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Posts Tagged ‘parties’

• Flailing on Sidewalks and with Men

Posted in Single and Fabulous, tagged , , , , on September 27, 2011 | 3 Comments »

I step out of the door of my apartment. Shoulders back, my mother would be shocked by my perfect posture. The moisture in the air is at just the right percentage to make my hair flow in perfect Taylor Swift-esque waves. Most people complain about this level of humidity, especially in late September, but I relish it.

When I first moved to New York, ever day I left my apartment with the giddy feeling of I live in the center of the universe. Anything could happen today. Now into my fourth year here, I’ve  left my apartment thousands of times. That feeling has subsided, sometimes replaced by the likes of I live in the center of the universe. It’s exhausting. Why is it so hard to make things happen? Not tonight. Tonight the city is my oyster. Anything could happen. It feels great.

My oyster!

I step out the door of my building. I’m six feet tall. Both metaphorically and literally thanks to an attitude adjustment and surprisingly comfortable strappy sandals. I am so confident in their comfort that I am walking the 18 blocks to the evening’s destination. There is nothing I love more than a New York City walk. Lately though, in true city fashion, I’ve become obsessed with time. You know the cliché that New Yorkers walk faster than anyone else in the entire world? It’s true. Even so, my single gear bicycle is five times faster than a New York native who is late to work. In the interest of fractioning all commute time, I’ve taken to biking every where.

Biking the streets of Manhattan, sometimes I feel I’m in a racing video game. Dodge a jaywalker, get a life. Throw dirty looks at a speeding cab, 100 points. Avoid a series of potholes, move up a level. The stakes are high: no do-overs. The level of concentration required is a hell of a lot higher than for any video game, though I haven’t touched a gaming system in two years I say that with full confidence. “CONSTANT VIGILANCE” (stolen from Mad Eye in Harry Potter) is my biking motto. I miss truly taking in my surroundings, people watching, viewing the world and imagining its description in a novel. I really miss that part of a walk and I’m excited for these 18 blocks.

The first person I pass on my walk remarks, “Beautiful outfit.” I smile, Thanks! A black button-up shirt and a red and white polka-dotted skirt pulled together with a red belt, I put thought into this outfit for several reasons. Among them are: I am going to a big invite-only musical theater party. Which means lots of gays, and gays judge clothes. Musical theater isn’t quite my thing and when I’m a bit out of my element, I like to look awesome. I’m not feeling so awesome, so looking the part is even more important.

I spent the day watching episodes of Ally McBeal on Netflix. That wasn’t my plan for the day. My plan for the day involved a date. A date that was planned in person and not confirmed 5 million times via text message. In this day and age, that’s a date that’s not happening. But I’m an old-fashioned girl. I keep hoping to find an old-fashioned boy who doesn’t consider his iPhone second only to his penis. What am I thinking, right? This is NYC, the only men like that are homeless.

Dating is really starting to frustrate me in this city. I’m beginning to hope the problem is me. Then at least I’d have some control here. On some level, it’s probably true. I pick the wrong men. Scratch that- I pick the wrong boys. I so tired of dating boys. But they are not intimidating, even the wickedly handsome ones, and I exude confidence around them. With men, I’m more unsure. Then of course, there’s also the issue of going out to parties celebrating musical theater openings… There might be one single straight male at such an event and chances are I’ll be looking down on him thanks to my shoes.

I’m pondering all of this on my walk when suddenly I eat it. I swallow a scream, amazed at the speed in which my feet fly out from under me. A great thing about working in theater- you learn how to fall so it doesn’t hurt. I fell several times a day this summer while playing a silly pirate and Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. My hands catch me. They smart a bit but the cement does not draw blood. My knee grazes the pavement and is not so lucky. A small trickle of blood runs down, like I nicked myself with a razor. For the first time in months my legs are not covered in bug bites, the scab from a recent spill on my bike fell off today; for a few hours hours I had flawless legs. So much for that.

Ally McBeal and Carrie Bradshaw are always falling down in the world of TV. I always thought it was an element of slapstick. Now I see it’s just the way of life in high-heeled shoes. “Are you alright, miss?” I’m fine. I blame coursing adrenaline for making me snappish. I glare back at the offending side-walk. There is a huge gap of at least an inch between two cracks. That’s what did it and it makes me happy: I didn’t trip over my own feet, phew.

