Castor Oil

Castor Oil

Main Use: Laxative

“A British bank is run with precision,

A British home requires nothing less.

Tradition, discipline, and rules

Must be the tools.

Without them: disorder, catastrophe, anarchy.

In short, you have a ghastly mess.” 

George Banks, of this crazy 'stache: 

What better to describe a month of homelessness & heartbreak on America’s most unforgiving island. 

I’m sorry; that’s being unfair. Let’s begin with, shall we say, an appetizer. One of happy tastes: 

• Costa Rica
• Homemade movie theatre
• New friends

Aw, look. That’s so pleasant. Now, have you had enough to tide you over? Great. Let’s move on.

Moving On: 4 Courses in Starting Over 

1. The Frantically Huge Apartment Search for Such a Little Girl
2. “Alaska” Is Always a Punchline
3. Living with Your Ex-Boyfriend’s Best Friend, & Other Sitcom Plots
4. 39 Dollars (and a bitch ain’t one)

Ingredients

1. The Frantically Huge Apartment Search for Such a Little Girl

• 1 lost roommate (not literally physically lost, feel the need to clarify)
• 5 days of homelessness
• 3 couches
• 2 Gypsy Housing bait-and-switch roommates
• 100 min. hours spent searching on Craigslist, Facebook, & random total rip-off sites
• 75 min. Facebook messages/emails sent to strangers, including a misogynistic meme-sender who tells you to "get a real job"
• 1 roommate lost again 
• 1 confusing but sultry-sweet Grandma renting rooms
• 1.5 hours spent talking to 1 crazy rock-'n-roll woman whom you immediately decide you can’t live with but who’s nonetheless the most interesting Ohioan in NYC
• 1 new potential roommate + her attached potential 19-year-old roommate who refuses to look outside of Brooklyn = only 1 new roommate
• Your first entirely Hassidic Brooklyn neighborhood
• The G train
• Brokers named Dino, Elvis, and Fazzi 
• Feeling more and more like the boy from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, in that you’re meeting more new, weird New Yorkers than you ever thought possible
  

2.  "Alaska" Is Always a Punchline

• In Boyhood’s plot 
• As The Proposal’s setting
  
• As The Simpsons Movie’s plot & setting
• Even in the recent Moth podcast you listen to, where it’s the farthest place the storyteller can travel without technically leaving the country
• In telling anyone where your boyfriend is moving for 9 months

3. Living with Your Ex-Boyfriend’s Best Friend, & Other Sitcom Plots

• 1 extra room in a railroad apartment 
• where you were staying with your ex-boyfriend before he moved to Alaska
• at $480 a month
• where much of your stuff currently is
• when you have nowhere else to go
• makes for a great story
• but prohibits you from doing that thing you saw in movies where you cry your eyes out and acceptably down a pint of ice cream that you’re almost 99% sure you’re entitled to do
• 2 quarts of ice cream

4. 39 Dollars (and a bitch ain’t one)

• (Please use the remains of that ‘5 days of homelessness’ from above)
• $4 left on your Starbucks card
• $0 left on your Metrocard
• Getting your debit card declined at the Metrocard machine
• Thus, $39 in your bank account
• $0.50 on-sale Nature Valley Granola Bars-- for days
• Yogurt parfaits are still $9 on the “Sides” section of a brunch menu, which is plain absurd
• No, I know, and I’m not joking: that’s $39 total in your name. 
• An $8 special for 24oz of beer + 1 shot... Note: this should be ILLEGAL. Note: this was in the East Village; you’ll find it.
• -- No, yes-- I’m aware that you just came back from a week’s vacation in Costa Rica--
• $160 acquired by taking a 11-year-old British kid to Coney Island for a day
• -- But you must remember that you fly for free and you were visiting someone who was staying in their own house, so the whole trip cost roughly $100--
• Unlocking the art of Venmo
• Canceling your upper endoscopy in fear of extra costs (which is fine with you)
• -- Which you’d probably spend in a week in New York City anyways!

Instructions

Castor oil is a nasty tasting vegetable oil most commonly known for its unpopularity among children and treatment of constipation. Thankfully, a spoon full of sugar can help me get through just about anything, and that’s exactly how Mary Poppins got this drug to go down. However, there are some things not even sugar can remedy; not all the on-sale ice cream quarts, Nature Valley clearance bars, and vegan post-hangover milkshakes in the world could have cured me from the extreme, gut-wrenching food poisoning of the above recipe.

