The beauty of Facebook is that it makes being creepy socially acceptable. The "suggested friend" feature enhances that, because suddenly someone you completely forgot existed (for instance, someone I went to a theater program with x years ago, or Jew camp, or something) - pops up, and suddenly I click friend and all of a sudden I can see how much weight they've gained/lost, all the colors they've dyed their hair, and if they like electroindiepopscenester music or actually are scene and don't list anything except random quotes that only true intellects, unlike me, could recognize.
So, what happens when you find your old crush? The one who is bisexual/homosexual/pansexual/never returned your interest and you thought it was because you need a nose job, but it was really because he's just not into...women? I have found a remarkable number of former crushes on Facebook, many of whom I've discovered to be in relationships with men. This shouldn't have come as a surprise to me, as I have:
1) made out with homosexuals
2) been pursued by homosexuals
3) fallen in "like" (albeit intensely) with homosexuals
4) had ill fated moderate crushes on homosexuals
5) attracted homosexuals
6) etc.
Persisting crushes I insisted were heterosexual, regardless of their skintight whiskered jeans and spiked hair and desire to grind on other men at any given opportunity. "Don't give into stereotypes!" I would tell my friends. "[Insert name here] is definitely straight!....He's just metrosexual. Or bisexual!"
But, to quote a quote I've heard before, "bisexuality is just a pit stop on the way to gay."
In fact, my only lasting romantic/flirtatious/stimulating encounter was with a guy who's brother was gay. So I was close.
This is trite, and I'm sure it's been done before, and I could go on and on about my rendevous in plural with men who like other men and the unfortunate ways I've discovered this. But when you see 'in a relationship with (insert a dude's name here)' how do you respond? Part of me wants to pray that someone opens up my recent pictures and see how I look way cuter five years later with bangs, especially with two drinks - one in each hand - yes, because I'm that girl (although I think I just couldn't decide if I wanted cabernet in a red plastic cup, or some odd concoction of peach schnapps 99 apples, vodka and Crystal light in a erd plastic cup). But he likes dudes. He's doing a dude.
Which is cool by me, I'm accepting, hell, I'm in theater, but I wanted a fabulous "look at me now!" moment!
But, who knows, he could totally appreciate how I look, just not desire it. But maybe he has no desire to even look at my page, he just accepted my friend request out of facebook courtesy. He may still remember the time I tried to persuade him into "rehearsing a comedic stage kiss in a passionate way so we'd feel really comfortable with each other on stage."
I was fifteen then.
Til next time,
small fry/THAT girl...
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Gym (Too) Shorts
I haven't posted in awhile, I know, but that doesn't mean I'm free from painful life experiences that are actually hilarious. I was off doing some volunteer work (teaching theater to kids, nope, not saving the planet or building houses in Nicaragua), so it's kind of consumed my time. Any remaining time has been spent with people who I like or at the gym. I work out a lot. But you don't care about that, and I know that, so have no fear - I just need to let you all know about some people at the gym who make me uncomfortable.
Or maybe, I make them uncomfortable. (Probably.)
I joined a new gym, a cheap gym, that I'll call Unfit Universe (maybe you can figure it out), because I can't afford NYSC anymore and this just makes more sense as my apartment I'm moving into this fall at school is right near one of these little chainlet gyms. I call it Unfit Universe because this gym was not designed for fitness fanatics like myself, but people who want to "try working out" and know nothing about fitness equipment. Now, I'm all for people "trying working out" but if you'r einterrupting my circuit training because you're doing sit ups while on the leg press, you don't belong in a gym. You belong either a) on the mat section for sit ups or b) far from a gym. I wanted to tell him that the machine wasnt' for sit ups, but he was bigger than me, and maybe he didn't speak English. He looked ethnic. But who am I to judge. Plenty of people who look like they speak English don't, and plenty of ethnic people speak English.
There was a woman who was, I swear, checking me out, too. It made me uncomfortable. I was doing pilates moves, like the 100. I don't think I'm radiantly hot, nor have I ever had a penchant for attracting lesbians, but I have to say I have just mustered enough confidence recently to sport a little tank top and short shorts to the gym. So I engaged in a staring contest with her. It was then that I realized that you could totally see up my shorts.
I mean, who knows, maybe she didn't see up my shorts. Maybe she just enjoys staring. I definitely stare at people and make up lives that they live. (For example - man with enormous moustache moderately resembling a Pedo-Stache on the elliptical at low intensity and high speed - has overweight wife and two kids in middle school; eats pork and beans for dinner. Went to SUNY Oswego. Majored in math. Now works as a line cook for a major chain restaurant with fried chicken atop of every 'healthy' salad.)
