Reading is Fundamental

Saturday, March 7, 2009

I was up early this morning to meet my 9am Pilates client on the upper east side (96th and Lexington to be exact). I hopped on the 6 train and just for the record, getting on the subway during the morning rush hour is like the running of the bulls. You can easily get gorged in the ass if you’re not careful. I sat down across from a boy who must’ve been 11 or 12 years old. He was reading, The Doomsday Conspiracy by Sidney Sheldon, a twisting plot of a worldwide government conspiracy that could lead to the end of the world. I thought it was an odd reading choice for an eleven year old. Not that I know what your average, less than average or above average, eleven year old is reading these days, because I don’t.

What I do know is that Mr. Sheldon created the television masterpieces, Hart to Hart (1979–84) and I Dream of Jeannie (1965-70) The way I see it, Christina Aguilera owes Sidney big time (I’m a Genie in a Bottle-1999) Like she thought of that by herself. Sidney didn’t start writing books until after he turned 50. Whew, I still have several years to crank one out. Okay, so now I’m comparing myself to Sidney Sheldon?!

I couldn’t imagine how an eleven year old boy found his way to Sidney Sheldon, but I admired this pint sized rebel. It reminded me of myself. I stepped out of my fifth grade reading curriculum by studying and memorizing Judy Blume’s, Forever (thanks to my neighbor and Yonkers street gang member, Stacy Dominguez). Forever was the story of Katherine and Michael’s first time having sex. That book was my sex education. God knows my parent’s never sat me down and explained anything. Either they were in denial or hung over. That’s what the World Book Encyclopedia was for.

I underlined the dirty parts in Forever, or what I thought were the dirty parts, and I brought the book to school to share with my friends, because I’m a giver and a sharer. My friends and I gathered on the black top at recess, and being the public speaker that I was (read: attention monger) I read the dirty parts out loud with the confidence of a prepubescent Tracy Lords.

“Then he was on top of me and I felt Ralph, hard, against my thigh.”

In the book, the Michael character named his penis Ralph and ever since then, whenever I hear the name Ralph, I think cock. Ralph Lauren, Cock Lauren. Cock Machio. Cock Waldo Emerson.

“Just when I thought, Oh God…we’re really and truly going to do it, Michael groaned and said, “Oh, no…no…I’m sorry…I’m so sorry.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I came.”

That Judy knew her stuff. My friend Jennifer, okay, that’s a lie. I don’t have a friend Jennifer. I was trying to protect the innocent but it makes me feel like I’m making this shit up. My friend Leslie (sorry Leslie) wanted to borrow the book. The following day in school I was called into the nurse’s office. Leslie, Leslie’s mom, my mom, and the school nurse were all staring at me, as if I’d started a fire in the library. Leslie’s mom was so pissed. She was appalled that her daughter was reading a book about sex. Clearly she hadn’t had a sit down with Leslie either. I was such a smart ass at the time, and thought the whole incident was funny. I’m sure the expression on my face said, “Bite me.”

The nurse looked at me and said, “Forever is inappropriate reading for someone your age.”

I looked at her. “Inappropriate? My parents roll joints before family car trips, and my dad wears Speedos, and carries a man bag. I think we have different definitions of inappropriate.”

They all looked at my mom, waiting for her to say something parental. All she could say was, “I’m just glad she can read.”

After reading Forever I did wonder what my first sexual experience would be like. And when I was two months shy of my 16th birthday, I found out. Scott and I met on a teen tour the summer after sophomore year in high school. The tour was like high school; only we traveled from coast-to-coast in a deluxe bus for 40 days, all under the watchful eyes of a few 18- and 19-year-old counselors. Scott and I fell in love in the back of an ultra-modern, air-conditioned, restroom equipped motor coach.

As soon as we got off the road, and back to our separate high school lives, Scott and I made plans to meet in New York City. We met at Pier 84 to see The Clash and The English Beat in concert. I’ll always be grateful to Scott for introducing me to punk rock. At the time my musical tastes consisted of Broadway musicals and Cher. Who am I kidding. Nothing’s changed. During the song, London Calling, a thunderstorm blew in. I’d just bought a pair of cream colored leather boots (with fringe) a week earlier and they weren’t the least bit broken in, or water proof. Ow.

We strolled (I limped) to Penn Station, and took a train back to Scott’s house on Long Island. I’m pretty sure I knew where this train was headed (wink wink) and I was excited. And where the hell did I tell my parents I was going? As liberal and lax as they were, I don’t think they would’ve been down with my going to my boyfriends’ parents house to get laid for the first time. My ankles were killing me but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want my new love to think that I whined, even though the pain warranted a whine or four. It definitely warranted a cab.

When we got to his house, we immediately went up to his bedroom (and where the hell were his parents) I took off my boots, and not only were my ankles bleeding (from the hardened leather rubbing against them of course) but my ankle blood had penetrated the leather, and stained the outside of the boot. Classy. And yet, I still kept quiet. I wish I could say that I would never walk in bloody boots again to look good for a man, but I can’t.

