R.I.P, Billy.  I hope you’re in heaven somewhere verbally assaulting other dead people with your super human stain fighting abilities.

    On another decidedly less depressing note, I started writing a fiction novel.  There are a few challenges that go along with this, the biggest one being that I have no idea how to write a fiction novel.  I guess if it sucks, I can file writing in the “I suck balls at” category along with math, science, logic, an inner-filter, jobs, basketball, and dieting.  

You are no doubt salivating nay HUNGERING for even a morsel of  my prose at this very moment, I am sure.  Being the exceptionally wonderful and accommodating person that I am, here is an excerpt  of the book to wet your palates.  Bon appetit.

 ”Shiiiiiiiiit”, I yelled as the M11 slammed it’s doors the very second I breathlessly approached the bus stop .  I was already 10 minutes late to meet Alex, the latest guy to “wink” at me on match.com, and now I was going to be at least another 20. Crap.  We had been flirting for 3 days via text, email, myspace, twitter, and facebook, but hadn’t had any actual human interaction thus far inevitably making these introductions sufficiently awkward.  Trust me, I should know.  I have dabbled in the online dating world a few times before, but it wasn’t until I was sitting at my friend’s wedding reception watching people slow dance to a particularly lame 90’s power ballad sung by Eric Clapton (which, if the DJ had listened to the words beforehand, he’d have realized the song is about the tragic, untimely death of his 4 year old son.  Maaaaybe not the best choice for wedding music, but what do I know?), when I suddenly realized that I was the ONLY person attending the wedding sans date.  Now, this wouldn’t have been such a soul crushing realization had the guests not included a midget, a blind man, a guy who looked like the Uni-bomber’s less attractive retarded cousin, and a 9 year old…..all with dates.  So, I decided to throw a pity party of 1 right then and there. And while the guests swayed back and forth to songs you’d hear in any given 1 star hotel elevator or cheesy Light FM station (the ones that have programs called “Love notes”, or “Dedicated to the one I love” where some annoyingly vanilla host with a voice that makes you want to plunge a butter knife into your reproductive organs reads letters from listeners about their “soul mates” and various other bile inducing topics), I triumphantly decided I would boycott love right then and there.  I did this by eating 4 pieces of double chocolate custard filled wedding cake.  I boycotted until my stomach was distended juuuust enough to make people speculate what trimester I was in.

    So, after this particularly traumatizing experience, I made a promise to myself.  I wrote, “Dear self, you have played it safe most of your life by being good and kind and all that other crap. It’s time for change.  For the next 6 months, you will be what you have always dreamed of being…..a slut.”  It was time for me to take the bull by the horns (pun totally intended) and go on dates with anyone and everyone who asked.  The rules were as follows:

1) You will say yes to every date invitation…..even if he looks like the guy who played Cher’s deformed son in “The Mask”

2) You will not tell him that you believe you died in the Holocaust in your past life.  At least not on the first date.

3) You cannot let your conscience get in the way of any and all risky behavior while on said dates. (Included but not limited to sex on a first date, gateway drugs like pot or prescription pain pills, and public displays of affection)

4) You must purchase and/or wear at least 1 whore-gear item of clothing on each date.  

and 

5) Date at least 3 people at a time ensuring you will not eat large amounts of your feelings when one of them goes MIA.

I. Was. Ready.  So, as soon as I got back to my apartment in New York, I dropped my suitcase and joined match.com.  This was gong to be fun.  Or horrifying. Or horrifyingly fun. Or horri…..ok, I’ll stop now.

~stay tuned for more excerpts~

I apologize for the lag time between blogs.  I have been receiving angry death threat facebook comments from people (ahem Kathleen) demanding new ones.  sigh….I guess my public truly depends on me for their every happiness. I mean….do you blame them?  

  Oh so much has happened in the last month.  I was a featured celebrity on the hit show, The View.  Ok fine, maybe a little less “featured celebrity” and a little more “random girl from Illinois introducing the next segment for 4 seconds”, but still….I am VERY famous. 

Me hangin with my new bestie, Sherri Shepard.

Learning my "lines" God, I am famous.

  My friends from Chicago came into town for a week and we had a grand-ol time.  They scored an invitation to a fancy gallery opening in Soho.  This sounded so cool and I felt tres chick… until I showed up and the entire Ford model agency clientele were also in attendance.  Note to self: Ford models are not the best self esteem boosters.  6 ft 90 lb Giselle’s tend to make 5′2 girl’s feel like short squat albino circus midgets.

  The other night, my hilarious friend Ryan was recounting his brief relationship with my bestie (and, according to New York State Law, my domestic partner…as we lived together for 8 years), Jonelle.  They had been dating for 3 weeks or so when this conversation took place;

Ryan (turns to Jonelle and gazes into her eyes):  I love you.

Jonelle:  I love you too!

Ryan (pauses): Did you really mean that?

Jonelle: No.  Did you?

Ryan:  Nope.  

sigh…..and they say romance is dead.

The other night Ryan was telling this story to a bunch of people at a party and I asked, “Wait….how long did you guys go out again?”.  He replied, “Kim….you can’t put a time frame on a miracle”.     So true, Ryan….so true.

