foreward: i am a good person. by, me.

I’m a murderer, you guys. A vicious killer. This city has turned me into a hard woman.

Let me start by telling you that because this is a really challenging place to live sometimes, I am working on mental toughness. You know, adding a mile to a run (which I did one time), or not complaining at work about how I’m at work (disguise it behind a funny joke!). I’d like to grumble less. I’m a grumbler. And frowning doesn’t look good on me because it adds this puffiness to the skin around my upper lip that I’m sure casts a shadow that looks like a mustache in unfortunate lighting. Although, I think everybody secretly has a mustache.

So anyway, mental toughness is really hard for me. I also lack focus sometimes because my brain lives on a cloud. However, it’s something I am practicing and it’s been getting a lot better.

Until I hit the 50 hour mark at work and the last of my patience flutters off like inadvertent litter on a windy day. I’d try to catch it, but I just can’t summon that tiny bit of extra exertion.

“Oops.” I say, dutifully, as I watch my hamburger wrapper/ability to smile scurry away from me.

Last week after a 13 hour shift, the train ride home turned into a 2 hour, 100 degree pilgrimage, and as I paced and fumed around the Jay Street stop waiting for my third transfer, I wanted nothing more than to go crazy and punch some stuff. I was so. angry.

As luck would have it, I came home to find a cockroach the size of a business card trekking through my dirty laundry, probably laying all sorts of eggs and pooping little cockroach poops in my pockets. Cockroaches don’t normally freak me out, but I often wear clothes directly from that dirty pile of laundry, thus, I was grossed out. And then it FLEW at me and I lost all control of myself, grabbed one of Cole’s boots and hunted that motherfucker down. I beat it to death, and then when it was dead I continued beating it, grunting and yelping everytime the boot made contact.

And it was exactly what I needed.

Then I went and laid in the shower and made those suction fart noises with my back against the curb of the tub, which always calms me down. And I thought about how in a perfect fictional story, my neighbor, ear pressed against the wall, hearing the screams and thuds erupting from next door followed by a deafening silence, would call the police. The police would knock on the door and I would answer, and without a word I would lead him or her to the scene of the crime. Clothes scattered recklessly, boot prints stamped on the walls and closet door, and there, the victim, on its back, next to a pair of dirty underwear. (That part is true, it really did die next to some undies). (Also, there are boot prints all over the walls). And the policeman or woman would simply nod, and I would escort them back to the door and as I closed the door s/he would look at me and say, “New York City.” Or something really profound and literary like that.

But our neighbor is not the type to enter vigilante mode. Also, I don’t think she likes us very much.

The other day I noticed a foot long scuff mark running down the wall in the living room.

“Did you kill a bug right there?” I ask Cole.

“Yeah, one of those thousand leggers.”

And as I type this, Cole is celebrating a victory about catching one fruit fly in his homemade fruit fly trap, and I realize, I am not alone in this.

This Post, Edited by Carol the Secretary

Today I realized:

Being an actor is exciting because to a certain extent, I am my own boss.

I hate it when people tell me what to do. I always have. Then I graduated from college and realized nobody was telling me what to do anymore. Therefore, it’s hard to know what the next step is. Especially when the work you are pursuing is so non-traditional- you really have to push yourself to get things done.

SO. I get up in the morning, put my heels on, and pretend that the dishwasher’s name is Carol the Secretary. Then I go out into the hallway and check the mailbox. When I enter, I say hello to Carol, and start my workday.

Laugh all you want. But if using my imagination is the key, then I think I picked the right field.

It's All About Me?

I’m having a hell of a time writing something for an “About Me” page.

This is what I started with. An excerpt from an essay I wrote in college:

‘In class, I tell John that I’m not an actor.

“Then what are you doing here?”

It’s pretty obvious when I’m embarrassed. My face turns into an apple.

“Because, I want… to learn more about it.” I polish the apple with my sleeve, hoping to hide it in the fabric.

“You want to learn more about it.” John slides his glasses up his nose with one finger. He looks disapprovingly at my feet. I have stretched the fabric of my pant legs over my feet and have twisted the excess material into tight ropes.

“You’re gonna ruin your pants.” He is now glaring suspiciously at the worm peeking out of the apple. He knows I lied.’

That was in 2009, back in Iowa City. Last week, I started a new job at a restaurant on the Upper East Side. I’m in New York City now, so I work with a bunch of actors. I work with people who openly and freely say, “I’m an Actor,” when asked what they do.

A fellow server / actor asked me why I moved to NYC. I looked at my lap and said, “I’m an Actor.”

“Oh! You sound so sad about it!”

“I’m not sad about it. I just hate saying it.”

“Because you’re scared of what people are going to think about you. You’re in New York. You better get used to saying it, or you won’t make it.”

Boom. Head of nail, meet hammer. I’m glad to be here. Surrounded by people who are like me.

As far as the “About Me” page however, still working on it…