I went to a 40th anniversary party this past weekend for one of my dad’s brothers and oh, there was so much blog fodder! It shall keep me busy and entertained for weeks! But while I mull it over in my brain, I have yet another My Dad story for you in the mean time.

(As to what’s up with me lately, HECK IF I KNOW. This blog now belongs to my dad.)

My parents live on a hill and at the bottom of the hill in their front yard sits a huge rock which we referred to as kids as ‘The Rock’ or ‘The Bowlda’, which is Long Island speak for ‘The Boulder’.)

I don’t know if it’s actually considered a boulder. What is the definition of boulder? It’s just a big hunkin’ thing left by the ice age. Or a glacier. Or at least that’s what we used to say. I will just come out and say right now that I do not know much about the ice age or glaciers or how this big ass thing got on my front lawn but last week I heard on NPR that not only was there a woolly mammoth long ago, there was also actually a WOOLLY RHINO!!!! Doesn’t that blow your mind? WHAT DOES THAT EVEN LOOK LIKE? COME BACK FROM EXTINCTION, WOOLLY RHINO! LEMME SEE YOUR FACE!

Anyway.

Sometimes we would climb on the rock and pretend we were under attack but that got old quickly as we soon realized we were playing on…a large rock. That gets old fast. Mostly we just tried to avoid it while sleigh riding down the hill in the winter because damn, if you slammed into that bowlda, your sled was probably wrecked and you were probably headed to the ER for multiple fractures.

THIS IS A BIG ROCK WE ARE TALKING ABOUT.

The point of this story is that my dad called up my mom at work last week and was all WIFFEY, I HAVE HAD A DAY.

I think I have pointed this out before, but my parents call each other ‘Hubby and ‘Wiffey’ except it’s not WIFE-y, it’s pronounced wiffey like ‘whiffy’ and hell if I know how THAT EVEN HAPPENED but they do not refer to each other by their first names.

Ever.

I think I’ve heard my mom call my dad ‘Paul’ maybe twice in my entire life. (That’s his name, you know.)

So anyway, Hubby called Wiffey and was all I HAVE HAD A DAY.

And Wiffey was all WHAT HAPPENED?

Let’s just say dad was outside mowing da lawn.

I SHOULD JUST INTERJECT RIGHT HERE AND SAY THAT SHOULD NOT BE HAPPENING.

Dude broke his hip and almost died and now that he’s back to normal with barely a limp, he’s outside all day mowing the lawn and chopping firewood and being generally reckless, IF YOU ASK ME, for a 66 year old person who is prone to injury.

DAD – HIRE SOME GUY TO MOW THE LAWN.

But he hasn’t yet.

So he was outside, mowin’ da lawn, as he says, when he discovered that he ran over the hose with the mower.

Now, this is comedy enough for me that my dad was so intent on…who even knows…that he didn’t realize that his huge lawn mower (from 1994) was headed straight over an enormous coil of garden hose but eh, I’m not one to judge someone who daydreams and gets themselves into predicaments.

Ahem.

It should be said that for a Brooklyn boy, my father loves the outdoors. LOVES LOVES LOVES! When New York gets cold and dreary and everyone is like OH MY HELL WHERE IS THE SPRING, my dad is hanging outside in a flannel shirt with a puffy vest shoveling snow in the middle of a blizzard, talking to himself about how wonderful life is and how God is in nature and my mother is like THAT IS FINE, I AGREE WITH YOU BUT PLEASE SHUT THE DAMN DOOR, YOU ARE GETTING SNOW INSIDE THE HOUSE. And my dad just gives her this huge thumbs up like ISN’T WINTER AWESOME? And all of us inside are just like, nope.

So I imagine my dad was mowing da lawn and dreaming about God and how Jesus is in the blades of grass that he was murdering with his mower and he wasn’t really paying attention to the garden hose which, let’s be honest, is also green and maybe blended in a little bit with his surroundings?

At this point in the story, my mom interrupted him and reassured him that it was fine that he punctured the hose with his lawnmower.

WE NEED A NEW HOSE ANYWAY! she said brightly. IT’S JUST A HOSE! YOU CAN GO TO HOME DEPOT FOR A NEW ONE! YOU LIKE HOME DEPOT!

DAT’S NOT ALL THOUGH, said my father.

He sighed heavily.

I STOPPED THE MOWA FOR A SECOND SO I COULD INSPECT DA DAMAGE TO DA HOSE AND BEFORE YOU KNOW IT, THAT MOWA WAS ROLLIN’ DOWN THE HILL AND SMASHED INTO THE BOWLDA.