    So, the Tony Awards were on last night.  They tend to depress me…mostly because I know about 75% of the people performing and I am usually watching while sitting in my room applying self tanner, knitting, and eating french fries.  This year I decided to boycott all Tony viewing parties and watch Six Feet Under and a highly anticipated holocaust documentary on the History Channel instead. (Nothing like a show about a funeral parlor and a 3 hour long documentary on the slaughter of 6 million people to lift me out of a funk.)  Things were going well until both restaurants below me decided to host official Tony cast after-parties in the courtyards out back.  Let’s just say the night ended with me sitting in flannel pajamas and self tanner (that by the way developed into an adorable cheetah print by  morning) eating twix and crying while watching the parties out my window.  It. Was. Awesome.  Thank God the universe threw me a bone with the douche-tastic lead singer of Poison getting hit by a set piece and falling on his Mullet-wearing-permed-hair-tapered-acid-wash-jeans ass.  He was tearin’ it up on stage with his “I am a sex GOD” routine when the scrim (part of the set’s drop) fell on his head.  I love how he survives 30 years of pyrotechnics, toxic amounts of aerosol hairspray, and 5000 smashed guitar’s without so much as a bruise, yet he sings in a twinkie bottom musical theater awards show and falls on his ass.  For all of you who missed this please watch immediately…

 On the upside, due to the recent recession, I decided to sell all of my possessions on Ebay.  I was an ebay virgin, so I called my brother (Omnipotent in the world of Ebay), who advised me to start the bidding on all items at 99 cents because “people tend to get annoyed when items are posted too high.” He assured me that it was inevitable people would bid on the items and the price would go up.  So, I put all my designer BCBG, Nicole Miller, and Betsy Johnson $350-$500 dresses up at .99 cents.  The dresses sold!….for 99 cents.  Thanks, Kevin.  

The best part?  Some of my “customers” were not satisfied with the fit or “quality” and demanded to be refunded quote ” IN FULL”.  Seriously.

 I wrote back, “I am SO sorry for your unhappiness with the item you purchased.  I will refund you IMMEDIATELY so that the large sum of money (that came from your savings, no doubt) will be back into your account as soon as humanly possible.  I can only assume that you have been living on Top Ramen and Wonder Bread after paying me this large quantity, so please… have no fear.  You will get your fortune back IMMEDIATELY.”        

I have said this before, and I’ll say it again…..I truly believe that after living in New York City among sassy homeless people, crazy freaks, de-sensitized masses, and the strange occurrences that happen on a daily basis….anywhere else just seems…well…boring, I guess. I was in Central Park yesterday sitting on the Great Lawn with friends when a random dude walked up and asked if we would like some cocktails.  After we said yes, he busts out his 30 bottles of alcohol, duffel bag of mixers, stainless steel shaker /strainer,  and begins making mojitos, long island iced tea’s (for the gay’s in our group), and cosmopolitan’s.  Gotta love a city that offers custom ordered mixed drinks delivered to you on the lawn in a park at 3 in the afternoon.  Why didn’t I think to do this??  As I was walking home sans Ipod, I had no choice but to notice my surroundings and the people walking amongst me. It was quite amusing, I must say.

I saw this she-man chillin in a bright spandex unitard:

This wolf-dog that looked EXACTLY like Falkor from the movie “Never Ending Story”.  I seriously wanted to yell, “ATREEEEEEEYU!” while petting the giant dog-like creature, but figured the owner might think it was odd…..so I decided to abort that plan.

A very commendable guy trying to sell candy for $1 by saying, “I really want the new Air Nike’s ….wanna help me out and buy some M&M’s?”  Gotta respect an honest dude like that.  Most people selling candy say something along the lines of, “I am homeless with 73 children who haven’t eaten since the late 90’s and I lost my job, my husband/wife died, and I have AIDS, Cancer, and Chlamydia”  I gave him a dollar for his honesty.

An old white woman in a wheelchair wearing a strange hand-made turban sitting near the entrance of the park yelling obscenities at passerby’s (wish I had taken a picture of this)

Then, in the A/C/E subway station a little bit later, an average well-kept middle age man just waiting for the train like everyone else started singing to himself quietly and eventually crescendoed into a full out performance of “This Nearly Was Mine” from South Pacific.  The people waiting in the station applauded after he was finished and he bowed politely  He was not asking for money or anything, he just felt like singin’ a song.   

So, I got off the train and was almost home when another average-looking well-dressed man holding a beer (appropriately in a brown paper bag) walked straight up to me.  I was frantically trying to remember if/where I had met this man who was walking up to me as if we were old college frat buddies (I have the memory of a mentally challenged kindergartner, so forgetting a face definitely isn’t outta the realm of possibility).  He marches right up to me breaking all rules about personal space and burps the phrase, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING” into my face.  I jumped back in complete horror/shock after inhaling his vile breath which smelled like a combination of beer, vomit, 4 day-old urine, and puppy diarrhea, and he threw his head back, laughed, and walked away.  What about me screams, “Please….burp in my mouth!!!!!” ? 

This all happened on the walk from 81st street to my apartment on 45th street.  Where else would you see this fine smorgasbord of strangeness on a solitary walk home?  God I love this city.

I will leave you with this confusing conversation that a friend of mine (who is mildly obsessed with “as seen on TV” products) had with her friend;

My friend’s friend (Let’s call her Kate): Oh my gosh I got the Magic Bullet!  I know you love this stuff so I wanted to call and tell you I got one!

