Great Scott

Mr. Scott, even at 71 years old, is always bustling. He's either bounding off the elevator or towards it, coming from or going to the next adventure in his day. And when he passes the reception desk, a tidal wave of his energy flows forth, leaving me in its wake with a smile and a good, old fashioned, warm fuzzy feeling.

While I'm an actor by trade, to help pay the bills I work as a receptionist at the law firm of Kelley, Drye & Warren. Several years ago, Kelley Drye acquired another DC firm, Collier, Shannon & Scott--as in the aforementioned Mr. Scott. So while I never had the pleasure of knowing Mr. Scott in his heyday as an attorney, (he is retired, but still keeps his office at the firm) tracings of his success are evident. There's his status as a named partner in the former firm, the distinguished portrait of him hanging in our Founder's Boardroom, and the universal recognition of his name. A name whose mention is largely met with the same reaction-- a smile and and a teasing sort of eye roll whose combination indicate affection and respect for the character of Mr. Scott.

My first encounters with Mr. Scott began when he would scoot past the front desk on his way to teach The History of War at Landon High School. He would toss a trivia question my way, usually historical in nature, and look at me expectantly, waiting for me to supply the answer before his elevator arrived. While the subject matters were not always foreign, the answers eluded me. I will admit that I found myself frustrated, feeling the need to prove my intelligence and capacity for knowledge to him. Here was a seasoned professional with years of experience and a brain full of facts, and I feared that I was appearing quite daft in front of him. I had an urge to blurt out my scholastic accomplishments, but dropping Phi Beta Kappa into a conversation seemed a bit gauche and clumsy on my part. So I waited and hoped for the question of the day to be one whose answer I knew readily, which would be my opportunity to prove my intellectual worth to a man whose own was clearly so high.

In the meantime, Mr. Scott began allowing me the duration of his class to come up with the answers to his quizzes. Although he's not a proponent of Google, I would happily research the topic and report my findings to him. My efforts would elicit a kind of joy in Mr. Scott--a delight that someone had taken his query seriously and embarked on a pursuit to learn more about it--an effort which he finds lacking in a lot of his teen aged students. After classes he is often grumbling about their lack of participation, their absences, and general ennui.

On a particularly frustrating day, he told me that he quoted this to his students, "Half of life is just showing up." "Do you know who said that?," he asked me. I smiled and shook my head. "Woody Allen," he said with a sigh. "These kids, they just don't get it."

As my rapport with Mr. Scott grew, I looked forward to whatever he had to share with me that day. Some days it was the normal trivia, others a tidbit about his family, snapshots from Nantucket, a magazine article about his son. I listen with amusement at his gripes--chief among them people on cell phones and drivers who switch lanes with no regard to other cars. I chuckle when I have to raise my voice the further he gets from the desk--he got a hearing aid but after expressing his initial disgust with it I'm not so sure he wears it much. When he walks by and asks, "Where am I going?", if I detect a little extra peach fuzz on his head then I know right away: Quantico, for a haircut. Once a proud Marine, always a proud Marine. I've even had the pleasure of meeting two of his granddaughters when they spent a few days with him at the office helping him file and organize. I caught them for a chat and told them that while they've got the biological grounds, I sort of think of Mr. Scott as my office grandfather. I knew in their young perspective they couldn't understand how such a presence could be so comforting to me--an individual whose psyche was just not built to be embroiled in an office environment.

A few days before Mr. Scott was to administer the first test of the semester to his students, he dropped the exam on my desk and asked me to proofread it, and then take it myself. The proofreading part I could handle, but having not had a history class since 1998, the content was far beyond my memory's reach. That old feeling began to creep up again and I feared the humiliation of certain failure. As he scooted into the elevator I protested--how could I take this exam if I haven't sat through his classes, taken diligent notes, and studied them endlessly, as I would have if I were a student? But he was gone and I was left to search for spelling errors and try my hand at his exam.

At first, I tried the Google route, using the only semi-reliable wikipedia to try and sort through yards of information on topics like Alexander the Great. But the answers to Mr. Scott's test questions were not so plainly found, and this track proved fruitless and inefficient. As the multiple choice options swam in front of my eyes and those without any options rendered me clueless, Mr. Scott's words echoed in my head. "Half of life is just showing up." I smiled to myself, embarrassed at my own pride. There was no way I was going to answer even a third of these correctly but I was just going to show up anyway. So I made my way through the test, blindly guessing on some, reaching far back into the recesses of my mind to make a fairly sound stab at others, and logically reasoning the rest. This is how I continue to take the exams that Mr. Scott sends my way, and I've come to look forward to test days.

My blind stumbling on his tests pay off when Mr. Scott and I review my results. I'm tickled when he congratulates me on any correct answer, and similarly amused when he scolds me for a wrong one. I can tell that Mr. Scott appreciates my attempts, no matter how poor their results. And in turn he rewards me with something I am always thirsty for: knowledge. The thrill of gaining new facts, especially historical ones, has always delighted me, and if my fare for these is to display how little I currently know, then so be it. There are no more grades, no more teachers to impress, no more GPAs to monitor. There is only my mind to feed and I accept the fodder eagerly.

The comings and goings of Mr. Scott are the little bright spots in my day. Whether he's complaining about his personal trainer or making sure I know that November 10th is the birthday of his beloved Marines, his spirit is buoyant and infectious. I am no longer eager to impress him or embarrassed to err in front of him. I know that as long as I "show up", and do so with abandon, it's okay by him. And quite honestly, it's an honor to be given the chance from a man with a lifetime of "showing up" behind him--for our country, for his law firm, for his family, and for the many others that know just what I mean when I smile and say, "Oh, Mr. Scott."

