Oak, Mandy, and the Great Clusterf**k of 2017

Am I thinking too much about this? Probably. But it speaks to a bigger issue and it's my blog, so here we go:

I have absolutely loved Great Comet ever since my best and I traveled to the Meatpacking District to see this little show that was making a big buzz (that's right, I'm pulling a theatre hipster move, I flaunt my bangs of pretension at you), then when I dragged my boyfriend to see it when it moved to off-Broadway (and created a monster; his alarm song has been "Pierre" for THREE. FUCKING. YEARS. my God why choose the saddest song in the show to wake up to), then when I had the luck of happening to work on the bar when the show came to the ART. Being a Hamilton/Oak fan, I was really looking forward to seeing him in Comet later in the summer as an end-of-summer treat. I'm still going to try to get up there in the next two weeks. But now there's a sour taste in my mouth, and it's not his fault, Mandy's fault, Dave Malloy's fault...I'm not going to publicly point fingers at anyone but the language and manner of this turnover should have been handled way better and those at the helm of such decisions have some stuff to work on.

I know how diverse the show has always been and it was exciting to see that diversity grow with the addition of Oak. I, being white, can't speak to the racial politics that may or may not have been at play in this decision. I can only listen to artists of color who spoke out and take their words to heart, and know that regardless of what happened in this situation, there is still a fuckton of work to be done in regards to representation and equal treatment, even in the theatre world, which holds itself up as the most accepting. To disregard the outcry is to disregard a bunch of shit that artists of color have dealt with for...Well, ever. I will not disregard their feelings, whether or not race played into the decision here.

In any case it's horrible to see a capable performer spend months preparing for a role and then open to great reviews only to be told that their name is not enough and producers are bringing in a name with mass appeal to boost sales. That they couldn't do the job, even while they were (by all reports) killing it artistically. I know it's show business, but let's remember that those of us who spend our life making theatre largely didn't get into it because of money or fame. It's passion. When you're told that doing the thing you love with all of your passion still isn't enough for the monetary side...Can you imagine?

But with their ticket purchases (or lack thereof), Broadway patrons are telling producers that a young, new, exciting, fairly well-known (everyone and their grandma knows about Hamilton at this point, come on) performer is not enough to put butts in seats, that a name with flyover appeal has to be brought in order to keep a cast/crew employed, that someone has to be hurt and/or humiliated in order for the show to go on, and that. is. not. okay. And the onus lies on us, the audience and theatre community, to change the dialogue.

Everyone who has seen Oak perform, be it in Hamilton or Comet, has told me how amazing he is. In the past week alone, one of my most trusted theatre nerd friends and my boyfriend the Comet Monster have both seen him and raved about his performance as Pierre. I'm making it a goal to get to see him before he leaves.

And in the future, I'm buying my ticket in advance.

An Unexpected Holiday Miracle

An Unexpected Holiday Miracle

   I was living in New York City in December 2008, and I could not have been in less of a holiday spirit.

     I was working way too many jobs to be as broke as my bank account told me I was. My latest romantic interlude had fizzled when I figured out that the super sweet and shy man I was dating was actually a douchnozzle stepping out on his live-in girlfriend (the city is big, but social media is small). The economy had done a nose dive and taken the spirit of the city with it; the gruff but welcoming city I had moved to in 2006 was now replaced with an air of bitterness and desperation. Everyone seemed so angry. I found myself vacillating between anger and devastation as the holiday season rolled around. At one point, I saw a young woman with such a dark expression on her face in the reflection of a window at Macy’s that I turned to make sure she wasn’t dangerous, only to realize I had been looking at myself. I wanted more than anything to recapture the excitement and joy that I had felt around the holiday season when I was younger, but nothing I did seemed to solve my holiday blues. After a dinner in Brooklyn with a similarly stressed friend, I decided to take a detour to the Target at the Atlantic Station before heading back to Harlem and get some Christmas shopping done. Buying gifts for others had always put me in a great mood, and I needed a major injection of positivity at that point.

  

   I wandered the aisles picking up small gifts for friends and family, feeling my spirit lifting, only to have it come crashing back down when my card was declined at the checkout. This is one of the major drawbacks of being a freelancer - if your companies don’t pay on time, you can end up looking  like an asshole in front of a cashier at Target as you silently freak out over your finances. It was good that I had used cash at dinner. It was not so good that I only had $10 cash left to my name until my next paycheck, whenever the hell that decided to arrive. 

     I left my non-purchases at the counter and slunk out of the store, my slink becoming a stomp as I descended into the bustling station to make my way back to the 2. As negativity began to once again swirl up inside of me, my pace quickened until I was barreling through the station, barely missing other angry and stressed out shoppers and commuters. Luckily, I became aware of the rat who was right in front of me as I stormed through the gate. Wait. That wasn’t a rat. What the…?

    I looked down and then jumped back with a panicked “OHMYGOD”, gawking at the sight on the ground right in front of me. There, lying in the middle of the station floor, was a Santa hat with a gigantic shit poking out of it. A gigantic human shit. I looked around as though the culprit would still be around, waiting to see who discovered their homemade stink bomb, but all I saw were the shocked and disgusted faces of everyone else who had heard me yelp and saw what had caused my reaction. We all stood, frozen, staring at this hat full of crap, as though it was magically going to become Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo and teach us the meaning of the season. It didn’t, of course. It just lay there, defiantly, daring us to continue our nights untraumatized. And so we stood. And we stared.

     The more I looked at this hat and its contents, the more ridiculous the situation at hand became. Someone had gotten so angry at the holidays that they had taken the time to squat over a Santa hat and deposit their own personal Yule Log of fuck you. A Fuck Yule Log, if you will. And they most certainly had. How did they even manage this? Did they purchase a Santa hat at Target with the mission to poop in it and deposit their deposit in the middle of a busy station? Did they do it at home and then carry it on the subway with the intention to place it in the middle of a busy station? The mental image of someone angrily holding a Santa hat full of their own feces as they sat on the downtown train, glaring at happy tourists and train breakdancers, was what pushed me over my edge.