…

Yes, ladies and gentleman. In a true sitcom of errors, my father turned his back on the lawnmower only to turn around too late to realize it was steadily rolling down the front hill, picking up speed before slamming mightily into the huge ass rock that has been hanging out down there since woolly rhinos roamed Long Island.

IT WAS AN OLD MOWER ANYWAY! my mom chirped, eager to let my dad know that it was alright.

I KNOW I KNOW, he moaned. I WANTED TO RUN AFTER IT BUT WIT MY HIP AND EVERYTING, I CAN’T RUN DOWN HILLS AFTER LAWNMOWAS ANYMORE.

And that is a fact, you guys.

Once you break a hip and almost die, it’s probably a good idea not to go running down hills after lawnmowers as you did so many times in your youth.

And that is the story of Hubby and how he “HAD A DAY”.

Just when I think my dad can’t get more awesome, he does.

How is this possible?

As soon as my parents heard the news that my best friend Alayna was engaged, they decided they would definitely be going to her wedding.

WE ARE SO THERE! exclaimed my mother.

This is prior to receiving an invitation, of course.

My father was still in his wheelchair then, unable to walk due to some cement in his hip from a botched surgery.

“Hm,” he said looking at the calendar. “JULY? I CAN BE STANDIN’ UP DANCIN’ IN NASHVILLE IN JULY.”

And he was.

And thus it was settled.

The Dlugs were going down South.

My parents and I booked our flights together so we could all fly out at the same time. It was a late flight on Thursday and my boyfriend and I rushed to the airport separately and met up with my parents who were sitting patiently at the gate, having arrived twelve hours beforehand as is my father’s custom to show up painstakingly early to everything lest the airline decide just to mess with you intentionally and take off hours and hours before they say they will.

Oh wait, you never heard of them doing that?

Funny. Neither have I.

My dad perked up as soon as he saw us.

GUESS WHAT? he asked.

YOUR MUTHA AND I SHOWED UP HERE AND GUESS WHAT WE FOUND ON THE FLOOR UNDERNEATH OUR SEATS? A SNICKERS BAR AND A BOTTLE OF WATA!!!

I’m sorry. What?

WE FOUND A CANDY BAR! WRAPPED AND EVERYTHING! JUST SITTIN’ DERE!

That’s great?

SO WE ATE IT, he proudly declared.

Hold. Up.

You found candy and water just sitting under your filthy seat at one of the many American Airlines gates at LaGuardia airport and you weren’t like oh maybe I should throw this out, you were all FREE FOOD?

Of course. Just. Of course.

I SAVED THE WATA THOUGH, my dad continued. IN CASE YOU WANT IT.

I’m good, I said.

I sat down next to him and moved one of his bags to the side with my foot.

HEY HEY WATCH THAT ONE, he said. DAT’S MY BALLOON BAG.

You didn’t.

I DID. I’M GONNA MAKE ALAYNA SOME BALLOONS.

And here is where I confirm what you may or may not have known, that my father is a professional balloonist.

When I was in high school, my dad got super into the clown ministry at church which should’ve possibly been weird but wasn’t because my dad has sort of always been a goofball. At any rate, before you knew it, he was dressing up in a purple wig and putting on skits for the children’s Vacation Bible School and at 14 years old I wanted to just die of mortification but I couldn’t because my dad is adorable and HE IS DRESSED UP LIKE A CLOWN IN CHURCH COME ON NOW.

Pretty soon, my dad became obsessed with all things clown. He ordered a clown costume from a catalog (blue wig this time, no red nose, he painted that on himself with face paint, blue orange and yellow polka dot pants, etc.) and started watching VHS tapes of magic tricks and how to twist balloon animals and thus, a star was born in the name of one Floppy The Clown, named after the floppy disk of course because my dad is a nerd.

And also has a doctorate in education and published eight books.

BUT DID YOU KNOW HE BALLOON TWISTS???

Because that is his proudest accomplishment.

When he heard Alayna was getting married, he packed his bags for Nashville and yes indeed, that included his BALLOON BAG! full of balloons and an air pump because, what? Try and tell me you don’t do the same.

Within the first few minutes of Alayna’s wedding reception, my dad took in the scene.

LAWRA, YOU TINK DOSE KIDS MIGHT WANT A BALLOON?

It’s definitely possible, dad.

YOU TINK I SHOULD GO GET MY BAG FROM THE CAR?

GO FOR IT, DAD.

So dad got his balloon bag.

And he stood in a corner at the reception while everyone mingled and soon had a line of children and adults waiting patiently for a balloon animal.

