And you know what?  I don’t think it’s possible.  If you asked me a few years ago, I probably would have answered differently.  But that was before.  That was before I started on the treacherous path of Are-We-Aren’t-We with someone.  It’s one thing for gay men and straight women to be friends, but it’s an entirely different scenario when the man is also straight.  You know why, don’t you?  Because at some point you’re both thinking about sex with the other person; it may not be at the same time, but at one time or another you’ve both at least considered what the other person looks like naked.  Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about.  With a gay male-straight female relationship, sex is immediately out of the equation, which allows for deep bonding without the worry of giving off signals or developing some sort of sexual attraction.  This is not the case with straight men and women; it doesn’t really matter what you do, there’s always going to be some sort of attraction there, even if it’s for five
seconds.  Until physical action has been taken, the tension can’t and won’t
subside.

I have been embroiled in this situation for over a year and a half, so you can imagine how horrible the tension has become.

For a while, I thought maybe I was making it up.  Initially, I thought perhaps I was exaggerating tiny little details in the hope that he was reciprocating.  We’ve known each other for four years and counting, so our friendship had been steadily building.  I didn’t really start feeling an attraction until about two years into the friendship when he and I started spending more time together and having more in-depth conversations.  As time and our conversations progressed, we became close confidantes, sharing sensitive personal information.  I could feel myself starting to wonder where this was going, especially since I’d had lots of guy friends over the years but none I’d talked to like this (except, naturally, gay friends).  This is where the trouble started.

I’d notice glances in my direction, the touching of knees underneath a table, random text messages, and bits of conversation I’d analyze to pieces.  It’s funny how attuned I became to the minutiae of his movements, speech, and overall interactions with me; it was like I was Daniel Day-Lewis doing some super Method Actor-y observations for a role.  THAT’S how attuned I was.  I’d spend hours talking with friends, trying to dissect him.  Some days, I’d purposely do something to try to coax him into making a move or saying something that would give him away all to no avail.  He’d give some small indication one day, and the next, there’d be none.  Finally I decided to be done with the whole thing.  The mental turmoil just wasn’t worth it.

Ha.  As if I could just give him up that easily.

To quote that fine singer of club songs (I use the term “singer” loosely here), Ke$ha, “Your love is my drug.”

So maybe it wasn’t or isn’t love, but it’s DEFINITELY a drug.  I’ve tried to quit cold turkey, but like the Millennium Falcon caught in the Death Star’s tractor beam (again, sorry), I keep being pulled back.  He has this hold over me, and I’m powerless to stop it.  It’s the Great What-If that keeps pulling me back.  The Great What-If can be a very powerful thing if you let it, and I’ve let it control me for a year and a half, though there have been a few times when I’ve ignored it altogether because I was in one of my I-quit phases.  Somehow though, like Luke Skywalker with a tie fighter on his tail (I really apologize for all these references.  I have Nerd Turretts.), “I can’t shake him!”  I keep coming back to it.  Back to him.

It’s when we’re alone together that slays me.  He says something that burrows itself deep within my soul and subconscious, and I don’t know how to react.  Then he just LOOKS at me for far too long for a normal conversational exchange, and I know that with any normal person, these are opportune moments for a kiss…which still hasn’t come.  It’s some weird, self-imposed barrier that we’re both too afraid to break.

BUT WE HAVE TO BREAK IT OR I’LL GO CHARLIE SHEEN CRAZY.

We’re stuck in a rut, and there has to be a natural progression to this, otherwise this cycle will continue, and he and I will keep coming back to each other, unable to move past this chemistry we never explored.  I keep wondering why we keep coming back.  I wonder why I’m not more upset that I haven’t heard back from a guy I had a little fling with over a month ago.  I wonder why I had such a hard time trying to tell my guy friend about that guy.  I wonder why he seemed a tiny bit jealous about it.  I wonder why he texted ME at 3 am one night from 1500 miles away instead of trying to get lucky with three girls he found cute at the bar he was in.  I wonder why he and I always seem to wind up sitting together at parties and bars and in the park.

My best friend, patient listener that she is, has told me on more than one occasion (including last night) that I have to break this vicious cycle.  I’m well aware of it.  I know I have feelings, I won’t deny that, but I also haven’t figured out what I want to do with them.  I don’t know what I want, and I sure as hell better know if he and I ever talk about the giant LOTR-ish elephant in the room (I think those are actually called Mumakil in Return of the King.  I had to look it up on Wikipedia.).  I know a huge part of me is just curious to see if he and I could work in that way, curious to see if we could work together physically too.  I won’t pretend that I think he also hasn’t considered it before.  He’s not stupid; I know he’s probably at least once noticed what’s going on between us, but he’s never done anything about it.

Well, kiddo, you can’t have it both ways.  Either you’re just a supportive friend or you want to be my boyfriend, but you can’t be jealous when I pay attention to another guy that isn’t you.  If that bothers you, then fucking DO something about it.  I can’t wait on you forever.  I won’t wait on you forever.

One of my favorite moments of When Harry Met Sally is when Harry, after years of are-we-aren’t-we moments, realizes on New Years Eve he loves Sally so he runs through Manhattan and finds her at a party to tell her, even though she is angry with him.  He tells her that “I love that you get cold when it’s seventy one degrees out, I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich, I love that you get a little crinkle above you nose when you’re looking at me like I’m nuts, I love that after I spend a day with you I can still smell your perfume on my clothes and I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Years Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of the life to start as soon as possible.”  It takes her by surprise, and she says “You see, that is just like you Harry. You say things like that and you make it impossible for me to hate you. And I hate you Harry…I really hate you.”  Then, of course, they kiss.

And while I know romantic comedies all have some sort of semi-cliched moment like this, I can’t help thinking that maybe THIS is what I want.  I want someone to know me that well and find all those weird little quirks about me wonderful; I want that sudden realization they can’t do without them.  They can’t do without ME.  And I don’t want them to be afraid to just tell me…even in the middle of an awesome late 1980s New Year’s Eve party.

