Insane in the Membrane

One of my close friends recently loaned me a book about auditioning. In the first few pages, I stumbled across this passage:

"I've always thought it's better to give up sanity. Settle down and admit you're crazy or you wouldn't want to act. When you find out what acting is like and what the odds are, and you still persist, the proof of your own insanity is inescapable. Accept it. Most actors make themselves unhappy by searching for sanity, by insisting on their normalcy; it's a grave mistake. The life of an actor is a bit easier to take if you admit you're bonkers."

-Audition by Michael Shurtleff

That's the best advice I've received all year! It's time to stop striving for piece of mind and start reveling in the ridiculous life I'm living. There's no denying: it's completely insane. You can go from your highest highs to your lowest lows all in the span of a few minutes. You think, "Oh, it's probably because I'm a 20-something and Buzzfeed seems to get it", but after talking to your non-performer friends, you realize that you're playing an entirely different ball game. There's no such thing as sanity in this league. 

I'm learning that 'life as an actor' is more like 'life as an auditioner'. It makes up 90% of your efforts in the field. There's only one role and there are about a million people who want it, so you hear "No" a LOT. But you have to keep hustling, and searching, and showing up to those castings. You can't book any of the roles you don't audition for.

Auditioning is one of the silliest, cruelest, nerve-wracking experiences I feel I have to go through as an actor. 

It entails showing up to Union auditions (or EPAs) as a Non-Union member, meaning you have to wake up at the crack of dawn to write your name on a list to maybe be seen-- if the creative team has time and piece of mind to do so. All the while, you're sitting in a tiny, windowless hallway with other crazy actor-folk all day, and passive-aggressively fighting over who gets to use the one outlet to charge their smartphone. 

It entails preparing four extremely long sides-- or, selected material from the actual production you're auditioning for (as opposed to coming in with your own monologues)-- in a British dialect, which is quite the feat since you have other auditions, survival job(s), and general life-things to attend to, and when you show up to your appointment, the auditors hand you a paper with poorly scanned text and ask you to cold-read for a completely different character. Oh, and you need to sing the first half of it. Just make it up! Action!

It entails sitting in a studio lobby while another company is holding auditions for a baby formula commercial. New moms and their infants are crying and breastfeeding all around you, and all you want is to remember the words to that Chekhov piece you just memorized (last night). But you can't, because you're trying to figure out what the select newborns will have to prepare for their callback on Monday.

It entails lining up for open calls and having the guy at the front desk yell at you and 200 of your new closest friends through a megaphone, even though he's five feet away.

It entails bugging your roommates to read with you so that you can submit a video audition for a short film (which you pray to God you won't have to be naked in, but you'll cross that bridge when you come to it because you need a JOB, amiright?).

It's completely bonkers. But at the same time, it's kind of exciting. You feel the community of it all when you're in that tiny, windowless hallway or in line being shouted at at 5:30am. You can nail the audition if you just go for it, even though you have no idea what you're doing. You walk away with horrifically funny stories to tell you parents. You get great outtakes from that video shoot with your ADD roommate.

Sometimes what's happening off-screen is better than what's on it.

Some days it doesn't feel worth it. And some days it does. But no audition has ever made me wonder, "Should I just go back to school for Speech Pathology?" Ever. 

Plus, I really get off on the times that the breast-feeding stage-moms grill me about commercial casting, then finish up their questions with, "... I figured you would know, since you're a model".

Yes. Yes I am. 

Are you there, blog? It's me, Callie

It's been about 9 months since I updated this blog, and, while I haven't been tending to a bun in the oven, I like to think that I've been growing a new ME (and definitely eating enough for two, regardless). Since the middle of last year, I've been harboring some pretty serious demons in terms of my self confidence and general outlook on the world and my place in it. I needed this time to fall on my face, writhe around in the mud, and eventually dust myself off and try again (try again). 

