On the road again... geographically & professionally

Thursday, February 26, 2009

I was a white girl in a white jacket on the E train to Queens. I was going to catch the Air Train to JFK. Just once I’d like to get on the subway and not see a hot steamy pile of throw up on the floor, and have to shuffle off to Buffalo to avoid stepping in it. Now I’m on the plane headed to Oakland, California to visit my friend. I’m flying JetBlue and I’m about to start my fourth hour of Law & Order: SVU. Life is good.

A few weeks ago I started teaching Pilates... It’s crazy because I don’t know what I’m doing. I started training in October, and I hear myself explaining and instructing but I have no idea if I’m making it up or not. Why do people assume that I know more than I do? I don’t. Trust me. I’m teaching both at a studio in Brooklyn as well as a gym on the upper east side.

I gave one client a private session in her upper west side apartment last week because she said she had her own reformer (Pilates piece of equipment). The reformer was from 1994, and she bought it off of the TV. It looked like a Medieval torture machine; metal against metal, frayed and knotted ropes and a foot bar that was a steel pipe. Oh, goody. When she pulled it out, the look on my face said it all. It was a piece of shit and I didn’t want to work on it.

When she asked me what I thought. I said that her reformer was like the Bronx and the ones that I work on in the studio are like Aruba. What? It just came out. I didn’t even know this woman and here I am talking to her like she was my best friend. She said, “Well, the Bronx isn’t so bad.” I choked on the foot that was lodged in my throat. “Oh, no, yeah, right. I know. My family is from the Bronx.” What a great first impression. I see a bright future ahead.

And the insults continue.

I called another client a load, indirectly of course, while she was laying down on the reformer. I was explaining the springs on the machine, in relation to their resistance, and said, “This is a load.” I was referring to the machine not her. Of course she HAD to be a wee overweight. As it was coming out of my mouth I knew I was going to have to tap dance my way out of it. But the more I talked, the more I sounded like an idiot. I eventually dropped it.

During the session, I said something (one sentence max) in a British accent, just for fun. Sometimes I forget where I am or what I’m doing and act too familiar too soon. We chatted after the session and she said, “You know what it’s like to be creative, being an actress and all.” Huh? How the hell did she know? For a split second I felt like a celebrity. I was sure, or rather hoped, that she’d seen my short film online or my 30 seconds of air time on the Sci-Fi pilot, UFO Hunters. “How did you know that I was a ‘performer’. I still can’t own the title Actor. She said,”Because you did a British accent.” Not for nothing but can’t everyone do a British accent? Whatev.

Another client was a sweet 71 year old woman. I am in no position to work on an overweight, (larger than the load lady) 71 year old. Who the hell do I think I am. I was scared. I stood by the reformer and held my breath as I watched her crawl onto the machine. I didn’t know if she would fit. I kept thinking, what am I going to say if she doesn’t fit and her thighs and waist are hanging off of the sides of the machine? This wasn’t covered in my classes. But she did fit and every time I gave her words of encouragement, she’d say, “God bless you.” Meanwhile, anytime I did something like drop a strap or miscalculate the amount of springs to use, I was all, “Oh, dear lord”, or “Oh, my God.” It’s not quite taking the lord’s name in vain, like if I’d said, “Jesus fucking Christ”, which I sadly enough I often do, but I still felt like I was dissing her religious beliefs.

I knew it was bound to happen but no one can really prepare you for it. And it’s not something that’s covered in class either. One of my client’s had some kind of hoo-hoo odor going on. The thing is, Pilates includes a lot of laying down, and for some movements, legs are spread eagle. It was a first, and I’m hoping it’ll be the last. Clients are also either barefoot, or wearing socks. I’m seeing some of the gnarliest feet this side of the Mississippi. And ladies, please, if you wear work out pants that show your legs, have some compassion and shave. Save the nature girl routine or the European shit for someone else. I saw a woman in one of the group classes at the studio and I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. She had the longest, darkest and fullest armpit hair I had ever seen... and that includes the chimps in the zoo. And while we’re on the subject. I’d prefer it if women spot check before they come see me and pluck that one stray black chin hair... or put it in a scrunchy. I don’t need to be training Foo Man Chu. How can you not see that?

Not only do I have a fear of hurting someone but what happens if I train a male client and they get hard? I’m not tooting my own horn, it’s just that I touch when I work with a client, and, well, what do I do? Do I ignore the hard on? Do I look at the hard on and chuckle knowingly? Or do I run screaming from the room?

Switching gears... good time for a bathroom break.

It’s almost been a year since I’ve cut my hair. I want to see how long it gets but right now the ends feel like the Scarecrow’s ass. I sit at my desk and cut the split ends when I’m supposed to be writing, or studying and space out. I’m thinking that if I keep it up, I’ll eventually give myself a haircut.