I don’t know how all this will turn out.  I know I have to do something about this.  I am tired of indecision.  I am tired of being one of the guys.  I am tired of not being taken seriously as a woman.  I am tired of the glances and the missed opportunities and the soulful conversations that make me feel special but never really lead anywhere.  And as tired as I am where I should quit, there he will be to say that he would be lost without me or that I have a way of knowing exactly what he needs to hear and I just understand him better than anyone else.

You see?  That is JUST like you.  You say things like that, and you make it impossible for me to hate you.

First, some facts:

1) I am not a serial dater.  I’ve had like, one actual boyfriend in my life, and lots of sort-of-almost-but-not-really boyfriends.  No, I’m not a lesbian; I’m just picky, awkward, busy, and a whole host of other excuses that don’t really completely explain my lack of romantic male companions.  My brother, on the other hand, has dated numerous girls, been engaged once, and now is dating a girl younger than me.  I wouldn’t necessarily say this bothers me (okay, it bothers me a little), but I don’t understand why my brother is such a serial dater, and I am not.  It’s weird because we balance each other out in a way: he is never alone, and I am always alone; well, independent, which leads me to number two…

2) I have always been an independently minded person.  My mother, for a woman who got married at a fairly young age (uh, nineteen to be exact), has always sort of instilled in me this feminist view of being self-sufficient and strong.  I am the baby of the family, so I’ve always been a little more outgoing than my brother who is the stereotypical protective first-born.  I’ve always been more opinionated; I’m more liberal.  I grew up thinking I could do anything and be anything I wanted to, because my mother told me I shouldn’t limit myself.  My mother never has wanted me to feel I had to rely on a man for happiness, and because of her, I don’t.  I rely on myself to get things done and make my own way, and I’ve never tied my personal happiness to whether or not I had a boyfriend or garnered attention from the male species.  Though I am, by birth (and of course, occupation…actor.  DUH.), a bit of an attention-seeker, I try not to base my personal worth on someone else’s approval of me, especially men.

3) I have a lot of gay male friends.  This is a double-edged sword.  I love my friends, regardless of their sexual orientation, but I admit I have sometimes relied too heavily on my asexual relationships with them instead of allowing myself to be open to sexual ones with men who are decidedly not into Youtube-ing videos of in-her-prime Whitney Houston and fawning over Jake Gyllenhaal.  My gay male friends are my soulmates.  Every woman has one who is the Will to her Grace, and I am no different.  The problem is that as great and wonderful as they make me feel, there is one thing that gay male friends cannot provide their female companions with, and unfortunately, that is a very important thing.  One friend, in particular, encompasses pretty much everything I want in guy; he’s my gay version of the straight man I want, and though our relationship is all kinds of wonderful and full of love, he can’t love me in all the ways I need to be loved.  It sucks, but I don’t fault him for who he is, because that’s precisely why I love him.  Gay friends are great…until you mistakenly date one, which leads to number four…

4) Yes, I have dated a guy who is, in fact, gay.  Every woman in the performing arts has lived this story at least one time.  I dated a guy who came out two months after we broke up.  There were tears.  There was outrage.  There was disbelief.  There was a huge fight.  There was a year and a half of silent treatment and bitter feelings.  Then there was growing up, acceptance, and reconciliation.  Now, he and I are just good friends.  Needless to say, it isn’t a pattern I really want to repeat, so I feel that in many ways, this has influenced me more than any other factor.  I am more cautious because of this situation.

5) I am more than acquainted with the tricky devil known as “unrequited love.”  I have harbored more than my fair share of crushes on people who didn’t feel the same way.  A lot of this silliness occurred in high school when all I wanted was a guy who wasn’t my gay best friend Taylor (no offense, baby boy!  I love you!) to sit next to me on the bus on the way to marching band competitions and hold my hand.  Yeah, I know, nerdy and silly, but that’s how I felt every time I saw yet another slutty flute player seducing a percussionist (the percussionists are the ultimate marching band bad boy) every Saturday in the fall.  I won’t pretend that there probably wasn’t a boy or boys who maybe had a crush on me, but if they did, I certainly didn’t know nor did they try to make a move on me.  I seemed to like guys who were unattainable in some John Hughes-ian way: Jake Ryans and Blane McDonnaghs who happened to play trombone or sing baritone next to me in choir.  Pretty much all my serious dating attempts in high school failed terribly except for when I dated the gay who I didn’t know was gay.  But let’s be honest, my unrequited love led me to date a GAY MAN.  To be fair, he was pretty straight at the time, but still.

6) I have often been the victim of a terrible syndrome called “She’s One of The Guys”-iosis.  What?  You haven’t heard of it?  Well, let me explain.  This syndrome often occurs when a guy deems a girl cool because she can hold her own at Halo multiplayer on XBOX, can quote every line of The Empire Strikes Back, enjoys watching baseball, hates Katherine Heigl rom-coms just as much as he does, idolizes the Beatles, and can hold her liquor with the best of them.  He loves “hanging out” with her because she will debate with him over who was the best captain of the Enterprise (uh, Jean-Luc Picard OBVIOUSLY) and watch multiple episodes of Family Guy without complaining.  She doesn’t talk about Ryan Gosling obsessively or wear a mile of makeup like Kim Kardashian.  She can tell a raunchy joke like the guys in the Hangover but still seem classy about it.  She’s cool.  She’s funny.  She’s “just a friend.”  THIS is “She’s One of The Guys”-iosis.  It’s THE absolute WORST, because no matter what you do, he’s become blind to the obvious observation that you are, in fact, NOT a guy.  These guys like having you around because you’re good for a laugh and aren’t annoyingly ditzy.  You don’t get grossed out by them.  Because you happen to be smart, funny, and enjoy things that aren’t necessarily “girly,” you thus become a dude and not a desired (and sexually desired) object.  Emma Stone is doing a lot for us that fall into this category right now, thankfully.  She’s proven that it’s okay for girls to like dude things but still be feminine and sexy and desirable.  I’m pretty sure every guy on the planet wouldn’t mind nailing Emma Stone.  Guess what?  Emma and I are about a week apart in age and have the same type of personality, gentlemen…except that I’m not famous and therefore, slightly more attainable.  It’s so annoying when a guy says they like Emma Stone because she’s sexy but also sort of a dude.  I’m like, well, she’s not the only one, if you’d tear your eyes away from your all-engrossing game of Madden NFL and notice me, you fucking idiot.