While I've been silent, I haven't been doing anything productive, like pursuing the self-improvement challenges I gave myself when I first moved to the city. This is because, well... the challenge becomes getting yourself out of bed every morning. The bright lights are no longer mesmerizing, they're headache inducing. And you can't kick the headache because you're too broke for the caffeinated relief of a $5 cup of coffee.  Still, you somehow manage to afford that $20 grade B maple syrup at Whole Foods for a juice cleanse (that you're not going to finish). Also, this might be partially responsible for the aforementioned headache. Literally and figuratively. 

"So Callie", you say, "you haven't been challenging yourself, you haven't been spending your money wisely... what exactly have you been doing for the past 9 months??" 

I've been busy holding myself back, that's what I've been doing. And, like most things I attempt, I'm great at it!

Last May, I started catering to make some extra money. The first thing I can remember about the whole process is, at my waiter training, the captain repeating over and over: 

"Bring your own food to work so that you don't get fat".

As someone who has always, always, always been worried about being FAT, I took this to heart. Heck, as your regular top-tier over-achiever, I took it to head, too, and I let it make me crazy. On the job, I would sit alone and eat my pre-made salads etc., while everyone else would go down the line for left overs at dinner break. It was all fine, for a while, until the stress and the misery of working as a cater waiter got to me. I would use all my willpower to stay away from dinner, but by the end of the night, I would go crazy eating desserts as we broke down the event. They felt like a reward for toughing it out and damn it, I deserved them. But, by the time I made it home each evening, the gravity of what I'd done would hit and the panic set in. I was going to get FAT. 

To compensate for my out-of-control dessert shoveling, I decided to make my already restricted vegetarian diet more extreme: I'd go gluten free and vegan. Take that, weight problem. 

Except, that's not really how it works, is it? 

Whether or not I was actually gaining weight, in my head I was on my way to obesity. I'm not exaggerating. I was tormented day in and day out about the way my body looked and I felt so, so helpless to do anything about it. I couldn't control my self-loathing and I couldn't control my eating-- the restrict and binge cycle was too much to handle. I started being really dumb. Really, really dumb. 

I can't even bring myself to write just exactly how stupid I began to act, because, after witnessing the damage food issues can do via the struggle of a close childhood friend, I should have known better. I do know better. But I didn't act like it.

I went away for the summer. The issues with my body image and my demented relationship with food spiraled out of control. I finally had to take a serious look at myself (a good 10 lbs+ heavier despite all of my "best" efforts) and cut the crap. I needed to try something else. I stopped the vegan and gluten free nonsense, which I wasn't really doing anyway, because those restrictions just messed with my head. I got a personal trainer and, for the next 6 months I explored my hate-hate relationship with exercise. 

While enlisting the help of a trainer was a valiant effort on my part, it wasn't the solution I was ready for. My issues ran much too deep for there to be any success with our workouts. My trainer was young, cute, and probably too nice to me, which made me completely mortified every time we charted my weight and body fat. I felt the same way I did when I went through my chubby/awkward phase as a kid: like everyone stared at me as I exercised, because watching fat people struggling to perform physical tasks is like a car wreck-- you can't look away from the uncomfortable horror. Needless to say, I was relieved when the membership was up this month. I feel guilty for admitting that because I really did have some great workouts, and I felt empowered when I was able to do one half-assed tricep dip on my own (yeah I said it, you scared, bro?). But the reality is that I felt hopeless and worthless because I didn't make any changes to my body. And I was unable to make any changes on the surface level because my problems weren't living on the surface level. They started deep in my head, where they were rotting and festering, doing their best to kill off all the things I actually liked about myself. 

After a pretty traumatic break-in to my apartment, I completely lost it. The way I began treating myself hit an all-time-low and I knew that I needed to go and deal with my baggage once and for all. So, about a month ago, I started to talk to a therapist about everything that has been keeping me down. 

I have a lot of seemingly silly things to deal with, although they feel very serious to me. Once you let an irrational and unimportant thought take hold of you, the idea magically becomes the most rational and important tenet you've ever held dear, and it feels impossible to live and think any other way. No matter what anyone else tells you. And the thoughts breed and mutate until you're all kinds of crazy. 

