Stop, Drop, and Roll with it...

It's 3 am. I have been sleeping for about an hour and a half when I fanitly hear a beeping noise. Sitting up in my bed, I listen for it again. Nope. Weird. Something must've been going off in my neighbors room. Wait...wait for it...wait for it...and yup. There it is. There is definitely a high pitched beeping sound randomly coming from somewhere in my hallway. Well, shit. This means I am going to have to get up and figure this out...
Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep...Now there are several things beeping...all at once, intermittently, with a pattern, without...there is a regular symphony of high pitched alarms in my apartment.
Now, let me back this up a bit and explain something. I live in a one bedroom apartment. It is approximately 550 square feet. And my father equipped it with approximately four smoke alarms and five carbon monoxide detectors. From Costco. A value pack of life saving devices intended to be purchased by large families who live in the suburbs with three kids, a dog, and, I dont know...perhaps a two story home that would merit this combo pack of alarm sysytems?
(On a side note, I would like to point out that they sell pregnancy tests in multipacks at Costco. If you need to be bulk supplies of pregnancy tests, then perhaps you should be buying bulk supplies of something else...just a thought.)
But back to my cacaphonous living quarters-there are alarms for the alarms. There is a master alarm. And every single thing that could possibly be beeping at this moment, is.
Calming my self down I manage to grab the step stool and begin waving my arms in front of the main detector in the hallway. I try this because I saw Phillip do it once when he was making pasta in my kitchen and accidentally set off one of my dad's booby traps. Alas, it worked for him, but I seem to be getting nowhere. The next step involves pulling some of these alarms off the wall. There is clearly no fire, and they shouldnt all be going off anyway, so I figure the best thing to do is rid myself, and my neighbors, of the nuisance.
After pulling each alarm off the wall...there is one beeping sound that won't let up. One alarm in my fathers Costco arsenal that must be heard. This gets me thinking...what if something actually is wrong? What if there is an invisible gas permeating through my walls at this very moment and my stubborness will be my ultimate downfall as I lay on the wood floor dying.
With each beep I could hear the story my dad told of the medical examiner he used to know that wound up dead due to carbon monoxide...
"Get it?" he would say, "The irony?"
"He was a medical examiner. He did this for a living."
"Get it?"

Yeah, dad I get it. I know what irony is. The last thing I want is for people to tell the story of the young girl with 9 alarms in her apartment who ignored them all and died anyway of smoke inhalation and carbon monoxide poisoning as she lay sorrounded in flashlights, fire extinguishers, and duct tape. Talk about irony.
So, I read the back of one of the alarms and this is exactly what it says:

"Carbon monoxide is a silent killer. You cannot see it or smell it, but it can kill you.
Please contact the fire department immediately."

So I do. I grab my iphone and dial 911 for the first time in my life. Within 30 seconds three fire trucks and several fire man pull up to my apartment building and I let them in. Wearing matching GAP flannel Christmas pajamas and holding one of my three fire extinguishers (also purchased at Costco) I must've looked like quite the resident maniac. Pyro maniac.
The fireman was able to hold in the laughter when we covered the amount of alarms I had removed but couldn't hold in the giggles when I told him I have never used the stove.
His carbon monoxide detector didnt detect anything, and his only theory was that something set off one alarm which sent them all into a tizzy. We located the rogue alarm, he had a good laugh telling his buddies about my portable fire extinguishers and they were on their way.

Well, here's the good news: I did not die. The firemen were super fast. And I felt good defending my dad when the firefighters laughed at his obsessive compulsive ways. He may not be the best communicator, he may lecture me on how to use a tape measurer or the best ways to get into grad school even though I am not applying, but he will do everything he can to make sure I dont set myself on fire the next time I put ramen in the microwave with no water.
And this week when my dad came to visit and inspect his systems, I did my best to stay patient when he nixed the hanging of a corkboard in the kitchen cause a piece of paper might leap its way into the toaster...but I drew the line when he suggested I purchase a rope ladder. That's all I need is the neighbors seeing crazy fire alarm girl crawling out of her apartment window on a rope ladder from Home Depot when there is a perfectly good fire escape. You have to draw the line somewhere.

When Zen goes missing....