Throughout the course of the evening, flashes of color would appear, balloons somewhat magically drifting throughout the wedding. A green flower on someone’s table, a wide-eyed ladybug on a wrist, a bright yellow alien guy my dad calls “The Hitchhiker” attached to someone’s head, twirling around the dancefloor. My father, doing what he does best, spreading joy and life wherever he goes.

WHAT A GREAT IDEA, some woman next to me exclaimed. ALAYNA HIRED A PROFESSIONAL BALLOONIST.

Yeah, I said, proud as can be.

That’s my dad.

New York City is a crowded place. There’s mobs of people clogging up the sidewalks, five people fighting over the same taxi, a line of people around the block outside the Ugg store. (Seriously.)

As such, at restaurants, I often find that I’m sitting VERYCLOSE to people I don’t know. On most occasions, this is alright! Once you’re engaged in conversation with the person you’re with, you can kind of tune out the people around you, even if they’re seated within inches of you. It’s not ideal, but I’ve learned to adapt.

This weekend, however, my boyfriend and I could not escape the Loud Obnoxious LET ME TELL YOU MY LIFE STORY New Yorkers who were just, everywhere.

On Saturday night, we were able to excuse ourselves from the intimate details of a certain celebrity’s personal chef who was just NOT DOING WHAT THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE DOING AND I CALLED JOHN AND I SAID JUST FIRE HIM ALREADY BUT JOHN WOULDN’T…

We were subjected to about 20 minutes of this conversation before our heads exploded and the waiter re-seated us a few tables away because dear Lord, John’s not going to fire the personal chef and I really, really am not interested. (The restaurant was also clearing out and we got to sit in a booth and DAMNIT IF I DON’T LOVE A BOOTH.)

Sunday morning at brunch we were not so lucky. Since we ordered our food already, the hostess said it would mess things up too much to move tables and that was fine, I don’t want you to think I’m constantly asking to move seats because that’s almost as obnoxious but OH MY GOD if you could’ve heard these two girls chattering next to us for the entire length of our meal.

Well, one was chattering incessantly. The other just seemed to be…tolerating her. (Which was interesting to observe. Have you ever been stuck in a conversation like that? Where the other person just goes and goes and goes and doesn’t really give you any space to answer? Or doesn’t really ask you any questions about your life? I have. And it is awful. And happens in my extended family CONSTANTLY. So I suppose I should just admit right now that that is a huge button of mine to begin with. MOVING ON.)

One girl took the train in from New Jersey and I got the impression the two of them were friends from…college? Maybe? Somewhere long ago? Because the entire conversation was either about the New Jersey girl’s daughters, Madison and Olivia! and EVERY SINGLE PERSON SHE COULD THINK OF that they both knew and their various ailments, ugly weddings, injuries, etc.

My boyfriend and I decided to be as zen as possible about it but the girl was just speaking so loudly that our conversation was constantly punctuated by the most insane sentences. They were so sort of…over the top that my boyfriend actually said that if I blogged it, no one would believe me because people in real life don’t talk about crackwhores and seizures in the SAME CONVERSATION.

Oh, but that girl from New Jersey did.

Here’s a sample of what we listened to while digging into some omelets:

She was just having all these unexplained seizures but it sounds like from what the doctor said it was totally normal. Sometimes, people just have seizures.

Oh God, that wedding was hideous. NOTHING MATCHED. I am telling you, NOTHING. But, story for another day.

No, she’s the one whose son has LEUKEMIA. But it’s fine.

Madison and Olivia are both in hip hop class! IT IS SO CUTE. I mean Maddy is kind of at that awkward stage where she’s developing a little? So I had to buy her a bra? Not a real bra! Like a little training bra? LET ME TELL YOU: I CRIED. MY LITTLE MADISON! WITH BOOBIES!

Well apparently that’s what she’s like now after she got hit by that car. I know! HIT BY A CAR.

No, she is like a straight up crackwhore. I know. I KNOW. Well. I don’t know if the crackwhore part is true exactly but someone said she was selling drugs and she seemed to think she could get lots of money for the drugs because she was hot? I just think she’s the sort of person who will do ANYTHING for money so, yeah.

IT WAS SO CUTE! We took the girls to Disneyworld and their favorite parts were the train! I told Olivia I was taking a train to the big city today and it was SO CUTE because she LOVES TRAINS.

…

Trains and crackwhores, people.

Now, I realize I am being…possibly…snarky. And rude. Maybe that girl just…had a lot to say. Maybe she doesn’t get out much. Maybe she doesn’t realize the volume of her voice. All things could be true.

