Because I'm Hot

I keep getting hit on at the weirdest times... And by the weirdest people.

A couple of days ago, I was clothes shopping, and the dressing room attendant assigned to me happened to be male. He kept trying to get me to try on tighter, more revealing clothing than I was. And at one point, when I tried on a cute flowy top over my pants, he said I should really consider wearing it as a dress. Um, no. There's no possible way I would be able to sit down in it. Frankly, even walking in it as a dress would be risky. Not only is it short, but there's some embroidery at the bottom that has a lot of open holes. As in, if you were looking, you would be able to see my underwear through said holes. From a distance, it would probably be alright... But again. I would NOT be able to sit without my bum being on the seat and flashing everyone else in the room.

(See picture at left. Notice the dark wavy streaks in the pattern on the bottom? That's where the holes are. Hence why I blurred this picture and made it in black & white... Otherwise, it's like "Hello, Underwear!")

Yeah. It's definitely not a dress. And it looks way cute with dark jeans... so yeah. I think that guy was just trying to see me as close to naked as possible.


My juice was flowing in mad form today.

For the record, I don't look particularly amazing today. I didn't shower today (I can't shower everyday... I have dry skin, and over-washing makes it even drier). I curled my hair yesterday, and it's sort of a weird clumpy, semi-curly mess now, so I put it in a ponytail. I had no makeup on (except for residual mascara from yesterday). I was wearing my glasses instead of contacts. I was wearing some ugly-but-shamefully-comfortable tan pants, a black tank-top, and a wrinkled button-up shirt that I didn't realize until I got to work was missing the middle button.

On the L in the evening, a man was clearly staring at me. A man in some sort of construction helmet. I don't know. It was brown and had a light on it. BLATANTLY staring at me. Smiled at me whenever I glanced anywhere near him. I tried to avoid making eye contact. At one point, two seats opened up next to each other. I sat down, and he of course took the seat right next to me. He looked a little embarrassed as he removed his helmet and tried to smooth his hair. He continued to stare at me. So I pulled out my TnT (Tony n' Tina's) book to study things. This did not deter him. He started asking if I was going home, if I was studying, if I was still a student... I gave mostly one-word answers. He then started talking about himself, and how he was going up to Great America. He got off the train smiling.

Then I went to get some food at Under Dogg. The guy working there (he seemed to be alone) was smiling at me a little two much. When I couldn't decide on a flavor for my shake, he walked over to the ice cream tubs, opened each of them, and came back saying that he thought the strawberry would be best today. So I ordered strawberry. And then he looked at me, giddy almost, and said, "Really? You're going to get the strawberry?" Um, yes. What? He grinned at me the whole rest of the time I was there.

I went to my friend Mike's band gig at a bar. My friend Mary came in from out of town, and we were hanging out together. At one point, I looked behind me, and it looked like Mary was threatening two women who were much larger than she. Mary is a 5'1" skinny blonde sorority girl who couldn't hurt a fly, so it's always funny to see her angry, On top of that, she currently has laryngitis and I'm sure she wasn't getting very far arguing with these women. . Apparently, she was attempting to defend my honor or something because said women were ogling me. Later in the evening, one of the women came up to me to apologize for "the misunderstanding" and explain that she and her friend had just been discussing how I had a "great butt", and that they didn't mean to offend me or Mary. She then proceeded to instigate high-fives with me about six times in reference to my "cute butt". I'm pretty sure that she was trying to hit on me. It was pretty awkward.

I guess it's kinda flattering. It's always nice to feel attractive. I just wish I were being hit on by other people... I don't know. Classier people, I guess.

Ah well. Guess I can't complain.



May your juice be flowing.

~A~


P.S. Someone Googled "Tony n Tinas Chicago" and found my blog. And has revisited it a few times since then, just in the past few days. (Um, hello, if you're reading... Awkward...) Anyway, I got a little gun shy and took down a couple of posts regarding that audition process (for multiple reasons), just in case the person reading is involved with the show (which I suspect is the case). Freaked me out pretty bad. I guess I can't even complain. After all, I'm the idiot who puts personal stories on the internet... Every once in awhile, something happens with my blog that makes me feel a little too vulnerable to the outside world. It hasn't been enough to make me quit blogging or turn this private yet, but it might someday. Anyway. There's your heads-up.

P.P.S. If you are someone I know in real life who found this blog through a search engine... Read at your own risk. I'm not going to apologize for the things I've written. I don't want to censor things I write in the future. If you don't like it, then you don't have to read it. And please don't go telling other people I know in real life what you've read, because it just makes my life more screwed up. And isn't my existence awkward enough without any catalysts? I rest my case. Thank you for your cooperation.

Nobody Knows Me at All

I know this is technically late, but you got two last weekend, so I think we're even.

Happy February.

My S.A.D. (Seasonal Affected Disorder) started a little early. I almost started crying at work on Wednesday. And I snapped at two coworkers on Thursday morning when they were making fun of me. But I'm sick of being the butt of their jokes, even though I know they don't mean anything by them. I hate being teased.

I don't know how I'm going to make it through this month. I hate February.

Last night, I went to yet another coaching session with Susan and Jeffrey (the 4th time I've worked with them in 7 days, by the way). Jeffrey recently told me thinks that I have what it takes to get into Julliard (which is where he went). He says I have a "great instrument", that I'm "very talented" and seem "driven and passionate" (that last part was after giving him my "theatre can change the world" speech in the middle of a bar). I looked into it. Their auditions are this coming week, but you had to have sent your application in back in November. Jeffrey said to call them today to see if they'll let me audition anyway. So I might.