I saw a woman in the subway the other day that was dressed to the nine’s. It was an odd visual. If you can afford a Louis Vuitton bag, a Burberry coat and scarf, Chanel ballet flats, bling bling on your fingers and in your ears, and you’re pregnant, why in the name of all things good and holy, are you taking the subway? I have to, but you. I find it hard to believe that you take the subway because you can’t get enough of the march of the city rats and the sweet aroma of eau de ass.

I went to a party at a restaurant Saturday night and met a couple of women writers. One of the women is a sometime dancer/performer and freelance journalist. How come she gets to have both? Hate her. She’s also a published author. Hate her even more. She wrote a book about relationships. I dislike those advice books. Most of the time the women who write them are either in dysfunctional relationships or not in any relationship at all, and I’m supposed to take their advice? The fact is, nobody knows anything about relationships, the opposite sex or what movies will be a hit at the box office. I told one of the women writers that I was working on a nonfiction humor memoir and she asked me what the title was.

“Right now it’s called, An American Broad, Abroad.” She said she liked it, shaking her bobble head approvingly. Another party guest joined us and the topic of book titles came up and bobble head took it upon herself to blurt out my title as, “A Broad Abroad.”

To which I replied, “No, that’s not it. It’s An American Broad Abroad.”

She continued, “Oh, but A Broad Abroad is so much snappier and catchier.”

I sneered at her.

“Okay, whatever. That one works too.”

Who the fuck asked you. Then I made the mistake of asking her if she’d ever been in a book club. I’m always interested to hear how other writer’s work. She literally turned her nose up and rolled her eyes.

“Wow, you didn’t have to turn your nose up.”

“Really, I didn’t think I turned my nose up.”

“Well, when you’re head tilts back and I can see your brain through your nostrils, I’m kind of thinking that your nose is turned up.”

The conversation, if you can call it that, ended with an annoying giggle. Hers, not mine.

Six straight hours of SVU. Not a record but respectable.

Another actor sighting, another asinine encounter averted

Sunday, February 15, 2009

A dear friend of mine told me that by blogging, I had found my forum. If I had a dollar every time I heard that one. She said this to me after reading my first installment, where I attend a party and embarrassment quickly ensues. I whined back, “Oh, great, now I have to leave my apartment to have something to write about.” To which she replied, “Not necessarily.” 

I thought about it and tried to come up with something that I could write about that didn’t entail having to leave my apartment (I don’t need that kind of pressure) or rather, not going to an event, or partaking in some grand activity.

A few minutes later, I wrote her back. “Oh, you mean I could write about how I've spent the last three hours (and two hours last night) scheduling my new Pilates clients into three different calendars, and two different address books?! Can you say OC-fucking D! Or maybe you're referring to the hissy fit that I almost pitched at Chase Bank today because I wasn't getting my way, so I kicked the door like a fucking two year old on my way out. You mean that kind of stuff?”

That being said, I had to leave my apartment yesterday, and I ran into yet another actor while waiting for the Q train, bound for Brooklyn, where I’m currently teacher training for Pilates certification. This is coming off the heels of my embarrassing encounter with the SVU actor. 

Tony Plana, from Ugly Betty, was pacing the subway platform. I was this close to walking up to him, introducing myself, and what? Regaling him with my adorable tale of how I know him? Well, yes, because this sort of thing puffs me up and gently strokes my ego. Hey, look at me, I know famous people?

Instead, I showed restraint and let him pass me by. Just for shits and giggles, let’s pretend I did accost Tony Plana. This is how I imagine the exchange would’ve gone down.

I walked up to Tony Plana and asked him if he was Tony Plana (knowing full well that he was) but I think this approach is less ‘stalky-like’. He said that he was Tony, and I was off. I told him that almost 15 years ago, I worked for a manager in Los Angeles, at an agency that represented him. He asked me who the manager was and when I told him, he smiled knowingly. But before he could say anything, I continued my introduction by telling him that four years ago, I worked for the same manager, at a different company, that currently represents him. I told him it was the last job I had in Los Angeles, before I moved. 

“I know. I couldn’t believe it either. After 20 years in the business, I was answering phones again. I spoke to you and your wife many times.”

He didn’t seem to remember but smiled nonetheless. I continued.

“Yeah, you’d think I would’ve climbed a little farther up the food chain in all of those years, but instead I was calling you with audition times and emailing you your sides. Oh, and sometimes I replenished your headshots in the files, after stapling them to your resumes of course.”

