Mid life crisis at 30.

I feel as if I am heading for the downhill slope, and I haven't even turned 30 yet. I'm antsy, wanting a change and to try new things. I have the perfect excuse, as I am attempting to write for a comedy website. So, in the interest of comedy, I have tried some things. Set up other things to try in the future. Things that I would have never done prior to this recent incarnation of me. I am grabbing life by the horns (in some cases, literally), and doing irreparable damage to my body and wallet.

And I'm ok with it.

This recent desire for thrills is one I have felt before, but never acted upon. I've been tempted to go wild before, but never had a reason. I have always done for others, and now I am choosing to do for myself. It's thrilling and terrifying and lonely at the same time. While I am jumping off of a trapeze or hopping onto a mechanical bull, I am reveling in the action and adventure. I am getting footage and photos so I can prove to the world that I have lived. And while I'm doing that, I am putting all of my energy into positive thoughts and goals for my life. I am shedding the weight of the last 10 years of heartbreak, and embracing a new woman that only says no if there's a really good reason. And I'm attempting, subconsciously, to tell all the people in my life who have ever told me that I can't or that I am not good enough, that I can, and that I am. It's hard to heal. I still haven't. But I'm filling my life with laughter, stories, and making memories that will be mine, always. And no one, ever, will take that away from me.

So, for now...here is my list of things to do in the next two months.

Striptease class
Boudoir photo shoot
Trapeze
Chemical Peel
Paintball
Salsa Class
Fencing Lessons


If you have any suggestions, please feel free to comment below. Or on my facebook wall.

Well, hello, Mrs. Fancy Pants.

My mom and I decided to go to a book signing by an author friend of hers on a rainy Tuesday night, at an art gallery on Palm Beach. Worth Avenue to be exact. She dressed in a fabulous frock with pashmina and hip silver jewelry, while I tossed on my lacy mini dress, denim jacket (from Goodwill), pink chunky jewelry, brown purse ($3 at a garage sale) and cowboy boots. We are who we are, and nothing, not even a Palm Beach address, was going to stop us from representing our true selves.

We hop into my dad's Audi TT (cause we wanted to look good driving up) and get to the art gallery. It's filled to brimming with posh, snooty Palm Beachers who are oozing disdain and pretension all over the Andy Warhol screen prints hanging on the walls. It's a very Botoxed event, and Mom and I bee-line for her friends from her writers group, in the hope that there would be safety in numbers. One of the ladies is wearing jeans, and thanks me for showing up in denim. As we stand there, my mom mentions that I am involved with the theater. The author, thinking he was doing me a favor, very sweetly grabbed me and told me he knew someone else who was in the theater at the party. He made his way through the masses to a tall, gaunt woman in a red, floral pantsuit with close cropped silver hair and glasses. He said, "You're both in theater. Talk." And then he walked away. I awkwardly offer my hand to the woman, introducing myself. Instead of a name, she utters, "I'm actually not in theater. My husband owns an Off Broadway theater in NYC. I'm in dressage. But what have you done?"

Here is one of many reasons why I feel I will never be famous. I cannot bullshit with strangers for the life of me. I answer that I just got done with a three week run of a musical at a theater in Ft. Pierce. She looks at me, questioningly, as if in her realm of existence there is only New York and Palm Beach. I say, "It's just a small place, really. I used to work for the Atlantic Theater in Jupiter...(she squints at me)... I'm an improviser, singer....blah, blah, blah." Realizing, I am losing my subject (who had spinach in her teeth, I'd like to note) I change gears, and ask her about dressage. "So, you must really like horses, then." She lightened up at this point, as narcissism is always fun, and I get into full Buffy mode. "Well, I am going to the polo match next Sunday, darling, and it shall be a smashing good time. We're bringing a hamper." The woman actually claps her hands like a school girl, gushing about how glorious it will be, and that it's so lovely to be served champagne and ice cream. I quip, "How could you go wrong with that combination?" and she falls silent again.

Both of us stood there, longing for an escape route, when the other author sidled up next to us, obviously a friend of tall and gangly. T and G asks, "Have you met our author?" and pawned me off on the other woman. I awkwardly look down at the stack of books on the table, and said, "Oh, you wrote this....impressive cover." I feigned interest in the jacket as author lady swept the horse lady away. I knew I had been brushed off. And I had never been happier.