    The laughter started deep in my stomach, which had been in knots for weeks, and traveled through my chest, which had been host to shooting pains and tension that I’d created through a stress partnership between my stomach and tight shoulders, which were now beginning to shake. Peals of laughter caused my face to break from its recent glower into a huge grin, and I found myself having the best laugh I had experienced in ages in the middle of the busiest subway station in Brooklyn, during the most stressful time of the year, caused by a holiday hat full of poo. 

    I looked around and realized that I wasn’t alone. Everyone who was witness to this was laughing, some grinning at friends and family, some turning to total strangers and cracking a joke. No matter what state of mind we were all in prior to this, we were all bonded by our amusement at this absurdity. For a moment, the terrible economy didn’t matter. The looming high rent due so shortly after a holiday didn’t matter. All that mattered was the odd joy we were taking from this insane discovery. It really was one of the most “New York” moments I ever experienced as a resident. As we all went to our respective trains, we took the time to wish each other a happy holiday. People of all races and religions smiled and shook hands, then traveled on their way with a lighter step and a better mood.

    All because of a giant shit in a Santa hat. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over how something so gross and potentially catastrophic made the night of so many merry. Sometimes the light gets in, but you certainly can’t always predict the source of said light. Sometimes it’s an act of kindness, sometimes it’s a stroke of luck when the chips are down, sometimes it’s last night’s digested dinner nestled into a red velour hat. I’ll tell you one thing; that poop in a hat was the Clarence of poops in hats, and it certainly earned its wings that cold December evening.

   As we usher in another emotionally draining and stressful holiday season, may your days be merry and bright, may you find moments of humor and joy in unexpected places, and may you always be aware of what’s on the ground in front of you while you’re walking. Happy Holidays.

TBT Post: Millionaire's NO

 I'm back! And I'm attempting to write every day. Yes, via blog. I can be 2008-era hip. 

I figured that the best way to go about this was to assign a theme to each day. I can't think of anything my Type-A self loves more than structured days! From here on in, this is what I'm going to attempt to do every week:

Monday: FunDay. Also known as Dare Day. You send me a dare that doesn't violate my ethics or put me in danger, I take you up on it. I'll try to do this weekly and post a summary/video every Monday.

Tuesday: Top Ten Tuesday. Because it wouldn't be a blog without lists or alliteration.

Wednesday: Wildcard Wednesday. Whatever I'm feeling passionate about. Probably women's issues. That's right. Lady is a feminist. Run now, all ye mansplainers.

 Also scotch.

Thursday: Throwback! Stories and pictures from my past. Probably embarrassing. Definitely embarrassing.

Friday: F**k It Fridays. This will probably be about me getting over one of my many neuroses (a neurotic actress? Noooooo).

Saturday: Rant Day. This blog IS called Opinionated Short Girl, after all.

Sunday: I rest. And I brunch.

Today, I present a story from my single days that was recently read at Grown Up Story Time, a monthly series presented by BooTown Boston. I've worked with them as a reader and a writer, and it is a fantastic way to spend a Wednesday night! Did I mention it takes place at a brewery? 

Millionaire’s NO   

     I met him in December 2009. I was in my 20’s, living in New York, single, fine with that, but interested in finding someone who could tell great stories and make me laugh. My past few semi-quasi relationships had been with actors who were consistently younger than me, so on my most recently edited mental list of dating don’ts were the following words: “No one younger, no New York actors, no more corn-fed, small-town boys who turn into assholes in a big city.”

     I met him while I was “modeling” for Rockport Shoes in Columbus Circle. Big quotation marks around “modeling”. When you’re a promotional model, you’re not signed to any agency or hailed as the next big anything, but if you clean up nice and can speak the branding points, you can eke out a living…Or at least you could in the early aughts. For this job, I was supposed to stand for eight hours in high heels and tell consumers how comfortable this was. Unsurprisingly, I was miserable, so on my break I hobbled to a Borders Cafe (remember those?) and sat down with a giant, sighing “fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck” of relief.

    This vulgar proclamation made the man next to me turn around, a concerned expression on his face. 

     “Are you okay?”

      “Yeah, why?”

     “Well, you were swearing in public, so I didn’t know if something was wrong.”

     “This is New York City, everyone swears in public. Where are you from?”

      “Canada.”

     “That explains it.”

      He bought me a tea, we talked a bit, and I found out that he currently stationed by his job in Toronto, that he was in and out of town for the winter for work, that he was older than me…Check check check! When he asked me out for dinner, I practically threw my bloodied shoes in the air with joy. I limped triumphantly back to my friend Danielle, another actress trading on her ability to walk and talk at the same time and told her about the great guy I had just met. She looked dubious, especially as he walked by and checked in with me about our date. After he left she turned to me and said “…I think the blood from your head has drained to your feet.”

      Negativity be damned, I could go back to Massachusetts for Christmas knowing I’d be taken on a real date by a real adult in the New Year. Real dates and great on paper men: this is what women were supposed to want, right?

       A week after I got back to the city, I received a message from him, asking me out to dinner that evening. After I agreed to go out, I was informed that he was taking the train in from DC for the night just to take me out on a date. No pressure. Having never experienced this before, I showed the message to my roommate, Ruvi.

“He thinks you’re gonna screw him.”

“What? No! I haven't even spent an hour with him.”

“Yeah, but he’s coming in from another city just to take you out; what are you going to do?”

“Congratulate him on his free will. Maybe I should cancel.”

As I was saying this, another message came through. His assistant had made reservations for us at Nobu57. Well, damn. At the time, the downtown Nobu was one of the hottest places to go, and the uptown location was drawing just as many glitterati. Ruvi stared at my phone, then back at me. “Girl, you’re going.”

She helped me put together the perfect Upper West Side Outfit, did a round of Jameson with me to calm my nerves, and sent me on my way to meet him. I messaged him at the metro station:

So which hotel are you staying at?

The Trump Plaza. I’ll be here for tonight, then back to DC, then Africa, then Italy for work.

You travel around the world for work, can stay at the Plaza, and can do Nobu? What are you, in the mob or something?

His reply: LOL.

How comforting.

When I got to the hotel, he was wearing what might be the most ridiculous outfit I have seen anyone wear on a date. The pink and purple tight button-down, the coordinated bright blue suspenders, the way too tight pants…It looked like what someone who was slightly out of touch but well off would wear if they walked into Saks and said to themselves “I must find what the trendy people are wearing these days!” It was a far cry from the downtown dive bars and t-shirt and jeans-clad dates I was used to. It was a far cry from the smell of whiskey in the air, duct tape on the booths, and The Clash on the jukebox. It was a far cry from my comfort zone, but I kept telling myself: check, check, check. This was what I had told myself I wanted. 