I hope he didn't see up my shorts. But if he did, he probably was too busy dreaming about his impending pork and beans dinner. Some people just always have food on the brain.
Til next time,
small fry/THAT girl...
Or maybe, I make them uncomfortable. (Probably.)
I joined a new gym, a cheap gym, that I'll call Unfit Universe (maybe you can figure it out), because I can't afford NYSC anymore and this just makes more sense as my apartment I'm moving into this fall at school is right near one of these little chainlet gyms. I call it Unfit Universe because this gym was not designed for fitness fanatics like myself, but people who want to "try working out" and know nothing about fitness equipment. Now, I'm all for people "trying working out" but if you'r einterrupting my circuit training because you're doing sit ups while on the leg press, you don't belong in a gym. You belong either a) on the mat section for sit ups or b) far from a gym. I wanted to tell him that the machine wasnt' for sit ups, but he was bigger than me, and maybe he didn't speak English. He looked ethnic. But who am I to judge. Plenty of people who look like they speak English don't, and plenty of ethnic people speak English.
There was a woman who was, I swear, checking me out, too. It made me uncomfortable. I was doing pilates moves, like the 100. I don't think I'm radiantly hot, nor have I ever had a penchant for attracting lesbians, but I have to say I have just mustered enough confidence recently to sport a little tank top and short shorts to the gym. So I engaged in a staring contest with her. It was then that I realized that you could totally see up my shorts.
I mean, who knows, maybe she didn't see up my shorts. Maybe she just enjoys staring. I definitely stare at people and make up lives that they live. (For example - man with enormous moustache moderately resembling a Pedo-Stache on the elliptical at low intensity and high speed - has overweight wife and two kids in middle school; eats pork and beans for dinner. Went to SUNY Oswego. Majored in math. Now works as a line cook for a major chain restaurant with fried chicken atop of every 'healthy' salad.)
I hope he didn't see up my shorts. But if he did, he probably was too busy dreaming about his impending pork and beans dinner. Some people just always have food on the brain.
Til next time,
small fry/THAT girl...
Monday, June 22, 2009
Feel the Burn
Today, I went to Starbucks to be classy and read the paper and kill some time and do the obligatory caffeination. So I got my unfortunately hard to memorize Venti Soy Misto, more coffee than milk, with vanilla bean powder. (Once they put protein powder in instead. Another time, they said, "More milk than coffee, right?" Sigh.) I was trying enjoy my morning before a trip to, well, the gyno. There's nothing embarassing or gross about it, people, every woman goes every year. I'm not giving you the details, it's just where I was headed.
So I sat down with the Monday Times, the Arts section, but of course, reading an article about a woman who used to be on CNN and now is on the Onion News Network, and...HOLY SHIT MOTHERFUCKER. Thought my subext. And I probably said something similarly outloud, because as an actor, we are told not to swallow our impulses but rather live on them and in the moment. And in that moment, I was feeling the burn.
The scalding hot coffee spilled - the cap to the drink wasn't on securely - and the coffee spilled in between my thighs. Yup. I was bound to have welts. Insert number degree burns. A man came over and gave me some napkins to help me with the spill on the table, and I thanked him and waddled (yes, waddled) my way over to the restroom to put water in between my legs, which I know better than to do in public most of the ti me, and to make sure there wasn't any serious damage on my inner thighs. I could just imagine my impending appointment - "well, all is fine in that area, but what's going on with those welts in between your legs? Is everything all right in your interpersonal relationships?"
I checked out the damage, and it looked fine, but it was painful, and there was some legit redness. I remembered that I left my coffee out in the open. Ihoped no one stole it. Or poisoned it. Or put drugs in it. Unless it was Vicodin, which could very well help facilitate the course of my burning sensation...
I waddled back out, probably overdramatizing the fact that I had just been burnt, and the man who handed me napkins was sitting at a table drinking his coffee and reading the paper. He asked me if all was allright; if I was okay.
"Yeah," I said, "I'm just pretty badly burnt, and it hurts to walk..."
And I walked by him to where my coffee was, and I saw that he had a metal leg. Yes, a missing leg and an implant, like the people in the meningitis vaccination commercial. And I told him it hurt to walk.
And I thought, "on my way to the gyno, I spilled scalding hot coffee in between my legs" belonged on FML.com.