In our last session, my therapist said to me: 

"I'm not sure if this is the right thing to say as your therapist, but you are very pretty".

And I was so uncomfortable with that assertion that I began to cry. 

How stupid is that? 

The phrase "The truth? You can't handle the truth!" is spot-on. I tell myself that I can't handle the truth because, what if it's a lie? But what I really can't handle, even more than that, is the fact that this matters so much to me. So much that I pour my blood, sweat, and tears into silly vanity rather than applying all that hard work and energy into chasing my dreams. When I take a step back and observe from the perspectives of my loved ones, it all looks pretty damn absurd. Doesn't it? 

While, clearly, I still have a long way to go, I feel like I have some of my sanity back. I catch myself being satisfied with who I am again. Sometimes I even like the curve from my waist to my hips when I glance in the mirror after a shower. 

This preoccupation with the way that I look has kept me from going on auditions ("why bother, you're too fat to cast anyway") and has poisoned other areas of my life ("don't waste your time learning a new song on the guitar, you can't sing anyway"), essentially whittling me down to nothing more than a depressed narcissistic nightmare. 

WELL...

Ain't nobody got time for that. We only get one chance at this, right? Is it really worth it to put your life, your dreams, your goals, your happiness on hold for something so meaningless and lame? 

Just in case you paused there and pondered the question, I will remind you of the answer: NO, IT IS NOT WORTH IT. 

I am lucky to have an amazing network of friends who have encouraged me, and fought with me and for me throughout this mire that I've been dragging myself through. It is because of them I've found the strength to own up to my weaknesses and to admit to them, despite being terrified how they'll reflect on me in the eyes of others. I made the choice to be mean to myself, now I'm making the choice to be nice. 

So this is my admission that I have fallen. And this is my assertion that I am starting anew. Joyful Callie is coming back with a vengeance. Get excited. 

There and Back Again: A Modern Hobbit's Tale

Last Monday morning I said farewell to my home in NYC and hello to: adventure. For the next two months, I will be bouncing from Cambridge, Massachussetts to Madison, Ohio, and to Martha's Vineyard, before finally returning to my cozy little apartment in Harlem.

I decided to enroll in the Stanislavsky Summer School, a five-week-long acting intensive in Harvard Square. I will be taking classes six days a week in acting, movement, scene study, and Russian theatre history (!) under the tutelage of the master teachers from the world-renowned Moscow Art Theatre. Or so the website says.

As all my close friends and family know, I'm terrified that this program is a scam. Perhaps it's a cultural difference that I need to deal with, but I am pretty "Type A" and need details, and the Russians give details to no one. I mean, literally, I called a few days ago because I had no idea where I was supposed to go once I arrived in Boston, and the thick-accented woman in admissions told me "its on the website" and hung up. So I scoured the website and came up with a street address hidden in one of the pages, but found no building name, no check in information, etc.

My fears were not eased when my cab dropped me off at the address today and it was, in fact, a parking lot.

After wandering around campus with my (what felt like) 500 lbs. of luggage, I finally managed to figure out where I was supposed to go and was introduced to my lush, tropical-feeling dorm room. And by tropical, I meant hot, steamy, and likely full of bugs (as per the giant hole in my window screen).

A true Russian tragedy.

I'll skip the boring details of my settling in, mostly because I'm tired and don't want to type them. 

On Tuesday, the whole lot of us set off for our first meeting where we were introduced to our professors and their translators, since some of them speak entirely in Russian (save fun phrases here and there, like: "stretch like a beeg beeg cat" "seet like leetle bird" or "you should feel pain everywhere; do it or I will shoot you"... seriously).

We meet 6 days a week from 9a-7:10p with a lunch break mid-day. Our movement class is killer, but I really like it and have been pleasantly surprised by my flexibility and strength. I can totally do a back bend-- who knew? Also, I'm almost able to push myself up into plank from the ground, and I'm determined to nail it before the 5 weeks are over. 

