Does anyone offer teach Laura how to be sexy classes?

Last night I was cock-tailing for the AOL holiday party at the New York Stock Exchange. The front door had long, red carpets for the celebrities to walk down, and the line of paparazzi taking pictures. When it came seven o'clock, the camera lights illuminated the whole front entrance, as each important face walked through the door. I made sure to pass out drinks towards the entrance, in order to snag some eye contact and potential conversation with the elite of NYC.

My first victim was Brendan Fraser, asking me if that was water, and me telling him it was vodka. I knew what he really meant, " Can I take you on a date and make you famous?" I responded with my independent eyes, " No Mr. Fraser, I can't just use you for your money and fame, I want to be poor and I like having nobody know who I am." Actually, I am lying, our eyes were having so many conversations, I couldn't keep up. I hate when my eyes speak faster than my lips.

Then, I see these gorgeous pair of teeth walk towards me. They are white, glistening from the lights. I am suddenly blinded by the gorgeous pearly whites, but I still manage to offer them a cocktail. He says no thank you, and it is then and there, that I realize that this man is winking at me. It was a full of confidence wink. And this confident winker is P.Diddy formerly known as Puff Daddy. I tell him that his speech that he just made was beautiful, but I don't think he heard the last part of the sentence. It's hard to hear when you are walking away.

I tell the gentleman beside me, P.Diddy doesn't listen to me the way he use to. I think the gentlemen beside is also hired staff, and they will laugh at my wittiness, but no. No they are not hired staff, and no they were confused by my statement. I try and explain that I don't really know P.Diddy, etc, but the thing about a joke is if you have to explain it gets more and more painful. But, our conversation is luckily saved by an interruption by P.Diddy.

Turns out, I am talking to Jace the Great, which is a member of Bill Cosby's new rap group. He starts telling me how hard it is for an artist, I start telling him my sob story about not becoming famous in the five months I’ve been in NYC. He tells me, " There were days when I didn't think my life was going anywhere, but I would still rap. If you want to act, you have to make it an everyday thing, and ALWAYS do it. Don't stop doing it." He then told me, if I ever needed any advice to feel free to talk to him. I went on to tell him, if he ever wanted to turn my story into a rap song, just let me know.

However, I don't know if he wanted me to send mind messages to him or what. He didn't give me his contact information. But, regardless, Jace the Great, enjoyed my company and wished me the best of luck.

I ended the night feeling rather envious of the rich and famous. Dreaming of the day I would walk down the aisle of cameras, giving young people hope.

Suddenly, my daydream is interrupted by the vibration of my phone. It is the Executive Producer I've been working for. He asks me if I'd like to audition for the sexy vamp spokesmodel for Fuse TV. I tell him I can fit him in tomorrow at 11...he tells me to really "vamp it up"....

I wear my best lady gaga outfit, and prance on in there. I listen to hard core rap, to really get in touch with my sexy side. I walk into this room that is all white, and they tell me to walk with music and look side to side. I feel goofy, finding myself wanting to go into my 14 year old self, that makes it into a joke. But, I try and focus. I act like a tiger searching for prey. Perhaps, my catwalk was too much. I'll try again, now I'm like a flamingo resting in a pond, hopping down the aisle. Again, maybe this isn't sexy. I'm running out of animals, time and inspiration. I produce the last thing I have left to produce, a wolf lurking in a dark forest. Every man is driven crazy with desire when it comes to the wolf walk. When I get done, the casting director says to me, " Ok, that was good, now let's try to do it with confidence." Telling someone to do something with confidence is the equivalent of telling someone to not smell something because it stinks. Inevitably that person will be like, eww let me smell. And, nobody has ever in their life looked at a wolf and been like that's an insecure wolf. So, either I wasn't the wolf I imagined, or she's lying. I decide to just drop the wolf choice, and return to tiger in a cage. Before leaving, I pick up my pride that I accidently dropped on the floor.


I call my cheerleader, aka mom, and she tells me, " This seems to be coming up a lot, do you think you could find some classes that teach sexy."

Interesting. Very Interesting. I am now going to pay someone to teach me how to be sexy, and I am wondering if this is insulting or if it is like piano lessons. I was going to call my "friend" and ask him about my sexiness, but really someone can't know your ability unless you show them. He thinks I'm sexy when I'm reading a book, but I don't think I could bring a book on set.

Plus, nobody can know who you are or what you are capable of, only you know that. So, really we just look to other people's opinions to tell us what we already know about ourselves. Because we want affirmation in what we believe to already be true.

I had a spiritual mentor tell me one time how important fellowship is within a church. It is important to pray and have your intimate individual relationship with God, but it is also important to surround yourself with people that have the same beliefs as your own. I think this is true not only with your relationship to God, but with your relationship with yourself. It's important to have people that believe and see yourself as you see yourself.


Moral of the story: I'm looking for people to tell me I'm sexy.

Just call me Lassie....

After a long day's work, all you want is to sit down to a nice comforting meal. I live across the street from my grocery store, so in the evenings, I'll usually run in and get the essentials. I use to walk through the grocery check out line with an arm full of organic treats and kashi snacks. You know you're financially stable, when your grocery cart is full of fresh veggies, fresh hand cut fish filets, delicate pieces of fruit to dip in greek yogurt...a nice bottle of wine. ( Maybe a fresh loaf of bread from the bakery)....nice herbal teas, flavored coffee creamer.

Anyways, I was perusing the grocery store, enviously starring into other people's carts. I opened my wallet, just to make sure I still had my three dollars in quarters. So many choices, will I have ramen noodles, a can of tuna, or some vegetarian baked beans, or dog food? I am not going to lie, canned filet mignon does sound tasty. I put the beans in my basket, but secretly I was gazing and longing for the dog food.

This is when I realized, I have hit a new low. I am fantasizing about the taste of the sauce that glazes dog meat that is squeezed into a can. I decided to get myself under control, I will not eat dog meat. I grab the canned beans and left in a furious wind of hunger. The whole way to the exit door, the divine dog meat tempting and arousing my taste-buds.

