Elevator story

So.

Yesterday I moved my stuff from N’s place in the Bronx to G’s place in Manhattan. I’m transferring to the A train, which requires a packed, stinky, awkward elevator ride. Icky, especially with a suitcase, but no big deal. 

But yesterday, oh, yesterday it was a big deal.  Want to hear the most awesome story ever? Okay, get ready. 

There are, of course, 4.7 million people all standing in a boiling hot elevator. In the back corner is a crazy person who is about to make this elevator ride a hell of a lot more interesting. And horrific.

He shit his pants.

Shit.

His.

Pants.

And you could really hear it. Gross sliding farting horribleness.So the guy next to him says “dude, did you just shit your pants?”

 Silence for three beats.

one.. 

two…

three…

The crazy guy says (or screams) “Woah! Who took a dump in this elevator!?!? It smells like shit in here! Woooooooooah!” etc. 

So then we all stand awkwardly in silence holding our breath.

Then, as the bell dings and the doors open, he says “Man, I sure got on the wrong elevator today!”

And he did. He sure did.  

Start spreadin’ the news…

Hello, lovers. I’m in New York! City of dreams and crazy hobos who make orgasm sounds at you when you’re walking down the street with your friend Kevin.

I’ve been here 3 days. I’ve had 2 auditions. I have 6 days until my next one, so I’m just chillin’ like a villain. Gonna go to Boston to hang out for a few days. You know.

I don’t know why they bother hearing me, since it’s just a formality and I’m going to get every job I audition for. Poor Santa Fe and Chautauqua, having to fight to the death for a chance at me…

So it’s fun here. There are a ton of friends I haven’t seen since Moses and they all gather in one place, so that’s great. I also feel like a big girl when I ride the Subway by myself. “Look at me! I’m doing something on my own! I’m a grown up!” It’s stupid, but it does make me feel smug even though there are 7 year olds who know what’ s happening more than I do. I just feel like a big city lady instead of a nerd who grew up in Iowa only to move to the buzzing metropolis that is Missouri.

I’m making lists for a special New York edition of open letters.  Get excited.

What else.

I’m sick because, well, of course I am. Just a runny nose but I sounded like reheated ass for Seattle yesterday, though I may have saved my ass and barely slid into the finals on the basis of my monologue, which ruled.  Stupid Deh vieni. Why do I put it on my list? I always do so well and then try to hold the F at the end to mixed results. Mixed results within a single note for four beats. That is not a good sign.

I kicked HGO’s ass in my audition on Monday (at damned 9:20 in the morning), but I would die of shock if I ever heard from them again. I got to sing my View from the Bridge aria in front of people for the first time ever, so that was fun.  Though before I sang she did talk about working on the production and knowing the score backwards and how much she loves it…no pressure! But she didn’t make faces and was very nice and complimentary.

Tangent: why are the big A houses so much nicer than the podunk houses? I’ve had super rude auditions for small houses, but nothing but nice and friendly people for big programs! Maybe they have nothing to lose. Or maybe that’s how they got to the top…I don’t know, but they sure do treat you well, and it’s awfully nice to be treated like a human in the business.

I’m spending about a zillion dollars a day, which is why I could NEVER live here. Too many coffee shops and slices of pizza. Luckily you walk 100 miles a day so it’s not as bad as when I do that in KC, but still. Not good.

That pretty much brings us to now. I haven’t been having any deep thoughts, just mostly gossiping and walking in the rain, which is a nice break from being cerebral.

More later. Off to pack to move in with Mrs. McThing in the Heights. Woooooooop.

I didn’t think this through

So instead of sitting down with those I love for a hot steaming plate of delicious food, I cleaned my apartment and ate Lean Cuisine until the evening and then got really super drunk with my gays, which is considerably less heartwarming but equally (probably) fun.

Here’s the thing. I really don’t drink that much. Like, once every two months I’ll have an extra glass of wine or something and fall out of the restaurant booth. Not controversial.

Unfortunately (or fortunately?) D and M know my alcoholic weakness, and provided a bright, shiny, deliciously unopened bottle of Southern Comfort. Then I do things like scream all night long and take 150 of the same blurry picture of me making a kissy face at the camera and call every single person I know with exactly the same message, which I think goes something like: “It’s your friend Katy! (because they don’t know who I am?) I looooooove you! I needed to tell you!!! I love you with the fire of 1,000 suns!!! Aaaaaaaaaaaaagh! Okay, bye.”

