You’ve got to ski it to believe it

Just got home from a three day trip to Tahoe to see my sister, Trace. She took a job at Heavenly this winter for two reasons: to have a good time and to become a better snowboarder. Let’s be honest. When she started the season, she was pretty awkward, maybe even terrible. But now she is an inspiration to anyone who sucks on the slopes. She’s a great snowboarder! I was very impressed.

Trace and I were never meant to excel on the slopes. We grew up in Iowa, where it snows a lot, but the land is flat. There is a “mountain” for skiing called Snowstar in Andalusia, IL. The lyrics to the theme song went like this: “Snowstar! You’ve got to ski it to believe it! Where to go for some ex-cel-lent SNOW!” I just checked out the Snowstar website, and it doesn’t seem as sad and terrible as I remember, but then again, maybe it was just my one experience there that was sad and terrible.

In 1998, my 8th grade class went on a ski trip to Snowstar. I had never skiied before, but everyone in my class seemed to know how, so I decided to just follow along and not take a lesson. You know, a lesson? What total dorks take? I’m sure that was my train of thought. Did I think about the fact that I was the worst kid athlete in the history of Holy Family Parish School? No. And what good would a lesson do me anyway?

I got my skis on and pointed them down the hill. I flew down the hill, way faster than my friends, proud that I seemed to have some natural talent at skiing. At the end of the hill, I just fell over on the ground because I never learned a proper stop technique. The fall really hurt too, because I was going so fast. But I had to go fast. I never learned proper turn technique.

My friend Mary skiied over to me at the bottom of the hill and helped me get on my feet. “You were going so fast, I thought you were going to hit something, go flying, and DIE!” Mary told me. It was that moment that I found out that skiing was dangerous.

We went over to lift, a two person chair. I ended up being odd 8th grade student out and had to ride the lift with a stranger. A man. We didn’t speak. The chair moved slowly, and I could hear my classmates in the chairs in front of me and behind me talking to each other. After what seemed like forever (it was a pretty slow lift), I could see we were getting close to the top. Without warning, the stranger leaped forward and high into the air, and skiied off. What a daredevil. The lift was now lowering to a level more comfortable for most skiers, no leaping necessary. I was almost comfortable, but decided to wait until the lift dipped just a little lower. It did, more comfortable for me, but it could still go lower. I waited patiently for it to go as low as possible when…it suddenly started going higher! And higher. And it turned around to face the bottom of the hill.

This is where someone is supposed to stop the lift and help the poor skiier get off. Today, the lift operator at Snowstar wasn’t paying attention. And so I rode around, ALL THE WAY AROUND, on that lift while my sweet sympathetic classmates laughed, pointed, and took pictures (for the yearbook). I was embarrassed, pathetic, and alone with a bunch of empty chairs.

Once I reached the bottom, I rode the lift back up, got off the lift correctly, returned my skis, and went to the lodge for six hot chocolates.

Years later, I took ski lessons in Canada. I’m a decent skiier now, but I’m very slow. I’m still very afraid that if I go too fast, I will “hit something, go flying, and DIE.” This weekend, I had a great time skiing at Heavenly with my sister. We had no problems with the lifts, but yesterday we decided to end early anyway and head into the lodge for our equivalent of six hot chocolates: a cold pitcher of beer. And a brownie sundae.

Y2K + 10

10 years ago tonight, I partied like it was 1999. My mom dropped me off at Daniel’s house so I could ring in the new century with my “theatre friends.” If I told Mom I was hanging out with “theatre friends,” she would be certain there would be no trouble, so therefore, no curfew.

As she drove away, I dragged my large duffel bag on the ground toward the house. It was heavy. So many cans of food (including a seven pound can of chocolate pudding), bottles of water, a flashlight, first aid kit. It was my Y2K Pack, “just in case.” I was surprised no one else brought Y2K supplies, but I was relieved. If Y2K turned out really bad, and someone suggested eating each other, they probably wouldn’t eat me since I brought some supplies.

We listened to REM’s It’s The End of the World As We Know It, like we did every New Year’s Eve because TEENS RULE. We watched the ball drop in Times Square on tv and I imagined how I would someday go to Times Square every year to watch the ball drop. My dreams have changed since then. I decided never to watch the ball drop live once I learned that a lot of those people wear diapers so they can go to the bathroom on themselves and not lose their place in front of the action. That sounds like too much fun for me.

There was no Y2K disaster and eventually the seven pounds of chocolate pudding were eaten. I have lived in five places in the past ten years and I have changed direction on many things, like politics, religion, and whether or not onions taste good. But a few things remained unchanged, such as New York City is the greatest place on earth, I love the theatre, and chocolate pudding is amazing.