I worked on Juliet's vial speech last night. And I had a complete emotional breakdown. It felt great to be that vulnerable. And then I had several glasses of wine (which is something that I never, ever do. I don't think I've ever had more than a half a glass in my life before last night. I think I finished off more than half a bottle by myself. And for someone who doesn't drink... Well, let's just say I may have made some dumber decisions if I hadn't gone straight home after class. And as it was, I made three facebook videos for people.)

But that sort of vulnerability is something I don't feel a lot in life. Really, I feel it most in my acting and in my writing.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone really knows me. Maybe I head people off at the pass too often. And there are so many things that run through my head that I've never verbalized.

I talked out the early stages of this entry with a new friend of mine (from Shakespeare classes... what else?). She said it might be a good idea to leave some things out. I guess it's because of the adage, "never in writing." But I don't know. Stupid as this may be, and as much as I may regret it, it feels right in the moment. And if there's anything that acting teaches you, it's living in the moment.

And I'm in a truth-serumed sort of mood, so here goes. Here are a bunch of things that you probably don't know about me...


- I assume that I'm smarter than at least 85% of the people I meet. Maybe 90%.

- Whenever I look at my results on the application "Compare People" on Facebook, I ignore all the really positive responses I've gotten (100% wins for Most Naturally Talented, ranked #1 Most Creative... etc.) and instead look at the negatives (why does no one think I'm sexy? And they don't think I'm smart? Or that I have a good body?). And I develop complexes as a result.

- As often as I talk about the possibility of never settling down and having a family, there is a part of me that wants to follow exactly in my mother's footsteps. Because my mom is awesome, and being just like her would not be a bad fate. And since three of my coworkers have been pregnant simultaneously, I think I've got a light case of what Megan would call "baby fever". But it's very, very, very mild. Mostly, I'm still terrified by the idea of actually having to raise children.

- No matter how good I am at something, I never think I'm good enough.

- I honestly believe that I'm fascinating.

- I have a hard time imagining anyone ever loving me enough to want to marry me.

- Even though it's commercial and cheesy, every time I hear the song "To the Moon and Back" by Savage Garden, I come close to tears. Same for my favorite song, "I Want to Save You" by Something Corporate (what does it say about me that my favorite song makes me want to cry?)

- If I don't think I can do a good job at something, then I probably won't do it at all.

- I dance down the sidewalk on my way home from work every day when I think no one's watching. And sometimes when people are watching. And I mouth the lyrics to whatever is playing on my iPod. Last week, a homeless man came up to me while I was dancing on the corner waiting for a car to pass and started dancing with me.

- Sometimes, I think I'm the coolest person on the planet (and that I have more fun than anyone else), but that no one knows it but me. (Case in point: I dance while I'm walking home. What's more awesome than that?)

- As soon as I find out that someone is an actor, I make a snap-judgement attempting to gauge their abilities. And I've been proven wrong many, many times.

- Other than judging abilities, my first impressions of people are usually pretty good. But I rarely trust my gut instincts, as I think it's unfair to do so. And then it takes me long periods of time to rediscover what I knew at the very beginning.

- Whenever I'm really stressed out, I consider cutting off all of my hair. Sort of like Deb in Empire Records, but not quite that drastic. About a week ago, I actually picked up a pair of scissors, held it up to my ponytail, and fully intended to cut it all off. But I chickened out when I remembered grad school auditions and the fact that my head shots show me with long hair.

- Sometimes I feel as though I play a character in my life more than I play myself.

- When I can't sleep, I put a pillow at my back and try to imagine that it's a person. And that I'm not alone. Some nights, that's the only way I get any rest at all. Other nights, I fall asleep hugging a pillow. Clearly, I hate sleeping alone. And I don't mean that in a sexual way in the least. I just really like the idea of another person in the bed. But, as I talk (and apparently sing) in my sleep, and I have a twin-sized bed, and I'm a horrible cover hog, no one ever shares a bed with me. So it's all just in my imagination. *sigh*

-I think that my tastes in music/movies/television/books/etc. are far superior to everyone else's.

- I honestly believe that I am immune to the flu.

- When someone hurts me, I'm bitter about it for a very long time. I thought I was going to see a person earlier this week who hurt me quite badly a couple of years ago and is apparently unaware of that fact. And I was gritting my teeth just thinking about it.

- I love walking around in my underwear and a t-shirt. Even now that it's winter and my apartment is often cold. But I never walk around naked. I just don't.

- Every time I step on my new scale, I write down the date, the time, and my weight. For no good reason.

- I hide cash around my apartment. Just in case.

- I have an intense fear of being raped.

- I think I'm a great story-teller. And no one can tell me otherwise.

- Running seems like a punishment to me. Therefore, I generally only run when chased. Or if I'm really late for something.

- The thing that hurts me most is when people say, "oh, well you don't count." Usually this happens when I am an exception to a rule they're trying to prove, and they're saying that I don't count because of how quirky and generally against the norm I am. As though I'm considered an out-lier because I'm close to the edge of the bell curve. It makes me feel like a freak every time. And I hate that.

- I once tried to convince my mother that I was a lesbian so that she'd stop trying to imagine (or create, or force) relationships between me and every male I mentioned from school. It didn't work out well.

- I sent in like four postcards to PostSecret. None of them ever showed up on the website. I was fully disappointed. My secrets were way better than some of the stuff I've seen on there.

- Whenever I don't fully know the lyrics to a song I'm singing, I use those moments to take a sip of my drink. Or I'll turn away from people and just sort of mumble through those parts. And act as though I know the lyrics when I clearly don't. I don't think I'm fooling anyone.