John Mayer was Right

Since I returned from my honeymoon, I have experienced an internal calming in an area that has long been a private and turbulent obsession of mine. That is my body--its weight, its proportions, the clothing size it requires. I admit this inner demon of mine with some embarrassment, but as its sharpness and all consuming nature begins slowly to soften and ebb, I almost feel a need to express it, in order to more aptly celebrate the potential of its passing.

I can hardly remember a time when I was not acutely aware of my body and how it related to the world around me. I would always notice and pinpoint distinctions--as a child it was whose legs were skinnier than mine, and as I got older the areas of comparison grew until eventually, in my mind, my body was not really my own but rather an entity that existed only as a better or worse reflection of those around me. My freshman year in college was when this notion of an ideal body and its untenability became paramount in my mind, and has stayed since. Much like an alcoholic must constantly fight thoughts of drink, I continually wrestled with my mind's eye and the way I felt inside my own skin.

Luckily, I never physically manifested this mental anguish. Perhaps because of a gentler gene somewhere in my DNA it really never occurred to me to starve myself or purge--I was brought up with a healthy attitude towards food and there was no urge to tamper with that--at least to an extreme. There were many weeks when I vowed not to eat dessert, to cut my portions--all types of diet roller coaster type schemes that did nothing but affect the up and down view I had of myself. The real problem always existed in my mind--a completely morphed view of my physical self and a complete inability to accept myself as I was.

Perhaps it sounds like my constantly negative view was an attempt to elicit compliments, but it truly wasn't. Rather it was a heart wrenching, confusing and deep handicap that preyed on me and ruined my ability to be carefree and enjoy so many moments. When I was in college if a particular pair of jeans was too tight, I would opt to stay in. At a bar in New York my spirits would sink lower as I would see girl after girl that was skinnier than me, whose arms were smaller, whose athletic body I thought made mine look mushy and unappealing. Even when out to dinner with my wonderful, supportive husband, there are times when I would fight back tears because I had gotten on the scale that morning and been mortified by what I saw.

Of course, there were times when I would be blessed with a streak of confidence. Mostly they would come after several weeks of diligent working out, strict eating and a precise concentration on my body. So while I would enjoy these periods, they never felt as freeing because they were not my normal state--they were come by artificially, it seemed. I wanted to feel like that all the time, without having altered my life drastically to get there. I desperately wanted to exist freely--to workout and enjoy it instead of being fascinated by an ideal physique it might create; to enjoy a healthy meal because of the nutrients, the taste and its benefit to my health and not because I'm proud for depriving myself of a more decadent option. I wanted to just be.

Now, finally, I am beginning to feel this state. And it is clean, fresh, and exhilarating. Sure, it is happening after I am married, but it has nothing to do with any silly thoughts of being able to let myself go since I have "hooked" the man. Instead, I think its a glorious side effect of learning exactly who I am on the inside. As I began to understand and full appreciate my internal self, there was quietly growing a steady appreciation for my outside self. And now, it has effervesced into a lovely calm and quieted my savage thoughts with regard to my physical appearance. So what if my legs are not skinny--they have carried me through my life. So my stomach is not flat and my abs not washboard--someday, somewhere behind them I will, God willing, shelter life. So what if my arms are not as thin and toned as I'd like--they have held so many babies, been locked in so many embraces, and been thrown around so many loved ones. A wonderland, indeed.

Blueflying f*!@

I have unconditional love for Tim Gunn, and thus am enthralled by all he trills in that low decibel voice, originating somewhere around the back of all of his neatly pressed collars. But now, thanks to Bluefly, I can no longer enjoy it when Tim says, "Please use the accessory wall from Bluefly.com wisely." I have HAD it with them. It was coming for a while now, a latent nagging as I looked at their billboards and print ads...something was bothering me... and then, last Wednesday, BAM, right in the middle of my Project Runway bliss, Bluefly hits me with a commercial that just sends me over the edge.

I am happily licking my Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich and waiting to watch Nina scowl at Kenley, when I am assaulted with the image of some chick strolling the airport. Naked. Nothin' on but her Louboutins. And I hate her. She is sauntering, she is swishing her hair, she is coyly placing her shoes in a security bin, she is winking as she glides through the security gates. NO. No, no, no, no, no. Listen, I am perfectly willing to suspend disbelief. But in this case, I cannot. SHE IS WALKING THROUGH AN AIPORT, NEKKERS.

This is not sexy; this is not witty; this is dumb. Why are the commercial airport people not reacting to this!? I want to smack the TSA people, kick the guy with the luggage cart who is ogling her, and summon the airport police to take this naked woman to airport jail. Ugh, she and her, "yeah, I'm naked, so what?" attitude disgust me. Not to mention the thought of all that airport like, stuff, just floating all over her, like, stuff. Ew.

OHH but, hahahahaha, NOW we're supposed to titter and laugh and sympathize with Nudie because, see, she HAS nothing to wear! To the airport! THAT is why she Blueflies! Oh my god, how simply genius! So I get it, because all of the other still outrageously priced designer duds she has previously bought on Bluefly simply won't do for a transcontinental flight she must leave all clothing aside and get herself to the nearest internet connection for some Dolce and Gabbana, STAT.

Listen, I have Bluefly-ed. I'll admit I do have a weakness for designer clothes and have given in on some I- fell into -some -cash occasions. But THAT is not why I Bluefly. Not because when I look at my moderately priced closet and am uninspired I choose to go in the buff. My nakedness is basically confined to the cooling tiles of my bathroom floor since it's pretty much shower to lotion to bathrobe for me, so the clothes-less thing is not a fashion statement option for. Or anyone else outside a nudist colony. GEEZ. I Bluefly because when I obtain a particularly smashing item of clothing, it just makes me feel good when I wear it. And it is fun to look at your wardrobe, find those particular sparkling pieces, and hit the town feeling fabulous...but somedays you just gotta go with what ya got.