As we walked over to the restaurant, I made up my mind that I was going to find out what he did for work after all. After needling him for a few blocks, a surprising word came out of his mouth: “Oil”.

“Oil? You work…In oil? With oil? The oil business? You a billionaire? Ha ha!”

“I mean, not quite. But I passed the millionaire mark a long time ago.”

“…Oh.”

Well. This was a curveball. Perhaps you think that I was giddy to find out that I had snagged the interest of someone so well-off, but instead, I felt a sinking sensation.  I need to make something clear: I am not comfortable with excess money. Money is power, and power-drunk people tend to suck, for lack of a better word. Combined years of bartending at corporate events and a TriBeCa bar had soured me against people who thought that a $50 was an appropriate apology for being awful to you for an entire night. So I was freaking out. I sent a furtive text to Ruvi: This dude is a millionare. Multi.

A reply came swiftly: DO NOT FUCK THIS UP.

When we got to Nobu, our table wasn’t ready. Being a city hotspot, everyone was sending their assistants to get them tables, and there had been a mistake with our reservation. I was ready to shrug it off and get a glass of wine at the bar, but then I saw Benjamin Franklin’s face floating past my shoulder and into the hand of the hostess. He pressed the bill into her palm and snidely said, “I’m sure you can find something for us now.” I looked down and blushed as we were ushered to a table. What would have been so bad about waiting a little while? Was he really that persistent about getting his own way? 

It got worse. You would think someone who travels the world for work would have some fun stories, but he had none. He was rude to our waiter to the point that I am still to this day Facebook friends with the waiter - that is how much I compensated for his rudeness. He had lied about his age and had a full two decades on me, which meant we had nothing in common at this juncture in our lives, and then the final blow came via my attempt at a joke:

“I mean, I’m a non-Equity actress; if you made $40,000 a year I would think you were filthy rich, ha!”

“Ha…Well, I mean, this watch cost way more than that.” He took off and held out a gaudy gold diamond-encrusted watch. “Would you like to hold it?”

I wanted to grab it and run as fast as I could to a pawn shop, buy a ticket to Toronto, and warn all the nice Canadian people that there was a major douchecanoe in their midst. I wanted to throw it in his face. I wanted to throw it to our waiter! But instead I snuck off to the bathroom and sent another text to Ruvi: He’s awful. I can’t do this.

Her reply: Alissa - Do you know how many girls would kill to be sitting where you are right now? He’s probably socially awkward. Don’t be judgmental. Give him a chance. And drink something strong.

I followed her advice, and the evening went from awful to somewhat tolerable. When he invited me for another drink at the Plaza bar, I hesitated, but I mean…I had never been to a hotel as expensive as the Plaza. I could see the bar. Of course, the bar was closed by the time we got there. Of course, this was something he was aware of. But, he reassured me, there was plenty of alcohol in his room’s mini bar.

Son of a…What this dude lacked in personality, he made up for in being as oily as his trade. I agreed to go to the room, steeling myself for an awkward attempt at seduction. In hindsight, this was definitely not the best decision and I’m not pleased with younger me for making it. But my annoyance was now operating my entire body and brain, not logic. So up in the elevator we went.

2016 me is not shocked by this, but 2010 Alissa was shocked by how small and shabby the room was. What, was Trump a crappy businessman or something? At least the minibar was legit. When he opened it, I was looking at all of the top shelf liquor that I had served but never been able to afford on a night out, and I was impressed. 

Unfortunately, he mistook that for interest and the dance began. Did I want a backrub? NOPE. Did I want to sit on the bed? No siree. Did I know he was only in town for ONE NIGHT? To SEE ME?  This was the moment where I must have looked like I was about to kill him, because he finally got the hint and mentioned that it was late, and I should go. I got up from the table, accepted the $50 for cab fare that he handed me (see what I mean about rich assholes and $50’s?), and then turned to leave and felt an unwelcome hand on my ass. Are you KIDDING ME?!

I spun around and glared at him. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” he smirked. And then my inner asshole came out to play, as it often does when confronted with this level of jagoff. While maintaining eye contact, I stuck my hand into the mini bar and with one swipe, knocked all of its contents into my purse, hearing clink after satisfying, fuck-you clink. “Thanks for the drink,” I snapped.

He chased me down the hallway to the elevator, and this is where I got nervous (because let’s face it, that move was kind of badass but definitely not smart). But it turned out that he wanted a goodnight kiss. Seriously? After a crappy night like that, he still wanted some kind of physical gratification? Wanting to get on the damn elevator and back to reality, I leaned in for a peck and ended up on the receiving end of the kind of sloppy, grabby kiss I thought I had escaped at 18. Hork went every nerve in my body.  I leapt away, got in the elevator, into a cab, gave the driver the entire $50, and staggered to my room, just wanting to get my pajamas on. Ruvi was waiting, a disappointed look on her face. “You could have had it all, Alissa.”

“I mean, I have a lot. I have my dignity. Kind of. And free scotch!”

A few months later, I met someone who didn’t make me cringe every time he interacted with another person, and while we didn’t work out, I actually had fun and conversation on our dates. Then, in 2012, I moved to Somerville and met a guy who made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe, who I loved to watch think and observe his surroundings, who looks at me like I’m someone special, not a possession he has a right to because he bought me dinner, and I’m still with him. We don’t have a ton of money but we have mutual love and respect, and we can entertain each other with jokes and conversation even when we can’t budget out a night on the town. Oh…And he’s younger than me. And an actor.

And I wouldn’t trade us even if you waved two diamond-encrusted watches at me.

TBT Post: Millionaire's NO

 I'm back! And I'm attempting to write every day. Yes, via blog. I can be 2008-era hip. 

I figured that the best way to go about this was to assign a theme to each day. I can't think of anything my Type-A self loves more than structured days! From here on in, this is what I'm going to attempt to do every week:

Monday: FunDay. Also known as Dare Day. You send me a dare that doesn't violate my ethics or put me in danger, I take you up on it. I'll try to do this weekly and post a summary/video every Monday.