Acting has been pretty basic, which I expected. It never hurts to go back to square-one for a tune up, though, so I'm enjoying it. We started with silent "etudes" and learned about the atmosphere of a devised piece, before moving on to embody animals. A few of us did boxing kangaroos on the second attempt, which was a lot of fun. Next up is becoming an object... I have no clue what I'm doing, suggestions welcome.

The first rule of Kangaroo Fight Club is: you don't talk about Kangaroo Fight Club

The whole group has bonded over stealing plates and silverware from the cafeteria, since our tiny communal kitchen was completely barren when we arrived, except for ONE pot and ONE kettle. Rule of thumb has been: expect the opposite of what you've been told. They said we'd have a fully-stocked kitchen... not so much. The gym is only open from 9a-8p and costs $25... lies. Etc. etc. I'm getting used to going with the flow these days. Type B, here I come.

On Saturday night a bunch of us decided to go dancing at a 'club' in Cambridge. No less than three of my drinks were slapped out of my hands, but everything was ok because of the throw-back 90s-00s songs the DJ had on shuffle on his iPad. Also, we convinced two of the translators to come out with us, and they got down shamelessly, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Most of us made it out of the night unscathed.

Foreshadowing?

Now, as I set out on week two, I find myself exhausted but happy. I apologize for this half-hearted drive-by blog update. Honestly, I sat down to write this out of guilt haha. Missing everyone at home, hope you're staying cool.

до свидания... (do svidaniya)

Hummus Among Us

It's been a while. Things are happening. My life is up in the air, as always. I guess I had better get used to that. Here's a quick recap of the major events in the last few months:

• I moved (again)! Third apartment's the charm, right? Exactly right. I love my space, I love my roommates, I couldn't be happier.
• I had my first performance in NYC! It was unpaid, tickets were painfully over-priced, but you could see real Broadway theatres from the theatre we performed in! The experience was akin to drinking diet Sam's Club Cola-- the sugar-free version of the knock-off value brand, but hey, there's still something in your cup (so no complaining!)
• In my rejection letter from the American Repertory Theatre/ Moscow Art Theatre School Institute for Advanced Theatre Training at Harvard University (say that three times fast, I dare you), I learned that, out of the 400 auditionees, I was one of the 50 actors who were recommended for summer study in Cambridge with the Moscow Art Theatre. I'm still working out a few things, however, but there's potential for me to expand my skills with one of the most renowned theatre schools in the world. Yahoo!

Now onto the real reason for my post: another culinary disaster has occurred in my kitchen. It harkens back to the days of rock-solid Irish Soda Bread when I was a mere amateur at the stove. It all begins back in December, while I was unpacking my things at my previous apartment...

In the hurry to get settled in my new space, I spastically tossed-- yes, tossed-- the lid of my precious food processor across the room. It hit the wall and the most important part, the small safety wing that locks the bowl into place and allows the blades to spin, snapped off. Ever the crafty maven, I tacky-glued that sucker back on and it was as good as new.

Fast forward to my move towards the end of March, where the piece detached again and was completely destroyed in the process. I decided to bite the bullet and order a new lid, despite the $12 shipping (!!!), and threw away the old lid and the bowl. Because that made sense. ONLY IT DIDN'T. Upon receiving the new lid in the mail, I realized that I am a moron and threw away the perfectly good bowl, rendering my Cuisinart stand, blade, and shiny new lid utterly useless. I'd be damned if I was going to pay for $12 shipping again. 

So when I finally found tahini in Whole Foods after a 10 month search (it's with the peanut butter, who knew), I had to buy it and try my hand at whipping up one of my favorite foods: hummus. Nazlı makes perhaps the best hummus I have ever had, so I followed her recipe from her blog, Good Food for Good Soul. Since we have a blender at my current apartment, I boldly pressed forward and adapted to life without a food processor. 

It was a disaster.

First of all, the blender is just not suited to grind up all those chickpeas. Secondly, I am way too short to see into the blender while standing on the ground. So, for an hour, I sat on the counter alternating pulsing and taking the lid off to stir. Finally, it occurred to me to add more liquid to speed the process, which it did, but thoroughly watered down my concoction in the meantime. Hummus was everywhere. Hummus is still everywhere. And I had to listen to my roommate Heidi's cruel "Hey you know what would be easier? If you used a food processor" jokes all the while. 

