Survival Job

I try to keep this blog relatively free of complaining... but I feel that it's unrealistic to ignore the one glaring bane of my existence.

I am very, very lucky to have a job where I only have to work 3 days a week and make enough to live off of.  I have time to pursue my other dreams and actual career goals.  It is relatively low stress, and I never have to bring it home with me. This is something I repeat in my head over and over and over and over again.

However, my survival job is slowly but surely driving me NUTS.  I work as a cocktail waitress.  I'm willing to assume that the term "cocktail waitress" evokes this image in your head:

Swanky bar.  Fancy drinks.  Business men slipping you 50's for no reason.

The reality of my job:

(actual photo taken during one of my shifts)

I have to pick my way through a thick crowd of belligerent drunk people while carrying a tray full of drinks and pitchers of beer.  Drunk people are really exactly like mules.  They don't move, even with lots of prodding, and once they do it's slow and clumsy.  I can't even count the number of times a drunk person has knocked an entire tray of drinks all over me and then gotten mad at ME.  I had one guy call me a not very nice four letter word last night after I asked him to move out of the way by poking him with a pitcher of beer. (You also have to imagine that top 40 music is blaring so loudly you can barely hear yourself think.  Saying "excuse me" is about as effective as using fabric softener on steel wool.)  Then there are the countless tables that treat you like you are less than human, are offended when it takes you more than 5 minutes to get through the crowd to get them their drinks, and then tip you $4 on a $96 tab (that actually happened last night).  Some of the drunk people in the crowd retain a shred of their humanity as they down shots of tequila and pitchers of beer, but they are few and far between.

Of course, what makes my job worth it is the volume of humans that come through the door, and the UESers with lots of money who DO tip well.  I wouldn't still be doing it after over a year if the pros didn't outweigh the cons... but last night, at approximately 2 am, I hit a wall.  I couldn't imagine taking one more table.  Talking to one more drunk person.  Dealing with one more sour puss, gossip girl-esque, drama queen.  I forgot my mantra, and this was what I was repeating in my head:

"I have two college degrees.  Why am I doing this?!"

I got home from work at 5 am, after working until 5 am the night before and getting 5 hours of sleep in between.  I accidentally slept through my alarm today and woke up at 1 pm feeling like a lazy bum.  But... from 9 am Friday until 5 am this morning, I had only gotten 5 hours of sleep... so I suppose I earned that 8 hours of sleep. Right?  But I tell you, my survival job is killing me slowly.  

No one ever said survival jobs were fun, and I am counting my blessings... but... I just found myself Googling yoga teacher training.  I qualify.  I could do it.  I could become a Bikram instructor to survive... but it costs, I KID YOU NOT, $10,700 to do.  And then once you're certified, you don't get paid all that well.  So... it looks like I'm stuck being a bar wench for the time being.  But, according to my one year goals, by this time next year I'll only have to work 2 nights a week at my survival job, because I'll be raking in money in other ways.  And neither of those two nights will be a Friday or a Saturday--aka my own personal hell where drunk girls are doing coke off the toilet seats.

Because that happens.  

New Weekly Torture

So, in this quest for balance, one of the most important things I've discovered is that I have to figure out which things in life make me happy and then make sure I DO those things to stay happy. (I mean... watching Hulu for hours is entertaining... but it does very little to develop my life and perpetuate self satisfaction.) Obviously my ukulele has brought me great joy since I first purchased it a couple weeks ago.  It has yet to bring anyone else joy--I'm sure my neighbors are so sick of hearing "Rainbow Connection" and "Obladi-Oblada" that they want to punch me in the face by now... but I'm hoping eventually, and with a lot of practice, it will bring joy to others, as well.  I'm off to my first ukulele lesson now--up until this point I've learned everything from Youtube.  Which... is great.  But I feel like a real human will be able to give me some pointers and help me out in a way that the adorable old man on my computer screen can't.  I apologize in advance for this, but I've decided that once a week I'm going to post a video of me wailing away on my ukulele.  It will keep me accountable for learning new songs and practicing, and you will be so lucky as to watch me progress.  Hopefully.  Or you will watch the video below and decide you NEVER want to hear me play the ukulele again.  Your choice.  I won't be mad.  Except for you, Momma and Daddy--you have to watch.  You created and birthed me and made this happen.