I’m not one to lie when someone asks “how are you?” or “what’s new in your life?”; I don’t see a purpose in hiding life’s negativities. Obviously. When I’d tell friends at home that I was in Ohio doing absolutely nothing for a month because I’d broken my foot during a tour of a show while my other foot was still in physical therapy from a stress-fracture and thus wouldn’t be able to walk around New York City on crutches, especially since my boyfriend wasn’t there to carry me on his back anymore because he’d gone to work at a non-profit in Costa Rica before moving to Alaska for 9 months, and my apartment was on the 5th floor-- more often than not, they’d respond: “wow, Anna, your life is like a movie!” 

Now, I’m sorry, but exactly what type of movie is this? Not a single thing I said was remotely positive. This sounds like a horrible movie, but, apparently, they’d want to see it. In fact, some of them would also like me to write a book about it. The newest request is short stories. 

To which I concur: people love drama.

When I was in high school, and even a little in my first year of college, I yearned for drama. I was the president of my frickin’ high school drama club and I had no idea of the actual drama going on beneath me until well after I graduated. I was immune. Yet, I desperately wanted something exciting-- anything exciting-- to happen in my life. Well, lucky me.

No, I've never read them.

If I were given the choice to go back to that naive, innocent, idealistic optimist of a small-town Ohioan who’d never fought with anyone but her sister, or to stay in my drama-filled, tenuous, complicated mess of a jobless New Yorker going through her first break-up, I’d take the obvious choice: food poisoning. Because no matter how weird and crazy stupid our lives in New York City or grad school in Kansas or leaving your corporate job in DC are, they’re something. And they’re ours. As long as we’re moving forward, even at a snail’s pace, we’re progressing. That’s something. And it’s far from boring. I’m not going to spew that bullsh*$ of “everything happens for a reason,” but I do believe we learn. No kids likes to do homework, but how else will they learn? 

These last 2 months have been arguably the most difficult in my life. I felt like everything I’d built for myself in New York City-- relearning how to walk, settling into an apartment, falling in love, gaining community and money through my jobs-- was erased, all at once. Though I’ve learned a lot about myself and relationships and have come out stronger blah blah blah, I will not lie to you by saying “I’m glad it happened”; “I’m glad I learned that.” Hell, no, am I happy I couch-surfed for a week while eating only granola bars and oatmeal! However, I’ll be damned if I do not work as hard as I possibly can to prevent anything similar from ever happening again. I’m not cured, but I survived. And that’s what I’m proud of. (In addition to the homemade movie theatre mentioned above, of which I had no hand in making but all hands in enjoying. This was in the sitcom plot apartment. Unfortunately, ironically, no romantic comedies were allowed on the big screen. Sigh.)

So, no. I’m not the same person I was when I was bored of my uneventful, cushy high school life. And I think high school Anna would really, really like that.

What do you do with castor oil? Sip it. Spit it out. Sniff it. Find ways to make it flavorful. Take out some ingredients, maybe. Drink it with a friend. Have someone tell you to drink it. Refuse to drink it. Decide to drink it on your own. Go through the process of throwing it up and being hangover-ill to make you promise to yourself that you’ll never, ever drink it again. 

(Pshyeah, good luck with that.)

“Winds in the east, mist coming in, 

Like somethin’ is brewin’ and ‘bout to begin.

Can’t put me finger on what lies in store, 

But I fear what’s to happen all happened before.”

(Oh, man, can you tell what one of the movies we watched in the apartment movie theatre was.)

