Sitting and the City

  I'm sure that every female (and the majority of my male friends) has uttered the following words at some point in the past thirteen years and it is unfortunate to admit that I feel exactly the same way and will utter the same words:

I am obsessed with Sex and the City.

  God, it feels good to get that out! Even though I've probably said it at least a hundred times before... Well, I guess now it's in writing. Anyway, I was watching the series finale of Sex and the City for the twentieth time last night and, let me tell you, it never fails to disappoint. I cry. I laugh. I long for every article of clothing SJP gets to unrealistically flaunt in Paris even on her meager writer's salary. In the episode she traipses the streets of Paris alone while her former-ballerina Russian boyfriend is consumed with his art gallery opening. 

  Carrie keeps commenting throughout the episode on how she is living in such an incredible city with so much to do and to see, but at the same time feels terribly alone and uninterested. She convinces herself that as long as she is in such an amazing place, nothing else really matters. She attends the same museums and patisseries over and over, trying to occupy her immense amount of free time.

  Hmmmmmm....This sounds a lot like someone I know. Oh, right. That would be me. I live in one of the most amazing cities in the world and yet I am constantly bored out of my mind. I can't count how many times I have walked the multiple paths of Central Park, gazed at the gorgeous skylines, people-watched out the window of different Starbucks locations, and sat on the steps of the Met hoping to become cultured by osmosis. 

  Luckily, through my work I get to experience New York through the eyes of innocent children and get to do activities I otherwise would not do on my own. Those are the days when I really feel like a true New Yorker and take full advantage of the city. 

  With a five year-old as my date, I've ridden rides in the Central Park amusement park, taken a horse-drawn carriage ride, cowered beneath the gigantic whale in the Museum of Natural History, enjoyed low-guilt frozen yogurt on a hot summer day, and ordered room service in one of Manhattan's most lavish hotels. Hey, at least the conversation isn't filled with doubts about our futures and our constant financial worry. It's much more advanced.

  Perhaps we should all view everyday in NYC like we are five year-olds that are only in town for a short period of time. Try to fit a million fun things in to one day and experience it like you're getting on a plane and leaving tomorrow. Carrie did, but then she actually left. So...maybe that was a bad example. Oopsies.

The Fro Yo had a little accident...

Expiration Dates

  Exactly one year ago today my last show closed; August 15, 2010. I never...ever...ever thought it would take this amount of time for me to get another job. I'm sure I walked in to my apartment last year and thought that there wouldn't be days like this for long, meaning days with no rehearsals to go to, no shows to go perform. I do know that I walked in and said to myself, "Well, that was fun." 

  My job had lasted for seven months, a hearty chunk of time, however to me it was over in the blink of an eye. The moment I booked the job, I knew that it would one day come to an end and that in seven short months I would be right back where I started. I just didn't think I would be stuck in that phase for a year.

  That's the thing about this cracked-out business. It is so incredibly fickle and is never, ever consistent. It is like you can't fully celebrate any achievement because you know, deep-down, that it will be over before you know it. Sometimes you don't even know when it will be over. Your whole time on the job is spent in fear that soon it could be over and you therefore don't live the experience to the fullest. It's like a countdown clock on a bomb just ticking away, waiting to explode.

  I suppose you could look at the glass half-empty or half-full. You can fully immerse yourself in the experience and attempt to leave all of your fears at the door, not caring how long or how short this time in your life will last. As an actor knowing your fate, that task is very difficult, but none-the-less achievable. 

  I am trying to look at this time of unemployment as half-full, even though most would classify it as half-empty. I am attempting to immerse myself in other activities, even though I know the only activity I want to be doing seems impossible to grasp. I have surrendered myself to the theatre gods and am apprehensively faithful that they will sort everything out for me. I have no control over getting chosen for a job, just like I have no control over how long a job will last.

A Blog About Nothing

  I feel like I'm waiting for something. Something to happen. Someone to call. Something to give me a sign. Just something, anything. They always say that when one door closes, a window opens, or that once you stop looking, you find exactly what you've been searching for. Well, if all that mumbo-jumbo is true, then this "something" should have happened months ago! How much can I trust in this feeling of utter nothing-ness in my life currently? How do I keep the faith when I feel as though I have nothing to put my faith in to? Like the door that closed locked me in a room with no windows? It feels as if I'm waiting for, well, nothing.