I was a little saddened that the baristas didn't notice, and I wondered if I should have complained. I remembered a few years back how someone sued McDonald's because she or he spilled scalding coffee in between his or her legs and got badly burnt. But I like Starbucks. I didn't want to sue them.
And for the record, the welts aren't that bad, and I can walk right now.
I'm a terrible person.
Til next time,
Small Fry/That Girl...
So I sat down with the Monday Times, the Arts section, but of course, reading an article about a woman who used to be on CNN and now is on the Onion News Network, and...HOLY SHIT MOTHERFUCKER. Thought my subext. And I probably said something similarly outloud, because as an actor, we are told not to swallow our impulses but rather live on them and in the moment. And in that moment, I was feeling the burn.
The scalding hot coffee spilled - the cap to the drink wasn't on securely - and the coffee spilled in between my thighs. Yup. I was bound to have welts. Insert number degree burns. A man came over and gave me some napkins to help me with the spill on the table, and I thanked him and waddled (yes, waddled) my way over to the restroom to put water in between my legs, which I know better than to do in public most of the ti me, and to make sure there wasn't any serious damage on my inner thighs. I could just imagine my impending appointment - "well, all is fine in that area, but what's going on with those welts in between your legs? Is everything all right in your interpersonal relationships?"
I checked out the damage, and it looked fine, but it was painful, and there was some legit redness. I remembered that I left my coffee out in the open. Ihoped no one stole it. Or poisoned it. Or put drugs in it. Unless it was Vicodin, which could very well help facilitate the course of my burning sensation...
I waddled back out, probably overdramatizing the fact that I had just been burnt, and the man who handed me napkins was sitting at a table drinking his coffee and reading the paper. He asked me if all was allright; if I was okay.
"Yeah," I said, "I'm just pretty badly burnt, and it hurts to walk..."
And I walked by him to where my coffee was, and I saw that he had a metal leg. Yes, a missing leg and an implant, like the people in the meningitis vaccination commercial. And I told him it hurt to walk.
And I thought, "on my way to the gyno, I spilled scalding hot coffee in between my legs" belonged on FML.com.
I was a little saddened that the baristas didn't notice, and I wondered if I should have complained. I remembered a few years back how someone sued McDonald's because she or he spilled scalding coffee in between his or her legs and got badly burnt. But I like Starbucks. I didn't want to sue them.
And for the record, the welts aren't that bad, and I can walk right now.
I'm a terrible person.
Til next time,
Small Fry/That Girl...
Sunday, June 21, 2009
I'm Going To Be An Astronaut, I Think
Today is Father's Day. So happy Father's Day to all of you dads out there, illegitimate and legitimate. Really. Who am I to judge? (PS - I might be the most judgmental person I know, but that's only because I'd rather make a harsh judgment and fully commit to it than be wishy washy on where I stand. So maybe I'm not judgmental, I just have strong opinions? Who knows. I swear, I'm not a terrible person. Only sometimes.)
I went out to dinner to PF Chang's (insert excitement here - pseudo-Asian-American fusion! Steamed mixed vegetables for the girl with IBS and acid reflux and lactose intolerance!...yup...all of those)...with my sister, dad, my aunt and my uncle. My parents are divorced - my dad's been married twice - my mom was Wife #1, and my mom just got engaged for her #2. (Go Mom! The rock's pretty hefty, too.) My aunt knows that I'm a theater and English major, yet she always feels the need to ask me if I'm still double majoring. Or like I changed my mind to accounting or something. Which, I assure you, I will not do, as I got a C+ in Math In Action. I had a B test average, yet somehow, after a few poor studying decisions (when did I ever think studying over a bottle of wine was a good idea? I'll tell you when - the day before my Math In action final). It's humorous - actually - because my entire college transcript is A's and A-'s. And then there's Math In Action....C+. Some future employer will laugh at that someday. That is, if I ever get employed.
Because, you see, I am entirely unemployable as I would like to be an actress/writer. I'd like to make a living hustling - I don't mean like Terrence Howard in Hustle And Flow, or whatever that move is, I mean like...working my ass off to make sure I get to act and write! Romantic, huh? But then my aunt always asks me what I want to be when I grow up. I say, oh, I'm going to be an actor, and I'm going to write, too.
"Oh, you mean like...you want to be...on Broadway!?" Like I'm a little girl who just said I wanted to be an astronaut, and my first stop was going to be Pluto, which by the way, boys and girls, isn't even a planet anymore.