You know what, at least I’m sincere. I really do love them. And really, what if I died of alcohol poisoning or by falling out of my car as I’m ill-advisedly driving home 3 hours later? At least they would have a lasting positive memory, though I bet the cops would think I had a serious drinking problem when they investigated my case.

“This young woman’s friends have several of what the kids call ‘drunk dials’ saved on their phones. It appears she made 9 of these calls on this night alone.”

“Such a shame. Such a young life wasted.” *The officer breaks down*

Aaaaaaaaaaaand scene.

Anyway, so the point is that I don’t drink EVER, so when I do I always forget that I’m not a sophomore in college when I used to just carry around and consume entire bottles of Sour Apple Pucker in it’s “light-weight traveler” packaging. Nope, I’m an old lady who gets buzzed off a glass and a half of wine. To be fair, I am pretty tiny. Tiny and lame.

But last night I had like, 4 SoCo and Cokes. Uh oh.

None of this would matter if my entire family (all 3 of them) weren’t on their way down to steal my good furniture for my sister’s new place. Can I interject for a second on this subject?

My sister is 22. She will graduate nursing school on the 14th of December. She has an apartment, a huge one with more than one bedroom and a bathroom with good water pressure, in the town where our parents live, but in 6 months she will be buying a house. BUYING A HOUSE. My younger, 22-year old sister already has a dog, and soon she will have a house and barely any student loan debt.

Let’s review. She will have all this. My younger sister.

I am 2 years older with a master’s degree and I live in a basement apartment and still borrow large sums of money from my parents in order to eat. Ha ha ha ha ha OH MY GOD, I AM FREAKING PATHETIC.

Okay, but on to family coming.

So they will be here in three hours. I’m happy to see them. Kind of.

Kind of? Why, you say?

Well, because I drank until I was disabled last night and it feels like someone poured sweet and sour sauce into my stomach and shook me up, then a horse kicked me in the head, then an ancient Chinese medicine man injected all of my joints with some kind of magic potion designed to make them all swell and ache.

That’s why.

It’s a similar feeling, a memory from college, of being picked up for freshman year Christmas break and wondering “wow, am I going to throw up box wine all over my mom’s Volvo, or am I going to make it?” I repeated it like a Guru mantra for 47 minutes until we pulled into our driveway. I made it.

But it’s the same. The same fake, chipper attitude. Only today I have to move furniture. Luckily D is going to help, which should be good because he was so drunk he might have been straight last night. So at least we’ll be partners in crime. Hooray!

What a long, rambling, post this has been. I didn’t think it through. Much like I didn’t think last night through. Ooops. Hope you all had lovely Thanksgivings!

(See how I just tied it together up there? The “thinking it through” part? I’m a genius!)

Thanksgiving

Hello lovers! Happy Thanksgiving. I’m going to spend it packing up stuff for my sister to steal for her house she’s buying (!) because I thought I had a job and wouldn’t need it but now I’m just stuck in Missouri with a futon to sleep on ahahahahahaha!

Seriously, I hope you’re with people you love. I will be soon.

Life right now can seem shitty – especially if you’re trying to have a go at a singing career – but even if you’re not, there’s a reason suicide rates are the highest at this time of year. So I am making a list (you know how I love a good list!) of things I need to be grateful for. It’s all to easy to forget.

1. I have a place to live. It sucks and the heat doesn’t really work and it’s always dark in here and I’m about to have no furniture, but I live here. I can walk around naked and have really loud nervous breakdowns and talk to myself and practice and listen to the same Joni Mitchell song over and over (“Both Sides Now”) whenever I want. Pretty good deal. I also have food and a hot shower. Double awesome!

2. I’m pretty healthy. I should lose 7 lbs and I get a lot of stress headaches and have perma-back pain and I have to crack my joints like, way too much, but nothing’s really wrong with me. I’ve got 60 more years to live, like it or not. I should start liking it more.

3. I have enough socks and tights and big ugly slippers that I wear every day to keep my feet warm. This is very important.

4. People love me. It’s hard to remember, but they do. I’ve got a ton, and though they’re all over the damned planet (Vista! South Africa? Really?!?!), they’re there. Even though it sounds morbid, it’s sort of comforting to know that if I died a bunch of people would probably cry or at least feel pretty bad. When things like yesterday happen, I got to talk to at least 4 people and sob to them via phone, and they still like me. Maybe even love me.