- Every time I make a bet, I lose. Seriously, every time.

- I sucked my thumb when I was a kid. Every once in awhile I wonder if I'll gain the same sense of comfort from sucking it again. So I try. But it never quite works.

- The first thing I notice about guys physically is generally their teeth. A good smile can really win me over. Or biceps. I have a weakness for good arms. Like Matt Damon in The Bourne Identity. *drool*

- I rarely go without a bra. And I NEVER go commando. It's just uncomfortable.

- When people go by their full names, I have a strange need to nickname them. And when they go by nicknames, I desire to call them by their full names.

- The concept of sex is stressful to me. Seriously, just thinking about it freaks me out.

- There is a part of me that assumes I'll be famous someday for something. I think about how I'll deal with all the media attention, and the autograph signing, and being swamped with fan mail and friend requests from strangers on facebook.

- I have a friend who ruins everything she tries to introduce me to. She's not a great story teller. She explains things badly. She spoils endings of things (or important aspects of them) when trying to convince you that they're worth watching/reading. And I always end up disliking the things she talks about just from their descriptions (or songs she thinks I'd like based on her a cappella renditions of them). But then, if I actually experience those things while separated from her, it turns out that they were right up my alley. So we actually have similar tastes. And she just really sucks at the way she recommends stuff. But I would never tell her that.


So that's all for now.

May you find a way to feel comfortable enough to be vulnerable.
May you discover something that you want to do for the rest of your life.
May you learn to trust that people won't use information to hurt you.
May you make it through February (and help me make it through as well).

~A~

P.S. You should listen to "The Way I Am" by Ingrid Michaelson on my ProjectPlaylist. Because it's full of lovely thoughts. And I can't listen to it just once. It's currently an 8-times-in-a-row song for me.

ETA: Here's a lovely quotation I picked up in Shakespeare class:

"Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking together in the same direction."
~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

I'll Be Fine and Dandy

I left a few of my favorite Christmas traditions off of the last list in order to save something for this post. Surprise!

- Angels
Since my very first Christmas, my Auntie Alice has given me an angel Christmas ornament every year in honor of my name. They're all different. One's fabric. One's made out of a pinecone. One resembles a pillow more than an angel. A couple of them are broken, from years of love. I have a lovely collection now. Last year she didn't give me one, saying that she always thought that the one I got at 21 (my 22nd ornament) would be my last. She thought I'd have grown out of liking it by now. I let her know that I was sad about that. I love it. Somewhat surprisingly, my aunt is the only person who has ever played up the the "angel" in "Angela" (my dad has played up the "gel", trying to get the nickname "Jelly" to stick, which, thank God, it never did). Oddly, someone else got me an angel ornament last year (someone unaware of the tradition), so I still have a full set. I don't know if I'll be getting an ornament this year or not. She hasn't mailed our gifts yet. *crosses fingers* I should really tell people that I like angel things more often. Maybe they'd buy me ornaments as a way to get into my good graces... It would probably work. (SHHH! Don't tell. Wouldn't want to make it too easy on anyone.)

- Christmas Pajamas
I debated even putting this on here because it's so excruciatingly dorky, but I love it. Every year, my mother buys "Christmas pajamas" for my brothers and I. We get them on Christmas Eve, and change into them before the gift exchanging begins. She started it when we were kids. One year, she forgot the pajamas, and we were furious. So she's kept up the tradition. This year, I got some decent ones (although I had to wear a hoodie over them for the gift giving, as I didn't want to wear a bra with the pajamas, and they're made of a thin material. The pants are as well, so my brother pointed out he could see my pink underwear... If it were anyone other than a family member, it would've been beyond mortifying.) My brothers hated the bottoms they got with wine bottles all over them, complaining that they weren't "classy". But really, Christmas pajamas aren't supposed to be classy. They're supposed to be ridiculous. I think my mom nailed it.

- Young Frankenstein
I've always thought of Young Frankenstein as a Christmas movie. Strange, right? I have a childhood memory involving watching it as my family was either putting up or taking down a Christmas tree. I was picking up pine needles and watching the movie, with all the dirty jokes (and some of the clean ones) flying over my head. Anyway. I always have a craving to watch it in winter. A few years ago, my dad bought it on Christmas Eve, saying that it seemed like a perfect Christmas movie to him (my dad and I have a similar sense of humor. We even have the same favorite movie, Animal House, which we also have in common with my youngest brother). So we watch it together around Christmas. We haven't gotten to it yet this year, but hopefully we still will. After all, I'm home for another four days.


Oh, and going back to "The Last Present" that I mentioned last time... My mom won this year! It was amazing. My dad hid two presents, but, thinking that he was the last to give anything, broke them both out from hiding. And then my mom revealed that she'd been hiding one for my dad in the closet. Brilliant! My dad claimed that, since he gave two at once, he COULD have won. Then my mom tried to say it wasn't a competition, but we all know it is. Yay Mom!

I finished off the bottle of Midori while we were opening presents. Everyone else was drinking non-alcoholic cinnamon eggnog. That's right. I was drinking, and my family wasn't. I think they were confused. Especially since at dinner I had toasted with skim milk against their glasses of red wine. Ah well.

The cinnamon rolls were made (although I fell asleep before helping much). I helped deliver them to the new neighbors. The people who live next-door are Jewish, speak with an East Coast dialect, and want to have the whole family over for drinks (including my underage brothers). Yeah, this is definitely a new neighborhood. Merry Everything!