Here I am. Back to blogging. The reason: Adam and Phillip have never read my blog. Although they are often a part of my blog, and two of the people I am closest too in the world they say they were never invited. I am not sure how they missed it, but apparently they wanted a facebook event, a calligraphied invitation, or perhaps a banner flying behind a plane...

While on tour in California I found a great yoga place in a shopping center a short drive from our hotel. I would wake up in the morning, take our giant black hearse car dodge station wagon thingie, and wind my way through the hills to a strip mall to get my namaste on. My third day I exited my hot yoga class, grabbed my bag, and went to slide on my shoes...

but the shoes below my bag were not my shoes. They were old, sweaty, smelly brown flip flops. And they were not mine. Mine were gone. Brand new fifty dollar rainbow flip flops. Had dissappeared into the yogic abyss...

I head to the front desk and let them know of the problem: Apparently someone "accidentally" took my brand new flip flops and left me their old ones in their place. If they could just make a note so whoever "accidentally" took my shoes could please return them, it would be much appreciated. The owner didnt seem overly concerned, and told me I should just take the shoes that were left there and call it a wash. 

A wash? Ummm...chewed up leather dog toys that perhaps paraded as shoes in their previous life were not the same as brand new rainbows. Not the same at all. You would think a Californian would have some respect for all that is the rainbow flip flop. 

She begrudgingly wrote the note and then had the nerve to say "hey, don't sweat the small stuff."

I know yoga is supposed to make you feel centered, at one with the world and the people around you, it is supposed to help you put things in perspective and life a happier life. But I dont think that means you should just walk out, get in your car, and then realize you can't grab lunch because not even the IHOP will serve you without shoes on....and just let it all go with the sound of "ooommm..."

Someone stole my shoes. I am out fifty bucks. And I had to walk, starving, through the hotel lobby barefoot like a weirdo. The thief went to yoga too...so, why don't they have to become one with the universe and their fellow yogi's? What's their idea of Buddha?? Clearly, they have not made it very far with the idea of separating themselves from material goods. 

I spent the whole day feeling guilty and the thief felt nothing. I do not think this is what Mr. Bikram, Tolle, or Coelho had in mind...

The reason I bring all of this up is because at my regular yoga studio in Queens the other day a dog stole one of my socks. And the owner of the dog denied it. And everyone stared at me like I had a stick up my ass for even caring about a stupid sock. Their eyes seemed to say "there are bigger things in the world to worry about...there's a war...an election...Sarah Palin....starving children in Africa...blah...blah...ooommm...shaka laka..."

And this is all true. But it was MY sock. And I thought maybe I could walk around Central Park with just one sock and be ok...but it felt so wrong...so I took the one sock off on the train and threw it away...As I walked sockless through Central Park...I let it all go...cause there are bigger things to worry about. And I no longer sweat the small stuff....I just bring it all inside the studio with me. 

Smell ya later...

How come every pen I own is from a hotel? And why are they the best pens ever. You can't buy these pens unless you want to spend approximately 80 dollars a night to stay at a Holiday Inn Express. It might be worth it...

About a month ago I headed home to New York City to attend a performance of JOE BEAN. This was the very first show that I have cast on my own, and this made me super nervous and excited. In Seattle a few weeks before, a new Betsey Johnson dress somehow made its way into my luggage and became the outfit of choice for the big day. However,  I overlooked the sweat/stench factor of wearing a three quarter sleeved polyester blend dress all day long in the Big Apple. 

Upon leaving the house in Queens and arriving at the Zipper Theatre I smelled good. I swear. Like, really good...a mixture of deodorant and Marc Jacob's DAISY. But by the time the show had reached the halfway point, my flower had wilted and been flung into a pile of manure. The smell was bad. B-A-D. 

At first I try to play it cool, akwardly hugging people I havent seen in months with my arms down, feigning being cold to keep my arms crossed, and basically just looking unfriendly and uncomfortable. The at the reception I snuck into the bathroom, took the dress off and stood in my slip while wetting and soaping my armpits. Problem solved. Mini shower effective. 

Or so I thought. 

Then after dinner and few more rides on the subway I noticed people steering clear of the girl in the super cool dress. Homeless people and MTA workers could smell me coming from the opposite platform. I  had reached a new low. What was I supposed to do??? Running late for a friends birthday party I decided to forge on through and just hope no one noticed. Or hope that people would be forgiving. 