I go to the gym to distract my hunger pains. I imagine myself on the side of the street with a sign that reads, " feed me" and people throw dog food at me, they think they are insulting me, but on the inside I am smiling. I smile because I am so happy to have meal, so happy that someone cared.

While I am running my little hungry body to starvation, I look up at the TV screen. It's the same dog food appearing in a commercial! It looks so tastey, the way it lays in that dog bowl. The way veggies are all mixed in with the meat. I am jealous of this dog. Not only does this dog have my acting career in commercial work, he is eating all the food he wants. He didn't do anything, except he was born a dog. I went to college to do what this damn dog is doing. And, the dog is eating better than me.

I didn't know rather to cry or laugh that I was jealous of lassie. I wonder if that dog has headshots, or a reel that he worked on forever. NO, cause that's silly. Nobody expects a dog to do work, all they need to do is show up.

If I was born a dog, I'd be the best dog ever. I'd let you love on me whenever you wanted. I'd eat and eat, and I'd always greet you when you came home with a smile. Not to mention, I'd make sure I was in every commercial. YOu would try and play fetch, and I would run to the studio instead. I would act all confused, how lost puppies do. But, I would know exactly where I was and what was going to happen next. I would accidently run into the studio. Accidently throw myself in front of the rolling camera, and hello new and improved lassie.

But instead I was created to be this girl that looks like every other ingenue, except the other ones can sing. And, the other one apparently can find survival jobs. Oh, the dogs and the actresses with their good food and commercial work.

I will be that dog one day, I know it!

Hair Nets aren't good for your self-esteem.

So, this upcoming story, is a story I am ashamed to tell. It is a story that happened a couple of weeks ago....

I want to add a disclaimer that, post this horror story, I was production coordinator for Katie Couric, and worked personally with her. By worked personally with her, I mean I watched her from a distance, and smiled at her when she looked my way. I even offered her a chip out of my favorite sun dried tomato sun chip bag. Then talked to her before and after the shoot, posed for pictures, discussed colon cancer.....

Ok, so now that i have earned your respect, and we both understand that I am a big deal, I feel I can continue with this story.

It was a sunny day full of promise. I was finally going to be seen as something other than a retarded waitress, that occasionally got your order right. I was going to be a tradeshow model for an up and coming multi millionaire dollar company. My ego was stroked, every time I told the story, to my peers, of what I had planned for the upcoming week for income. Yes, ladies and gentleman, I was going to be paid to be beautiful. I didn't know if hair and make up was provided, but that was okay. Because, they saw something in me, and maybe they thought my natural beauty would suffice.

The night before the big day, I laid out my outfit. You can never be too prepared when opportunity is knocking at your door ( Thank You John Shearin). I had my hair conditioned, with the good stuff, so it felt like mr. snuggles teddy bear on your finger tips. My make up, was flawless, laying out for a morning of application. My outfit, was ironed. Ok, that was a lie, but it was wrinkle free nonetheless.

They tell me to ride the subway to the hotel. To most, this would've been a red flag. I'm pretty sure Heidi Klum gets to ride a limo to her events, why do I get the subway? But, it's all a lesson in patience, so I remind myself, it's all baby steps.

I arrive at what I think will be a red carpet five star hotel, and to my surprise it is not. Instead it is a Marriot three star. I look around and see no one, not even a red carpet is lurking around in the distance. I ask the desk receptionist, where I should set up, she rolls her eyes at me and sends me to the basement. Again, Red flag number I lost count. And, I'll excuse the fact she doesn't know who I am yet. So me and my optimism take the stairs into a dark basement.

I see two older ladies sitting at the desk. Behind them is a mountain of hair nets. That's strange, the hairstylist got replaced by a hair net. It must be an event where they are making cafeteria lady the new thing. I keep seeing fashion shows like these in magazines, where they put them in homeless resembling clothes. She then proceeds to tell me to place this name tag on my shirt, where I write in permanent marker my name. I ask her, " Won't this mess up my outfit?" She laughs, and tells me it's just a sticker. RED FLAG!!! She then tells me to put my hair in a pony tail and hands me a hair net. I ask her in my sweetest southern tone, " Excuse me, but is this hair-net really nesscessary?" She aggressively attacks me with a, " OUR CLIENT REQUIRES IT!" Ok, so I'm wearing the hair net, no prob bob.

She tells me to go wait in the van. I go to the van. Where a gentleman picks me up. He tells me all about New York, and I immediately decide he should be my surrogate grandfather. He then takes me to the corner, and tells me to have fun. I assure him I will.

It was in this moment, I realize there is no fun to be had. I realize I have been lied to, deceived, and I have just been dropped off at a costco in the bronx. I am not a model. More importantly this is not a tradeshow. I try and chase grandaddy down, let me back into the van, let me rip this hair net off my head.

But, instead, granddad didn't see me. I now have no choice but to hand out food samples at Costco. Anyone that applies gets this job, I'm not special. And this damn hair net itches.

I decide to make the best of it, and make friends with one of the girls. On our break, us and our hairnets get a costco hotdog. But, when we get to the break room, she sits on the opposite side. I thought that was depressing in itself, but I was like story of my life. But, then, she starts staring at me. I smile and look down. She sat across the room staring at me the entire 30 minutes. So me and hairnet got creepers starring at us, while I sit in the breakroom of costco which is in the bronx. This is not how I envisioned this evening to unfold. Infact, this isn't really how I envisioned my life to unfold.

But, I keep my head up, because tomorrow I will be a back up dancer for Timbaland's new music video. Long story short, I get to the shoot, and they are SOOOO excited I am there, could I please run food over to dressing rooms. I politely ask when I should get ready, and they say, mumble. The answer to my question soon revealed to me that it was never. I wasn't going to be a tradeshow model, and I sure as hell wasn't going to be a backup dancer.

All I'm saying is my undergraduate training did not prepare me for hair net wearing and food delivery.

PS. Momma, I hope your still proud.

When did you give up on living?

