Madeleine Across America

My Public Clamors

2009-01-19T10:24:00.000-08:00

Word has trickled down to me via my communications director* that my public clamors for more posts and columns.

True to my promise to give the people what they want - unless I'd have to work really hard at it - you can look forward to more revelations about the world and all its foibles later this week.

In the meantime, ponder the awfulness that would be should this happen.

*Meaning my dad.

The Joys of . . . Politics?

2008-10-24T11:20:00.000-07:00

This column was originally intended to be the second part of a two-part, highly investigative journalistic series called “The Joys of Moving.” Unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances, such as none of us being able to get through breakfast without hearing the words “change, maverick,” or “reach across the aisle”, this will be a one-part, yet equally highly-investigative journalistic series called “The Joys of Politics.”

But before dancing down that dirty and dusty trail, I offer this to all of you readers desperate to know what happened next on my moving adventure. You know that part at the end of ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’ where they use a forklift to move the box with the Ark into a giant U.S. warehouse that goes on and on and probably doesn’t stop until it reaches Asia? That’s what my apartment looks like. Minus the forklift. My grand plan is to dig myself out of it, but it’s far more likely that those boxes will remain packed until the next time I move.

But enough about that. Let’s talk about politics.

This is an important Presidential election year, and if you don’t know that by now, I hereby renounce your right to vote. And if you think I don’t have the power to do that, please read on.

People duking it for the privilege of redecorating the White House Residence is not the only political thing happening. Last night, the New York City Council made an unprecedented move when it voted to ignore the two-term limit established by voters in 1993 and 1996. This will allow current Mayor Mike Bloomberg and other Council members whose terms are up soon to run for re-election next year. But wait, you say, don’t they not have the power to do that since the people of the city have already voted to set term limits to two terms? Twice?

Oh, ye naïve little neophyte. Of course they don’t have that power. That’s why they had to vote to give themselves that power. That’s what democracy means – from the Latin demo, meaning “power to do stuff,” and cracy, meaning “voting to give yourself.” City Council members, acting on the best interests of everyone, including those members whose terms are up next year and wouldn’t be allowed to run for another, decided to create a new law that gives them the power to ignore the two-term limit voted on by the people without actually having the new law voted on by the people. Wait, not ignore. I’m sorry. I meant “revise,” which is the term used by the New York Times. (See? I told you this would be highly journalistic.)

This, my fellow Americans, is truly democracy at its best. I think it is a brilliant idea to completely bypass the process by which this country is run at nearly every level, especially when it benefits people who would have otherwise had to do some actual work and find themselves a real job.

It is with this kind of forward-thinking, progressive politics that I hereby pass a referendum where I give myself the power to take away anyone’s vote on any grounds at any time. Why? Because I believe in America.

But choosing a Presidential candidate and voting to give myself veto power over allowing everybody else to vote are only the beginning of my rights – and responsibilities – as an American. Ideally, I should about the other issues on the ballot in my district, as well as the candidates for other offices. Many other elections are going on at every level of government, from Vice President of the Community Office for Complaining About Garbage Pickup to State Supreme Court Jusice.* Although from the look of it, you’d think the Office of the President was the only thing up for grabs. (Of course, it wouldn’t be if the current administration employed the brilliant legislative tactics of the New York City Council.)

To find out about other state and local elections going on, I mustered my budding journalistic sensibilities to scour websites near and far, use search engines above and beyond Google, and delve into the depths of the world wide web. I found a wealth of information, including my polling location, how to register to vote, how to change my address while I register to vote, whether I was eligible to vote absentee (I’m not) and whether or not I can vote in my state if I’m a convicted felon currently serving prison time (I can’t).

What eluded me was any information on all of the other elections taking place on November 4th. I have no idea who's running for what office, or whether they're even human. Or alive. Due to the current mess of nominating criteria, I could unwittingly cast my vote for a deceased squirrel. Possibly a deceased squirrel who's a Republican. This troubles me on two levels. First, I’m fairly intelligent, so what does this say about my voting demographic? Or, worse, the voters out there who may not be the sharpest tool in Joe the Plumber’s shed?

Second, I’m troubled because I just know that on election day I will get into the secret booth and be confronted with something like “City Proposition # 579223-13-A.” It will say something like:

"Pursuant to pre-established city ordinance 345(c)(i), subsection 4, Paragraph 2, of and regarding the public property in and surrounding the Amtrak overpass bridge, (henceforth known as “Overpass,”), should any persons of sound mind and/or body be subject to the droppings left by the pigeons who are flying, resting, sleeping, eating, otherwise legally residing in the Overpass' beams, encompassing the area of 40° 46' N 73° 54' W, they are hereby restricted from holding the City of New York, (henceforth known as “the City,”) responsible for any damage, injury, embarrassment or any other legal action resulting from said droppings. In totalis erectus unim."

I’m supposed to have an opinion about that. So, I’ll spend about four minutes trying to decipher what it actually says, and then succumb to the unseen pressure exerted on me by the cranky people standing in the long line, waiting to vote, and I'll leave my answer blank. Then I’ll feel crappy about being an uninformed voter, and be even angrier the next time an election rolls around.

And oh, those lines will be long, if the state primaries were any indication of what's to come. Voters are showing up in record numbers this year, because this is the first Presidential race ever to feature candidates who aren’t all old white guys. Pollsters predict that voting attendance might even surpass 50%, up from its previous record of 2%.

So join me, my fellow Americans, in standing up for what is right, by making your voice known, and participating to the fullest extent in your rights and responsibilities bestowed upon you by this fine, democratic country. Unless, of course, I’ve vetoed your vote. In that case, I suggest you run for New York City Council.

*We vote for judges at the state level. That's scary. Think about it. If a judge found out we didn't vote for him, he could threaten to throw us in jail unless we could explain the plot of 'Lost' in under 5 minutes.

The Joys of Moving – Part 1

2008-09-26T09:27:00.000-07:00

Well, Armageddon seems to be at hand, but it wasn’t caused by the Large Hadron Collider in Europe, as predicted. Apparently, the Large Hadron Collider worked wonderfully for all of an hour before it blew up and became inoperable until next spring.