I continue my walk. I see a baseball game in the park across the street. I wait at the light so I can walk by it. I need the ego boost. The men in their blue uniforms seem happy to provide it, many turning their heads as I walk by. Thanks guys. My knee stops bleeding before I reach the woman with the clip board. Things are looking up. I give her my name and walk up the stairs. I spend the rest of the evening schmoozing, drinking free wine, and trying to be the first to appetizer trays.

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• Turning Over a New Leaf

Posted in Winter/Spring/Summer/Fall, tagged , on September 20, 2010 | 2 Comments »

We threw a house party at our place this Friday.

And by “house” I of course mean apartment.

“House” parties in New York are funny. Always too many people crammed into too little space. They are a bit of a rarity for this very reason, people more often choose to gather or celebrate in bars or other event spaces.

I happen to be a fan of the house party. So the minute our new Polish roommate (on September 1st we lost a roommate to her boyfriend) told us she was going to visit her sister in Texas next weekend, actually the minute she left the room after telling us she was visiting her sister, we said in unison (because we are totally those girls) House Party?!

Friday night we got a 2 handles of vodka, a 24 pack of baby Coronas, 4 cans of lemonade concentrate and other mixers, blew up a dozen yellow balloons (“They’re fun!” said my roommate. “They’re annoying.” I said. “No, FUN.” she insisted. I gave in. “Fine FUN!), and celebrated the last weekend of summer.

Hosting a house party is a big juggling act- between different groups of friends and meeting your roommates invitees. It’s easy to feel like you aren’t really seeing people, just flitting in and out of conversations. It was a little bit of a teaser, a really fun teaser, because a lot of my guests I had not seen since spring.  Welcome back to New York! was a common refrain. Yes I am back in New York. WHY HAVEN’T YOU UPDATED YOUR BLOG? was another.

My dear readers, and I know you’re out there due to your rightful chastising and “Um, I keep checking, like ever day and get my hopes up that maybe this time things will have changed and then nothing” I’ve been a terrible blogger. But it was just a phase. One I’ve gone through before, I know, and one I can’t promise I won’t go through again. But I can promise that the seasons are a’changing and so is my blog. It’s September and Fall starts tomorrow. It’s the season of getting back to work, getting serious after summer fun. I’ve been denying that ever since Labor Day. Yelling at people, “SUMMER IS NOT OVER! I HAVE TIL SEPTEMBER 21ST GODDAMNIT!!” But now it’s time to accept Fall. Fine. I will.

I’m serious people. And to prove my seriousness, I have a plan. That indicates a level of organization I usually avoid like tourists avoid anywhere above 81st Street. Over the next 10 days I will update EVER DAY. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. In those 10 days I will catch you up on the summer. Seeing how those ten days and ten posts go, I will decide a blogging schedule every day, every other day, bi-weekly- and stick to it. That is my plan. My September back-to-school plan. Stay tuned. (And feel free to harass me if I fail! But I won’t because my roommate said if I fail she won’t let me watch Sex and the City and she’s the one with a working DVD player.)

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• Tonight Marks Two Years

Posted in Survival Jobs, tagged , , , , , , , on June 6, 2010 | Leave a Comment »

Actually, I don’t know if you’ll get in wearing that.

This isn’t a no shoes, no shirt, no service kind of situation. This is a club in the Meatpacking District, a neighborhood notorious amongst New Yorkers (and notoriously confusing amongst tourists as meat, as in dead animal, is no longer packed there) for being excessively trendy. Waiting-on-line-to enter-a-club-for-half-an-hour kind of trendy. Tight-mini-skirt-and-4-inch-heels-will-increase-my-chance-of-getting-past-the-velvet-ropes kind of trendy. I’m not exactly sure what my personal kind of trendy is, but it’s not this.