Which brings us to this…

5. I love people. I can think of 20 immediate people who I have genuine love for. And that’s just off the top of my head. Being loved is great, but loving people is even better. I just wish more of them were here, because there’s about 6 of them who I especially am longing to hug at this very moment, but I’d hug all of them. It doesn’t matter how much they break my heart, though I am pretty good at picking people to love and they rarely do it, I still get a rush when I think about how dear they are to me. Gross.

6. I get to do something I love as a job. I know I bitch and moan, but I get to sing and play dress up for a living (sometimes). It makes everything worth it, even when I’m just practicing. I’m so lucky, and I need to remember that when people are being bitches. If I didn’t have this, couldn’t do this, I feel like I’d wither up and die, and so I should thank my lucky stars that I can even attempt to be an artist.

7. In the more immediate future, I get to go to New York on Sunday and get a million hugs and dish with so many people I love!

8. In the MOST immediate future, I get Disturbia via Netflix today and can watch it tonight!

I guess that’s it. I love you all and am thankful that you exist and love me enough to read my moronic blog.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Calm down

It’s day two of what yesterday seemed like the apocalypse. I basically cried all day. I mean ALL DAY. (And a little this morning. But just a little.)

Besides, today is another day.

I cannot change this. I can’t make people stop being assholes. I can’t even really wish the company ill because someone I love dearly is going to be there and though they treated me like an unwanted pair of shoes, I want this experience to be positive for him. So really, what’s the point in shitting all over myself about it? Take it. Bawl about it. Hopefully use it to better myself. Move on.

I’ve got 6 auditions left, and they need to be good. They are big, important ones: HGO, Seattle, Minnesota, Chautauqua, Virginia, Pittsburgh. Mama needs a job, and any of these would be great ones to have.

It’s so funny how fragile we can be. I’ve prided myself on being a strong woman, a strong person, and I’m sort of afraid of how devestated this made me. After all, my family history of mental illness isn’t the best, and I live in fear of it repeating in myself. I’ve had shit much, much, much worse than some B house backing out of a contract, but I haven’t cried like that for months. I think (hope) it’s because it represented something more for me. I’m a cautious person. I don’t like not having a plan. And this was my plan! My escape from a basement apartment in Missouri. Now I don’t have a plan, and I’m terrified.

So I guess I’ll have to get a new plan, which sucks because I worked so hard on the old one! I also guess that I’ll have to wait until I find out about summer YAPs until I make a decision. A move to a new city (a place with actual singing opportunities other than $50 musical theater gigs) would be great, but stupid if I’m just going to have to leave in 3 months. If (God forbid) I don’t get a summer contract, I guess I’ll move somewhere that will at least make me feel like I’m doing something proactive.

God, life is scary. Especially this life.

No crying today. Only working. Hopefully.

Fuck you

So after waiting and waiting they changed their minds and went with a local soprano who is (they admit) not as good because she will cost less. Fuck them.

Fuck you for ruining my plans.

Fuck you for lying.

Fuck you for stringing me along.

Fuck you for sacrificing artistic integrity for fucking money.

Fuck you for leaving me broke, unmotivated, and wondering what I have to get up for in the morning.

Fuck you for making me sit here and question why I even do this.

I’m a goddamned human being. You are stupid piece of shit liars.

This is the only thing I can do, the only thing I am good at or even give to shits about and assholes like you make me want to quit. If I was bad, I’d feel grateful. But you know I’m good. Told me I was better.

And what’s more, I know I’m good. I know I’m better. I can sing circles around half the people working right now. I’m pretty. I’m a great actress. I’ve got vocal power and a work ethic that won’t quit.

So HOW FUCKING DARE YOU MAKE ME THINK THAT I SHOULD JUST QUIT AND GO TO MASSAGE THERAPY SCHOOL OR SOME OTHER BULLSHIT.

HOW FUCKING DARE YOU!?!?!

YOU CAN TAKE YOUR LITTLE COWARDLY EMAIL AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR SORRY ASS. THERE’S NOT A CHANCE IN HELL THAT I’LL EVER, EVER, EVER SING FOR YOU AGAIN.

Die a horrible death. Seriously.

Worst thing ever

Let’s talk about waiting by the phone.

It is so shitty, y’all.

I’ve been waiting by the phone anxiously for more than a day. The story is long and on the DL, but you feel my pain.