  I'm quite certain that people of all ages and professions have overcome this conundrum at some point in their lives. They were waiting for something to present itself to them or for some kind of sign. I guess I'm waiting for an affirmation that I am on the right path and that this "something" is waiting for me just up the road, but I have to keep forging ahead to get to it no matter how hard the rain is beating down. I have to remain persistent on the path that I struggled so hard to pave for myself even though I can't even see three feet in front of me.

  I'm starting to fear that there is no "something" waiting just ahead for me, though, and that scares the crap out of me. Or that my "something" is on a different path than the one I'm on. Maybe I made a wrong turn miles ago and at this point it would be useless to turn around and figure out where my mental GPS led me astray.

  My entire life I've had something to look forward to, whether it was a trip somewhere or someone coming to visit or even my clean laundry. It's frightening when you have nothing to look forward to other than your morning bowl of oatmeal with cinnamon sprinkled on top. Yum. Most mornings I wake up and say to myself, "What am I going to do today?" Which is exciting.

  So in conclusion, I have to believe...no. I have to know that my "something" is still waiting for me. I have to know it in my gut and in my heart and in all of the love and support that comes from those surrounding me. I am so grateful for so many wonderful things and people in my life who without I wouldn't have even had the concrete to pour my path with! This is isn't a blog about nothing. It's a blog about my "something".

Babes in Totland

  I am so not in-the-know when it comes to NYC's hottest hang outs and most fashionable restaurants and bars to be seen at. However, despite those flaws, I have discovered New York City's hippest new hot spot. It's located right of the heart of some of New York's best shopping and restaurants. It is constantly filled with New York's up and coming young professionals, including entrepreneurs, artists, and future Mensa members. The energy is infectious and you could spend several hours in its lively perimeter, exploring all the exciting perks it has to offer and mingling with new and interesting people.

  It's the Union Square Playground.

  I hadn't discovered this incredible playground until last week, and as a babysitter in NYC that is always looking for a time-killer to take my clients to, I am so glad that I did! It is truly an amazing place. The playground is fenced off in the entire northern region of Union Square Park, which gives it a completely different feel than the center of this bustling, dirty city. Every detail of the playground has been thoroughly thought out and lures children of all ages to each high-tech, yet simple, feature. 

  There is a giant, rotating circle on which kids can sit their little bums and spin furiously until they vomit back up their goldfish. Beside it, a nine-foot tall slide, that although the climb to the top is terrifying, the plummet to the bottom is well worth the terror. A large sand pit takes up the majority of the toddler section of the playground, but unlike other typical sand boxes, there is a large carved piece of gorgeous marble standing in the center. Every so often, water will spill out of the top, making an beach-like experience for the youngsters. After they've gotten thoroughly filthy, make a quick costume change in to your bathing suit and head down to the spraying fountain and take a quick rinse. Please not a shower, just a rinse.

  I have visited many a playground in my day, but this one, by far, tops them all. It is truly a special place, among the harassing homeless and germ-filled subway trains that these poor children have to endure on a daily basis. It's an escape for both the kids and their parents or babysitters. It has plenty of gadgets to keep kids occupied for hours and gives parents a feeling of safety and peace of mind. Everything is securely partitioned and cement has been replaced with a squishy and cushy mat. 

  I highly recommend this haven to any babysitter looking for a break from the confines of a small apartment and a desire to venture in to the city minus the threat of constant oncoming traffic.

  Oooooooooh, also my new favorite find and best stroller I've ever manhandled: The Baby Jogger. Get in to it.

Death Combo

  Ahh, the beauty of musical theatre. Musical theatre actors always have a step up on American Idol contestants because we can also dance. We also have a step up on So You Think You Can Dance? contestants because we can also sing. Most of the time we have a step up on both sets of contestants because we can also act! Man, we are talented. 

  But rarely, if ever, are we asked to do all three simultaneously in an audition. I mean, if we can belt an F the people behind the table usually assume that we can kick our faces too, right? But you know what they say about people that assume: It makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me'.  Turns out that I was the only one portraying the role of the ass on this particular occasion.

