The Odd Broad

Funky cold medina

A girl from my graduating college class was recently cast in a Broadway show where she'll be acting alongside Angela Landsbury and Catherine Zeta-Jones.

How nice for her.  I told her as much, on her Facebook page.  (And then I died a little inside.)

A few days later, I noticed her FB status update said something like (and I'm paraphrasing here):  "...trying to figure out what this FUNK is all about.  Could it be astrological?"

SHE'S IN A f**king astrological FUNK????!!!!  Holy shit.  In all fairness, I realize a funk is usually relative.  But it really got me to thinking.  I'm prone to the occasional bout of funkatude, the moody blues, moments here and there when I'll question certain choices and wake up in the middle of the night in a mild sort of panic. 

I don't own a home.  I don't even own a car.  I don't have any children.  I've all but abandoned my acting career, my childhood dream; and leaving New York really seemed to put the final nail in that coffin.  I try not to think about that last one, though.

Sometimes, if I'm feeling especially morbid, I can feel as if I'm floating aimlessly...

The irony is, most of the time I'm actually quite happy and grateful.  I am married to my soulmate; to a man who does kind, sweet, funny things and who tells me he loves me at least ten times a day.  We just booked a trip to Aruba.  And it's okay that we don't own a home yet.  I certainly don't want to drive, and as for children...

I have Kittie.  And, of course, my wonder nephew.  (And a flat(ish) tummy.)

I hate questioning myself like this because it's not generally the way I do business.  I have my own path, as we all do, and usually I trust very strongly in that.  Except for when I don't.  And that's okay, too.

I am BOCO Fierce!

When I attended The Boston Conservatory to study Musical Theater we called it TBC.  Nowadays it's referred to as "BOCO."

I don't like it. 

Yesterday I found myself walking behind a girl wearing dangly earrings, three quarter length leggings and a mismatched sweatshirt that said:

"I am BOCO fierce!"

My sister and husband maintain they can spot a theater geek a mile away.  There are dead giveaways, telltale signs.  The appearance of bright red lipstick or heavily applied makeup; perhaps a smile that's just a touch too wide, or clothing that looks like it came straight out of the wardrobe department of Fame!  In any case, something is just not quite right.  It's an intangible sort of wrongness, difficult to pinpoint exactly.

It's not that I didn't once roam the streets of the Back Bay wearing yoga pants and t-shirts with the collars cut out, because I certainly did.  And I suppose at the time I thought I looked...pretty effing awesome.  But I agree with the notion that you can detect one of us a mile away.  We're...stinky, you see.  Not literally, of course, for most actors I know are quite clean.  But figuratively speaking, we stink of dairy.  Curdled milk.  Yogurt.  Know what I mean? 

The girl wearing the BOCO Fierce! sweatshirt positively reeked.  And I was standing downwind.

The Broad-Way

I didn't watch the final episode of The Sopranos, so I have no idea whether Tony got whacked or not.  Saying whacked is fun, though.

What I did spend a number of hours watching were the Tony Awards, the annual program which never fails to leave me feeling nostalgic, nerdy, and slightly wistful.  Of course, I can barely recall when the last audition I went on was, only that I was secretly hoping not to get called back so I could go home and watch Top Chef.  (I can't believe I've just admitted this in writing.)

I have actor friends who say they'll never go back, that the performing phase of their life has officially ended.  I'm not sure I'll ever be able to utter those words, no matter how true they may be.

In the meantime, Dear Reader, please allow this wistful broad to share with you a curiously named yet tasty malt beverage:

Your eyes aren't deceiving you, the name of this Pale Ale is indeed Porkslap.  And yes, the can does depict the noteworthy image of two pigs bellyslapping each other.  Disturbing?  Certainly.  Tasty beer?  Hubby thinks so.

As for me, I passed on the Porkslap and enjoyed a glass of Riesling, ate some delectable carbs, and invited my inner musical theater nerd to come out to play.  (and interpretive dance, just a little.  She doesn't get out much.)

In the aftermath of this lengthly exposure to splashy song and dance I cannot be held responsible if I should spontaneously burst into song...can I?  Nah.

I don't know about you, but I suddenly have a hankering for a showtune.

Laughter Yoga

I sometimes liken my time spent in college to four years of very expensive therapy.  It's not as if I didn't emerge from school with a degree (albeit in musical theatre), it's just that...well, while my other friends were buying expensive text books and laptops, I was purchasing makeup kits, pretty leotards and tap shoes.

While my other friends were studying science, math, and engineering, I was weaving the space with my body and rolling around on the floor trying to become the color yellow.  I can do red, too. 

Not that attending the Boston Conservatory** was a picnic by any means.  On the contrary, in many ways those four years were the most challenging, vulnerable times I've ever known.  I always chuckle when people say that Simon Cowell is mean.  Ha!  Compared to a few of my teachers that surly man is downright maternal.

But let's face it, I had a blast.  I loved being constantly surrounded by all things creative, not to mention all things bizarre.  Some schools have pep rallies for spirit week?  We had psychics who talked to ghosts.  Some schools elect class officials?  We gave out awards for best package and biggest boobs.  (And which broad do you think was voted class lush, four years in a row, once on a write-in vote?  My parents were very proud.)  I was even elected Queen my Senior year.  I still have the tiara. 

One day our proprioceptive movement teacher had our class do an acting exercise where we'd trick ourselves into feeling certain emotions.  As in, laughing hysterically until we actually felt happy, or screaming until we felt enraged, basically going through the motions until our minds caught up with our bodies.  Picture a handful of theater dweebs running around the room screaming.  God I miss college.

It might sound wacky, but I remember this exercise as being really effective.  After a few moments of artificial laughing my whole body relaxed and I started to feel unbelievably lighthearted and silly.  I saw something similar on Oprah last week that reminded me of this called laughter Yoga. 

Being a cerebral, semi-neurotic type of gal, changing my mood from the outside in is a concept that interests me. 

We all do it sometimes, don't we?  Just the other night my pigsty of an apartment started making me feel nutty.  (I was also pms-ing, which didn't help.)  So I did a few dishes, arranged some clothes into an orderly pile, drank the chocolate milk Hubby made me and then had a lie down on my heavenly mattress and watched The Golden Girls.  (I heart having a DVR in my bedroom.)  So the result of cleaning, even half assedly so, was that a neater room made me feel all real better.  Chocolate milk helped, too.

I know music can definitely alter my mood, as can clothing.  I have outfits I refer to as grown up and others that are kid clothes, each making me feel a certain way. 

Although I suppose this whole outside in concept isn't 100% guaranteed.  It's quite possible for one to be wearing a dainty pink dress, dainty pink shoes, a dainty pink raincoat and still call people douche bags under my breath.  Woops, I mean, one's breath.

Tee hee.

**No, I didn't go to school with Katherine McPhee, but I was there during Constantine's time, and my college roommate/best friend did "know" John Mayer, who we shared the Berklee cafeteria with...but (with the appropriate permission, of course) that's another story...