So, shove it, Nudie, and throw on your oldest pair of jeans, long sleeve t-shirt that might smell, running shoes and go to the god damn airport, like the rest of us do.

Autumn Passages

For me, the advent of Fall carries on its wings a healthy dose of nostalgia. The ever so increasing chill in the air, the waning daylight hours, the dwindling power of the sun's rays seem to have my senses on high alert, and the slightest thing will send my mind directly to the past. The sensation is so powerful it creates a physical reaction--a mixture of yearning with an almost out of body sense that I am actually reliving these moments. I can see them, hear them, feel the happiness, the sadness, or whatever emotion went along with them. I am temporarily taken out of the present moment and sent backward on the paths of my life.

The tickets to these time travels vary--one such passport comes in the form of any song from The Last Kiss soundtrack. I listened to the CD over and over again during the Fall of 2006 when I was rehearsing for the show See Rock City. I have mentioned this before--the show that rekindled my passion for the stage and started me on my current path. As I walk along the streets of Georgetown listening to my ipod, should any song from The Last Kiss fill my ears I see and feel nothing but scenes from the lovely, challenging, and beautiful few months during which I rehearsed and performed this play. I am wearing my comfy pants, Ugg boots and a cozy scarf, entering into the sweetly lit rehearsal space, surrounded by the cozy set and the warm faces of my fellow cast and director. My character shoes are on my feet, my hair is done in the beloved forties style curls, my costar Matt and I wait breathlessly backstage for our entrance. The spotlight is on me as I am lost in a monologue that touched me every time I performed it. I am slightly shivering as I get into my car and drive over to the Cranford Inn to celebrate another show with my cast mates and audience members. And filling the car are the sweet, flowing sounds of Rufus Wainright, Schulyer Fisk, Josh Radin, Imogen Heap. This was a time when sadness still threatened to take over my life, but with the help of See Rock City and these songs I kept afloat in a softly somber state, punctuated with brightness. This was my time of healing.

Sometimes, a simple fall breeze will gust its way toward me, and as I pull my "in between" jacket closer, I am brought back to the classic fall benchmark--returning to school. I can smell the bus, the sweet, plastic-y smell of new school supplies, the way your new classrooms were slightly foreign and how odd it seemed that in a few months they would be so familiar, that languid but expectant smell in the hallway...like they were tired from the summer's idleness but knew they would once again be occupied. The excitement of going to your classes and seeing what other students were there, and the subsequent dread when the reality of a semester's work sets in. Friday afternoons in the fall bring me to the Wootton football field, where my friends and I have gathered for no other reason then,well, it's just what everyone does. Our school had a brand of understated school spirit--it was not so overstated as to be labelled cheesy or corny, but rather we pulled it off with a charming sort of ennui that translated to just a pure and simple, "hey, we like it here." That feeling reverberated in the sounds of the marching band, the cold of the bleachers, the wave of the pom-poms. This was our high school experience--and although we were too naive or too cool to admit it, somewhere inside we knew we'd look back and appreciate the sort of all-American, small town feel it had.

A sunny Saturday afternoon in October will bring me to the many pumpkin patches that my family traversed over the years. There are babies in cozy onesies, toddlers in sweatshirts, Uncles chewing on hay and making us laugh. The sun is setting over the fields, pumpkin seeds litter the ground. Aunts are holding babies, picking out small pumpkins to match them. We are smiling in front of the days bounty, awash in the freshness of the landscape and the crisp air. The light reflects in our hair as we head to the cars, awaiting the warmth and the aromas of the house that will receive us after our exursion, where we will retreat for the rest of the evening and enjoy the warmth of the fire laced with a cold filter of outside air from a screen window.

I have always found that as one season nears its end, I am happy to embrace the onset of the next. The aspects unique to each--the clothes, the events, the holidays--it all serves to define and color each season for me. Fall is for me a calming from the summer, a quieting of the world--but not a silence, more of a joyful hum--a freshness in the lungs. It blows open the windows of the past and highlights them, lacing them ever deeper in your heart.

Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup...

When I was in second grade and struggling with my math workbook, my teacher confidently declared that I would never be a math whiz, but that English and language would be my forte. Her declaration was keenly accurate and I often reflected on it as I made my way through academia. Math was a chore--endless hours of forcing my left brain into submission while my right brain yearned for a text to decipher, a paper to write, a speech to present. Now, several years after my exit from the scholastic world, I see her insight on a more philosophical level. Somewhere, entwined within my DNA, I was given the soul of an artist. It has taken me years to understand its shape and nurture its needs, but I am slowly learning how.

In 2004, I left the job that was ceaselessly depleting my happiness and inner peace and finally accepted what my insides had known for so long. I easily walked away from the corporate world and followed my heart to the stage--a place where it has been struggling to go for years, reigned in by practical thought, fear and self consciousness. Mere days after I made this leap of faith, I was contacted by a director friend of mine in New Jersey. An actress that was slated to play the role of May in "See Rock City" was unable to take on the project, and he wanted me to tackle the part. I accepted with gratitude--this little smile from heaven that said, "see, this is the path for you." I can remember reading that script--the words washing over me, feeling drawn to May; her character seeping into my limbs. She will always remain dear to me, as portraying her was what finally brought me out of myself, but at the same time, brought me to who I really am.

