Train-ing Days

ten for '10.

2009-02-02T12:42:00.000-08:00

I failed to create a New Year's Resolution--largely because I tend to have the same one every year (stop chewing my nails), and then find myself chomping away when things get stressful. So I've decided that Groundhog Day is the perfect opportunity to articulate some larger goals. I give myself until Groundhog Day of '10 to complete them. Unless he doesn't see his shadow, in which case I'm letting myself off the hook.

Tada: GROUNDHOG DAY GOALS OF '09

1. To participate in a piece of theatre that I am truly proud of. Proud of my performance, my fellow cast members, and every aspect of the show.

2. In order to fulfill the first, I must audition more. I loathe auditioning, as most do, and because of this, I tend to under audition. I need to suck it up and realize that it never hurts to try, and even auditioning for shows that I think will be terrible, or shows that I think are beneath me, or out of my league are all helpful steps to becoming a better auditioner for the shows I truly do want to participate in.

3. To find and regularly attend a new church. I have dabbled in local church scene, and largely been uninspired, and, with one particular church--quite scared. I need to get over the bad-experience-induced church-going apathy and keep on trying. That being said, does anybody know of a non-denominational church with a small to medium sized congregation, a blend of traditional and contemporary worship, and a large percentage of young adults in attendance that is less than twenty minutes from West Roxbury and doesn't require driving into the heart of the city?

4. To call my family in Maine more often. Last week, my mother had a heart attack, and I had no idea until after she was out of the hospital and left a message on my voice mail at work casually mentioning it. And it had been probably a week since I had last spoken to anyone from home base. That can be easily remedied.

5. To organize my closets, both in W.Rox and in Maine. I have 1 closet in my entire apartment in West Roxbury. It is not particularly large. I do not possess a lot of clothing, but when one small closet contains an entire wardrobe plus sheets, extra purses, towels, cleaning supplies, and boots--it becomes more cluttered than I'd like to admit. This is easy to remedy with one visit to Target. In Maine, I don't have a closet or a bedroom anymore. But I do have a lot of accumulated stuff that my brothers have in their closets, under their beds, and in the hallway outside of their rooms. I need to buy one of those canvas rolling wardrobes from Ikea or Target, go through my years worth of crap, and somehow make it invisible behind the canvas curtains. This is not an easy undertaking, but it must be done.

6. To initiate conversation with strangers more often. I work in the largest building in Boston, and I take rush hour trains to and from work. I see new people daily, and I very rarely speak to them. I hereby resolve to speak to somebody I'm sharing the elevator with, or crammed next to, or bump into in the hallway.

7. I want to find the perfect pair of jeans to replace my current favorites who are well beyond their peak. They were purchased for $15 at (go ahead and judge) Walmart in Mexico, Maine 6 years ago, and they fit me like no other jeans ever had or have. I still wear them every chance I get, for I know the day will come when I will have to part with them--and when that day comes, I need a flawless replacement. And the hardest part about this goal? They must cost less than $30 (I am adjusting for inflation, and the fact that unlike when I bought my Walmart jeans, I am employed).

8. To cook with the crockpot at least once a month. I have a giant crockpot. I have used it twice in the past two years. Both times, the meals were delicious and simple, but the thought of preparing dinner before I've even had breakfast is never appealing--I do not tend to think ahead when it comes to food preparation. I need to get over my morning laziness so that I can have more time for evening laziness. And stop eating bagels all the darn time.

9. To take a real vacation. I'm not talking flying to a luxury resort in the Bahamas or anything, but I haven't really taken a vacation for the sake of vacation in years. I went to Prince Edward Island for a few days this past summer, but that was for a goal (to see my cousin's play), and the long drive and short visit sort of disqualified it from being a bonafide vacation. I want to go somewhere just to go somewhere.

10. And lastly, but perhaps most importantly, I want to actually get a bra fitting and buy at least two new bras. I am not embarrassed about my boobs (in fact, there is an entire video of a monologue I performed about them two years ago available for download on itunes--thanks, alma matter, for randomly choosing that as a featured video on itunes U), but I am embarrassed that I'm close to 24 and I've never had a real bra fitting experience, and the majority of my bras are ugly, cost $7, and have long since lost all support.

There. Ten goals for 2010. How appropriate.

on boots, blondes and paper mills

2009-01-28T06:53:00.000-08:00

I have a new pair of Baffin winter boots, and I think they are the best invention since Joseph's flax flat bread. When I walked to the train this morning, amidst snow and slippery unshoveled sidewalks, I had no fear of falling. My footsteps might have technically been heavy (they are large boots, after all), but I felt like I was treading very lightly indeed. And that is my product plug for the day. Perhaps they were made lighter by the fact that they were gifted to me, and my bank account did not have to suffer to surround my feet with cushiony warmth.

Do you know what I am not plugging? Being blonde. I committed to change my hair color for my current show long before I realized that I didn't really respect the integrity of this theatre company enough to make such a drastic change. A committment, however, is a committment. And so I find myself sitting at my work desk an altered being. A blonde being. And since making the change, I have only been at work, at rehearsal, or in transit between the two locations--and therefore do not think blondes actually have more fun. They do, however, have need for more conditioner.

I am going out on Friday (my one night off from the show in many moons), and hopefully being blonde will be a pleasing experience for the first time since I shelled out the megabucks to be somebody I'm not. Do not get me wrong--the hair looks fine. It looks natural-esque (I have blue eyes and was blonde as a child), but it's just such a significant alteration that I feel like I'm wearing a wig all the time. Mayhaps sometime I will get used to it--just in time to go back to my natural somewhere between brown and dark blonde with hints 'o red color.

I feel kind of petty complaining about my hair and this trainwreck of a show when the economy is nosediving and the news is a series of depressing events. I read the online version of my local paper (the Lewiston Sun Journal out of Maine--I am 45 minutes from Lewiston, but that is still the "local" paper), and this morning there was a headline announcing that NewPage Corp, the owners of the paper mill in the neighboring town of Rumford, is laying off 16% of their employees--both salaried and hourly. That mill quite literally employs the majority of my small town's population. In our town, people either work for the mill, are teachers for the children of the people who work in the mill, or are lumberjacks--cutting down trees destined eventually to go to the mill. Or they're retired. My family is not directly affected by this--my father is superintendent of a nearby school district and my mother is currently unemployed due to her health, but I know that this sort of thing is going to be catastrophic for our humble community. A community that, by the way, probably has a lower household income than is average for the state, even before layoffs.

I'm ashamed to admit that I always sort of romanticized The Great Depression. After all, the leaner times seemed to inspire sort of uprising of community spirit and family closeness and moral strength. But my impression of a sort of warm and fuzzy community brought together by poverty was completely gleaned from novels and films and musicals. Even "The Grapes of Wrath," one of my all time favorites, made me imagine that people were more resilient and family-oriented because of their financial suffering (despite the all together bleak circumstances in the novel).

Instead, I think the fear of economic collapse is making people surround themselves with a protective shell--hardening individuals instead of softening them and melding them with others in similar situations.

I'm just glad I can pray. Oxford County, Maine--you're ranking pretty high on my list of shout outs to God these days.