7) I refuse to dress slutty to attract attention.  Okay, I’ll admit I love a good see-through blouse, short skirt, or plunging neckline as much as anybody, but I don’t make it a habit of wearing that stuff regularly.  I’m more likely to be a little fashion-forward and daring if I’m going to a gay bar with friends than I am at a regular “straight” bar.  The gays make less of a deal about this kind of thing (probably because there’s usually a lot of half-naked shot boys running around and drag queens with outfits that would put Gaga to shame), only acknowledging that you look “fierce” and hot.  There’s not really a competition.  I can dress for me.  Every time I go to an every day bar, I hate looking around at all the girls dressed like they’re auditioning for an even trashier version of the Bachelor (is that even possible?), flipping their hair and guzzling drinks so they’ll seem witty and cool like the Sex and the City girls.  Of course I want to look good, but I dress for myself.  As a Scorpio, I’m all about the mystery; if you give everything away, he can’t wonder what you look like naked because he’s basically already seen it.  I pretty much just stick to something showing off my gams and some red lipstick, 60s style eyeliner, and mascara.  That’s my standard bar outfit.  Take it or leave it, gents.  Hope you’re happy with Slutty McSlutterson because I guarantee that the only thing deep about her is the deep V she’s wearing to show off her tits.

8) Like everyone else on the planet, my first kiss was terrible.  I was sixteen, and he was seventeen (Quick!  Someone find a gazebo.  It’s a Sound of Music moment.).  As I’ve mentioned, I was a little starved for male attention in high school, so when he started giving me some, I jumped on it and clutched on for dear life like I was on the sinking Titanic.  He was all involved pretty heavily in theatre.  We were in Seussical together and also the same choir.  He was nice, but I should have realized he was taking advantage of my naïveté and inexperience.  He had long-ish red hair and was rather fond of wearing a camouflage army jacket with pretty much every outfit (what a rebel).  After several long, flirtatious MSN Messenger chats (Oof.  Dating myself with THAT reference.), we decided to meet up one day to “hang out” at the park.  He didn’t have a car (batting 0-1 already there, kiddo), so I had to pick him up.  We sat underneath a tree and sort of awkwardly talked for a while, anticipating the real reason we were there.  Finally, he stopped the awkward conversation (thank god) and started kissing me (Uh, God?  I’ll take that awkward conversation back now.).  It was beyond terrible: sloppy, too fast, a lot of shoving of the tongue into my mouth.  Of course, I hadn’t really kissed anyone before, so I didn’t have much comparison, but I had watched enough soap operas, John Hughes movies, and Moulin Rouge to know this just was NOT cutting it.  I mean, I enjoyed it in a I-can’t-believe-this-is-actually-happening-just-go-with-it-because-it’s-better-than-nothing way, but I knew then and there that this was all he wanted (well, I’m betting he wanted to “MSN Messenger” with my pants too, but LOL, that just WASN’T going to happen.  C-ya L8R!).   After about thirty minutes of pure tongue ravaging (batting 0-2 now, sir), I finally was able to pry myself away from Mr. Army Jacket and kindly suggest I needed to meet up with my parents for dinner.  After driving him to his house where he insisted on Sloppy-Joe-ing all over my lips yet again (uh, that’s 0-3), I said goodbye and drove away.  After that, I pledged to never let myself be so desperate that I make out with a guy who just throws an army jacket on over everything because he thinks it makes him look rebellious because it’s not rebellious; it’s lazy and kind of gross.  Also, he was preying on my inexperience and insecurities, and THAT is DEFINITELY not cool.  Also, I’m pretty sure he gave me mono that following summer (0-4, dude.  Your batting average sucks.), which was one of the most miserable experiences my tonsils have ever had.  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I stay away from redheaded men who aren’t Ron Weasley, Rupert Grint who plays Ron Weasley, and well, any Weasley or actor who played a Weasley.  To this day, I can still almost feel and taste that tongue in my mouth.  (0-5, Clayton.  TKO!)

9) I have never been in love.  Of course I have experienced the familiar accelerated heartbeat, the butterflies in the stomach, the sweaty palms, and the goosebumps.  I have felt desired.  I have felt lusted after.  I myself have lusted and desired, but I have never been in love.  Yes, I love my friends, and I am completely smitten with several of my gay best friends, loving them as much as a person can love another person without romantic feelings involved.  I would take a bullet for some of them.  But I have never felt that euphoria, that overwhelming feeling of two halves making some beautiful whole.  Sure, I’ve had that sort of “first love” thing where you like someone on a pretty deep level and you know you’ll always be tied to them in an emotional way because they were the first person who made you feel a little special and prized, but that’s not love, really.  It’s more akin to admiration or something.  It’s people like me who can’t wrap their heads around what it means to be in love because we don’t know.  We’re the people who get jaded because it’s like a special country club we don’t have the membership to.  I want to play golf with love!  I want to play racquetball with love!  I want to have a pool boy bring me free drinks with love (well, who doesn’t?).  In all seriousness, though, I keep hearing this whole “you just know when you know” thing, and all I can wonder is when it’s going to happen to me.  Will it ever happen to me?  I know, I know.  This is one of those great, unanswered questions about life.  There have been so many poems and songs and great pieces of literature written about love.  So many movies.  Yet, I just find no solace in that.  These people are describing their version of love, what has happened to them, born out of their own experiences.  I just don’t think anyone can actually really tell you what being in love is like.  The famous authors can get close, but it’s still just words on a page until you’ve felt it.  I think love brings transcendence.  Add love to those words, and they transcend the page into something else; something purely mythic.

I want the mythic.  I want the transcendence.  It’s getting it that’s the hard part.

Stay tuned for part II.

Why?

Because I just totally embarrassed myself on the office intercom system.