Upon reaching the birthday party and hanging out with some old friends, I began to recount my tale of woe and my good friend Mark was like, "I am sure you dont smell that bad."

He took me up on my offer to take a whiff for himself and I am sure that is a decision he will regret for a long time. Nothing like smelling a pretty girls smelly, smelly armpit after a day in Manhattan. Being the good friend that he is, and wanting to spare his girlfriend the agony of my scent any longer...we got the men's deodorant out of his backpack and I snuck into the bathroom at O'Hurley's. Finding myself in mid-town, in my slip, in a single stall bathroom once again I figured that more must be done if I were going to make it through the evening. 

So after applying Mark's Right Guard to the initial culprits, my armpits...I realized that the smell was not budging and I put my little miss piggy against my dress. And then I passed out. Not really, but I did jump back in shock and land on the toilet seat. MY DRESS SMELLED LIKE BOOT CAMP BODY ODOR GONE TERRIBLY WRONG. My dress smelled as awful as it was beautiful. And I had nothing else to wear. Then I did the only thing I could think of. I started spreading Mark's deodorant all over the under arms of my dress, the inside and outside. 

I headed back out into the bar and made small talk with John Lloyd Young praying that at the very least I smelled like organic deodorant covered by perfume, soap, a perfume sample from Sephora, and Right Guard. A lot of Right Guard. Feeling more confident than I had all day I gave Mark a huge hug, with my arms all the way up and around his neck. 

Streaking in a Winter Wonderland...

Days of gold are a rare and glorious occasion out here on the road, and this Monday those of us on MMT2 LP had one! 

For those of you who don't speak "road" a golden day is when you dont have to travel and there is no show. It is an actual, for real, day off! And its amazing! So, the girls and Adam and I decided to head up to majestic Whistler for a day of shopping, eating, and slopes...except we aren't allowed to ski...so more like shopping and eating and watching people skiing. 

Let me say that first and foremost, there are some of the most beautiful men I have ever seen in Whistler, Canada. It made me want to buy an all new Burton outfit, strap on some snow boots, and hit the....couch by a fire in a lodge. Have you ever tried to snowboard? It's impossible, and I look totally not cool trying to do it. I figure I would have more luck sipping hot chocolate by a resting area and using some snow lingo like...

"hey man, that was a great milk run (the first run of the day)" or

" I had to come back in cause I was stuck behind a gaper (a slow skier who looks at the scenery)"

Every guy looks better in a snow hat and huge goggles...but there's just something about those huge clunky boots and the bright red cheeks (remember Nicole Kidman's super blushed face from Cold Mountain?)...plus, I forgot to mention that most of them are Australian or British or from some other super hot accent place. No one in Whistler seemed to be from Whistler and we stood out not only because we were boring Americans, but also because we were some of the only people who clearly had no intention of skiing, or really any intention of snow getting on our bodies at all. So, the intro to Whistler is over...you can picture it....Aspen, Vail, Park City....hot guys, super cold, skiiing, etc...

We ate lunch, stopped in lulu lemon (Rebecca didn't buy anything which should go down in the record books) and then we took the gondola up to the top of Whistler Mountain. 

As we boarded the talking device let us know the ride would be approx. 23 minutes....which seemed like a really long time to be cooped up in a gondola and to try to keep Rebecca from looking down...but I digress...

We make it to the top after a painless 23 minutes of gabbing and watching what looks like a "kid making factory" as little ski tykes ride a conveyor belt to the top of the bunny trail and then ski down to their parents...

So we see the view, spend most of the time in the way of serious skiiers and getting snowed on,  grab the next available gondola headed down and begin the picturesque journey back to our rental car...then Whitney has probably the best idea she has ever had ever. 

Whitney: "Hey guys, take your clothes off. Let's take naked pictures in the gondola."

AWESOME!

Before you can think we are all getting rid of bags, coats, and our many layers until Carla and I are in bras slash tank tops rolled up, Adam is sans shirt, and Rebecca and Whitney are naked from the waist up. Without even thinking. In fact, definitely without thinking. Or considering that any gondola passing us on their way up can see us. We take some pictures (which are hilarious) and are quite happy with ourselves when...the gondola stops. completely. the entire Whistler gondola ceases to move. Beat. Beat. We scramble to put our clothes back on and then nervously joke about how funny it would be if they had stopped the gondola because of us and what an awesome blog it would make if we actually got arrested for indecent exposure on a ski lift. I mean, how funny would it be if we had to miss the show after going to Whistler, but not because we were injured skiing...because we were filming our own version of "Girls Gone Wild in a Gondola"...

