Thursday, August 23, 2012

new new york #1: oatmeals

New York is so big. I know there are at least eighty billion things to do on any given day, and yet I always find myself revolving around the same eight-ten places doing the same eight-ten things. I don't really venture out and visit new neighborhoods or try new restaurants. I shop at the same places, eat my takeout from the same places, drink at the same places. This is dull. This is boring. This isn't what New York is for.

So each week I'm going to try something new. A new store, new commute, new cocktail at a new bar I've never been to. I'm going to break up my rhythm a little bit and see if I can really take advantage of being in the city. It'll be a new New York for me.

My first is a little bit of a cheat. My friend William told me about this place last week, and I've already been twice now. But it was new to me as of last week and it's so frigging cute, I just want to write about it.

Oatmeals is a coffee shop in the west village that specializes in oat-based products. So there's an oatmeal bar with about forty different toppings, and there are oatmeal cookies, and oatmeal sweet sticky if-I-keep-eating-these-I'll-be-fat-and-no-one-will-ever-love-me cinnamon buns, and oatmeal cakes, and you get the point. And there's plenty of non-oaty stuff, too, but the menu's focus is the oat and trying to let people see the potential nutrition benefits of incorporating it into your diet. I'm sold. And even though I'm trying not to eat out so much, and I am a little dubious about the health benefits of oats rolled in butter, sugar, and cinnamon, I would totally go there every day if I could.

And it's also super cute and cozily decorated, I wish it were my apartment.
Photo from Oatmeals

Oatmeals
120 West 3rd Street
(between Macdougal and 6th Ave)
oatmealsny.com

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

the crucible

I have recently reignited my love for "The Crucible" by Arthur Miller. To the extent that I've read it at least twenty times, it is my favorite play. I first discovered it my sophomore year of high school, when I was assigned to work on a scene for an acting class. After school, I would go home and for hours, hours, I would act out scenes from the play in front of the mirror nailed to the back of my bedroom door. My favorites to work on were the scenes between John Proctor and his wife Elizabeth-- a marriage shaken by his infidelity, his desire to be a different man, her need to be seen. Hours. 

I'm so excited because I'm going to be working on "The Crucible" again in my current acting class. And since most directors wouldn't cast a black actress in any of the roles other than Tituba (the "sorceress" slave from Barbados), this might be my only chance to play Elizabeth and honor all of the time I spent shrieking back and forth to myself about witch hunts and the importance of being a good Christian. Hmmm, now if only I could find a way to play John-- the "Because it is my name" howl gives me the jitters just thinking about it.   

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

no more takeout. please. please. please.

I really really really really really really really really really really really really really really need to start cooking. It's shameful-- I eat every single meal out at a restaurant or a bar or an overpriced deli or a pizza shop or a (this hurts) Chipotle. It's not totally my fault. I moved in with my bachelor musician father when I was ten years old and he never cooked. We ordered Chinese or Domino's or hamburgers from Hooper's Burgers every night of the week. It's something I've carried with me into adulthood, and as much as I say I like homemade steamed kale, I really like a Smoke Joint fried catfish sandwich covered in tartar sauce, coleslaw, and pickles much more.

Eating out usually means I eat more garbage. Not to cast aspersions on the value of my Chipotle burritos. They are tasty and delicious, but I'm not sure eating them four times a week is the best approach to nutrition. Not cooking is making me fat, it's making me spend more money, and it's making me Salieri-jealous of those Brooklyn girls who frequent the farmer's markets with their totes and ponytails and braise, steam, chop, and julienne vegetables instead of letting them rot in the fridge.

Also, and not to get too annoying, but I feel like our relationships to food can be good indicators of how we operate in other areas of our lives. My contact with food always feels fun in the moment (please find me a person who wouldn't love a breakfast of coconut cream doughnuts from Donut Plant), but open closer inspection, it's kind of drab and boring. I just grab whatever's close and cheap and hope it fills me up. That sounds a little like the relationship between a john and a prostitute. Or like dating someone you only see when you're drunk. There's the initial rush of excitement and the mad dash to tear some clothes off, but afterwards, you can feel a little empty and a lot hungover.

So I'm going to try my hand at cooking. I'll take baby steps. A few meals a week to get me going. But seeing as how I'm working with this,

and this,

anything will be a major improvement.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

a wedding?

Hmmmm. I always tell myself I'm not quite sure if I'll ever get married. While I love the idea of it, I'm the product of a single parent household, so marriage doesn't totally feel like SOP for me. I'm so focused on acting and sadly, I can really be a deformed idiot when it comes to making decisions about men. But I still like to wonder what kind of wedding I might have. I'm a Libra and my friend Kendrick insists that it's a very Libra trait to be much more concerned with the wedding than the actual marriage. Well, lest I fail the planets, let's see what fun stuff I could maybe do!

I could wear this dress.

Or maybe this one.

I could wear these shoes.

Everyone could get drunk at this table.

Yes to this little guy.

And I'm not the hugest wedding cake fan, so how about some pie for dessert?

Okay? Okay. Sounds good to me.