I’ve been temping the last few days at a children’s clothing company called Gerson & Gerson Inc which manufactures adorably chic little girl dresses (think Violet Affleck) under the name Bonnie Jean.  I had to make an announcement that designers were to bring their fall samples to the showroom.  Unfortunately, I misheard the word samples and thus had to repeat the message about three times until I finally got it corrected.  At the end of the third time, I just laughed and said, “sorry for the confusion.”

This is the first office I’ve temp-ed in that has an intercom system.  It makes me feel like I’m back in elementary school when I use it; only this time, I’m the annoying, yet sweet secretary forced to give alerts.  I’ve been doing well up until this point, evoking the relatability of Pam from the Office with the cool wit of Moneypenny from Bond and just a hint of the sexy professionalism of Joan from Mad Men.  I’ve studied the great secretaries of the world and adopted their best traits.  Unfortunately, none of them could teach me how to effectively operate an office intercom system in a way that wouldn’t make me sound like that Ms. South Carolina beauty pageant girl who couldn’t answer the question about U.S. maps.

I promise I’m not an idiot.  And I also promise I can locate the U.S. on a world map, Miss Teen USA 2007 pageant judges.

Anyway, office intercoms should be banned.  As an actor, you’d think I’d find using an intercom system fun and easy.  You’d think I’d just LOVE hearing myself monologue-ing like Brando or a comic book villain about office visitors, food deliveries, and general office announcements.  You’d think I’d want to take advantage of a captive audience and force everyone listen to me sing Celine Dion power ballads.  Nothing could be further from the truth (though the Celine Dion thing sounds like a great office prank); I hate hearing my own speaking voice echoing back at me.  I feel like an idiot every time I have to make an announcement.  It’s like my hair in middle school: horrifying.

I’m just really glad I don’t work in elementary schools, theme parks, Wal-Mart, or the Pentagon because as much as I love to hear myself talk, I don’t actually love hearing myself talk.

We also got to watch Clueless one day just because she loved the movie so much.  Obviously, because of this fact, I passed le Francais avec les felicitations!  As Cher would say, “DUH.”

Olsen Twin and French class tangent aside, I’ve always wanted a passport.  I envy people with passports, because to me, a passport is the most glamorous accessory a person can own.  I’m sure you think a Berkin bag or a Tiffany ring or a sleek yacht you sail in George Clooney’s Lake Como villa is more glamorous, but I assure you, a passport is better.  Passports are very romantic and exciting in an old world kind of way, like traveling by train or the glory days of the Titanic (which was every day but April 14, 1912, by the way).  Having a passport means you’re a world traveler, an explorer like Magellan or maybe an international spy or thief like Carmen Sandiego (is anyone else concerned that ACME still hasn’t been able to pinpoint where in the world Carmen Sandiego is?  I mean, you’d think if we can find Osama, we can surely find Carmen.  All her V.I.L.E. henchmen have the worst pun-ny names.  Come on, people.  Justin Case?  Olive Yermunny?!  REALLY?!).  A stamp in a passport means you’re one step closer to adopting an adorable brood of children from around the world and hooking up with Brad Pitt.

I mean, how does it get any better than that?

And think of the people with MULTIPLE passports!  Okay, so a lot of them are probably criminals, but some are total Jason Bournes.  You know, spies who look like Matt Damon and are battling crippling amnesia all while kicking serious ass across Europe.  Some people just have multiple passports because they filled up all the space in old passports.  How fantastic is that?  To travel so much you have a stack of old passports in a room in your house.  I can just imagine Meryl Streep keeps all her old passports right next to the 50 billion Oscars she has just to show that not only is she more talented than you, she’s more well-traveled.

I want to travel; see the world.  Sometimes I think I should just gather up all my money and belongings and go laze around Europe for a few months like trust-fund Ivy League kids do after they graduate college.  Not that trust-fund Ivy Leaguers really have to gather up their money.  They just use American Express Platinum Cards like all sensible rich people.  Note to future, richer self: be an AmEx Platinum Card-holder.  Also make friends with George Clooney for access to Lake Como, Italy compound.

Getting back on subject, I also need a passport for career reasons.  As an actor, having a current passport would open me up for touring and performance jobs outside of the United States.  It’s a way of being prepared for any circumstance.  It’s also a way to meet my future attractive British husband in London, because I wouldn’t be able to go to England and be the new Kate or Pippa Middleton without it.

All this passport talk reminds me of Sandra Bullock’s character from one of my favorite rom-coms of all time, While You Were Sleeping.  Her character Lucy just wants a stamp in her passport (and love.  DUH.).  At the end of the movie, Bill Pullman’s character not only marries her, but takes her to Florence, Italy for their honeymoon.  She says, “he gave me the world.”  Awwww.

That’s what I want: the world.  Not in a Dr. Evil-taking-the-world-hostage-for-$1 million way, but to see parts of the world I’ve never seen before.  I want to go to London and Paris and Prague and Rome and Berlin and St. Petersburg and Africa and New Zealand and a million other places.  I want a stamp collection to rival that of any goody-goody 1950s boy (even though the stamps he collected are mail stamps.  Unimportant detail.).  I want the glamorous life of international travel.

I may not get out of the country this year (though I hope I do), but getting my passport would be a start.  At least, I’d be a twin and a 90s floral hat away from being an Olsen.  Passport to Paris, here I come!

It’s all very confusing, really.  Like many things in my life.  For seventeen years, I had a direction, a clear path to follow; school was a map.  The map is gone now, and I’m just hoping to not fall off a cliff.  It’s pretty scary a lot of the times, but also exciting.  I feel strong after just four months, and I should.  I’ve already made it through a lot of personal crises in a short span of time.

I can’t lie; I haven’t always been the happiest person the last few months.  I’ve had some moments of great joy, but they are sometimes clouded by the hard parts.  I have never been a depressed person, but I can sympathize with people who have struggled with it.  I can understand that feeling where you feel low and don’t know how to climb back up from it; wallowing in the feelings of personal failure.  I read somewhere a quip about most New Yorkers living and functioning each day in a low-grade depression, and I can feel that now; it’s definitely worse in the colder months when the weather is miserable, because so are the people.