My friend: Oh my gosh!!!!  Isn’t it GREAT???? I love mine!

Kate: Yes!  I am going to go home and use it tonight to make Guacamole!

My friend: (confused) wait…yours makes guacamole too?

Kate: Yes! It does EVERYTHING.

Friend: Wow. (sadly)  Mine doesn’t make guacamole. 

Kate: Really?  That’s weird.

Friend: (looks at her vibrator and sees it’s called “The Magic Wand”) OHHHHHH the Magic BULLET.  Ya, it’s great too.

My month in Review:

Jonelle.....Ryan's one true love.

My domestic partner and I at the rooftop party which was ended abruptly when the NYPD started arresting people for lewd behavior, throwing glass beer bottles at cars and people below, and pissing off the roof. People are so classy.

Saturday Brunch at Five Points with ma bitches

In Chicago at Katie's rehearsal dinner. We've all been friends for about 17 years. Shit, I'm old.

Katie and her new husband.

Ryan's equally funny sister Nicole and I in the burbs of Chicago.

Today’s beautiful-in-theory mother’s day brunch went in blissful harmony with my previous post. I had made reservations a day ahead at a highly popular West Village brunch spot to ensure we would get a seat and not be forced to wait 3847239847829347892347 hours at the “overly-crowded-I’m-STARVING-and-cranky-and-I’m-a-Model-so-I’m-much-hotter-than-you” door. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and the outside patio was bustling with beautiful food and mimosas as far as the eye could see. We were excited to enjoy the sunshine on the patio and have a girly gossip session. We get to the podium and the maitre’ d tells us to follow him. We follow. and follow. aaaaaaand follow. Soon, we are being taken downstairs to the bathrooms and are getting a bit more confused with every step. He turns a corner into a dark basement with a mishmash of unset tables inhabited by screaming children (seriously….there were at LEAST 8 SCREAMING babies down there) and LARGE families shrieking at each other in all kinds of indeterminate Middle Eastern languages. So, we look around and see there is obviously no room for us…..but hark. There is a tiiiiiiiiiny table wedged between 2 high chairs, 3 overweight immigrants, a pole, and a family of 10. Our waiter came once the entire meal….and that was so take our order. D list

On another topic I feel this video below needs to be seen.  Bless her little tone deaf heart.  I have decided that I would rather be talent-free and think my voice is Christlike, than be very talented and overthink every note and step to the point of obsession at each audition as I do now. “Was I a hair flat in bar 3???????!!!!!!  That means I TOTALLY blew it!!”

 Delusion definitely has it’s part in American Musical Theater, and I want a piece of it! It would make life so much easier, wouldn’t it?   They are looking for tall, leggy showgirls who can spit fire out of their mouths while tapping en pointe???  SURE!!  Of COURSE I can do it!   They need an Effie for a regional production of Dreamgirls?? HELL YEA I CAN!!  I am talented enough to change their minds about the whole “Effie is black” thing!!!   They need a Meg replacement in Phantom of the Opera who needs to be a beautiful ballet dancer en pointe? NO PROBLEM.  I’ve never been on pointe, but come on……how hard could pointe REALLY be? I can wing it.  Im IN!   See?…how many opportunities am I missing simply because I am not delusional????  

    Your assignment for today, folks is to be just a little bit delusional. Do something you would never in a million years think to do….like applying for the CEO’s position at a company where you are a temp. Do you have skinny clothes that used to fit but now send fat spilling over the tops and under the butt??  Wear em!  EVERYONE looks better with a muffin top or 2….0r 40. So go ahead and wear it proudly sister!!! Or, if you are white, go up to a crowd of African American teenagers on the trains at 3 PM and chime in their conversation using their lingo and speech patters. If they start to rap (which they inevitably do back and forth on the A train) YOU start to rap and challenge one of them to a rap duel.   Disclaimer: If you get shot, the shit kicked out of you, or die, I cannot not be held responsible. You will have to talk to my lawyers.  And by my lawyers I mean my mom. 

Delusion: It does a body good

………………I’m D list

.

1) I was listening to my IPOD on random today when a song from my demo came on. My IPOD said “Unknown Artist”. Even my ipod doesn’t know who I am.  D list

2) Homeless man on the corner of 45th and 10th looked up at me with his drunk eyes and quietly said, “Loser.” Then he casually looked away and took another swig of his .40 wrapped delicately in a blood stained T shirt.  A homeless crackhead called me a loser.  D list.

3) The last time I did match.com, I put both New York and Chicago as my places of residency.  I signed on one day to find that my “Match.com Match of the Day” was……..my brother.  seriously.  D List

4) After weighing my carry-on bag and arguing about whether or not I should be allowed to keep it (since it was juuuuuust a hair over the size quota), the flight attendant made me check my bags. She then charged me 25.00 per bag.  And then lost them.  I paid 50.00 to never see my bags again. D list

5) Last year around this time I was rollerblading down the path on the hudson river when I came across a baseball field chalk full of extremely attractive men.  I decide to show off and do a trick from my ice skating days as I approached the field. I did it……and landed in a large patch of sand. I then face planted into said patch of sand.  They all looked. And then they all laughed.  D list

   6) I am on a date a few years back. It’s the end of the night and I am with a boy I really like trying my best to be coy and mysterious. We say our goodbye’s. Our hands slide away from each other. I look at him with my best bedroom eyes, do a seductive pivot, and turn to walk into my building. And that’s exactly what I did….walked directly into my building. I walked straight into the just-cleaned-couldn’t-tell-it-was-there plate glass door and smacked my face with gusto. And then my nose bled.  Not so sexy.  D list.