  I attended an audition this past spring for a job entitled "College Promo". Apparently, the musical theatre program at a local college was shooting a commercial to promote their program and wanted to hire professionals to appear in it. My agent told me that I needed to prepare 16-bars of a musical theatre song acapella, as there would no piano present at the audition. (A light bulb went off in my head that something was already a little fishy, but I kept listening) Next, prepare your own dance that you will perform to no music, a few counts of 8. (OK, now the light bulb has turned in to a strobe light) To top it off, the audition will be held at a comedy club.

  Now, to an actively auditioning musical theatre actor in New York, this audition preparation would be considered strange, to say the least. But hey, beggars can't be choosers and mama needs a job, so I'm gonna pull out all the stops and wear my best young-and-hip-and-still-in-college-yet-could-double-as-my-In-The-Heights-audition outfit. I'm seeing...denim shorts.

  I enter the comedy club lobby expecting to see dozens of audition hopefuls also sporting their chic college gear, but I am the only one. And I'm half an hour early due to my audition tardiness paranoia. The monitor tells me that I can go in early if I want, as there is no one waiting to go before me. Alright, let's do this thingy! I can rock this total lack of music audition!

  He leads me in to the club, which I'm pretty sure is where Seinfeld filmed all of its opening comedy routine montages. It's a pitch-black room with a few round tables and chairs set up and a tiny stage with a single light beaming down upon it's worn wooden floor. A perfect setting for a COMEDY ROUTINE! 

  The auditor introduces himself and gives me my instructions:

1. Slate yourself to the camera
2. Perform your song
3. Perform your dance
4. Perform the combo

 I'm sorry, what? Perform the combo? What exactly is the combo? I ask him, my eyes the size of tennis balls. 

  "Oh, perform your song and dance at the same time."  Wow. That's a first. Too bad my dance includes two face kicks, a double pirouette, and a dolphin body wave. And I'm singing the last 16-bars of "Show Off" from The Drowsy Chaperone. And neither of them are the same length. 

  This is going to be horrific.

  As I'm walking up to the microscopic stage, I already know that I am going to have to improvise my dance and attempt to make it the same length as my song. And oh yeah! Hold out a belted C for 11 bars while spinning.

  I perform my first three tasks with as much calmness as possible given the anxiety I am anticipating for the 4th one. I take a moment to myself, facing upstage away from the camera to try and figure out what the hell I'm going to do. When I think I'm ready, I do a fierce drag to turn myself around and start the song, but all the words and steps have completely left me. I am so thrown off by their request that I can't even remember what I am doing! I sing the first few lyrics incorrectly and decide to stop myself and start over. The second time around I do sing the correct lyrics, but I can not think fast enough to choreograph more steps. I decide to just perform the same routine over and over again until the song ends, which is in a pile of twisted wreckage you typically see after a plane crash. I have no breath support for the final note and I'm pretty sure I stopped halfway through it and took a breath, amidst a sadly attempted pas de bourree.

  The room is silent when I finish, aside from my panting with my arms fully extended above my head displaying jazz hands. I dismount the stage, thank the auditor, and leave the club. I have no idea what just happened. I think I just saw my whole life flash before my eyes and a bright light that I was tempted to follow. That audition was a near death experience. It was so sad that all I could do was exit laughing. I guess it was an appropriate reaction when exiting a comedy club, except that I was laughing for all the wrong reasons.

 

Do You Like What You See?

To fellow babysitters, actors, and quarter-life crisis participants!

Do you like what you have been reading so far? Well, Sensibly Libsy would love to hear your thoughts, so please comment below whichever blog posts speak to you, interest you, or just make you laugh! 

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Check back often and continue to see what Sensibly Libsy has been up to! You may have shared a similar experience... 

 

Making It Werque

  When actors are unemployed, the most popular piece of advice that parents, teachers, and Broadway stars give them is, "Take class." Which is great advice, of course, but such a catch-22. I mean, you take the classes so that you can book the Bway job so that you can make the money on which to live. But if you don't have the Bway job and just have a regular job that makes way less money on which you are "supposed" to live, how do you then afford the classes to book the Bway job? You catch my drift here, fellow Actorias? The answer almost always to that question is, "You just have to make it work."