But fear not, end-of-days-junkies. We still have the largest collapse of a bank ever in the history of the United States (mine, as it happens), a firesale of another asset firm, and the inability of the nation’s top money minds to solve this whole mess. As the failed bank would say, Who-hoo!
As if all of that weren’t bad enough, I’ve just been through my own personal Seventh Circle of Hell: I just moved.

Have you ever heard the saying, “You don’t own stuff, stuff owns you?” No? Okay, then that’s probably something that my dad made up when I was a kid. He did that a lot. Actually, most of the major pop culture references of my day are things I thought my dad made up. The vast majority of Beatles' songs, for example, I thought were stolen from my Dad.

Made-up or not, though, the above statement is true. Except that stuff doesn’t so much own you as it enslaves you, beats all resistance out of you until you beg for mercy, and makes you vow to give up all of your possessions and live off of the land in a Canadian hut made of sticks and eat bugs for the rest of your life. This sounds like paradise after moving.

I can’t complain too much, however, because part of my involvement in this Seventh Circle was voluntary. It was, after all, my decision to move out of my current apartment. Of course, it wasn’t my decision to get thrown out of my previous apartment, a lovely basement studio that turned out to be spectacularly illegal. I didn’t know that; my landlord just must have forgotten to tell me that tiny little bit of information. You’d think it would’ve come up in the nearly three years I lived there, but no. Guess a good time just never presented itself.

So, imagine my surprise when I got a call saying that I had to move out of my apartment last April. In three days. While I wasn’t even in town that week. The call came from a friend who was watching the place for me while I was away. Though the chain of events is muddy, my understanding is that some disgruntled tenant called the Housing Authority and told them there was someone living illegally in a basement apartment. (That would be me.)

Scared that he would actually have to pay a fine for doing something spectacularly illegal and extremely unethical, my landlord, who we’ll just called “George,” told the friend watching my lovely basement apartment on a Wednesday that I had to get all of my stuff out of it before Saturday. I heard this news while sitting in a van on a rainy night in a parking lot somewhere in the middle of Nowhere, Michigan. I was nonplussed.

But all hope was not lost. No, no. In what he must have perceived to be his infinite generosity, “George” allowed me to move into the apartment across the hall that had recently been vacated (probably by the disgruntled tenant who alerted the Housing Authority in the first place). He would generously rent me this crappy 1-bedroom for only nearly twice what I was paying for my lovely basement studio. That meant a substantial rent increase for a crappy apartment I didn’t want, after being forced out of the apartment I did want and had lived in for nearly 3 years, with only 3 days notice.

Now, I know what some of you dear readers may be thinking at this juncture – Why the heck didn’t you take this “George” or whatever his real name is, to court? Good question. Well, for two reasons. One, I figured I would just get a new place within a month when I got back because dealing with housing court would be a big hassle, and two, I wasn’t in town at the time to deal with any of it, so that meant people would move my stuff for me.

Plus, I honestly kind of felt sorry for the guy. He was, after all, a pretty good landlord for the past 2 ½ years. Except for the part about the place being spectacularly illegal and all.

So, I let it slide. In a grand favor I have yet to figure out how to repay, the friend who was looking after the place in my absence and my fantastic boyfriend schlepped all of my crap from my lovely basement studio apartment across the hall to the new, kind of crappy 1-bedroom apartment. Not terribly fun, but somewhat manageable. To this day, I give thanks to my friend and my boyfriend for doing me what we all know is one HUGE heck of a favor. (You know who you are, and I still owe you big-time.)

Unfortunately, things did not go as planned upon my return. Long story short(er), it took forever to find a new place and I had trouble paying for the crappy 1-bedroom because of its sky-high rent. I even had to use part of my security deposit to pay for the last month of rent. This wasn’t so bad, because “George” happened to be in Greece for the summer, so all of the money was handled by someone else. Let’s call him “Nick, his son-in-law.”

Finally, after weeks of searching, I found a great place with a new roommate. I was so happy, until the owners of my new apartment said it wouldn’t be ready to occupy until the middle of the month. That posed a problem. I didn’t have enough money left to pay for an additional month’s rent for my crappy 1-bedroom, seeing as I had just paid for my share of the broker’s fee, security deposit, and first month’s rent on my new place, which totaled approximately six gajillion dollars.

So, I did what any reasonable person did. I rented the biggest storage unit I could afford at the time (approx. 2cm x 2cm x 2cm), located a few blocks away, and hauled as much of my crap in there as would fit. Then, realizing I still had about four million boxes leftover and no place to put them, I called “Nick.” I explained the situation and asked him if I could store my stuff in the crappy 1-bedroom until the middle of the month, when I could gain entry to my new place. Or possibly store stuff in my lovely old studio apartment, which was vacant aside from a fridge and now unrentable thanks to the threat of the Housing Authority.

After explaining this to "Nick," I got the reaction I expected, which was that he went completely ballisitic and yelled at me for a few minutes, saying how I had to be out and his father-in-law needs to rent out the new place, this puts him in a difficult position, and so forth. Some of it was even in Greek, and being yelled at in Greek is certainly an interesting experience. I imagined that's what Euripides sounded like when he constantly came in last place at the ancient drama festivals.

I let “Nick” rant for a while. Then I said, “Well, I understand that this may put you in a difficult position. But, seeing as ‘George’ rented me an illegal apartment without telling me, then kicked me out with three days notice while I was out of town, and then jacked up the rent on the new place to nearly twice what I had paid for my old place, I would think there would be some leeway here. I mean, unless we want to involve the courts.”

A brief pause on the other line. Then "Nick" started to speak again, this time slower and a little more reserved. While I can’t tell you exactly what was said during the rest of that conversation, I can tell you that when I hung up the phone, I had a place to keep my stuff for an extra few weeks and was nary a dollar poorer for it.