Good times.

I put some pepper in it to try and add some flavor, but really things are beyond hope at this point. Looks like it's store-bought Sabra for me until my cheap ass raises shipping funds. All donations to the cause are greatly appreciated. Yes, I accept credit cards, thanks for asking!

Ding-dong Ditch

One of my college professors once posed the question, "What is the one topic that you cannot make a joke about?" The class provided answers like, "the Holocaust", "abortion", "rape", yet there was always someone who had an example wisecrack at hand. I'm sure you know of, and have cringed or laughed at some of these jokes. Maybe because you were uncomfortable, maybe because you actually found them funny, maybe because everyone around you was laughing and you didn't know what to think.

If you know me, you know that I love to laugh and I'm rarely serious. Heck, my last post was about something that had me laughing during a time in my life where I find it difficult to make contact with my joyful side. I had an experience today, though, that did not make me crack a smile, not even once. However, it appears that other people found some humor in it. Maybe because they were uncomfortable, maybe because they actually found it funny, maybe because they've never really had to worry about this in their own lives and they didn't know what to think.

I talked to my mother on the phone this morning and she told me to keep my eye out for a surprise package that she over-nighted in the mail. I kind of gave her a hard time about it. We had missed the delivery yesterday and no one in the apartment knew who was supposed to sign for it. If we missed delivery again, someone was going to have to haul ass to the Bronx to pick it up. We do not go to the Bronx. Anyway, mom told me that she sent along my favorite candy and a card as a little pick-me-up to help with the stress I've been under. I thanked her, apologized for being a brat, and waited for my Sarris Jellybeans to arrive.

Around 11:15a there was a ring at the door, and I buzzed the courier in to my building. My roommate's dog went ballistic at the knock, and so I had to shout over him to talk to the delivery man. I mentioned my aggravation with the barking, and we made a little small talk. He told me not to let my roommate hear how annoyed I was with the dog, and I let slip that she was at work. The air of the conversation changed.

"Are you Callie?" He asked, checking the package. I confirmed and accepted my white envelope. Then, not missing a beat, he said my last name and asked if it was French. At that instant I remembered the last time this particular man had delivered a package to me.

That first time, he had also asked about my last name, and if it was my husband's name. Who asks that? The experience the first time had weirded me out and I even called my mom to tell her how skeeved I was. Living in NYC, there are a lot of little skeevie things that tend to happen and I don't really make a habit of filling my parents in on them, mostly because I don't want to wake up to them packing my life into a U-Haul and driving me home in parental terror. I've got mace, my friends and I drop-pin, it's not a big deal and you learn to be a little wiser, okay?

So, taken aback, I responded, "No, its German". Making no move to leave and continue his deliveries, he queried, "Oh, is your husband German?". Questions about my 'husband' once, odd. Questions about my 'husband' twice, and that's a cause for concern. This man knows that I am currently alone in my apartment, and he has asked for the second time if a man is ever around. Imagine how that would make you feel.

In a stammering idiotic I-don't-know-what, I said "Yeah he's German too. He's away on business right now."

Yeah I know I'm a moron. I'm slapping myself in the face now for even speaking those words. But I didn't know what to say or do and I was really feeling uncomfortable and they happened. His response? To reference his stylus and ask me for my phone number. When I started with the area code, he made a face, which stopped me in my tracks.

When has a FedEx courier ever asked you for your phone number? Especially after you've already identified yourself and signed for your package. So I called him out, and told him I'd never needed to provide that before. He chuckled and said, "Well your husband is away for work so I figured I'd give you a call." I laughed it off and made to close the door and he didn't push it. He did not need my phone number at all (which was confirmed by the depot's senior manager later tonight).

So to recap: this man- short, olive skinned, in his 50s, profiled me. He asked if I was alone, was there a man close to me, how could he contact me. Are you laughing? Because I couldn't.