Life is made up of hope. Nothing exists or will exist without it. Your hope turns into a belief and your belief is what makes everything real. So, I walk these dark at five in the evening streets. This is a side note, but I have lived twenty four years and have never experience it being dark a quarter till five. I can't help but blame this on being a New York thing. And, while we are on the subject, I do not like darkness. I don't like sitting in it, I don't like feeling it. The only thing the dark is good for is sleeping. And, I don't want to walk through my day feeling like it's bed time. So, sun, please come back into my life.

Anyways, I am walking along these dark cold streets. Reminds me, I don't like cold either. It's not becoming on me. I have to bundle up in six layers, and womble around. I don't like to womble. And, I have to wrap my scarf around my head like I represent the Muslim faith. People look at me, and I wonder sometimes if I'm going to be attacked, but I do plan on explaining that I have very delicate skin that can't with stand such intense temperatures. Therefor, I do wrap this thing around my head and face, as not to represent or mock their faith, put purely for survival purposes. I mean, I don't mean to sound high maintenance, but I do wish they would supply personal heaters for walking time. It's just not right to have to be so cold all the time.

So I'm walking down the dark and cold street. Another day of trying to be a discovered actress or discovered something. I give up everything for this damn art form. I give up my money, my lifestyle. I eat damn canned food for my art. I mean why can't Broadway be on the virgin islands, or somewhere warm and pleasant. But, no such luck there either.

So, another disappointing day on the train ride of life. I climb into this familiar subway, that use to be a foreign concept, but now is a daily routine. And I sit next to the new crazy of the day. At first glance, she looks like me and you. She has a coach purse that looks real. The only thing suspicious on her is her eyeshadow. It is applied rather thick, and by that, I mean it looks like she did paint by numbers. The black was really thick in her creases, and the white was really thick. Words don't explain the application of this eyeshadow. I just thought, " Oh, wish I could give her a make over." Then I continue starring at everyone else on the train.

Suddenly, I see her litter. She was on her fourth little debbie cup cake honey bun, and she throws the wrapper under her seat! I told her with my eyes to pick up that wrapper, or I would snap, but instead she throws down another one! I didn't have anything on me to retaliate with, so it turned out it was her lucky day. I do want to say though, I would loved to have had a handy portable trash can in my purse, I would've lightly tossed it toward her head. Maybe an aggressive tossed toward her head, depending on my mood, but I wouldn't of wanted the trash can to hurt her, just a thump to teach her.

But, then in mid day dream, I notice she has passed out. I realize this woman is littering because she is drunk and couldn't hold it in her limp hands any longer. She then finds the strength to open her zest crackers, but through opening them she passes out again. The battle continues, of her fighting for the crackers and her sleeping. The final attempt, she managed to get the crackers, by bringing her mouth to her hand, instead of vice versa. I was glad to see her win the cracker fight, I was about to tell the poor thing to just sit there and I'll feed her. I felt bad for her bread crumbed cheeks.

At what point did she decide that that was who she wanted to be when she grew up?

The thing I hate about this story, is it wasn't funny. It was real. It was real and it was sad and it's everywhere. There are hers on every street corner and it's all her fault. I don't know what went wrong. But, at some point she decided to stop fighting. She decided to not have hope. And the scariest part of that, is I have had those moments too where I'd like to give up. She is in all of us. We all have power, it may come easier to others, but we all have it.

This is going to sound like an awful segue, but a lot of times I confuse talent with power. More and more, I think talent doesn't exists, just like power doesn't exists, both are created.
Some people are more inclined to be powerful in certain areas. And, while it is important both professionally and relationally to listen to your inclinations, it's also important to not be defined by them. Really, the most powerful thing against us and for us, is our belief. If we give in to thinking we have lost our power, that is when the pieces fall, and we are left with zest cracker crumbs all over our cheeks. We are left with girls that don't know us, but when they grow up, they point you out of the crowd as the person they don't want to be.

I don't want to be her. I don't want her to be her. I don't want to see anyone lose hope. I don't want to see anyone not fight for what they want.

Moral of the Story: We can't let each other lose hope in our power of choice.

Because we can't afford to have people not follow through with their calling in life. We can't let people just live and take up space. It's not fair to them or us. What would the world be like if everyone made a goal of giving someone hope each day.

I know I live in fairyland, but I do think that's a nice thought.

The Turkey Killer

It's funny that people move to New York City to be heard and seen. You could bark in front of a New Yorker, you could bark and run circles and be naked, and they wouldn't flinch. They are use to the attention whores , the crazies, the penny hunters.

However, as performers and musicians, we still reside here, because to be seen here is an accomplishment. We love the chase, we love to create something that will grab your attention in a way that nobody or anything else has. The chase forces us to act in creative ways, because nobody is going to hand out anything here just because you have a pretty picture. So, if someone see's something in you, it's because you put it in there face, and made it appear to be something that would benefit them.

So, in the privacy of his own home, he decided that the world didn't need another headshot submission, that perhaps what they needed was a good laugh. Perhaps, the good laugh would get him farther than his pretty head shot or on point monologue. He knew he could rap, he knew he could make people laugh. So, he decided to marry the two and make a funny rap video. He decided that he would during this 2009 holiday season, claim his title as THE TURKEY KILLER.

Now, what is admirable about this little character of a man, is normally people would throw this idea out there and never do anything with it. But he wrote the rap song, he produced the song, he found a sound engineer, he hired a media production group... all in good faith that it would make you laugh.

Even if you don't laugh, which I don't know how you can't laugh at some good wholesome turkey killing.Or, a woman trying to seduce a man with cranberry dressing or seductively eating a chunky piece turkey breast.But, my favorite part is creepy mc creepers singing the opening song, and then randomly standing in the background waiting to attack any turkey with her guitar. And, just so you know, she is actually a gorgeous girl, which just goes to show what some make up and acting can do. Regardless, it's funny and it is respectable that someone would dream up the idea, and follow through with it.

So watch it, buy it on itunes, but mostly enjoy it. Because, the dude worked hard for it and put a lot of faith into it. For that anyone should buy the album!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ZyLEq_kOIY

Sir Boogie PICK-A-LOT

Today, on subway adventures, we have a special guest " Sir Boogie-pick -a -lot" joining us today. Upon first meeting sir pick a lot, I thought it might me a short pick. Maybe a little quick tug of war, while no one was looking. But, no, no such luck.