What I have come to realize in my journey as an artist is that there are the tremendous highs that leave you breathless, but also the lows that you must navigate carefully. Aside from the tangible disappointments--never hearing back after an audition, getting a bad review--there is a deeper sort of melancholy that affects me. Perhaps the term "tortured artist" is a bit extreme, but there is an element of truth to it. Often, I find myself hopelessly afflicted with a yearning to be talented in every "art" there is. Sadly, I am not what one would call "a triple threat". I act--but I do not sing, or dance. Many times, I can state this fact with aplomb, and continue to focus on my niche. But other times, it is accompanied with a heartache that traces its way back to my days in tiny tutus, and to that one afternoon in eight grade when I discovered I could carry a tune. Why, oh why did I not stay on that path and graduate from slippers to toe shoes, from group recitals to solo routines? Why did we just blindly believe that my family's consistent atonal history was a foregone conclusion, and not explore my vocal chords while they were still young and adaptable?

Looking backwards is a futile exercise that drains the present of all positive energy--of this I am fully aware. Yet there are times when I cannot help sitting in a Broadway audience and being overcome with yearning to be able to open my mouth and produce the clear, sweet sounds or the powerful, house shaking belts that so many actresses astound me with. I watch dance numbers and actually feel my muscles ache to be able to move so effortlessly and beautifully, to create a story and a moving picture with my body. There is inside me a never ending need to create, and it frustrates me that I don't necessarily have all the tools that I want to create something in full.

I sometimes wonder if my teacher's words were a bit detrimental to me--that her prophecy somehow trapped me in a world of words and put me on a shortsighted path. But then I remember that this is the path that put me in the place I am today--where I met my friends, my fiance along the way, where I enriched my mind and fed my need for learning at an amazing university. There is no denying that my teacher was right--words are my thing and always have been. I find such joy in writing, such a deep fulfillment when I can use the beauty of language to express myself. And there is to me no greater high than taking words on a page and bringing them to life on stage. To breathe a story into being by one's ever so delicate treatment of what an author has asked you to say--to find every nuance, every accompanying gesture, to find your voice breaking with emotion elicited by these very words you have been trusted with.

For me, a world of words is a pretty one indeed.

The Little Ones

The last time I saw my friend Diana Macchio's baby girl Olivia, she was about three months old, an adorable little bundle still small enough to be toted around in a cloth papoose cuddled next to her mom's chest. Just two weeks ago, a month shy of Olivia's first birthday, we met again, and what a delight to meet anew this little girl with a personality that makes you want to smother her with kisses. While I of course wish we could see the Macchio family on a more regular basis, there was something to savor about that special treat of appreciating the magnitude of how miraculously and fully a child grows in the first year of her life.

Olivia is just so cool. She gives off this terrific vibe of a sweet, savvy nature--punctuated by a piercing laugh and a "sniffles" face wherein she scrunches up her nose and smiles. But I noticed that she doesn't overuse this particular party trick as most kids might--she has quite a sense of comedic timing in that regard and seems to find moments wherein the face seems particularly amusing and adorable. Even just watching her toddle around, contentedly playing with toys inspired laughter in me because she does so with such a self-assured, relaxed style that if we could hear her inner monologue, it would surely be full of well-placed, witty and amusingly wry commentary.

As I gave Olivia's oh-so-kissable cheeks a final kiss goodbye, it occurred to me that these qualities that I see blooming in her are just those that I have come to love about her parents. Diana has been my friend since the eighth grade and we have always sparked each other's intellect and sophisticated funny bone. Her husband, Frank, can have me giggling non stop with his intelligent humor, always extremely well timed and placed in conversation. This all got me to thinking, that apart from discovering the wonder of genetics in observing my friends children, the truest joy in all of this is having another little human extension of my friends to love.

Another little wonder in this category is my friend Jenn's daughter, Katelyn, whom I first met mere weeks after her birth, nestled in her cozy carriage as her mom and I dined al fresco at Chef Geoff's. Because we live in DC, I've been able to see Katelyn quite often as she's grown, thus allowing me to delight in noticing the small changes in her from one meeting to the next. As we've gone from restaurant to restaurant on our frequent "ladies nights out", I've enjoyed watching Katelyn's sweet self just relaxing in her stroller, huge blue eyes blinking serenely, to her being passed from lap to lap, happily engaging her current companion, to her joining us at the table in her high chair, eating and constantly happy. Her personality is all sunshine and smiles, laughter and liveliness.

I completely see the wonderful qualities of Jenn and her husband Dave manifested in Katelyn. Jenn and Dave are the kind of people with whom you instantly feel comfortable, whose laid back and positive attitudes are infectious and uplifting. When you're around them, you just can't help but enjoy life--and Katelyn inspires just that same zeal. On my first day at my new school in Maryland, in the 8th grade, Jenn was the person who befriended me without a moment's hesitation. And now we have Katelyn, a miniature version of Jenn that exhibits the very same, endearing openness to new people.

We attended Katelyn's first birthday party two weeks ago, and I really felt so happy to be included in the celebration. It is a blessing to have friends that are still so dear to you after many years that you have a presence in each new phase of their life. It adds to the richness of your friendship, another layer to how well you know each other, how much you enrich each others lives. And there's the joy in spending time with the second edition of your friend--bright eyed, adorable, and on their way to becoming a wonderful person of their own. The way I see it, as my friends families grow, so does mine.

Here a Friend, There a Friend

I will admit; I am slightly obsessed with Facebook. That little blue and white world that caters to the voyeur in all of us, delivering a tantalizing supply of photos, conversations, witty banter, whereabouts and oh so much more. A bit reminiscent of my love affair with Starbucks, my journey into the Facebook world began with much trepidation and skepticism.