I’m in a cab on route to Kiss and Fly in the Meatpacking. It’s long past midnight and I am “bedecked” in a denim skirt, beat-up Vans, and a flannel-looking checkered shirt. I’m appropriately attired for a grunge show or maybe mid-day wandering in Williamsburg. For where I’m going and what I’m doing I am so in appropriately dressed that I may be turned away, denied entry and told my grungy-casual self is tainting the “cool” “hip” “hot” vibe. I’m not sure I can handle the embarrassment of this kind of public shunning. Would my self esteem survive? Would tears start streaming down my face as the big burly security guard stands firmly and ominously in front of the entrance? I am clearly not someone who frequent clubs and my outfit suggests I’m either clueless (as if) or unprepared for such a night. How’d I get myself into this mess? It happens to be the two year anniversary of my move to New York, no small thing in my world, an event worthy of celebration of the go-big-or-go-home sort.

The night started early with a huge private, invite-only party. Commemorating NY and my two years! Ha ha ha as if. Maybe for our 10 year. No, this is a party where I am on the clock. You may have read about my awesome job where I get paid handsomely to give people free drinks. Well, I’m at it again. Tonight it’s free drinks, free food, free DJ, a completely free party to anyone who happened to RSVP on a website (thus the “invite only”). All free because the spirit I’m promoting desperately wants people to not just think it’s cool, but to just know it exists. This party is the culmination of months of bar samplings and other smaller events.

I arrive early because they have hired people to do our make-up and hair, and a stylist to outfit us. I’m working the event with one of my roommates and we’ve been speculating for weeks what our outfits will look like. We’re thinking (hoping) black cocktail dresses that maybe they’ll let us keep. I’m next in line for make-up, the stylist is steaming the wrinkles out of various articles of clothing and asks for help holding up the pieces. The piece is a bright red pair of pants genie style, with wavy pieces ballooning from the sides and gold beads affixed at the end. (I wonder if that description gets your mental image anywhere close to reality.) I am told this ensemble is for dancers. Phew, I think, those pants would be hard to “pull off” (but easy to pull off, they have an elastic waist). Then she pulls out a pair of the same pants but white rather than red. These are what you guys’ll be wearing! Aw shit. That and a little wrap around crop-top shirt is my outfit. Just what I need, another reason to kick myself for not doing crunches on a regular basis.

I adopt the attitude of “Fuck it, I don’t care” which serves me pretty well. It helps that they’ve made my hair all shiny and straight and given my face the illusion of being blemish free. The cocktail I’m serving people is pineapple, basil, coconut, sugarcane, orange liquor, and the promotional spirit. Fancy, no? It’s the beginning of the night and they’re topping each drink with a basil leave filled with shaved coconut, the garnish of course increasing the fancy factor. Fortunately I’m allowed to sample one myself, for the pure purpose of educating guests (very professional and all). It’s quite good, especially when I down the garnish at the end- I may have been the only one to do such a thing all night.

Everything comes together at the last moment, it seems that is generally the way these things go, and guests begin to arrive. For the first hour or so, it’s great. Handing out cocktails, informing people what’s in it, some casual banter, all smiles all around. My word of advice to you if you ever attend such a free event: get there on the early side. You may think it’s not fashionable, but trust me. An hour in, the place is swarming- lines for everything- dishes piling up. My boss frantically tells me to bus tables. Have you ever bused tables in a belly baring top? I’d describe such an experience as paradoxical. I’m getting paid $50/hr to do the lowest rung on the ladder job. Kinda awesome. Kinda sucko as it is not what I signed up for.

By the end of the party I’m cranky. My arms are sore (not only have I not been doing crunches, I haven’t been doing push ups either) from carrying trays. I’m still clearing tables at the end of my shift time so when I stumble across a full bottle of the promoted liquor, I don’t hesitate to slide it in my purse. Hey, I’m not a trained busser, how am I supposed to know you aren’t supposed to pilfer the booze? All the bus boys I know do it.

The place isn’t clean, we’ve been off the clock for not an insignificant amount of time, and I decide I’m leaving. My roommate is more hesitant- she’s staying in the city for the summer and wants to get more gigs- but it takes little prodding from me to convince her to skidaddle.

So far this entry has had next to nothing to do with its introduction. That’s not about to change. Until next entry- to follow shortly!

