Tales from a Dominican Gym: The Cast

In the midst of my workout today, I had the sudden urge to introduce you to the cast of characters at Jay's Big Gym.  I identify these folks by their outstanding characteristics, hence their descriptive names.  Please note that some of the practices about to be described would be grounds for expulsion from any normal gym; fortunately for us, Jay's doesn't hold itself to any standards of health, sanitation, or normalcy.  Here are our players:

Little Big Legs.  A greasy, roided-up Latino gent, whose calves are about the size of my forearms, and whose quads are about the size of my torso.  I can't stop looking at them.  Also, whenever he talks, he looks like he's screaming.  Sometimes known in my head as Senor Napoleon.

Chiquita Banana.  Works out in full makeup, with long, beautiful, black curls down and perfectly done.  Only walks on the treadmill, and eats fruit while doing it.  Then leaves peels and pitts on the machines.  Once, was eating a banana while flirting with a guy on the next treadmill;  the banana flew out of her mouth mid-sentence.

I'm-a-Boxer.  "Teaches" boxing, although I'm not sure of his credentials.  Today I saw him studying from the Personal Training Manual, which means that he's not certified yet.  Every time I am at the gym, he is there.  Every single time.  All day.  Every day.  Mostly just hanging out.

Mr. Massage.  A trainer at the gym, who massages his clients on the workout mats in the middle of the gym.  With lotion.  For women, he lifts their shirts up and unclips their bras.  The mats don't get wiped down after.  I do not use mats at my gym.

Shoeless Jose.  Prefers to run on the treadmills barefoot.  No one seems to care. 

The Other White Girl.  Self explanatory.

Now, please keep in mind that these are just the leads.  We have an entire ensemble, made up of men who only go to the gym to try to do more pull ups than the other men, and women who only go to the gym to yell across the gym at other women while pretending to do cardio.

All in all, it's a pretty decent show.

xoxo

Another Audition Saga: Waterproof Mascara, Perhaps?

So Ryan and I had callbacks the other day for a great show at a great regional theatre, which shall go unnamed to protect the poor heroine of my tragic tale, just in case she stumbles on this blog one day.  We were called back to sing and read scenes from this particular show, which was made very clear to us by the casting people when they gave us all the info we needed.  The girls called back for my role were also asked to prepare a specific song on guitar.  Cool right?  Right.  It was great. 

So we're there waiting, along with a bunch of other Ryan-looking boys and Chelsea-looking girls with guitars, and I start chatting with one of the girls.  Turns out she didn't read the callback instructions right, and prepared a random guitar song, rather than the one from the show.  Well, she was off and running.  You could see the terror on her face during the conversation, and shortly after, she was called into the room.

She spends about 3 minutes in the room, comes out, and loud and clear says, "I forgot all the music I practiced on my guitar!"  The room went silent, and everybody turned to stare.  She walked over to her bag, knelt down to get her stuff, and all of a sudden, starts sobbing.  LOUDLY.  Everyone was watching and completely quiet, and here's this crazy girl, bawling out in public, in front of God and everyone (including the audition monitor!), with absolutely no shame.  So what do you do?  You don't just let this poor girl next to you cry away without consoling her, right?  So I got sucked in.  Here's how the convo went:

Me:  "Are you okay, honey?"
Her:  "NO!  (sob sob) I worked really hard on this and they didn't even let me sing anything from the show and I didn't know what song (sob sob) they wanted on the guitar and Iiiiiaaaauuuuugggghhhh..."
Me:  "I know, it sucks, but there are a million auditions next week, and the week after, and the week after that."
Her:  "I know but I worrrrrrrked so HHHHAAAARRRRD! (SOB SOB)"
*Cue two fat black mascara tears, one out of each eye, rolling down her face to her chin.  She let them stay there.*
Me:  "It's okay, you just gotta forget about it and move on."
Helpful guy next to me: "Yeah, don't let it get to you."
*Note that this is really a translation for "Get over it, crazy.  Pull it together and go take a bubble bath."*

So I go to get this hot mess some tissue so she can at least cry in dignity without mascara on her face.  I do that, come back, she thanks me, and marches directly over to the monitor's table.  Inside I was screaming "NOOOOOO!!!!!"  But now I can admit that I sort of wanted to watch the fireworks at this point.  So she gives the whole spiel to the monitor (who couldn't care less), comes back, goes over again and complains some more, comes back, packs up her stuff, and before leaving, goes to the monitor one last time:  "Will you (sob sob sob) tell them (wipe tear, sob) what I said?!?!?" 

I don't know what the monitor replied, but what I do know is that Little Miss Mascara will never, ever work at this unmentioned regional theatre -- EVER.

Keep it together, kids.  And if you can't keep it together, maaaaaybe consider a career change.  Just saying.

xoxo

Zipcar

Zipcar's having a contest to win a free ZipTrip and a foldie bike.  Ryan reeeeeally wants a foldie bike, so I figured I'd try to win it for mah mayun.  They're asking people to plan a trip involving the car and the bike, and write an email in, so that's what I did.  And here's what I wrote:

So my boyfriend had this excellent idea.  We were sitting on the A train, heading home after a long day of auditions -- we're both NYC actors, and this particular day was a doozie.  (Doozy?  Doozee?  Doosie?  Whatever.)  We had both been thinking that we need a little refresher, a day out of town, or just a break from the gnarliness of the city.  ANYway, there's a stop on the A (42nd, to be exact) where my Blackberry gets service for about two seconds, and it was fated that I should get your sweet little Zipcar email just at that moment, inviting us to plan the perfect trip for a Zipcar and a folding Montague Bike.  Um, HELLO?!  He's been wanting a folding bike forever, and we love Zipping.  We were stoked.

After a few admittedly lame ideas not even worth recapping, Ryan hit on this:  "What if you just drove me upstate and dropped me off and left?"  Well when ya put it like that, it doesn't sound so great, but the refined version is much better, and here she is:  We take a spring drive to upstate NY for a couple of hours on a sunny day when the leaves are starting to pop out, pick a cool spot, and stop.  Ryan pops the Boston bike out of the trunk and we say goodbye.  He toodles off to explore, and I find a SPA for a couple of hours!  Seriously?  How perfect is this?  I'm thinking a mani, pedi, and a facial should give my sweetie enough time to tire out.  So freshly primped, I'll pick him up, pop the bike back in the trunk, and off to home on our merry way we'll go.

Tell me that doesn't sound great.  I mean, the only way it could be better would be if Zipcar sponsored the spa visit...  (Insert sly smile here.)

xoxo