Naked People Have Little or No Influence on Society

"Clothes make the man.  Naked people have little or no influence on society."  ~Mark Twain

Oh, Mark Twain. You were one sassy, clever, little mustached man.

I spend a lot of time thinking about what I'm going to wear on any given day.  Because I work in a bar, I have my bar "uniform":  Some black leggings that feel mostly like pajama pants (since my shortest shift is typically 8 hours--optimizing comfort is ideal.  Also, they make my butt look great... and well, that doesn't hurt tips), a tank top/shirt with MY BAR'S NAME written in large print across the chest, and ked's.  This is what I wear most of the time, or so it feels like.  Then, on other days, I have my yoga clothes and sweat pants and bang around clothes.  I don't know at what point it was that I became comfortable wearing bang around clothes around New York... I used to ALWAYS get dressed at least SEMI nicely for venturing out into the city...  I think I secretly feared Stacy or Clinton from TLC's "What Not to Wear" would see me and judge me... but now, unless I have something to do, I'm usually wearing something with a hole or a bleach stain somewhere on it.  However, on days when I get to wear REAL clothes... I agonize about it.

There are two things I tend to think about while in yoga (though don't tell my yoga teachers, because we're supposed to be clearing our minds and focusing on the postures.  Yeah.  I suck at that):  1) What I'm going to eat when I get home. 2) What I'm going to wear later that day.

I HATE picking out what I'm going to wear.  I usually stare at my closet, which is STUFFED with clothes I hardly wear, and decide that I'd just rather be naked.  Hence why I usually end up in something with bleach stains or holes--because THAT choice says "no,  I didn't plan this outfit, I just threw it on... so don't JUDGE ME."

Today I have the pleasure of spending time with one of my best friends and her little sister who recently moved to the city who I am now ALSO recruiting to be my friend.  And it's her birthday! Or... it was yesterday... but I had to work.  So I'm celebrating with her today.  We'll call her Skyrim.  Because she has introduced me to Skyrim.  Different story, though.  Anyway, the world is my oyster today.  I can wear any gosh darned thing that I want to celebrate the day of Skyrim's birth .  Casual?  Dressy?  Semi-Casual?  Bleach and holes?  Why yes, I can do any of those things.

But when I opened my closet, one dress stared me down.  It looked me in the face and said "Hey, hooker, you've only worn me once.  Remember that awful date you went on?  The one where that drunken, alcoholic, (that's redundant) 37 year old man said you were 'decent looking, going to lose your looks in 5 years, and a skinny fat girl'?  Remember that date?  Yeah.  Well, I was a really cute dress that now you can't stand because when you see me THAT'S ALL YOU THINK OF.  Ha!  I make you feel bad about yourself!  I'm an evil dress!  Muwahahahahahah."

I took a deep breath. ripped it off the hanger, and put it over my head.  I didn't feel any different... I didn't feel like a skinny fat girl... maybe a little decent looking... but certainly not terribly bad about myself.  So, I went and looked in the mirror.  And hey, the dress is a little big now!  SCREW YOU DRESS!  All my yoga and good eatin' are paying off!  (Disregard the entire box of Samoas I ate last night at work, and the entire platter of nachos, as well...)  And guess what?  I don't need to wear a bra with you!  THAT'S A WIN WIN!  Comfort and style?  Yes please.  I added my gray lace tights, favorite cow boy boots, and lesbian power blazer, and suddenly it feels like a new dress.

So, no, Mark.  I beg to differ.  The clothes don't make the man.  The WOMAN makes the clothes.  Brittany: 1.  Wardrobe:  ...probably still winning.  Self esteem:  on the rise.

Happy birthday to Skyrim!  Oh, to be 23 again...