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• Resolutions and the Unresolved

Posted in Holidays & Celebrations, Single and Fabulous, tagged , , , , , , , on January 11, 2010 | 5 Comments »

I am pretty good at keeping New Year’s Resolutions. Which might come as a surprise. I can’t make deadlines (senior year 80% of my papers were turned in late, the most impressive tardiness: 3 months after the original due date), I’ll probably be 10 minutes late to my own wedding (should it ever occur), I always say “I should keep my room cleaner” and never do. But some how I can make one resolve at the beginning of the year and generally stick to it. Perhaps it’s because my resolutions are usually vague, like “Take More Risks” (totally rocked that one). Or they involve goals that only have no other option but moving forward- “Floss more” (considering 22 years previous of…pretty much never flossing this was hard not to achieve). This year I intend to improve my posture and stop touching my face so much (2 high incentives: looking better and not getting sick. One week into 2010 and so far so good.

Dating resolutions on the other hand…. Remember that time I said “no more actors” shortly followed by the resolve to “cease the virtual and focus solely on reality” (both direct quotes!)? Yeah…about those.

It was the night of our Company Holiday Party (CHP). Just that sentence makes you think “Uh oh….what did you do…?” Every December issue of any women’s magazine I have ever picked up has at least one article, more likely several- What to Wear, Do’s and Don’t, Embarrassing Stories sent in by readers- about this annual, fraught with danger, “fun”, event. While I had read these articles for years (I must explain myself: Trashy mags were in a free flowing supply at the gym in college. I went to the gym a lot in an effort to shed the cliché Freshman 15. Ergo, I did more trashy than academic reading  as an undergrad.) this was my first experience actually attending a CHP. Grumbling slightly because going to a party “like it’s my job” is weird, I borrowed the advised “flattering, fun, but not too sexy dress” from my roommate, put on the only pair of boots I own that make me understand why so many women have love affairs with shoes, and with the resolve to not get too drunk I headed downtown.

I arrive on the early side, (ie no one is there ) still 10 minutes later than the time I was told to arrive. I’ve been at this job about 3 weeks, I’m still in the ‘they say jump, I jump” phase. I take off my coat and find myself face to face with the bar. The open bar. The I-can-order-ANYTHING-regardless-of-cost bar. This is beyond exciting. And dangerous. My frugality generally keeps me sober which in turn generally keeps my tolerance low. It all works out very nicely. Until I’m faced with an open bar or benefactor(s). Then it becomes much harder to count drinks,  then I stop caring about counting, and before long I stop caring about anything.

For a while I’m fine. Great in fact. I’m mingling like a champ, introducing myself and being charming with small talk. I’m even doing some networking as I meet a fellow employee who is also an actor. I think I’ve made a friend in him, he’s easy to come back to when I find myself in a awkward stand still conversation lull with some one else. He mentions he has a plus-one showing up. Ugh couples. Lame. He then mentions his plus one is his roommate- figured he’d share the open bar/free food bounty. Not so lame.

When his roommate actually shows up my “not so lame” turns into “totally awesome!” See, new work buddy failed to mention that him roommate is ridiculously cute. He’s got quite a few inches on me in spite of my heals,  gorgeous blue eyes that show sweetness and intelligence, and side burns that make you want to touch his face not rip them off of it. And it’s not just that he’s cute. Let’s be honest. It’s not his eyes that tell me he’s sweet and intelligent, it’s more that after he showed up I ceased my mingling. I spend the rest of the night pretty much just talking to him. Oops. That’s breaking Company Party Rule #4 but I don’t care. He and his roommate tell me about how they met- a summer theatre production of Anne of Green Gables. He’s an actor. Of course he is. My cousin was right when she said half the men I meet here will be actors. I give up. There’s no way I staying clear of actors. It’s silly to even try.

By the end of the night he’s touched my arm several times, the kind of touches that mean nothing coming from most people, but when there’s chemistry their memory lingers in your arm hair that’s standing on end. We’re pillaging the dessert tray, bantering about cannolis, and unless some how my inebriated memory has betrays me, I feed him one. After another round of champagne and engaging conversation that’s it. I want him to be my Gilbert Blithe. Stat. Everything about the night has the distinct feeling of “really hitting it off with someone”.