There are some pretty absurd things that happen to me. I can chuckle at some pretty crappy experiences, but this one doesn't get included in that category. No witty quips ran through my head when I thought about it. What was on my mind? How scared I would be if he showed up at my apartment one night. Or in the next 10 minutes. How much I didn't want him to force his way into my apartment, or take me out of it, because I was alone and he could probably take me down. As a woman, I have to think that way. Because it happens and it happens a lot. I've watched enough SVU and programs on Oxygen to know that this man was acting like a predator.

I was actually so upset and worried that I went to Facebook and made a short post about what happened. I figured, hey, if something really does happen, they'll know where to start looking. I called my mom again. She, among others, urged me to call and make a complaint, which I did.

The way the system works, I literally was on the phone all day. From my first call at 11:36a to my last one received at 6:04p. I jumped through the company's hoops-- the first person I talked to didn't report it properly and connected me with the site in the Bronx, where I was informed the manager was 'out' and would call later. After a few hours, I had to call back to see what was going on. Customer service had no record of my complaint, so I had to say it again. I was then transferred. I had to say it again. We called the site manager, again. He was in a meeting, would call back in 10 minutes. Thirty minutes later I was back on with customer service, asking why he didn't call. When he finally got in touch, he informed me that they would "handle it internally" and my request that he no longer deliver to me "could be made, but that didn't mean anything would actually happen". I wasn't satisfied with that answer. This guy, who I had been totally creeped out by was going to know that I filed a complaint about him and he knows where I live and could potentially be at my door again. And I don't even know his name, in the case that this would go further. So it was back on the phone with customer service. Hours later, I finally was connected with the senior manager of the site who informed me that my request would be granted, which is the best I could hope for.

My whole day was caught up in this one event. I had to repeat the details over and over and wait around for hours just for verbal confirmation that he couldn't deliver to me any more. That doesn't erase the fact that he knows where I live, but it's something. Now could you imagine the process if something worse had happened? How many times would I have to share those details? With how many different people? And how terrifying it truly is that this is a reality for some. I didn't feel safe because of some probing and inappropriate questions. What if he'd gone farther?

Have you laughed yet?

Someone has.

My Facebook status received a lot of suggestions and observations from my friends. It was interesting to note, though, that humor was found in the situation by some of my male pals. Some who I consider to know me very well and personally, all who I have no moral issues with and quite like. I'm not mad at them, necessarily, but I am surprised that their initial reactions were light. Not one of the women who commented said anything in that vein. We know the reality, we've been taught that we are targets since we were little and we are reminded every day. You don't let it get you down, you stay smart about it, and that's how you move on with your life.

But...

... some people 'lol'.

So, to you who have all made it to the end of this lengthy post from my soap-box, what is the one thing you cannot make a joke about? Because one of your friends potentially being sexually violated and murdered made the cut. 

NOkCupid

Ok everyone, this is basically just filler since I've been increasingly absent. Life has been pretty insane and I'm not quite ready to relate it all to you. However, someone once said that 'laughter is the best medicine', so why don't we give that a shot? In my opinion, finding people who are crazier than you are is really the best medicine, but, to each his own.

Out of boredom and some deep-seated need to be reckless I reactivated my OkCupid account. For the second time, I found the thing to be rather uncomfortable and strange, and ended up deactivating as soon as I could. But not before I received some of these gems from my adoring admirers.

1. Re: My alleged likeness to Shannen Doherty. Maybe hold off on the superficial insults regarding female beauty, mirror-selfie guy. At least until the second or third message.

2. I'd be offended, but he's kind of spot on here. 

3. Ew. Let's make that 38% enemies. 

And that was the end of that. Hang in there, people. Winter is almost over.

Before I go, an update for those DYING to know what happened to my date with the open container: he lives! And he visited my profile an hour after I reactivated (duh, no one can resist this).

Glad you made it through the storm, buddy and I appreciate you not abducting me. Also- thanks for not calling, ass.

So this is my new life? I'll take it.

Today was something else. Here, at the end of it, I am sitting cross-legged in my bed, head spinning in awe of where I am. The best part is that I get to keep going tomorrow.

