We stand in a circle, and one person makes eye contact with someone else and calls their name. Person #2 responds by saying "yes." Person #1 then moves into their spot. Then Person #2 calls someone else's name, and Person #3 responds by saying "yes" before moving spots. "Yes" I hear you. "Yes" I accept your call. "Yes" you can take my spot. "Yes" we can work together in this class. Because when you go to college Keandre, you will need to say "yes" to new experiences: being open and comfortable to making new friends, taking challenging courses, perhaps moving out of your neighborhood and away from your family. You will need to say "yes" to the work asked of you and present it in front of your peers and professors. Or maybe you will need to say "yes" to the responsibilities of a new job. "Yes" I can earn my own living. "Yes" I can take care of myself. You will need to say "yes" to yourself as you discover what it is your are passionate about and letting your voice can be heard. So I have my students say "Yes" and I know that it's silly. It's artsy and idealistic, and poetic and playful ... weird for my Brooklyn seniors. Maybe I'm the one who needs to hear "Yes." Because if I, as a first year teacher, get lost in thinking about how hard their lives have been, how difficult it is to stay above water in their community, how silly it is to play a circle game with seniors, how much paperwork I have to do ... I would not be saying yes to what I believe in. In their neighborhood, making eye contact is an uncomfortable thing and a source of conflict. In theatre, it is the first step. I believe that theatre has the power to make these kids believe in something, believe in humanity, and believe in themselves.I believe that these kids are capable of being empowered and heard by working together to put on a play. I am optimistic and excited. Taking my hour and seven minute commute each morning to Brooklyn, I look confident and put-together, with my lesson plans in place. But this ingenue has a confession: I am faced with a challenge this year, and I have butterflies. My challenge is much bigger than me and a little word "yes." So the goal is to just keep swimming, keep saying yes when I want to say no, and keep asking the questions. I think I will learn and discover a lot this year along with my students. And hopefully we will find out that this Theatre class doesn't just prepare them for college... but for anything they go on to face in their adult lives, such as riding an hour and seven minutes on the A train each morning to teach a bunch of teenagers a little three-letter word.

Turning a New Leaf

Sometime within the past two years my family has officially become categorized as: 1. runners 2. dog people The latter is hilarious because I, an active member of my family, am still categorized as "not a dog person." Exhibit A: The rest of the clan convinced me to take our new dog Rocky for a run when we first got him in the summer of 2010, which looked like this :

So you can imagine my hesitation to take Rocky along on my run this morning during my 10-day NYC getaway amongst the rolling hills and fresh-cut lawns of Western Mass. But with my parents working, and my teenage brother still asleep like most of his species who haven't seen a single-digit a.m.-hour since school got out three weeks ago, I felt an obligation to our medium-sized brown and black dog. Yes, that's his exact breed. Rocky looked at me with his cute little face with those pleading eyes saying "Please take me with you." I couldn't help but relate. There are times cooped up in my apartment, cooped up at work all day when I look at myself in the mirror with those same eager eyes and beg myself to take myself out to play. We look so cute and innocent, like this:

So out we go. I feel brave. I feel up for the challenge. I feel like I'm doing a good deed taking this rescue dog out for a run all by myself. This ought to clear my name off the bad person list for not liking dogs in the first place. Let alone provide a good workout. At the edge of our driveway though, thoughts of our previous running experiences flood back to my mind...and his. All together our previous runs add up to about 100 yards because Rocky, being a rescue dog, is a bit scared to leave the house without my mother. A bit hesitant to let someone else take him for a run. I drag Rocky, pulling on his leash, afraid I'm choking him or will yank his head off. Is that even possible? Now I'm pleading. I'm begging. And neighbors are staring. I look like I'm stealing this dog. Back on the bad-person list. "Rocky, c'mon!" I beg. "Girl, No!" he begs. "Rocky, let's go!" I demand. "Girl, No!" he demands. "Dog, YES!" I declare. "I am the human here!" A determination comes over me. Rocky and I have known each other for two years now. There is really no excuse for us not to trust each other. No excuse for us to be afraid of each other. No excuse for me to be having an argument with a dog. So I tell him this. I tell him that if he expects to be a part of this running, dog-loving family, he's gonna have to man up and be a runner today and I'm gonna have to woman up and love a dog today. And with determination in my voice, inspired by watching the Olympic Trials last week, something inside us both decides that today will be the day where Jodie and Dog shall run together as one. I drag and tug a little harder. He suddenly gains 30 more pounds and glues his paws to the street. I tug a little harder. One paw up. Two paws up. He inches forward. I start up with a jog. He trots. And it takes us ten minutes to make it down the quarter mile length of our street, but he is staying with me. The moment of truth approaches as we hit the main street. But like the loyal companion he is stereotypically supposed to be, Rocky holds his head high and ignores the little voice in his head and continues trotting with me. We break into a run. Jodie and Dog. Dog and Jodie. He's a bit slower than my normal pace, but I'm also getting in an arm workout pulling him along. We only run two miles together. But I know we've really run to new lengths here. We've made a lot of progress today. I'm more proud of him than I am of myself. A satisfaction felt by mothers and coaches and Dog Whisperers. "Good job, Dog." I say. "Good job, Girl." He says. And Girl and Dog sip and lick their respective waters. Ready to face the rest of the day a little bit braver. Disclaimer: It is strongly advised that you do not get any idea that I have changed and now like dogs after this experience. I will not take other dogs out for runs, nor walk with other dogs, nor pet other dogs, or warm-up to them sitting next to me on a couch, or call them cute as they jump all over me with their slobbery mouths. Rocky would be jealous.

The Journey

iPod in. Sun glasses on. MetroCard in pocket. Iced coffee in hand.

Rolling suitcase gliding through the turnstyle as I maneuver the coffee hand-off/MetroCard swipe seemlessly to the tune of Rihanna's "Only Girl in the World."

After 4 1/2 years I think I have finally mastered, and perhaps grown to appreciate, the commute. For contrary to most things in life, it's NOT about the journey - but about the destination. When a New York Girl is psyched about where she's going, the commute is much more tolerable. Today I wasn't bothered by the smelly homeless man, the crying baby, the kid playing his iPod to club music at 8:30am too loudly, or the overweight man sitting in the seat that could be mine. I wasn't bothered by the bumpiness of the train that splashed my coffee onto my hands or the sudden halt at 72nd St. Or the rush of angry, late commuters who bumped into the girl with the rolling suitcase as they piled into the same car as me, appearing to think "if I can just knock her over then I could take her spot!" I wasn't bothered by the wide Sombrero-wearing Mexican mariacche band that decided it was a good idea to march up and down the subway cars with their guitarras serenading the sleepy, angry commuters with their rendition of La Cucharacha. I wasn't bothered by the beggar trailing behind the band competing for change with his talent of shaking a cup.

Because this morning I wasn't going to my tiring job uptown. No, this morning I'm on my way home for a little vacation spent with my family away from the noise and smell and speed of New York. A little weekend getaway in the green pastures and rolling hills of Western Mass. So as I sit here on the Metro North train north east, I've compiled this list for:

A New York Girl's Guide to Commuting with a Smile:


1. Make sure your iPod is fully charged. This first act alone ensures a peaceful ride uninterrupted by crying babies, mariacche bands and people who think their ride is more important than yours. Update your iPod frequently to include new mood-lifting playlists with empowering titles such as: "Good Morning Sunshine," "Go Get Em Girl," and "Livin for the Weekend."
2. Always bring a beverage according to the time of day: Morning iced coffee, afternoon iced tea, evening bottle of water (time to climb down from your caffeine high).
3. Carry napkins in your bag (for when the beverage inevitably spills).
4. Invest in a good-quality large umbrella that does not fit into your bag. Your rainy days will be considerably sunnier.
5. Have your MetroCard ready at an easily-accessible, safe location such as your coat pocket so you save 2.7 seconds off your commute time.
6. When a train car door is closing DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SQUEEZE THROUGH. Remember: It is better to be late and look amazing than early with your arm chopped off.
7. Look for a seat on the train towards the center of the train car. People tend not to bother you here. If you are close to the door you will be pushed and shoved more times than you expect.
8. If you are sitting but a pregnant woman or an elderly person or a child is standing, offer them your seat. You'll make their day easier and you'll feel like a model citizen.
9. Avoid making eye contact with anyone who gives you a funny feeling.
10. If someone or something smells, casually get up at the next stop and move to the next train car. It is more worth it to give up your seat than deal with unsatisfactory smells during an already unsatisfactory experience.