Happy New Year!

Names

This is me, live from Spokane on Christmas. I know the holidays aren’t a pleasant time for everyone, but in general, I have a pretty good time.

The only time the holidays feel unpleasant to me is when I’m at the mall. It’s not the shopping or the crowds that bother me, though. It’s running into people I went to high school with but I can’t remember their names. It always happens. I’m not a jerk, I just have a really hard time with names.

Three years ago, while standing in line at Spokandy to buy some fudge, a guy came up to me and whispered “A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips!” I didn’t feel so bad that I couldn’t remember his name. He was nothing but a vague memory of a high school production of Godspell to me.

Sometimes I get lucky and run into someone I remember, and it’s such a relief. But I’ve had many more experiences hiding behind clothes racks, my heart beating fast, hoping that person I stood next to in choir wouldn’t come over and say “Hi Margie!,” to which I would have to respond “Hi—how are you? You have real talent as an alto, as I recall.”

What’s new?

Recently:

I joined a gym. 4 days ago. I’m sore everywhere. I have taken three baths today, and I took four yesterday. I have a personal trainer who is very nice but is horrified by my body fat percentage. Although it is considered in the “fitness range” (which is between “athlete” and “acceptable”), we are working to get it in the Auditioning in Los Angeles range. I don’t know what that means, but my PT promises to tell me when I get there.

I just ate a bunch of rich, delicious food. Shhh don’t tell my PT! PT, did you google me and find this?!

I have become obsessed with Trader Joe’s. It’s not like the one in Union Square. The line doesn’t snake around the store twice AND there is food on the shelves!

The Ducks are going to the Rose Bowl and so am I! It’s in Pasadena, so that’s like a 20 minute drive (3 hours in traffic).

Christmas spirit is in full swing. I listen to Boyz II Men’s Let It Snow at least once a day. Twice today– it was playing at Trader Joe’s!

Charlie Sanders and I are starting a storytelling show next Thursday called “This One Time,” and hopefully it will become a regular thing in the new year. The great people at the Zephyr Theatre on Melrose are letting us host it there. And really funny people you’ve heard of or will someday hear of will tell some real gems, I promise. More details coming soon.

Also, I added a standup clip to this website, so check it out if you’re curious.

Too much food (Too much Disney?)

I’m in Spokane, Washington. No, I didn’t lie about moving to LA just so I could move in with my parents. I leave for LA tomorrow!

I’m bummed I can’t be at Rodeo Bar or Hold For The Laughs tomorrow night (those were the comedy shows I produced in New York). But I am going to Disneyland on Friday, where I will go up to Mickey Mouse and say “I’ve waited my whole life to meetchu!!” just like the little girl in the commercial that plays before the feature on my The Santa Clause VHS.

When I am at home with my parents in Spokane, I can’t stop eating. I ate a lot in NYC, but it was on the proper schedule and I got a lot of exercise (walking). At home, I get bored, and when I’m full, I eat more. The food here is fantastic and not at all boring. Whatever you want, you just write it down on a piece of paper called a grocery list, and then it magically appears in a few hours.

In NYC, for the entire month of August and half of September, my breakfast was Mickey Mouse Shaped Chicken Nuggets. Oh god, now you think I have a Disney problem. No, that’s simply what they sell at Costco. I made it my mission to finish that large bag before I moved, and I did. And I lost five pounds or something. That’s my guess anyway, because I shipped my scale three weeks before the move. Maybe I should write a diet book about nuggets for breakfast? Readers, you may vote on that in the comments section of the blog.

The image I found of a Mickey Mouse Nugget looked gross, so I'm not using it.

But here in Spokane, trying to eat all the groceries is disastrous to my waistline, simply because there are so many groceries. I have tried to solve the problem by eating out, like I would in New York. But now it’s worse, because not only do I have groceries, but I also have leftover Italian and Chinese food.

Right now, I just had my second dinner. And I’m still full from my second breakfast!

LA will set me right again. How do I know? Because I’ll be with my boyfriend, whose favorite foods are broccoli and frozen blueberries.

Peptember Chorth

It’s my birthday! “Peptember Chorth” is the hint that several friends use to remember it. I haven’t talked to my mom today yet, but I have to remember to be sensitive. I was 9lbs when I was born, and that can’t be a pleasant memory.

Tonight, my friends who don’t have Labor Day Weekend travel plans will celebrate at the Cherry Tree in Park Slope. It’s one of my favorite bars.

I always go to a favorite bar on my birthday. My first bar birthday was at Rennies in Eugene. The next year, I was in DC with my parents briefly visiting them before my move to New York, and we went to this fancy little bar in Alexandria. I can’t remember what it was called, but it was one of my favorites because my dad paid for the drinks.