I enter the subway, looking around for a seat. Lucky for me there was one available next to a strapping young man. This young man wore designer lables. He looked around my age, however the mixture of gray in his hair made me wonder if maybe he was an older man trapped in a younger man's body.

I cozy on up in my seat, pull out my newest subway read, and take a deep breath. Aw what a peaceful train ride this is going to be, I assured myself.

Right then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the same strapping young man is violently picking his nose. As he starts his marathon gold dig, I quickly look at him, in order to make sure he catches the terror in my eye.

Now, it is one thing to pick your nose in the privacy of your own home, but in such close vicinity to me and my seat, is just unheard of and rude. I quickly gather my things and move to another seat, letting him know I do not approve of his behavior. When I move he stops picking, and I triumph, for I have made booger picker stop his cruel behaviors.

Aw, now it's back to me and my book. Until, again I am interrupted, because his arm quickly moves from nose, to lap, to now hair. He is playing with his hair, without wiping off the booger residue.

Now boogie hair is really a whole other story. Does he not know there are kids around. More importantly does he not know I am around. I want to scream stop, as he rotates from picking and petting his head. He teases me, I think he is finally done with this sick routine. GET HAND OUT OF NOSE! I mean I'm right here. Then she enters....

When I say she, I mean Heidi Klum herself. I mean this tall beautiful blonde that has everything put together, from the big bag to the tights to the slight heel on her tall boots. Her hair is perfect and she has her ipod in, she's probably listening to Chopin or Bach...She's just a well groomed girl. I bet she plans things and follows through with her plans. Aside from my personal girl crush on this woman, I realize this is the real test...
Will Sir boogie picker stop, when America's next Top Model is sitting right in front of him?

He makes eye contact with her. He too, notices her boots and well groomed everything. He nervously twirls his hair, there is still no insertion of hand to nose. Model Heidi isn't aware where that hand has been, to her he looks normal. Little does she know, that I know, we have a booger picker on our hands. No need to worry Model Klum, I'm already working on saving the world from yet another disastrous pick fest.

He actually looks really stressed out, that's probably why poor baby has gray hair to begin with. OH.... The booger picking is his nervous tick. Record time, it has now been five minutes and there has still been no hand to nose intercourse. I'm slightly insulted that he controlled his booger picking nervous tick with her, but with me it was full force, both hands in nose, non stop pick-a-thon.

I want to ask him, being insulted, why he stopped for her and not me? Story of my life. I'm the girl who dates the booger picker, because I realize that it's a nervous tick and love him for it anyways. Then, he dumps me. But, for the next girl, he wouldn't dare pick his nose in front of her and she tells everyone that not once in her life has she seen his hand in his nose. She doesn't even see him ever use tissue, because he doesn't have booger issues with her.

I want to tell him, excuse me, I'm worth it. I deserve to have you use tissue. I deserve for you to not have booger issues while I am around. I decide that I will not verbalize this, but he will know with my eyes, that I will not continue this subway ride with him and be the girl that understands that it is just a nervous tick. And, if I have to, I will get out at an earlier stop and walk 1.2 miles more, if it means I have made my self liberated point.

Of course he got off before I could prove my point. I never get the last word. I didn't change him. What did I do wrong? Was it the smell of work clothes, the coffee stains on my shirt? Was it the uncombed hair, the pen and paper that watched his every moved and analyzed it?

It's not me, it's him. Not every story has a moral, so sometimes we create our own morals, as to not make it a pointless adventure. The moral of booger picker train ride, maybe you should put yourself together before entering the world. We teach people what our standard of living is...If I let my flaws hang out, then it allows other people to let their flaws hang out. And, some flaws shouldn't hang out upon first encounter. In fact most flaws shouldn't come out until you are a long long way down the subway road of life.

The Subway Catcher.

Some people catch dreams, I catch moments. I am the moment catcher, and if there is a insignificant moment going on around me, I catch it and turn it into something grand. I also have a gift for catching creepers. If you are a creep, you find your way next to my seat. If you are depressed, lonely, suffering from hunger pains and just want a penny to maybe buy yourself a delicious crumb, you find your way next to me. If you haven’t seen a female in all your life and feel the need to express your love for the female sex, you find your way next to my seat.

But the reverse is true too. If you are doing something creepy and intriguing, I find my way towards you, so I can dissect your creepy behavior. I’m basically like Sherlock Holmes, except I don’t have a case, so I make one up as I stare at you.

It’s basically that me and creepey have a give and take relationship. They give me material and a way to kill my boredom, and they take from me, well they take what I’ll give them. Some days all I give them is an avoidance of eye contact. But, on my giving days, I’ll give them my left over’s or a touch of an encouraging smile.

This particular evening, was the eve of another non significant day. I was on my way home from work, and forgot to bring a book on the subway. I pull out my pad, thinking I’ll just look around and write a story about someone and then put it on my blog.

Ok, so there’s an asian woman sitting near me.  She’s not really giving me anything, not a twitch, nothing.

The train has stopped, it’s around midnight, and no one is giving me any material. Until, suddenly a balding Indian man starts humming. I wish technology would advance and I could add in a sound cue right here. And he is rocking and humming, and I am smiling and scrambling words down on the paper, “ Perfect, do something else!” I thought I hit blog gold,  but just when I thought he was going for the grand finale , the climax of my story, he just stopped.

It’s just man humming, that's not a story you boring humming man. 

Determined to make the subway ride a story, I persevere.  Suddenly I see a black and white woman, a little multiracial relationship…and they are both deaf. They are talking back and forth through sign language. She’s attacking him with her fist full of words, and he’s making jokes with his. And suddenly, they are on a rollercoaster of words, and of course probably saying things I could make a story out of…but no they had to be deaf and keep it all-private.

I started thinking about their condition, their deaf condition. While I would hate to be deaf, mainly because I couldn’t act, but also it would be hard memorizing all those words through your hands. However, I thought, how horrible would be it to be deaf AND have no hands. To have nubs. To be a deaf, nubbin  woman. How do you find your sexual being? How do you flirtatiousaly graze another man's arm when he tells a joke that isn't funny and you want to stroke his ego? 