But I digress. This was supposed to be a piece about the Schlepping All Your Crap to Another Location. Click on this site next week for the exciting conclusion in The Joys of Moving – Part II. And who knows? Maybe I’ll even have started unpacking by then. But probably not.

Front Row Seats to the End of the World

2008-09-16T08:35:00.000-07:00

I’m sure you’ve all heard about the collapse of the financial market, but I’m sorry to report that may be the least of our problems. If you haven’t heard the distressing news by now, I recommend you sit down immediately before reading the next sentence. (Seriously, grab a seat.)

According to some of the most brilliant scientific minds, the world might actually end in a matter of months.

I kid you not. Here’s why. Scientists in Europe (of course) have built an underground machine shaped like a racetrack that is almost 17 miles long and straddles the border between France and Switzerland. The scientists built this machine, called the Large Hadron Collider, or LHC, in order to re-create what they think the world was like a trillionth of a second after the Big Bang. It is now the world’s largest atom-smasher.

So, aside from the comical effects of repeating the phrase “atom smasher” over and over again, why did the scientists build this machine? It’s quite simple. The LHC will help to better our (meaning their) understanding of how the universe works.

Unfortunately, in their attempt to better their understanding of how the universe works, they might accidentally obliterate it. How, you ask? Well, I’m not exactly sure, because all of the research I did yielded a lot of jargon-filled articles with big words like “lattice modules” and “betatron.” I did manage to gather this much: when the Large Hadron Collider gets turned on, a beam of protons will get sent around the underground racetrack at speeds so fast they would make Superman drool. Then, if this beam of protons makes its way around the track, the scientists will then crank it up a notch and send a gajillion more protons around the underground racetrack and accelerate them “to energies of seven trillion electron volts,” and then – here’s the kicker – “smash them together.”

To put it in terms we can fathom, the Large Hadron Collider is the scientific equivalent of the amplifier in Spinal Tap that goes up to eleven – it’s a groundbreaking machine that everyone thinks is cool, but doesn’t quite understand. Fun, right?

Not so fast, Nigel. All of this innovative smashing together of protons could spell doomsday for Earth. The Debbie Downers of the scientific community have speculated that smashing protons together at such colossally high speeds could produce a dangerous black hole that would suck up everything around it, thus ending the world. Granted, that’s a worst-case scenario. But still, it’s an unsettling concept, and one that is not completely out of the realm of possibility. Even the Collider’s director, Dr. Pier Oddone, admits as much. “We don’t have a clue,” said Dr. Oddone. “That’s what makes it so exciting.”

Now before we all go nuts and start navel-gazing at the Meaning of It All, let’s think this through. Black holes could be good thing. They could be just what we need to end global warming, for example. Since the scientists control the environment that produces them, they can engineer the black holes to suck up all the bad stuff in our atmosphere, like pollution. They could be like the highly-intelligent vacuum cleaner in Spaceballs. Think of how clean we could get our ozone layer! It’ll be brilliant!

On the other hand, this LHC experiment could go a different way. Instead of creating black holes and sucking up the universe, another group of scientists are optimistic that this will prompt the discovery of extra dimensions. Yes, that’s right, extra dimensions. Follow me on this: When the protons collide within the LHC at those high speeds, there’s a chance that they’ll produce debris that may be jettisoned out of our familiar spatial dimensions and “crammed into the others,” as professor Brian Greene puts it. The scientists would know that the debris was pushed into another dimension because they would be able to detect a loss in energy in the remaining proton debris.

I have to say, this is totally awesome. Imagine what we’d find in those other dimensions, the treasures of our civilization that just up and disappeared for no apparent reason. Slap bracelets. The rest of Los del Rios’ recording career. The market value of all of those stocks that just plunged. Where did all of those go? They weren’t lost, they were just placed in another dimension. Surely that explanation will assuage investors’ fears.

And then, of course, there are the socks. Think about it. All of those socks you lose in the dryer when you do laundry have to end up somewhere. They probably end up in these other dimensions, along with the family heirloom necklace that mysteriously went missing on that trip to California and your beloved sweatshirt from second grade that says “Where’s the beach?”

Come to think of it, discovering our socks in these alternate dimensions might just be the ticket America needs to get itself out of its financial crisis. With all of the socks we recover from these other dimensions, we’ll never need to buy socks again. That means we can use the money we would have spent on socks and invest it back into the stock market. That will stimulate the economy in a way the stimulus packages could only dream of. We can shake the mud off of the whole national financial system, clean it up, and set it on its feet again. All thanks to those extra dimensions! And you thought science wasn’t practical.

Then again, the world might just implode. But scientists tell us that probably won’t happen until the fall. In the meantime, though, keep a close eye on those socks.

* additional reporting for this humor column provided by Jim Burns

How To Be a True New Yorker

2008-08-15T08:01:00.000-07:00

An Insider's Guide, Specifically Aimed at Midwesterners

When my publicity team (meaning my mom) tell people back home that I live in New York, many of them have the same response: Who's mom are you? But for the few people who do remember me, or just want to humor my mom, they are impressed that I live in this teeming metropolis. 'Wow," they tell my mom, "I could never live there, in that teeming metropolis."

And they're right, they could never live here – they’re far too nice. But with the correct training and a little practice, they could live here. It is with those people – the good people of the world - in mind that I've compiled this: How to Be a True New Yorker. Here, you will find everything you need to blend in to the Big Apple.

First, you must talk on your cell phone more than is humanly possible. This is especially important when riding on the subway lines that receive a cell signal because they run above ground, such as the N and W trains in Queens. You don’t want to let other people think you’re some old-fashioned codger who believes in appropriate behavior in public do you? No! That practically screams “I don’t belong here. Feel free to rob me.” Robbers won’t bother you if you’re talking on your cell phone. Even criminals respect the limit of “anytime” minutes.

