a bad patch

So, I know this is supposed to be "Kate's guide to just about nothing" but I actually have some good advice today.

If it's the Thursday before your 30th birthday and you're premenstrual, considering an enormous career change, and it happens to be a week and a half before Christmas (which you're doing on the 23rd this year, thanks to your sister's in-laws… more on that later), don't go out with an exceptionally decent guy who, for whatever reasons of his own, doesn't feel like he can commit to a relationship with you on your terms immediately, and then drink half a bottle of wine. Or, if you do, make sure you have at least $50 in your wallet so that when you freak out (like I did), you have enough cash to get back to South Park Slope.

Wait, there's more.

When this same man tells you that he has to take things slowly so he can change old patterns that have, over time, proven not to work, don't nag him and poke him and threaten him, thinking that by doing all that you can get him to do what you want. Not only will he be resentful of your (outlandish) behavior, all you'll succeed in doing (if you're not as lucky as I am) is getting him to go back to the pattern that didn't work the last six million times.

Wait, there's even more.

If you do freak out, and end up leaving the upper west side at around 11:30, (a) make sure your phone has enough battery to keep you on the line with at least one of the three best friends you have at any given time, (b) try to find a cab that isn't blaring the Jesus Channel, c) try to pick a guy who is understanding and won't judge you for losing your mind so badly that you can't even tell your friends (from (a), above) what you said, what he said or how you left things, and (d) make sure you can call in sick for at least two hours the next day. You'll need that time to replenish your fluids, de-puff your eyeballs and sleep it all off.

One last thing:

If this happens to you, don't worry. It's normal. You've got a lot on your plate, and it will take some time to handle it. Relish your friends, who love you and worry about you. Eat sushi with someone who knows you well enough to say, "do you want me to distract you with my own problem for a minute?" Don't bother going to see the gingerbread houses in Chelsea Market (more in another post). And if you're my friend, and this happens to you, call me. Day or night, I don't care. You're not alone, you're not the stranger you seem to be to yourself. You're just having a bad patch.

have a holly jolly christmas, damn it!

I'm so busy at work I can't see straight.

But I'm taking this opportunity to give you some christmas song lyrics that Brian and I concocted over Thanksgiving, while we were sitting in a crepe shop, listening to ultra-sappy christmas music, feeling like The Man was watching over us, forcing us to be merry and light.
We called it State Sponsored Christmas.

Now sing along. You MUST. There will be penalties for NOT SINGING. (you'll have to sit here, do all my work and listen to the inane blatherings of the yayas behind me, which the other day included (I kid you not) "That song by Celine Dion? That's really good to work out to." And that was from a guy!! Anyway... sing, if you know what's good for you)

Have a holly, jolly (state-sponsored) Christmas;
It's the best time of the year
Don't be sad, it makes us mad,
Drink up your cup of cheer (here's a straw).

Have a holly, jolly Christmas;
Or we'll punch you in the face
It's not cool avoiding Yule
Hang décor all o'er your place.

Oh, bliss, the lights on fifth
Hung before Halloween;
Wouldn't want to miss Christmas;
That would be obscene.

Have a holly jolly (state-sponsored) Christmas,
and in case you didn't hear,
the State wants you, Christian or Jew,
to have Christmas this year.

Did everyone enjoy that? Well, here's another one. Sing it. SING!!!

Have yourself a merry fucking Christmas,
Shop until you cry
If you don't,
Your troubles will be so sky-high.
Have yourself a merry fucking Christmas,
Max out all your cards,
If you don't,
We'll make you hang out with the 'tards.

Here we are in November days,
Like December days of yore.
Radio, it will croon to us
Make us swoon, and thus, shop more.

Through the mall we all will spend together
All the stores we'll plow
"Ne'er again!" you'll hear weak shoppers start to vow.
Ignore them and keep shopping for your Christmas now.

You may all go back to work now. WORK! Or you can repeat both songs from the top. Your choice. (See? We're not a dictatorship. We give you choices!)

sugar headache

At around 2:00 on Sunday, Sarah said, "I already have such a sugar headache, and I've only had two cookies." I scoffed at her, thinking "sugar neophyte, I'll never get a sugar headache." And wounded, I hung my head and moaned around five hours later, while my brain writhed in agony, awash in a sugar sea.