Here’s a list of things I’d rather do than wait for several days with bated breath for my lame-o pink Paris Hilton phone to ring.

1. Lick a wall in a public restroom.

2. Make out with a hobo with no teeth.

3. Make out with a hobo with lots of teeth.

4. Make out with a hobo with some of his teeth but the remaining teeth have all been filed to sharp points.

5. Naked paintball.

6. Do a master cleanse.

7. Grow my toenails out and scratch someone’s back with them.

8. Watch a JAG marathon.

9. Try and slit my wrists with a plastic spoon.

10. Drink a case of root beer (groooooossssss!).

11. Watch a porn starring Ben Stein and Flava Flave.

12. Post pictures of my asshole on the internet with a ratings scale underneath. It’d be like hotornot, but for my ass.

13. Root canal done by Helen Keller.

That’s just a short list.

But seriously, WHY IN THE HELL DO THESE PEOPLE NOT CALL YOU TO TELL YOU ANYTHING WHEN THEY SAY THEY ARE GOING TO CALL YOU LIKE, 17 HOURS AGO!!?!?!

Ok, bye!

Well, shit.

So. My number of PFOs (“please-fuck-off” letters, if you’re not in the know) is only two away from surpassing my number of actual tangible auditions, and that BLOWS. A company I was looking forward to hearing from told me to shove it today, which I’m pretty bummed about, since I thought I had a good shot at singing for them and actually really wanted to sing for them.

I got the PFO in email form, which is nice because it’s convenient and environmentally friendly, but really dangerous. You know what it makes me want to do? It makes me want to write one back that just says:

Thanks for nothing, asshat.”

Which would, obviously, be very bad, especially since the PFOs are usually really nice and polite. But it’s so TEMPTING. And easy. If it was via snail mail I’d be in the clear because writing a letter and signing it and looking up an address and putting it in an envelope and addressing that envelope and putting a stamp on it and walking down the hall to put it in the mail bin is an awful lot of work, and you can’t really expect someone who stays in their pajamas until ten and calls singing a “job” instead of a “hobby” to do something like that. But with emails it’s just a click of a button. And then…uh oh.

I just hope I don’t ever receive one when I’m plastered. There is no telling what will happen.

So I am still waiting on 5 chumps to get back to me. Thinking about sending in a couple of extra apps to places I wasn’t too interested in. Just to cover my bases, because a couple of these people are probably not going to hear me. HGO? Probably not. Pittsburgh? Probably not. Seattle, Minnesota, and Virginia all might. If I’m lucky. At this point I am going to NY for only one audition. Please let it at LEAST be for two so I am not the lamest human on the damned planet. It would be so dumb if I had been moaning and groaning about having to stay in NY for like 2 weeks if I only get on audition and am there like, overnight. How embarassing for me.

However, I will rejoice because it’s still 7 “yes”s to 5 “no”s with 5 (or maybe 6 if I can get my shit together and send my Ash Lawn stuff) unknowns.

Why is this my job?

Advice.

So sometimes at night I like to watch stupid romantic comedies or hard-hitting lady movies on WE. They are usually bad. For instance, I have seen 28 Days (not the zombie one, the one with Sandra Bullock in rehab) about 12 times.

So I was excited when I saw that there was this movie called The Accused on. It had the lady from Top Gun in it, so I felt a little wary, but it also had Jodie Foster in it. Hooray! I was excited, plus it was 80’s-tastic, which is always nice.

I was wrong. Dead wrong.

If you are ever watching tv and the The Accused comes on, don’t watch it unless you want to feel sick and horrific for the rest of the night. The bummer is that it’s actually a super good movie and I think our gal Jodie won the Oscar for it.

So here’s what happens. Jodie Foster gets super graphically gang-raped. Hilarity insues.

I spent most of the night curled up in the recliner with my mouth open and tears running down my face. It’s like the first time you watch American History X and (if you’re like me) you hysterically sob for an hour afterwards.

Just don’t do it. Switch to Oxygen and watch the Tyra show in syndication or something.

Halloween wrap up

So I decided that in light of my recent zombie obsession (and the fact that you don’t really need much of a costume) I’d go as a flesh-eating zombie for Halloween.

For most of the night I looked totes awesome.

At about 11:30 my makeup started to smudge and my oily skin soaked up my shading and then I looked like an abused housewife. It sort of ruined my night because I had to explain that I was not going as a victim of sexual assault for Halloween.

Bummer.