I don’t think I’m a failure.  I’m not ready to give up.  But it is hard, and no matter how I try to communicate that to people who don’t live here and aren’t doing what I’m doing, they don’t get it.  Being an artist is hard; it’s a lot of swimming upstream, hoping you have the stamina to keep your head above water until you reach your destination.  For me what is hardest is getting someone, anyone, to take a chance on me and let me prove myself professionally.  I just want to act.  I want to tell stories.  I know this is what I’m supposed to do.

I hate resolutions, so I won’t call them that.  I’m going to to strive to be HAPPY in this new year.  To find and live in those moments of joy and hold onto them.  To use them as a light in dark times.  I’ve spent too much time recently letting myself wallow in my worries and unhappiness instead of fully living in the moment and letting myself be free to experience fun and laughter and adventures with my friends.  Having a HAPPY new year is the goal.  It’s not always going to be fucking sunshine and lollypops, I know that, but I will do my best to smile more, laugh more, BE more.

So have a HAPPY new year, and I will strive to do the same (and post a little more).

Sometimes, I only see the closed doors, the impossibly tall ladders to climb professionally, and hear only “no” or “not today.”  It’s overwhelming to feel crushed by the weight of the world, and let me tell you, it can be a heavy, heavy world.  You feel as though it is your burden alone to bear, because in a city of nine million people, it can be a very lonely city.  You might be among the masses, but really, you’re alone.  Or at least, it feels that way.

I’ve been in the City around six weeks, and the honeymoon is over.  I can see through the facades and glamour now.  My City-in-Shining-Armor sometimes just feels cold against my skin, not letting me in to the warm heart behind it, and so I’ve started surrounding myself in my own armor, trying to push away anything that will hurt me.  I can feel myself too becoming cold and hard, but there are things you can’t push away and have to face head on, and the emotional toll it takes is unbearable at times.  My roommates (both longer NYC residents than I) have assured me everyone has milestones in their NYC residency where you hit an emotional wall and don’t know how to bounce back.  One month.  Three months.  Six months.  One year.  “It’s your time,” they said last night as I poured my heart out about my worries and woes, “we’ve all had it.  You’ll pull through and have another one down the road and pull through that one too.  It’s just the nature of growing up and living in this city.”

I wish college had prepared me emotionally for the anxieties of real life.  When you’re in school, so much is taken care of for you: housing, food, education, sometimes even a job.  Naturally, you have to pay for all of it, but it’s all right there for you.  We take so much for granted in college; all these little conveniences become big inconveniences the minute you’re handed your diploma.  It makes you look at your parents in a completely different light and wonder at their ability to handle it all without letting you know how worried they actually are.  Though I already appreciate my parents for all they’ve done, now that I am out of school and living on my own, I appreciate them more than ever.  Still, no college course can prepare you for the inevitable emotional wall awaiting you in your first months away from the comforts of home and school.

Monday night, I hit my first emotional wall.  After a frustrating ballet class, I checked my phone and received a message from my mom regarding my bank account balance after taking out money for November rent.  After staring in horror at the number for a good two minutes and calculating how much I had between that and my bank account here in New York, I started hyperventilating.  I completely shut down.  Walking back to the subway from the dance studio, I couldn’t catch my breath; it sounded like I was having an asthma attack.  I was trying to stifle sobs, but I wound up walking down 55^th St with tears streaming down my face and my heart pounding.  I didn’t know what to do.  I had enough money for the next month’s rent but I still needed to buy groceries and a new Metrocard in a few days and my student loans start collecting in December and I owed my roommates for various utilities/communal supplies and then rent would be due again in December.  I felt like walls were pushing in on me from all sides (like Indiana Jones and Short Round in Temple of Doom), and in a matter of seconds, I’d be crushed under the weight of it all.  I literally felt like I was suffocating in the middle of 7^th avenue, physically gasping for breath in between sobs.

Not knowing what else to do, I reached for my phone and began dialing.  When my friend answered and asked what was up, I choked into the phone, “Are you home?  I need you.”  I could hear the worry in his voice (because I am NOT a crier ever), “Yeah, I’m home. Are you okay?”  I croaked, “What was a decent day turned into a terrible night, and I need to be with someone right now or I’m going to wind up alone having a nervous breakdown and potentially not be able to calm myself down enough to breathe.”  And with that I hung up, hopped on the subway to Queens, and sat silently crying all the way to his stop while women around me on the train pretended not to notice my mascara-streaked face.

The minute I walked in the door of his apartment, he took my bags out of my hands and wrapped his arms around me.  I don’t know how long we stood like that in his hallway, me blubbering and sniffling and sobbing into his shoulder while he held me tightly and rubbed my back.  He didn’t ask what was wrong; he just welcomed me with open arms and soothed me as if I was a child.  When I finally was calmed down enough to explain why I was so upset, he sat silently listening, taking everything in.  When I finished, he sat processing for a moment, and finally said, “It’s going to be okay.  YOU are going to be okay.”  Then he launched into a whole justification of how I wouldn’t be left a pauper on the side of the street, calculating out impending paychecks and reassuring me of my familial support if I’m really pressed for cash.  “You have to take things one day at a time,” he said matter-of-factly without a hint of superiority, “because if you don’t, you are going to worry yourself sick.  This is the hardest part, this initial move drains your money lower than anything else will, but you ARE going to build your account back up, and you WILL be okay.”  He took my hand in his and looked me directly in the eye, “It will all be okay.”

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

In my lowest, most horrible moment (thus far), I was met with unconditional love and understanding.  I was given hope and faith, things I had nearly abandoned in my utter desperation.  He saw past the closed doors and negative words and gave me opportunities and kindness.  And I realized here is my true armor: my friends.  They protect me and meet my challenges with unwavering strength (and sometimes Rice Krispy treats!), but they are not cold and hard; they are warm and giving.  In a city of nine million people, I was reminded I am not alone.  I am never alone.  I am surrounded by people who love me and will do anything for me. What a beautiful epiphany to come from such an ugly mess.