I had a christmas cookie decorating party yesterday, which was an outrageous success, and involved almost as much fun as it did powdered sugar. I had three gorgeous elves over, Sarah, Thea and Ruthann, and they plied themselves at their trade as if not finishing all six hundred cookies would land them in Christmas Jail. Here they are in a post-sugar-rush/pre-sugar-coma state:

It was pretty brutal. We started out slowly, creating masterpieces and intricately designed cookies. Thea created Mr. Bahama (you'll see him below), complete with flip flops and sunburn. Ruthann rocked it hardcore with the black frosting and lightbulb cookies. And Sarah brought out the iconoclast in all of us with her camouflage colored candy cane (the "camo-cane" (below)) and her American flag christmas tree, not to mention Long Island (also below).

I love these women. I love these cookies. I love that these women came to my house (from far-flung Queens, and even the Bronx!) to spend the day with me doing Holiday Homemaking.

I hate that I didn't get any pictures of Sarah at work. However, I did get this one of her taking pictures:

(please note that the coat rack has been re-hung)

Here are some of the trays of cookies we made. Imagine six times as many cookies, on every conceivable surface of your kitchen:

(camo-cane is on the left, and note Ruthann's tie-guy on the right, complete with a nut belt buckle! Also, right next to camo-cane is Sarah's Gingy Penis Guy. I'm going to try to smuggle him to work and see if anyone notices they're eating an anatomically (semi)correct gingerman. Also at the top is Sarah's second cookie, the candy cane failure, which, while very pink and somewhat non-specific looking, will still be exceptionally tasty!)

Here's Thea, diligently working away:

By the end of the party, we decided it was important to document the winners in three separate categories: 1) Best Non-Traditional, 2) Best Traditional, and 3) Ugliest.

May I present, best non-traditional:

Left to right: Mr. Bahama (Thea), Black Lightbulb (with filament) (Ruthann), Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini (Sarah)

Best Traditional:

Left to right: little happy tree (Kate), big happy tree (Kate), shiny candy cane (Thea), and friendly Wal-Mart tree (because it's white) (Kate)

Yes, some of us were decorating things our mothers could serve at her Christmas parties... (and some of us have been doing this for the last 25 years -- my mom used to have us "help," which really meant she gave us each a cookie, we'd frost it, lick the frosting off and then frost it again. My sister and I are very helpful!)

And my favorite category, The Ugliest:

Left to right: Gouty Hand (Thea), Long Island (Sarah), Trilobite (Sarah), and Bizarro Religious Guy (who-wanted-to-be-shirt-and-pants-with-zipper-guy) (Kate)

I hope I can turn this into a tradition. Because I had so much fun with these women. I feel so lucky to have them in my life!

Merry Christmas (a little early!)

can I see some ID, please?

I was wading through the utility drawer in my kitchen the other day (so-named because it's full of utile things, like my crack torch, mailing tape (three rolls), wine IDs, vacuum belts, paper clips, ribbon, balloons, a hammer, jewelry cleaner and a Crystal Light container from when I lived with Christina in 1996, among other useful things) and I came across a photo insert that used to be in my wallet, when I had one of those Mom-sized wallets. You know, like the one your mom carries.

This one wasn't full of pictures, though, it was full of outdated IDs.

The first is my student ID from 1998, when I went to Ireland with my college boyfriend as a graduation present. (While it was a great present, it wasn't a great trip: just weeks before we were set to graduate together, my college boyfriend cheated on me with a woman he was in a show with. I was heartbroken and completely devastated, but didn't have the strength of character to imagine going through the end of college all alone. So I forgave him. And we went to Ireland together. And then we moved in together in NYC. And then I moved out. And then, a year or so later, he married the woman he cheated on me with in college. But I didn't know about any of this at the time this ID was created. Or maybe I did. Hard to recall. Looking at the picture, I think I might have known.)

(yes, it's almost my birthday again.)

After that, the 1996 student ID from when I lived in London for a semester. I was studying Shakespeare at the British American Dramatic Academy (aren't I smart?) and having a great time. I met my best friend of many years there -- we were roommates and completely inseparable. Until a few years ago, that is. We had to break up. It's weird when you think of breaking up with your friends. Men, sure, they come and go. But you expect the women in your lives to stick around. Our relationship was pretty toxic, though, and I had to let it go. I didn't know any of this at the time, either. We hadn't even met yet:
And, digging even deeper, my high school ID. (the "permission" sticker meant that I had permission to go off campus over lunch if I wanted to.) No stories of great desperation here. Just bangs. Lots and lots of bangs. (Forgive me, I was 16 at the time)
And last, but not least, my fake ID from college, which was my sister's actual expired license, which in those days was still legitimate ID. I never really had to use it. Once I grew my bangs out, nobody really asked me for ID. And I didn't really enjoy going to the bars that did. But my sister used to talk about us going out together when we were on vacation with my parents, and I'd say, "We can't, Polly, we're both you!"

much like dave matthews, I have so much to say!