Oh and finally,
11. Know thy destination.

Sometimes it feels like we'll never get there. But when we know that where we're going in life will be worth it, the arduous journey is that much easier to endure. Tough times don't last, but tough people do.

The Breakdown

Today was just one of those days. I had to do the work of two people today and the kids just drove me crazy. If they weren't crying about hurt fingers or itchy eyes, they were fighting over books and spots at the breakfast table, or too busy caring about Tyshawn calling them a name than my improvised lessons in Math. Then we ended the day with a birthday party that brought more screaming and more crying as chips were fought over, juice was spilled, and games of musical chairs were not won. Why do I work at this school?

On my way home, zoning out from the chaos around me on 96th Street, almost near the safety of the solitude and serenity of my teal-painted bedroom, a woman grabs my arm and says "You need to help me." I am startled and frightened to be grabbed by a stranger, yet I notice right away that this woman truly is in need - she's in her 60's and dressed in what I quickly decide are normal clothes for a woman who can afford rent on the Upper West Side. "I'm going to faint, you need to help me," she pleads, still grabbing my arm. Now invested, I say, "Ok, calm down, I'll help. What do you need?" "I need to get home." "Ok, I'll get you a cab," I say, and then spend what feels like ten whole minutes trying to flag down a cab. Hundreds of people walk by. Don't they see me frantically trying to help this woman? Don't they see her nearly collapsing on the sidewalk. It's rush hour. No one is paying attention to me - including the cabs. Why did this woman have to pick me? The girl who was already having a rough day and so desperately wanting to get home. But I can't leave this woman now. Two different cab drivers refuse me. I ask a man getting in a cab if he can sacrifice it for this woman who is a stranger even to me. (I definitely sound crazy, and if I were that man, I might have ignored me, too.) Finally I convince the fourth cab to take this woman home ten blocks away and guide her over the cab and close the door. Did that really just happen? Why do I live in New York?

I get to my apartment building and open the elevator door to find the scariest dog in my building - the one who doesn't have pupils in his eyes - coming right at me, growling, and it's owner screaming "Close the door!" as if it is my fault her unleashed dog was about to bite my leg off. This is the icing on the cake that sets into motion my flood of tears. Why is this my life?!

I call my boyfriend, crying, and he tells me to "Relax, calm down, take a deep breath" --- as if those weren't the exact same words I told 20 Kindergartners and a fainting woman all day long. Why couldn't I tell myself this?! Sometimes when you've spent the whole day being patient and strong for other people, it is hard to be patient and strong for yourself.

I have tons of homework and chores to do. But I put that all aside, switch my iPod to the playlist called "Weekend," ...and I run...

I run away from my problems. Away from this stressful, emotional day. Away from myself. From the girl who is literally crying over spilled milk and scary dogs. Am I the five year old? I run and I run. Distancing myself from her. Mile one. Mile two. I am looking for something. Or someone. Someone who is not so selfish or weak as to cry over petty problems. Where is that girl who hiked a mountain in Arizona with her mom just last week? Where is that girl who made audiences laugh and feel as The Velveteen Rabbit? Where is that girl who told her graduating high school class to persevere through life's hard times?

Mile three. Mile four. I ignore the cramp in my side and the ache in my knees. I'm determined to find her. That girl didn't cry over a hard day, did she?

And somewhere, between breathing in the fresh air of this absurdly warm March day and running past a dog who looks exactly like the one dog she has actually grown to like (yes, that's you, Rocky)... I find her. There she is charging up that hill. There she is breathing through the pain. There she is smiling as she catches a glimpse of the setting sun over the Hudson River. There she is remembering this is just one day of many, and yes, she can do this.

I hope that woman got home ok and has someone there to look after her. And I hope my Kindergarten kids grow up to care about more passionate things than their spots at the breakfast table. And I hope the white-eyed dog (or its owner) doesn't bite anyone.

And I hope that the next time you are having a bad day you can find your run through Riverside Park. We shouldn't be so hard on ourselves. We already have everything that we need to face life's challenges - whether they are big or small. But I suppose sometimes it takes breaking down a little bit to grow up.

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...

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.