In which I attempt to share my culinary prowess with the world

2009-01-22T13:47:00.000-08:00

I think I just discovered the most delicious accidental dinner ever. And, though I am not a frequent preparer of foods that don't fit inside a toaster, I think I am going to share my impromptu recipe with the world (world= nobody).

Annie's Amazing and Alltogether Delightful Dinner
Ingredients:
1/2 Joseph's Flat Bread (Wheat/Flax/Oat)
1-2 Tbs. Crumbled Goat Cheese
1-2 Tbs. Dried Cranberries
1 Medium Sweet Potato, Washed
1/4 Small Onion, Diced
1/4 Cup Frozen Whole Cranberries
1-2 Tbs. Olive Oil
1 Tbs. Cinnamon
1 Tbs. Chili Powder
1 Tsp. Ground Red Pepper

First, preheat oven to 450 degrees. Slice sweet potato into smallish pieces (think french fries), leaving skin on, and put in tupperware. Add olive oil, cinnamon, chili powder, and red pepper to the potato and toss, coating evenly. Place in a roasting pan of some kind, spreading evenly. Sprinkle the onion and cranberries in a lovely pattern. Bake for 30-40 minutes, or until slightly brown.

Approximately 5 minutes before the potato is done (or even after the potato is done), place goat cheese and dried cranberries inside a folded piece of Joseph's flat bread. Use sandwich griller machine, or frying pan, or microwave, or toaster oven to warm the bread until the cheese is warm and soft.

Place goat cheese sandwich and sweet potatoes on a colorful plate. Enjoy!

I know I did. And it's vegetarian (I am not one, but it makes me feel special). And it includes multiple food groups! And, best of all, it is easy as pie! Easier than pie, come to that. And perfect for 1 person, although there will likely be some sweet potatoes left over for lunch the next day. Huzzah!

Sunday?

2009-01-18T19:18:00.001-08:00

What a routine it's become. Sunday=inconvenient winter precipitation.

If I ever get to a point in my life when I'm able to be a dual-state resident, I am absolutely going to winter somewhere farther South. Preferably somewhere in the South where there are trees and mountains. Since that is what I miss the most about not living in Maine anymore.

I tend to doubt that will ever be a financial possibility for me, given my particular passions and career goals (read: I have no legitimate career goals, I have impossibly high career dreams), but the thought that someday I could, you know, be a trophy wife or lottery winner or acquire a mysterious financial benefactor, kind of gets me through days like this.

That, and the thought that my upper back might just be thoroughly toned without a gym with all of the shoveling I'm doing this winter. That's an upper.

Slipnslide

2009-01-14T12:05:00.000-08:00

The fact that I made it to the train station this morning without slipping even once on the unforgivably icy sidewalks is a feat I consider to be almost Olympian.

Gary Vaynerchuck is coming back to Boston for the wine expo the weekend of the 24th. My close friend, and one-time WineLibraryTV guest co-host, invited me to go the after party. I have rehearsal all the livelong day, so I cannot attend. I am no longer Olympian.

I am now a pale, wine-less (and slightly whine-y) unsatisfied actor whose greatest achievement for the day was not falling on my butt while walking.

Pretty much, I'm the new Lindsay Lohan sans leggings, lesbian tendencies, and hair extensions.

On train crushes, their lady friends, and 128.

2009-01-13T06:10:00.000-08:00

Yesterday evening, the train was ten minutes late and my undeclared (and apparently unrequited) train crush was there with an exotic looking woman. It was decidedly not one of my favorite commutes.

On the upside--despite the fact that much of the sidewalk from the train station (Bellevue) to my car parked on the corner of South and Centre Streets was not shoveled, I made it to my car without once faceplanting into the packed-down-by-feet snow.

In other news, I vehemently loathe people who drive ridiculously fast in the breakdown lane during rush hour, especially when the traffic really isn't all that terrible. I swear, trying to get off or or at any exit with those effers is legitimately life threatening. If I had a bigger car, I'd be one of those traffic vigilantes who drives halfway in the breakdown lane at a reasonable pace so that people can't do that. Vigilantes in the left lane? Annoying. In the breakdown lane? Amazing.

I'm hoping that tonight I learn (a la Geraldine Granger in Vicar of Dibley) that my train crush's woman friend is his sister. Because my first train crush must have switched train times, or been laid off, or moved, because he ceased taking my train. My second train crush I discovered in the winter time, and learned come spring that lurking beneath his trendy leather gloves was a wedding ring. Third time is the proverbial charm, right?

An open letter to the skies

2009-01-09T11:41:00.000-08:00

Dear Atmosphere and all other weather related Spheres in the Sky,

WTF?

Love,
Annie

I realize this is a pre-emptive complaint. And, really, it's January in New England, so I shouldn't get my panties in a twist over impending precipitation; however, I am thoroughly annoyed that it should snow on yet another Sunday. I have rehearsals on Sundays. And as unrewarding as this show is proving to be, I'm a good actor. Not necessarily talent-wise (who am I to give myself that sort of label?), but responsibility-wise. I feel tremendous amounts of guilt skipping a rehearsal because my faithful Civic can't make the trek. I don't want to be seen as pulling a Piven.*

If the powers that be would actually cancel a rehearsal because of the weather, I would be tickled, nay, THRILLED--I'd dutifully work on my lines/blocking/harmonies in my apartment. Yet with all of the inefficient leadership supporting this show (glossing over scenes and songs that seriously need to be retooled, spending the first half hour of every rehearsal just gossiping, a complete lack of communication, etc.), it would be too much of a waste of time to cancel a rehearsal, even if many cast members have to drive upwards of thirty minutes on a good day to get there. Seriously--if we just got down to business at all subsequent rehearsals immediately, and then actually spent the entire alloted rehearsal time actually rehearsing, we would more than make up for it.

What was I complaining about again?

Oh yeah, the weather. That's all. I hate snow (and if you added a "this" after "hate" and changed the "n" to an "h," that might be just as true).

TGIF.

*Pulling a Piven: Creating a barely legitimate excuse to get out of a commitment, ie feigning a sushi overdose, pissing off David Mamet, and being replaced by William H. Macy.

Is it Spring yet?

2009-01-07T05:31:00.000-08:00

I hate winter. I know, I know, I shouldn't be living in New England, then. The fact is, the only time I find snow acceptable is between Thanksgiving and New Year's. After that, I'm ready for the big thaw. Which is unfortunate, since many years, things haven't even completely frozen over by then.

This extremely rational loathing of the season is particularly strong now that I live on the corner of two streets that are subject to winter weather parking bans. Maybe someday I'll get to City Hall to get a resident sticker (problematic, since my address is West Roxbury, but the resident parking streets are Rozzie); however, considering that would require me taking a bit of PTO at work, I am inclined to instead panic over every storm and park on the one street that isn't resident-only or parking-ban prone, and get scolded by one of its residents, Ms. Don't Park Across from My House Lady (she scared me so much the first time, that I didn't think I could park on that street ever again...and then in the midst of one snowstorm, I asked a man who lived on that street if he knew of any good parking places, and he told me that his street was perfect....rendering that lady a complete and utter PITA).