After some more hypothesizing,filming a quick follow up video, and getting our various layers back in their rightful place,  the gondola still hasn't moved and we are awaiting further instruction from the talking voice thing, but we aren't hearing anything. 

Luckily we had lots of time to get our "story straight" if we were to be interrogated by Forest Ranger Rick for exposing ourselves in public. Although I dont know if they would've had much sympathy for a "dire need to try on new lulu lemon sports bras in case they dont fit and we dont have them in the States" excuses...

Then, what felt like a half hour later (but was probably ten minutes) the gondola was cruising back down the mountain at its usual pace, with five fully clothed cast members of Mamma Mia safely in tow. Now who says we are boring Americans....

All that and the Kitchen sink...

The time has come...its overdue perhaps....the time for me to leave the road. I have 14 more wonderful weeks on the road and I cannot express how grateful I am to have been out here for 17 months (so far) BUT this hotel room at the Sandman nearly did me in. As in, I almost lost my life. Just five minutes ago, at 1:46 am in the bathroom of my European style hotel room in Vancouver, Canada. 

The first signs that things were not going to go my way were on Monday, on the way to Canada...now, I have never had much luck in this country. There are some wonderful people and a lot of mountains...scenic things and such...but its just soooo frustrating that it is so close to the US and yet so far. They dont sell apples at Subway instead of chips, anything under five dollars is a coin, most of the citizens here have a severe misconception of personal space bubbles, and my super cool iphone costs 59 cents a minute. A minute! Ok, so general griping aside this has been a particularly trying foray into the country I can officially call my second home during my 11th week here since 2007....

The bus ride on the way here provided many picturesque landscapes and attractions, however the Subway where we took our Equity break had no Veggie Patty's or Spinach, then we were stopped at the border and our driver had failed to bring his passport. He thought that a license was enough. Sure, its enough to drive a bus load of people with license, but what about driving to a foreign land with a rather strict border patrol??? We were held at the "border"( for a moment I was reminded of a family trip to Israel when I was 13 and we accidentally took a cab into Palestine and then had to figure out how to get back over...it was very traumatic) for quite some time while the bus bathroom seemed to emanate an unidentifiable, but clearly unpleasant smell that made me want to throw up my wheat bread, onion, pepper sandwich from the Way of Sub. But I kept it down and we carried on to the great city of Vancouver. 

This is the smallest hotel room I have ever seen. Ok, its not as small as a single room at the Milford Plaza, but its quite tight...and theres more furniture than I can fit in my entire apartment in this one room. There are three chairs, a table, an entertainment unit with a small tv and the biggest desk I have ever seen....there is an 8 and a half foot desk in the entry way. I dont know what kind of business they think gets done around here, but they are not joking around. Although the modem is the size of a laptop, so perhaps they are providing you with ample desk space to hook up your computer. 

To make a long story a scooch shorter: Adam and I had some furniture removed, moved the refrigerator from the bathroom and figured out a way for my suitcase to fit in front of the window without catching on fire from the heater. Its a delicate dance, this domestic tour life, and I was just starting to feel like Adam and I had it down to a science when...

A few minutes ago, after watching some episodes of WEEDS Season 2 I decided, on a whim, to pluck my eyebrows...those of you on the road know that this is a perfectly normal middle of the night activity...however, it became a suicide mission when the entire sink came crashing to the ground!!!!! Like, detached from the wall and the cabinetry and came crashing down on top of me. Don't worry I am fine....and I managed to fight my way back into the geyser to retrieve Adam's super expensive Khiels and L'Occitane products. Have no fear, I suffered only minor physical and emotional injuries, as well as unbrushed teeth....and Adam's eyes will not be puffy. 

Pictures will follow tomorrow...only me....this stuff only happens to me...

You can take the girl out of Hicksville...

Dinner at McCormick and Schmicks in Seattle...