His face took on a, “That’s pathetic” grimace. Of course I could’ve been imagining it. “That job, well, let’s just say that a monkey from one of the shows on The Animal Planet could’ve done it. Blindfolded. But what are you going to do? I was between jobs and Robert offered me the position, so I really had no choice. Oh, and don’t get me started on the pittance that they paid me. I rollerbladed or biked to work, to save on gas money.”

Tony shuffled his feet, trying to end the conversation. I think I was making him nervous.

“Well, I just wanted to say hi and to congratulate you on the success of the show. It’s fun to see people from the old days making it. Hey, you know I grew up with one of your co-stars, Vanessa Williams. Is she down here with you? I’d love to say hello.”

Perfectly Reasonable

Friday, February 13, 2009

Here’s some backstory so the following tale will make sense. Hopefully.

I moved back to New York three years ago from L.A., via Prague (whole other story-stay tuned) moved into a building along the Hudson River, befriended a guy who I met in the elevator on my first night in the building, who then promptly set me up with his friend a month later. 

I dated his friend, who I will now refer to as the man, for over a year and a half. It then took us another 10 months to officially break up. I was (and still might be) in love with the man. Ours was a passionate, loving and in the end, highly charged and loaded relationship. I had never felt this way about anyone. Tragic. Oh, so terribly tragic.

(The why’s and the how’s will follow in the coming months) Since we stopped seeing one another, he has never left my mind nor my heart. And even though, according to family and friends, I should be over him, I’m clearly not.

See below.

I emailed my friend last night (the one from above backstory) about having a Match.com session at his place. This consists of sitting in front of his computer with a bottle of wine, searching for someone that we BOTH like for him to date. And when we do find someone, I help him write funny-ass emails; the likes of which are Nobel worthy, if I do say so myself. It’s a lot easier to take chances when you don’t care if the person responds or not. They’re sarcastic, off the cuff, and pretty out there. I’m not sure if my friend shares my philosophy but he keeps letting me browse with him. 

These days, sadly enough, Match.com, is my prized entertainment. The emails usually illicit crazy, gutturul fits of laughter, that either has me running to the bathroom so I don’t pee my pants or an abdominal work out that rivals any at the gym. Or both.

But on this particular night, my friend couldn't play in the reindeer games because he was going out with the boys. I know the boys could mean any number of boys but I was convinced that one of the boys had to be the man. Oh, crap. Does this mean he’s in the building? In my presence, figuratively speaking. I reeled for a moment or two and in that moment.

I visited jealousy. Was he going to talk to strange women when the boys went out? Was he going to get someone’s number? Envy. I wish I had ‘girls’ to go out with. How come I don’t know enough girls to have a girls night out? And a whole host of other, borderline pyschotic, feelings. So what do I, the supposed grown up, do? I did what any self respecting grown-up woman would do.

I got dressed (it was nine o’clock and I was already in my jammies) and went looking for the boys. I put on lipstick, and gloss, and decided that now was a perfect time to go to the corner drugstore (what am I in Mayberry) to pick up the rest of my meds (shocking I take meds) I’m such a cliche. Meds are so 2001 but whatever. 

I was hoping, of course, that I'd run into the man and yet, I was petrified of the idea. Did I really want to run into him? After all this time, I still don’t think I’d know what to say. Even in my pretend encounters I have with him in my head, I get tongue tied. There was definitely a push-pull thing happening. I wasn't sure what I wanted, but my body was victorious and it pushed me out the door. Oh, and I also put on my super cute jeans and slutty boots, because if I did run into the man, I didn’t want to be in sneakers. They’re too daytime and casual and I wanted to look like I was going ‘out’ and all sexy like. The boots look better with the jeans anyway.

From the time I stepped into the elevator, to the time I reached CVS, my eyes were in constant motion. Looking, seeking, darting, roving. Nothing. I walked into CVS and the pharmacy was closed. Am I in New York or podunk bumfunk?! What’s the point in living in the city that never sleeps if the pharmacy sleeps. Great. Thanks a lot CVS.

I wasn’t ready to go back home, because it was early and there was still a chance that I’d run into the boys. I decided that it was imperative that I go to the food store, a block away from CVS, to get my desperately needed bag of organic raw sugar (I forgot to pick it up when I was at Fairway yesterday) I knew putting it on my list was futile because I'd actually have to look at the list and I never do.

Food Emporium, the dirty hell hole that it is, didn't have my brand. I left dirty little Food Emporium, dejected and well, feeling dirty. I swear, there’s something about that store that makes you want to shower and shed a layer of skin.

