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....