One is the Loneliest Number

"That's what loneliness is about.  If we felt connected to people, even other lonely people, we wouldn't feel alone anymore." ~Natalie Goldberg (if you haven't noticed, I'm obsessed with her)

New York City.  Population: 8,391,881 (July 2009 U.S. Census Bureau)  That was 3 years ago, so I think it's safe to assume that number has increased.  


Number of people you pass on the street/interact with/share air space with:  Hundreds.  


It's crazy how much human interaction you have in an average day in New York City.  It's overwhelming.  And yet... it's so lonely.  I'm not saying I'm sad and mopey and lonely... but today on the train I was thinking how closed off I am to the humans around me.  And not just me.  Almost all New Yorkers tend to pretend they're in a bubble.  As if acknowledging another human's presence may make you seem weak; vulnerable to attack.  And, you know what?  For good reason!  There are predators out there--verbal predators who disrespect and degrade you with a look or a rude comment.  Just the other night when I was walking home from work, this is the lovely conversation I had with a man sitting on his stoop (I don't usually speak up, but some strange force overcame me that evening):


Man:  Mmmmm... baby.  So sexy.  Have a good night baby.
Me: ignore ignore ignore
Man:  See.  That's why I hate white girls.  They're so snobby.  Hey, I'm talking to you.
Me:  Excuse me, but I'm NOT snobby.  You are being rude and disrespectful. (AND RACIST, I might add)
Man:  (as he sees me turning into my apartment building) You'd better be nice to your neighbors.

I'm sorry, sir, that I offended you with my refusal to acknowledge your blatant disrespect.  What did he expect me to say?  "Why thank you sir, for oogling me, calling me baby, and degrading me?"  I would genuinely like nothing more than to be able to exchange pleasantries with my neighbors and have a relationship with the people I live around.  Now, this is a very specific case, and there are, in fact, lovely people I encounter in my neighborhood, but I bring this example up to make a very specific point:  I have become a closed off New Yorker.  I typically ignore most people around me, and most people around me typically ignore me.  It's self protection.

But what a lonely way to live!  Back to what I was pondering on the train earlier: Life is nothing without the people we share it with.  You can do a million and one amazing things in a day, but unless you have someone to share it with... it's almost like it didn't even happen.  People need people.  And I don't mean a boy friend or a girl friend or a wife or a husband... though that's nice as well--I just mean plain old relationships with other people.  So... I'm going to make an effort to open my heart to the world.  Because otherwise, this city can be a very  lonely place.  Especially when you live alone... sometimes I feel like I have days where it's possible that the apocalypse has happened, and I'm the only person left on Earth.  So... you know... Maybe once a day make an effort to smile at a stranger.  Or give someone a compliment.  Or heck, even say "bless you" when someone sneezes.  The world doesn't HAVE to be a lonely place.

Tulips. Two Lips. Fickle Lips.

It's Spring and the tulips are popping up all over the city.  Usually March in New York is still very, very cold.  And the past two Winters I've been here there have still been layers and layers of frozen snow and ice, and an April snow isn't out of the ordinary.  However, true to our very mild and warm Winter, this Spring came on quite early (as is happening all over the country, so I'm sure you're pickin' up what I'm puttin' down).  We've already had days in the mid-70's and I've already rocked my jorts on a couple of occasions.  Point being, I LOVE SPRING.  It's so hard not to feel optimistic and happy in Spring.  The world just seems brighter and full of possibilities!  Summer is ahead, and I start looking towards days in Central Park, or taking the train out to the beach.  But Spring is also very fickle.  Like I said, it's already gotten up to the 70's, but then one day earlier this week it was down in the 20's.  I just wish Spring would stick!

And I had a realization this week, as I saw all the tulips from the window of the M79 crosstown bus.  Tulips make me angry.  I resent them.  Every year they pop up, sometimes forcing their way through snow drifts, and I think what my mother always said:  "Oh boy!  Tulips!  The promise of Spring!"  And then they sit there, all brightly colored and snarky amongst the snow... holding their heads high through the 20 degree weather.  Mocking me.  Laughing in my face.  But this year is different.  This year, when I realized they made me angry I decided to write about it.  And now, I can't help but smile at all the beautiful tulips.  And yesterday I bought myself some beautiful yellow tulips to brighten my apartment.  Because Spring HAS Sprung!  Next up, though... is April.  Those darn April showers.  April showers bring May flowers.  And we all know May flowers bring pilgrims.