7) I walk into the Deli downstairs and the friendly pakistani owner immediately grabs a pint of Oatmeal Cookie Chunk ice cream and 2 chocolate chip cookies and says, “Here.  I ring up for you!”  The deli owner has memorized the flavors of the feelings that I eat.

8.) I am in 7th grade and totally crushing on Dave Cio. I leave my 4th period sewing class to go to the bathroom.  Who do I run into ALONE in the hallway?…none other than Dave Cio in the flesh.  Well, I feel particularly hot today since I am wearing the polyester pink and green triangles shirt I sewed last week in class paired brilliantly with my favorite acid wash jeans tight rolled to perfection. AND on top of all that hotness, I achieved quite possibly the PERFECT bang poof that morning.  I. Am. Smokin’. So I see Dave. He sees me. He approaches.  My heart starts to flutter uncontrollably. We start to flirt and make awkward small talk.  Then he says something totally hilarious. I burst out laughing and without warning I let one rip. Loudly.  All laughter ceases. Dave stares at me with a “Did that just happen??” look written all over his face. I immediately turn and run back to sewing class. Dave Cio never dated me.  D list.

9) I was in a taxi on my way to the airport when a truck smashed into the side of our taxi.  I slammed into the plastic partition.  After the shock and surprise wore off, I collected myself and pried the door open to get out. The driver looks at me and says, “It’s 10.50″.  My driver illegally ran a red light and then asked me to pay for being hit by a truck.  D list.

10) I decide to treat myself and get pampered a little, so I make an appointment to get my first ever bikini wax. I had the flu for the 2 days leading up to the appointment, but felt totally fine that day and decided to go ahead with it. On the way to the salon I start to have that all-too-familiar warmth in my abdomen and nausea begins to creep up my body.  So, I run into a starbucks and get sick for roughly 15 minutes.  I seriously debated about whether or not to cancel, but since I felt much better after that last bout, I forged on.  I collect myself, swished around some mouthwash from my purse, and went into the salon.  After 10 of the most painful minutes of my entire life, the Asian wax Nazi tells me to, “flee ovah” I look at her blankly and say, “Flee ova? What do you mean?” Exasperatedly, she says louder ….”FLEE OVAH” Then she forcefully turns me onto my stomach. Please note that I am completely naked at this point.  I am very confused since I had always believed my vagina to be in the front. I turn my head to look at her and say, “Why am I on my back???” She says, “You Choose bazillion wax, no?” Bazillion? Did I accidentally sign up for a bazillion waxes?  Wait….is that even an actual number? (light bulb moment) “OH you mean BRAZILIAN wax! Yes….I did sign up for that. Which brings me back to my question…..why am I on my stomach??”  She says, “Bazallion wax is ebedeesing” and motions to my ass.  Terror begins violently coursing through my veins as I mentally  kick myself for only skimming the Information packet which included an in-depth break down of each procedure. “It’s Ok Kim….you have gotten this far.  How much worse could your ass feel than your bageeen, right??” So I resign to it, put my face on the pillow, and brace for the first strip of satin to be ripped from my flesh.  2 minutes later…..nothing. Asian Nazi gets up and leaves the room. Does she not like my butt??  Does she think my thighs are too fat to wax?  Do I smell???????? Oh God I must really be grotesque for my waxer to get up and walk out on her…I just figured  that since she was paid, she HAD to say.  Guess not.  Oh! Nazi Waxer walks back into the room holding a white box and singing sweetly to herself.  Glad someone is in a chipper mood while I am lying here completely exposed with half my vagina waxed and my ass in the air. So She opens the mysterious box and out comes a smaller package.  I can’t quite read it from here but I could SWEAR it says Baby Wipes.  She walks in closer and It becomes clear that she is holding a giant package of Johnson & Johnson baby wipes. She precedes to take a fistful of these and wipe out my ass.  like an infant.  I, clearly confused, ask her if this is normal procedure for a brazilian wax. She replies, “Nope”. Awesome. I can count on my hand how many times I have actually been at a loss for words.  This was one of those times.      Update: Kim immediately aborted procedure and quickly threw on her clothes looking as though she just escaped a deadly pubic brush fire with only minor cuts and burns. She Left the salon. And never returned. D list

So that folks, is what it feels like to live your life on the D list.  If you think you may also be suffering from DLISTitis, call your local emergency room immediately.  You can never be too prepared though, so I always recommend making a DList emergency kit to store in your home at all times.  Here are things you may want to include

1) Vodka

2) kleenex to dry your tears

3) Copious amounts of Chocolate

4) Tequila

5)A funny friend (having a funny midget friend would really be ideal so he/she will fit into the kit.)

6)A picture of Amy Winehouse to remind you that things could always be worse.

7) Cupcakes

8.) Star wars lunch box

9)Mean Girls DVD

10) Rum

10) Coke

12) chia pet

13) Chelsea Handler

14) taco bell bean burrito supreme

15) A plunger

16) a snuggie

17) the slapchop

18) a hooker

Well, I think that just about covers it.  Start to gather these materials and put them in a safe, dry place. Godspeed.