  OK.

  I took this "making it work" thing to heart, or should I say, to the streets, by signing up for a new kind of class outside of my comfort zone that incorporates dance, cardio, posture improvement, and a literal ass-kicking: The Stiletto Work Out. I've decided to bring out my inner sex goddess by not only participating in this class, but also the studio's handful of other sexy fitness classes for one month.

  Well, let me tell you that the Stiletto Work Out was a WERQUE out, honey! We were doin' all kinds of squats and kicks and bends and pops that are typically only performed by the lovely employees at Lace on 45th street. Only we did these moves with a five-pound dumbbell in each hand, and let me just say that my legs will be looking fierce just in time for unitard season. I decided that one sexy class just wasn't enough to satiate me, so I also took the following class entitled Sexy Yoga. I'll sum it up with a single quote from the instructor:

  "Try to touch your head to your crack."

  When I awoke this morning, I was not surprised to find that I was in fact paralyzed from the forehead down. I decided I would treat myself to a massage at a new spa that I discovered on my walk home last night from my sexy classes. The sign on the front door read, "75 minute massage - $50.00" Done and done. 

  I arrived at the spa to be greeted by no one at the reception desk. Luckily, the Asian man smoking outside while chatting on the phone was the receptionist and rushed in after me to ask me why I was there. (Phew, I was worried for a second) I told him I had a 3:00 appointment for a 75-minute full body massage, but clearly he could not understand one word I said as he just stared at me blankly. He quickly hurried to the back to find an English-speaking employee who then led me back to a tiny, dimly-lit room blocked off only by a small curtain.

  I assumed I should get down to my skivvies and lay face down on the table underneath the towel provided. Before I was completely covered, the male receptionist who doubled as a masseuse barged in and blurted out, "You ready?" Um, OK, I guess so. I'm pretty sure you just saw my thong, but whatevies. 

  Well, throughout the course of our next 75 magical minutes together he saw more than just my thong. The first thing he did was peel back the towel to reveal my back, however the towel went WAY lower than I expected it to and revealed more than just my back. Pretty sure that half my ass was in full view for the entirety of my back massage, as my sensitive cheeks felt a draft.

  But the amazing thing was that I did not care! It was the best massage I had ever received! This guy knew his stuff, and every inch of my back, arms, legs, and booty was in sheer "hurts so good" bliss. He maneuvered my arms and legs in to some very strange positions and treated each one of my toes like it was paying for its own full body massage. Most massages end the with the masseuse patting down your body to increase blood circulation, but this guy was not exactly the patting kind. He was full-on smacking me! I was in total awe of the full abandonment in which this man massaged me and hit me like he was tenderizing meat. It was amazing.

  After basically stealing this massage with a swipe of my credit card, another receptionist handed me a stack of discount cards to give to my friends for them to use on their first visit. She told me the name of my masseuse so that they could ask for him specifically. 

  His name was Mr. Ho.

  

Pippin is a Sagittarian

  So, the quarter-life crisis is now in full swing. NHB. No Holding Back. It's that time in every young person's life, well, maybe just my life, that the person looks at their life and says, "What the hell am I doing?" No? You didn't do that? Well, that's just great. Because I do it almost every day. I think, was this the life I was supposed to lead? Is this life maybe too much for me to handle? Or...is it not enough for me to handle? (Raise of the eyebrow...which I can't even do, by the way)

  

  I like the sound of the latter better, which is why I have decided to rename myself Pippin. Or, no, Pippa. I would love for people to take pictures of my ass and tell me that it stole the show at the royal wedding. Anyways, what I'm saying is that in the musical Pippin, the title character is a young boy that is searching for total and utter fulfillment in his life. He is seeking the extraordinary life, where as right now nothing is ever fulfilling enough for him. 

  

  Now I, Pippa, happen to be a Sagittarian, not to be confused with a vegetarian. After some very excruciating research compliments of my Google search bar, I have found that Sagittarians believe that anything they want to achieve is possible and that we loons set our sights on something unachievable. We're described as wanting to be constantly moving from location to location, always wanting to explore the unknown, nothing can hold us down. Basically, we're pointing our sassy crossbow in the direction of our highest aspiration and will do anything to make sure that that arrow goes straight through (insert aspiration here, in my case Broadway's cold and evil heart), successfully slaying the beast and hanging her above my fireplace!