You Don't Have to Feed a Ukelele

This has been a most exciting week for me.  For several reasons... but I'm going to tell you about one of them.  I decided last week that I was going to get a Betta fish.  This was brought on by my friend who I dearly love who was talking about her Betta, and her special relationship with it... and last week I was feeling a little lonely.  So... I thought, "Well, self.  You can't possibly handle a dog at this juncture in your life.  And you've killed so many cacti already... so... a fish sounds like the next logical step."  My friend assured me that they are very easy to take care of and very hard to kill.  My perfect combo.

So I did some research.  Being a vegetarian and caring about animals, I feel like if /I'm going to have a pet, it should lead a most wonderful life.  And I want to take care of it properly.  So I turned to old reliable: the internet.  After googling Betta fish, I soon discovered they are NOT as easy as one is led to believe.  They require at least 2 gallons of water, special stuff to make sure the tap water is not toxic (I once killed several fish by putting them in tap water... I will NOT make the same mistake twice), and a special light to keep the water at the right temperature.  Also... they can apparently suffer from depression and commit suicide by jumping out of their tanks.  What!? I quickly realized this was more work than I was willing to put into a pet.  And money.  Granted, the fish itself costs about $3.  The aquarium?  For the level of aquarium I would want for my fishy: minimum $50.  Sure.  cheaper than a dog... but a lot more expensive than I want to spend on something that will PROBABLY end up flushed down my toilet.

Fast forward a couple of days to a meeting I had with a fellow actor who is also working on a one woman show.  Her's is cabaret style and will feature songs from musicals.  I brought up that I was interested in writing a few original songs for mine... and that I imagine myself strumming a guitar.  Now, I don't own a guitar.  I've never played a stringed instrument in my life  My Opa started to teach guitar before he passed away... but... when he passed, so did my desire to play.  But suddenly I just wanted to play the guitar.  It felt right.

So I went to the other old reliable, Facebook, and posted a status that I wanted to learn to play the guitar.  A friend out in LA immediately responded that she has a friend in Brooklyn that teaches.  After a few emails back and forth between this girl, in which I told her my reasons for wanting to play, she encouraged me to consider the ukelele.  It's cheaper, easier, and will fulfill my needs quite satisfactorily.

Two days later I was in the Guitar Center in Union Square picking out my ukelele.  And y'all.  I'm in love.  I named him "Betta"... because he's my new pet.  And he is so fun to play!  I have that feeling... you know that feeling when you first start dating someone.  Or you tell someone you love them for the first time?  That giddy little bubbly feeling?  And all you want to do is spend time with that person?  Even if you're just doing nothing together.  Yeah.  Well, that's how I feel about my ukelele.  I'm in love with it.  I haven't had a lesson yet, but I found some websites that teach you chords... and my friend, The Girl in the Yellow Hat (who helped me pick out my ukelele), taught me the intro to Ingrid Michaelson's "You and I" which is just 3 chords.... and... I've been goin' to town!  I can feel blisters developing on my fingers from pressing on the strings, and I can't wait until they're well formed and I have ukelele fingers! Also... the dexterity.  I feel like my fingers are so FAT AND HUGE.  The strings and frets are so close and tiny...

I wanted to document my ukelele skills as they progress, so here's a little video of me at my current level.  I want to be able to play "Rainbow Connection" by the end of the month (to clarify I mean April, not March)... I have a long way to go.

When is a raven like a writing desk?

“Believe as you believe the floor will hold you up, the chair will let you sit.” Natalie Goldberg

I have had a very challenging week.  Challenging is, of course, relative.  I haven’t faced starvation or struggled with the death of a loved one.  I haven’t looked into the face of evil or been possessed by the anti-Christ (this is a constant fear of mine).  And yet, compared to other weeks in my life… this has been a little bit more on the challenging side.  I find that weeks like this are the ones I value more, though, than the super amazing happy go lucky ones.  Now that I have a more optimistic outlook on life, I realize that these challenging times are when life truths surface:  who you can trust, who really loves you, what you really care about, etc.  