So in an effort to not make this about OH GOD THAT GIRL WHO WOULD NOT SHUT UP, may I ask, what is proper etiquette here?

Is it rude to ask someone in a restaurant to dial their volume down?

I would’ve asked if I had been on an airplane with such a person (DEAR GOD JUST IMAGINING AN AIRPLANE RIDE WITH THIS WOMAN IS GIVING ME ANXIETY) or something like that. But in a restaurant, is (discreetly!) asking the host to switch your table the only option? Do you kind of have to just focus on your croissant and laugh about it later?

I realize that choice comes into play here, just as with any annoyance that has the potential to obstruct your life – you can own the fact that it bothers you and you can choose whether or not to let it ruin your morning. I was lucky enough that I (mostly) found the entire thing incredibly amusing (if overwhelmingly grating on my nerves). But I got a good laugh out of it and my boyfriend enjoyed strolling down the street later randomly blurting out A CRACKWHORE! and SEIZURES ARE NORMAL!

I do realize it was up to us to choose to let the anger/annoyance go and just get over it.

But I guess I’m wondering if there was anything else that could be done.

I just imagined that if I asked her if she could keep her voice down, it would probably be awkward sitting next to her for the rest of the meal. So it was better NOT to speak up?

And yet, my God. SHE WAS TALKING SO LOUDLY. About…so many strange things.

What say you? Speak up? Ignore? Blog about it later? CRACKWHORE.

Go.

On any given day, on any given busy New York City street, I am stopped regularly by people who want my money people who want to change the world.

“Do you have a second for Children International?” some eager fresh out of college kid asks me.

I’m supposed to say yes and then they will energetically recite some schpiel about why Children International is amazing and I can sign up to give them money every day for the rest of my life! Awesome!

“Sorry!” I say instead and sometimes the volunteer (do they get paid to do this?) waves and says thanks and sometimes I’m subjected to a few more tries as they frantically call after me down the street.

“It’ll only take a second! I know you want to help! YOU’VE GOT A GREAT SMILE!!!”

Well thank you sir, I think that’s true but I have no interest in saving the children.

Well I do, of course but I can’t save everyone and money is tight and I’M SORRRRYYYYY.

Often, my guilt gets the better of me and I feel horrible for blocks because I didn’t have a minute to stop for Gay Rights. I felt so bad in fact about dismissing this specific cause that I actually turned around one time after declining and gave a thumbs up shouting “I’M IN A RUSH BUT I LOVE YOU GUYS!!!” reassuring the volunteer (who was most likely not even gay himself) that I was no homophobe! Not me! Me? I’m just busy!!! Love the gays though! Smooches!

While these people are mostly nice about it, wishing me well and moving on, sometimes stuff just gets weird. This past weekend in Chicago, someone stopped me and my boyfriend wanting to know if we had a second for Greenpeace. We didn’t. And as we were walking away, the guy just yelled out “WELL. YOU BOTH LOOK LIKE AN AD FOR LENSCRAFTERS!!!”

Well. We both wear glasses so that is very observant of you, my good man. But are you complimenting us? Or is that a weird dig trying to make us hate ourselves enough to turn around and donate some money? “YOU’RE RIGHT! WE DO WEAR FANCY DESIGNER GLASSES! WE SHOULD GIVE MONEY TO GREENPEACE!!!”

I…hm.

My friend Sylvi told me a few months ago that whenever people stop her, she just goes, “Sorry! I’m pregnant!” and they immediately back off and go SORRY!!!

???

How does this work?

People just give pregnant women a break as a general rule? She’s not showing yet so maybe they think she’s feeling too queasy to stop? Or they’re okay giving her a pass because pregnant people can’t be expected to donate money to worthy causes, SHE’S GOT DIAPERS TO BUY. ?!!?!?

All I have to do is use the pregnancy card and I stop getting badgered by sweet looking people in matching t-shirts supporting a worthy cause!?

Sylvi insists it works. Every time. And thus, I finally got up the gumption to give it a try with a perky girl who got all up in my face with an EXCUSE ME, MA’AM DO YOU HAVE A SECOND FOR–

And I blurted out SORRY, I’M PREGNANT without bothering to hear what cause she was supporting.

Guess what specific organization makes the ‘Sorry, I’m pregnant!’ excuse completely awkward?

Planned Parenthood, that’s who.

Because….now that volunteer is confused. She said Planned Parenthood, I confessed a pregnancy to her out of nowhere so she stares at me, mouth agape like OH CRAP as if I am going to grab her and beg her for an abortion right there on the street.