So far this winter, my parking experiences have been rather painless--a miracle, really, considering the amount of storms we've already had. Still, I have one winter traveling story that I shall now recall (buckle up, folks).

My family lives in rural Maine. The Western foothills, as it were, and not particularly near anything of note. I was able to obtain a few days off for Christmas, and made my way North. Christmas Eve rolled around and lo and behold, there were threats of ice storms coming from the TV. My family, long time Maine drivers, seemed unconcerned, since it hadn't begun in the afternoon, and decided that driving the 45 minutes of back roads (and I mean, over-the-river-and-through-the-woods back roads) to and from Christmas Eve service would be completely achievable.

I should mention that I am the oldest of seven children, all of whom were home for Christmas, and the family car is a Kia Sedan.

It was decided that, since one of my brothers had taken his large SUV to his girlfriend's house for dinner, I would be the second driver. Two brothers piled into my Honda hatchback, and the rest somehow crammed themselves into my parents' car. I followed my father along the twists and turns, and despite a few slips and slides up and down hills (some roads are rarely plowed, it would seem), we made it safely to church just as the rain began.

Before we left after the service, I told my father that my car is terrible in winter weather, and that I would have to go unbelievably slow in order to assure a safe return, since the rain was now begin to ice over. He suggested that he would follow behind my car, so that if anything were to happen, they'd be there to help out. I told him I'd rather him not follow me, since it makes me nervous to have other people scrutinize my driving from behind (also, I hadn't slept much the night before, and was in a foul mood). He insisted, I obeyed.

Sometimes, fathers really do know best. About 6 miles or so from home, I was only going about 10 MPH, as I descended a slight hill on the backest of back roads when all of the sudden things were spinning around, and I found myself face first in a snowbank. Thankfully, I had been going slow enough that the impact hadn't harmed the body of the car (though cosmetically speaking, nothing would bother me, Ethel the Civic has had a lot of trauma in her day); more importantly, my brothers (aged 21 and 18) and I (age not important, though dangerously close to 24 these days) were unscathed. But my car was half way down a banking (filled with slush and about 3 feet of snow), and there was no getting her out.

Because my father had been following me, he pulled over and informed me that he had hit the same ice and almost plowed right on into me, so we should definitely not be waiting near the car. So we walked down to the nearest driveway (about 150 feet or so away from the car, at the bottom of the hill), as I proceeded to get all weepy. Nobody was home at the house, which was the only house for quite a ways. It was, after all, about 8 PM on Christmas Eve. Most people aren't spending it in snowbanks.

In an unlikely turn of events, nobody had their cell phones on them--except for me. It should be noted that my father, mother, and two of my brothers all own and regularly carry cell phones. Because they live in rural Maine, they have services that actually work there. My phone, however, is on permanent roam anywhere north of Portland (and we certainly are north of Portland). I had one battery bar left, as I winced and called AAA. First of all, the operator had no idea how to find me. I was on a rural route (quite literally, RR 14o, in fact), and not at all in Massachusetts. I was informed that it would be 2 hours before a tow truck could get to me.

It was still raining, mind you, and there was no place to go for cover. There are no street lamps, so the only light was coming from the emergency flashers on my half-buried car. It was determined that, rather than make my parents and three siblings who were crammed in the back wait for 2 hours in the storm, that they would go home and my father would come back in his Jeep to check on us, and possibly just take us home should AAA never arrive.

So they drove off, leaving me with two brothers and nothing to do but wait.

Eventually, an SUV coming from the opposite direction pulled over. A man and his wife, probably in their upper forties, asked us what happened. After I explained, they said that the town (Canton, Maine) was terrible about sanding during storms, and this had happened before when it's been icy. They said they knew the people who lived in the house we were standing in the driveway of, and lead us up to their garage to get some shovels out. We found two, and my brothers each took hold of them. The couple suggested we that go shovel out the front of my car, so that when someone comes to pull us out, it would be easier. They said they would call the town to have them sand, but even better--they would call a neighbor who happened to have the tools and vehicle necessary to yank me on out of that ditch.

Soaking wet, and shivering, my brothers and I began to walk on the side of the road up to my unfortunate little car. About halfway up, a car came from the other direction down the hill. It hit the ice--and began sliding right at us. It was something out of a movie--headlights coming helplessly directly at three bewildered youths on some abandoned road. "JUMP!" I yelled, and all three of us, and the shovels, went running and flying down into the banking below as the driver miraculously regained control of his car and avoided taking us all out in some sort of Christmas Eve tragedy.

We continued to walk up the road, only this time when we saw the fog illuminate in the distance, we knew to pre-emptively head down the banking. This time, the driver could not regain control, and about 20 feet above my car's flashing lights, another car began blinking as it discovered it, too, had spun around and gone halfway down a ditch.

Now we have two cars down a ditch. The SUV couple decided that enough was enough, and went to drive up the street to where the closest neighbors were to ask them to put their car out with flashing lights so that people would know that it is dangerous ahead. As they left, my brothers began shoveling. I watched. And started to feel really, really hot, about to vomit, dizzy, and blacking out around the corners. I've only fainted twice before (once after giving blood, and once when bleeding profusely after a bagel-slicing incident went awry), but I knew that was what was about to happen. I sat down into the snow and shoved my face into the white stuff, hoping to snap myself out of it.

The SUV couple returned, and soon after, a Jeep with a rope tow and silent elderly driver with a cigarette in his mouth arrived to the relief of us all. Since I was sitting in a stupor with my face in the snow, SUV man got out and asked if he could drive the car while cigarette man towed me on out. I mumbled something, probably a "yes, please," but could just have easily been something about Christian Bale or bunnies. Either way, he got in the driver's seat, and my car was, with a few quick tugs, removed from the snowbank of doom, as the SUV man drove my car safely into the driveway where we had stood for so long before.

Just when I was beginning to think the ordeal was over, about three steps into walking down to my car, I lost my footing and fell completely flat and sprawled out in the middle of the road. Head and tailbone thoroughly pavement-smacked. Contents of my purse flying everywhere. Rain now falling directly onto my face. Despite the pain and the surprise and the weariness and the sheer embarrassment of it all, I had to laugh, collect my things, and continue walking.

As the Jeep yanked the other car out, I got on my cell (now flashing "low battery") to call home to inform them that, if my dad hadn't left home yet, he didn't need to. He had, of course, it was now 9:15 or so. I tried to call AAA to cancel their service, and my phone shut off. So, shivering, wet, with numb extremities and a head rush, my brothers and I blasted the heat in the car and waited for my father to come.

About 20 minutes later, he did. Just after a sand truck, thanks to the call of the SUV people, went past. In what might have been the cutest thing ever, he had brought all of the extra blankets in the house with him, assuming we had been standing out in the rain all of that time.

My brother offered to drive, an offer I normally would not have taken up (I'm nervous about other people driving my car because it has no power steering and is a bit of a tricky little beast), but gratefully accepted. Not going above 15 MPH (I gasped aloud whenever he would begin to accelerate), and my father's trusty Jeep's lights right behind us, we finally, finally made it home. At 10 PM on Christmas Eve.