On my walk back home, twice my heart nearly leapt into my throat when I thought I saw the man. It’s a good thing I’m over the man eh. I walked slowly, lingering really, thinking that maybe... I didn’t want to look like I was just strolling aimlessly on a Tuesday night (like I was looking for them) just in case I did run into them, so I played with my cell phone, appearing to be engrossed in a very important task. 

While I was at CVS, Verizon was kind enough to text me that I was at 80% capacity in my text inbox. Ironic, no? Perfect. As I walked, I deleted. Now I looked busy and with purpose.

When I got back to the building, I took stock at my behavior and well, I’d like to say that I was embarrassed and went right upstairs. But I can’t. I made a pit stop in the mailroom. What was I expecting to find? What? If the boys were in fact in the building, my friend is going to say to the man, “Hey, dude, I know it’s 9:30p and the bars and women are waiting, but can I get my mail first?” I went into the mailroom and got my mail anyway.

I thought about it, and I was this close to doing it, but I stopped short at going down to the garage to see if I saw the man’s car. That's progress, isn’t it? And then, and only then, did I make my way back upstairs to my apartment, where I took off my slutty boots, super cute jeans, put my jammies back on and did Sudoku before falling asleep.

Another night, Another Embarrassing Moment

Thursday, February 12, 2009

I went to the Woman's Day, Red Dress Awards last night. An award show thingy to celebrate the people behind women's heart health and the Larry King Cardiac Foundation. And yes, Mr. King was there. So was his brother. It also kicked off fashion week. Whatev. A friend of mine produced the show and invited me, thinking that it would be fun. I brought my friend Joelle. And no, I didn't have a red dress to wear, like the majority of the women attending. Why? Because I refuse to go shopping. Refuse to spend money. And prefer to live in my jeans and work out clothes only to curse the day, myself, and my mother (just cuz) every time I have to actually 'get dressed' and don't have a good goddam thing to wear, which ultimately leaves me feeling like a failure, loser and naked.

Okay, so after listening to Robin Thicke, who someone in the biz called, “the soul-fullest white man in music”, Joan Osbourne and Solnage Knowles (Beyonce's little sister try to sing, and let me just say that at 22 years old, that girl should not have bags under eyes the size of Cleveland, Joelle and I hit the after party reception.

I had a couple of glasses of a champagne and rasberry cocktail and scarfed down a couple of cute, and heart healthy, mini turkey burgers. It had been a while since I ate anything substantial and those mini buns weren't going to soak up anything but the extra saliva in my mouth, so the cocktails went straight to my head. That's when it happened.

I saw an actor, that no one would've recognized but me, from an episode of Law& Order SVU, heading for the cupcake table where I happened to be standing. And then, without thinking, but knowing that the next few minutes were going to end up in a story, I went in. The following is the 5 minute or less exchange.

ME

(literally grabbing his arm) Did you do an episode of SVU?

Dani hates playing the dumb blond. Of course she knows he was on the episode. Why else would she now be making an ass of herself?

ACTOR (smiling)

Yes.

ME

You were so good in that episode.

ACTOR

Thank you.

ME

It's my favorite show. And that episode was particularly great. I’ve seen them all, so I know.

Champagne really kicking in, accompanied by the all too embarrassing red cheeks.

ACTOR

Thank you. What's your name?

ME

Dani

ACTOR

I’m Jack. Nice to meet you.

ME

Nice meeting you. Have you done another SVU?

Again, Dani knows for a fact that he hasn’t, and she presses on.

ME (cont’d)

I love how they keep rotating all of the same actors from the Law and Orders. It's like a theater repertory company.

JACK

Yeah, it's like the triumvirate. I've done the...

Dani spaces out because she can't believe that she's acting like a deranged Jonas Brothers fan.

ME

I don't even watch the other ones. Only SVU. I'm a purist.

JACK

It's been two years, so I'm due for another one.

ME

Do you want me to make a phone call? Who should I call?

Jack smiles nervously.

JACK

Yeah, well, it's such a great show. She's great. He's great.

ME

And the writing's so good.

Jack nods.

ME

And I love when they put some funny in.

Jack nods a little less enthusiastically.

ME

(laughing to herself)

Yeah, I have this whole thing with Christopher Meloni.

We have so many connections, a two degree thing... we know a lot of the same people (trailing off).. Oh, my god, I sound like a stalker.

JACK

Well, thank you so much.

ME

Yeah, no problem. Again, you're really good.

BLACK OUT

Oh, boy do I wish I could black that out. I know. You don't have to say it. I should be locked up and the key melted!

It could've been a lot worse. I could've approached the actress, Linda Dano (who I'm sure no one recognized but me) from the soap opera Another World, who was also in attendance, and told her that I met her when I was an intern at the show, in Brooklyn, in 1987. God knows where that conversation would've gone.