Tuesday: Top Ten Tuesday. Because it wouldn't be a blog without lists or alliteration.

Wednesday: Wildcard Wednesday. Whatever I'm feeling passionate about. Probably women's issues. That's right. Lady is a feminist. Run now, all ye mansplainers.

 Also scotch.

Thursday: Throwback! Stories and pictures from my past. Probably embarrassing. Definitely embarrassing.

Friday: F**k It Fridays. This will probably be about me getting over one of my many neuroses (a neurotic actress? Noooooo).

Saturday: Rant Day. This blog IS called Opinionated Short Girl, after all.

Sunday: I rest. And I brunch.

Today, I present a story from my single days that was recently read at Grown Up Story Time, a monthly series presented by BooTown Boston. I've worked with them as a reader and a writer, and it is a fantastic way to spend a Wednesday night! Did I mention it takes place at a brewery? 

Millionaire’s NO   

     I met him in December 2009. I was in my 20’s, living in New York, single, fine with that, but interested in finding someone who could tell great stories and make me laugh. My past few semi-quasi relationships had been with actors who were consistently younger than me, so on my most recently edited mental list of dating don’ts were the following words: “No one younger, no New York actors, no more corn-fed, small-town boys who turn into assholes in a big city.”

     I met him while I was “modeling” for Rockport Shoes in Columbus Circle. Big quotation marks around “modeling”. When you’re a promotional model, you’re not signed to any agency or hailed as the next big anything, but if you clean up nice and can speak the branding points, you can eke out a living…Or at least you could in the early aughts. For this job, I was supposed to stand for eight hours in high heels and tell consumers how comfortable this was. Unsurprisingly, I was miserable, so on my break I hobbled to a Borders Cafe (remember those?) and sat down with a giant, sighing “fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck” of relief.

    This vulgar proclamation made the man next to me turn around, a concerned expression on his face. 

     “Are you okay?”

      “Yeah, why?”

     “Well, you were swearing in public, so I didn’t know if something was wrong.”

     “This is New York City, everyone swears in public. Where are you from?”

      “Canada.”

     “That explains it.”

      He bought me a tea, we talked a bit, and I found out that he currently stationed by his job in Toronto, that he was in and out of town for the winter for work, that he was older than me…Check check check! When he asked me out for dinner, I practically threw my bloodied shoes in the air with joy. I limped triumphantly back to my friend Danielle, another actress trading on her ability to walk and talk at the same time and told her about the great guy I had just met. She looked dubious, especially as he walked by and checked in with me about our date. After he left she turned to me and said “…I think the blood from your head has drained to your feet.”

      Negativity be damned, I could go back to Massachusetts for Christmas knowing I’d be taken on a real date by a real adult in the New Year. Real dates and great on paper men: this is what women were supposed to want, right?

       A week after I got back to the city, I received a message from him, asking me out to dinner that evening. After I agreed to go out, I was informed that he was taking the train in from DC for the night just to take me out on a date. No pressure. Having never experienced this before, I showed the message to my roommate, Ruvi.

“He thinks you’re gonna screw him.”

“What? No! I haven't even spent an hour with him.”

“Yeah, but he’s coming in from another city just to take you out; what are you going to do?”

“Congratulate him on his free will. Maybe I should cancel.”

As I was saying this, another message came through. His assistant had made reservations for us at Nobu57. Well, damn. At the time, the downtown Nobu was one of the hottest places to go, and the uptown location was drawing just as many glitterati. Ruvi stared at my phone, then back at me. “Girl, you’re going.”

She helped me put together the perfect Upper West Side Outfit, did a round of Jameson with me to calm my nerves, and sent me on my way to meet him. I messaged him at the metro station:

So which hotel are you staying at?

The Trump Plaza. I’ll be here for tonight, then back to DC, then Africa, then Italy for work.

You travel around the world for work, can stay at the Plaza, and can do Nobu? What are you, in the mob or something?

His reply: LOL.

How comforting.

When I got to the hotel, he was wearing what might be the most ridiculous outfit I have seen anyone wear on a date. The pink and purple tight button-down, the coordinated bright blue suspenders, the way too tight pants…It looked like what someone who was slightly out of touch but well off would wear if they walked into Saks and said to themselves “I must find what the trendy people are wearing these days!” It was a far cry from the downtown dive bars and t-shirt and jeans-clad dates I was used to. It was a far cry from the smell of whiskey in the air, duct tape on the booths, and The Clash on the jukebox. It was a far cry from my comfort zone, but I kept telling myself: check, check, check. This was what I had told myself I wanted. 

As we walked over to the restaurant, I made up my mind that I was going to find out what he did for work after all. After needling him for a few blocks, a surprising word came out of his mouth: “Oil”.

“Oil? You work…In oil? With oil? The oil business? You a billionaire? Ha ha!”

“I mean, not quite. But I passed the millionaire mark a long time ago.”

“…Oh.”

Well. This was a curveball. Perhaps you think that I was giddy to find out that I had snagged the interest of someone so well-off, but instead, I felt a sinking sensation.  I need to make something clear: I am not comfortable with excess money. Money is power, and power-drunk people tend to suck, for lack of a better word. Combined years of bartending at corporate events and a TriBeCa bar had soured me against people who thought that a $50 was an appropriate apology for being awful to you for an entire night. So I was freaking out. I sent a furtive text to Ruvi: This dude is a millionare. Multi.

A reply came swiftly: DO NOT FUCK THIS UP.

When we got to Nobu, our table wasn’t ready. Being a city hotspot, everyone was sending their assistants to get them tables, and there had been a mistake with our reservation. I was ready to shrug it off and get a glass of wine at the bar, but then I saw Benjamin Franklin’s face floating past my shoulder and into the hand of the hostess. He pressed the bill into her palm and snidely said, “I’m sure you can find something for us now.” I looked down and blushed as we were ushered to a table. What would have been so bad about waiting a little while? Was he really that persistent about getting his own way? 

It got worse. You would think someone who travels the world for work would have some fun stories, but he had none. He was rude to our waiter to the point that I am still to this day Facebook friends with the waiter - that is how much I compensated for his rudeness. He had lied about his age and had a full two decades on me, which meant we had nothing in common at this juncture in our lives, and then the final blow came via my attempt at a joke:

“I mean, I’m a non-Equity actress; if you made $40,000 a year I would think you were filthy rich, ha!”