Volume is also a critical here. If you're standing in the Bronx and they can't hear you on Staten Island, you aren't talking loud enough. (Although, in reality, you shouldn’t stand for too long in the Bronx. Criminals have less respect for anytime minutes up there.) Aim to be so loud on the subway that gaggles of teenage girls are forced to switch cars because they can't hear themselves shrieking above the racket you make. Bonus points awarded for using a wireless headset permanently glued to your outer ear that makes you look like a Vulcan from Star Trek. Yet another theft deterrent.

But the cell phone-cum-accessory on the subway is not enough to convince the masses that you belong in this teeming, filthy city. You have to learn to blend in for all occasions. It is to this end that you must learn the language – and we don't mean Spanglish. The easiest way to do this is to think of New York much like you think of London – you can use the same vocabulary words in both places, but they don't always mean the same thing.

To help the uninitiated, I contacted some of the top language instructors in the nation. They haven’t returned my calls yet – they probably used up their anytime minutes for the month – so I took it upon myself to create the following translations. Below are some key phrases useful for beginners.

New York Phrase : "Excuse me, please."
Often Heard: While transferring from one subway line to another.

Translation: Get the *bleep* out of my way, you tourist bastard.

New York Phrase: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are delayed because of train traffic ahead of us. Please be patient."

Often Heard: Over the loudspeaker on every subway line. Constantly.

English Translation: You'll be stuck underground in this car for a while. Hope you used the bathroom before you left.

New York Phrase: “Hey, it’s so good to see you!”

Often Heard: Throughout the city, mostly on the streets and in restaurants.

English Translation: I was prepared to hate you forever for not calling me in such a long time, but now that we've run into each other you are spared my wrath.

So, you know how to ride the subway (loudly). You know how to translate New Yorkese. You are almost done with your transformation! Just one more step, and it’s the most important one: appearance. It is über important that you appear like you belong in New York. It’s so important that I even used the ümlout sign above the u, and that took quite some time to figure out how to do that on this computer.

Fashion is actually quite simple in New York, no matter what neighborhood you’re in. There’s really only one rule to follow, and that is “Ugly is in style.” If you - a normal, respectable, intelligent person – look at a garment and couldn’t see how it could be considered attractive to a rat looking for a place to put its droppings, much less a human being wanting to wear it, then the garment is definitely “in.” Some recent examples of this phenomena are skirts that bunch at the hem line, Capri pants, and the return of the “long T-shirt worn as a dress over jeans” look. For men, see anything polyester. (Unless, of course, it is meant to be worn in irony.)

Of course, any sophisticated fashionista will tell you that looks vary by neighborhood. You don’t wear the same kind of ugly in midtown Manhattan that you would wear in Williamsburg. My recommendation is to browse through various style magazines or watch a few reality TV shows for fashion tips and come prepared with a variety of hideous clothing appropriate for many occasions.

And there, my good people of the Midwest, is your guide for being a True New Yorker. Can’t wait to see you here – you can stay with me!*

*translation – The foldout futon in my tiny studio apartment in the outer burroughs can accommodate you for a short while. Please buy your own food.

A Life Less Temporary

2008-07-28T17:08:00.000-07:00

My friends and family have asked me, on numerous occasions, when I will be on one of the many Law & Order TV shows. I don’t know the answer to that, but I can provide some insight as to what I do while I wait for that to happen, which is temping.

If you aren’t familiar with what it means to temp, then congratulations! You probably have a normal job and make way more money than I do. So, to benefit you and the rest of my friends and family, I’ve described a typical day in the life of a temp below.

9:20 AM Arrive outside the building where your new temp assignment is, pleased that you're ten minutes early. That makes you and your temp agency look good.

9:21 AM Change from sneakers into fashionably uncomfortable work shoes before entering the lobby.

9:23 AM Front desk security informs you that the company you’re here to temp for has moved offices.

9:24 AM Call temp office. Get the new address of the company.

9:25 AM Powerwalk to the new address, forgetting to switch back into sneakers. Hope you make it before 9:30 and make that good impression.

9:31 AM Arrive at new office.

9:38 AM A mean woman charitably described as "shapely" ushers you to a desk amidst a sea of desks. "Here’s where you’ll be for the day," she says impatiently. "The girl who usually sits here should have an instruction sheet explaining what you do. I don’t know where it is; see if you can find it." Then she leaves and you never see her again. Ever.

9:39 AM After some rummaging, find the sheet explaining your duties. Discover your primary function is to answer the phone for important people. Scan the office to see where they sit; fail miserably.

9:41 AM Phone rings for one of those people. The caller asks if she's in. You say, "She might have stepped away from her desk. Let me put you on hold and check." You then search frantically for anybody who knows whether this person is in the office. Someone finally says, "Oh her? She hasn’t worked here in two years. Transfer whoever's calling to Bob downstairs."

9:42 AM Try to find Bob's transfer number on a company directory listing only last names. The caller hangs up before you find it.

10:02 AM The woman who sits at the desk next to yours arrives. You exchange pleasantries and ask about the pictures on her desk. She smiles and tells you that's her son and then launches into a long story about his upcoming graduation that you try hard to care about, but ultimately fail. Somewhere in the middle of all this, she tells you her name is Margaret, but that "you can call me Madge."

10:21 AM Start official tasks for the day as listed on your instruction sheet.

10:46 AM Done with official tasks for the day as listed on your instruction sheet.

10:47 AM Vow to be productive at this assignment, despite its limited responsibilities.

10:52 AM Give up and check email.

11:13 AM Read the New York Times online, making sure to stare at the screen in an engaged, puzzled manner whenever someone walks by in order to give the appearance of actually working.

11:45 AM Check email.

11:47 AM Quickly minimize email window when two lawyers hover around your cubicle. Go back to staring intently at the New York Times online, feigning productivity.

12:01 PM Muster all of your latent Jedi powers into making the two lawyers stop hanging around your cubicle and talking about last night’s Game. Fail miserably when you remember that you have no Jedi powers.

12:29 PM Go outside for lunch. Make sure you don’t wander too far away to find food for fear you won’t be able to find your way back.

1:06 PM Return from lunch. Ask Madge where the ladies’ room is. She gives completely unhelpful directions, using unfamiliar reference points like "the Copier."