At church I sang the alto parts to the carols. My dad asked why I did that instead of just reading the music (my father knows that I inherited his ability to sight-read). I shrugged and told him that the alto parts just feel more "right" to me. And I sang them anyway.

My family and I played some rousing games of "Apples to Apples" (one of my gifts this year). I easily won the first couple of rounds, but lost subsequent ones as my family got the hang of it. I enjoy the game because it allows me to utilize my skill in communicating through abstract thought. That, and I know which cards are trumps. There are some cards that will win almost any round. "Amputees", "Rosa Parks", "Anne Frank", "Cults", and "Vietnam, 1968", for example. And the card that I think trumps every other card: "Helen Keller". Honestly, what would she NOT be the best choice for. She wins any category either literally, figuratively, antithetically, or as an ironic statement. Cuddly? Helen Keller. Timeless? Helen Keller. Rare? Helen Keller. Normal? Helen Keller. Loud? Helen Keller. Quiet? Helen Keller. Popular? Helen Keller (although "Ernest Hemingway" won that last night... And "Cults" would've won if it had been played. Or "The KKK". Or "Captain Kirk". Or "Morticians", "Sharks", "Rust", "Milk", "Cabbage"...). You get the idea. One of my favorite plays from yesterday was when I won "Funky" with "Going to Grandma's". Or when I won "Patriotic" with "Will Smith" (I've seen Independence Day and Men in Black. Strangely, someone else played "Alien Abductions" that round, using similar logic). I also liked my brother's play of "Worms" for "Touchy-Feely".

Anyway, if you aren't familiar with "Apples to Apples", you should find someone who owns it and get them to play. I swear, it isn't nearly as lame as it may sound. And I don't remember the last time that my family had that much fun playing a game together.

I also sat down and watched Shaun of the Dead with my dad and youngest brother (I mentioned before that our senses of humor are usually in line). My dad said it was one of the strangest movies he's ever seen, and he didn't seem to love the silliness of it as much as my brother and I do. My dad's the kind of person who asks the logical questions ("Why would he stand by the window?" "Why wouldn't he shoot them?" "Why did he answer his phone?") instead of accepting that it's a movie (a trait he passed down to me that seeps out on occasion... not one of my finer qualities), and asks movie-ruining questions to the people who have seen it before ("Is he going to shoot her now?" "Are they going to kill him before he turns into a zombie?") instead of just watching. Therefore, Shaun of the Dead was the wrong movie for him. Maybe we'll give Psycho Beach Party a try next. But then, my brothers got National Treasure and Superbad for Christmas, and I think they'll want to watch those... Ah well. I always think of Christmastime as movie season.

We were thinking of going to the theater to see a movie, but it seems everyone is rooting to see something different. The votes were cast for National Treasure 2, Walk Hard, Juno, Enchanted, and Sweeney Todd. (Ready for a surprise? My vote was Juno. That means that three of my family members voted for musical movies, and I didn't. Weird). I'd be willing to see any of them, really. Except for NT2, as I haven't seen NT1 yet... but maybe we'll remedy that.

You know, as much as I complained about being here instead of in Michigan, it's nice to have had a couple of holidays with just my immediate family. Usually we're with my mom's whole family, sometimes with my dad's, and on a few occasions had both families at our place. Frankly, it's a lot less pressure without them around. I haven't had to worry about looking particularly put together. It doesn't matter if the house is spotless. And, perhaps the biggest relief, I don't have to worry about what I can say in front of whom. Normally I have to not avoid words like "stupid" in front of the children (who have been instructed to treat it like a curse word). I can't discuss politics in front of the adults (as every married couple in my family seems to be comprised of a republican and a democrat). I'm not supposed to mention that I have friends who are gay, atheist, or cohabitating in front of the Latin-Mass-preferring, pre-Vatican-II Catholics. But with just my immediate family, the censorship is gone, most taboo words are fair play, and subject bans have been lifted. Excellent. Also, it has given me the freedom to wander around my house in pajamas at all hours of the day. And really, is there a better gift than that?

So maybe this extremely long stay in a place that isn't quite home isn't so bad after all. Don't get me wrong, my soul is still aching a little, but it's nothing that time won't heal.


And now for a final thought that my choir-member friends from back home might appreciate... (despite being a little late)

On this day, I wish you good cheer
To the friends I love, far and near
May this holiday be a joyous day
And may God bless you all
And may He bring you a happy new year.

~A~


P.S. The title is taken from lyrics to "Hard Candy Christmas" from the musical The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.

P.P.S. I have the sudden urge to sing "This Little Babe" from "A Ceremony of Carols". Oh, how I miss my Someko (a choir I was a member of back in high school).

P.P.P.S. Happy St. Stephen's Day! Happy Boxing Day! And a very happy everything!

ETA - I forgot my favorite Apples-to-Apples move! For the word "Realistic", my brother played "Romeo & Juliet". GENIUS!

Someone Else's Clothes

I haven’t worn a swimsuit in public since 2003. It was on a trip to a beach in Italy, while I was studying abroad. It was a one-piece, and I wore a skort over it (for any males reading this, shorts + skirt = skort. Basically, it’s a skirt with a leg divider built in. It’s the clothing equivalent to a spork). Before that, it had been a couple of years since I’d put on that swimsuit. I don’t even have it anymore. It’s not like I need it.

I’m just not very comfortable with my body. People keep saying that Britney Spears looked appallingly bad at the VMAs this year. I keep thinking, “Her body is more toned than mine. My God, what would they say about me if I wore a bikini?” That’s why I’ve never owned a bikini. I don’t want to be judged the way people who wear bikinis are judged. I’d rather just avoid the scrutiny altogether.