I remember my sister first telling me about the site, into which she and so many of her college age cronies were already embroiled. At the time, only people with valid college email addresses could join, and since mine was long defunct, I could only explore the site through my sister. I was not dazzled at first--it seemed a mere reincarnation of one of the first social networking sites--Friendster. But soon after, I kept getting wind of certain wall posts and Facebook camaraderie between my cousins--all younger than me and most of college age--and I started to feel left out. As a group, we are a mighty chatty and boisterous bunch and our get togethers are always lively and laughter filled. With a new virtual venue to bring us together even outside of our frequent family functions, things could only get more lively. So, with the intention of bolstering our cousinly bonds, I got myself a Facebook account and my 14 cousins as friends.

My initial vow was to remain friends with only my cousins, and use Facebook as a cyber watering hole for us--bridging the distances between schools and the times when we all get to be together. I only got a few friend requests myself--and most were from people I truly did not recognize. I wanted to keep my Facebook universe small. But then....

I started to get friend requests from people I absolutely recognized, and was admittedly curious as to their lives...I started to troll for classmates...took notice of who other people were friends with....my cast of friends began to grow...and before I knew it, Facebook had cast its spell on me and I was, and continue to be, captivated by the entertainment it provides. A sort of window into other worlds, comment on our culture, personal expression entertainment that has me captivated by profiles and my brain constantly commenting on its phenomenon.

Sometimes when I'm perusing profiles, I'm reminded of the days of decorating your room as a teenager, or your college dorm. Well thought out placements of pictures, quotes and posters that made your room your own and broadcast the person you knew yourself to be. I think what Facebook has essentially done is migrated this decorative form of self expression to the internet and given people a wider, more interactive forum for the exploration and showcasing of who they are. As an adult, I no longer have a million pictures scattered across bulletin boards or favorite quotes displayed on my wall--my tastes demand a bit more refined decorative sense. However, I have Facebook-- wherein I can be just as playful and witty as I'd like, and in the end have a satisfying little spot on the web that is uniquely me.

After my initial hesitations in the realm of requesting and accepting friends, I have wholly embraced both actions and love stumbling upon acquaintances from college or high school, or even middle school. There is something comforting, somehow, just getting these small glimpses into their lives. Gives you a sort of "we really ARE all connected feeling", and it's just nice to know that somewhere, this person is living their life, doing their own unique thing. It ocurred to me that Facebook also delivers to me, via its web interface, the one aspect of college that I loved most of all, and still miss dearly to this day---simply walking around campus. I just adored going from class to class and saying hello to all I'd pass along the way. I went to a small school, so there was something very special in knowing so many people--even if you didn't know their name but their face was a familiar part of the landscape. So here I am, removed quite significantly from the days of being surrounded by so many people you knew, and voila, here is Facebook, bringing me many of those same, familiar faces. And that is how I will explain to the naysayers, who can't understand why I am friends with someone on Facebook that I never talk to in "real life", why it really doesn't matter. Because seeing that this particular person changed their status or added some photos is just like walking past them on campus and saying hello. A nice little bright spot, a window into the life of someone you might now know all that well, but you just like their friendly face.

It is certainly a funny culture we live in where a site like Facebook has swept into the lives of people from several different generations and created its own little subculture, complete with vernacular and unspoken rules, etc. It's the power of technology that fuels it all--but I really believe at the heart of it is still that human need to put a little of yourself out there, and see what everyone else has to offer too.

Float Like a Butterfly...

Someone should make a tv show, or at least an SNL skit, about the waiting rooms at auditions and the array of characters that are bound to show up there. Although very few will actually land a part in whatever they're trying out for, they alone comprise a heartly little cast in and of themselves. Sometimes there's the guy who has a misguided concept of reading to oneself, and is practing his cold read over and over in a high decibel whisper, or the two girls that know eachother and gossip on endlessly about who's doing what play where. And then there are the garrulous types who will talk to just about anyone who crosses their path--and they usually drone on about their own career path and give countless tidbits of unsolicited advice.

This past weekend I encountered quite an interesting species of auditioner, which is what prompted this musing on the topic. It was for an indpendent film, and the waiting room was a classroom, equipped with some snacks and water for those waiting. When I walked in, there was little activity, but I just sat and waited quietly, sure that someone would eventually come in with sides and that the auditions would proceed in the order of those arrived. Several minutes later, in breezes a middle aged man, dressed quite slovenly in green pants that were too short, a ratty flannel shirt and a newsboy cap. Immediately upon entering the room he asks rapid fire questions to the other auditioners, "Is this the waiting room? Is there a sign in sheet? Have they been in to check us in? Are there sides? Is this food for us?" And then he just digs right into the food, crunching on carrot after carrot, helping himself to several packets of crackers and making a generally noisy production of refreshing himself with the snacks and water. After he sits down, he begins what I knew was the inevitable chit chat with another actor in the room, and it isn't until everyone else has cleared out, except for me, that he even pauses to take a breath and read the sides, and this short activity is accompanied by overdone hand gestures. It's only a matter of seconds before he turns on me and asks, "So, do you do a lot of film?" I reply with a short, "When I can", hoping to imply that I'm just not up for conversation, but yet again he inquires, "So then you do a lot of stage." When all I say is "Yup", he takes this as his cue to tell me that he has a show in Baltimore that he has to be at by 6:30--and I very satisfyingly do not take his bait and ask him what show, as I know he is yearning for me to do.

Several minutes later, another unsuspecting auditioner walks into the room, and is immediately preyed upon by the overgrown Oliver, who first instructs her that yes this is the waiting room, there is no sign in sheet and the food is for us. Then he proceeds to inquire about her current projects, and finds a way to again work in his current show in Baltimore, and drop the fact that he has been in touch with the people behind this particular film since October. I am relieved when my name is called and I can leave his obnoxious chatter behind, and go do what I came there for.