I spent the bulk of my day the way everyone should: with my best friend. 

Around noon, I lugged my brand new acoustic Washburn guitar and my sad Staples brand 1-subject notebook full of monologues to Nazlı's apartment. After a month of dragging our feet, the two of us had finally given up our silly and unfounded fears of working in front of each other and were ready to get down to business. To break the ice (so to speak), we made a little music. Nothing out of this world, I'm sure, but I pity those who haven't had the chance to perform a sick acoustic rap version of Justin Bieber's 'Boyfriend'. 

You know you wish you were there. 

And afterwards, I got to experience the joy I haven't felt for a long, long time. Instead of falling victim to the terror that accompanies performing a character in front of your best friend, I stood up and let myself be in the moment. And it was so much fun. The bigger reward? I got to watch her do the same. I don't know how, but somewhere along the way I did something right to be surrounded by such amazing talented people, and this girl is absolutely no exception. I left her apartment with spirits high.

Later tonight, I headed (way) downtown to babysit one of my favorite kids, a precocious 8 year old girl, who is seriously the most creative child I have ever had the pleasure to hang out with. The past few times I've watched her, we've written plays and sang showtunes and danced around like only 8 year old girls can. Tonight: Just Dance 4 was on the menu. Yes, I did get 4 stars the first time I danced 'Call Me Maybe', AND she told me she thought I was "really cool". That's a direct quote. We ate some chocolate, read a few books, and off to bed she went. At that point, I was congratulating myself on having an amazing day. Little did I know, it was only going to get better. 

When her parents came home, they surprised me with a gift bag from the event they had just attended. This event just happened to be the NYC premiere of HBO's GIRLS, Season 2. That's right, I said it. I scored swag from one of my favorite shows, and it is awesome. Here, for your viewing pleasure, is my bag and all of its wondrous goodies.

Going clockwise from 'midnight':

-Two custom chocolates from The Baking Bean

-A Birchbox carepackage (2 leave-in conditioner samples by L'Oreal, a Tili bag, 'Mary-Lou Manizer' highlighting eyeshadow from The Balm, and a sample of 'eau flirt' perfume by Harvey Prince)

-Assorted GIRLS gummies

-Love & Toast all-natural lip gloss in 'Prep School' (74)

-GIRLS nailpolish in 'Marnie' by Deborah Lippmann

-'Jessa' nailpolish appliqués by Incoco

- 'Exquisite Oil' replenishing hair serum by MATRIX

-Cinnamon Lip Balm by Sprout, a Brooklyn-based cosmetic company

-Eyeshadow by Urban Decay in 'Midnight Cowboy'

-'Read My Lips' tea, courtesy of DAVIDsTEA (one of my favorites!!!)... consisting of black tea, peppermint, dark chocolate, sprinkles, and pink peppercorns.

-'Coral Beach' blush + bronzer by Cargo

-An Aerie carepackage, complete with 10 samples of their perfume 'Hidden Love', and a $50 off any purchase card

Excuse my french, but holy shit. This rocked my world. I love GIRLS. I love beauty products. And I love free things. I'm going to call this one a triple-threat.

And on top of that, I got paid. 

Unable to believe my good fortune, I stumbled (sleepily) to the train station, where I hopped on the A and was soon met with another bit of good fortune. Somewhere around the UWS, at 1:30am, a cellist and a bassoon player pulled out their instruments and began to play 'Stand By Me', to which a slightly disgruntled passenger irreverently rapped along, creating something both ridiculous and beautiful. As we continued to ride uptown and passengers departed our car, we learned that none of the musicians actually knew each other. What we had all witnessed was a pure, improvised, wonderful collaboration between three strangers on a subway train. 

The whole time I couldn't stop thinking: I live here. I am a part of this. And I am so at peace with where I have ended up and where it can take me. This one day has been so full of wonder-- from the great big gift of collaborating with my best friend, to the unexpected perks of my job-- and I can't sleep because of it. 

It's like I'm a kid too anxious for Christmas... except my Christmas is my life.