I moved back to join my mom and her gang, and we headed for the Pellegrino. Sipping on bubbly water, we started to actually look at the artwork. The gallery owner, noting our interest, swooped in to tell us the tale of the print we were looking at, which was signed by the artists father and would have to be questioned if signed by the author himself. Mom and I looked at each other over our plastic flutes, and started laughing. We plunked our glasses down on the refreshment table, waved goodbye to her friend, and hopped in Dad's car, peeling out of there. We laughed the whole way home about our brush with society, and ended up curling up in our PJ's, making a quick dinner, and watching "Despicable Me." Ah...that's the life!

Hip or hip replacement?

My grandmother came to Florida on a recent visit, and I realized that she is really a cool person. I've always seen her through the eyes of an adolescent, as a matronly woman with a tendency to be in her robe and nodding off in front of the television at 8:00PM. She bakes, she uses the word sharp to indicate that someone dresses well, and has had the same wallpaper in her house since I was a kid. She mows her lawn like a fiend, and is the bane of a fallen leaf's existence when autumn comes around. She pronounces a light tan color with a hard g. She's my grandma.

This visit, she seemed different. She sassed, she danced to Lady Gaga, and she made snide remarks during the many Ohio State sporting events that she viewed while at our house. We were discussing an ex-boyfriend of mine, and she said that if she ever met him she'd tell him to eat worms. We went to church for Christmas Eve service, and the air conditioning kept blowing out the advent candles. Grandma thought it was amusing, and closed her eyes while trying to hold back laughter. When a lady dropped the porcelain baby Jesus two times, she laughed out loud. It was a side of her that I had never seen, even in the 3 years I lived up north and would drive two hours to spend the weekend with her.

This morning she called me at work. She was calling to see how my show went this weekend, to complain that my mom hadn't called her yesterday, and to tell me that her aunts nephew just signed a country music record deal in Nashville. She then went on to say, " I went on the youtube and listened to his music." Adorable. I mentioned that a review had come out on the show I am in, and she, without missing a beat, said, "Send me the link and I'll find it on the internet."

No more do I see my Nancy as the stereotype of a grandmother who lives for her grandchildren. She is an active, funny woman who plays bunko, goes to water aerobics at the YMCA, and has a social life. And knows how to Google. I'm so proud.

After these messages...you'll want to yack.

I was watching Top Chef masters last night before I went out to dinner with my friends and almost died. The food was amazing looking, making my mouth water with every tasting and quick fire challenge. I was hanging on every word of the judges, imagining what the gourmet meals they were masticating would taste like, and hoping that some day soon I would be able to enjoy a sumptuous meal that challenged my taste buds and made me re-evaluate how I view food.

As I'm watching this show, salivating, they went to a commercial break as they normally do. I'm aware that advertisers supply the funds to keep TV stations and specific shows alive. I get it. But, dear Bravo TV, when I am watching a culinary show, the last thing I want to see popping up on my screen is an advertisement for Vagisil Feminine Wash. Seriously. They went from lamb carpaccio with pea and carrot puree to an ad about how women feel not so fresh. Can they not see the issue with this?

It's a common problem with many stations out there. One late night, I was watching a delightful film called "Snoop Dogg's Hood of Horror", and there was a pretty graphic scene where a woman was being beaten in a gang related incident. They went to a commercial break, and it was a band-aid commercial, followed by a tampon advertisement. Can we say inappropriate? Or ironic? Or slightly amusing if it wasn't so weirdly gross.

I wonder to myself and to you, readers, if there is a method to the madness. Is there an advertising intern somewhere cackling evilly, knowing that I will be made to associate gourmet food with feminine odor? Is this some strange marketing ploy ala Berthold Brecht where imagery is connected with opposing forces so that the impression is made?

I don't know, but I may start DVR'ing Top Chef. I can fast forward through the commercials, and not have that connection made in my little brain. I think that's the safest thing to do. And I'll hold out hope that marketing and advertising professionals will gain awareness that where they place commercials matters.