Women busting out their summer whoregear attire, everyone migrating to the Hamptons on weekends while my broke ass can barely afford to sit on the roof of my building gazing at the picturesque view of a gas station, flawlessly applying makeup only to have it melt down my face 3 minutes after leaving my apartment, being in a subway car shoved up against sweaty tourists wearing fanny packs from Duluth, the smell of bubbling horse poo wafting in through my windows, and sitting on the great lawn in central park crazy-watching.  Here are some of the things one can expect to see on any given afternoon in Central Park (photos were taken yesterday…..thank God for camera phones);

1) Weird half naked overweight men taking naps.

2) Couples dry humping one another as if the park is a setting for a cable access porno and they are the stars.

3) Upper east side “I’ve had so many plastic surgery procedures that my face now looks like a science experiment gone retarded” women pushing their dogs in strollers.

4) Musicians with random instruments like, say….bagpipes (which inevitably reminds me of that episode of “friends” where Ross plays ‘celebrate’ on the bagpipes….see video below) strolling up and down the paths.

5) Hasidic Jews with ear curls wearing 907 layers of thick black clothing sweating like whores in church in the 90 degree heat.

6) Men from Staten Island with gold chains around their neck staring at exposed bikini breasts shouting things like, “hey sexy….wanna come to papa?”

7) Trasian (trendy Asian) tourists taking a break from shopping at Fendi, Henri Bendel, and Gucci in 6 inch heels.

and

8.) Me walking around taking pictures of all the weirdos.

 I mean…..I love theater but I am just not making enough consistent money to survive as a functioning adult….especially in this balls economy. So the next logical question is ok……what else do I want to do with my life? This shouldn’t be too hard!  I mean…I am REALLY talented and good at SO many things.  I am quite optimistic!

 So, at 12:00 PM I open a new document on my computer with breathless anticipation and gear up to start writing all the things, aside from theater, that I am good at!   This is how the session went:

(after 10 minutes staring at the blank page) I exclaim,  ”I know…..no WONDER I haven’t been thinking of anything….I haven’t had my coffee yet!!!”

20 minutes later I return with coffee in hand and snuggle back into my chair and write “Kimmy’s alternate career choices” 

After staring at the blinking curser for 30 minutes, I realize that I MUST be hungry.  Everyone knows you can’t properly think on an empty stomach, after all.  Eating will DEFINITELY get my neurons going.

After Eating giant sandwich, chips, milkshake, ahd half a pint of Phish Food ice cream, I am full.  Reeeeeeeally full.  So, I again sit down in front of the blinking curser and begin to brainstorm…..but my belly is so full and I am just uncomfortable sitting in front of the computer.  I have no choice but to move to the couch.  Hmmmm, maybe I should watch some TV to get ideas about different jobs that I’d be good at!  I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of that before!

 So I watch a 3 hour marathon of The Real Housewives of New York City and then an hour of Toddlers in Tiara’s (the show really SHOULD be called “I was ugly and fat in high school, so I am living vicariously through my toddler…..and ruining her life).  They should just take those kids straight from the pageants to the psych ward, where they will all eventually end up anyway.  A stitch in time saves 9, right?  SO why not cut out the middle man and put those girls behind padded walls now.

Ok back to the topic at hand….. I finally feel READY to figure out my life.  I am once again in front of the blinking curser. It is 6:00 PM  

Ummm well…. I’m  really good at facebook. YES I AM!!  I’m good at facebook!!!…so I write it down 

1) Facebook!

Hmmmm I am good at singing!  wait….this is a backwards step.  OUT of musical theatre OUT of musical theater OUT OF THEATER!

I am good at making people laugh.  yes! Ok making people laugh is a go.  So I can make people laugh….on stage.  DOH!!!  

Oh yea!  I am REALLY good at Scrapbooking!   Scrapbooking for…….myself……..for no pay.  K, that’s not gonna work.

Urgh now I am hungry again.  (I take 30 minutes to eat) It’s now 6:30 PM

Back to the grind……I am going on Craigslist to see what jobs are out there;

1) Bloggers! (ooooh blogging job!!) “Bloggers must be comfortable blogging topless”  oh, um, no

2)Personal assistant! “7-10 years support experience at the C – Level or Chairman” (I don’t even know what this means) aaaaaand…thats out.

3) Personal Shopper!  I mean…..I LOVE to shop!!!!!! I’d be PERFECT  ”Qualified candidates must have a client book with their own loyal customers.”  Well, since all of my friends are broke out-of-work actors, this maaaaaay be an issue.  wah wah. onto the next.

4) Babysitting? “applicant must love children”   crap.  

K, I’m starting to get discouraged.  And realizing the only things I am good at pay 0 dollars a week. 

OOOH I got it!  I can be an egg donor!  I hear it pays SO well. “Donors will have 4-5 doctors appointments a week, be on very high estrogen birth control to sync you up with person receiving your eggs, go through at least 2 extraction surgeries which are extremely painful, complete medical history of donor and every family member……” Ok they lost me at extremely painful and 4-5 doctors appointments a week. scratch that.