1:09 PM Get lost a few times before successfully finding the ladies’ room.

1:10 PM Discover the ladies' room is locked. Wait until someone comes out, at which point you muster a casual smile and then bolt for the stall as soon as they’re out of sight.

1:15 PM Return to desk. Check email.

1:38 PM A middle-aged senior executive comes to your desk and demands to know where So-and-So is and why he isn't at The Meeting. You look at him quizzically, saying in the nicest voice possible, "I’m sorry, sir. Who are you looking for?" To which he replies, "Mr. Krandinger! The managing director? You’re answering his phone today," in a tone implying that, on in terms of IQ, you are somewhere between a worm and a dust mite. You say you’ll check his calendar, barely suppressing the urge to whap him repeatedly over the head with a stapler. The senior executive huffs off before you get a chance to check the calendar, muttering something about "ask a simple question."

1:39 PM Plot unfortunate "accidents" that could befall Mr. Irate Senior Executive, with particular emphasis on the aforementioned stapler.

2:10 PM Browse online photos from the latest celebrity scandal. Feel ashamed about it, but not enough to stop.

2:15 PM Madge notices you're browsing celebrity photos and shoots you dirty looks for having the freedom to wile away the day online while she must actually work. You pretend not to notice and wonder if it’s still safe to call her Madge.

2:39 PM Read depressing article about the housing crisis.

2:56 PM Read depressing article about the international human rights crisis.

3:14 PM Read depressing article about the shrinking job market for recent college graduates.

3:23 PM Daydream about your college days. Wish you’d partied more and studied less. Or at least had a more useful major, like aerospace defense management.

3:29 PM Another senior executive visits your desk and points out that the fridge in the company’s kitchen is empty. He suggests, "You can fill it up with sodas for tomorrow’s meetings if you want." His vocal inflection implies that it's not so much a suggestion, but a thinly-disguised demand.

3:32 PM Stock fridge in company kitchen with sodas. Keep one for yourself. Hope nobody keeps count.

4:20 PM Check email.

4:29 PM Wonder why you haven’t fielded any other calls that day.

4:34 PM In an attempt to speed through to the end of the day, you start filling out your timesheet to turn in later to your agency.

4:35 PM Agonize over whether to report you took a 30-minute or 45-minute lunch on your timesheet. You actually took 37 minutes.

4:36 PM Decide on 30 – four of those minutes were spent in elevator transit.

4:44 PM Reluctantly ask Madge - without calling her by name - if she knows who should sign your timesheet. She masks a brief look of annoyance, then suggests you take it to "Sheila. She’s in the office at the end of the hall."

4:45 PM Venture down the hall to see Sheila. She isn’t there, wasn’t there all day, and and won’t be in until tomorrow. Sheila's assistant signs your timesheet, which she assures you "is probably okay."

4:46 PM Return to desk. Resist the urge to look at the clock.

4:48 PM Look at the clock.

4:53 PM Check email.

5:31 PM Shut down computer, silently congratulating yourself on technically having stayed past 5:30.

5:34 PM Gleefully skip out of the office and into the sunshine, vowing never to do a mindless job again.

5:36PM The temp agency calls. "They loved you at the office today," they say. "Sheila in particular had nice things to say about you. Can you come back tomorrow?"

5:37 PM Vow never to do a mindless job like that again, starting the day after tomorrow.

2008-07-28T06:50:00.000-07:00

The tour is over! Stay tuned for the next installments of this blog - humorous musings on everyday life.

2008-02-06T20:22:00.000-08:00

Let's pretend my absence from the web for the past two weeks was due to the Writers' Guild strike. That'll be the official party line.

Here's what really happened:

HOUSTON, WE HAVE SOME PROBLEMS

We started off from the Dr. Pepper Museum in Waco and drove to Houston, Texas on Saturday, January 19th. In case you didn't know, Houston is big. Sprawling. Huge. And it seemed even more so for us because we circled all the way around it by accident because we missed the exit for our hotel. Upon arrival, and after a few room key glitches, I hopped in the Cargo Van -- which the cast had dubbed "Falcor" at the time, as an homage to The Never Ending Story -- and headed for George Bush International Airport to pick up my significant other who flew in from NYC. Yes, it was only a week after I'd left. Seeing as we barely had time to spend together before I left, and I was still battling an injured back, we thought seeing each other sooner was great.

OK, anyone who's ever lived in Texas, please answer me this: WHERE ARE ALL THE HIGHWAY SIGNS? It appears the M.O. of the Texas Department of Transportation is to put all relevant exit signs so close to the actual exits that you have to risk life and limb to get over to the right lane to actually get off of the highway. Then, if you're lucky enough to actually take the correct exit, you're immediately plunged into the suicide lane and have to battle your way out of it IMMEDIATELY, lest you are forced to exit all over again. Of course, while you're making your way out of the suicide exit lane, everyone else is trying to force their way in because they, too, were not given enough advance notice by any signs to get over to the correct lane in time.

Add darkness, unfamiliarity with the city, a ginormous cargo van clanking full of flats and desks, and an inability to read directions to the airport, and you've got one of the most hellish driving experiences of my adult life.

But we found each other. And then everything was much better.

UNTIL . . .

I got sick immediately. As in, we walked into the hotel in Houston, and the dry cough I'd had that morning became a body-quaking hack that sounded like it came from an 80-year old man who'd smoked for 70 years. With fever and the chills. It was awful. So awful that I went to the ER on Monday since I wasn't getting better.

After waiting for 3 hours to see a doctor, I was diagnosed with bronchitis and an upper respiratory infection. I explained to the doctor, Misty (that's really her first name) that I was on a tour and had no health coverage in Texas. She was very kind and didn't insist on any X-rays or expensive tests. She made me drink two glasses of water to get my vitals back down to normal, gave me a prescription for antibiotics, and told Tim to make sure I drank plenty of water. He promised to look out for me at least until he left the next morning.