And then it’s like oh my God! No! I’m not coming to you for help with my pregnancy! I mean, it’s a fake pregnancy! I’m not actually pregnant! I just don’t like being harassed on the street! I have three nickels in my bag, hold on one second. NO REALLY TAKE THE NICKELS. You can’t? OKAY. I REALLY HAVE TO GO.

Ahem.

The moral of the story boys and girls is don’t tell lies.

Not even tiny white pregnancy lies to strangers trying to take your cash.

Carry on.

Guys!

What’s up!?

I spent this past weekend in Chicago because…wait for it…I had another wedding to go to!

I am super into everyone getting hitched right now. I’m just wondering if everyone can, like, take a break. For a bit. Thank you in advance.

I just need a little while to recharge and then I will gladly glide back onto the dance floor because I THROW MY HANDS UP IN THE AIR SOMETIMES, etc. But man. Right now, my hands are tired.

Chicago was the greatest city! I had never been! I have so many exclamation points for that town!!! COME ON NOW.

I didn’t get nearly enough time there so I’m eager to go back. Probably not in the winter. I hear it’s…windy and cold.

Though, when you spend 3.5 years of your life in Buffalo, New York, when you hear something like that, you’re kind of like “And…???”

LAKE EFFECT SNOW, WHERE YOU AT!? I MISS YOU! (I DON’T.)

Chicago in September is lovely and we had a great time walking up and down Michigan Avenue, going to see a play at Steppenwolf (it won the Pulitzer Prize for drama this year and it floored me) and checking out Marilyn Monroe’s underpants.

For the first time in awhile, getting on a plane was rather uneventful. I feel like every time I’ve taken a trip (which admittedly, has been pretty frequently) there are about 4 hours of delays or people acting insane or the flight attendant making a casual announcement like “Something in the cabin broke. We need to, uh, replace it. And then we can go.”

THAT IS VAGUE.

THAT IS TERRIFYING.

And that actually happened a few months ago.

This time, it was rather smooth sailing except for this really ridiculous girl who rushed past me and my boyfriend in the airport in New York and knocked over a CAUTION: WET FLOOR sign. It made a loud smacking sound on the ground and she looked back at it and then:

She giggled.

And kept walking.

??? I…what?

We picked it up and shrugged like, maybe she’s in a rush?

But no. She was on our flight. We took notice of her because she was sprawled across three seats taking a nap for the majority of the flight. I bet you if my mom was on the plane with me, she would’ve woken that girl up and been all EXCUSE ME? I NOTICED YOU KNOCKED OVER A SIGN. AND YOU DID NOT PICK IT UP. THAT’S NOT EXACTLY WHAT I CALL CHRISTIAN BEHAVIOR YOUNG LADY!!!

Mom, where were you when I needed you!?

Other than that, I’m a little sad to be back in New York (which is not a familiar sentiment) but feel kind of excited about the weather cooling off. I have plans to really get my ass in gear this fall in terms of writing. My first step is to try and blog more regularly. A strict schedule has never really worked for me as then I find I’m just blogging to blog and everyone is all SNOOOOOZEFEST!

But summer is over.

And it’s time to write some stuff.

And buy an obnoxiously smelly candle called something like “SPICED CARAMEL APPLE CIDER PUMPKIN”.

What are your plans for the fall, you guys!?

I miss Chicago!

One of the things we all love the most about my father is the way that he is easily impressed. It doesn’t take much for the man to exclaim ARE YOU KIDDIN’ ME? DIS IS UNBELIEVABLE!!!!

And he’s talking about…soup.

Or something like that.

So, bigger things like vacations and actual FASCINATING FACTS! don’t just excite him, they friggin’ BLOW HIS MIND.

His reactions to things are pretty much what I live for so I was so excited to be able to follow him around Nashville for close to a week just watching him freak out over everything.

DER WAS A FLOOD IN DOWNTOWN NASHVILLE LAST YEAR!? 15 FEET OF WATA?! (water.) NO KIDDIN’.

DOSE ARE JOHNNY CASH’S BOOTS!? OH MAN.

DER’S AN AMY GRANT/VINCE GILL CHRISTMAS SHOW AT DA RYMAN IN DECEMBA? WE SHOULD COME BACK!

Etc. Etc.

I was sort of prepared for the hilarity of all of this. What I wasn’t prepared for was what I like to call The Time My Dad Had The Time of His Life At A Subway Sandwich Shop.