(Tangent: How can it not be a planet anymore? I don't understand. If something's there, isn't it there? Like, if I have a small coffee mug of Haagen Dasz frozen yogurt sitting next to me right now, can I just say, "It isn't a coffee mug of froyo anymore." I can say that, but it doesn't change the continuum of matter, does it? Unless it evaporates, which I don't think a ceramic mug can do. But the froyo can melt. Which is worrisome to us slow froyo eaters who like to truly savor every single yogurt culture that enters our mouths. I mean, me.)
I don't mean to be a terrible niece, or terrible daughter to my father by possibly knocking my aunt, but seriously. I think next time I'm just going to tell her I want to be an astroanut. I completely abandoned all of my passions and hopes, and all those acting classes were for naught, because aeronautical astrophysics interest me. And besides, I have a better chance of landing on the moon than landing a leading lady role, anyway.
But fortunately, I know better than that. I know I'm not a leading lady. I'd be content playing Annie, as long as it meant that I'd get to work everyday. And I totally would go to an open call for Annie, fully aware that I am twenty years old and the other girls are eleven. But the sun can come out for all of us.
And if it won't come out for all of us, then you can be your bottom dollar that we can go out and find it.
By being astronauts, of course.
Til next time,
Small Fry/That Girl...
I went out to dinner to PF Chang's (insert excitement here - pseudo-Asian-American fusion! Steamed mixed vegetables for the girl with IBS and acid reflux and lactose intolerance!...yup...all of those)...with my sister, dad, my aunt and my uncle. My parents are divorced - my dad's been married twice - my mom was Wife #1, and my mom just got engaged for her #2. (Go Mom! The rock's pretty hefty, too.) My aunt knows that I'm a theater and English major, yet she always feels the need to ask me if I'm still double majoring. Or like I changed my mind to accounting or something. Which, I assure you, I will not do, as I got a C+ in Math In Action. I had a B test average, yet somehow, after a few poor studying decisions (when did I ever think studying over a bottle of wine was a good idea? I'll tell you when - the day before my Math In action final). It's humorous - actually - because my entire college transcript is A's and A-'s. And then there's Math In Action....C+. Some future employer will laugh at that someday. That is, if I ever get employed.
Because, you see, I am entirely unemployable as I would like to be an actress/writer. I'd like to make a living hustling - I don't mean like Terrence Howard in Hustle And Flow, or whatever that move is, I mean like...working my ass off to make sure I get to act and write! Romantic, huh? But then my aunt always asks me what I want to be when I grow up. I say, oh, I'm going to be an actor, and I'm going to write, too.
"Oh, you mean like...you want to be...on Broadway!?" Like I'm a little girl who just said I wanted to be an astronaut, and my first stop was going to be Pluto, which by the way, boys and girls, isn't even a planet anymore.
(Tangent: How can it not be a planet anymore? I don't understand. If something's there, isn't it there? Like, if I have a small coffee mug of Haagen Dasz frozen yogurt sitting next to me right now, can I just say, "It isn't a coffee mug of froyo anymore." I can say that, but it doesn't change the continuum of matter, does it? Unless it evaporates, which I don't think a ceramic mug can do. But the froyo can melt. Which is worrisome to us slow froyo eaters who like to truly savor every single yogurt culture that enters our mouths. I mean, me.)
I don't mean to be a terrible niece, or terrible daughter to my father by possibly knocking my aunt, but seriously. I think next time I'm just going to tell her I want to be an astroanut. I completely abandoned all of my passions and hopes, and all those acting classes were for naught, because aeronautical astrophysics interest me. And besides, I have a better chance of landing on the moon than landing a leading lady role, anyway.
But fortunately, I know better than that. I know I'm not a leading lady. I'd be content playing Annie, as long as it meant that I'd get to work everyday. And I totally would go to an open call for Annie, fully aware that I am twenty years old and the other girls are eleven. But the sun can come out for all of us.
And if it won't come out for all of us, then you can be your bottom dollar that we can go out and find it.
By being astronauts, of course.
Til next time,
Small Fry/That Girl...
Oh....hi.
Welcome to my world. It's unfortunate, it's accidental, and it's not entirely plausible all the time - but guess what. It is. I'm your resident Small Fry. I'm four eleven, and I have a big head of hair, and I recently got bangs and everyone likes them. They make me look less like a seven year old, and more like a seven year old who reads the Sunday Styles.
I've tried doing the blog thing before, and I've failed, because I often start things and get such bad creative ADD where I start a new project instead that I completely abandon the first one. But I've decided that it'd be nice to write down my everyday misadventures. That way, you can laugh at me - or I can just revisit this page over and over again if none of you do, and laugh at myself.