“Ha…Well, I mean, this watch cost way more than that.” He took off and held out a gaudy gold diamond-encrusted watch. “Would you like to hold it?”

I wanted to grab it and run as fast as I could to a pawn shop, buy a ticket to Toronto, and warn all the nice Canadian people that there was a major douchecanoe in their midst. I wanted to throw it in his face. I wanted to throw it to our waiter! But instead I snuck off to the bathroom and sent another text to Ruvi: He’s awful. I can’t do this.

Her reply: Alissa - Do you know how many girls would kill to be sitting where you are right now? He’s probably socially awkward. Don’t be judgmental. Give him a chance. And drink something strong.

I followed her advice, and the evening went from awful to somewhat tolerable. When he invited me for another drink at the Plaza bar, I hesitated, but I mean…I had never been to a hotel as expensive as the Plaza. I could see the bar. Of course, the bar was closed by the time we got there. Of course, this was something he was aware of. But, he reassured me, there was plenty of alcohol in his room’s mini bar.

Son of a…What this dude lacked in personality, he made up for in being as oily as his trade. I agreed to go to the room, steeling myself for an awkward attempt at seduction. In hindsight, this was definitely not the best decision and I’m not pleased with younger me for making it. But my annoyance was now operating my entire body and brain, not logic. So up in the elevator we went.

2016 me is not shocked by this, but 2010 Alissa was shocked by how small and shabby the room was. What, was Trump a crappy businessman or something? At least the minibar was legit. When he opened it, I was looking at all of the top shelf liquor that I had served but never been able to afford on a night out, and I was impressed. 

Unfortunately, he mistook that for interest and the dance began. Did I want a backrub? NOPE. Did I want to sit on the bed? No siree. Did I know he was only in town for ONE NIGHT? To SEE ME?  This was the moment where I must have looked like I was about to kill him, because he finally got the hint and mentioned that it was late, and I should go. I got up from the table, accepted the $50 for cab fare that he handed me (see what I mean about rich assholes and $50’s?), and then turned to leave and felt an unwelcome hand on my ass. Are you KIDDING ME?!

I spun around and glared at him. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” he smirked. And then my inner asshole came out to play, as it often does when confronted with this level of jagoff. While maintaining eye contact, I stuck my hand into the mini bar and with one swipe, knocked all of its contents into my purse, hearing clink after satisfying, fuck-you clink. “Thanks for the drink,” I snapped.

He chased me down the hallway to the elevator, and this is where I got nervous (because let’s face it, that move was kind of badass but definitely not smart). But it turned out that he wanted a goodnight kiss. Seriously? After a crappy night like that, he still wanted some kind of physical gratification? Wanting to get on the damn elevator and back to reality, I leaned in for a peck and ended up on the receiving end of the kind of sloppy, grabby kiss I thought I had escaped at 18. Hork went every nerve in my body.  I leapt away, got in the elevator, into a cab, gave the driver the entire $50, and staggered to my room, just wanting to get my pajamas on. Ruvi was waiting, a disappointed look on her face. “You could have had it all, Alissa.”

“I mean, I have a lot. I have my dignity. Kind of. And free scotch!”

A few months later, I met someone who didn’t make me cringe every time he interacted with another person, and while we didn’t work out, I actually had fun and conversation on our dates. Then, in 2012, I moved to Somerville and met a guy who made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe, who I loved to watch think and observe his surroundings, who looks at me like I’m someone special, not a possession he has a right to because he bought me dinner, and I’m still with him. We don’t have a ton of money but we have mutual love and respect, and we can entertain each other with jokes and conversation even when we can’t budget out a night on the town. Oh…And he’s younger than me. And an actor.

And I wouldn’t trade us even if you waved two diamond-encrusted watches at me.

TBT Post: Millionaire's NO

 I'm back! And I'm attempting to write every day. Yes, via blog. I can be 2008-era hip. 

I figured that the best way to go about this was to assign a theme to each day. I can't think of anything my Type-A self loves more than structured days! From here on in, this is what I'm going to attempt to do every week:

Monday: FunDay. Also known as Dare Day. You send me a dare that doesn't violate my ethics or put me in danger, I take you up on it. I'll try to do this weekly and post a summary/video every Monday.

Tuesday: Top Ten Tuesday. Because it wouldn't be a blog without lists or alliteration.

Wednesday: Wildcard Wednesday. Whatever I'm feeling passionate about. Probably women's issues. That's right. Lady is a feminist. Run now, all ye mansplainers.

 Also scotch.

Thursday: Throwback! Stories and pictures from my past. Probably embarrassing. Definitely embarrassing.

Friday: F**k It Fridays. This will probably be about me getting over one of my many neuroses (a neurotic actress? Noooooo).

Saturday: Rant Day. This blog IS called Opinionated Short Girl, after all.

Sunday: I rest. And I brunch.

Today, I present a story from my single days that was recently read at Grown Up Story Time, a monthly series presented by BooTown Boston. I've worked with them as a reader and a writer, and it is a fantastic way to spend a Wednesday night! Did I mention it takes place at a brewery? 

Millionaire’s NO   

     I met him in December 2009. I was in my 20’s, living in New York, single, fine with that, but interested in finding someone who could tell great stories and make me laugh. My past few semi-quasi relationships had been with actors who were consistently younger than me, so on my most recently edited mental list of dating don’ts were the following words: “No one younger, no New York actors, no more corn-fed, small-town boys who turn into assholes in a big city.”

     I met him while I was “modeling” for Rockport Shoes in Columbus Circle. Big quotation marks around “modeling”. When you’re a promotional model, you’re not signed to any agency or hailed as the next big anything, but if you clean up nice and can speak the branding points, you can eke out a living…Or at least you could in the early aughts. For this job, I was supposed to stand for eight hours in high heels and tell consumers how comfortable this was. Unsurprisingly, I was miserable, so on my break I hobbled to a Borders Cafe (remember those?) and sat down with a giant, sighing “fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck” of relief.

    This vulgar proclamation made the man next to me turn around, a concerned expression on his face. 

     “Are you okay?”

      “Yeah, why?”