My first NYC birthday was at Bamboo 52. The birthday girl drinks for free, and her friends get a good happy hour. A friend from Iowa and a friend from New York hooked up in the bathroom that night. Worlds collide.

Last year, I was in Anchorage, Alaska for my birthday. I met my boyfriend’s wonderful family, went hiking, camping, and observed lots of moose. It was a difficult time for me emotionally, because a good friend had just had an accident two weeks prior and was in a coma. When I returned, I had my party near the hospital Joe was in, at one of his favorite bars: Rodeo Bar. It was a wonderful evening, even though there was some kind of small hurricane/major rain. Also, Joe couldn’t be there. But damn, those margaritas are STRONG.

Today, I’m making cookies. When I woke up, I listened to the cast recording of Bright Lights, Big City. Many people aren’t aware that it was made into a musical. Judge as you wish. I made the dogs’ airline reservations and walked to the store for cookie stuff. My dog, Donna, is being extra attentive to me, like she “knows” or something. And for the first time in years, I get to celebrate my birthday with my sister. I wish Joe could be there tonight, but I’ll visit him this weekend, and we’ll have some laughs. Dan can’t be there tonight either, since he’s working in LA, but knowing that we’ll be living in the same place very soon makes me the happiest. I have a very good feeling.

Celebrity Sighting

While I was working at the bakery, I was also working at the cafe at the Bowery Poetry Club. Very nice place and people, but it was my first time as a barista and I was terrible at it. And they had a juicer. When someone would ask for juice, I would plead with them to please order something else. “I hate the juicer!”

I worked there for about a month, and right after I quit, I would still go in sometimes for an apple cider (just in case the person behind the counter hated making lattes like I did). One night, I was really early for a date and decided to kill some time with a cider. The man at the door collecting cover charges for the band said to me, “Hey. I saw you in a play.”
“Oh, no. I haven’t done any plays here yet. I just moved here. You probably recognize me because I used to work in the cafe.”
“Nope. I saw you in a play. Last year in Eugene, Oregon. After Mrs. Rochester.”
“Really? You saw that?”
And then he started saying some of my lines in the appropriate British accent. “Mother! Open the door! Please, Mother! Open the door!” as he knocked on the wooden table in front of me.

I was pretty flattered. Turns out, he is friends with the lovely Dakota Witt and he was doing poetry slam stuff in Eugene that weekend. It was still strange that he recognized me. I had to dye my hair dark for that show, and when he saw me that night, I was very blonde.

I finished my cider and walked over to meet my date at the Comedy Cellar.

Cookie seduction

My first job in New York was at a bakery. The owner said she thought I was on a “management track.” I was the only white person behind the counter. I was paid more than anyone else I worked with, even though I was the only one who didn’t go to pastry school. I quit after two weeks.

But the cookies were great, and any cookies that weren’t sold went home with us (or were thrown away). I really liked the “Blueberry Everything” cookie. It had everything!

I was standing on the subway platform in my black pants and hot pink collared shirt, holding a bag of cookies. I spotted an attractive, mid-twenties blonde man wearing a suit 15 feet away from me. Another man was playing the violin in between us. The man in the suit dropped some bills in the other man’s violin case. I dropped some bills in too, and smiled. Then I turned away a little and started flirtaciously eating a Blueberry Everything, slowly, in case it took him awhile to notice. On cue, he approached me and said, “You got any more cookies?”

We shared the cookies on the subway train back to Brooklyn and he asked me out on a date. I was thrilled, and I was pretty sure we had an appropriately adorable story of how we met in case he turned out to be my soulmate.

I met him for dinner that evening. The conversation was pretty good, but then it turned to politics.
“I’m a Republican,” he said.
I told myself that shouldn’t be a dealbreaker. If he is smart about the issues and respectful of my different political views, I can respect his views too.
“So you voted for George W. Bush in the last election?”
“Yep, I like him.”
(I had had a few glasses of wine). “I see. You like him. What conservative issues do you specifically support?”
“Oh. Yeah, see I don’t really know too much about politics. I just like him. Because he’s like, the underdog. And I always try to root for the underdog.”

There was no going back. He said that, and as much as I tried to pretend that he hadn’t, I would always remember it. The date ended after dinner. He offered me a bunch of free perfume/lip gloss/beauty products that he got from Victoria’s Secret Corporate Office where he worked.
“Take whatever you want. I’ll give my mom whatever you don’t want.”

He asked me out on a second date. I reluctantly agreed, then cancelled four hours before via text message saying I had “to go to Whole Foods, sorry.” He texted me back that I was “sketchy and weird.” I deserved that.