Then suddenly, without warning, he’s leaving. What? No! “It was great to meet you, I hope I see you again sometime. Friend me on facebook or something?” No! I’ve sworn off the virtual! I don’t want to do such a passive form of contact, screw that- Actually, I kind of want you number. Ha, “kind of” my cannoli, but I’m not used to asking adorable boys for their phone numbers. Cut me some slack. “Okay” he says, and enters it into my phone. I’m sure a huge smile plastered itself across my face. Not sure I even made an attempt to hide it, and if I has any success.

So there I am, giddy with champagne bubbles and prospect. He didn’t ask for my number, but so what? I send him a cute witty “was nice to meet you” text so that he has it. His response is prompt and encouraging.

And then? Then I went home for the holidays. I’m sitting in JFK, awaiting my flight back to San Francisco, fighting boredom with JetBlue free wireless my thoughts drift to my crush. And then, because it was right in front of me? Because I wanted to be proactive? Because I wanted to see pictures of sideburns? Because I couldn’t not? Because I’m lame? I think you can guess what I did. I friended him on Facebook.

Idiot. This should be my New Years Resolution 2010. Do not friend people you are interested on Facebook! It causes more harm than good! And this isn’t just me. As the New York Times article I just read thoroughly discusses, Facebook creates ridiculous romantic complications. My predicament? Facebook says he’s In A Relationship. FACEBOOK SAYS. He never said! He never implied! Nothing! But because Facebook fucking says it, I give pause, give doubt to everything. My original ballsy plan to call him when I get back from San Francisco? Out the window. All because Facebook says.

I’m torn on this. On the one hand, he probably does have a girlfriend. On the other hand, just because Facebook says so, does not mean it’s true. Cute Theatre Boy is a good example- Facebook labeled him as “Single” the whole time we were dating and continues to do so  2 girlfriends after me. I asked him about it the other day (we are still friends if you’ve missed my previous mention of it) and his answer was “I don’t want people to see when I change it, ask questions, blah blah blah.” I decided to leave the ball in my crush’s court. He could contact me. Lame, passive, but I really don’t care to chase the unavailable.

Fortunately it was Christmas, New Years. Both very happy and spent with people I love. Perfect devises to forget about a crush. And I did too. Of course the minute I forget him, he writes on my facebook wall. Teasing me about my profile picture. Great, now I’m back where I started.

What stupid, virtual (ie NOT REAL) predicaments the decade presents.

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• My Same Old, Same Old (never finished)

Posted in Theatre & Performance, tagged , , , , , on September 28, 2008 | 2 Comments »

We had a familiar face in the audience tonight. Back after seeing our Shakespearian tragedy less than two months ago, it appears James Franco is a loyal patron of the theatre. We had an almost identical conversation to our last (oh my that was fun to say. Let’s be honest- we’re totally bffs now), he was seated in my section. Again. I cursed myself for not having seen Pineapple Express last weekend and vow to see it asap- date or no date, in sickness or in health. Though had I seen it, I doubt I would have talked to him about it, however much I’d want to. He did his very best to keep a low profile and totally succeeded- I saw no one go up to him- I would have hated to ruin that. He seems like such a nice guy.

It’s already been 5 weeks of this show and still two to go and yet some how I still enjoy watching it. I’ve come to realize ushers may be the only people who truly get to appreciate all aspects of a show. We get to see all the tiny details that you just start to see after your tenth viewing. I doubt anyone appreciates the amazing work of the ensemble- I’ve begun to watch them more than the leads. I get to see all the individual stories and relationships that they’ve created which become even more interesting than the main action. It’s so fun to look everywhere but the place your eye is initially drawn. I just don’t know how I’m going to deal after this job ends when I can barely afford to see shows once. I’m spoiled. Sigh. My life is so hard.

The opening night party for this show was quite different from the last. I almost missed opening night as I had planned to take the weekend off and travel out of the city, out of the state, via plane. Instead I planned it out perfectly (so I thought). I booked a flight that left at 7am. Thus the plan: partying until the wee hours of the mourn, then taking the subway to JFK, then getting on the plane and sleeping the whole plane ride. A bit ambitious but totally doable and a time saver. The plan was made more doable by a much more low-key nature of this opening compared to the season opening gala. There was no pre-show dinner, no speeches from the mayor, no red carpet, no celebs. No cute caterers to flirt with. Which left me only with audience member prospects and I’m not comfortable flirting with audience members because it feels undeniably unprofessional. Unless they flirt with me first. Which actually worked out very well for me.