Adam and I decided to have a "date" on Friday night to use up his gift certificate to this fine dining establishment. It should be pointed out that I suggested he save it for a real date, and he had to point out how not cool it would be to go on a date and then pay with a gift card. Wow, its been awhile since I have been in that situation so apparently I forgot a major dating party foul. Please excuse me. : ) 

Anyway, we are famished by the time we get to the restaurant so we order a starter of French Onion Soup. When the bowl of cheese arrives I am super excited to dive in and enjoy...and then I discover a carrot. A whole baby carrot just randomly floating at the bottom of my soup. So I eat it. And then I realize that maybe a carrot should not have been in my soup. I mean, its not the worst thing in the world to have a carrot in your vegetable/cheese soup and I just figured maybe they put other vegetables in their soup. You know maybe the chef uses his grandma's old  "onions, bread, cheese, and one single, lone baby carrot recipe..."

When I asked Adam if he had a carrot in his soup, he looked at me like I was a little crazy and that prompted me to tell the waitress about the rouge carrot. I said, 

"Just so you know, there was a carrot in my soup....no big deal, I ate it...but I just thought you should know."

The waitress (who had been friendly thus far) looked at me like I had seventeen heads and then told me she would take the soup off of my check. 

About ten minutes later the manager came up to apologize for the mishap and asked me if I needed anything else...

I thought this was quite friendly and over the top, considering there had been a perfectly edible vegetable in my soup...and then when I told the manager I had eaten the carrot she also looked at me like I had seventeen heads. 

Then i asked Adam if I, in fact, had grown 16 more heads since I last checked out a mirror. When he was able to confirm that my body was in the same condition I had last left it I became increasingly confused by the uproar created by carrot complaint. 

I know this story is really riveting, and you are all at the edge of your seats as it draws to a close....

I see the waitress and manager speaking in the corner, and they were obviously clearing up a miscommunication...turns out, the waitress thought I had said I had a HAIR in my soup but ate it anyway!!! She thought I ate a HAIR, that wasnt mine, that had been cooked into my French Onion Soup...!!!! What do I look like? A hobo? An insane person? Why in the world would I eat a hair? Especially one thats not mine????? 

Of course I didnt eat a hair...I ate a carrot...a free carrot actually...and it tasted really good.  

Karma's not always a bitch...

(cue music) "Vacation...all I ever wanted...Vacation...having to get away..." (fade out)

This week I was on vacay from the MIA and headed to the big, bad apple to visit friends, buy an apartment, see shows, and possibly change careers. That's what I do on my week off.

Anyway, my luck in New York City is unreal (knock on wood) and it never ceases to amaze me when the crowds disperse and opportunities suddenly come my way.  My first bag of Dale and Thomas Popcorn was free cause the credit card machine wasn't working, Christian, Santi, and I got fifth row center seats to Sunday in the Park with George for thirty bucks, and I had my own row on my jetblue flight to Florida so I slept it out. 

On our way back from the show the boys and I ran into a blind couple on the corner of 55th and Bway...I mean, we didnt physically run into them, but they flagged us down to flag them a cab to the Upper West Side. So, Christian gets his "Go Go Gadget" arm prepped and begins to hail them a cab...then i realize that I totally know this woman. Her name is Joanie and she is a vocal coach who does vocal rehabilitation for the mentally and physically disabled. I met her on the train once, she heard me talking to my friend Ryan and thought I sounded friendly. She needed someone to walk her out of the train station and asked me if I was a singer...which, of course, I am...and she is the first person to tell me that my speaking voice actually sounded like a singer's (as opposed to someone with tons of tongue tension who speaks on vocal frye...I dont know how to spell that term...). The point is...that was in 2005 and I have not seen her since then and what are the chances of running into her on the street three years later???

You have to wonder why strange, weird, things happen to certain people...and I have often wondered that myself. Then one day I was hauling an old fashioned wheelchair down 8th ave for a Benefit and I realized that I was one of those weird people who do weird things...(it wasnt the first time I had pushed something along the busy street of 8th ave...when we were moving from rehearsals to the theatre during BKLYN I was responsible for wheeling all of the rubbermaid, containerstore containers filled with staples and rubber bands from 42nd up to 45th...and I was determined not to ask for help and make it one trip...it took approximately 30 minutes to get 3 blocks...)

Like, someone probably went home that day and said "I saw some curly haired teenage girl in a suit pushing an old fashioned wheel chair down 8th ave in the middle of the day...what a crazy place!"