The only thing that moves at that moment are your knees and hips. So, hypothetically, you could do a lot of circular movement, both with your hips and your knees. This limiting movement could be wrongly seen as a slutty approach to flirty ( hips, circular motion, etc.). It's just all very complicated when you introduce nubs and no ears into the picture. And, let me just say for the record I don't think flirting is the only thing you want to communicate, I just think it would be hard to date if you are a deaf  with nubs.

Ok, but back to story, I still don’t have one, and my whole day has been like that.  I have had nothing significant happen. There was build up, like the humming Indian man, and the imaginary deaf and nubs date, but metaphorically speaking there’s been no “ twitching” in my day. Nobody is even talking to themselves on this subway ride. 

I’ve decided I’m going to keep a calendar and beside it I’m going to have a yellow pen, to represent lemons ( cause there’s that saying some days are lemonade others are lemon) and on yellow days I’m just going to right sour. And, at the end of the year I’m doing to have a pie chart so I can keep track of days like these. That way each year, I can make the number less.

Moral of the story, there’s a lot of insignificant things that happen in our life’s. And if one was really to write beside each day significant and insignificant, I think you would find that there’s probably more insignificant than significant things that go on.  

A lot of times we mislabel, making someone or some event a significant representation of something we simply just want, because we are bored. We are bored with insignificant people and events, so we make things bigger than they are to satisfy our big dream hunger.

Label things correctly. This is a significant person or event that will change my life for better or worst. This is an insignificant person or event, that won’t change me at all.

Boredom is the culprit of all my greatest mistakes.

 Ok so, so change of moral: Don’t lie to oneself and make something other than it is to satisfy your boredom or loneliness. 

The Well Informed is Overrated...

The news depresses me. I have always envied the well informed individual, the one who wakes up in the morning and reads the news, meanwhile sipping on their important cup of coffee. So, this morning, feeling rather adult in my ways, I tried to adopt this ritual.

I think I'm going to never do this ritual again. It's a sick ritual and nobody should start their day with a heavy dose of bad news you have no control over. It's like BAM, al Qaeda is leaving video threats. BAM, America isn't leaving Afghanistan anytime soon. BAM, Man mauled by tiger at zoo. BAM, soldiers dead. BAM, not everyone is going to get flu vaccination. BAM, people are out of work and not knowing how they are going to support their families.

And out of all the news stories, the one most watch is David Letterman's apology for offending his wife. At first, I thought wow shallow America. But then I thought, yeah that's the only thing I can stand to read and watch at eight o' clock in the morning too.

I mean how to do you go out into the world confident, after digesting so many individuals who are defeated by circumstances. Really, I'd prefer to go back to bed than to read the news.

There was this one article on the Titanic Memorial, where they are going to have a Cruise follow the same route as the Titanic. At first, I thought ,this sounds interesting. Than, I thought, I don't know how I feel being trapped on a ship following the foot steps of a catastrophic ship wreck. It would be eery, fascinating, but too close for comfort.

That's when it hit me, it's all too close for comfort. I have family members that are out of work. I don't feel good, but don't have insurance to go to the doctor. Money and career choices are always, obsessively, on my mind. And, lately, I've noticed there are very few adults that I know that are working at their potential following their hearts desire.And, I live in a country that supports dreaming and pursuit.

Life happened, making their professional desires a luxury, and crap jobs that take advantage of you necessity. And yet socially, we recognize and honor the people that are using their gifts and getting paid for it. As if, there are some people that prefer to be your trash man or janitor, rather than pursue another career. However, being a trash man has allowed him to stay at home with his little girl when she gets off the school bus. I admire the people that have had to sacrifice what they love for the people they love. There's no ego in that, however that man knows his little girl can always rely on him to be at that bus stop. That to me is success.

Women in Rwanda, scared of getting raped, and at the same time pretending to their children that they are their protector. That's success. I wish their success wasn't that, but I find these woman much more powerful and strong than the woman I see myself becoming. I don't know if I could live in that fear and have any courage left over for my children. But women all over the world do it. My own mother does it.

I don't know what success is to me yet, but I do know I have the luxury for the time being to pursue what I am passionate about. I do know that failure is wasting that out of fear. I know that failure is becoming comfortable with waiting tables, when I have been blessed with other gifts. I do know that failure is waiting on someone else to do for me what I can do for myself.

I have this feeling that why do today what I can do tomorrow. This is especially true for things I hate, like laundry. Yeah, if I had a laundry room in my apartment, I'd love to do it. But walking a block with a heavy load, that you sometimes have to drag hunched over because it's too heavy... yeah that kind of chore always seems better fit for tomorrow. But, really, one should always do what they can as soon as it arrives, so you allow yourself more room to do more in life.

So Moral of the Blog: Don't read the news. Don't procrastinate. Don't force failure, fail out of effort.

Laura " The Mute" Buckner

If there is a faint harp playing sounds in the far off distance, I dance. If there is a drum beat from a homeless man tapping his foot, I dance.  It doesn't matter the scenario, if there is any sort of sound that sort of sounds like music, I dance. It's instinct.

Some people use pick up lines, I use pick up moves. Weddings and Cruise Ships, I really bring my two step up a notch. A bunch of lonely  people surrounded by love, feeling vulnerable and lost at sea, these situations are really were my dance moves get the recognition they deserve.  I call it dance moves, but really it's a mate calling ritual I perform to grab the eyes of potential suitors. 

When performing mate calling on the dance floor, one usually starts with a slight rotation of the hips and an isolated movement of the upper body. As the melody progresses, the body is more forceful, and if you are feeling courageous, you might add in arm movements above the head. But, again, when calling a mate, the arm movement above the head  signifies goof troop, which is not always a hit on the dance floor. I do not judge anyone for performing this move, I have been guilty of it too, but from personal experience, I have learned this is not a turn on to the opposite sex.  Also, while we are speaking of attractive dance moves, doing the stiff leg sea saw where you sort of hop like a kangaroo across the floor, is also NOT a proper move to use when trying to convince the opposite sex that you are a sexually desirable. Lastly, all the mime moves where you mime the grocery cart, mime the lawn more, lawn sprinkler, jack rabbit, all of these are better kept in the privacy of your own home, not on the mating call territory- So, I'm told. 