He was impossible not to notice. First because he was the guest of the man who created the show and second because he was freaking tall, at least 6’7″ if not more. And he was cute.

I on the other hand am very easy not to notice. There are 20 other people dressed identically to me in their khakis and blue STAFF issued shirt. STAFF is written in big letters across my chest and generally people behave like it is both my full name and full identity, so it’s always fun when someone takes a moment to realize my life dream is probably not ushering and that there is a lot going on under “Hi, may I help you find your seat?”

6’7 Guy immediately acknowledged this predicament upon entering the theater. He returned my “Hi” and complemented the flower in my hair (yes I’m a San Francisco flower child, I’ve embraced it) Nice flower, are those staff issued to? with a smile and a wink.

There is something about me that attracts winks. I get winked at 20 times a day. By men of all ages, shapes, colors and occasionally women. 6’7 Guy’s wink made sense to me. An “I’m kidding and possibly flirting with you”. The random winks by street passersby are much more confusing. What do they mean: You’re cute? I’d hit that? I have appreciation for your presence on this earth? There’s something in my eye? I knew you in a past life? I don’t know! Winks are more confusing than the illusive facebook poke.

to be continued..

(I haven’t posted in forever- you need new reads. I’ve been working on this post for awhile and hopefully posting it will inspire me to complete it. Your comments can effect the finished product!)

[edit April 25, 2013: This post was never finished. 6'7" Guy became the only successful no-strings-attached affair I have ever had. We kept in touch for over a year, until I lost interest. He thought I was a wild child, I never learned his last name. It was a perfect affair, of Sex and the City proportions. I will always remember it fondly.]

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• Security for the Stars

Posted in Holidays & Celebrations, Theatre & Performance, tagged , , , , , , , on June 20, 2008 | 8 Comments »

 

As an usher I have the privilege of watching the show every single night. This activity is actually the majority of my job. I’m paid to tell a couple people where the bathroom is and watch a show. To date, I have seen this Shakespearean tragedy 18 times. These have all been “previews” which is very specifically theater lingo that pretty much means the play hasn’t been reviewed yet and the company wants to make opening night a huge deal.

hamlet

A production still from the show, credit: nydailynews.com

Finally after those 18 shows it’s opening night, no more previews, the “gala” performance. And you can be sure they’re making it as big a deal as possible.  I’ve agreed to work ”extra security”, thinking it’ll be an experience for sure.  I show up at 4pm, dozens of tables have been set up outside the theatre, caterers are running around filling glasses with water and mixing drinks, people in pretty party clothes are not allowed in yet but you can see some milling about already. I’m given a 2XXL black SECURITY shirt and told to “make it work”. Which is harder than a Project Runway challenge considering my budget is ummm $0.00 and it has to be completed ummm NOW, I don’t even get a pair of scissors or a safety pin, oh and it must be tucked into khaki pants. For a red carpet event (no joke, I watched them set it up.) Needless to say, I will not be looking fabulous for this portion of the evening. Balls. I tuck my dress-of-a-shirt in and can at least be amused. The armpits fall down to my waist.

rasberry martiniMy security station is next to a bar. Not the bar, a bar, there are three others. Sky Vodka, wine, cocktails, bar tenders doing their thing. It’s all under my security. Hells yes. There’s a promo for a new cocktail, and the beverage obviously sponsoring the night. “Tava” is a new brand of sparkling no calorie fruit drink. I drank quite a fucking few as they were all over the theater and I can report it’s a pretty decent drink. And they make for good cocktails. “Tavatinis.” I overhear someone say, “Come here my little Tavatini” and almost die.  Clearly all real New Yorkers quote/reference Sex and the City on a daily basis. Hells yes exclamation point.

Unfortunately, security guards are not supposed to almost die due to funny things patrons say, or really laugh ever. Well fuck that, it’s a party. I am going to smile at people. And I do. I don’t even attempt a mug, a security scowl. Well surprise, surprise, I am pretty much the worst, least intimidating security guard ever. And that’s not just me being pessimistic. Over the next 4 hours I am approached by 3 catererrs and 3 guests “You don’t look like a security guard, who’d you fuck?who do you know who got you the job?” “You’re to cheery to be security.” “Don’t they usually give this job to big threatening men?” “ooo, I’m really intimated. ha ha.” “Here, let me help you practice a mug.” ”Is your shirt on backwards?” Thanks, thanks so much.