Beauty Hurts...and can even kill.

This evening I had plans to have dinner with Susan, David, and Maria. It's a standing thing. Every Wednesday we get together, after Susan and Maria are done with dance in Jupiter, and it's typically around 8:45pm before we meet up to eat, drink a sensible one alcoholic beverage, and catch up. Most times I just throw on a schlumpy outfit and go with just my work make up and greasy hair. It has been a while since we have done this, as Maria and David were on their honeymoon last week, the week prior I had rehearsal, and the week before that was holiday craziness.

So, in my infinite wisdom, I decided that an evening at the Yard House (a somewhat popular local restaurant with great music and a bar designed for the meat market that is Palm Beach County) after so long without deserved special accoutrement. I curled my hair, redid my makeup, and put on skinny jeans with a sweater and my super high black heels. I hopped into my Mini Cooper, and away I drove.

I pulled out onto the main strip outside of my parents house, merged into traffic, and got up to the normal 50 mph speed limit. About a block from the red light at the major intersection I was approaching, I attempted to ease my foot off of the gas pedal to begin braking lightly, as there were cars stopped at said red light. My foot would not move. The bottom of my heel had wedged tightly in the area where the gas pedal was attached to the floor. I tugged frantically with my foot, trying to dislodge it to no avail. I felt like I was in a bad film...time slowed down, and all I could focus on was the fact that I could not brake, that I was about to plow into the back of another vehicle, potentially injuring another person or persons, and that I was basically about to die because of my ridiculous, $50 black pumps that I bought at Macy's on a whim. At least the saleslady got her commission.

In a matter of seconds, I realized that I could pull my foot out of the shoe and it would no longer be pressing on the pedal. (I am a super genius, I know.) I slammed on the brake, not realizing that I was still a good 30 feet from the car in front of me and came to a dramatic stutter stop. I gingerly made my way to my spot at the light, came to a complete stop and began to frantically tug at the stupid shoe that could have been the end of me. It would not budge. Of course, being a girl on a budget, I focused on the fact that I could not break the bottom of the shoe off, as $50 is $50.

After what seemed like an eternity, the shoe came free. I threw it on the seat next to me, and drove the rest of the way to the restaurant with one shoe off. I told my friends the tale of how I almost died, and they sympathized. 2 hours later, we headed our separate ways. I took the shoe off again, and drove with one bare foot home. About half way there, my phone rang and it was David. The first thing he uttered was, "I forgot about your shoes. Are you ok?"

I assured him that I was just fine, driving partially barefoot so I would make it safely home. We hung up, and I realized (again) that I have really great friends who will always be there for me and are cognizant that with me, everything, even footwear, can be an adventure.

"How Do You Know," I want my money back?

Who would have known she'd disown me for one film?!?!

Dear Hollywood,

I took my *ahem* year old grandmother on a date last night. We decided to go to see a film, and knowing Grandma and her sentimental bend, I decided to purchase an adult ticket ($10) and a senior pass ($7) for the loosely plugged hit romantic comedy "How Do You Know?" No concessions were harmed in the viewing of this film. Had I purchased a $20 popcorn or 57 oz Coke, one or both would have flown at the screen towards the end of this putrid excuse for a comedy. As the super elderly couple in the front row stated, loudly, as the end credits ran down the screen, "That was a stupid movie." I didn't even mind the fact that they talked, loudly, through the entire film, as I KNEW I WAS NOT MISSING ANYTHING.

To say I am a little upset at the wasted potential of this film is an understatement. I've been a fan of Reese Witherspoon in past films in this genre, and had high hopes that her ethereal presence would make me like her character, Lisa, who was basically a shell of a woman with no path, no goals except to figure out which of the not so great male leads she would end up with at the conclusion of this stinker of a film. Paul Rudd has been a favorite of mine since his initial role in Clueless, to the point where I actually sat through "The Chateau" because of my love of his quirky smile and gorgeous green eyes. His portrayal of George, a lost soul going through a rough patch in his life, would have been endearing had he not been so annoying. Owen Wilson, as Matty, is his typical idiot self, and though I sometimes find him charming, in this film he was just a blank slate and a jackass. Jack Nicholson was completely misused in this film, with James L. Brooks directing him to basically be loud.