So, anyways, I'm at a wedding. Which I don't care if I know you or don't know you, if I am watching you get married, I am crying. It's just so  beautiful watching two people commit the rest of their lives together. Watching the two people look at each other during the ceremony, both full of inside jokes.  So, of course after watching the ceremony, I'm always convince that Mr. Perfect is around the corner, and we are going to accidently collide our spike fruit punch and I will spill mine on him and he will look into my eyes and say, " Your a mess" and I will know what he really means is, " I love you" and since the wedding is already set up I'll just borrow the dress from the girl and he can borrow the tux and we will turn their show into our show...

Ok, so anyways, when at a wedding, I feel an overwhelming amount of love. So, I proceed to the dance floor, ready to create my love fate, forgetting that my mom is off in the distance peeking at me. 

The dance floor, I'm learning, creates in me this monster, that needs attention in order to sustain life. Anyone that comes close to her dance circle gets beat up by the swing of  her hips. And it is unstoppable. I'm doing the funky chicken. I'm miming  everything from grocery cart, to toilet cleaner, to crack addict. I'm like a full power dance machine that is on auto pilot, and people gaze at it wondering when it's going to crash, but the machine never crashes. 

So, after five hours of full power machine dance moves, the party is over. I walk to the car with my mom. Yeah, my dance moves weren't the magical love wand I had anticipated.  So, dance machine sadly climbs into the car. Slightly high on attention, slightly low on the fact  I'm locked arms with mom. 

Well, then my mom says, " Laura, you give 100% on that dance floor,." I think to myself, " Aw poor thing is even proud of her peanut when she's doing the peacock and knocking down everyone that might inhibit her ability to spread her wings." But then she continues, " When really the dance floor only requires you give 50%."

She was right. I was overcompensating out of insecurity. My 50% was enough.  But, when do you know enough is enough. When do you know you don't need another coat of mascara? When do you know you don't need to lose one more pound? When do you know you've done all you can do to help the poor, to help someone? When are you just content, knowing you are exactly where you need to be, and more may come, but for right now the 50% is alright. 

I do everything at 150%, at least the things I care about. I love at that volume, I dance at that volume, I perform at that volume. But, it's too loud. 

Moral of the story:  Lower the volume so you can hear other's voices. 

There's more power in listening than being heard. 

The Pigeon Whisper

It was another glorious day in Pigeon Land New York. 

It was my first day of work and I was ready to set sail to the sea of money land that awaited me. I perfumed my body, I primped my hair, I color coordinate my pens and reapplied lip gloss. I exited the subway, determine that this first day was going to be the first of many good days.  

I put on my aviators, yeah it was cool me in cool NYC.

When suddenly I was side swiped by a tortuous water hose with enormous pour. It almost took my arm off. I immediately protected my sunglasses, didn't want the poor babies to get messed up. Then, I rapidly twitched my head around in every direction to find the source of this enormous power. 

Nothing was around me. What could've happened, I wondered. I gave up, then suddenly realied I forgot to look up.

Pigeons, about a thousand, were up there feasting and caahing and they decided they would just have their bodily fluid make a sweet little home on my arm. 

I immediately caused a dramatic scene, making sure everyone in times square knew and felt the turmoil I was feeling in that moment. Right when I cry to the skies, why why why why me... I get an answer.

The pigeon didn't pick me because I was a piece of shit that can't have anything nice, even on her first day of work that she worked so hard to have everything perfect for... The pigeon picked me because I'm lucky.

That's the beauty of New York, you can be proud here of anything. Here you feel lucky , even if it is just a pigeon and it is just using the bathroom on your arm, it picked you out of the millions of other arms. And apparently, if your a true New Yorker, you appreciate this story, because it means extreme good luck is in your near future.

Suddenly, I didn't want to wipe off my arm. Suddenly, I wanted New York to see that I got the part of pigeon toilet, not the millions of other people. It's not broadway but it's luck, and I wanted people to see that. 

So, I was telling my table of ladies today about my pigeon accident, and they just carried on and on like I was the luckiest person alive. And, I, of course carried on like I know! I know! Then one of the ladies told me there's this thing around birds, you are lucky if you find birds gravitating to you.

Ok, so I'm still on my pigeon poop high, when I walk to my next table and begin to take their order. I'm feeling really good at myself, I'm the only person working the entire resturuarant. I haven't made any mistakes yet. It is a little busy, but I'm cool and collected.

Suddenly, I see something crawl by my foot, while I'm taking some germans drink order. I then feel it, I quickly look down, IT'S A PIGEON!

I didn't want my guest to see my little friend, so I gently kicked him with my foot, ballerina like, as to not hurt the bird but hold the impression to the table that I was relaxing with them. 

The bird didn't like this gesture, for he starts cawing and then flies to the second level of the resturant. Thankfully, the germans were looking down. But, the Canadians totally saw it. They start screaming pigeon pigeon! I'm like oh I didn't see it, where did you see a pigeon?

Well, have you ever tried to chase a pigeon? It's damn near impossible. First there is the size difference, I can't weave in and out of tables and chairs. Then there's the whole flying thing. Plus,they bob their head which confuses you, cause you don't know which way they are going to turn. 

So, if you are ever in this bind, what you do is play dumb. Act like you are just standing there with no thought at all of attacking. Then you let it walk towards you and you walk towards it, slowly in the direction you want the bird to leave. It's basically like how women should go about men. However, what doesn't work is cawing and pretending you are his brother. 

So, whatever, I get the damn bird out. The canadians applaud me and the world is at peace again.

 Two pigeons, in two days,doesn't happen to everyone.  The canadians told me they believed something good was going to happen to me. 

Pigeons use to fly towards my head and I would run. But, now I know they are just coming to wish me luck. So I let them speak and I let myself listen. 