New York City thrives on this kind of duality, this give and take.  It took so much out of me yesterday, but I was given so much back in a different way: an outpouring of love, not just from him but from other friends here in the City, my roommates, friends across the country.  All of them, in their own way, wrapped themselves around me, enveloping me in warmth.  This is something for which I am grateful, something I will always hold onto every time I struggle with life and art.  So what if I’m dirt poor?  I’m rich with true friends (cheesy, I know, but that’s how I feel).

I don’t know what to expect in the days ahead nor can I fully prepare for it, but at least I have my armor with me, and they’ll help me get through it all with love, faith, hope, and occasionally, Rice Krispy treats.

The Perks of Being an NYC Temp Worker While Trying to Be An Actress:

1. FREE office coffee.  It may not always be Starbucks (unless you’re temping for the Starbucks HQ or in my current case, a Starbucks-affiliated company, Barnes & Noble Corporate HQ), but it’s hot, freshly made, will keep you awake while you’re staring at a computer screen all day, and did I mention it’s FREE?  It’s okay to splurge once in awhile on your morning cup of joe for something like the Starbucks Pumpkin Spiced Latte (my personal fave) or Peppermint Mocha, but like the McDonalds McRib and Monopoly season (I’ve come to the conclusion I will never get that damned Boardwalk piece to match my Park Place for the $1 million prize), all good corporate promotions/seasonal items must come to an end, so just bring a travel mug and stop shelling out for expensive coffee when the free stuff does the trick just as well.

2. Discovering new parts of New York City.  Unless you work with a shitty, backchannel temp agency (By that, I mean you work for the Mob, Mafia, or other underground organized crime ring, which I won’t judge you for because you’re probably making more money than I am, and your life has a better chance of becoming a gritty Martin Scorsese movie nominated for like, twelve Oscars), you probably won’t be venturing to some of the seedier parts of the City and its burroughs.  I’m currently working in the Union Square area.  Next week, I might be in Midtown, the Flatiron District, Chelsea, the Upper East Side, or the Financial District.  I get to explore all sorts of areas of the Big Apple without taking the Circle Line Bus and finding out where all the celebrities live (It’s called Google, people.).

3. No office drama.  Though sometimes you’ll receive longer gigs, most of your work will probably be no longer than a week or two at a lot of places, which means there’s not enough time to really get involved in any office fights or gossip unless you’re really trying or are filming a reality series for E!, MTV, VH1, or Bravo.  And let’s face it: you’re probably not going to be on one of those networks unless you happen to be something people in red states deem as “controversial.”  Anyway, being a temp means (most likely) never getting into table-flipping catfights.

4. Pretending to be on Mad Men.  If you are hip or care about high quality, niche dramatic television or possibly lived through the 1960s or just have a thing for skinny ties and sleek suits (or in my case, most of the above and I have an inappropriate crush on the dreamy Jon Hamm), you probably are a fan of Mad Men.  Every new office is a new chance to pretend I’m actually roaming the halls of Sterling Cooper Draper Price where I’m bound to have a steamy, albeit Old-Fashioned induced tryst with Don Draper or greet representatives from Lucky Strike in a sexy Joan Holloway manner (though I will never have Christina Hendricks’ impressive, um, “accessories.”).  This can, of course, lead to problems if you have a long-term temp job and are constantly boozing, smoking, and seducing your way around the office, because not only will your work performance suffer, people might think you’re a drunken whore who sounds like Harvey Fierstein.

5. You get to work a variety of jobs.  Though I have a slew of secretarial/receptionist gigs lined up, most temp agencies have big projects come through they need people for such as the U.S. Open (Hellooooo Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer!), designer sample sales, trade shows, and holiday promotional gigs.  So even though this week I’m stuck behind a desk, next week I might be donning a Santa hat and selling specialty toys or wearing Ralph Lauren and helping people to their expensive seats in Arthur Ashe Stadium whilst ogling Nadal’s very fine derrière.  It’s a little bit of everything that will make for great anecdotes in magazine interviews profiling my (impending) rise to stardom.

6. Learning how different companies operate.  Actors are excellent observers, so I try to take the opportunity to learn as much as I can.  It never hurts to actually know what the company you’re working for really does just in case you actually want to work there someday if you get tired of waiting in lines for auditions at 6 am everyday.  Also, I’m just nosy.  That’s why I stare at people on the subway too.

7. Meeting lots of new people.  Goodbye EHarmony and Match.com!

…Just kidding.

(Only partially.)

8. Meeting lots of new people.  Temp-ing provides all the perks (making lots of fast connections) of a New York City swanky party minus all the actual perks (booze) of a New York City swanky party.  You never know who might be able to advance your career or just want to add you to their Facebook friends list so they can stalk all your photos and then awkwardly comment on them all.

9. Paychecks.  Sure, it’s not like you’re rolling in the Benjamins (like apparently a lot of rappers do…or at least, that’s my impression based on their lyrics and music videos), but at least it’s a decent paycheck to help pay the rent and the highway-but-actually-train robbery known as Unlimited Ride Metro Cards from the MTA.  As any actor will tell you, any paycheck is a welcome paycheck (a fact which Nicolas Cage’s more-recent film credits currently reflect.).

10. Different bosses/supervisors.  I’ve had my share of strict and not-so-strict bosses (luckily, most of them have been the latter).  If you can’t stand your boss because she’s an ice-maven a la Miranda Priestly in Devil Wears Prada or he’s a “that’s what she said”-ing doofus a la Michael Scott of Dunder Mifflin, thankfully your job will be a quickie rather than working under them for forever.  That’s what she said.

The Cons of Being an NYC Temp Worker While Trying to Be An Actress:

1. You’re not actually on Mad Men.  No Don Draper.  No quippy one-liners from Roger Sterling.  No drinking in the office.  No screwing in the office.  No Don Draper.  No cute 1960s outfits.  No awesome office presentations about Kodak Slide Projectors.  No Don Draper.  I could go on and on, but for those of you poor unfortunate souls who either don’t get AMC or just don’t watch the show, I won’t waste your time with lots of insider references.  But please, do yourself a favor and watch the damn show.  Did I mention Jon Hamm is in it?

