Holla Killa Playa Ho...What Up?

This one's from the archives: Beginning in 2005, I worked as a "concierge" at various mid-town hotels. Namely, the wonderful Hotel Pennsylvania (yup, the bed bug, homeless person infested palace directly across from MSG) which we affectionately called "The Penn." It takes a special person to work at this hotel and handle inquiries ranging from "do you know where I can get a hooker?" to "Have you seen my friend...he usually cleans up in the bathroom downstairs?"

I have seen two presumably dead bodies in my life. Both at 7am, in my suit, as I headed to work at the Penn- half dead myself.

This story is from one of my first days working with Peter (his name has not been changed because I am very confident that, should he happen upon it, he would love this story)- he is still there, keeping it real at the Penn.

I had heard a little bit about him, that he was weird and aggressive- the managers seemed to like him. But I was not expecting what I got.

In walks this large Puerto Rican/Italian dude in a suit. He is very loud and full of Bravada (is that a word?), very “charming.” He asks me about my story, and at one point asks whether I am married, divorced, dating, or single?

I consider the question, decide to respond with the truth: "Single."

And he looks at me like I just passed gas.

Following the proper conversation protocol (I looked it up, that is the correct spelling)- I take a risk and ask him about his own romantic situation.

Peter: "Nah, I got married at 19, but thats in the past."

My Brain: Cryptic...

Peter: "You have any kids?"

Me: "Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha....." mouth open, head back, face red, hysterical laughter.

My Brain: Wait...do I look like I have had kids? oh god.

Even after I laughed in his face and then began spiraling down the dark part of my "I must look fat today" girl brain Peter decided to carry on with the oh-so-light subject of relationships. The following is a monologue inserted with my thoughts.

Peter: “I have a six year old, but no I am no longer married.”

My Brain: huh. Guess I shouldnt have laughed at the kids question. oops.

Peter: "I live with her and my BM."

My Brain: Bowel movement? Bachelor of music?

Peter: (obviously catching on to the blank look on my face) “Baby mamma.”

My Brain: Oh, right....wait, WHAT?

Peter: “It’s hard to explain our relationship. We are together, we have a kid, she dates other women and I date the women she dates.”

My Brain: Well, I think you explained that well. I am so glad we had a chance to...WHAT???

Peter: “Right now we are really into Asian women, so if you have any Asian friends who are up for a good time, tell them to ask for Ammo.”

My Brain: Who is Ammo? Is he like Iced Cube or something? Should I know who that is?

Peter: “That’s my alias."

My Brain: Of course it is.

Peter: "Hey, You're cute, what's your alias?”

My Brain: Scared. Officially.

"A Part of Your World"

 Setting: Candlewood Suites- Indianapolis, Indiana

 I arrive at the Candlewood on Monday night with my rental car around 6:30 pm and head to the front desk to check in. To describe “Rosalind” does not even begin to do her justice, but I will try. She is about 300lbs,weave for days, multi colored fingernails as long as my fingers, and no eyebrows. Ok, that’s not completely true….she does have eyebrows. They were just drawn on with a black eye liner pencil. And they are each larger than a banana, and about as girthy.  As I approach the front desk she seems to be on the phone helping a guest who is lost.

 Unfortunately, she doesn’t know where they are and neither do they, so they aren’t making much headway. This goes on for about 7 minutes and by now a bit of a line is forming behind me. I can see my room key and just need to get it from her so the following scene occurs:

 Me: Excuse me, I just need to check in.

Ros: Well, I am not an octopus.

Me: (shocked and bewildered) I understand that you are not an octopus. I would just like my room key.

Ros: Last name?

Me: Levine. Thank you.

 Wow- she seriously told me that she is not an octopus. As if that is some type of proper response to me being a little impatient. So I text message Mark and let him know the woman at the front desk is not an octopus. Just in case he is wondering. And before I even get a chance to tell the octopus story he texts back…"I know, doesn’t she look like Ursula?"

Amazing. 

So maybe this happens to poor Rosalind a lot. Maybe people mistake her for a multi-limbed aquatic creature and she is a little defensive about it. If that is the case, then I do apologize. I should have never alluded to the fact that perhaps Rosalind, the front desk employee, could possibly ever do more than one thing at a time. 

Let's hope the apple falls far...far...away

My new roomie Julie and I were taking a walk down memory lane...aka flipping through my ghetto magic marker scrap book...and we came upon the following email from my dad. 

This email is regarding a "road trip" in college (I repeat, COLLEGE) driving from Miami, FL to Lakeland, FL (yup, both in Florida. Same state) for a theatre conference. Not a rock concert, or a rave, not a demolition derby...a theatre conference. 

Law and Order opening sound cue: The email you are about to read is based on actual events- no people, places, or words have been fictionalized. Some commentary has been added. 

"Lindsay, you need to get a map with good directions, have your AAA membership card and cell phone with full battery charge. DO NOT make unnecessary calls on the trip, that wastes the battery. Take the charger with you so you can recharge while you are there, and do not leave and forget to take the phone and the charger with you. If your audition time is late and you will not be able to get back before dark, just leave and forget it (that's my favorite part). Tell them you are not allowed to drive back at night and need to be on the road by 2pm to make it back by dark. (First of all, who are "them"? These people that are supposed to care about the driving rules for a twenty year old?  Secondly, should I just stop my audition for professional theatres because I can't drive for four hours as dusk? I can't be certain, but I think that might ruin my chances of being hired by theatres where traveling, not being codependent or being a normal human is involved?)

When is the last time you had your tire pressure checked? Also, keep the tank full. You may end up stuck in traffic, delayed, or not be able to get to a gas station so fill if you get to half a tank. Christian needs permission from his parents to go with you. (I am certain this is not the most scandalous thing Christian did in college without telling his parents. Fairly certain...) Do not get distracted. Let us know when you leave, check in each hour on the way, and way back. If I think of anything else, I'll let you know. Now, have a nice and pleasant trip. "

A Soft Pretzel with a Side of Crazy....

I don't know how I always find myself in Times Square. Literally. Every time I look up- I can see the TKTS booth. I work in Times Square, I see shows in Times Square, and apparently I can only consume food and enjoy companionship within its radius. 

Last October, finding myself in Times Square for leisure yet again, I was standing in front of the Ambassador Theatre with Adam. He was purchasing a ticket for Chicago- and seeing as I have attended that musical more times than I care to admit (anyone else see Vicki Lewis of NEWSRADIO fame play Velma?...didnt think so) I was just waiting to go back home once he was settled. Milling about with tourists and the like, I spotted a slightly off kilter woman heading my way. She didn't look quite homeless, but she certainly didn't look well. Perhaps she lives in one of those crazy old actor buildings on 43rd...Anyway, she had wandered her way to 49th street and proceeded to wade through the crowd to find me. To ask me the time. I suppose no one else looked as comfortable in Times Square as I did, no one else looked like they could possibly answer her inquiry. 

Loony Lady: What time is it?

Lindsay: 7:30

Loony Lady: 5;45!!!!!!! 5:45!!!!!! What are you? Insane?

The end. 

Being called insane by a crazy person is quite the experience. I hope everyone has the pleasure at some point. It makes you think...does she know her own kind? Somewhere, way down deep inside her nutty little mind does she know something I don't know? Perhaps I've been watching too much Lost and Buffy, but that woman really made me stop and assess my mental well being. 

 Maybe that was her point. Maybe Times Square is there to remind us that we are all equal, that at some point in the day we all have to make it through the crowds that surround the Naked Cowboy, we all have to dodge the giant blue CitySights buses, and that we are all a little bit insane. 

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.