WRONG:

Saving Mr. Banks

Bitter British Breakfast Boot

Ingredients

• Wine
• Cheese
• Pimm's
• French bread
• Fancy organic artisanal cupcakes (2 Yelp $ signs, if you-gnome-sayin)
• 1 dilapidated, grotesque walking boot
• An short-lived but glorious Instagram life in the boot's last appropriate days
  
• A pair of the kindest, sweetest, softest grandma Dr. Scholl's sneakers you can find; please wear them with a dress
• Three days running (if only) around like a madcowdiseasewoman to hunt an apartment
• Hours upon websites upon emails upon wasted time looking for apartments; you'll never get your dignity or innocence back
• The satisfaction of bitchingout standing up for yourself in a 100% warranted way against a broker who dares to go by the first name Gurkan: Good ol' Gurk leaves you waiting 40 minutes in a median of Broadway  at 9 AM on a Saturday morning. (I left! OK, Gurkan?! I wasn't waiting another 20 minutes for you to arrive, Girdle, because you have poor communication skills, Garkofit!)
• One long trip to a Brooklyn apartment that you don't reach because who puts apartments >15 minutes away from any train station. Who. (*Was it Gurko?)
  *No. Regardless, it was the end. Because, in that walk, you (& your roommate in your cellphone) decide that you're done looking for apartments. Only after 3 vigorous days spent solely delving into online apartment databases, meeting Gurkans upon worse Gurkans, finding an apartment without a sink in the bathroom, and venturing upon a 15 minute walk to an apartment you never reach. As you descend further into Crown Heights and wonder if you'll ever see the light of subway again, all reality disappears and subletting suddenly seams sublime. Your thoughts bleed together-- finally-- and the solution becomes conversely clear: September 1st. Just WAIT. 
• (I could've simply put it this way: ) Trying to hunt for a New York City apartment in 3 days on a broken foot right before leaving the country
• 1 box of breakfast cereal because you have to use up your almond milk before going to COSTA RICA
• Speaking of Costa Rica, a random non-profit I've never heard of called Far Corners Community Musical Theatre put on a translated Spanish version of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee this past weekend in Monteverde, Costa Rica. In spirit of organizations that have nothing to do with my boyfriend or why I'm going to Costa Rica, I give you your last ingredient: Confidently mispelled words. Mispelled.        Things I've spelled wrong this week:
• Vission (4 times)
• Monsterously
• Laundry mat 
• Cappicinno/cappacinno
• Happenning
• (just now) Delapidated

Instructions

The title pretty much says it all: Have a great British birthday, wobble on the struggle bus with your Boot, be broadly Bitter about brokers, and buy some Breakfast cereal. ...? Try again:

Three days ago, my foot hurt so bad that I gave up free play tickets to avoid leaving the house again. Two days ago, I officially retired my 3-month boot-- not necessarily because that's a good idea, but because it makes me look homeless. Two nights ago, my heart was pounding so quickly that I thought it might generate electricity to lift my bed into space. Yesterday, I ate a microwaveable meal. Today, I got a new boot. I mean, what do you think this says? Let's talk about stress: Forcing myself through the pain of a thousand warriors in my heel; re-learning how to walk-- in public, too, which is great because I look like a just-born giraffe; individually searching for an apartment as an unaccompanied, small young woman; and rounding out the almost 3 months I haven't seen my boyfriend are, combined, strangely taxing on my uneventful & unemployed daily life. 

Isn't it strange how sometimes having less to do makes you more anxious? You're so concerned about filling every second of your time with grand efforts to have something to do. I was less stressed on tour, not (only) because I was in sunny California, but also because I finally felt free to do the thing I was doing and do it well and just do it. Just... Nike. 

We can't always Nike. I rarely do. But, man, when you finally get to Nike-- without any preoccupations or guilt of not doing something better-- that's the stuff. My birthday was like that-- and I didn't even care that the day after was spent catching up to all the emails & crap I'd avoided on my Nike day! In 3 days, I get to wear my Nikes again, as I fly to Costa Rica to spend totally unplanned days with this kid at the non-profit I've never heard of. He doesn't even have WIFI in his house. 

It doesn't take much to stress you out in this city-- or anywhere, really. Just give yourself a monthly rent, mortgage, kids, clients, or a Netflix queue you feel obliged to take advantage of and you'll be anxious in no time. It's called having a life. Sometimes what's stressing you out boils unnoticed until you actually sit down and try to relax-- only to find you can't. Sometimes it pops up when you think you're sufficiently happy. Ya never know when one of these little bitch stressors will try to get out, or if they'll all boil over! Unbalance your flow! They're stupid little Bitter British Breakfast Boots and, unfortunately, they're like replacing the battery in your laptop: inevitable. Going to Costa Rica helps, but there are other ways.

If not, we're all screwed. Except me.