It's been really busy at work lately, and I have a great number of things I want to address, but I have to keep switching back and forth between writing and, oh, I don't know, copying, filing, answering phones, stuffing holiday cards and otherwise generally schlepping for the man.
So I'm breaking it down into bite sized chunks.

1. First Flight
The reading series went really well. The first piece I was in was a great deal of fun, being that it was a black farce that played to a great number of my favorite acting chops. The second piece was a lot harder for me to get into -- it was an extremely stylized, meticulous piece which was really beautiful, but not my favorite style of acting. I almost wish I could have seen it instead of been in it; I think I may have enjoyed it more from a viewer's perspective. And as such, I don't think I was a particularly helpful collaborator. I was defensive, lumpish, and embarrassingly not very easy to work with. (Sorry Greg, I wanted to be so much more)

This was some interesting fuel for the fire. I'm thinking a lot about the kinds of theatre I want to do. I don't sing and dance, so musical theatre's out. I find that children's theatre can be painfully cloying (if it's not written by Noah Smith). I don't want to tour. I don't want to do movement-based pieces. I'm not so good with the multi-media. I need a very concrete character and through-line to feel like I'm participating in something I can really sink my teeth into. So, basically, I like very narrative straight plays, and classics. Just like all the other white 20something girls out there.

Which segues nicely into...

2. Other things I've been thinking about doing:
I hesitate to say these outloud, only because I don't want anyone to think that I'm committing to them. (i.e., don't go home, tell your mom that I'm going to be a teacher and then have her call my mom and say, "How's Kate's teaching career?" It could be awkward.)

In no particular order, I'm considering (ok, the first one is actually first, and all the others are in no particular order) audiobooks, teaching, coaching, public speaking, tour guiding, and being queen of the world.

I've been examining and evaluating what I love about acting, and it all come back to Connection. Really being with another person, and trying to impact them in some way or another. And while acting was the obvious choice for me (ever since second grade), there are other options out there that require far less sacrifice and provide far more psychic feedback.

3. An article that caught my eye:
Minority Actors Struggle: Casting calls might violate federal anti-discrimination laws.

The article says that "69% of available acting roles are designed for white actors, either explicitly or by unspoken consensus, and that minority actors were limited to no more than 8.1% of jobs, depending on the ethnic group." It goes on to recommend that producers not put race or gender specifications in their casting calls. While I understand the idea behind this whole line of thinking, it's a waste of time. The entertainment industry is one of the only industries where they can reject you based on the size of your butt. If they want a white actor in a role, they'll find a way to make it happen. Producers (and by that I mean the apocryphal, capital P Producers in the sky) can be very unimaginative and stubborn. Just ask casting directors. Getting them to think outside the box can take a minor miracle.

And the other thing the article doesn't consider? How many minority actors are going out for the 8.1% of roles? Because my guess is that it's not the same actors to parts ratio as you'll find in the 20something white girls category...

4. Vox, by Nicholson Baker
I read this dirty little book for the first time in high school, and was seriously tittilated by the explicity of the writing. I re-read it this week, and while it's still a filthy little book, it's very funny. Right up my alley, as I like to joke around while I make out. Anyone too serious would not enjoy me. (or this book!)

5. Weather Inappropriate Jacket Guy
So, when Brian was here, he bought this great new coat at Old Navy. But on the day he was leaving, it was 95 degrees in New York. So he was sweating his butt off, wearing this fantastic jacket.

We actually wrote a great song about it. Kind of a soft shoe, actually...

Weather Inappropriate Jacket Guy
Weather Inappropriate Jacket Guy
Wears his winter coat when the temp's sky high, he's
Weather Inappropriate Jacket Guy

or

Sweatin' so damn much that he wants to die, he's

or (my favorite)

Dresses for Alaska when he's in Mumbai, he's

There's more, but now I have to copy some agreements.

BARF!

too busy to be deep

I'm too busy to get into all the good, deep, juicy stuff, so instead, I'll tell you a couple of brief stories.

Last night, I was asleep in my bed when I heard a big THUMP. I figured it was my mop tipping over, behind the refrigerator where I keep it (because I only have one closet, and I'm sure as hell not going to waste it on my mop!) and went back to sleep. If it was a marauding intruder (or an intruding marauder) it would have to make another noise, and when I heard that one, I'd get scared.