Quite possibly worst of all, I missed the trip to the Houston Space Center. I told Tim he should go without me because when would he have the opportunity again? So, I'm happy that he was able to see something that cool. I wanted to go, but I could barely stand up. We briefly considered the merits of a wheelchair, but decided against me going anywhere but bed.

I COULDA BEEN A PERFORMER

Tim and I said so long until next time on Tuesday, January 22nd. It was rough. Then, our stage manager decided it would be best if I did not do the show that day. That meant cutting out all of the Rachel scenes and getting other actors to cover everything else I do.

I listened on a monitor in a dressing room and they did a great job; it was just a little heartbreaking to hear the show happen without me in it. Katrina, our stage manager, did a brilliant job of making sure all parts were covered, all my singing lines re-assigned and all the flat-moving I do given to others. Kudos also to the cast for learning the temporary adjustments in less than 14 hours.

After the show, we packed up -- well, everyone else packed up and wouldn't let me help because they thought it would make me worse -- ate lunch, and headed over to Dallas. I don't remember the drive due to the drugs in my system and sleeping.

Speaking of which, I'm off to my date with the Sandman. Let's hope I have internet at the next hotel, because then you'll get to read about Texas weather, a few more injuries, and my jury summons.

Waco -- Home of Dr. Pepper

2008-01-22T19:58:00.000-08:00

When last we left our group of trolling players, they had just settled down on Thursday night in frigid Waco, Texas, to sleep and prepare for two shows on Friday.

WE KILLED AT THE HIPPODROME

We had the pleasure of playing the Waco Hippodrome, which is smaller than it sounds, but still big. Load-in was fairly quick due to help from the local Hippodrome crew, and we started off well. Everything was going fine until the last part of the show.

See, there's this moment in the last number where all five of us point to the air, spin around and point at the desk/boat/horse, which is a horse at this point, there's a dramatic break in the music and Paul Revere runs onstage and jumps on to the horse.

So, we pointed to the air, we spun around and pointed at the horse . . . and Paul didn't come on. There we were, pointing at an empty desk/boat/horse, sans our favorite 18th century equestrian. What did we do? We're professionals. We kept going. We continued. As we all tried with all of our might to not burst out laughing.

About three lines later into the song, with our bodies facing front again, we did hear Paul enter and leap onto the desk/boat/horse. That at least told us he was okay without us turning back around to look. So we kept singing and continued the song.

Then, when we ran offstage about 15 seconds later like we're supposed to do, I LOST it. As in, doubled over laughing so hard that no sound actually comes out and if you didn't know better, you'd think I was having a medical emergency. The thought of all of us pointing at nothing, with a very obvious, poignant break in the music was more than I could bear to keep in.

It turns out that the actor playing Paul grabbed the wrong gun right before he's supposed to leap onstage when we point to him, and he couldn't just take the one he grabbed accidentally. He has a special gun that un-clips when he almost gets caught by the redcoats, so he had to find his. Which was smart.

But man, that was definitely one for the blooper reel.

SECOND TIME'S THE CHARM

We had another go at it for the 1:00pm show. Paul showed up for his entrance on time, but we definitely had a bad case of the giggles offstage throughout the show. One cast member made a funny face onstage when his back was turned to the audience and I had to turn my almost-smile into a fierce British grin, another cast member made some strange noises -- accidentally, I'm sure -- that caused another actor to almost break, and there were a few times where I remembered the blooper from the last show and had to keep my cool.

Bloopers and sillies and all, the kids loved it. They oohed and aahed when Paul proposed to Rachel, laughed hard at the crazy King George, and applauded in almost all the expected places.

We packed up the van and headed back to our hotel for the rest of the afternoon for some needed R&R.

Then I was introduced to the wonderful world of Fazoli's. It's Italian food made fast but fresh. (That sounds like a commercial, but it's true.) And if you get it to stay, there's a wonderful little breadstick fairy who comes around to all of the tables to drop off her magic carbohydrate sticks that taste darn near close to heaven. It was a good meal. I do hope that our merry band of players will eat there many a time more before our tour has ended.

DR. PEPPER YOU'RE A PART OF ME

Did you know that Dr. Pepper was "born" in Waco, Texas? I did not until we visited the Dr. Pepper museum there. Oh yes, there is a Dr. Pepper museum. And it is COOL! Really, this isn't sarcasm, it's pretty nifty.

We went on Saturday morning, since we only had a few hours' drive to our next venue in Houston, and we had no shows on Sunday or Monday. Figured, when's the next time we'll be in Waco, Texas? Answer: probably not for a good lone while, so let's get educated about one of our favorite soft drinks.

The museum is next to the old bottling plant, which is still in operation. It's three stories of exhibits, factory replicas, media, and of course, an old-fashioned soda fountain that dispenses the beloved beverage. One of my favorite exhibits was a TV that played Dr. Pepper commercials from the past 30-40 years. Guess who was in one in the late 90's/early 00s? T.R. Knight, aka George O'Malley on Grey's Anatomy. He sits on a sofa while his girlfriend chatters on nonstop about how she's redoing their apartment after they move in together. It doesn't make me want to run out and buy Dr. Pepper, but -- well, actually it makes me associate unhealthy relationships with soda.

Speaking of soda, the museum has a full educational panel dedicated to the debate of soda vs. pop. In case you were wondering, and I know you all are, the debate is whether to refer to it as what its made of or what sound it makes. The museum has no official position as far as I could tell.

Most of the company admittedly spent way too much at the Dr. Pepper museum gift shop. I resisted getting cute things for my niece and family, instead relying on that good old-fashioned standby of cheap tourist tchatchkis. I'm now the proud owner of a Dr. Pepper bumper sticker -- which I'll save for when I actually have a car -- as well as postcards to send and a bottle opener for my significant other, which I'm sure he'll use to open only Dr. Pepper.

Satisfied with our museum experience, we headed out to Houston. My back felt good, so I drove the passenger van for the first few hours of the trip.