Friday, August 17, 2012

new hampshire



























Favorite things about my New Hampshire trip:

1. The seven hour train ride. Long, yes, but fun, too. I took my shoes off, slept, read, watched my Netflix, stared out of the window, ate a wilty garden salad. The only thing that would have made the trip better would've been the purchase of one of those tiny little bottles of wine. I would've gotten white and poured it over ice-- instant happiness!

2. Spending time on a college campus was all kinds of fun. We stayed on the Dartmouth campus in Hanover, and I found myself thinking about my freshman year at college. How fun it was to meet new people and decorate and grind through finals together. Communal living can be really awesome, and I was reminded of how we always kept our dorm room doors open. Our RA asked us to leave our doors open for the first few weeks, and we did it for much longer, and you could walk by or into anyone's room, lounge on their Walmart-purchased futon, drink their crappy beer, and complain about classes.

3. I know this runs the risk of sound a bit overheated, but spending the week with artists was really, really lovely. I sometimes find myself feeling a little bashful when I tell someone I'm an actor-- I have shame about not getting work, and I live in fear of people thinking I'm yet another attention-hungry, insecure, self-interested aspiring starlet.** But spending the week with a group of people who love to talk about plays and books and movies and art and the big meaning of it all made me feel like I belonged in a certain way. I like dinner discussions devoted to figuring out what we're up to and why we're up to it, I like walks to the river with actors trying to figure out why this particular mode of expression is so useful, I like drinking beer with writers who are contemplating what they want to reveal about the world. Discussions like that are great, they make me feel less alone in the world.

** Which of course, I am all of these things. That's the way it works, right? The qualities you'd like to distance yourself from the most are the probably the things that exist most strongly inside of you. And my adult self is okay with that...for the most part. But I think maybe because I went to a performing arts high school, and drama majors had a terrible, albeit well-deserved reputation-- loud, attention-hungry, over the top, loud, dramatic, loud-- I think I'm still a little reactionary. And while I shook my fist at the time and screamed that we were so misunderstood, fact is that all of those things were true-- we were brassy and bossy. But we were other things, too, and of course that was the lovely part of high school-- that at 15, we could still be sensitive and creative and patient and interested. So I try not to let my memory completely pummel that 16 year old drama student who lived and thrummed with neediness and the desire to belt "Les Miserables" numbers on her way to class.

4. Last thing-- early evenings. My favorite time of the day is between 4pm and 8pm. I don't know why, but I feel it most acutely during warm weather months. I think it's because of the time I spent at summer camp (ten years). After dinner, there was a pocket of time when it was warm without being too hot, when things had calmed down in a certain way. At camp, we had a little break before heading to our activities for the evening, and the whole world felt kind of still and young and alive. I felt like I could feel every rock underneath my shoes. I know some people have this feeling in the morning, but for me, it's dusk. When your belly is full and you're walking a little slower and you're anticipating the promise of the evening. Every one of my New Hampshire evenings reminded me of those camp nights. Pure bliss.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

goodbye new york!

I have about four dollars in my bank account, so I planned on spending my summer tethered to the sticky city. But yay of all yays, playwright Jordan Seavey asked me to participate in a workshop of his lovely, beautiful, heartbreaking new play "Listening for our Murderer" in Hanover, New Hampshire.

Goodbye to my messy little apartment.


Goodbye to Penn Station. You smell like foot and armpit.

Goodbye to my fuzzy departure picture. That's the thing about traveling alone. You feel bad asking a stranger to be patient while you fiddle with the settings on your camera.

Monday, August 6, 2012

old pictures

I really do love the instant fun of digital photography, but I will never get enough of old pictures. My mom, aunt, and grandmother are all really great at holding onto photographs, and I'm so glad because I can spend hours looking through their boxes and albums.


My mom


My mom and some mystery suitor. I think this is at Rye Playland amusement park.




My aunt Donna

Me!

Sunday, August 5, 2012

i love florida

Photograph by Slim Aarons

I don't totally understand my fascination with Florida. I've only been to visit three times, I've never stayed longer than a week, and there is something about the politics and confused culture of the state that is really terrifying.

And yet.

I used to have a fantasy of moving to Florida after college and renting a pink house and driving a mint green pickup truck and having a boyfriend named Beau and a dog named Stitch and always leaving the front door open and post-dinner walks to get ice cream and there is definitely a porch swing in there somewhere and yes to beach hair and bare feet and tanned shoulders and shorts all year and fried seafood in front of a sunset.

But see most of this could take place anywhere, right? That could be easily be southern California or Massachusetts or even New Jersey during warm months. The pink house might be a little tricky, but I could attempt to make most of my fantasy come true right here in Brooklyn. But there's just something about Florida. I think it's the landscape, the beaches, the swamps, the flatlands. It's the climate, the mugginess, the winding tree-lined coastal roads, the cultural indecision, the proximity to Cuba, there is something about all of these things lumped together that fascinates me.

Or it could just be my white hot desire to live a life of leisure that doesn't include a soggy, sweaty, smells like my nose is packed between someone's butt cheeks subway car. Rush hour commuting creates in me an ardent need to lounge and loll in white bloomies by the pool waiting for absolutely nothing at all.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

i'm happy about

My new Soludos.

This book I'll take with me to New Hampshire. Especially looking forward to Sarah Vowell's Montana essay, Rick Moody on Connecticut, and Florida by Joshua Ferris.