Even the supporting cast was wasted in this movie, with no snarky best friend for the leading lady, and a weird secretary/friend for George played by Kathryn Hahn, usually a comedic support superstar who I love to see do anything. Not so in this movie. Her character, an overly emotional pregnant woman with episodic rage, was trite and a bit too over the top for the context of the film. Yawn. Challenge this woman, for goodness sake!!

It felt like the cast was sleeping through this entire 2 hour 10 minute movie. If you are going to make a romantic comedy that is that long, please, for the love of all that is holy, give it some spark and at least throw in a romantic tune from Norah Jones or Sara Bareilles for the sentimental saps who will pay to see this movie again on DVD or on Netflix.

Please, Hollywood. Challenge us as your audience, and challenge these actors. Let's see their talents shine rather than tarnish their reputations. Direct them. Build worlds for us to experience. Take us on a journey. Let me live vicariously through these characters, not want to kill myself from disappointment. Thanks.

Sincerely,

Lauren

*Edited cause Grandma read it and got mad that I put her age.

The Gift that Keeps on Giving....

I have been working at a country club for three years as an administrator. Every year at the holidays, people bring in candy, cards, and gifts to show their appreciation of the work I do, and it's very nice and sweet. Sometimes the gifts are monetary, other times they are more personal. This year, I received a lovely jewelry set, some candy, some cash, and this...
The lady who brought it in was very excited about it, and told me I could put it on my desk so I could have pictures of my family to look at during the long hours that I am at work. I'm sure she assumed that I have children, or a spouse, or something to put in there that would remind me of why I am working in the first place.

I open the box, and these are the examples they have for me to go off of...
So, I need to find a man. Get me some babies. Dye my hair blond. Buy two adorable puppies. And travel. That's what this company says will make me happy, so I'd better get on it, stat.

I've got the travel part down. And I can put in photos of my old, arthritic dog, Bailey. And maybe a picture of me bungee jumping in British Columbia, or one from my future trapeze lesson I bought myself. Or a photo of me and my girlfriends in LA, or a picture of my cute little Mini Cooper. Or me on the St. Christopher Bridge in Prague, in front of the Mannequin Pis in Brussels, or at Bergen Belsen in Germany. And when people get confused by the photos and ask, "Where are the pictures of your family? Your kids? Your perfect husband and perfect pets?" I'll tell them what I always want to say, "I'm single, unattached, and adventurous. And that's good enough for me. Can it be good enough for you?"

Happy Yew Near!

Have I mentioned that I hate the holidays?

New Years Eve is no exception. It's not just that it is just another couple's holiday where singles are pressured into finding someone, anyone to kiss at midnight. It's not because of the old adage that whatever you do on New Years Eve is what you will be spending the next year of your life doing. It's not because of the champagne, and Auld Lang Syne, and watching Dick Clark fight through a stroke to still be the face and voice of the NYE celebration in NYC (Ryan Seacrest can go eff himself).



It's because of the ball dropping.

How many balls had I dropped, in terms of my career, love, life, friendship over the past year? How many times had I let someone else down? What could I have done differently? What can I do differently in the next year to make sure I'm not in the same place on December 31st, hoping and wishing and making plans for a future that is unsure and fraught with questions? I reflect on these things as the countdown starts and see the next year looming as 365 days of potential doom.

I may be a pessimist. But I'm a pessimist with a sense of humor.

You see, if this New Years is the bar to which I should measure the next year, I will be spending 2011 with friends and loved ones, slightly tipsy on Jello shots and vodka cranberry, scarfing a gourmet spread made with care by my two dear friends. It will end with me climbing up on a rooftop, still tipsy and in heels, hanging out with a handsome man until three in the morning, and will be swept off of my feet into his muscle bound arms and dumped in front of my car door before I make my way wearily home to bed. I will then wash my face by splashing water on it clumsily, brush my teeth so as to not give plaque the ability to deteriorate my tooth enamel, and pop my bleary, make up clogged contact lenses out of my eyeballs into solution to sit there until I wake up at 8:30 to start the day.

Bring it on, 2011. Bring. It. On.