I have never been in the Christmas spirit as much as I was when I got home and changed into warm, dry clothes and drank some wine that my mother had opened for our return home. It was my own little Christmas miracle. I was George Bailey coming home at last.

A large part of that Christmas miracle was the SUV couple. They got the road sanded, got us shovels, got us safely out of the ditch, and gave me comfort when I was losing my mind. I never got their names or address, and I desperately wish that I had--a gift basket of thanks would no doubt be on their front door by now. I think they represent, in a huge way, the generosity of the Maine people. Here in Massachusetts (at least in the greater Boston area), if I went off the road, and halfway into a ditch, I have a feeling people who would drive by would just honk because I was somehow in the way. There is little doubt in my mind that nobody here would give up an hour of their evening on Christmas Eve to help a slightly incoherent out-of-state stranger get out of a ditch.

Just call me Mr. Kotter...

2009-01-06T13:03:00.000-08:00

...And welcome me on back.

I wish I could say I had a legitimate reason to have inexplicably quit blogging with nary a warning. Technically, I suppose I could say that and y'all would never know since the Internet is ambiguous like that; however, I'd like to think that I am above lying. Unless it is to children.

The truth is, I was lazy. Well, I am lazy. But now I slightly more motivated. It's a new year. I'm about to get a new hair color. I am unstoppable, or at least slightly-harder-to-stop.

And what is bringing me out of posting slump? A tight-knit community full of idiots, farmland, and (in one particular household) chocolate crunchy bars.

"But, Annie," you begin, after looking in the upper left hand section to remember what my name is, "I thought you lived in West Roxbury? Idiots and chocolate bars abound, but farmland seems an odd description."

And that is when I tell you that I am speaking of someplace fictional. Someplace glorious. Someplace that is not in West Roxbury, Massachusetts, or even this country.

I am writing, of course, about Dibley. "The Vicar of Dibley" is a long-running BBC program helmed by Richard Curtis that you might have seen, might have heard about, or might know nothing about. I recently discovered this gem of a program while flipping through channels, and with one brassy laugh from star Dawn French, I became smitten.

I implore you to Netflix, BPL, or otherwise obtain this series on DVD if at all possible, and give it a thorough viewing. If not within your means--you are in luck. PBS (both WGBH and NHPTV) around here airs it on at least a weekly basis. Tuesday evenings, for example, NHPTV (channel 11, see how easy I am making this for you...) airs it in a lineup of Britcoms. Practically nothing else is on Tuesday evenings, so you have no excuse to skim by it.

This show warms the cockles of my heart (if such a sensation actually exists). It's cold out today, and there's an ice storm coming tomorrow--a little cockle-warming could do you good.

More posts, less TV-centric content to come. I hope.

Cabin-ish

2008-08-14T07:43:00.000-07:00

Every so often, I get into a mood I call "cabin-ish." It's exactly what it sounds like, so long as it sounds like I want to be tucked away in a cabin in the woods instead of where I am at the present. If I was really being honest, I'd say that I am at all times relatively cabin-ish, but the level of cabin-ish changes on a daily (sometimes hourly) basis.

Currently, my cabin-ish level is somewhere between moderate and severe, and if it would only take a very small thing to tip me headfirst into the dangerous severe territories.

I am not a city girl. I'm just not. I pretend to be, and can even pretend that I am so well that I begin to believe it for myself. I enjoy trips to the Other City, but that's solely because of the theatre and cultural experiences, and has nothing to do with the pavement and subways. I like saying that I live in Boston (well, West Roxbury--I know some people take issue with whether or not that is truly considered Boston living), but the fact that I get emotionally stirred thinking about small cabins in the middle of nowhere makes me realize that liking to saying it and liking to live in it aren't really close enough.

The fact remains--I majored in theatre in college. I have student loans that are far higher than any income I'll ever actually make in that field. I have to pay them off. To do so requires a job that pays. To do so, I must live and work here. Once my loans are paid off--the world is my oyster (at least, the low-to-moderately priced world); however, if I ever want to make some sort of an income within my field of interest, I'll have to stay in a city. Not necessarily this one (in fact, probably not this one), but I can't be both a cabin-dweller and a theatrical professional.

Unless, of course, I'm a Nathan Lane or Patrick Stewart, who can easily afford to pop between both worlds.

I like to think I could start some kind of rustic theatrical group--touring through fields and forests to perform for the woodland creatures and A list directors (a sort of theatrical Robin Hood), but the day of minstrels has ended.

Today, the air is heavy with moisture (again), my eyelids are heavy with sleepiness (always), and my heart is just a little bit heavy with the knowledge that someday, I'm going to have to choose between my cabin-ish nature and my love for performance--and because I'll have to choose, I think I'll always be just a little restless.

At least it wasn't Big Bird.

2008-07-25T15:13:00.000-07:00

Whoever the new voice-over non-automatic voice-over man at Back Bay Station is at around 5:25 PM, I think I am in love. Where once there was a woman with little humor, now there is a man with a great deal of it. Even if he wasn't any more helpful than previous commuter rail announcer lady, he made a Friday rush hour delay into a bit of a lark with phrases such as:

"Stoughton train is just sittin' at South Station not going anywhere."
"Stoughton train boarding next on Track 3, I hope. (pause) Please ask the conductor what train it is before boarding."
"If all goes well, the Acela Express will board next on track 1."*

Speaking of a bit of a lark--my reward for recyling (in the spanking new mother of all recycle bins...if I don't decide to renew my lease, it's probably big enough for most of my possessions and my short little self) the moment that I got home from the Friday work rush was a facial wound caused by a renegade sparrow of some sort. I'm just hoping it's not a West Nile renegade sparrow.

Still in my "conservative corporate casual" attire (a la Ann Taylor Loft and Old Navy instead of Ann Taylor the Official and Banana Republic), I carried my recycling out to christen the new recycling bins with copious amounts of empty seltzer cans. I lifted the lid. I dropped my bag 'o cans. I felt Willy the Sparrow (Feature Film for Families anyone?) thwack my face before I saw him coming. Apparently, he was lurking in the bush next to the giant recycling bin waiting for an environmentally friendly victim to come along and fall prey to his evil beak of doom.

It's a good thing I have a pretty durable face. I've been left with merely a scratch from where Willy the Sparrow launched his attack. I saw him fly off into the back yard. Probably to return to his Sparrow brethren and tell them how his plot to thwart Al Gore is moving forward nicely.

Seriously, though--a BIRD CUT MY FACE!

I'm sorry Audubon Society, I have a valid reason to not give you a donation ever again (you can take away the "again" part if you want to get technical).

Welcome back to the Spirit of America

2008-07-15T15:58:00.000-07:00

I was in Prince Edward Island yesterday morning. Things are green there. Oh, so green. And peaceful. And just...lovely. This is a fact that keeps running around my brain in potentially record-setting laps--and also a bit of knowledge that only enhanced my city-dwelling misery today.

It all started with wearing the wrong shoes. I left in a hurry this morning for my first day back at work (after an all too fleeting vacation), and slipped on a pair of shoes that didn't match. On the train, I noticed that there was a giant stain on the upper right bosom area of my dress.