We had about an hour to find some lunch the day before Alayna’s wedding as we were helping her set up various things at the church. So, we drove in search of something quick and came upon a Subway which is the only place in Nashville Sylvi (another bridesmaid) and I could eat as we don’t eat Huge Chunks of Meat. My parents came along and we split up – my dad, Sylvi, myself at Subway. My mom? She bought her lunch next door at the Baskin’ Robbins because nothing stands in the way of that woman and her sweet tooth. NOTHING.

Up until this moment, at 66 years of age, my father had never been to a Subway.

HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE? wondered Sylvi who is from the Pacific Northwest.

I offered some really bizarre explanation about how New Yorkers don’t really eat at Subway? At least, I never did until I went to college because New Yorkers are big into their delis. And why on earth would you spend money on some really sketchy looking meat when you can go to the deli and go nuts with your Boarshead turkey and get something SUPER DELICIOUS dripping with mayo, amirite New Yawkas!?!?! COME ON.

Anyway. My dad, being a Brooklyn man, had not frequented a Subway so when we walked into the one in Nashville, he was freaking out.

First, he was freaking out in an anxious way. Dad took one look at the line and how you have to choose your bread first and your cheese next and ON AND ON and was like LAWRA WHAT DO I DO!? WHAT IS HAPPENING!? He was endearingly quite nervous until Sylvi and I found a menu and handed it to him and calmed his OCD down. ITALIAN HERB AND CHEESE, he remarked with relief. DAT SOUNDS PERFECT.

And thus, my Brooklyn father, in a land of Southerners, stepped up to the counter and ordered his sandwich.

All was normal for awhile – he chose his bread, he chose his meat, he picked some cheese.

And then something happened that he was completely unprepared for.

The woman behind the counter asked him if he would like his sandwich toasted.

WELL.

You would’ve thought that this woman had told him that she was going to pay off his mortgage and send him on a three year adventure across the world.

TOASTED. SHE WANTED TO KNOW IF SHE COULD TOAST HIS SANDWICH.

And my father, who thought that that was the NICEST most UNEXPECTED THING that could ever happen to him was caught totally off guard and because he was in shock and also because he is kind of going deaf, he ended up screaming at the woman:

TOASTED!?!?!? DAT WOULD BE FANTASTIC!!!!!!

And the woman just stared blankly at him wide-eyed like what in the holy hell!?

And dad excitedly turned around to me and Sylvi like ITALIAN HERB AND CHEESE BREAD? AND SHE IS GONNA TOAST IT!? CAN YOU BELIEVE WHAT IS HAPPENING!?

Sylvi, who had met my parents just hours before, pretty much fell on the floor of Subway laughing and never got up. I think she’s still there.

The rest of the day, my dad was going on and on about how the lady toasted his sandwich, as if he was the only one she had asked. As if no one at Subway EVER asks such a thing. He also couldn’t get over how the cashier put his sandwich in a bag with napkins, AS THEY DO FOR EVERYONE. AS THEY DO AT EVERY SUBWAY EVER.

WOW, he said as we walked out the door, little bag of sandwich swinging on his arm, THAT WOMAN WAS SO WONDERFUL TO DO THAT FOR ME!!!

Right?

That woman rocked.

That woman was pretty much Jesus Christ himself.

MY DAD, LADIES AND GENTLEMAN!!!

What an awesomely hilarious, incredibly strange man.

Ah, I am so lucky to be in his presence sometimes.

In the photographic sense, I had a really lazy August so there aren’t many pictures. Favorites include the second half of my ten day trip to Nashville, my cousin’s baby Giulia who came over to visit from Rome and I smooshed her incessantly and my dad reading the paper by candle light having lost power to Hurricane Irene. Who, I think, ended up being Tropical Storm Irene by the time she hit us. (Can I just have an aside here about how ANNOYED people got that it wasn’t as destructive as predicted in NYC? Just…why are you annoyed by that? I want to punch you.)

(Also, during the hurricane weekend, I was trapped indoors at a family reunion and I just want you guys to know that according to people I’m related to, that earthquake a few weeks ago in Virginia? Wasn’t actually an earthquake. It was a bomb terrorists planted underground.)

(I’LL JUST GIVE YOU A MOMENT FOR THAT REASONABLE THEORY TO SINK IN.)

(YOU’RE WELCOME.)

Um, other than that, August was lazy and so was I because I didn’t take many pictures. The End. Back to regular blogging tomorrow!

Lately.

I know, that’s weird. ME, RIGHT? I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY.

I just.

Feel more like listening.

Anyone have anything they want to share?

Any questions?

Comments?

Concerns?

I could use some cheering up! Last week with the twins nearly knocked me senseless. Am bumping ‘having children’ down further on my life list.