2. Never staying in one place long enough.  You don’t always really get to know people and forge any lasting connections.  Oh dear me, how ever will I find a husband or a doubles tennis partner?  Oh right.  That’s what working the U.S. Open is for.  Or being on the Bachelorette.

3. No Facebook/Twitter at work.  Companies who want people to be more productive have such websites blocked, which means I can’t stalk the cute guy in the cubicle down the hall or let everyone know I support #SelenaandJustin4eva.  This means I have to stalk people the old-fashioned way: Google and a pair of binoculars.

4. Boring office tasks.  Without Joseph Gordon-Levitt in (500) Days of Summer or Jim from the Office to distract me from the mundane tasks of office work, how can I possibly keep from falling asleep?  Oh, and thanks JG-L for giving me completely unrealistic expectations about getting a hot makeout session every time I go into the copy room.  And also IKEA.

5. Always being “the new kid.”  Now I know how foreign exchange students feel (Sorry for making fun of your Hasselhoff obsession, random German kid in high school) and also animals at the zoo (no wonder the Bronx Zoo cobra escaped!).

Clearly, the perks of being a New York City temp worker outweigh the cons although, being a temp worker means I’m still not actually doing what I came to NYC to do…land a husband.

As if!  I’m only 23, and this is New York, not Kentucky!  (No offense, Kentuckians, just trying to make a veiled Clueless reference.)

One day, I will no longer be the resident Xerox-girl, but until I land my big break, I’ll just drown my boredom in free coffee and thoughts of Don Draper.

Things are starting to feel normal now.  Well, more normal.  I have now been in New York longer than I ever have, and it’s starting to feel like home.  I know, you’re wondering how a city of over nine million people, massively tall buildings, frequent noise, and a definite lack of greenery can feel like home.  Not to get all Bill-Clinton-at-the-Impeachment-Trial (oh the 1990s!) on you, but it depends on what the definition of home is.  Sure, “home is where the heart is,” but I think home is a place you feel comfortable and happy and especially where you feel infinitely sad upon leaving.

I suppose I’m still in the “honeymoon phase” of my life here: everything seems wonderful and new and significant.  You know what?  I’m okay with that.  I think we’re too jaded these days about everything in our lives; we’ve seen it and done it all.  I don’t want to go through life never enjoying anything because it’s passé to still be genuinely amazed by things.  Though I’m starting to feel more at home here, sometimes I’m walking around Manhattan at night when the skyscrapers are all lit up, and I can’t catch my breath.  I just look around me in wonder, thinking, “Wow, I really live here.  It’s just so beautiful.”  I have a realistic version of New York City and a romantic one; usually I live somewhere in between, but right now, I’m living more in the romantic one, the one where the sight of the Chrysler and Empire State Building make me swoon and a leisurely walk through Central Park makes me dream about having a great romance with someone.

I have my worries too, mostly concerning finances.  In a city where you have everything at your fingertips, they don’t tell you how much having everything at your fingertips actually costs.  I suppose it’s a rude awakening for any young person, moving out on his or her own and starting their life.  Having to pay for everything your parents took care of for you like groceries and utilities and transportation can feel overwhelming.  I’m only about three weeks into it, and I finally fully understand my parents’ worries about how to make ends meet.

On the other hand, I am wholly optimistic about the future.  As of this moment, I only see possibilities, and I’m keeping the negative thoughts at bay.  The bad comes with the good too, you see, and you have to figure out how to deal with both, and right now, I’m doing a pretty good job of focusing my energy into positivity.  Yesterday, I auditioned for and was cast in a cabaret show at the Duplex down in Greenwich Village.  It showcases emerging talent and gives us an opportunity to perform, potentially for agents/managers.  I’m performing in November, and I’m pretty excited to have a chance to do that again since I spent my summer winery-ing and being jealous of all my friends with summerstock jobs.  It’s a place to start.

A New York debut.  You only get one (and of course, you only get one Broadway debut, but that will take longer to secure).  It’s hard not to feel like I’m on the precipice of something special…a life finally fully beginning.

Let’s just fast forward to where I should be in my post-grad blogging and forget this whole being lazy thing ever happened.  Deal?  Thanks!  You’re the best…whoever you are that might read this.  Internet high-five.

Not much has happened in my life here in this existential redneck hell known as a summer in the Midwest.  The weather has been getting hotter, which unfortunately means the town white trash thinks they’re at liberty to wear as revealing of denim as possible, leading to the poking out of my eyes during trips to Wal-Mart.  The winery is still sucking up my weekends.  Though I took a fun, brief trip to Tulsa to see my BFFs Caitlin and Hassan about two weeks ago, I was hit on at a gas station on my trip home by an imposing black man who looked like a cross between Snoop Dogg and Antoine “Hide yo kids Hide yo wife” Bedroom Intruder rapper (I swear I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried…okay, I could, but I swear I’m not.).

Last weekend I went to the wedding I discussed in one of my more recent posts.  What I thought would be an impromptu high school reunion (I was already prepared to reenact the scene from Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion with the interpretive dance to “Time After Time”) actually turned out to not be a big deal at all (except for the fact someone forgot to mention it was an OUTDOOR WEDDING IN JULY so I sweat my ass, tits, and all other appendages off.)  In fact, I barely knew anyone there, and the people I DID know were all people I like/am good friends with still/can tolerate.  I spent most of the evening with my long-time friend, Claire, and her new boyfriend.  Though I realized later I might have been kind of third-wheel-ing all night, I don’t think they minded because I provided a lot of witty, snort-into-your-free-but-shitty-liquor quips about some of the other guests aka I provided plenty of laughs at other people’s expense (which is what comedians/comediennes do, right?)  Though of course we couldn’t get through the whole reception without some good ole high school gossip and obviously a drunken sing-along to Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places” (which I am a little embarrassed to admit I have ceremoniously performed drunk AND sober in many a bar in Oklahoma City in college).  When the groomsmen started singing along to old frat-house standards (rap crap and Journey songs) and getting teary eyed about it, I knew it was time to leave, so Claire, her boyfriend, and I snuck out, and I nearly sprinted for my car so I could get some A/C on my almost-as-sweaty-as-the-sweat-villain-Moist-from-Dr-Horrible body.