These would have been trivial inconveniences on a normal day. But tonight I was meeting with a friend. A male friend. The kind of male friend who pays for my meal and holds the car door for me, and not the kind of male friend who considers me asexual and/or has similar taste in shoes as I do.

Halfway through the day, I went to use the restroom and discovered, much to my chagrin, that my good ole period decided to make itself known.

I should have mentioned that I was wearing a white dress.

Incredibly, the situation hadn't gone beyond all hope. I remedied it. I still had mismatched shoes, and the boob stain was still there, but at least I didn't have the Red Red Robin Beep Bop a Lobbin Along my backside.

My friend was leaving on the last bus home from South Station at 6:15. I get out of work at 5:15, and learned via mbta.com that I could pick up the Providence line to South Station at Back Bay at 5:27, which would give us a little less than 45 minutes to grab a quick bite in the station and see one another (this friend lives out of state, you see, until September). I waited. And waited.

I text messaged him to say that the train was running late, but since they hadn't made an announcement, it wouldn't be long.

Five minutes later, an Acela Express seemed to be stuck on our tracks.

He called. Apparently, I sent the text to a wrong number. He was still waiting for me, wondering where I was. I explained the situation, but said I'd be there as soon as I could--and the train pulled in.

I boarded. I waited. I was informed that the train would be canceled, and to take the T instead. An option I didn't consider earlier, because even if it was a bit late, the commuter rail would be much faster than taking the Orange Line and then changing lines at Park Street to the station.

It was now 5:55. There was no way to get to him. I called to tell him I couldn't make it.

I should mention now that had he not been waiting to see me, he could have left Boston at noon.

So I went, sticky from the heat, needing some aspirin something terrible, over to the other track to await the 6:00 train home.

No such luck. Not only were several trains of delayed passengers waiting in the oppressive platform air, but our train was announced to be 15-20 minutes late.

I grumbled, but I waited. And my phone rang. It turned out to be some guy named Ryan. Whose number I mistakingly text messaged. He told me that I sounded "hot." I spent the first half of the conversation thinking he was my brother (who shares a name with the boy I was seeing that evening), so I thought he was just being a prankster. And then I realized it was not, in fact, my brother.

He sent me a text message that had his picture on it.

At 6:30, the train pulled in to take me home. The A/C wasn't working.

To sum things up:
-Left the house looking bad, returned to the house 11.5 hours later feeling worse.

I need my rice and beans to finish cooking so I can eat. That's another thing. Because I was away, I have no food in the house.

Oh, PEI, how I miss thy blue skies and green fields and red cliffs and fresh air and strangers who initiate conversations that don't involve asking for money or explaining, in no uncertain terms, how they would "tap" me.

Bellevue Blues

2008-06-25T05:56:00.000-07:00

http://www.boston.com/news/local/massachusetts/articles/2008/06/25/train_fatally_strikes_boy_15_crossing_tracks_in_roslindale/

That's my station. Those are my train tracks. That's my neighborhood. That's around my commute time (it happened not long after I got off of the outbound train at around 5:45). I have brothers who are his age.

This hit home. Literally, really, since that's right around the corner from my apartment. I heard a lot of sirens not long after I got home, but since the police station is right next door and there are hospitals every which way in close proximity, I didn't think anything of it.

I don't know who that boy is, but I am so so saddened by this tragedy. My heart goes out to his family, and to his friends--especially the one who was with him when it happened.

This morning, there was no sign that it had happened--just a couple police officers surveying the scene (I don't know what for, except maybe they expected people to investigate the tracks themselves?).

FAIL

2008-06-13T07:12:00.000-07:00

I won't lie. I gave up on the Celtics last night. I had to tune into So You Think You Can Dance between 9-10, and during that time, I used my commercial breaks to check in on the game. After SYTYCD ended, I flipped permanently to the game. I was tired. The game was depressing. I turned it off.

Why oh why did I turn it off?

I regret that decision oh so very much.

I want them to beat LA very much. I do. I think they're uber-talented. I think that Boston deserves this after the Superbowl fiasco. I think Kobe Bryant is a tool.

And yet, I gave up on the boys in green last night. I should have remembered that our mascot is Lucky. Although, Heaven knows, from what I've read in the game recaps, luck had very little to do with it.

Do you have an actor friend? Is he/she living in Boston?

2008-06-09T11:32:00.000-07:00

If so, then I have some magnificent advice for you.

1) Never ask your actor friend if a gig she got is paying or not. If it is paying, chances are, she will tell you (because in Boston, that is a rare and precious thing). If it is not paying, congratulations, you just succeeded in making her feel like the part she just won is incredibly insignificant.

WRONG EXAMPLE:
ACTOR FRIEND. Hey, guess what? I just got cast as So-in-So in "So-in-So the Musical!" I'm so excited, I have always loved this show!
YOU. Wow, congratulations! Does that pay?
ACTOR FRIEND. No, actually.
YOU. Oh. Well, still, that's great.
ACTOR FRIEND. Thanks.

Good job. She now feels like it's not worth anything that she was cast because she's not making money. You just killed her buzz. You are a buzz killer.

RIGHT EXAMPLE:
ACTOR FRIEND. Hey, guess what? I just got cast as So-in-So in "So-in-So the Musical!" I'm so excited, I have always loved this show!
YOU. Congratulations, when is it?
ACTOR FRIEND. Next month!
YOU. I will have to come see it. That's great!
ACTOR FRIEND. Thanks!

Great! Your actor friends feels like her hard work is being acknowledged, and knows that it is indeed a good thing that she is playing her dream role.

2) Never ask your actor friend how big her role is. You can ask her to tell you about the character. A part will seem so much more meaningful if she can answer, "She's in her upper twenties, kind of a rebel, and she hates the main character" as opposed to answering, "Oh, not very big."

WRONG:
ACTOR FRIEND. Hey, guess what? I just got cast in that Shakespeare play I auditioned for!
YOU. Oh, wow! What part did you get?
ACTOR FRIEND. I'm Ursula!
YOU. Is that a big role?
ACTOR FRIEND. Well, it's not a lead or anything, but I'm in a few scenes.
YOU. Oh, cool.

Your friend now thinks that you only think it's worth getting excited over big roles. She now thinks that her excitement in landing the role seems awkward, since you apparently only think big roles are exciting. You are a loser.

RIGHT:
ACTOR FRIEND. Hey, guess what? I just got cast in that Shakespeare play I auditioned for!
YOU. Oh, wow! What part did you get?
ACTOR FRIEND. I'm Ursula!
YOU. And what kind of character is she?
ACTOR FRIEND. Oh, she's a lady-in-waiting to Hero, and she's very clever, and she's in love with Hero's uncle. It's a really fun part.
YOU. I am so happy for you!

Now your actor friend is aware that you share her joy in being cast. What a good friend you are.

3) Do not think that saying, "You were the best one up there," "It looked like you were having fun up there," "I loved your costume in the third act," or "Good job memorizing all of those lines" are acceptable compliments after seeing your friend in a performance. We actors realize that those are just clever ways of saying that you didn't enjoy the show. If you don't like the show, or your friend's performance, lie. The only time it is acceptable not to lie, unless you are a casting director, is if the actor friend has warned you that the show/her performance isn't very good.