So, its my fault. Weird things happen to me because I do weird things. 

That is why I love New York City. 

One is not a degree...

Ummm...so I am not the slightest bit political, but let me say, for the record, that I no longer believe in Global Warming. Nothing about the "globe" is at all "warm"at the moment. Al Gore might want to take a visit to Appleton,Wisconsin and watch as his fingers become frozen to his large diet coke from Subway...just saying...

I thought that the coldest I would ever be in my life was in Boston aught 2003 when we decided to walk the Freedom Trail in March. In Boston. In March. Outside. The Freedom Trail. Phillip and Christian took my blue fleece hat, covered my face, and led me through the Commons while I screamed as if I was on a roller coaster. In my mind I was on a roller coaster...a roller coaster headed straight for Antarctica and icebergs and death and the whole scene from Titanic kept spinning over and over in my head..."just let go"...I wanted to just let go...

But the boys kept me from jumping off the ledge and lead me back to Phillips warm apartment with the cliche cup of hot chocolate and matching I (heart) NY tshirts and glow in the dark star pajama pants...

Well, I WAS WRONG...The coldest I would ever be in my life was this morning at the Appleton airport when walking through the Hertz rental car parking lot. 

We showed up at 7 this morning to rent a car for the drive from Appleton (which is in Wisconsin) and Detroit (which is north of Canada, just fyi) and the Hertz grandma worker woman kept saying.."I am sorry the only car I have is at the very end of the lot." "I am so sorry."

Anthony and I just kept looking at each other, thinking how friendly and overly concerned these Midwesterners are,and we were like...yeah, yeah, lady...where's the car??

It was in Bumble Fuck North Pole is where it was and as Anthony and I rolled all of our earthly posessions along the snowy asphalt I began to lose feeling in my hands. 

First they felt cold, then they ached, then they burned (which actually felt a little good), next up was the feeling that they might just completely break off, then it felt like I had pins and needles in every nerve ending on my hand, wishing I could go back to the breaking off feeling, trying to break them off, realizing that I couldnt even feel one hand enough to try to break the bones of the other hand...

We got into the car and funbled with the keys, heat, trunk...anything that required touching cause shooting pains in our purpley blueish hands. Anthony and I were about to cry when I realized I couldnt hear...or rather, I could hear,but I couldnt feel my ear. The right one. At all. 

Sitting in the car for about ten minutes while trying to regain feeling in either my hands or my ear was some of the worst time spent in my life. (No offense Anthony, you were wonderful company and if I wanted to be in excruciating pain in a parking lot in Wisconsin with anyone, it would be you)

Luckily, my hands are now fully functioning, in their best baby claw way, and my ear has faded from a maroonish teal color to its natural skin tone. Anthony has also fully physically recovered but I am not sure when the emotional scars will heal for either one of us. 

I was born in Florida. This shouldnt happen to me. 

Innappropriate times at Kroger...

Let me set the scene...its a beautiful day in Richmond,VA...we are playing the Landmark Theatre on the VCU campus and have a double show day. At the end of the evening Adam decides he wants to go home and make a yogurt parfait (one of his many special talents), so we head to the Kroger on campus to pick up the necessary accoutrements. 

The campus Kroger is bustling and Adam and I are easily distracted as we search through the aisles for honey and granola. Suddenly, a young man comes sliding by us in his Kroger t-shirt with no shoes on. Like, working in a grocery store with food and such, and no shoes. 

"Excuse me, are you not wearing shoes?"- me

"Yeah...I stepped in salsa."- Teenage Kroger employee bitter about life cause he is working the Saturday night late shift so he is just trying to amuse himself by sliding down market aisles in his socks. 

"Ah. Carry on then. "- me

Checking in with Adam (who now has obtained a banana, an apple, a pear, a nectarine, strawberries, raspberries, yogurt, honey, and granola...ummm...so I dont know how this became a recipe blog all of a sudden. Sorry for the random details about the foodstuff...I must be hungry) we head to the check out line...and then IT HAPPENS...The craziest, most innappropriate, disgusting, thing that has ever happened in a check out line...