I Don't Know the Inning, I've Forgotten The Score

2008-01-22T19:37:00.000-08:00

You may have noticed the drop-off in posts on this blog lately. A lot of events have, as we say in the business, "gone down" since last Tuesday. One of them was a fun-filled trip to a Texas emergency room. But before we get there, let's catch up on -

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 15th

After our immensely cool shows in Dayton, Ohio on Tuesday, we drove to Elizabethtown, Kentucky to spend the night. We knew we had two full days of driving ahead, so we took it easy. I think. Actually, at this point, the days have run together and it's difficult to parse what happened which day at which hotel. But, I'm fairly certain that we ate dinner and got at least a decent night's sleep.

The next day, we set out for Lonoke, Arkansas where we would spend the night. No shows, so it was sort of a day off, though driving isn't exactly relaxing in some states. I was still recovering from my mysterious back injury, so I drove only a few hours that day. We crossed time zones and the mighty Mississippi. One cast member is 1/16th Ojibwe (as in the Native American tribe) and he told us that Mississippi means "Big River" in the translation. I then had a "duh" moment when I thought, "Oh, so that's why they called the musical Big River: The Adventures of Huck Finn."

We made it to Lonoke. It was a fairly long drive.

THURSDAY, JANUARY 17th

This was our second all-day driving day in a row. No shows.

I have to say, for all of this country's purple mountain majesties and fruited plains, we pretty much just saw Interstate after Interstate. And they all look alike. I have yet to see a major difference in highway scenery, some tell-tale sign that differentiates Texas from Ohio from New York from any other states I've visited.

And speaking of Texas, WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE WEATHER??! It's the South. They're supposed to be warm. Did someone forget to cc Texas on the memo? It's cold as -- well, let's just say that if I were a man, I would be concerned about shrinkage, if you get my drift.

Seriously, is this normal? When do we get to bust out the shorts and flip-flops?

Compounding the cold weather is the interesting (read "phenomenally screwy") way Texas organized its highways. We discovered quickly that there is next to no advance warning about exits, lane merges, turn-offs, or any other normal highway traffic posted anywhere you can see, except after it's too late to be in the correct lane. To frustrate matters further, four highways converge near each other and criss-cross in underpasses and overpasses, so it's like riding a semi-lame rollercoaster in a Star Wars Cloud City-wannabe .

What confuses me is that the people we've met so far in Texas are very nice. So how did they end up with such a bad highway system? I welcome any insight -- please send me email.

We eventually made it to Waco, where we would spent Thursday and Friday nights. Again, maybe something cool happened, but I'm in such a drugged-up haze (legal drugs, people) that I probably don't remember it.

I Almost Can't Believe This Is My Job

2008-01-18T14:47:00.000-08:00

Now that I've filled you in on the show, on to the performances.

On Tuesday, January 15, we played two shows at The Victoria Theatre in Dayton, Ohio (the lovely state of my youth, albeit a different region of it). It was INCREDIBLE for a few reasons.

One, the theater itself is beautiful and large. The stage was at least twice, if not three times the width we had in our rehearsal studio in New York. We had plenty of room in the wings, backstage and on the actual stage. Quite a change from the previous day's show in a gym-cafetorium. Waaaaaay more space.

Second, the theater has lights. Remember, we'd been rehearsing without lights in the studio because some venues wouldn't have them on the road. But let me tell you, those lights make such a difference. Combined with the actual space, it feels more like a "real" performance. Not that the ones at non-theater venues aren't real, but the ones on stage carry more magic for me.

Third, the theater was an IATSE house (International Association of Theatrical Stagehands and Electricians, or something like that). So, big strong guys helped us unload the cargo van full of our set, costume and props. All of our show has to fit in one cargo van, about the size of the smaller van you can rent from a place like U-Haul. The guys were also very nice, always a plus.

Fourth, we got to wave to the kids as they left the theater after the first show. A group of special-needs kids came up to us and their teachers asked if we could take a picture with them. We did, and their faces had huge smiles. Huge. Some weren't able to talk, but we could tell they had so much fun at the show. Also gratifying was when a girl of about 12, probably one of the popular ones, broke away from her little clique of middle-school hellions, came over to me, and said in a very awed voice, "Um, you were really good." Then her little clique trotted over and echoed her sentiment. I thought it was cool that we did something so amazing they decided to step out of their bubble of cool and acknowledge someone else's accomplishments.

I gave them high-fives.

But the one moment of incredible-ness that stands out happened towards the very end of the last number. Paul's on his horse (really a desk, but that's where everyone suspends disbelief), and the rest of us enter, breathless from changing costumes and having darted all over the stage for the last hour, as the Minute Men joining Paul to fight the oncoming British. We each raise our guns high and stand tall, singing, "A hundred Paul Reveres." It's already a powerful moment because of what's going on in that moment in the story, but there was something more that swelled up in me at the moment: an overwhelming wave of gratitude, almost feeling blessed. Here I was, me, an actor, on a real stage, in a paid role, in a professional production, singing my little heart out to over a thousand people, telling them a great story.

And I thought, Wow, I almost can't believe this is my job.

So What Show Is This?

2008-01-18T13:42:00.001-08:00

We've covered a lot of miles since my last post, and being at the mercy of internet services in hotel rooms has slowed my postings. So, let's play catch up.

WAIT, WHAT SHOW ARE YOU IN?

I realized that I neglected to share what this show was when I got an email that said, "Who do you play? What's the show?" The sad part was it was from my mom.

The show is a musical geared for kids in grades 3-9 about Paul Revere and his part in the American Revolution. It runs between 54 and 59 minutes, depending on how energetic we feel that day. And how long the kids gasp when Paul proposes to Rachel (keep reading). Ben H. Winters and Stephen Sislen wrote the book and lyrics, Jeremy Dobrish directed this version, Lauren Halpern did the scenic design, Lora LaVon designed the costumes, Dan Knetchtges did the original choreography and Marin Elizabeth Leggat re-staged it for this version, and our stage manager is the Fabulous Katrina Herrmann. More credits and such on www.twusa.org. Click on touring productions, scroll down to The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, and there are materials to download. It's under The, not Midnight.