     “Well, you were swearing in public, so I didn’t know if something was wrong.”

     “This is New York City, everyone swears in public. Where are you from?”

      “Canada.”

     “That explains it.”

      He bought me a tea, we talked a bit, and I found out that he currently stationed by his job in Toronto, that he was in and out of town for the winter for work, that he was older than me…Check check check! When he asked me out for dinner, I practically threw my bloodied shoes in the air with joy. I limped triumphantly back to my friend Danielle, another actress trading on her ability to walk and talk at the same time and told her about the great guy I had just met. She looked dubious, especially as he walked by and checked in with me about our date. After he left she turned to me and said “…I think the blood from your head has drained to your feet.”

      Negativity be damned, I could go back to Massachusetts for Christmas knowing I’d be taken on a real date by a real adult in the New Year. Real dates and great on paper men: this is what women were supposed to want, right?

       A week after I got back to the city, I received a message from him, asking me out to dinner that evening. After I agreed to go out, I was informed that he was taking the train in from DC for the night just to take me out on a date. No pressure. Having never experienced this before, I showed the message to my roommate, Ruvi.

“He thinks you’re gonna screw him.”

“What? No! I haven't even spent an hour with him.”

“Yeah, but he’s coming in from another city just to take you out; what are you going to do?”

“Congratulate him on his free will. Maybe I should cancel.”

As I was saying this, another message came through. His assistant had made reservations for us at Nobu57. Well, damn. At the time, the downtown Nobu was one of the hottest places to go, and the uptown location was drawing just as many glitterati. Ruvi stared at my phone, then back at me. “Girl, you’re going.”

She helped me put together the perfect Upper West Side Outfit, did a round of Jameson with me to calm my nerves, and sent me on my way to meet him. I messaged him at the metro station:

So which hotel are you staying at?

The Trump Plaza. I’ll be here for tonight, then back to DC, then Africa, then Italy for work.

You travel around the world for work, can stay at the Plaza, and can do Nobu? What are you, in the mob or something?

His reply: LOL.

How comforting.

When I got to the hotel, he was wearing what might be the most ridiculous outfit I have seen anyone wear on a date. The pink and purple tight button-down, the coordinated bright blue suspenders, the way too tight pants…It looked like what someone who was slightly out of touch but well off would wear if they walked into Saks and said to themselves “I must find what the trendy people are wearing these days!” It was a far cry from the downtown dive bars and t-shirt and jeans-clad dates I was used to. It was a far cry from the smell of whiskey in the air, duct tape on the booths, and The Clash on the jukebox. It was a far cry from my comfort zone, but I kept telling myself: check, check, check. This was what I had told myself I wanted. 

As we walked over to the restaurant, I made up my mind that I was going to find out what he did for work after all. After needling him for a few blocks, a surprising word came out of his mouth: “Oil”.

“Oil? You work…In oil? With oil? The oil business? You a billionaire? Ha ha!”

“I mean, not quite. But I passed the millionaire mark a long time ago.”

“…Oh.”

Well. This was a curveball. Perhaps you think that I was giddy to find out that I had snagged the interest of someone so well-off, but instead, I felt a sinking sensation.  I need to make something clear: I am not comfortable with excess money. Money is power, and power-drunk people tend to suck, for lack of a better word. Combined years of bartending at corporate events and a TriBeCa bar had soured me against people who thought that a $50 was an appropriate apology for being awful to you for an entire night. So I was freaking out. I sent a furtive text to Ruvi: This dude is a millionare. Multi.

A reply came swiftly: DO NOT FUCK THIS UP.

When we got to Nobu, our table wasn’t ready. Being a city hotspot, everyone was sending their assistants to get them tables, and there had been a mistake with our reservation. I was ready to shrug it off and get a glass of wine at the bar, but then I saw Benjamin Franklin’s face floating past my shoulder and into the hand of the hostess. He pressed the bill into her palm and snidely said, “I’m sure you can find something for us now.” I looked down and blushed as we were ushered to a table. What would have been so bad about waiting a little while? Was he really that persistent about getting his own way? 

It got worse. You would think someone who travels the world for work would have some fun stories, but he had none. He was rude to our waiter to the point that I am still to this day Facebook friends with the waiter - that is how much I compensated for his rudeness. He had lied about his age and had a full two decades on me, which meant we had nothing in common at this juncture in our lives, and then the final blow came via my attempt at a joke:

“I mean, I’m a non-Equity actress; if you made $40,000 a year I would think you were filthy rich, ha!”

“Ha…Well, I mean, this watch cost way more than that.” He took off and held out a gaudy gold diamond-encrusted watch. “Would you like to hold it?”

I wanted to grab it and run as fast as I could to a pawn shop, buy a ticket to Toronto, and warn all the nice Canadian people that there was a major douchecanoe in their midst. I wanted to throw it in his face. I wanted to throw it to our waiter! But instead I snuck off to the bathroom and sent another text to Ruvi: He’s awful. I can’t do this.

Her reply: Alissa - Do you know how many girls would kill to be sitting where you are right now? He’s probably socially awkward. Don’t be judgmental. Give him a chance. And drink something strong.

I followed her advice, and the evening went from awful to somewhat tolerable. When he invited me for another drink at the Plaza bar, I hesitated, but I mean…I had never been to a hotel as expensive as the Plaza. I could see the bar. Of course, the bar was closed by the time we got there. Of course, this was something he was aware of. But, he reassured me, there was plenty of alcohol in his room’s mini bar.

Son of a…What this dude lacked in personality, he made up for in being as oily as his trade. I agreed to go to the room, steeling myself for an awkward attempt at seduction. In hindsight, this was definitely not the best decision and I’m not pleased with younger me for making it. But my annoyance was now operating my entire body and brain, not logic. So up in the elevator we went.

2016 me is not shocked by this, but 2010 Alissa was shocked by how small and shabby the room was. What, was Trump a crappy businessman or something? At least the minibar was legit. When he opened it, I was looking at all of the top shelf liquor that I had served but never been able to afford on a night out, and I was impressed. 