So perhaps before you dive headfirst into my universe and bang your head on the cement at the bottom of the pool (yup), you should get to know a bit about me and, you know, my biorhythms. Capricorn! Oh wait, that says nothing. Except "Goat, born between Dec 21 and Jan 20." Damn. Anyway.
So, yes, I am That Girl. No, not the sitcom for x years ago starring Marlo Thomas, because although I aspire to be super trendy, I often fail. For example, I buy skinny jeans but they're too big in the butt so it looks like I have some major issues going on in the rear end section. Then my pants slide down my legs and I tried to wear a belt, but..
I'm the girl who, yes, whose pants fall down in public sometimes. I'm the girl who is addicted to caffeine and has a really simple beverage at Starbucks, which is essentially coffee + steamed milk (a misto), and they always get it wrong. I'm the girl who is addicted to caffeine and has acid reflux and IBS and they told me to stop drinking it, and I said no. I'm the girl who went as Nicole Richie, Pregnant one year for Halloween and as Amy Winehouse the next. The girl who had a bit too much wine and accidentally showed up drunk to her math final. The girl who realized, while getting felt up, that maybe today wasn't the best day to stuff her bra with toilet paper like a twelve year old.
I also have a fondness for Asians. I don't really know why or how this happened - and I swear, I mean fondness, not fetish. I just sometimes want to be like Gwen Stefani, and have a Harajuku posse following me around or something.
Oh, and since I'm quite small and resemble a child, I often shop in the kids section. And yes, I often get mistaken for a child and am told I can't enter theaters by myself because you have to be at least twelve. I'm twenty.
So, like I said, I'm Small Fry, I'm That Girl, and wecome to my little planet. I'm a theater and English major, which means I not only play action and dramatize everything, but I can write about it, too.
Blogs are kinda like vanity projects if you think about it, unless you know people find you amusing. People have told me I'm amusing, but they also have told me a lot of other things. Like that present that I got when my little sister was born when I was four was made by her in my mom's stomach. I totally believed that for a really long time. Fetuses can make Sesame Street xylophones and wrap them. Right?
Til next time,
Small Fry/That Girl
I've tried doing the blog thing before, and I've failed, because I often start things and get such bad creative ADD where I start a new project instead that I completely abandon the first one. But I've decided that it'd be nice to write down my everyday misadventures. That way, you can laugh at me - or I can just revisit this page over and over again if none of you do, and laugh at myself.
So perhaps before you dive headfirst into my universe and bang your head on the cement at the bottom of the pool (yup), you should get to know a bit about me and, you know, my biorhythms. Capricorn! Oh wait, that says nothing. Except "Goat, born between Dec 21 and Jan 20." Damn. Anyway.
So, yes, I am That Girl. No, not the sitcom for x years ago starring Marlo Thomas, because although I aspire to be super trendy, I often fail. For example, I buy skinny jeans but they're too big in the butt so it looks like I have some major issues going on in the rear end section. Then my pants slide down my legs and I tried to wear a belt, but..
I'm the girl who, yes, whose pants fall down in public sometimes. I'm the girl who is addicted to caffeine and has a really simple beverage at Starbucks, which is essentially coffee + steamed milk (a misto), and they always get it wrong. I'm the girl who is addicted to caffeine and has acid reflux and IBS and they told me to stop drinking it, and I said no. I'm the girl who went as Nicole Richie, Pregnant one year for Halloween and as Amy Winehouse the next. The girl who had a bit too much wine and accidentally showed up drunk to her math final. The girl who realized, while getting felt up, that maybe today wasn't the best day to stuff her bra with toilet paper like a twelve year old.
I also have a fondness for Asians. I don't really know why or how this happened - and I swear, I mean fondness, not fetish. I just sometimes want to be like Gwen Stefani, and have a Harajuku posse following me around or something.
Oh, and since I'm quite small and resemble a child, I often shop in the kids section. And yes, I often get mistaken for a child and am told I can't enter theaters by myself because you have to be at least twelve. I'm twenty.
So, like I said, I'm Small Fry, I'm That Girl, and wecome to my little planet. I'm a theater and English major, which means I not only play action and dramatize everything, but I can write about it, too.
Blogs are kinda like vanity projects if you think about it, unless you know people find you amusing. People have told me I'm amusing, but they also have told me a lot of other things. Like that present that I got when my little sister was born when I was four was made by her in my mom's stomach. I totally believed that for a really long time. Fetuses can make Sesame Street xylophones and wrap them. Right?
Til next time,
Small Fry/That Girl
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