THIS IS IT!!!  Someone needs help with his “booming film career” I could be his Production Assistant! YES!!!  I could totally do that. “Must be familiar with the adult film industry” aaaaaand scene

So, it’s 12:46 AM and so far I have ;

Kimmy’s Alternate career choices

1) Facebook.  

Fuck.

Soooo contrary to what one would think, it is INCREDIBLY difficult to date in NYC.  Even though there are millions of people crammed on this tiny island, meeting a possible love interest is as difficult as catching a NY bus that does NOT stop every single block for a wheelchair to be moved in and out on a hydraulic lift that takes at LEAST 20 minutes. (this happens EVERY SINGLE time I get on a bus….like it’s some cruel karmic joke)

    I mean, if you are say, a cute, spunky, theater girl surrounded by anti-vagina theater gays in her profession who also refuses to go online and date again…..what are your other options?  I mean….when someone who I don’t know approaches me on the street, I automatically think they are crazy and walk briskly away, or pelt them with my bag.  We are so conditioned to think that rapists are lurking around every corner just waiting to mug, rape, and pillage us. So our natural inclination is to flee that situation by walking/running/skipping away as fast as we can while ignoring the poor person who was only going to ask us directions to the Shubert theater.  Yes, this is probably a useful survival technique, but NOT a good dating one.  

I was on a train last week making very blatant eye contact with a cute man across the aisle just waiting for him to give me his number and tell me I am OBVIOUSLY the woman of his dreams. I naturally start making a list of my bridesmaids, and mentally trying on several wedding dresses with similar plunging necklines. So… the train stops and he gets up, walks directly towards me, puts his head next to mine (I turn my head ever so slightly and pout my lips in anticipation for the kiss that will end all other kisses) and says, “Excuse me maam, can you move your head a bit to the right so I can see the map behind you?”  MA’AM!!??  When did I graduate to Ma’am??!!!? First stop “ma’am”, second stop Adult diapers and metamucil.  So, ok, the train is out, the sidewalk approach is out, internet is out, and musical theater is certainly out (no pun intended).  Where does that leave us single girls??

I read in New York Magazine that the number 1 pick up joint in New York city Is……..wait for it………Chipotle.  Chipotle?????!  So, I am supposed to go sit at chipotle alone and wait for an attractive man to come sit next me and stuff his face with a burrito the size of a full grown pit bull?  As he is shoving copious amounts of bean cheese, sour cream, and guac in his mouth, I can only assume the conversation would be like this:

Me: Hi!!! My Name is Kimmy!  Nice to Meet you!!!

Mouth full cutie:  Shwah fgam huwads Davidh (tiny piece of sour cream glops into his lap)

Me: Um…k….good talk.

So, that seems highly unlikely too.  New York Magazine also suggests dining alone in a nice restaurant so men will approach you.  Ok First off, I probably can’t afford this restaurant.  Secondly, when I see people sitting alone at nice restaurants I just feel bad for them. Ya ya so maybe they like dining alone blah blah blah, but I can’t help it….I feel like they must not have one single person in the word to eat with, and if that is the case, they are clearly bat shit crazy homicidal maniacs who chop up little children and make them into soups.  And I never really liked soup,  sooooo….. that’s out.

So what are we left with? Bars? Christ.  So you walk into a loud bar dressed in your whore gear and battle 30 other girls in similar whore gear for the bar tender’s attention. After you elbow the blonde bitch next to you who CLEARLY got here AFTER you, and has wedged herself between your vagina and the bar, you finally get his attention by pushing her head to one side and talking before she has a chance to react.

Me (over bass so loud my body is thrashing up and down): Can I have a vodka soda?

Bartender: a WHAT?

Me: a vodka soda!!

Bartender: GIN AND TONIC???

Me: V O D K A   S O D A!!!!!! (my voice starts to get hoarse)

Bartender: THAT WILL BE $27 PLEASE!!!

Me: (cries on the inside as she forks over the money and is handed a thimble full of ice and a splash of vodka. )

So, then you and your friends take a lap around the room and see drunk men’s eyes go directly towards your breasts and stay there for the remainder of the night.  You finally stumble upon a group of young professional guys laughing and having a good time.  You start up a conversation with said men;

Me (Screaming to be heard over 50 foot subwoofers playing Kanye West): SO WHAT DO YOU DO??

Yuppie #1 (speaks to my breasts)1: OH I WORK IN BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH WALL STREET BAH BLAH SECURITIES BLAH 

Me: UM..YA! THAT SOUNDS….INTERESTING?

Yuppie(again…directed to my breasts): YES, IT IS…WE ARE WORKING ON A BLAH BLAH BLAH MERGER BLAH BLAH. I’M REALLY EXCITED ABOUT IT.  BLAH!!

Me: YA. THAT DOES SOUND REALLY UM, EXCITING.

Yuppie: WHAT DO YOU DO??

Me: MUSICAL THEATER

Yuppie (at breasts): (Blank look) OH. IS THAT LIKE A PLAY OR SOMETHING? AREN’T THERE A LOT OF GAY DUDES IN THAT?

Me: (gives the universal “save me from this douche” signal)

Yuppie#2 (subtly slips his ring finger into his pocket) Side Note: this really happened: HEY! WHAT’S YOUR NAME?

Me: HI…NICE TO MEET YOU, MY NAME IS “NEVERGONNAHAPPEN”. (I walk away)

So, the chances of meeting a guy at a bar who understands what we do for a livingare slim to none.