Unfortunately, he mistook that for interest and the dance began. Did I want a backrub? NOPE. Did I want to sit on the bed? No siree. Did I know he was only in town for ONE NIGHT? To SEE ME?  This was the moment where I must have looked like I was about to kill him, because he finally got the hint and mentioned that it was late, and I should go. I got up from the table, accepted the $50 for cab fare that he handed me (see what I mean about rich assholes and $50’s?), and then turned to leave and felt an unwelcome hand on my ass. Are you KIDDING ME?!

I spun around and glared at him. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” he smirked. And then my inner asshole came out to play, as it often does when confronted with this level of jagoff. While maintaining eye contact, I stuck my hand into the mini bar and with one swipe, knocked all of its contents into my purse, hearing clink after satisfying, fuck-you clink. “Thanks for the drink,” I snapped.

He chased me down the hallway to the elevator, and this is where I got nervous (because let’s face it, that move was kind of badass but definitely not smart). But it turned out that he wanted a goodnight kiss. Seriously? After a crappy night like that, he still wanted some kind of physical gratification? Wanting to get on the damn elevator and back to reality, I leaned in for a peck and ended up on the receiving end of the kind of sloppy, grabby kiss I thought I had escaped at 18. Hork went every nerve in my body.  I leapt away, got in the elevator, into a cab, gave the driver the entire $50, and staggered to my room, just wanting to get my pajamas on. Ruvi was waiting, a disappointed look on her face. “You could have had it all, Alissa.”

“I mean, I have a lot. I have my dignity. Kind of. And free scotch!”

A few months later, I met someone who didn’t make me cringe every time he interacted with another person, and while we didn’t work out, I actually had fun and conversation on our dates. Then, in 2012, I moved to Somerville and met a guy who made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe, who I loved to watch think and observe his surroundings, who looks at me like I’m someone special, not a possession he has a right to because he bought me dinner, and I’m still with him. We don’t have a ton of money but we have mutual love and respect, and we can entertain each other with jokes and conversation even when we can’t budget out a night on the town. Oh…And he’s younger than me. And an actor.

And I wouldn’t trade us even if you waved two diamond-encrusted watches at me.

I'm a Complete Mess After the Boston Marathon Bombings

     This past weekend, I worked one of the most fun weekends I've ever worked, leading up to the Boston Marathon.  My coworkers and I were right in the thick of the action on Boylston Street and in Copley Square, interacting with runners and their families for 10 hours a day, taking photos, wishing them luck on their runs.  I love the photos I have from that weekend, even if I can't look at them right now.  I was beyond excited to celebrate my first Marathon Monday as an official citizen of the Greater Boston Area; leading up to this, I had always lived vicariously through the crowds by watching the news either as a teenager in Southeastern MA or as a New Yorker desperately missing Boston and New England.  I went to bed exhausted from a long weekend but excited to wake up and cheer some of those runners we had met as they crossed the finish line, mingle with business owners I had gotten to know, run into new or old friends if they were there...It was going to be a wonderful day.

    Monday I experienced a domino effect morning that kept me from getting to the Marathon when I had planned to.  First I slept past my alarm, then I noticed we were out of toilet paper so I ran to CVS to get some, which turned into grocery shopping and getting cleaning supplies, which turned into an impromptu apartment cleaning, and then I hopped in the shower to get ready to leave.  I got out of the shower around 2:30 and got some lunch, prepping to throw on whatever was lying around and try to convince my roommates to accompany me to the Pru, or maybe near the Thai restaurant that is my favorite in the city - a quarter block from Marathon Sports - so we could cheer on the runners that weren't the "elite", but were still amazing for finishing such a challenging course.  I was mildly cranky with myself that I had fallen behind schedule and hoped I could be there by 3:30 latest.

    I went to my room to change and saw all of these texts asking if I was alright.  Saw the words "Explosion" and "Marathon". I barreled out of my room, almost knocking my roommate over in the process, and turned on the news.

   That's when I saw what the rest of the world was seeing.  I don't remember much except for the fact that after a long time I decided I should probably put on real clothes instead of being wrapped in a bath towel, staring at the screen, if we were all going to be sitting together and watching this unfold.

   I imagine that my experience after that is similar to what many Bostonians went through.  The shock, frantically texting friends and family to not only make sure they were okay but to assure them that we were, gathering with friends, roommates, significant others and family in front of TVs and trying to process the fact that something so horrible happened in our city.  Most of us made the mistake of going on social media and realized that the same friends who are so quick to post rapidfire memes would also be the first ones to share photos of the carnage, usually with some false information attached.  I don't know what I was looking for on Facebook, but I didn't find it there.  That night I fell asleep on our couch watching the news, which  was a stupid idea that led to a series of nightmares that I finally gave up on sleeping through around 2.  That's when I started to realize that the shock of the event was wearing off and something else was bubbling up inside of me.

   I'm going to put it as frankly as I can:  I'm a f***ing mess right now.  I can't eat.  I can't sleep for more than an hour at a time.  I keep having these dreams where I'm in that spot, the spot I would have been in had we worked one more day and the spot I would have tried to be in had a series of delays not kept me from there, and the people I met this weekend are the ones on the ground.  Or my boyfriend.  Or my friends, or most horrifyingly, my family.  And I can't do anything.  I feel as powerless as I felt on Monday afternoon.


   And the crying?  Dear God.  I'm falling apart.  It's like this wave keeps crashing down on me and I can't fight it or get away from it, so I just let the grief and emotions I feel for this city, these victims, and their loved ones take over.  It's so scary not to be in control of your emotions or know when a crying spell is going to pop up   I can't do any of the things I usually do to feel good: yoga, singing, being with friends, because all of those seem to trigger these spells. That's how it's been for me since 2am Tuesday morning, and I'm just trying to keep it together the best I can in public.

   Except when I apparently can't.