Another reason that I won’t be wearing a bathing suit any time soon is that I’m at an awkward weight right now. I’ve been wearing skirts and dresses a lot lately. This has nothing to do with wanting to dress up. My pants are tighter than they used to be. There have been a few days recently when I’ve tried on more than one pair of slacks before leaving for work in the morning, only to discover that they’re all uncomfortable. I don’t want to spend money to buy more pants, and I don’t feel like actively trying to change my weight. Therefore, I’m going to stick with empire-waist dresses and elastic-waist skirts. I also bought a shirt last week that’s two sizes larger than I normally wear from that store. That was a bit shocking. But I’d rather wear a shirt that fits than one that has the tag-marking I’m used to. After all, no one sees the size. They just see the shirt.

My weight fluctuates a great deal. I go through phases in which my pants are falling down and I have to resort to skirts for an entirely different reason. Most of my youth I was underweight (I remember calling up a friend to excitedly announce that I had finally hit 100 pounds about a month before I graduated from high school. Note: I’m about 5’6”). I didn’t start putting on meat until I got to college (and now I’ve been safely over 100 pounds for quite some time. I’ve been very far over that at points. I doubt it physically possible that I could ever be that low again, which I consider to be a good thing. I looked like an Auschwitz victim). These days, I yo-yo a bit, which I’ve grown accustomed to. Since I’m not willing to change my eating habits (mostly junk, and about 70% carbs) or my exercise habits (sedentary unless movement required and very against working out and/or running… In my mind, running is punishment for when you’ve done something wrong in gym class; it is not a pastime), I must accept that I have no say in what my weight will ultimately be. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from complaining any time I gain or lose more than I’d like. I’m very willing to whine about it.

My family thinks I complain too much. Not about weight, specifically. Just as a general statement.

I’m actually going to visit my family soon, which will be strange. They have recently moved from the house I grew up in to a house several states away. It’s incredibly odd to think that my family has moved without me. The house I’m going to see them in will never be my home (no matter how much my mother has tried to convince me otherwise). I was going through some strange abandonment issues because of the situation a few months ago. I think I’m over them, but we’ll see once I get to their house. I’m not imagining that it will be a fully comfortable experience.

I’m not even sure what I’m going to do once I’m there. Help them unpack, probably. I won’t be able to do the things I used to do when I visited them, such as hit up my old haunts and call up the friends I haven’t seen in ages. Aside from my family, I don’t know a soul in the whole state. My mother says she’s going to take me shopping for a Halloween costume. Maybe that’ll help pass the time.

I don’t have a good Halloween costume idea yet, although I have been trying my hardest. I’ve considered Alex Mack, Daria, and Beebe Bluff, among other options. For some reason, childhood memories seemed like a good inspiration this year. I was also considering being a competitor from Legends of the Hidden Temple, but after I suggested it to a friend, she quickly snatched up the idea and is now going as one half of The Red Jaguars, with another of our friends filling the spot of the other half. Drat.

Italians don’t celebrate Halloween, so when I studied abroad I was unable to dress in costume (we were in and out of museums that day… actually, that might have been the same day as the beach excursion… or I might just be lumping all my memories together). So my friends and I started deciding on what we could be without costumes (as Wednesday Addams explained in The Addams Family movie when she wore her standard ensemble on Halloween, “I’m a homicidal maniac. They look just like everyone else.”). Our costumes included Opus Dei member, pedophile, closet porn addict, Fascist, and other things that, for one reason or another, could be considered “scary.”

Halloween is my favorite holiday. I suppose that’s in part due to me being an actor (which is also why I love April Fools Day). It’s also because it’s great to be something you’re not. I’ve heard it said that we’re more honest when we’re wearing masks. I don’t know if that’s true. I just know it’s fun wearing someone else’s clothes.

I like having “clever” costumes, although I know that most people just roll their eyes at me. I have no desire to be something run-of-the-mill. I like the idea that when people tell their friends about the party the went to, the say “oh, and there was one chick dressed as _________.” It makes me feel a little bit special, which I like. Past costumes have included an alarm clock, a piece of gum, a magnet, a bag of jellybeans, a Macarena dancer, a rainbow, and a Von Trapp child.

I was talking to the fellow I’m seeing and his roommates about my possible costumes for this year. I found an adorable yellow and black dress while shopping the other day. I was considering wearing it with a pair of wings, a wizard’s hat, and a wand, and going as a Spelling Bee. I asked for their opinions. One of them turned to me and said, “Depends. How hot is the dress?”

When I asked for other ideas of what I should be, I kept getting answers about sexy female movie characters (and mostly from movies I haven’t seen), such as the chick in Underworld. I’m not doing that. Sorry.

After a certain age, Halloween for females stops being about dressing up to be scary or goofy, and becomes about being unabashedly slutty. To quote the movie Mean Girls, “Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it.” It’s true. It’s the day that women can dress up as scantily, skimpily, or skankily as they would like, and not have to defend it. It's a costume. It’s a character. It’s acceptable.

I hate that I am expected to wear something that makes me look attractive. What’s the point? I spend most other days trying to look more attractive than I am. It feels like Halloween should be an opportunity to do otherwise.