Just gonna preach for a second...or an hour...

Everyday I open my email account, expecting a response from the various agencies eager to sign me. It's always disheartening to instead find more spam mail telling me new ways to turn my tire wheel waist line into a vanishing act. This, in itself, is a whole other topic of conversation. I mean, what did they see that I am female so I MUST have self esteem issues regarding that unwanted belly fat? Because, they are absolutely right, and yes I do eat cheese wontons every night for dinner, and no I don't plan on stopping. If I get fat, I'll just say it's for a role, like Charlize Theron did, and everyone will admire me. Plus it's not fair, I mean this damn city makes me walk everywhere, so no I won't feel guilty if I want to indulge in a cheese wonton or twelve. It doesn't get me pregnant  or make me have a hang over. I'm sick of everything thats good being bad. And yes, I even sometimes have a REGULAR coke. So, no, do I want to wake up from a night of cheese wontons to open an email with a miss gym no life telling me how great it is to live on celery. Tomorrow I will diet, don't tell me today what I need to do tomorrow.

 

 

But I peruse through all the gym and save darfur emails, when I see an email from Mike Alaska ( fire eating drum guy, wrote about him the last blog). He said he saw my previous blogs, and wants to meet. This random dude on the subway wasn't suppose to really find me or my email, much less read that nonsense I wrote below. He was suppose to be a funny story I told. I quickly opened up this blog, just to read what he read. Oh my, I called him boyfriend. I joked about being on date three. He has now heard all my inner thoughts, when he was suppose to only be this dude that made eye contact with me on the subway.

 I watch people a lot. I always carry a book with me on the subway, but I never open it because I get lost in everyones story around me. I can in a matter of seconds know who loves who, who doesn't know who, who is happy, who is miserable, who is a workaholic  and it's all just by a look. Generally people don't talk on the subway. It's a quiet tunnel of people, traveling from place to place. You sometimes hear whispered chatter or someone's ipod playing too loudly, but for the most part,  people communicate in the subway by body language. Or at least you hear the body language more than you do outside the subway.

Really the exact moment of beginning and ending all starts with a look. 

Like me and Mr. Alaska could fall hypothetically madly in love, but did it start the day I tried to buy his love or does it start the next time I see him, because I'm looking at a real person. 

People aren't real to us. I think when we leave our safe homes in the morning for work, the people we approach in the professional and relationship world, we look at in terms of how they will benefit us. What if, as a human being, I approached people as interesting complicated individuals that need and deserved to be known. 

Every morning I see this elderly man that has one short leg and on his short leg he wears this really tall boot.  Every Morning, I get upset when I see him. I look around to see if other people are upset, and nobody is looking. Nobody is looking, and I wonder if anyone even knows this man. Is it possible nobody knows him?

My friend told me the other day that we are all made in God's image. We all crave to create and be worshipped.  My point is, in a really long drawn out way, nobody should be just a story we tell. People are real, we should know them. 

Point of the Day: Know people. 

 ( hands in circle) Go Team( hands in air)

Not a Sugar Daddy, but he does eat fire...

So, I am running around the city dropping off headshots to people that are suppose to discover my inner glow and star quality, when I go to the subway.

I'm walking down and suddenly my hips are gyrating and my hands are clapping to some incredible african drum beats. 

I walk closer to see which homeless man is rocking my music style, and it's this young good looking guy. I stare at him , shaking and tapping my foot, all in an attempt to get a drum rip maybe dedicated to me. When he looks back at me. Right then the train comes in between our eye contact, and love is postponed.

I take this opportunity to run and drop money in his bucket. I thought I would just leave money and he would see me and talk to me. So I dropped 10 dollars, maybe buy his love. He doesn't see me put the money in his bucket. I then almost dropped my business card, but I thought no, he's just a stranger....

But then, the next day I'm walking down the stairs to my subway stop, and I hear the same music. It is him again. He waves to me and then stops playing and motions me to come over to him. I run to the top and he runs to the top . I think this is when he is going to grab me and kiss me and then we will go prance off to drum beat heaven... but instead he tells me to go to mikealaska.com

So,  I yell to him, " My names Laura!" He was already gone, just the homeless guy heard me in the deafening silence of the moment. 

Oh, Hi to another New York artist that only cares about themselves. 

However, I am still taken  by his charm and incredible talent. So,  ( I apologize I'm saying So a lot), but So, like I go to his like website...Riiiight...

So, I go to his website and the dude eats fire and plays, it's nasty talent. Like I've never seen anything like this. And, what is more impressive, is the way the dude is following his dreams. He's got a website, youtube channels, and he plays in the subway. He is combining the old traditional way of getting discover with modern technology.  I just love it.

So, today, I see him again. It's basically date three, but whose counting...And the sparks where gone. I mean we had a connection. So, I begin the same ol tap routine where I tap my feet like I'm some big tap dancer waiting to be discovered. Nothing. I thought maybe he would  see the beats of my feet and we could at least get on the same rhythm  link... No link.

But, the dude is gonna be famous. And I'm gonna blog about him.  I mean if we aren't going to have a love affair, I'm at least going to follow him on his thunder ( like steal his thunder). 

I'm going to be that creepy girl that follows him on his musical subway journey  with my pen and paper and I stand behind the pole and monitor his performance.  I'll wear a black suit and a black hat, real sherlock holmes like, and then when I see him talking to someone that might discover him I'll pop out and hand them my headshot and resume and run away in the dark of night. 

Speaking of blogging about Mr. Alaska....I think he was having a bad day, low energy, threw his drum sticks in the air and dropped one. This dropping of the drum stick really put Mr. Alaska in a foul mood, it was as if it was the fourth quarter, the team was depending on him and he dropped the ball putting the other team ahead by 100 points... Sorry I hope the football analogy didn't confuse the non football lovers...

Ok, but back to the real point of this essay....So, My boyfriend eats fire. I like how that sounds. 

PS. Is there a better segue word than So? 

www.mikealaska.com

Looking for Mr. Sugar Daddy...

So, when you are an actor starting out in a new acting class, you begin to realize it's cool to have daddy issues( mommy issues work too). You can't come to class perfect, that's the equivalent of coming into an acting class and being republican or hating gay people. 