4) Don't judge an actor/play by its venue. Seriously, don't. Size, as it turns out, does not matter. And in the Boston area, chances are your friend is not going to be performing to a crowd of 5,000. Or 500. Don't assume that the show in the black box theatre is worth any fewer accolades than one at the Colonial.

Got all of that? Good. Now pay attention--this final tip is the one to follow above all others.

5) Never under any circumstances ask your actor friend about the results of an audition unless she brings it up first. If your friend has not told you that she was cast, she wasn't, and asking her will only force an awkward situation. She does not want your pity. She does not want your advice to rally because "if it's not this, it will be something better." Unless your friend walks into your office and says, "So I didn't get the part," she doesn't want to talk about it. In fact, she probably wants to forget all of the hours and hours she spent at auditions and callbacks that ultimately led to nothing.

On behalf of all actors who have ever been rejected, been in a terrible show, devoted hours to a show without pay, performed for a crowd of 15, or played High School Student #3, I thank you.

Idiot

2008-06-03T07:03:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I met up with a friend of my twin brothers' during my lunch break. He's likely going to be moving to Boston for grad school at the end of summer, and we've been exchanging emails for about a month or so to try to get to know one another. It'd be great if we remain friends--he'd have a contact in the city/state (he currently lives in Maine), and I'd have a friend who didn't live in the North Shore (one of these days my friends will migrate...).

Anyway, I say this because I felt like it was my duty to introduce him to Boston. I know he's been before, but I still felt that since I'm now a local, I should know all of the secret places to bring him.

And where did I wind up taking him? To SHAW'S on Huntington Ave. Yes. Shaw's. And neither of us needed to buy groceries.

To be fair, we did walk all around Boylston and around Copley Square, but I actually brought him inside Shaw's. THAT was where I choose to say, "Hey, we could go in here and look around." A grocery store.

This happened yesterday, and I still want to bang my head against the keyboard repeatedly. I would, actually, if I knew for sure that no co-worker would walk in on me and immediately refer me to a psychiatrist who deals with masochism.

I am a fun person, I think. I enjoy laughing as much as the next person. I like conversation and verbal debates. I majored in a creative field. Yet as soon as he walked in to meet me, all traces of wit fled my person and rendered me a socially incompetent moron.

I don't even like the Shaw's on Huntington. I don't like Shaw's in general.

I don't think even the knock-off Duck Tours would want to hire me. I clearly have no idea how to enjoy Boston, unless I'm going to a sporting event or play.

Ten O'Clock

2008-05-14T18:48:00.000-07:00

My goal for tonight was to go to bed by ten. I haven't done so successfully in quite some time, and I've noticed that my lack of sleep has been affecting me in a great many ways. Since I am going to NY for the weekend with some friends, I am fully aware (or maybe not fully aware...that seems to be a side effect of being sleep deprived) that I shall not be catching up on my zzzs.

I tried this last night. And then I had a terrible dream that I married a boy who I was pretty crazy about not so long ago. I woke up at three AM wide awake and not sure whether I was satisfied by the reason it was terrible (dream former flame is apparently gay, which made dream me very upset to tied to him for all eternity...in dream world there was apparently no annulment) or annoyed that he should be in my dream at all.

I tell you of this goal because it is not going to happen. No way. Why? I made the mistake of turning the game on.

They were losing. They were losing, but within sight of tying. They were tied. Now they're up by 10. I don't even know what to do about this. It's pretty awesome (although I am always wary of things that seem awesome), but I have that old Boston guilt re: turning the game off. If I turn it off now, and they lose through some terrible string of events, it will be because I jinxed it.

That is all. I will return my focus (or what is left of it anyway) to the game. And also try to hope that maybe the man in my dreams afterward will not be apparently gay former crush, but Rondo, or KG, or...heck, even Lucky.

EXTREME

2008-05-12T08:10:00.000-07:00

Did anybody out there watch Extreme Makeover: Home Edition yestereve?

I did. And my tear ducts will never be the same.

First of all, I appreciated the reminder of Winter. The disgusting gray color pallet and frigid temperatures helped me to remember that the not-so-ideal weather right now would be considered a day in paradise back then. Thank you.

Secondly, I love that ABC's version of showing Massachusetts included the Minutemen, the Zakim Bridge, and a crew team. None of which, to my knowledge, are in Maynard. But I don't really know anything about Maynard, so I perhaps I am wrong.

Incidentally, were all Minutemen in the 18th Century middle-aged and overweight? Not to judge our modern day interpreters, but I did find that mildly entertaining. Don't get me wrong, I am fond of historical interpretation. I took a class on it in college, I worked in the field for many summers (it was a job, however, not a hobby); nevertheless, where were all of the young Heath Ledger lookalikes (may he rest in peace)? Or even Mel Gibson, for that matter? I digress.

The episode made me sob from beginning to end, with a little break to snicker good naturedly at the Minutemen (also..did they really have to shoot out the windows---surely they could have reused them somewhere else, they didn't look to be in terrible condition...that's what Craigslist is for, ABC!). That family is truly inspirational. I wish them all the best.

Agony

2008-05-10T18:53:00.000-07:00

I am trying to be more involved with the Celtics. I really am.

I don't know if I can watch any more of this game. It's killing me.

The score, as I type this, is 64-44--Cleveland. Okay. 65 now. Thank you, Perkins.

And Rondo goes down.

Honestly, guys. If you don't get 10 more points in the next 10 minutes, I'm switching to a Man Vs. Wild re-run. Listen, if Bear Grylls can drink fluids from elephant poo in the African plains, you can make this game worth my while.

EDIT: I gave you five minutes. I'm done. Instead of you listening, the Cav's just scored 5. Goodbye.

T-Alert

2008-05-09T07:19:00.000-07:00

They cancelled my train this morning. However, true to fashion, the MBTA alert that the train would be cancelled was not in my inbox before leaving my apartment FOUR MINUTES before my train is scheduled to arrive.

I was running a little late this morning. I knew that in order for me to make it to my train, I had to foresake some normal grooming procedures. No makeup for me today. My hair looks horrific. But I knew that there weren't any big meetings today, I could somewhat fix my hair at work, and I'd be just dandy without makeup. So I rushed out the door.

After I was informed via those scrolling red letters that the 7:54 train was cancelled, I called work to let them know of my late arrival, and waited. And waited. And eventually, crammed into the next train (half hour or so later), which was now filled with two trains worth of people. Real cozy.

I am miffed. I can understand if a train needs to be cancelled for whatever reason. What I don't understand is why they bother with those T-Alerts at all when they are never on time. At least with an alert, I would have known to spend more time in my apartment so that when I arrived at work late, I'd look decent enough to make up for it.

Instead, I arrived late, makeup-less, and crazy-haired.

I need weekend, and I need it now.

Boston: Commuter's Paradise

2008-05-01T11:55:00.000-07:00

According to an article on the yahoo newsfeed (clearly, I am a well informed person), Boston is one of the very best major cities in the country for commuters.