At the same time, if I don’t take advantage of this annual free-pass-skank-day, then I feel like I can’t compete with all the females who do. I feel as though I’ll be invisible in some way. And I will have wasted this chance to focus on being pretty/sexy/hot. It’s like wearing khakis and a cardigan to the prom. It might seem like you’re making a statement at the time, but wouldn’t you end up regretting it? Maybe I would be missing out on some essential part of my life as a young adult. It almost seems like a rite of passage. And I hate that men don’t have to deal with this. No one is disappointed if a normally attractive male shows up at a party dressed as something that doesn’t make him seem more desirable.

For the record, I am against costumes that have words like “sexy” in the title. Sexy Librarian. Naughty Nurse. Dirty Girl Scout. These aren’t Halloween costumes. These are prototypes of characters in soft-core porn. It just isn’t right.

I accidentally watched part of a soft-corn porn flick on television once a couple of years ago. I was flipping channels and saw that there was a Lord of the Rings parody on. I didn’t know at the time that Cinemax turns into a completely different kind of channel at night. I wasn’t expecting Lord of the G-Strings. I was on the phone with a friend at the time, and only semi-paying attention to the television, which I had put on mute. A few minutes later, I screamed in horror as I noticed what was playing in the background. I yelled “Oh my God! I’m watching porn!” My male friend laughed so hard that it’s amazing his lungs remained in his chest.

I’m a relatively naïve person when it comes to things like pornography. I led a pretty sheltered childhood. I wasn’t allowed to watch PG-13 movies until I was 17. I learned the word “flirting” when I was a freshman in high school (a senior boy had to sit me down and explain it to me). I didn’t know what the other “f-word” meant until my senior year. Boys were never interested in me, so I didn’t know anything about the rituals of dating until college. Things were always going on around me that I was completely oblivious to, such as drug use, sex, and the like.

I’m not particularly bothered by my innocent nature. There are many things that I have not done, and I’m alright with that. The way I look at it, I’ve been like a Barbie doll, still in the box. At times, yes, it feels like I’m suffocating inside a plastic tomb and I wish someone would just take me out of my prison and play with me. But Barbie is far more valuable while she’s still in the box, in mint condition. She’s rare and desirable. I think I’d regret it if I were to rip the cardboard cage to shreds. I don’t plan to stay trapped in the box forever, but for now it feels like the right place to be. I’m happy, healthy, and safe from a world of things that I’m not quite ready to deal with.

As I was writing that last paragraph, I started hating that I was saying it. I make it sound like I’m some sort of object. A used car, whose value will decrease with mileage. I don’t actually think that. I do have self-worth, despite my damaged self-image. It also made it sound like I’m depriving myself of things because I feel should. That’s not it at all. If I’m staying unacquainted with anything, it’s because I want to. If I felt forced, I’d fight against it. Maybe that’s part of the reason I don’t hop out of the box… Because everyone else does.

I’m anti-lemming. I will be whatever it is I want to be, and will ignore the social trends. Occasionally, I will fight against them simply because I feel that someone should. Like in 5th grade when my mother couldn’t convince me to wear jeans because “all the other kids wear jeans.” I spent most of that year wearing leggings as pants. And then I entered into an overalls phase. And from there went to capris, clam-diggers, pedal-pushers, and flood pants (this was before these styles came back into fashion… I was inspired by the movie Dirty Dancing, and suffered through an unfair amount of teasing for wearing pants that were “too short”). I refused to be a conformist. Of course, I wear jeans now… when they fit.

Maybe the way we dress in daily life is a costume of sorts. Do we choose what we wear so people will know who we are? We can project an image of what we want to be, or who we think we should be. The clothes we choose are a form of self-expression, after all (that’s why Barbie was popular in the first place… put on a different outfit, and she’s a whole new toy). Perhaps on occasion we hide behind it (I suppose that by being clothed at all, we are hiding our bodies, but I was speaking figuratively... as though every person has the ability to put on sheep's clothing and pretend to be something that isn't a wolf).

Perhaps that’s part of why I take off my pants when I get back to my apartment. I don’t have to worry about what image I’m projecting once I’m alone. I’m the only person who sees me in my underwear (well, one of my former roommates did on more than one occasion… like the night she came home when she was supposed to be out watching a movie. I was sprawled out on the couch wearing underwear and a sports bra that read, “I Support the Belles”, a reference to my college mascot. I thought someone was breaking into my apartment and was terrified that I was about to be attacked. And there I was, utterly defenseless, and barely clothed. This is why you should never watch Law & Order: SVU by yourself in the dark). I don’t have to worry about anyone judging me in my underwear, which is good, because my bra and undies never match. Ever. I have exactly one set of matching undergarments, and I never remember to wear both components on the same day. Why should I have to? As my mother always says, “No one will see, no one will know, no one will care.”

My word, this has been a disjointed blog entry. But I suppose that’s par for the course with me. I hope you didn’t hate it.

May you always be comfortable, no matter what you’re wearing.

~A~

Pantslessness & Delayed Goodbyes

I promise you that I will not be updating this blog every day in the future (maybe every week or so... we'll see). For the moment, it still has its novelty. It’s remarkably cathartic. I forgot how much I truly enjoy rambling in written form. For those of you who don’t know (which I assume is most of you), I had an online journal in the past. I began it when I went off to college as a way for my friends from back home to be able to know what was going on in my life. I wrote for four years. I never allowed anyone I knew from school to read it, in case I wanted to vent about them without them knowing (I also wouldn’t have wanted a couple male friends of mine to know that I was completely crushed on them. Of course, I’ve since told them this, but it would’ve been mortifying at the time). I promised a couple of my friends that I would allow them to read the journal as soon as we graduated (because after that point, who cares?).