When I’m faced with challenges—little hiccoughs along the way that make me second guess my direction, I find that writing a letter to the Universe is a useful tool.  It’s similar to prayer, but ends up being an amazing way to get in touch with your inner, wiser self.  I’m sure you realize that if you write a letter to the Universe, you can’t really expect the Universe to write one back to you.  So instead, you write a letter back to yourself as though YOU are the Universe.  And it’s amazing how gosh darn wise you can be when you pretend to be all knowing.  Well, I wrote the Universe a letter.  I wrote myself a super wise answer.  I asked for a sign.  And you know what?  I didn’t listen to myself.  And when the Universe gave me a HUGE ASS SIGN, I chose to ignore it.  Der.

I picked up a book yesterday called “Writing Down the Bones:  Freeing the Writer Within” by Natalie Goldberg.  I bought it because I am currently in the process of writing my one woman show.  I have never really considered myself a writer, but now that I feel called to write this show, I’ve decided to embrace that I am competent enough to write.  But I wanted some advice.  Some… guidance.  And this book is amazing.  I would actually recommend it to anyone—whether or not they are interested in becoming a writer.  It’s full of amazing little tidbits. And it doesn’t hurt that Natalie is a total yogi… which I find I’m well on my way to becoming, as well.  I feel like I become more “hippy dippy” every day.  And I love it!

So, back to my challenging week.  My heart hurts this week.  My confidence in my career choice is once again wilting.   And then, as if the Universe really could hear my resolve weakening, it put me in the aisle at the book store to see Ms. Goldberg’s book.  And today, as I’ve sat at an audition for 7 hours waiting to be seen, I’ve poured over the pages.  And as each hour ticked by, I began to get annoyed.  There was so much more I could have done today!  But then I realized that my day hasn’t been wasted.  Because sitting here for 7 hours has given me no other choice than to read and read… and read.  I’ll repeat Ms. Goldberg’s quote:

“Believe as you believe the floor will hold you up, the chair will let you sit.”

With those words... written in 1986 (when I was a mere babe), Natalie just… struck a chord with me.  Believing is so important.  I am not going to pursue anything anymore that I don’t believe in 100%.  And I am going to believe 100% in my instincts.  Because they haven’t failed me yet.  The only thing that has failed me is when I don’t listen to my instincts.  When I try to mold the world to fit my desires.  And that works… to a certain extent.  But… I truly believe that I have to follow my path.  And so long as I’m following that path, good things will come.

Just like I believe, with each step I take, the floor will be there to hold me up, and that every time I want to rest my weary bones, the chair I sit  in will be there, I want to believe that I am an artist.  I was born an artist.  And THAT is who I have to love.  My SELF.  Not a stupid man (though I’m certain that once I fully love myself and am well along my path, a NOT stupid man will appear).    And I can’t deny that I was  born an artist.  First I was a drawer/painter.  I was then a poet.  Then a musician.  Then a dancer.  Then a drawer/painter again.  Then an actor.  Now a writer.  I've always worn an artists hat... maybe different styles.... but there's always been one on my head.  I'm an artist.  It is undeniable.  And, if I truly believe that about myself, I think I will stay on track.  

And I think this applies to anyone.  In all walks of life.  We all wear different hats, but in the end, they're all hats.  And we ALL have to believe in ourselves.  I know, I know.  We've heard that since we exited the womb.  "Believe in yourself!  You can be anything you want to be!  Follow your dreams!"  Life just gets us so jaded and bitter that I find.... we all need a little reminding, now and then.

Update:  I ended up getting seen!  After 8 hours of waiting, I was the 130^th person they saw. (Even though I was 9th in line... figure out that logic.  Thanks unions!)   But you know what?  It was worth the wait--it was the BEST audition I’ve ever had.  In my life.  Good things come to those who wait.