It is a spectacular people watching situation, in fact I am being paid to people watch. And the people I’m watching all paid at least $1,500 to get into this party. That makes it even more interesting, and the fashion is fascinating. I note a beautiful, flowy, floral, orange dress one woman is wearing. It’s fabulous. And 10 minutes later another woman walks in wearing the same dress. That sucks. And one of course looks way better in it than the other.  There’s one woman on the arm of a man in a fucking fabulous jumpsuit. Floral, sheer light fabric. It is awesome. New New York goal for me: be able to rock a jumpsuit. It’s hard to do, but if you can it really boosts you up a level. Another New York goal: get into fabulous parties as a date. Best case senerio? I’m working on it.

For the moment, I’m flirting with caterers. They’re all really cute, in pressed white shirts and black pants, likely having more interesting  endeavors that don’t pay the bills, and here the ratio is skewed in a way I rarely see in my business: way more men than women. My flirtations are rewarded with dessert trays inconspicuously made available to me before the return trip to the kitchen and as much Tava as I can chug down when no one’s looking. $1,500 buys you decadent desserts that your diet probably doesn’t allow. Score one for me (me: one, them: 1,500).

And the fellas I was flirting with were cuter (though I do love Martin Starr).

And the fellas I was flirting with were cuter (though I do love Martin Starr).
[image: guardian.co.uk]

As this is a red carpet, gala event people watching reaches its peak when I see cameras flashing. These photographers have a pretty shitty job, snapping pictures of famous people, being kinda annoying, and the majority of the time are just completely ignored. It’s hard to describe, but it was weird to watch and I sort of felt bad for them. But yes, there are famous people milling about in front of me. Which is kinda cool, but also kinda scary. If there was an actual security situation I would not know what the fuck to do. I glance at Kim Raver at least 10 times before I finally place her as the actress who plays Nico on Lipstick Jungle. Steve Martin is there and I resist the urge, “I love your books! They’re all I want to read right now!” One of my favorite actresses ever is there. Cynthia Nixon, looking fabulous. That was cool. But interaction with famous people is weird. They’re just people. The I-know-who-you-are-but-you-don’t-know-who-I-am deal is awkward. And they look a lot littler in real life. Which is kinda cool when you can be like “You know what? I honestly never want to be that skinny.”

So yeah, there are famous people at this deal, but it’s totally not my place to interact with them. There’s not much joy praising someone who gets recognized on the street and hears it every day. It much more awesome for the semi to not really at all famous, who rarely get recognized and you can instantly tell are not jaded by fame. Like the people in the play I’m ushering. I ran into one of the guys who has a really small ensemble part on the subway and there I could tell my compliments to him really meant something.

And then the show after opening. We’re back to the usual ushering, no security, no  $1,500 minimum, no fancy dresses, no red carpet. No celebrity people watching.

Until:

Hi!

Hello, can you help me find where this is? he hands me the ticket.

Of course! You’re in Section L which is right here, but as you’re seat 710, you’re actually on the far left, so you’re gonna want go up those stairs and keep to your left.

Thanks a lot. and he smiles at me!

You’re welcome, enjoy the show!

jamesfranco

[img: boxofficeprophets.com]

I have this exchange in various forms a dozen times a night. But this time it was with James Franco. Yep, Daniel DeSario of Freaks and Geeks, Spiderman’s Harry Osborn. He’s with a blonde,  wearing a leather jacket and has the same melt worthy smile you’ve seen on screen. How to put this….squee! rather sums it up. Somehow I was fucking professional, didn’t make a fool of myself, and didn’t even get fired for jumping a patron. Hells YES. The concept of celebrity still weirds me out, but that was pretty fucking awesome.

It has been a good week.

(there was an after party post-show where cast and crew where invited too. Open bar, good food, dancing, theater people as well as big bucks patrons, no more security. I traded my 2XXL shirt for an awesome dress, mingled, danced, and got a little sloshed. Fashionably sloshed. Lots of fun.)

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