Six people in the cast play multiple parts. I'm the only girl in the cast. We all have about ten costume changes apiece. Most are quick. I have two that are under 20 seconds and need help from a castmate to make those entrances.

No need to worry about privacy though, because we all wear underclothes that cover us up for the whole show that never come off. I've got tights, breeches, and a camisol that stay on the whole time (over my regular underclothes). Thanks to the very talented people at the Theatreworks costume shop, everyone's costumes are quick-rigged within an inch of their life, which is the only way these changes work.

THE PLOT

Basically, it opens with people singing about how great it is to live in the Colony of Massachusetts Bay, around the early 1770s. Then we meet Paul Revere, a local "artisan, silversmith and all-around admirable fellow." He helps two shopkeepers -- Jebediah and Randall, who sort of pass for the dumb comic relief in the story -- resolve a conflict about their stores. His ability to communicate with the people of Boston impresses one of his clients, Dr. Joseph Warren.

Dr. Warren sees his potential and introduces Paul to the radical leaders Sam Adams and John Hancock. They all convince Paul to join a group called The Sons of Liberty to protest the taxes Parliament levies on the colonies. Since colonists don't have a voice in Parliament, they shouldn't be taxed unfairly.

Paul joins the group, and then we're introduced to Rachel Walker, who is, according to the script, the daughter of a local fisherman. They are "flirtatious within the bounds of decorum" for that era. She helps him spruce up his new shop and in a series of scenes, they fall in love and he asks her to marry him. Then all the kids in the audience gasp and/or whoop loudly. We've gotten both so far.

By this time, crazy King George III -- who at one point sings a song about how he'd rather be a little kitty than the king -- and Parliament have upped the ante on taxes and has taxed basically everything. Then the Boston Massacre happens and the colonists really get mad. So, Paul makes an engraving of it that gets published in The Boston Gazette. It gets him in trouble with the local British soldiers stationed in Boston, one of whom happens to be his old friend, Thomas. The two men can't see eye to eye on unjust taxation, and by the end of the show, their friendship may have unraveled.

Then we do the Boston Tea Party. Very fun. Except that it gets the colonists into even more trouble, and the British decide to move more troupes to seize the arms the rebels have gathered and arrest John Hancock and Sam Adams. The problem is that someone needs to be ferried across the Harbor in the middle of the night and wake up the Minute Men on the other side of Boston to fight off the British advance. But there is a British warship in the harbor, and whoever goes on this mission to alert the Minute Men is basically agreeing to commit suicide.

So, Paul says he'll do it. Then we do a fantastic finale which is basically his Midnight Ride, scuffling with the British -- including his old friend Thomas -- and riding around telling people to come and fight. Very Les Miserables. Very, very fun.

And very exhausting. We all run around for the last six minutes of the show, darting off stage, changing costumes, hoisting guns . . . it's so much fun, I almost can't believe it's my job. I love it.

I Caved

2008-01-16T19:51:00.000-08:00

21ST CENTURY DIGITAL GIRL

Since I've embarked on what may be one of my greatest personal and professional adventures to date, I caved. Family and close friends heard about the touring gig I have and wanted to know what it's like. In response, I created a blog of life on the road for you to read.

After I bought an iPod a few weeks ago, it was only a matter of time. I shudder to think what's next.

I just started a national tour playing Rachel Walker in the musical The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere. It's presented by TheatreworksUSA, one of the largest touring companies that does professional theater for children under the Theatre For Young Audiences (TYA) contract. Getting offered the part was a surprise, since I walked out of the callback thinking how I could have done better.

So, I'm ecstatic. This is a big step forward in my career, and I jumped in with both feet head first.

IF I CAN MAKE IT HERE

Maybe jumping in with both feet head first was a bad idea, because a few days before we were scheduled to leave, I hurt my back. It's been about a week and it gets a little better everyday. Of course, sitting or driving a van doesn't speed up the healing process, but that's why we have drugs. Legal ones I mean.

We started out in NYC and drove to Columbus, Ohio on Sunday January 13th. On Monday, we played our first show to a group of wide-eyed fifth and sixth graders at Gallaway Ridge Intermediate School in Gallaway, OH a few miles from Columbus.

It was an interesting show. Definitely a change from being in a rehearsal studio to playing a gym-cafetorium with no wings and no raised stage. We made some minor adjustments and went for it. The kids loved it. So did the teachers. And we had some GREAT load-in help from one of the school's janitors, Dallas. She made unloading the cargo van much easier, and we thank her for it.

Then, we packed up the van again and drove to Dayton, Ohio and stayed overnight at the beautiful -- and I do mean beautiful -- Crowne Plaza Hotel. The hotel is so fancy, they had to add an extra "e" at the end of "Crowne." That's how fancy it is. They had a workout room, but alas, with my back still on the mend I thought it unwise to break a sweat that night.

Instead, I walked over to the local FedEx/Kinko's to mail a bunch of headshot and resumes to Memphis for a large general audition coming up in February. I may or may not attend; I decided to go before I got this tour. Just in case, though, I mailed them.

As I walked around, I got the feeling Dayton is a strange town. It has a distinctly Midwest-urban feel, where all the buildings look brand new, the streets are on a grid and the "cultural" places almost seem manufactured. A nice pre-fabricated city.

The exception was The Oregon District, a few blocks away from the Crowne. The neighborhood was a mini mish-mash of the West Village near Bleeker St. in NYC, Coventry in Cleveland Heights and with a dash of San Francisco flavor thrown in. I walked into a bookstore and saw the biggest collection of tchachkis and stuffed animals I've ever seen in my life. There must have been hundreds. The store owner said his father started the collection, probably over 50 years ago. I wish I had my camera with me to show you how immense it was. It looked like Disneyworld, pop culture and The Simpsons exploded in this place.

I bought an old paperback of Tom Robbins' Even Cowgirls Get the Blues and left. Figured it was an appropriate choice. I then got some food and went back to the Crowne and slept relatively well for someone who had gotten up at 6:00AM that day.

More to come when I've had some food.