Sooo back to the online drawing board we go. I did Match.com once a few years back and met some…um….interesting people, to say the least. One guy and I had been shooting witty emails back and forth for weeks which, of course, was awesome because I dig funny guys.  The pictures he had up on the site were literally abercrombie modeling shots from an ad campaign a few years back. I was skeptical that this guy was a real abercrombie model (and didn’t like-a-the-penis), so I prepared for our meeting by telling myself  he would most likely not look anything like those pictures. I was just hoping he’d fall somewhere into the “Not totally deformed and hideous” category.  Well, I was wrong.  He looked BETTER than the pictures.  I was shocked. He sounded a little like Donald Duck, but I quickly looked past that into his dreamy green eyes and pretty, PRETTY face.  SO, the night went surprisingly well.  We went to a bar with a fireplace and got to know each other over many glasses of Shiraz. The witty banter was flowing with the wine and we were in Defcom Phase 3 flirtation mode. I was almost giddy…this guy was too good to be true! Model turned wall street broker from the midwest who is close with his family and FUNNY. So it’s getting late and he had to get up for work ,so he put me in a cab…..but not before he insisted on making our next date.  He PAID the cabbie and I drove home. I called my mom on the way;

Me: Mom! I just met my future husband!

Mom: Oh Great!! SO the date went well?

Me: SOO well, he’s from the midwest, loves his jo……hold on mom I think he just text me.  Aww I bet it was so say goodnight 

Me (looks at phone and reads text aloud)  ”Hey baby (aww!) I can’t wait to see you tonight and cum on your t^$#@ in the kitchen floor next to the refrigerator. And then we’ll ********** (content censored from this point)

Me: Um mom, gotta go.

I analyzed that text for a great while trying to rememer if I had gotten so drunk that I didn’t remember having a conversation about sex next to a refrigerator…or near any kitchen appliance for that matter.  Nope…..pretty sure that NEVER happened.  He was Sexting someone else!  30 seconds after our date he was sexting some other girl.  I decided to text him back and tell him he had accidentally written me instead.

me: Ummm just to let you know, you just text Kim.  I don’t know if that was on purpose or not.

He was never to be heard from again.

Moral of that story??? Move to one of those adorable polygamist compounds and have your marriage(s) arranged for you.  MUCH easier.

I feel there should be some kind of test one has to take to live in the city of New York, because I think we have successfully hit our idiot quota.  

Me ordering a sandwich at subway yesterday: “Hi, can I have a 6 inch turkey on wheat, no cheese”

Sandwich artist with IQ of a retarded chimp: “Do you want cheese on that?”

Me: “No.”

Sandwich artist: “lettuce/tomato?”

Me: “Yes”

Sandwich artist: “what kind of cheese?”

Me: (blinks) 

Or this verbatim conversation that happened yesterday in my bank;

Worried woman (rushing up to the bank teller window): “Did you find a phone here? I think I left my blackberry this morning. Did anyone turn it in?”

Bank teller: “No, but what’s your cell…..we can call you if it turns up.”

Woman: (silence)

    If you haven’t yet discovered www.overheardinnewyork.com please run, don’t walk.  This site is genius…..I mean, if you are a New Yorker, you have heard many a dumbass conversation while you are out and about on any given day.  This site provides a sounding board for people to post the hilarious things they hear.  So, I thought I’d dedicate this post to stupid people everywhere…..you know who you are;

Button-down and khakis guy #1: I wish I had a bi-polar friend…it’d be like having two friends in one!
Button-down guy #2, completely serious: Yeah, that’d be awesome.

Three-year-old boy: This is an iPhone, it can play YouTube videos.
Three-year-old girl: I know.

Woman looking for friend who got lost in massive crowd: Marco! Marco!
Massive crowd of people: Polo!

Guy #1: So when’s your birthday?
Guy #2: It’s June 24.
Guy #1: Hey, mine is May 24.
Guy #2: And my girlfriend’s is January 24.
Guy #1: Wow…we should all have sex.

Hobo #1: Britney Spears is a pussy.
Hobo #2: I was tapping her before she got pregnant.

Subway operator: This downtown 1 train will not be stopping at 50th Street. I repeat, will not be stopping at 50th Street.
(a minute passes)
Subway operator: We will not be stopping at 50th Street. There is a stalled train there. We will be going straight to 42nd without stopping at 50th.
(another minute goes by)
Subway operator: This is a downtown 1 train, next stop will be 50th. Shit! 42nd.

Guy #1(in PATH station): I went out drinking last night and didn’t smoke.
Guy #2: Except cock.
Guy #1: Yeah, besides that.

Hobo with cup of change in hand: You have any change?
College kid: Sorry, I don’t have any money.
Hobo: Get a fucking job.
College kid: Fuck you! You first!
Hobo: I’m working right now, asshole.

If you have heard any ridiculous conversations recently, please send ‘em my way.  And, for the love of God, if you are stupid…please don’t procreate.  