Here's one way: 

The other day, I put both shoes on for the first time in over 2.5 months and I took a walk down the street. After buying some ankle supports and heel cushions at Duane Reade, I was almost home until I saw Lincoln Center. I don't usually think much of it during the day, but at night it's a palace of chandeliers and fountains, vast glass windows and arched columns. There are many people on the steps, but it's peaceful. Quiet. I've always wanted to see it at night but have somehow missed it, so I hobbled over from across the street. Twenty minutes later, I make it. After months of not walking, I walk up the steps-- I could've ended right there. Yet, I spent time sitting on the edge of the fountain, staring up at the sky, looking out into the city nightlife, taking photos of my two shoed feet. And I could've ended there, too. Then, something purple, blue, and red caught my eye-- there was a free concert going on. Eh. I thought I'd meanderwobble over, just to check it out; there must be some sort of cool booth or giveaway, seeing as there were so many people but these free acts are many times estranged ensembles no one's heard of. However, the deeper I walked into the activity, the more unbelievable it got-- stringed lights, food booths, people picnicking on the ground, a VIP drinks lounge, and the humungous purple, red, and blue-lit white tent swarmed with the happiest of chill people without being in Williamsburg. I sat down, again, and deeply appreciated how lucky I am to be staying here. To be walking. (Ish.) And I could've stopped there! But this is a story so it keeps going. 

I hear a recognizable tune and frantically Google search the free concert schedule: Jose Gonzalez!! What the what! I listen a bit longer, then notice signs of a mass exodus as huge applause begins-- AKA I need to get my giraffe legs the heccckkk out of there. I could've ended here-- You know I didn't. I stopped. I waited. And, yes. He began to play an encore-- his most famous song and also one of my favorite songs ever. I'll admit that I teared up-- because, amongst the samurai swords in my foot & whatever drama occurred that day, I'd actually relaxed. 

I've heard that not everyone has heard of Jose Gonzalez. Remedy that. I've heard that not all people know that an NYC broker shouldn't be charging you a 15% fee and you shouldn't accept higher than 12%. Remember that. I've heard that some people have not yet experienced Pimm's. Drink it. This is a post simply to remind you to stay sane; that the need for your absent air conditioner is almost through; and that, when the chips are down, you can still see the Non-Dog Dog.

LOOK HE'S LOOKING RIGHT AT ME! HOW AM I SO LUCKY.

Guys, it's our first recurring character.

PS: The boot photos that didn't quite make the Instagram cut.

There's an edition of Arthritis Today in there. I read it. 

Fountain failz

Mm. Trendy.

That's from today, when I got another boot. Just another failed elevator selfie.
Or, I guess, just another failed fracture healing. YOLO!

Carnation Instant Confusion: 21 Vitamins & Stares

Ingredients:

• 1 sublet. (Near a handicap accessible subway station.)
• 12 packets of Carnation Instant Breakfast. (Vanilla flavored.)
• 2 containers of PB2. (One plain, one chocolate.)
• 5 KIND granola bars*. (That have lived in your backpack for 1 month.)
• 1 miniature water bottle. (With a hook; easy for crutching.)
• 1 3/4 shreds of dignity remaining
• 3.5 weeks. (To make all this last.)

Instructions:

If you're looking for a strong reason of why I am leaving Ohio to return to NYC before my foot heals & still on crutches, I can give you that. Strong in that I feel very passionately about the fact that I cannot stay here any longer or my head will explode brown & orange. Why brown & orange? Because those are the colors of the Cleveland Browns and the fact that they are what I first&foremost thought of as the remnants of my skull explosion is sad. (It should at least be the Cavs, as they're seasonably good, but the Browns...) 

If you're looking for a practical reason of why I'm going back to NYC... I can't give you that. However, I can give you a weak-practical, practical-strong reason: I need to be auditioning.

Let's take a look into how the audition scene might go for an actor on crutches:

Stares from folks in elevator. An actor on crutches enters audition sign-up area. Stares from waiting individuals. The actor approaches sign-in table. 

MONITOR: Hello, would you like a-- Oh, my. Aren't you in bad shape. 

CRUTCHY McGEE: AH, well. You know, LIFE!! 

MONITOR: OK... 

Crutchy receives time slot and enters holding area. Stares from actors. Stares from actors. Stares, a "walk" down the long hallway, Crutchy finds a seat eventually. Stares. Silence sans the crutches, noises of crutches. Wobble with the large backpack on back. Stares, sit. Wobble.