Over the course of many auditions, I've honed my own little strategy for them. It's basically a keep to myself, but in a pleasant, not off putting kind of way. I like to remain focused and positive, and for me, the best way to do that is to tune out all the chatter in the room, which has the power to "psyche you out". If I focus too much on other people and the self promotional and competitive underbelly of most waiting room discussions, it gets to me and I start to doubt my own abilities and career status. So, I just wear a smile for everyone, but remain solitary and put my mind solely on the task at hand.

My mother has always told me that I posess a quiet confidence--that rather than boast of my talents or successes, I take pleasure in them for the simple joy of them, and share that joy mostly with my family and close friends. It is a behavior I absolutely learned from my father--whose personal accomplishments he celebrated only with a wry smile, and then went on to do whatever me or my sister needed urgently that particular day. My parents easily demonstrated to me how not to rest on your laurels--but instead keep them cultivated in your own, private garden, and move constantly forward to expand your little plot of earth.

This is how I go about my auditions--I view them as an opportunity to hone and develop the craft that I love. They are an experience, from the beginning to the end, and I feel so much is gained from being aware and focused enough to absorb every aspect. The characters around me are merely amusing dots on a landscape of learning, growing and striving towards a goal, one tiny step at a time.

Grande..Venti...Happy.

Oh, Starbucks. That caffeinated haven of treats, nestled on street corners far and wide. I felt it was high time I write a little something about this place, whose trademark green and white has a special spot in my heart.

My first foray into the world of lattes was in high school, when for some reason my friends and I decided that we didn't spend enough time together as it was, both in school and out, and decided it was absolutely necessary to meet before school even began. Mind you, our first class started at 7:25 am, so short of going to eachother's houses and pulling eachother out of bed, what could we really do in the morning? Go to Starbucks, of course. Now, this was in the mid 90's, even before the height of the Starbucks phenomenon--so to us it was a novelty, and I can only think we fancied ourselves quite grown-up and bohemian to be visiting a coffee house for our morning caffeine fix. So, several mornings a week we drove in the opposite direction from school and convened at 6:30 am, Starbucks mugs in hand. Back then, I knew so little about the menu, and at that time it probably contained about a quarter of today's options. Due to my early morning weariness and adolescent absence of conviction, I always ended up with a raspberry latte. I'm not sure I even liked it, but all in all it wasn't really about the drinks, but that my extremely tight knit group of friends squeezed another half hour of companionship into our days.

After high school, my trips to Starbucks were more infrequent, perhaps ironically as their presence was on the rise. But then, I moved to New York City, and when one beckons on every block, they're impossible to resist. Thanks to several more savvy friends, I was introduced to larger array of drink options. There was my skim chai kick, my sugar free vanilla skim latte kick, then there was the discovery of just how tasty a huge cookie shared with a friend over a cup of tea could be. I think because I had now succeeded in satisfying my taste buds, I took more notice of the atmosphere in Starbucks. Cozy, without a doubt. A place that immediately felt warm and inviting as you ducked in out of the biting wind on Broadway. Somewhere that would let you sit, for hours on end, long after the last drop of cappucino, and engross yourself in a novel, slave over your laptop in the quest to write your own, or just daydream about possibility. I grew to love this about Starbucks--that as soon as you see that circle logo, you know there's a place where you can go, and just be.

Several years and life changes later, I had quit my job in the city and had a full on case of the blues. It was Halloween, and as my sister and I brainstormed costume ideas, I was inspired by a Frappucino bottle turned bank that sat in her closet. That's how my sister, my boyfriend and I ended up at a Halloween party, dressed as a caramel macchiato, a barista, and a mocha macchiato, respectively. Which led to a fellow guest commenting that Starbucks is a solid corporation to work for, offering health insurance to it's part time employees--music to my unemployed and Cobra paying ears. And so, several weeks later, there I was at the Caldwell Starbucks, feeling slightly conspicuous in my green apron, on my first day of barista training.

Sure, over the next few weeks I had my share of mental wars as I struggled to pull the shots, steam the milk, mop the floors and properly work the cash register. The strain of "I'm wasting my college degree, I'm too smart for this, I used to have so much responsibility", careened around my head. But little by little, it quieted until I realized that it really, really didn't matter. Because all of a sudden, I was zooming around the bar, greeting customers by name, and genuinely enjoying being at work every day. And man, what a great feeling.

About a month after my first station at the Caldwell Starbucks, I moved to our new store in Roseland, and over the first few days of its grand opening, met my new associates. I could tell almost immediately, as we restocked cups, shouted drink orders and filled cup after cup, that it was one of those special combinations of people that just click. After a few weeks, we were our own little family, and our new store was like our home that we welcomed our customers into daily. We were constantly laughing, sharing thoughts and concerns, and looking out for eachother. In doing so, we created a store environment that our customers loved coming to--as evidenced by handwritten notes and countless whispered admissions that ,"I used to go to the Caldwell store, but I switched because I LOVE coming here."

As for me, I enjoyed every minute behind the counter. It ocurred to me that this job was perfect for my psyche and my personality. I loved setting people up with their morning coffee, their afternoon fix, their indulgence. It appealed to the Italian in me...and the mother/grandmother to come. I have always had an insatiable thirst for knowledge, and it was a delight to find there is a myriad of things to know about coffee. I loved educating my palate to the different roasts, beans from different regions, feeling the citrus taste in a Latin American coffee burst in my mouth when I paired it with a yummy slice of lemon loaf. I reveled in being surrounded by people from so many different backgrounds and walks of life, after years of being comfortable in very homogeneous environments. I've always been a "school spirit" kind of person, and now I was infected with a company spirit, always feeling a certain pride when visiting stores all over.