  So I have this casting director friend here who told a story about a guy who recently came by the office to drop off his resume, which was packed with assloads of Broadway Credits. Under the “Broadway/New York” category, the guy had like 25 shows with “Original Cast” next to it. Why is this even remotely interesting you ask? Because half of these shows happened before 1975. He was 22 years old. Apparently this adorably delusional psycho honestly believed that he had created these roles…roles that existed long before he was even in Utero. I mean, let’s be honest…..most actors are completely nuts….but this is above and beyond the “I’m a fucking nutbag” spectrum that most of us fall somewhere in the middle of. It also made me wonder what separates us “normal” folk from the crazies in the psych ward where I intern. Most of the internship involves talking with patients one on one, so I have gotten a chance to know them a little. Many of them have simply had a bad year, become depressed about their current situation, and just needed a place to go where they could get help and have people to talk to. Ummmmm…..this sounds like 95% of the people I know. I mean, if I look around while I am at any given audition, I will see a weird guy doing ballet barre in one corner, a girl wearing the whore-gear equivalent of a bra, underwear, and fish net stockings under the guise of “dance wear” doing a comedic monologue to herself in another corner (which basically looks like she is having a really hilarious conversation with a wall), and a “I was a geek in high school, but now that I’m a straight man in theater I get more ass in 1 week than most men get in a lifetime” guy singing a ballad to himself on the opposite side of the room (more to attract actresses who’ll eventually be dropping their panties when they realize this man likes to touch boobies, than to practice for his Miss Saigon appointment). If you think about it, Chelsea Studios is more of a psych ward than the New York State Psychiatric Institute.

On this note, I think it’s kind of funny that boys who perform in theater during their adolescence are generally made fun of for taking part in a “gay” extra curricular activity. But what their naysayers don’t realize is that being a straight man in theater is the proverbial Cash Cow….it’s basically like shooting fish in a barrel. Go ahead and slap it with the stereotype of “effeminate”, but I guarantee you these less-than-extraordinary-looking guys are getting twice the amount of the sexy time than any other guy out there.

And the funniest thing is that manly sports like football, wresting, and gymnastics are actually much more gay than singing and dancing.
Take wrestling for instance….so you have two guys wearing tiny spandex onesies rolling around on top of one another with the other dude’s balls in their face. Ummm…k.
And football….again with the spandex and balls in your face as you jump on top of other spandex-wearing dudes.
And gymnastics? Learning a choreographed floor routine in…..what?…..yup, you guessed it!…..SPANDEX. Im sorry, how are these not homo-friendly extra curriculars? 
Lesson learned today?
1) Join the local drama club and, unless you are a short-bus-riding douche, you will get laid….and probably by a girl that is much more attractive than you are.
2) If you are going to lie on your resume, make sure you research the dates of the roles you “created”. Oh, and make sure the people who actually DID create the roles aren’t extremely famous.
3) If you are a connoisseur of balls, you should join the wrestling team
4) If you are a crazy person you have 1 of 2 choices; commit yourself to a psych ward, or go into theater.

       Since New York City weather is about as predictable as a coked up manic depressive, I decided to soak up the sunshine and take a long walk.  It always cracks me up how fast the  get-out-of-my-way-you-jackass-NY’er mentality changes when the sun comes out.  It’s as if less-than-perfect weather gives us license to be total assholes.  I am sure there is some serotonin/dopamine/norepinephrine/melatonin medical explanation for this, but personally, I think it’s kinda F’d up.  Take today, for instance……there was a woman with triplets that I estimated to be around 3 or so.  These 3 boys (seriously….my worst nightmare…..triplet boys. That would be like Jesus playing a cruel, cruel joke on me) were punching each other, throwing sippy cups at random passerby’s, letting out blood curdling screams, and kicking wildly all while this poor woman was pushing the stroller, talking on her cell phone, picking up her dog’s poop, and feeding them animal crackers.  I mean normally, this NY woman would be in the middle of an all-out nervous breakdown, but today she was smiling proudly as her Rosemary’s-baby-children bit each other and pelted an old woman with their shoes.  I don’t know….maybe because sunshine encourages exercise which releases endorphins which makes us less miserable which prevents us from multiple suicide attempts?  Who can be sure?

    Anyway, so I was walking along happy as a pig in shit, when I am enveloped with the overwhelming scent of marijuana.  I look behind me and there is this attractive, well-kept business man wearing a very expensive suit smokin’ a doobie right smack in the middle of the upper west side.  I mean….just walkin’ along in broad daylight on 72nd street puffin away with a shit-eating-grin on his face.  Even more interestingly, I looked back and didn’t really think much of it.  Then it immediately occurred to me that only in New York would it really not register that a functioning adult using an illegal narcotic in the middle of a busy street at 3PM is probably not normal.  How much weird shit have we seen on a daily basis here to not bat an eye at this? 

    I also find it funny that it strikes me as odd when I meet a New Yorker NOT in therapy and/or on some sort of mood stabilizer.  Here is a recent conversation I had with a friend;

Me: “Ugh, I think I need a therapist I’m totally depressed lately”

Medicated friend: (not missing a beat) “ask for Wellbutrin, Effexor, Paxil, Celexa, or Zoloft….those are a few that have worked for me this year.

Me: (raises eyebrow)”Oh…is that all?”

Medicated friend: “No, but I don’t remember the names of the other ones off-hand.”

So then the logical question is why on earth do people want to live in a city where they need copious amounts of Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors simply to make it through the day without killing themselves?  And the answer is simple…..to live in a city where you can smoke pot in broad daylight on an afternoon stroll while simultaneously walking a dog and waving to your neighbors.