Other than that, I’m trying to figure out how I’d like to spend these last few weeks of summer.

You?

(c) weheartit.com

You guys! What’s up for your weekend!?

Thanks for the congratulations on my last post! I am just so freaking excited! YEAH.

In other news, I spent this week living at the twins’ house because their mom was out of town and I am tired, people. Do you know kids get up early? THEY DO. SURPRISE! One of them seems to be able to sleep ’til a reasonable 6:30/6:45 (WHAT THAT IS NOT REASONABLE) but the other is just like HEY IT’S 5:50, EVERYBODY UP LET’S PARTY.

No, child. That’s not alright.

The first few nights, I stupidly stayed up until my usual 11 pm/midnight and then realized that my soul was being crushed the entire next day so I started going to bed at 9.

Nine o’clock, you guys.

I feel…like an old person.

But a well rested old person.

Because when a little voice taps you on the shoulder at 5:45 in the morning and is all, LAURA, CAN I PLAY THE Wii? I’m all, dude, you can set the house ON FIRE for all I care, it is SO EARLY GO AWAY.

Needless to say, I have not been pleasant to be around this week.

I am insanely curious about how parents actually do this sleep deprivation thing for months, years at a time. It is possibly the thing I am most afraid about in regards to maybe having children one day, except for pooping on the delivery table. And I’m not afraid in a whiny way like BUT I USED TO SLEEP IN AND GO TO BRUUUUUUNCH KIDS ARE SO ANNOYING.

But I’m afraid because I am seriously a different person on even one less hour of sleep. And I cannot imagine the person I would be on consistently much less than that, particularly with a newborn who is getting up constantly to like, use my body as a snack. I know this is something I do not have to worry about right now but…how do people DO this? My mom says you adjust and take naps if you can and you walk around in a daze, whatever. She was also lucky to have my dad as he’d let her sleep in on the weekends and catch up.

But…God.

I’m afraid I will like, ruin my baby. Drop it into the washing machine, say. Because I’m too tired and not paying attention. TELL ME, PARENTS. HOW THE HECK DO YOU MAKE IT WORK?

Today is my last day with them and I am pretty sure I am going to sleep the entire weekend. Which is fine because apparently a hurricane is heading towards New York City and is going to carry me away and I feel like that’s alright as long as I can SLEEP.

I am rambling but after a week with them, I am entirely serious – how do you do this, you guys? The answer for me has been: iced coffee and going to sleep at 9 pm.

Is this the life I have to look forward to in a few years?

If ‘yes’, I think I can deal with it because this one time? A few days ago? I took the boys to this craft store place to make soap?

And you get to pick the scent of the soap and we spent a lot of time sniffing the samples, seeing what we wanted our soaps to smell like. Cantaloupe? Peppermint? Birthday cake?

We finally decided and I could not have laughed harder when we walked up to the counter and the lady asked one of the twins which scent he’d like and the adorable almost 7 year old eagerly chirped, “I WOULD LIKE MY SOAP TO SMELL LIKE ‘FRESHLY WASHED MAN’, PLEASE.”

Oh. My. God.

Kids are the best thing ever.

Well. They would be. If they would sign a contract with me promising to sleep until 10 am every day.

The End.

What’s up for your weekend, guys? Do you have kids? Do you ever sleep? Are you scared of the hurricane?

My cousin Tom is in town today for almost a week and I am SO EXCITED TO HANG OUT WITH HIM!! He probably smells like freshly washed man. What? I should stop typing now.

BYE.

The upside to getting up early is getting to have breakfast at a super empty City Bakery.

Seems like since I moved to this crazy city to pursue an acting career, people around me would occasionally throw out “You should do improv! YOU CAN BE FUNNY!” and I would promptly ignore them because I was busy doing other things. LIKE HANGIN’ WIT MAH BOOOOOOYFRIEND!

No. But. Just other things. Like taking music theater audition classes and voice lessons and ON AND ON.

I also stayed away from improv mostly because unlike a lot of people, I never did improv. My high school did not have an improv team, I did not take an improv class in college so with the exception of like, Drew Carey I had no idea what improv was or why I should learn to do it. So I just smiled and was like I GUESS MAYBE PROBABLY NOT? and went on with my life, as you do.

Over two years ago, I finally buckled down and signed up for an Improv 101 class at Upright Citizens Brigade and I am going to be honest with you: it was not because I was finally like THIS IS HILARIOUS! I AM MEANT TO DO THIS! It was because my commercial agent was like uh, you should probably go take improv classes because all commercials are improvised now.

Yes. It was a business move. Not motivated by, like, passion for my art. And stuff. Or anything.