ACTOR 1: Oh, here, sorry, let me move my stuff. 

CRUTCHY McGEE: OH NO IT'S OK DON'T WORRY ABOUT ME I'M FINE! 

ACTOR 1: Why are you smiling like that? 

CRUTCHY McGEE: I'M NOT, AM I!? SORRY! 

Sit.  

ACTOR 1: So, what happened? 

CRUTCHY McGEE: I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM DON'T TELL THEM I LEFT GOODBYE. 

Crutch away, Crutchy... Crutch, crutch away. Stares. 

Thankfully, I am no novice like Crutchy. I've at least been to two auditions + about a million other places inappropriate for crutches on crutches. I expect the stares. I expect the stairs. I expect to defend how it's not inappropriate. I expect to complain (in my head) about the handicap inaccessibility of America. I expect people to stare at me while I am forced to do stairs due to the handicap inaccessibility of America and because I must in fact appropriately be there. Wherever. (Sometimes wineries are necessary, yes, when you've simply reached that point. Or it's your mom's birthday. I know you get it.) I recently bought a new trendy backpack handbag, as I've learned that my military-grade Northface backpack is just that-- very heavy and meant for college textbooks. Plus, if you're going to be stared at on crutches, your backpack might as well be patterned and light. It's the only light thing about you. As I'm clearly an expert on how to life live on crutches, I want to give both you and my returning-to-NY-self a list of tips on how to survive foot- and hand-less.

1. Have a lot of money.
2. Take a car everywhere.
3. Order all of your groceries from Fresh Direct.
4. Or eat out.
5. Use your elevator.
6. Win!



Aw, no, it's OK, man! I was just kidding. You don't have to go rob a bank.



Alright, well, that's pretty unnecessary. If you have better things to do, you can certainly return to them. (Also, you might want to check out the growth rate of your nose; it's alarming.)

1. Wear a cool backpack. (Done.)
2. Supply your other foot with a supportive closed toe shoe.
3. Don't wear a dress.
4. Be mindful of your shirt(s) riding up your side and exposing your midriff & underwear.
5. Or don't. Take advantage of the excuse to look like a slob.
6. OR take extra effort to look amazing at all times so people will either a. be incredibly impressed at your ability to emit such grace & beauty even in the line of injury, or b. forget you're on crutches entirely.

7. Order your groceries for delivery. If at a store, avoid buying anything that doesn't fit nicely in your trendy backpack. 
8. Employ the right to belittle with your eyes those individuals who don't give up their subway seat for you. You literally are the most repeated recorded announcement on every public transportation system everywhere.
9. Only use handicap subway stations. It's-- I know. I know, it's hard, but-- Just. Please. It's so much better this way.
10. If fanny packs weren't fanny packs, you'd really benefit in wearing one for easy access to phone and wallet. However, they're fanny packs, so. 

I'm glad that you now know everything about wearing crutches in New York City. The next step is to break, hairline fracture, or sprain one of your feet or maybe a leg. You could always do both.

I don't want you to every feel abandoned whilst incapable of doing anything for yourself. That's why I'm going to provide you with a link to Uber, the convenient and classy perfection of city transportation. Not only am I going to provide you with information about this incredibly easy-to-use app, but I am also going to share a really stellar code to enter when you join Uber: anz68 . Enter that into the little box when they ask for a code and not only will you be happier, but I will also get a free ride. And in the end, isn't that all that really matters? Trust me, young grasshopper: one day, you too will be able to supply someone with your Uber code. It all starts with one... one input of my code... to unlock your future...

What have you learned today? To petition to the New York MTA subway system to install more elevators? To give all of your extra money to injured city dwellers? To buy a cute handbagbackpack regardless of your life situation? I believe, this time, the answer lies in your hands. Perhaps also your back, if you decide to carry a non-walker on it. Perhaps your fingers as you type in an Uber code. Perhaps your brain as you ponder fiscal philosophy.
(**)Perhaps your eyes as you divert them from someone who doesn't want to be stared at. Which, I can almost guarantee, is most everybody. People on crutches are not nearly the worst-off people in the world, but they are pretty helpless in specific situations and have feelings just like everyone else. Just like that Amish family at the beach or the exhausted parent with a roaring temper-tantrum baby on the train-- they have a unique quality that makes their lives different and interesting to look at, but that doesn't mean you need to stare at them. If you blink, I don't think they'll go away. And if they do, then they are definitely worth staring at when they come back.