There is a man with no underwear on and pants that begin about halfway down his ass cheek and a jacket that stops at his midriff in front of us. There was easily 7-8 inches of visible, full on crack. It was as if we were being mooned...He was old and leathery...and obviously insane. The contents of his cart were as follows:

200 20 oz bottles of Mountain Dew

a bushel of bananas

one cheese log

and no underpants to speak of...

On the positive side of life, it felt like a holiday, or like we had all been locked in an elevator for hours together. Every Kroger shopper within eye shot of the ass man felt a bond with one another and we were able to share things with one another that we never would have had the opportunity if we only encountered fully clothed civilians...

"I was just trying to buy stuff for a party and then this happened..."-clearly nerdy college sophomore who was making sure we knew he was heading to a partay!

"I thought I could handle it, but I am not sure..."- group of guys behind us who were very proud of their upcoming natty light purchase

"You are stronger than me, I had to switch lines."- me, congratulating the girl in front of us in line, who had spent at least six minutes diverting her eyes from the cavernous crack in front of her

As Adam and I moved away from the ruler sized amount of ass crack we struggled through the self checkout and inadvertently stole raspberries, two Cadbury eggs, and charged ourselves 4 cents for a leechee. Mad Eye Mooney apparently was able to pay for his caffeine and cheese log supply and I was pretty sure he was going to get off and we were going to be arrested for shoplifting as we walked out. Our plan was to plead insanity. Insanity due to increased and totally unecessary exposure to a strange derriere ditch...

The Privilege to Pee...

The ability to control one's bladder is a very undervalued talent in my opinion. When you spend the week in New York City, you realize how important it is to be the boss of your own bowel movements of any kind. Now, here at the MIA we definitely are uber aware of every intestinal rise and fall...but just wait until you are in the middle of Times Square after drinking a liter of water on the subway and you know, deep in your heart (or lower abdomen, if you will) that there is to be no rest for the weary. 

There are NO PUBLIC RESTROOMS IN NEW YORK CITY. It's a fact. Granted a non-researched, unverified Lindsay Levine fact, but a fact nonetheless. I believe with all my heart that it is true. And quite frankly...would you use a Public Restroom in NYC if given the option? 

Don't think so. Having jumped out of a plane I still don't feel like taking my life in my own hands and using a totally public restroom in Manhattan. Who would clean it? Who would guarantee there was not a royal rat family living in the porcelain throne?? Oh, the whole idea is terrifying. 

So now to my big idea...I believe there is a goldmine awaiting the non-working actors of NYC and it is to help provide tourists with the inside "scoop" on available restrooms in the Midtown area. As soon as I started talking about using the restroom with several of my friends waiting for a Wednesday matinee, I was bombarded with comparisons between the restrooms in the Hotel Edison, Paramount, and Lucky Deli. Now, of course the Hotel Edison is not as swank as the Paramount, but the restroom is easier to access....Christian works as a concierge at the Paramount, so that is his preferred eau de toilet, and you have to buy something to use the one in the Lucky Deli...I mean, who cant use a pack of gum or a chocolate covered cherry? The Lucky Deli comes out ahead in my book because you get a private changing area and refreshments : ) However, at the end of the conversation I ended up walking down to the Westin on 43rd for old times sake...

Who knew we had so many options when there are absolutely none for the naked eye to see? Hotels are the untapped resource for all kinds of things...After working in them for about a year and a half I realized it was possible to have a warm/or, in the summer, cool place to set my stuff, hang out on a couch, and use the wireless Internet while killing an hour between appointments and such. The key to abusing hotel lobbies is to appear confident and act like you belong...its very similar idea to crashing a wedding I would imagine...

Here are some suggestions on how to successfully loiter in a hotel lobby without being escorted out by security:

1- ask the concierge a touristy yet "with it" question...make a friend...pretend like you used to live here and are just re visiting....this will make him respect you and not question your super savvy ways...

2- ride the elevator up...get out on a floor...and then come back down to hang in the lobby again...

3- look at your watch or phone incessantly to let "them" (being the overly power tripped front desk staff) know you are waiting for someone and are not necessarily happy about it...

Best of luck to all you New Yorkers and visitors who need to drop a load in the Big Apple...if you have any suggestions or favorite spots please feel free to respond : ) 

Bonjour! Hello!