Proof: http://promo.realestate.yahoo.com/best-and-worst-cities-for-commuters.html

Yes, Boston. Apparently, 23% of the people who work in the city either carpool or use public transportation to get to work.

When I saw the headline, I was sure we'd be a worst. Driving in Boston makes me want to stick forks in my eyeballs. Albeit, that's because I drive a tiny little hatchback with no power steering and a fussy clutch, not to mention a giant dent in rear from an incident at one of the gloriously abundant rotaries in my neighborhood (not my fault, I assure you). Maybe I exaggerated the hardships of driving in Boston during rush hour (something I avoid at all costs, I'm a 23%er).

Exaggerated, ok. But one of best? Seriously, promo.realestate.yahoo.com?

I spent a few summers commuting from Braintree to Salem for a theatrical endeavor. It would take me about 2 hours each way because of traffic, and nearly all of that was concentrated to the Expressway (only 1/4 of the total distance). And that's the best?

Remind me to never commute anywhere else. Especially not Corpus Christie, Texas (that shan't be a sacrifice), or Los Angeles (my abs would be too jealous of other people to move there).

San Francisco, however, has us beat by a whopping 5%. If I wasn't so afraid of massive earthquakes (1906, anyone?), that might be an option.

Cheers to the MBTA, though. It must be nice to be commended for a change. They're cited as being a great example of public transportation in the article, because there are plenty of stops near the places most people work. Which is quite true for me. I pretty much get off the stop, cross the street, and have arrived. It takes longer to ride the elevator to my floor than it does to get from the T station into the building.

I apologize if this post lacks understandability (I am confident that I just used a word that doesn't really exist). My Crohn's has been a-flaring today, and it's been severely lowering my ability to form cohesive thoughts. It kind of feels like somebody is kicking me in the stomach, but I can't leave to curl up into a fetal position (my typical discomfort-easing activity in situations such as these), since I am bound to my desk per the duties of answering the phone and signing for packages.

Apology accomplished, this post is complete. Very good.

Dress codes and free throws

2008-04-25T06:44:00.000-07:00

This morning, the only email in my work inbox was one from my supervisor reminding the "admin staff" of our business dress code. The official title of this dress code is "conservative corporate casual."

I do not approve of the use of "casual" in its name. There is nothing casual about it. No jeans. No T-shirts. No "gym or pool" sandals. No sneakers. It is nothing like casual. Take that work out, and we've got ourselves an accurate desciption of the way we are supposed to dress here.

Now. I am painfully aware that, while this memo was sent to the entire admin staff (6 of us total), it was just a less direct way of addressing me. The other folks dress perfectly appropriately. I have been known to wear, say, scuzzy flip-flops to work (8 years old, given to me free at a luau when I was 15, probably purchased at the Rite-Aid nextdoor to my highschool). Or, on occasion, a skirt that is above my knees (I always thought the rule for decent skirt-length was a few inches longer than where your fingetips land at your sides). Sometimes, although I don't like doing it, I have shirts that have a little bit of cleavage (listen, I'm a very tiny person with very ample bosoms...do you know how hard it is for me to find clothes that fit that do not reveal a little bit of cleavage?).

All of this to say that I am not offended by the memo, I am simply annoyed that I am going to have to spend a good day this weekend shopping for more clothes that can be deemed "appropriate" for work (now that sweaters are no longer seasonally applicable). I figured since I had always dressed this way (and have now been working here for more than 7 months), it wasn't a problem. Twas not to be.

It is harder than I thought to transition from theatre major college student (who wears comfortable, slightly trendy casual clothing until it is time to get into a costume) to conservative casual professional who only gets to wear jeans on the weekend. Mostly because I loathe spending money on clothes.

On an entirely unrelated subject--I was at Game 2 of the playoff series w/the Hawks Wednesday night. In premium seats. Looking down at Bruce Willis' shiny head (have you ever heard 20,000 people yell "Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuce?" It's phenomenally similar to hearing 20,000 people yell "Yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuke"). I had a great time, and am seriously considering investing more time into watching the NBA on television as a result. I'll watch a Sox game or (more commonly) a Pats game every so often (all the time in playoffs...but during the regular season, let's face it, I've got better things to do than sit there for 4 hours), but never really considered watching the NBA before. I played basketball in high school, and really enjoy the sport, but it just never dawned on me to really pay attention to the NBA. But basketball games are quicker than baseball or football, faster-paced, and just as exciting as any other sport. Plus, I like it that we have a player who shares a name with a musical composition form (bonus points if you know who I'm talking about).

So Celtics, I think I'm going to start paying attention. Please thank my boss and his ticket raffle for your new fan. And I'm aware that Mr. Bibby would say that I'm a "fair weather fan," but a fair weather fan is better than an imaginary one.

Admin Day

2008-04-23T08:56:00.000-07:00

As it turns out, today is National Adminstrative Assistant Day. Or something thereabouts.

Free lunch, flowers, the works. All from our pretty awesome supervisor. This is made even more marvelous by the fact that I didn't know such a day existed. Surprise free lunch and flowers. A-nice.

Also, I won Premium Club Celtics tickets for this very evening. I don't follow the NBA, but I know enough to know that this is a very big deal. And I played basketball in high school, so I'll at least be able to tell when they are blocking out. Or shooting free throws.

And left the apartment wearing my walk-to-work flip flops, carrying my at-work high heels in a bag. Turns out those high heels are from two different pairs.

So I'm spending National Adminstrative Assistant Day wearing scuzzy white flip flops. I was going to run to Marshalls on lunch break (and enjoy the fabulous weather God is giving to adminstrative assistants everywhere) and puy some appropriate pumps, but this free lunch thing is taking that time slot.

I won't complain. Scuzzy white flip flops it is. Take that, Stacey and Clinton.

The birthday blahs

2008-04-16T15:02:00.000-07:00

This is the second in what appears to be the beginnings of a series of unimportant birthdays.

I am twenty-three today. The age I always wanted to be when I was little. I used to write short stories where I was twenty-three and getting married to Spot Conlon from my favorite Disney film, "Newsies." At that time, he was twenty-three, so it only made sense. We would be twenty-three together and all would end well.

I don't really know whatever happened to him, but here I am. Twenty-three. And what have I done? Went to work. What will I do? Drink some tea, watch some television, and go to bed. Spot Conlon is probably somewhere in the midwest with his wife and children, doing the same thing (only with company). Hm.

I received a DVD (the Ciaran Hinds/Amando Root version of "Persuasion," a favorite of mine) in the mail, and a phone call from the sender (my cousin and best friend, Sharon). We had a chocolate fondue break in the afternoon at work to celebrate. A co-worker paid for my Boloco Bangkok burrito. And I have quite literally 20 facebook wall postings wishing me a happy birthday.

But that is all. True, I am going to leave Boston on Friday after work to spend time with my family in Maine (I haven't been since Christmas), and there will be a family party. Cake, presents, brothers making fun of each other...that will all be there. And then it will be done.

My Crohn's has been flaring of late, and my decision to eat a lunch that included a peanut sauce (a big fat no-no on my list of trigger foods) is causing me to not want to eat dinner. My PJs (albeit my favorite PJs) are already on. I have lit candles. This is it.