   Last night I went to an audition and completely broke down in front of a director I have always wanted to work with.  It was mortifying, and nothing that I had in my control-freak arsenal could stop it.   Somehow I was asked to read a few times, but then after I was released and sat in the holding room, waiting for my boyfriend to finish up so I could get to rehearsal, and I noticed that I seemed to be the only one in the room who couldn't hold it together.  I felt like a freak, honestly. He was mingling and laughing with a group he was reading with, some Emerson students were discussing how crazy things had been downtown...And the wave came back.  I had to get out of the room and out of the building.  I brushed past my boyfriend, ran down the stairs and tried to find the bus stop to take me back into Boston, even though I knew it would take longer, I wasn't familiar with the neighborhood, and I wasn't really in the right condition to be alone.  I found the stop but missed the bus.  My boyfriend texted me to come back inside but I refused.  I was just so angry with everything and everyone, and I didn't even realize how badly I was crying and shaking until a group of guys my age stopped to see if I was okay.  By the time my boyfriend found me I had made my way to a cafe around the corner from the theater and had calmed down slightly, but the second I got back in his car the tears began again, and 12 hours later they haven't stopped.  He feels frustrated that he can't do anything to make them stop, but no one can.  Not even I can. I'm accepting that they're just working their way out of me at this point, but up until I called my mom I couldn't stop feeling guilty for being so upset.  Why am I so upset?  I wasn't there; I got lucky!  I should be celebrating!

    But I'm not.  I'm grieving.  For Boston, for those who lost their lives, limbs, feelings of safety in a city that has always felt so safe.  I'm grieving for the people that I met for a few minutes at a time this weekend, the ones who had worked so hard to be here, the families that were so excited to travel into the city to cheer their loved ones on, the woman who said "God bless you" to everyone she met because she was just so excited to be here, the man who hugged all of us, the runners holding their children in their arms, beaming over the thought of seeing their faces at the finish line.  I keep wondering, were any of them there?  Are any of them hurt?  I don't have to wonder if they were affected.

   Look, I know that there are people that are suffering way more than I am.  I know how lucky I am that no one I know and love was there.  I know how close a shave it was for me not to be there and I am grateful. Long after this insanity I'm experiencing wears off the gratitude I have for living in such an amazing place with amazing people will be just as strong. But this city is my home.  Those people are my fellow humans.  And they're suffering.  And I can't apologize for how much I'm crying, for my uncontrollable emotions, for my grief.



  

"I'M FINE!" On Crying in Public.

Hoooooooo boy.

Today was not one of my better days.  Understatement.

For one, the sinus infection that's been plaguing me for over a week decided to steal my voice after a few days, and I've only gotten a little bit back.  If this was a hostage situation, the amount of voice that I have back right now would be the equivalent of getting a hostage's finger mailed back to me or something.

With sliver 'o voice in tow, I dragged myself to an audition last night.  An audition that meant a lot to me.  An audition for a company I want to work with, for people I already work with in one way but want to work with acting-wise, too.

And I booooooombed it. I was too wrapped up in my weird chain-smoker with laryngitis voice, totally in my head, using a new monologue...It wasn't good.  Then I proceeded to get into a mini-spat with The Dude over men and women in theatre, ending with "men have it better in theatre you stupid man who will always have more chances...Wait, that was mean, I'm sorry, let's hug now".  Except we were at our respective homes, so I didn't get to give or receive a hug, I just sat in my bed feeling like an asshole. 

Then this morning I had a discussion about my life with two very nice women, and at one point we talked about family.  I mentioned how I've had to borrow money from my mom in the past, how it's something that makes me feel horrible and stressed because I know how horribly this country treats public school teachers when it comes to financial income, and then a thought that has clearly been rumbling around deep within me somewhere came to the surface:

"I wonder sometimes, if she ever regrets being so supportive of me."

That did it.  I lost it.  I lost all composure and about five gallons of water in front of people I had just met.

There's something simultaneously freeing and horrifying about ugly crying in front of people who have just met you.  On one hand, you'll probably never see them again, and if you do, there's really nowhere to go but up, right?  On the other hand, crying in front of strangers has to be the scariest damn thing because you're vulnerable to them from the get-go.  It's pretty much wearing a bikini into the town square of a dangerous country and yelling "TOURIST BY HERSELF HERE!"

Also, I've noticed that in Boston, public crying really isn't as much of a "thing".  When I lived in NYC, it was almost par for the course to see someone quietly crying on the train at least once a week.   Having grown up here I know that it's not as common to air one's emotional laundry in public, and especially not cry...Any time the home team loses an important game being the exception.  I just kept getting angrier and angrier with myself for crying, and of course, when I'm angry...I cry.  So the tears kept coming.

By some sort of grace (okay, that word has no place in this post), I made it through the rest of the conversation with whatever was left of my dignity somewhat intact outwardly, but on the inside I knew.  I just knew: I was in for a tearmageddon.

After this conversation, I made my way over to a Thai restaurant I frequent to grab lunch before a work meeting, where the "no voice/bad audition/mean to boyfriend/how will I ever repay my mom" demons followed me and I continued to quietly sob over my lunch, trying to excuse the tears with a weak smile and "whooo, spicy curry" at the server, who looked at me as if to say this is yellow curry and in no way spicy, but you're clearly crying in public so I'll just nod and smile and bring you more water.  Then I continued up Boylston on a walk from Chinatown to my meeting across town, still crying and getting a little worried about my hydration levels.  I made it through my work meeting okay and then teared up in front of a friend and coworker, then took the bus to rehearsal where I completely broke down and bawled in front of my director.

Here's the shocking thing:  Nobody judged me for it. In fact, people either let me be or were completely supportive of me.

I should in no way be surprised.  After all, I would never judge anyone crying in public and would be supportive if given the chance.  But I hold myself to a higher standard, and was silently judging myself with each tear that fell from my eyes (if we're keeping count, about 3,984,902 judgments).

The strangers told me that I was inspiring for bucking comfort for passion when it came to my career path, my coworker totally saw where I was coming from and gave me support, my director talked to me for a good 45 minutes about everything and gave me wonderful advice.

At the end of the day, I have sore eyes, a seemingly unquenchable thirst, a remaining load of worries, but some comfort in the fact that I was able to be human in public and survived, and even came out a little better for it.  I still wish I had a better audition, I still worry about money and have guilt from having to borrow when employers don't pay on time, I still am kind of at a career crossroads, but I know I'm not alone in having had a completely horrible couple of days where the waterworks were inevitable.

Oh, and after a piece of what was supposed to be some comfort food by way of pecan pie, I have also discovered that I might have developed a slight allergy to pecans.  No, I'm not posting pictures.  Just Google "pink inner tube" and you'll have a good idea of what my lips currently look like (because they weren't full enough already).  The reaction is, of course, making me cry a little,  but at least this time I got to have a little pie first.