  

  So, I am Pippin. Pippin is me. Therefore, I am Pippa and am currently dating Prince Harry according to InTouch Magazine. Yes, I want Broadway so badly that it literally makes me cry to even think about it. It is my highest aspiration, my unknown, where I've been aiming my crossbow for the past twenty-four years. 

  

  But then I think, what if the arrow lands somewhere else? Somewhere beyond 10th avenue and I can't even find where the damn thing went?! It may have even caught a breeze and crossed the Hudson! That leads me to believe that secretly I may want so much more than just my name in a playbill. Something extraordinary, if you will. I don't know if just one arrow is fulfilling enough for me. I spend so much of my precious time on this Earth with just that one arrow aimed out of my 97th street apartment window and I'm not even sure if I'm aiming it in the right direction!

  The part of this story that scares me the most is that unlike Pippin, I don't have a leading player, someone giving me the costumes and the props to get me to the right places and to meet the right people. But where are the right places and who are the right people? I don't think any of us will ever know the answer to that question, and if you do, you're fierce.

  The part of this story that doesn't scare me at all is that like Pippin, I am extraordinary and I will do extraordinary things. Pippa, the Extraordinary Girl.

"What do you do?"

  "Do you want to come home for a couple of weeks?" That's exactly what my mom asked me in a late night e-mail from her iMac right before she went to bed last night. Her birthday was two days ago and in the card I sent her, I mentioned how hard this past year has been for me and that her and dad have been a great support system.  When the going gets tough, which when you're trying to just touch your pinky toe to the edge of something resembling a Broadway stage, it's never not tough.  So when this happens I tend to escape to the safety of my parents' swanky two-bedroom condo in Atlanta via Airtran Airways, even though the only place for me to sleep there is on a couch.  It isn't exactly an inexpensive or quick way to escape the concrete prison I like refer to as New York City, but if I'm desperate enough, it doesn't seem so bad.

  

  When people ask me "What do you do?", and I give them my autopilot response of "I'm an actress here in the city", the amount of pity and lack of interest in their facial expression accompanied by a vocal response you would use if someone told you they had just gotten their tongue pierced, usually says it all. We'll call this response...the face.  My entire life has been this exact scenario set on repeat, just with different words, but always with the same response.

  

  Them: "What are you majoring in in college?" Me: "Musical theatre." Them: The face.

  Them: "Why are you moving to New York?" Me: "To be on Broadway." Them: The face, exaggerated.

   These questions are then followed with a series of more questions, usually because they are trying to figure out why I am so...what's the word? Dumb? They ask me if I've done anything they might have seen, or if I'm in anything right now, or what I do to actually make money now as well as when this whole extravagant dream of Broadway doesn't actually work out and I'm left with nothing to show for myself, in which case they can happily whisper to themselves, I win!

  

  Which brings me to the survival job.  The job which many young women have already written books about and how it was the most agonizing, yet strangely interesting work they had ever done. The job a million girls would kill for. Babysitting. Yep, it's your classic cliche of young, bright-eyed girl goes to New York to fulfill her lifelong dream of performing on Broadway and instead fills her days pushing fancy, yet confusing, strollers through dog feces and slathering organic, salt-free peanut butter onto fifteen-grain bread, only to find out that that one particular child happens to despise peanut butter.  And bread.  

  

  Working for the most esteemed and successful babysitting agency in New York City has put me in contact with the upper echelon of families in this fast-paced and competitive city. It showed me, literally, how the other half lives and that my entire apartment could equal the size of a master bathroom. Sondheim knew what he was talking about when he said "Hell, I'd even play the maid to be in a show". Too bad he meant play the role of the maid in a show, not scrape by on my hourly wage to save up for that new pair of 3" La Ducas.

  

  I'm turning 25 later this year and for the first time in my short life, I don't know what I want. Perhaps through writing the hilarious anecdotes that are coming soon to a Facebook link near you, I can find that same bright-eyed girl that came here with the Broadway marquee in her sight line. Or maybe I'll find a different girl that's looking for something else completely.