“

Bushwick

“I live in East Williamsburg.”
“Which stop?”
“Montrose.”
“That’s Bushwick.”

No offense to my pals who live in Bushwick. I’m told it’s nicer than it was three years ago. When I moved out after only five months, I wondered if I would ever have a reason to go back. I doubted it. This was before I started comedy. Turns out, over 50% of NYC up and coming comedians live in Bushwick, do jokes about it onstage, and throw parties on their roofs. So I do make it out to Bushwick occasionally and the roofs are very nice.

At least on the Montrose stop, not much has changed. Cafe Moto is still there, that’s a nice place. When I first moved there, all I had within 10 blocks was five chinese restaurants, six laundromats, a karate school, and a Papa Johns. “Duck Duck” opened just before I moved out of Bushwick, and I’m sorry Duck Duck fans, but those bartenders were so rude to me and my boyfriend-at-the-time, we left the establishment in favor of Papa Johns.

How did a wide-eyed optimistic girl from Iowa end up in Bushwick? I was not a comedian. Who would recommend this neighborhood? A few days before I planned to go to New York to look for places with the couple I had agreed to live with, I get a call from the girl part of the couple.
“We found a place! It’s perfect! It’s in Williamsburg, just two stops off the L”
“Does it have a bathtub?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sold!”

And that was it. In September 2006, I went to New York and took the L two stops. It looked pretty cool. I started walking. Asking for directions to Manhattan Ave. I walked for about forty-five minutes, got to see the Marcy Projects and also some really sketchy areas. Turns out, my apartment was not the 2nd stop on the L. It was the 5th. I had left time to explore the neighborhood, which was good, because by the time I got to the apartment, it was exactly time to meet my landlord. He was an hour and half late, so I just waited for him at the Papa Johns.

I was pretty worried at this point. The neighborhood was sketchy. The landlord showed up and I saw the apartment. My room was small, but had “roof access.” Roof access meant that the landlord had not put bars on the windows for my safety, but I would be able to go out onto the small, dirty roof that didn’t look entirely secure. I avoided the roof and signed up for renter’s insurance.

The mailbox was on the outside of the building. It’s the kind of mailbox you put on your house in Iowa, no lock. So all the mail would get stolen every day. The landlord would talk excitedly about the new mailbox he was planning to install INSIDE the building. For a month, he talked about this mailbox and how it would solve our mail theft problems for good. One day I came home and saw that a new mailbox had been installed. Not inside, where the landlord said it would be, but outside, in place of the old one. It looked just like the old one, except that it had a lock and key. The landlord gave me the key, but I never bothered to use it. It was simply easier to reach into the slot in the mailbox that the mail carrier uses to insert the mail. The slot was just wide enough for someone, perhaps me, or perhaps a thief, to reach his/her hand in to retrieve the mail each day.

Right after that happened, the front door broke. The landlord, concerned for my safety, told me to be very careful walking home. He thinks someone broke the door on purpose because he is mad that the landlord “owed him a lot of money.” That landlord still owes me a lot of money. I should have seen it coming. Anyway, if I was ever walking back to the apartment and it felt like someone was following me, I should not stop at my apartment, but keep walking so I would trick the criminal. Then, when I felt like no one was following me, I should then go to the apartment.

Shortly after that, I left the sketchy apartment, the crazy landlord, and the abusive couple and I moved to Manhattan. I do go back to Bushwick from time to time for comedy parties, and my friends who live there have much better apartments than mine was. Sure, they get mugged from time to time, but they’re comedians, and getting mugged is “material.”

I left Bushwick, moved to Manhattan, and now I live in Brooklyn again. I haven’t been to Papa Johns since.

Goodbye for now, New York!

Big news! I’m moving to Los Angeles in three weeks. I woke up yesterday still planning to switch off every two weeks between New York and LA (long distance relationship), and I went to bed with visions of Los Angeles Craigslist housing classifieds dancing in my head.

On September 12th, I will have lived in New York for three years. I love it here. I’ll live here again, certainly. I’m one of those people who really really wants to raise kids in the city. I have wanted to live in NYC since I was nine years old. I begged my parents to ship me off to a boarding school out here, and when I was fifteen, I encouraged my dad to purchase an apartment in the city that I could perhaps make good use of as a college student at NYU.

Every day for the next few weeks, I’ll recount a funny New York story on this blog. That means you won’t get to hear about when the pregnant masseuse walked on my back during a Swedish massage in the Philippines, or when I threw a martini at my ex-boyfriend at a wedding I attended in Portland. Just the New York stuff. Get ready!

This picture captures the sweet naivete of a new New Yorker. September 2006.