I loved getting to know my customers--who knew that you could feel such satisfaction, and this little fizzle of personal connection when you can greet your customer by name and make his/her drink before he even reaches the register? That seeing little baby Hannah come in every day with her mom,smiling and giggling, could always make you happy? As an actor, I revel in moments--it's what we always seek to find on stage--points when the words in the script come out of your mouth, but instead of coming from your head, come from your soul. And that's what Starbucks gave me--hundreds of little moments to brighten my soul.

I give much credit to Starbucks and my fellow partners for the personal growth I experienced during my time there. When I started, I was feeling so heavy inside. But little by little, wearing that green apron, calling out "Decaf Venti Skim no Whip Mocha" with no shame-- it taught me to just enjoy life for the simple, lovely fact that there is so much joy in human connection, sustenance, and a good, warm cup of coffee.

Bright Lights, Big City

When I was younger, I loved when my Aunt Stephanie or Uncle Vin would take me into New York City for the day and bring me on all sorts of cosmopolitan adventures. The Central Park Zoo, lunch at Jackson Hole on the UWS, an afternoon taping of whatever show my Uncle happened to be producing at the time, dropping into the video store on Columbus to end the day with a movie on the couch. I remember being so in awe of them and their wheeling freedom in NYC--how did they know their way around this place? Which way was North? What avenue was where? I'll admit that as much as I loved the city, I did harbor quite an intense fear of it, or should I say, fear of being on my own there. It always seemed vast and confusing to me, too "grown up" for me to handle. But thankfully I had my own tour guides to keep those fears at bay, and with them by my side, whirling me around Manhattan, I was free to revel in the city's energy and bottomless intrigue.

Now, while I did say "younger", I will admit that my trepidation with regards to NYC extended a bit past my childhood, and even into my college years. Which is why it was no bigger a surprise for anyone but myself when I decided to move there when I graduated. I suppose somewhere within me I recognized that it was time to begin my own education on "how to be a savvy city dweller". And, as some of my other writings on the glorious, mysterious, ever changing NYC will tell you, I am so glad that I did.

But what led me to reminisce on my adventures with my aunt and uncle was when I was walking up M street the other night, on the way to meet my cousin, Jacqueline. She is a freshman at Georgetown, and having just transferred here this semester she's brand new to DC. We went to see a movie, and in making our plans during the day, I suggested that she meet me at the theater. I was humbled at this suggestion when she admitted she didn't know how to get to the theater---and I realized that the role that my Aunt Stephanie and Uncle Vin had played so many times was now being passed onto me. I am now the one that knows my way around, that doesn't view the city as a foreign landscape, that "gets it."

Oh, what a wistful feeling. A little sadness--that I am no longer young and innocent enough to be led around the wonders of a city--but a little pride, as well. That in taking the plunge and moving to Manhattan, I acquired that casual, metropolitan like abandon that my Aunt and Uncle carried so well. That I can now make Jackie feel a little more at home in DC and hopefully instill in all of my younger cousins the same passion and verve for city life that was passed onto me. Because there is really nothing like that moment when the swirling, bustling streets of a city no longer make you nervous, but instead, feel like home.

Opening Night...

Oh, such a thrill. I spend my opening night days filled with a buzzing energy that zips me around, bouncing me through the hours with a heady expectation of what's to come that night. The feeling that in a few hours time you will be giving life to the thing you've been working on for months, that your character, whom you've come to know, understand, and feel so connected to, will finally take the stage. The day passes by in a blur; I'm just barreling through so I can start my preparations--usually unecessarily planned out things like when I will shower, when I will put together opening night gifts, how I will get in a light snack before the curtain goes up.

Ah, the curtain. That lovely, billowing wall that oozes with a hide and seek like anticipation. Is there anything quite like the seconds before Act One begins, when you're in place behind that sweet cover, just waiting for it to zoom aside and let your energy tumble forward, and that of the audience zing towards you, fueling eachother in that adrenaline pumping way?

Another op'nin, another show!!!!

Art Imitates Life

I saw this in an email forward yesterday. It's from a list that Erma Bombeck wrote, called "If I had my Life to Live Over." And I have to say, I completely disagree with it.

I would have cried and laughed less while watching television - and more while watching life.

First, let me say that I am the first person to both laugh and cry while watching life--I observe people and things and happenings so often and so deeply it is something achingly burdensome so have so many emotional thoughts and reactions to everything happening around me. I find life to be an endlessly fascinating montage and celebrate all the joys and sorrows it offers us--but I do not take this appreciation of "life in the flesh" and compare it with life on the silver or the small screen. They are two separate entities, and one surely feeds the other in a symbiotic way.

Television get such a bad rep. I will go ahead and add the disclaimer that there are countless examples of very, very bad tv out there--from ill-scripted sitcoms to the reality tv phenomenon. Yet, there are so many other shows with real heart to them that do not deserve to be shunned and disdained because they simply are what they are. Erma Bombeck implies that when one is moved to laugh or cry while watching television, he/she proejcts some kind of disdain for "real life" and succumbs to a manipulation by those attempting to create a false reality and steal you away from your life's moments. But did she think of what is behind those television moments that move us?

Behind them is a slew of people that put their God-given talents to work. There are cameramen who see with a different eye and catch creativity in motion, there are sound technicians, lighting experts, production assistants, costumers, makeup artists, craft services, producers. There are writers who slave over a script word by word in order to achieve just the right sentiment, to catch just the right joke, to turn just the right phrase. There are actors who work to bring these words to life, to do justice to their characters, who step out of themselves to create another person, another story. This is not life? A cross section of individuals all creating, producing what is essentially a modern day art form? And where do these writers find the inspiration for their poignant story lines, their comic gems, the characters they create? Where do the actors go to find the emotion, to understand their characters, to create their relationships? The answer is LIFE. Underscoring all of televisions best shows is the lives of all those who craft them--their loves lost, babies born, personal triumphs and happiest memories.