I timidly asked for a couple of Band-aids. It’s a miracle I was able to do that much. I didn’t want to cause a fuss, but I thought it would be more humiliating if I’d left a mark on his sheets. When he handed me the Band-aids, he looked at my bleeding ankles concerned.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

I was mortified. “I guess it was from the boots.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

Why? If I knew that...

Then I panicked. I wondered if he’d be turned off by my bloody ankles and wouldn’t want to have sex. That was adorable of me.

We climbed under the black polyester blanket of his twin bed and started making out. All I remember is that it started slow and tender, and then before I knew what was happening, it was over. Seriously, Judy knew her shit. The thing is, I didn’t care. We loved each other, and I knew we’d be doing it again.

I went into the bathroom afterwards to check things out; you know to see if I looked any different, and to see if a Mariachi Band was playing in my vagina. C’mon, I read that first timers can have very dramatic responses and feelings. And yes, I usually believe everything I read. There wasn’t a band but I did find the condom still inside of me. Ah! I wasn’t so sure that that wasn’t supposed to happen because, as I said, my sex education consisted of Judy Blume books. Judy never wrote about this sort of thing happening, so I was at a loss. The only naked body I’d seen up to that point was the redheaded naked girl holding an airplane on the cover of my parent’s Blind Faith album. I still cringe when I see redheaded naked girls.

I didn’t know what to do with the condom. Do I flush it? What if it backs up the toilet? I was so responsible even then. Do I throw it in the trash? What if his mom finds it? I was too embarrassed to ask Scott, so I pulled it out, tied it off, brought it home and hung it upside down in my closet to dry. Then I pressed it in my scrapbook next to my autographed photo of Doug Henning. But because I’m into telling the truth, I left it in the corner of the bathtub and never said a word about it.

I went home the following morning and later that day Scott called. We decided to be mature, de-virginized adults and avoid the elephant in the room. Instead we planned our next rendezvous. Why can’t innocence like that last forever.

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.”

Music In the Subway Sounds good to me… or does it?

I had an appointment on the upper west side yesterday, (that’s code for therapy), and I got on the wrong subway. I’m not always paying attention, especially when I’m reading a book and thinking about what parent I can blame for what during my therapy session. 

I accidentally got on the E, instead of the C. It didn’t hit me until 53rd and Fifth Avenue, that if I didn’t get off at the next stop, I’d find myself in Queens. I don’t have anything against Queens, even though my ex-husband lives there, I just wasn’t in the mood for another borough.

It wasn’t the first time I got on the wrong train. And I’m pretty sure it won’t be my last. While I zigzagged through the subway labyrinthine, I came across a couple of subway musicians. 

I saw the first one at the Port Authority station where I boarded the E instead of the C. I see this man every time I’m in that subway station and yesterday it dawned on me that each time I see him, he’s singing the same song. To say that his repertoire is grossly limited is a gross understatement.

But it got me thinking about getting myself out there and performing. I’ve got a guitar and I could sing the only song that I know how to play, which is an original that I wrote called, Tom Cruise’s Braces. Sure it’s a bit dated (Tom had braces in 2002) and most people aren’t even aware of this little factoid but if the 42nd St. troubadour can sing his oldie (I believe it was from the Bob Marley collection), then why couldn’t I? 

I fantasized about the exposure that I would get. There must be a million people passing through the subways on any given day. If I could play and draw a crowd around me, it would certainly be a lot cooler than performing for five drunks at open mic night. Why not do a subway gig? I’ve tried everything else to get some desperately needed attention. 

I spend so much time in the subway getting lost, I might as well make a few bucks while I’m down there. My brother once suggested that I sing in the subway. Of course he also suggested that I bring my picture and resume to the ABC offices and, “Just tell them you want to be on television.”

Then again, not everyone wants to hear subway musicians. People are tired, hot, or frost bitten, cursing the subway delays and just want to get home without getting sneezed on by a homeless woman. Or they want to get to their office without being pushed onto the tracks by the rush hour crowds that slowly edge them over the yellow line. 

But most importantly, the majority of the crowd that would be forming around me wouldn’t be inebriated, like they are in the comedy clubs. (pause) Forget it. I’m sticking to above ground establishments. 

The second musician I encountered was at the B train at Rockefeller Station. I listened to the violinist and frankly I could’ve done a better job, and I’ve never even held a violin. All I’m saying is that a little practice goes a long way. Sure you’re playing on a smelly stage, competing with screeching trains in the bowels of New York City, but that’s no excuse for sounding like you just picked up the violin for the first time. It’s a competitive world, even below street level. 

The subway musician Susan Cagle was discovered at Penn Station, after years of practice, and she recently released an album on Sony BMG. She has a song called, Dear Oprah, which she got to sing to Oprah on Oprah. 

This got me thinking again. Maybe I should take my guitar out of its case and sing Tom Cruise’s Braces in the subway. Who knows, maybe I’ll get discovered and then be asked to serenade Tom, Katie and Suri at a party at the Church of Scientology Celebrity Center.