Then, tragedy struck. Just a few short months before I left college, my journal disappeared. Actually, lots of journals did. Curse you Diary-X and your server failure! I was heartbroken. It felt as though a part of me died that day. I believe I actually wept over it. And I’m fairly certain I made a couple phone calls on the verge of nervous breakdown to people who didn’t quite understand the magnitude of this calamity. I put gads of time into carefully chronicling my existence, and all evidence of that was gone.

I eventually realized that I don’t need those old entries (as much as I would like to have a record of them). I learned a lot from the book Dear Mr. Henshaw (it was required reading for me around third grade, I believe). There was a boy who kept writing letters to his favorite author, never receiving a response. As the boy grew up, he realized that he didn’t need one. It was nice to think that someone was reading about his problems, but the important thing was for him to be able to write them down. He was only truly honest with himself when he was writing. It allowed him to have distance from his problems, so that he could better solve them.

The same is true in my life. Writing things down created more vivid memories for me. I don’t need to rely on re-reading those entries in order to recall events clearly (although, rest assured, I have set it up so that every entry I create for this new blog is automatically e-mailed to me. And I’m saving them as Word documents for good measure). I don’t need anyone to comment on what I’ve written (allow it does add a touch of sparkle to my day when they do). I kept a journal in high school that was an actual book. No one ever read that to give me advice, and it was still worthwhile. Actually, I’d be horrified if they had. It’s lurking in my closet right now. I’m embarrassed just thinking about the things I did back in the day. For example, I was awestruck by certain boys in high school, and in retrospect I am perplexed by what it was that drew me to many of them. My point (yes, there is occasionally a point to my tangents) is that it’s not about the readers. It’s about the writer. This is all a sort of therapy for me. Anyone who’s willing to trudge through these waters, God bless you. If, by some fluke of nature, I gain faithful readers, I will do my best not to scare them off. After all, it’s rather flattering if people choose to become an audience for you.

I’m already somewhat of an internet celebrity. And by internet, I mean “intraweb”. At work, I am the current “Employee Profile” on the homepage (and I will continue to be for somewhere between 2-6 weeks, if past profiles are any indication). This means that every time anyone in my company attempts to go online for any reason, they are greeted by a particularly unflattering picture of my smiling face. I’ve been getting recognized in the elevator a lot. It’s always a bit awkward. After I admit that I am, indeed, the person they thought I was (and they take a moment to seem pleased with their own brilliance for making the connection), there’s nothing else to say. So we continue to stand next to each other for a few more floors, wondering if it’s best to make an attempt at conversation, or to just endure the silence. I’ve also been stopped in the ladies room, on the café floor, and in the lobby. Just this afternoon I chatted about it with a friendly chap while waiting for the L to arrive. I have had grazing acquaintanceship with him on account of us both previously being staffed by the same temp agency. Then the train came, he sat down with his book, and our fringe-friendly relationship returned to its normal “smile-and-nod” state.

As soon as I left the station, I came straight home to my apartment, giggled when the change in air pressure I created by opening the door knocked my fan over, and promptly took off my work clothes. We had to dress in business casual attire today, for reasons unbeknownst to me. Actually, they sent us an e-mail explaining it, which I chose to delete unopened, in favor of ignorantly grumbling about the inconvenience (there was another cause for grumbling at work today: a major protest encircled our building, the exits were blocked off, and we were instructed not to leave. I’ve never seen the café floor as crowded as it was today. I ended up skipping lunch and watching online video of Britney Spears’ phoned-in performance at the VMAs instead).

Honestly, taking off my work clothes is always my first priority when I get home. I have a completely different wardrobe for “me” time. I never wear socks when I’m alone (frankly, I don’t wear them to work very often either. Albert Einstein never wore socks because he said they cluttered his thoughts. He was a genius, so it was probably a little more acceptable for him to not wear socks… but I don’t care. I dislike wearing them if I don’t have to). And often, my around-the-apartment outfits don’t include pants. It’s a new thing I’m trying. Turns out, I’m happier when I’m not wearing pants. Walking around in underwear is both comfortable and liberating. It makes me feel like this space I pay hundreds of dollars in rent for every month is truly mine. I dance around in my underwear. I fold clothes in my underwear. I wash dishes in my underwear. I highly recommend it. Being stripped down to essential articles of clothing makes all activities slightly more enjoyable.


This evening, I cooked dinner in my underwear and a t-shirt. And by dinner, I mean I put 4 eggs, half a red bell pepper, and two slices of colby-jack in a pan, cooked it, and called it food. For me, that’s some hardcore cooking. I’m horribly out of place in a kitchen, which is unfortunate, since I adore food. One of my attempts at baking brownies resulted in a strange brownie-soup that refused to solidify. It defied all scientific explanation. Most of the time, I know what I’ve done wrong after I’ve done it. Like the time I accidentally put the Jell-O in the freezer instead of the fridge and ended up with inedible Jell-O-flavored ice. I can make sandwiches rather well. And I’m brilliant with all forms of pasta (I am, after all, half Italian). For most things, though, it’s better if I’m not involved with the preparations.

Evidently, I’m a finicky eater. I don’t understand how that’s possible, as I can think of a sundry of foods that I would delight in devouring. But apparently my tastes don’t align with the things most people are willing to eat. My mother actually has to keep a list of the things I don’t eat for when I come home to visit (she’s puzzled as to how she ended up with a child who doesn’t eat fennel, lentils, or gnocchi. I maintain that these foods are not found in the average kitchen on a regular basis). In case you were curious, I don’t eat any animals that I deem “cute” (so no pig, duck, or sheep, but I’m cool with chicken, turkey, and cow), anything that used to live underwater (with the occasional exception of tuna), most nuts (except cashews and peanuts, although I think peanuts are technically legumes), and oranges (which most people are especially disbelieving of. I don’t like oranges, orange juice, orange Creamsicles, orange candy, etc. I’ve never liked them, and I doubt I ever will).