I woke in the morning to find that no, it was not my mop, but in fact my coat hooks, falling off the wall YET AGAIN.
It's nice that I've ended up with a big pile of black coats on the (oh-it's-not-obscenely-dusty) floor.

Unrelatedly, I've been Christmas shopping online (shhh, don't tell the bosses) and, while I can't reveal why I went to this site, I can show you a fabulous picture of an alpaca:
I have comments from the reading series this past weekend, thoughts about how lovely it is spending time with someone you like, questions about what christmas really means (and state-imposed christmas lyrics) but they'll all have to wait.

Stay tuned...

"you're an actor?"

I've worked at this law firm for five years now. It's way too long, and I'm definitely starting to feel the strain. But I've been a fairly integral part of the Intellectual Property department now for half a decade, supporting almost half of its partners. And this morning, one of the litigators (who I don't work for) came by my desk while I was discussing the reading I was in last night, saying, "well, I do readings mainly just to remind myself that I'm an actor." And this litigator turned to me and said, "You're an actor?" as if I had just said I was an alien with advanced knowledge of physics and a fleet of Mercedes that I park on the street in Brooklyn. I said, "Yes. I always have been." And he said, "How would I know? You look like a normal person to me."

Awesome.

I've been thinking a lot lately about Acting (yes, capital A Acting). About why I do it. About whether or not what I love about it outweighs what I hate about it. About whether, should I miraculously find myself with the perfect career, I would even like the lifestyle.

I know that art (and, as such, theatre) matters in the world (and New York in particular), but does not-getting-the-chance-to-act really have an impact on society? It's an odd look at the "does art matter" question; it's "does what I do even count as art, and therefore does it matter" question. And I'm not asking from a personal perspective. I know what I do matters to me, my friends and family (and probably my plants). I'm wondering if the thousands of us out there (and there are thousands of us) looking for acting work, waiting tables and answering phones... does what we do really change the lives of anyone else?

Being a legal secretary (which is what I've done for the last six or so years), while it matters to the four people I work for, and the firm as a whole, doesn't have much direct impact on society. Sure, I'm not a burden on society; I pay my taxes, I pay my rent, I even give money to the NYPL. I am merely one of the millions of cogs in the machine that makes up Corporate New York. But that's not what I set out to do. I came here to move people. To touch them. To inspire them and tell them stories. I came here to create something. And all I seem to be creating of late are fedex slips and photocopies.

Has the time come to move on? It's a heartbreaking question, and not one that any actor ever takes lightly. It's like contemplating leaving a boyfriend who's held onto you for years, but only sporadically ever told you he loves you. I've defined myself as an actor since second grade (when I played Alice in Alice in Wonderland and mispronounced the word "deny" because I had never seen it in print before and was so mortified I still remember it over 20 years later), and am petrified to think of how I would define myself without it.

Which might be exactly why it's time to move on.

Luckily, the question of moving on is not one I view in terms of "selling out." I see nothing wrong with leaving a situation if it makes you miserable. My friend Lisa finally realized (a few years ago) that she hated auditioning so much that the process was no longer worth it to her. And while I miss seeing her act, I respect her decision immensely. And have never once thought she sold out. In fact, I still consider her enormously brave.

I have, however, worried about the damage I would do to myself by viewing my departure from acting as "quitting." I hate (HATE) those people who wax poetic about their years as an actor, and how great they would have been... if only... if only. And I know part of me would feel that way. I am an exceptional actor. I have the skills, the passion, the dedication, the dues paid, the groundwork, all of it. But I'm still not acting. And truthfully, I don't know how much longer I can keep rolling this boulder uphill.

My other problem (ah, were it my only other problem) is that I can't, for the life of me, think of something else I want to do. I know there are a lot of jobs I could do, that I am qualified for and smart enough for, but honestly, very few of them even appeal to me. And the real danger is that I make enough money at the law firm that taking an entry level position somewhere might actually mean taking a pay cut. At thirty. Making less in the real world than I did as an actor.

Hmmmmmm.

Anyway, it's not a done deal, it's just something I've been thinking a lot about lately. Things change when you turn thirty, and I'm just 17 days away from it. Someone said to me recently, while discussing approaches to relationships, "I'm not 25 anymore," and that threw me. Because I think part of me still sees myself that way. And maybe now's a time to move on from that.
I'm not sure. I do know, however, that something's got to change. I'm just not sure what.