Some people weren't blessed with daddy issues, therefor in order to fit in they create their own internal imperfections. This ranges from drug addiction, to eating disorders, to the constant need to be perfect. Then if those issues don't find their way into your life, then you are inflicted with arrogant self centerness. Which, in my opinion, is worst than all the above.

I've always been cool in the acting/artist world. I mean I'm versatile in the problem area. I can relate to daddy issues. Loving someone that doesn't love you. Being pale when the world wants you to be tan. Having a pimple that makes people not look you in the eye. I've even had two pimples, that make the eyes bounce back and forth, not knowing which one is more important. I mean I've even gone to bed skinny and woke up fat...But, I always perserve. 

The thing about having daddy or pimple issues, is everyone can relate. Therefore, you are cool in the acting world. I am cool, is really the point I'm getting at. 

So, when I conquered the initial pressures of fitting in, I was then bombarded with the starving artist gig. 

I don't like it. Other people romanticism it, making it sound like it "Ohh my art is so greaaat because all I do is eat lettuce and express myself. 

I express myself better after I've had a spray tan, my nails done, the hair did, and then shop therapy ( which includes a sexy, but classic outfit with matching shoes and purse.) Plus, I like a fine dinner, with a glass of wine out accompanied with  a medium rare steak...

And , then let's say I'm in a responsible mood. I have to buy vitamins, and fresh vegetables, postage, nice paper for my resumes, and a new intellectual book that challenges my beliefs or teaches me something new.  

It's exhausting. I  can't afford me. 

Which is why, I really think I would be the best match for a sugar daddy. Preferably , a young good looking one. I would make them happy. I would entertain them. I would devote my life to making them laugh, and they could devote their life to spending their money on me. 

I mean SAKS isn't calling. Mom's not paying. It's just me and real life budgeting. 

So please sir, if you could come into my life and spare a couple thous. I would be much appreciative. 

I mean I have art to create. I'd like to eat more than lettuce for dinner. 

Thanks.

 

Fake it till you make it.

Once upon a time lived a little ol' girl from North Carolina. She wore her hair curly, put on her favorite 3inch heels, and applied just enough make up to look natural. She printed out her resume, and went into the corporate world of New York City, with one game to play... GET THAT JOB. 

Her internal mantra to herself, as she walked in heels that made her feet scream let me be free, was " I'm gonna get you job, gonna get you job, here I come job..." You get the picture.

So her and her inner voice felt confident in this endeavor, and proudly walked into SAKS Fifth Avenue. She pulled the heavy brass door, which was heavier than she planned, forcing her heel to get misguided. This misguidance made her fall onto the marble tiled floor, which caused a few looks. She didn't mind, she was use to looks. She gathered her pride up off the floor and marched over to the Chanel Make up Counter. She said, in her most charming southern accent, " Are you hirin?" Well one woman loved the girls blonde curls, while another woman judged them, as if they were fine fruit that had gone bad in the garbage. I DO NOT HAVE GARBAGE HEAD, the girl reassured herself. Then,  the woman said let me see your resume. The girl  pulled out her resume, with her  business card stapled to the upper right hand corner. She thought this was the piece of meat at the end of her fishing rod. The woman over looked the neon flashing sign of hire me, and went straight to the nasty question of, " Where is your retail experience? " Well, if you let me talk, I would've told you it's not about experience, it's about what I can be. This is what the girl thought to herself, not what she of course verbalized. She said in her sweet southern ignorant tone, " Well, see I went to school for acting, and spent four years honing in on my skill to be able to know what I want and go for it...." I was about to illustrate examples of this, when I noticed the woman was not taking the nice meat I put out on the line. She didn't want the meat I had to offer, I needed to throw on there some veggies and chocolate cake too. The woman, then told me politely, " Listen, Doll, no one in this store is going to hire you. " That's bullshit, the girl thought. Give me a test run. The girl didn't argue, she just said thank you and walked away. 

When, all the sudden this man approached the girl to compliment her on her locks of love. The man's name turned out to be Miguel. Miguel told the girl to go over to the Trish McEvoy counter and ask for " Important Hiring Lady" ( Can't use her name because someone might read this and go ask for her and get the job over me...or who knows people are crazy) So, I tell " Important Hiring Lady" That my good friend Marquel told me to come see her. She says, " Who?" I say, " You know, Marquel." I point, letting her know where he is. Apparently his latino accent had made us have a miscommunication about names. My good friends name was actually Miguel. 

So, then she proceeds to tell me that this is a cut throat business and people that get hired at SAKS usually have a minimum of 10 years of retail experience. 

Ok, but like I told the other lady down there, I took Meisner training for acting. I can read behavior, I can go after what I want, I was designed to sell. I then asked her if I could audition for her. She said, " ok" sell me something. I sold  lip gloss to her like if she didn't buy it was I was going to die by grizzly bears eating me. I took the assignment serious, is what I'm trying to say. 

Ok, So, She tells me I'm " Cute". I've never liked that word. Cute. What is cute? Am I three? Am I a stuff bear? Am I a pair of shoes? AM I A PUPPY? No. Girls don't want to be cute. We want to be fierce, or at least this girl does.  So she told me to send her my resume and I walked away the way a fierce woman does. I thought, after I get this job, then I'll work on this woman's verbiage for describing me. 

So, I send her my resume last night when I get home. I wake up this morning and get ready for my interview. Turns out my interview is with a different Trish McEvoy store, and " Important Hiring Lady" runs that too. So, I walk up and she starts laughing. " Have you been to every store that we own on fifth avenue?" I look at her and tell her that I am very determined to sell Trish McEvoy to the world, and that is my only concern. 

Also, the fact that I'd like to pay rent this month. 

Oh, during all this I have a broken foot. I limp when I walk. It's pretty sad looking. I really want a wheel chair and a sweat shirt, but the biz would look down on that kind of attire. 

So, short story long...They said they loved me and will call me tomorrow. 

Moral of the story, remember people's name. Real Moral of the story, fake it till you make it.