I have cravings for combinations of food that other people would call “strange”. I think this originated in elementary school, where I had a penchant for mixing all the foods on my lunch tray into an unappetizing goulash and eating it so that the other kids would find me entertaining (I was willing to try whatever I could to make friends. It rarely panned out). I put condiments on just about everything I eat. I eat mashed potatoes with red wine vinegar and Worcestershire sauce. I eat slices of provolone with yellow mustard. I once ate a particularly odd concoction of Half-Baked Ben & Jerry’s ice cream (it’s chocolate-fudge-brownie crossed with chocolate-chip-cookie-dough), caramel sauce, hot fudge, and green olives. Yes, you read that right. Green olives. With pimentos, if that makes a difference. And you know what? It was sensational. Of course, I was sick as a dog all through rehearsal the next day, so I won’t be revisiting that one. Unless I’m ever pregnant, in which case, all bets are off (although it has been hypothesized that if I become pregnant, I’ll start eating like a normal person. I think that theory is more for entertainment than plausibility, but one never knows).

My mother is a fantastic cook. Seriously. If you know my mother and are ever near her, I suggest conning her into making you a meal. It shouldn’t be too difficult. She’s Italian. It’s in her blood to feed people. Of course, I’m half Italian, and I don’t cook… But even if I did, I wouldn’t cook for others. No one but me would enjoy the foods I make for myself. If I’m going to spend time with someone, we’re going to have to have an event planned that has nothing to do with eating something I’ve made. Let’s go to McDonald’s, order off the dollar menu, and waste a significant amount of time discussing absolutely nothing. That sounds like a much better way to spend an evening.

Some people have described spending time with me as getting lost in a vortex. You lose time (usually large chunks of it). It’s like being abducted by aliens, but without the nasty anal probe to deal with. I think the time disappears because I provide such an entertaining alternative to anything else you could've possibly done. After all, time flies when you’re having fun. And fruit flies like a banana (sorry… I felt the need to throw that in, despite the fact that it was an intentionally horrible misquote). It probably also doesn’t hurt that I have no concept of time myself (which is probably why I have a tendency to be late for things… I blame that lack of skill on genetics).

I think the real reason time disappears is because I manipulate it. On a level that is not entirely conscious, I distract people from paying attention to the passing of time. A possible reason behind this is that I have a difficulty saying goodbye to people. Well, people I like, that is. I’m fairly certain I could do without people I don’t like… Anyway. Whether it be at the end of a night of hanging out, or the end of a phone conversation, it’s something I struggle with. If I enjoy the pleasure of someone’s company, I don’t want our time together to end. If we were having a blast, then obviously I would want the fun to continue. If we weren’t, I feel like we need more time in order for the good stuff to begin. In addition, I am plagued by a fear of loneliness. When I leave at the end of the night, I’m going back to an empty room. I’m going to sit on my computer, check my e-mail, see if anything is new on facebook, and then lie awake in bed (darn cathemeral sleep pattern) for an undeterminable period of time, wishing that I weren’t alone. When I hang up the phone, I have no one to talk to but myself (and believe me, I talk to myself plenty), and I end up in this boring, suffocating silence. I feel as though somehow, when a conversation ends, I’m being rejected. I wanted to be around you for longer than you wanted to be around me. I’ve been abandoned in some way. Saying goodbye hurts every time, even if only a little.

So I try everything I can to stop that goodbye from happening. I start one last story. I ask one last question. I give one more hug. When I am successful in delaying separation even by a few minutes, I feel as though I have proof that the other person likes me, and wants to be around me (again, this isn’t completely conscious… in fact, at the moment I’m writing, this is the first time I’ve admitted it to myself. And I’m a little shocked that I’ve never noticed it before. This writing stuff is great for cheap therapy). I won’t say that I have a sense of accomplishment, but it certainly gives me joy, especially if the other person gives up all together for a short period of time. If they put down their coat, or if they decide they’ll crash at my place, or if they ask me if I want a drink. *sigh* I feel a little more content just thinking about it.

I guess I’m emotionally needy. I always knew I was physically needy. I’m all for hugs and cuddling… and I’m a completely indiscriminate cuddler. If the person I’m cuddling with leaves, I will move on to someone else. I will cuddle with a stranger. I will cuddle with people of either gender (see? I’m not sexist). I will cuddle with the nearest pillow, if necessary. And I often miss my friends’ physical presences despite conversing with them frequently through other means, such as phone and e-mail. And now, on top of all of that, I’m emotionally needy as well. I crave companionship. Perhaps it’s a form of reassurance that I deserve love. Or maybe it’s a cry for attention. But if you don’t have anything to hurry off to, and you decide to pry yourself out of my grasp instead of lingering, there’s a good chance that you’re hurting me without knowing it. And if you give me a few more minutes, you will have left me a little bit more satisfied. Just feel flattered that I want to spend those few extra minutes with you, and consider allowing me to do just that.

I rather like the familiar Shakespeare quote on the subject, from Romeo & Juliet:
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

Alright, I’m off to go attempt to sleep and stop thinking about the not-so-abrupt goodbye I said earlier that clearly left me slightly disappointed for no good reason (why else would I have felt the need to write about this?).

Much love, sweet dreams, and lingering goodbyes,

~A~