GOD MY STORYTELLING IS JUST SUPERB, RIGHT GUYS?

So I showed up and I want to tell you that it clicked for me and I was SO SO GOOD AT IT! and I was all WHY HAVE I NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE?! IMPROV MAKES MY SOUL SOAR!

Reality: I was a terrible improviser.

As in, I did not understand it at all.

I was sort of like WAIT, ONE SECOND, I AM GOING TO MAKE SOMETHING UP? AND IT HAS TO BE FUNNY? CAN SOMEONE PLEASE HAND ME A SCRIPT AND TELL ME WHERE TO STAND? THANK YOU.

I would get this awful churning in my stomach about a half hour before every class and I don’t even know why I kept going because I felt kind of miserable the entire time.

I suppose I kept going back because every so often…it was fun.

When I could stop being so self-conscious…I had a really, really good time.

I also realized that I was bad at it, that it did not come easy to me and that super duper pissed me off because I am a perfectionist who would like a gold star please thank you! so when 101 was over, I signed up for 201. And then 301. And then 401 which is the highest you can go unless you get passed onto the Advanced Study program.

I was not passed onto the program.

I was upset by this but not surprised because I still didn’t think I was a very good improviser. I was learning, of course I was! But I was not really Advanced Study material.

So I decided to stop.

And I formed a practice group with some of my classmates.

And once a week, with a coach, we would just improvise.

That is correct. We would rent a room and make stuff up for two hours. BECAUSE THAT IS A LEGIT WAY TO SPEND SOME TIME, YOU GUYS.

And outside of the classroom environment?

IT WAS THE BEST. TIME. I. EVER. HAD.

There was no more pressure to BE THE BEST! There was no teacher in front of me to give me notes! There was nothing to do but be the craziest person I could be and I relished that and I felt myself opening up and breaking down the barriers of YOU MUST BE PERFECT! YOU MUST NOT FAIL! And instead I just was ridiculous and often I sucked so much that it was hilarious and I DIDN’T EVEN CARE.

(Here is where you picture the year I spent doing this passing by in a rapid movie montage with an upbeat pro-fem song playing in the background while I make funny faces and jump into the air and show you JUST! HOW! GREAT! I! FEEL!)

During this time (GOSH THIS GOT SO FORMAL ALL OF A SUDDEN), I decided to try my hand at musical improv as well which is basically still making stuff up BUT ALSO MUSIC. As in, making up scenes and then also melodies and lyrics.

Once again, I was super, super bad at this. AND YET, thanks to my practice group, I just tried to have the best time of my life and I showed up and I made up songs and it felt so good to sing again. Really, really sing. FOR FUN. And not in front of people who might want to put me in a show! Just sing! For the glory of singing! IT WAS LIKE CHURCH CHOIR PRACTICE ALL OVER AGAIN! EAGLES’ WINGS, GUYS. EAGLES’ WINGS.

A year passed. (As previously evidenced by the imaginary movie montage.)

I signed up to take 401 again at UCB.

This time, I passed into Advanced Study.

Simultaneously, I went through the entire musical improv program at The Magnet Theater. I finished the final level last week. And this past weekend, they held auditions for their house musical improv teams. Meaning, these teams perform every single Tuesday night at the theater. FOR FUN. FOR PEOPLE WHO WANT TO COME SEE THEM.

I received word yesterday afternoon that I was placed on one of those four teams.

I am now on an official improv team.

At a theater.

And I will be performing there just about every other Tuesday evening.

This all strikes me as insane and awesome and has made me just the happiest girl in the entire world.

Most importantly, it feels rewarding.

Because it wasn’t luck. Or chance.

It was earned by pure hard work.

I tried something, I wasn’t very good at it, I chose to stick with it and get better, I took a pause and found the joy in it, I came back around, I observed those around me and soaked up what they had to show me. Sometimes I was really funny. And sometimes I was really, really bad.

Improv.

Improve.

I improved.

And now I get to sing and be silly on a stage, twice a month. Which is really all I’ve ever wanted to do with my life out of anything in the entire world since I was 11.

It looks different than it did then. It’s not Broadway and it doesn’t pay anything.

But it is Freedom.

And Bliss.

And I’ll take it.

Because I worked hard for it.

So, I just wanted you to know that when you put in some effort and you put your head down and push through the yucky stuff, occasionally a super bright wave of AmazeAwesomeFantasticalness shows up for you.

And you can hop on it and yell THANKS! and ride it where you need it to go.

I am so super happy, you guys.

I thought you might like to know.

For proof that I am not a liar, here.