So I say that it is perfectly fine to laugh and cry at television; in fact it is a necessary joy. In doing so, you are giving testament to the blood, sweat and tears of those that brought that show to you. But you are also giving nod to the very fact that life gives us so many moments, and it is a treasure to recognize and react to them--in whatever medium they happen to occur.

Monumental Jogging

Lately, I've had to squeeze my workouts into my lunch hour, a practice I swore I'd never adopt again after years of stressful lunchtimes at New York Sports Clubs tarnished my relationship with exercise. Thankfully, I gave up the gym all together a few years ago and rediscovered my zest for a good, healthy workout by embracing outdoor walking and running, and my new collection of workout DVDs (recent favorites being yoga booty ballet, but that's a whole 'nother blog). I had a pretty steady schedule at work for a while that allowed me to complete my routine fairly early in the morning, but rehearsals for my show have changed that up a bit. So in order to fit in the workout, I must go at lunchtime. At first, I dreaded it, but then after a few jogs around the Georgetown area, I realized I was completely enjoying myself.

I tend to be a careful jogger--as in I don't like to venture into wooded paths (there's been one too many chandra levy like stories for my comfort, you know?). I pretty much run in some sort of loop and I will very rarely try to navigate a new way home for fear of getting completely lost. So all my afternoon jaunts have been on the safe side--down K street, then up onto the toe path. A few weeks ago I changed direction and ran along the river towards the Memorial Bridge, and in an uncharacteristic burst of energy I actually ran over the bridge and back. I love the Memorial Bridge, especially at night, so there was something slightly thrilling about being on that very same bridge that I cross many times while in a car, but this time on foot. Sort of like you feel exposed, but at the same time like you're appreciating this structure all the more by experiencing it a bit more organically.

So in order to enjoy the little springtime interlude yesterday, I set out to run and headed this time toward the National Mall. And so there I was, pacing along with the Lincoln at my back and the Washington standing sentry ahead, and I felt a new blend of endorphin--one mixed with a bit of patriotism and gratitude that as a DC resident, this is the backdrop that I am afforded for my afternoon jog. People from states and countries far and wide walk this same path as they explore our nations history-- told in powerfully bold statements from one monument to the next. There are our founding fathers to honor, our most exemplary Presidents to salute , and our nations' fallen heroes to remember as they are all given testament to in the form of marble, scultpure, and quiet architectural wonder. For many, it is a spot for cameras, for guidebooks and tours, a classroom experience come to life. For me, it is thirty minutes to myself away from the ringing phones and emails just down the river. It is my everday landscape--but its monumental proportions are not lost on me. And so I jog on....just me...on my lunch break...an American.

Pet Peeve

It's always lovely to venture out into humanity on a Monday morning only to be reminded how largely selfish and rude the majority of people are. This rant will probably be the first of many concerning that bastion of public transportation, the bus. In my case, DC buses. My daily trip should be painless--a short jaunt down Wisconsin on my way to work, and another one right back up it when returning home. But alas, there is always some annoyance to contend with, whether it's older people who give everyone the evil eye because you did not give up your seat for them, even if your seat is about 7 rows back and blocked by a sea of standing passengers, or just plain waiting for any bus to show up after walking 20 minutes in the cold and than subsequently standing at the bus stop for another twenty.

This morning my perturbance was lit by the fact that at my particular bus stop, people completely eschew the concept of a line. To me, it is completely common courtesy to let those who arrived first at the bus stop board the bus first; it is only fair. Down the road a bit at the Calvert Street stop, bus patrons obey the line rule, if only because the stop abuts a cleaners and there is very little room on the sidewalk, so the building aids in the formation of a nice, neat line. The next person to arrive at the stop simply falls in behind, and each person boards in the order they came. Thus, those waiting the longest are furnished with available seats on the bus, as it should be.

But up at my stop, people are oblivious to any such normal social niceties. People gather all askew--some people sit on the small brick wall outside the apartment building closest to the stop, some linger by the corner, others post themselves in the middle of the sidewalk. Now, for the most part, people are fairly accurate when boarding and do allow those who were clearly at the stop before them board first. But there is one particular kind of bus rider that feels that her presence at the stop is enough to let her waltz on before everyone else, even though she has arrived only second prior and the rest of us have been waiting for minutes. This offender is always a woman, usually dressed in a slightly outdated suit and walking with her nose in the air. Many times a Blackberry is in hand, as well as a shopping bag from some high end store to hold her odds and ends. She will saunter past all of us, command a post RIGHT at the curb so she is directly in front of the door when the bus arrives, and crown herself with the right to board first. This woman shows zero respect, in fact barely even acknowledges her fellow riders and deems herself worthy to take the last available seat and is clearly unaware, or most likely, uncaring, that the person who was waiting at the bus stop for fifteen minutes is now clinging to a hand rail and being catapulted around as the bus starts and stops.

When such a female presents herself, I want to march over and scream at her. To remove her from her pedestal and open her eyes to the fact that there are other people around and that this bus route does not revolve around her and her commuting needs. Instead, I stew the entire bus ride, and, admittedly, throw dirty glances her way, accompanied by a "tsk" with a shake of my head. This morning, feeling slightly emboldened, I boarded after her and said, half under my breath, "There IS a line." I'm not sure if she heard me, but I hope she did.

I know this is such a small matter, but really, in the world's swirl of tragedy and sadness, stress and worry, it IS these small gestures of basic human courtesy that bring a little bit of brightness to our society. That's why, when a gentleman who has been waiting patiently, in the cold, for that bus that never seems to appear, steps aside and lets me on first as I just make it to the stop, I smile widely and say "Thank you." Because I really, really mean it.