Last year was, hands-down, the worst birthday ever. I was discovered crying in the production office in the middle of a tech rehearsal by a cast member who I'm pretty sure has been scarred for life as a result. I don't cry in front of people, and the sight of me sobbing my little heart out in front of a giant poster of some show gone by is probably not something anybody should ever have to witness. Especially because of the result awkwardness that ensues when I try to pretend I am not crying.

There were a number of things that went wrong that day: no plans, unresolved boy drama, an unexpected tech rehearsal, Virginia Tech, rain, snow, early morning commitments, no sleep the night before--it was just a chain of very unfortunate events.

But that is all in the past. And I guess this blog should be about my present. Not presents, as it were, for I've only received one of those (which is pretty fabulous, incidentally, I have wanted to own Ciaran Hinds' Captain Wentworth for a long time now).

My present is okay. Sure, I wish my friends lived closer to me so that things could be celebrated properly. Yes, I really wish that today hadn't started with a crisis involving missing fruit salad for a board room meeting with some VIPs. Forgetting to return my DVD to the BPL today (Confetti...I recommend it) and facing a late fee is kind of annoying. And, okay, my Crohn's is quite a bother. Still. Today is supposed to be special. And I am going to make it so.

SPECIAL:
-The train was on time both ways today.
-I put effort into my appearance, and noticed that I was noticed. A lot. By men. Sometimes, an ego boost is only a blow-dry and pair of tights away.
-The weather. The weather. THE WEATHER. Sunshine on my face. Not rain, snow, clouds, wind...SUNSHINE. Heavenly.
-Free lunch. Free dessert. Actually eating all of the main food groups.
-Knowing I can go home to Maine (not technically home anymore, but so be it) soon.
-Not getting the rejection email from the call-backs I was just at yet (I guess there's still time...but...so far so good...I don't mind not getting cast, I just didn't want to be not-cast on my birthday).

It's not much, but it'll do.

Momo-mo, how do you like it, how do you like it..

2008-04-08T05:44:00.001-07:00

I have been a resident of West Roxbury now for almost six months, and yet I hardly know anything about it. The problem is that I live alone, and all of my close friends live at least forty-five minutes Northwards, rendering my exploration quite solitary.

Last night, however, a very old friend who I have not seen in years came over, and we decided to throw caution into the wind and drive around searching for someplace new and exciting. Which is pretty much anywhere other than West on Centre (which had great food, but was uber-packed when I went a few months ago).

I now have my first West Roxburian restaurant recommendation. The Himalayan Bistro on Centre Street (directly across from West on Centre) was pretty much the cat's meow. Reasonable prices, great location, excellent food, really helpful waiters. It came to approximately $20/per person, and that included appetizer, main dish, and naan--PLENTY of it (the leftovers alone might be enough for two more meals). If I was just going to pick up lunch for one, it could easily be under $10. Try the momo. It's apparently unique to that restaurant, and was a completely delightful appetizer.

I hope to shock my coworkers with my leftovers. "Annie," the will say, "Where is the typical instant oatmeal and English muffin scrounged from the office kitchen?"

I am a free office food junkie. I am okay with that. It is free, after all. Quality is not as important for the noontime meal as is the dough shelled out for it. I do want to pay of my student loans eventually, after all.

Tonight I head to my alma mater to catch their Spring theatre production, "Loves Labours Lost." This is my favorite Shakespeare comedy, and I am thoroughly put out that they should do it the year after I've graduated. Still, I look forward to it, even if the hour plus drive is already stressing me out (my poor Civic is having major issues these days).

Oh, and Happy Home Opener. I'm sure I'll catch the highlights on the morning news. And on the morning train. And morningtime at the office.

HAIR

2008-04-02T12:03:00.001-07:00

It occurred to me that on my first day in the blogosphere, I should probably not have more than one entries.

I live on the wild side.

Boston needs to stop being so windy. I don't understand how I can look tolerable for work when from the moment I step out of my door in the morning, any progress I've made arranging my bangs before departure is immediately (excuse the corniness I'm about to release upon you) gone with the wind (phew).

I look like a little girl playing dress up right now. High heeled shoes, dress, jewelry, make-up...and windblown, unkept hair that looks like a child's valiant attempt at a fashionable updo. I managed to half-control my hair when I arrived at work, and then made the fatal mistake to head to the CVS on Boylston on lunch break for some toothpaste (curse you, need for hygeine!). My hair is officially beyond all hope of restoration.

I don't really care myself. Messy hair is something I've dealt with for the majority of my life, and since re-cutting my bangs last June, it's become an even more important issue to wrestle with in the morning. And by "wrestle," I mean "use blowdrier and patience on." O, how I loathe wrestling!

This could probably be solved with some hairspray. But I associate hairspray with being in a show. I will only ruin my hair with excessive chemical products if it's to better the theatrical presentation. Or at least makes me look good onstage (a hard feat, apparently, I'm told I have a "shadowy face"). So today I shall be Windblown McGee, and hope that someday, the wind tunnel next to my place of work will be revamped into a tunnel of sunshine. Or a tunnel of love (I'll just go ahead and say it: the businessmen of Boston are pretty sharp).

Begin the Beguine

2008-04-02T06:19:00.000-07:00

As a rule, I don't think it's polite to think that I have anything interesting to say. My friends would say that means that I'm a self-basher, as it were--I just call it modesty. Either way, I'm entirely convinced that this blog will be universally ignored. Why begin it, then?

Everybody loves a list:
1) I am a receptionist at a VC firm that I'm fairly sure doesn't really need me here. I answer phones, mostly, and there are certainly days when the phone doesn't ring often. This leaves me at the computer all the livelong day. In short: I am bored.
2) People have told me that I should. I am, like most others, a lemming. Sure, I might have second thoughts before jumping off that cliff with everyone else, but in the end, I'm pretty sure I'd still make that leap.
3) Maybe, just maybe, blogging is that one hidden talent that I have yet to discover. I've long been of the belief that everybody has at least one thing that they're really, really good at. I've tried a lot of things, and so far, I've been passable, but not exceptional, at a great many of them. I thought curling might be my undiscovered natural talent, but I finally tried it in December. It is most definitely not. I wouldn't even consider myself of a "passable" level.
4) A whole lot of new things are happening to me. I graduated college in May of last year, moved to the city, and began a new job. I live by myself, and rarely get the opportunity to visit with my friends (they all had the audacity to not move to the city with me), so I don't have the luxury of being able to tell these new experiences to anyone. Mayhaps a blog can be a stand-in friend. Which, even as I'm writing it, I realize sounds completely pathetic. But as an (almost) 23-year-old female who hasn't had a boyfriend since the eigth grade, I think my pathetic-ness has peaked, and I can't really do much harm.
5) I ride the commuter rail to and fro Monday through Friday (at least). Public transportation might as well be a sitcom. Or a crime drama, depending what line you're a patron of, I suppose. Somebody has to write sitcoms (as the WGA taught us not so very long ago). It may as well be me.

So there you have it. My first post. I'm already doubting reason #3, but a lack of talent doesn't stop some from reaching success (read: slight jab at Julia Stiles). Burn.