So this morning at Coffee Depot (which I can only assume is the Montrealian version of Starbucks) I experienced my new "worst." It is the following: 

When someone is on the phone in front of the sugar/milk/stirrer coffee bar. 

There is already a delicate dance required when you are in a busy coffee shop and everyone is trying to add the right amount of dairy and sugar product to their caffeine...throw in a woman in the middle of a deep conversation and now no one can get to the 2% or the sugar twin. Not to mention the fact that she is OBLIVIOUS...completely oblivious to the fact that four people are waiting for her to figure out when she wants to go to dinner with whomever she is on the phone with before they can proceed with their day. 

That's all. My new worst. 

Now, to counteract the negativity of having a new worst this morning, I would like to say that the bilingual situation happening in Montreal is pretty impressive. And hot. I don't mean "hot" in the new slang/Paris Hilton way...I mean actually hot, like sexy. Like when you are in the gym and the good looking short trainer guy starts speaking to his client in French it is extremely hot. Then he switches instantaneously to English when asking me if I am still using the ball. 

My response: "uh...what?...the ball?....uh...no. go for it."

My response in my head: "Why no, no I am not using the ball. Thanks so much for asking me in English. It's so difficult to be a single girl all alone in a foreign city. If only I had a strong trainer man to show me around and translate for me."

Alas, conversations in my head go so much better than in reality. 

So, here's to you hot trainer man....maybe you will read this blog and realize that you can love the girl in the white bandana who stared at you while singing country music at the gym all morning...maybe....

My own personal "1408"...

We arrived in Montreal around 3:00 in a cloud of fog and one working elevator, but the hotel was nice and we are all just happy to be here. The bus ride basically consisted of listening to Douche and Dingus (aka Geoff and Anthony) attempt to speak the little French they know-which pretty much involves them with a sour look on their face adding the word "le" to everything ("le asshole, le bag of douche, le chapeau,etc), watching them sleep, and enjoying Douche laughing out loud to his episode of South Park. 

Fast forward to me sitting on my bed, booking flights for like June, and getting excited about eating my "skinny cow" dessert bar. We had watched the new and hardly modernized "American Gladiators"- which, by the way, is much improved with the addition of water- and I am feeling excited to eat the low fat treats in my freezer so I dont end up looking like Helgga. (she is GIGANTIC and spells her name with two g's, I have no idea why...oh, Helgga is a Gladiator, in case you had no idea what I was talking about- you should check it out, she's terrifying!)

So, I reach for my popsicle and it is basically a milkshake in a plastic wrapping. Not to be deterred, I begin spooning the caramel substance with the wooden stick until I am forced to lick the wrapping and then investigate the cold to freezing ration happening in the freezer. Ah, there's the rub- the refrigerator wasn't cold. Like, at all.So we call the guy and as he is switching out fridges we realize there are ants in our bathroom. It's going well.  

We are told that we have to switch rooms...always a fun activity when you live on the road, have one day off, and have just finished unpacking basically everything you own. But Carla and I suck it up and head down to our new room. Which is smaller than our previous room, missing a new TV, and a coffee table. Apparently some rooms have tables and others dont. Now, this may seem very boring to you "real" people- people with houses, apartments, and the like. But to those of us on the road the difference between a coffee table and closet is immeasurable. So, we ask to be moved to another room. This new room has a bed up against the kitchen counter. I am not kidding, like- you have to squeeze between the counter and the bed to move forward in the room.  

At this point, Carla and I have belongings in three rooms...I have no shoes on...and our groceries are melting on a luggage cart. So we finally settle in to a room where you cant open the closet doors, but at least there's a flat screen TV and a coffee table. That way I can watch Law and Order with my feet up, while staring at our chair of coats, seeing as we cant hang them in a closet. 

Now we have to let the front desk know we are settled and I realize my sonicare is in a room...some room....somwhere....maybe 1103, perhaps, 1104, 1203, 904, I am not sure....as I go to call the front desk the phone is nowhere to be found. Yup, thats right. It feels as if I am in my own version of the John Cusack movie, "1408"- which I ordered at a hotel at 3 am for some reason...most likely to find out why all of us girls really do love John Cusack and want to have his babies. Unfortunately, this movie did not provide any enlightenment on that, or any other, issue.

Let's hope I dont end up cradling a dead Carla in my arms by the end of the evening while the room fills with snow...sweet dreams....