Thank god for car A/C and Frank Sinatra.  I couldn’t stomach one more generic rock song from one more generic rock band (I’m looking at YOU, Nickelback) or “Get Low” rap at that reception (Applebottomed jeans and boots with the fur went out a LONG time ago, rappers.  Don’t you read VOGUE?!).  I mean, actually, I was impressed by all their indie choices for their ceremony: Damien Rice, Ingrid Michaelson, etc.  Their first dance was to Adele’s version of “Make You Feel My Love,” but after that, the shit music started, and I had to bail.  I mean, where were the wedding reception standards like the to-the-left-take-it-back-now-y’all “Cha Cha Slide” and the B-52’s “Love Shack”?!  I was all ready to bang-bang-bang-on-the-door-baby!

Whatever.  I just put Frank Sinatra on in my car and let Ole Blue Eyes cleanse my sweaty, sweaty soul all the way home.

Anyway…

Last Friday (June 17, as it were), my childhood best friend, Meredith, came over for a day of fun and frivolity.  The original plan had been to go to that theme park of apparent number bias, Six Flags in St. Louis (Why only six, oh theme park gods?  Why not Eight or Five?  Or one of THESE numbers…).  Unfortunately, the weather was not cooperative, and in the best interest of our hair and clothing, we decided against braving a rainstorm for roller-coasters run-ins with too chipper costumed versions of Bugs Bunny and the 1990s’ favorite t-shirt decoration, Tweety Bird (*shudder.  Don’t act like YOU didn’t own one too.)

Instead, we checked the weather and decided to head south where the rain was on its way out.  Meredith and I, in a fit of boredom, decided on a rollicking day of trashy mini-golf, outlet mall shopping, and outdoor arcade games at the Lake of the Ozarks.  The Lake is like Branson-lite (if there is even such a thing): it has a few awful country music shows, a “strip,” outlet malls, mini-golf, tourist trap stores, and a wealth of tanned-to-the-point-of-looking-leathery women whose outfits reflect their desperate cry to recapture their youth and their rich, corny husbands who espouse such sentiments as “God Bless America” or “Proud to be an American” every five seconds.

The Lake has its merits too though.  First and foremost, the lake itself is large and beautiful, and there ARE a lot of rich people who live on or around it in huge homes with even bigger boats.  There are some decent restaurants (selling “fresh seafood” as it were, despite the fact this is a FRESHWATER lake in a LANDLOCKED state, but whatever), and there are some great golf courses around (so I’ve been told.  I don’t play golf or even pretend to understand it.).  But all this does is make me upset that I don’t live closer to a REAL beach on one of the coasts where fresh seafood is actually fresh and there’s a chance I’ll spot some cute, rich boys who aren’t backwoods white trash.

But back to our roadtrip, Meredith and I got down to the Lake and headed straight for the Black Rock  Pirate Cove mini-golf.  It features two different courses (the Captain’s Course or Blackbeard’s Course) with historical facts about different famous pirates at each hole.  There’s also a giant, blue waterfall.  When I say blue, I mean BLUE.  Apparently, the groundskeepers (I imagine a Hagrid-like furry man who only comes out at night) at Pirate Cove want to give the waterfall a Caribbean, tropical feel by way of INTENSE aqua dye probably last used by the costumer for the Lawrence Welk Show in the 1970s.  Anyway, Meredith and I chose to play the Captain’s Course on recommendation of the nice, old man at the ticket window.  We golfed our way around the course, hoping to not lose our balls (Yes, you can snicker), giggling at each subsequent historical fact, and not giving Tiger Woods or Jack Nicklaus any reason to worry about upholding their golfing titles.

Me with the gorgeous, BLUE waterfall at Pirate Cove mini-golf

After our golfing excursion, we noticed two things:

1) Despite our best attempts at saving our hair from rain troubles, we had NOT saved it from humidity troubles.  Damn.

2) We were hungry.

We hit up Vista Grande, my favorite place to eat at the Lake based on its awesome salsa, margaritas, and chicken chimichangas.  It was reliably tasty and a welcome escape from the swashbuckling “fun” of Pirates of the Caribbean Pirate Cove.  It also provided us with a chance to bemoan our humidified hair.  Following our Mexican fiesta, we headed right across the street to the Factory Outlet Mall for some bargain shopping although it turned out to be a lot of looking around at clothes not snapped up by the tanned, leathery ladies of the lake (ha.  Ladies of the Lake?  Get it?  Lady of the Lake?).  I wound up buying some awesome jams but that’s not the good part of the story.

So last but not least on our grand tour of the Lake, we went to the old “strip,” which is like if a 1955 carnival came to town, overstayed its welcome, and slowly but surely became a forgotten, backwoods, junky version of its former self.  We found the Holy Grail of outdoor arcade games: 10¢ SKEE BALL.  As we walked up to the building, I instantly thought of the awesome movie Adventureland starring the awkwardly cool Oscar nominee Jesse Eisenberg (and the girl who defines acting as biting her lip and running her hands through her hair whilst she kisses a vampire or werewolf, Kristen Stewart): I got the feeling that if you worked there, you’d feel like you were dying a slow, painful death from heat, white trash, junky prizes, and the annoying sounds of the skee ball machines.  Meredith and I played $2 worth of skee ball and with our collected tickets, we won two cheap finger traps and a couple Tootsie Roll Pops.  Awesome, right?

Ten cent Skee Ball place on the old "strip"

Right across the street was the “Haunted Hotel,” which basically looked like it had been decorated by the leftover Halloween decorations from Wal-Mart.  There was a sign in the door window indicating that if we wanted a tour, we’d find the owners across the street at the Old Time Photography Studio.  Clearly business was booming.  There was also a dead cat skeleton in the window, which they claimed was from a cat that disappeared in the building in 1977 and was found in 2004.  CLASSY.

The cat skeleton from the "Haunted Hotel"

So it may not have been roller coasters and log flumes, but I’d say Meredith and I had a successful if not memorable sojourn.  At least we know we fared better than the cat in the window of the Haunted Hotel.