* Aw, man, since beginning this draft, my dog Annie has eaten one of them and sopped another's packaging with her saliva. That means I'm down to 4.

**Screenshot of actual message sent this week. To be taken seriously.

**Most importantly, this week we say goodbye to a brave batch of baby birds that have lived right next to our porch here in Amherst. They battled endless photo shoots by my mom and me and torrential downpours every two hours yesterday in an almost Hunger Games-like way. Remarkably, they are still alive. I will say goodbye when I leave.

This is their best take. Aren't they troopers? It helped that I cawked at them throughout.

Moving Day Hard Cider with a Side of Gluten

What do you do with a packed-up apartment, 5 flights of stairs, and a pair of crutches?

How many actors does it take to move an entire set up 3 flights of stairs at 7am?

If you take 1 cab every day from 204th St. to 108th St. at 6am, how much less expensive will it be vs. an Uber?

How many swings are necessary to obliterate a professionally made Tinkerbell piñata?

What percentage of the NYC subway stations are handicap accessible? (Oh, sorry. Too serious.)

How much trail mix, popcorn, and apples can you eat before never eating them again?

At what point does strapping your $290 full-sized mattress on top of an SUV with rope and driving in rush-hour traffic through all of Manhattan into Brooklyn with strong signs of rain become a good idea?

And, please, someone, tell me: How did I end up in Amherst, Ohio?

RECIPE: Moving Day Hard Cider with a Side of Gluten
Prep Time: 3.5 months 
Bake Time: 2 months (6-8 weeks)
Chefs: 3 (someone to carry you + a podiatrist + an idiot)
Nutritional Value: Calcium
Allergens: Obviously gluten; maybe a little pride

Ingredients:

• 47 years of total formal schooling between your 2 sisters and you that end in a split second. Tears. All the stupid streaming tears.
  
• That's all the the happy you get: and it wasn't even that happy: I mean, it was happy, but there were tears: Let's go: One broken foot
• If you can try to fit it in here, aim for a misdiagnosis of a foot sprain instead of a break. That way, you can properly damage it further. (re: "idiot")
• If you're lucky, break ("sprain") the foot exactly one month out of the end of your touring production. This ensures that you'll be less than two weeks out once you receive your proper diagnosis. This means... I think you know what this means.
• Aim for the tour on which your injury occurs to be fully dependent on the actors to load in, set up, and load out the set. That way this means this ensures TOTAL USELESSNESS AT LEAST PART OF THE TIME.
• That was severe. Don't aim for that. Try to be useful. You are. Just never express it. Never say at the 7am Bronx elementary school with 3 spiral staircases that you "wish you could help." Just... be quiet. 

• 
• The date of June 12: The date in which your transportation system up & down stairs flies to Costa Rica. The date you must go home.
• One particular airport, the only particular airport near your particular location of residence, that cancels every flight to Cleveland for the next few days due to "air traffic control."
  (I really wanted to find some sort of meme that truly captured my frustration and plane-old utter confusion at how air traffic control could be responsible for canceling flights days in advance. I mean, I get it, but give your customers a less vague reason. I need to share with you what you find when you Google Image search "air traffic control memes", because I kind of feel like they knew that bitter people were going to Google that, so they ensured that only the snarkiest, most specific air traffic control references were used to cause alienation and thus further confusion.
   
  
   And, finally, two I found right beside each other that, together, may be the reason why everything we think we know about air traffic controlling is wrong:
• $119 cab ride from Brooklyn to New Jersey during rush hour. There's a working airport there. And while I appreciate everything you do for my life and the lives of all of the people in the sky, air traffic controllers, I am clearly still a little mad.
• But you'll get over it once you settle back in your (1) cozy childhood bed in Amherst, OH.
  
• Speaking of Women's USA Olympic Gymnastics, there's a (1) movie being shot in Amherst, OH this summer. I'll let you take a moment.

OK, are you ready to come back?

Let's begin again.

• (1) Movie: Written and starring the hilarious Melissa Rauch from you and your father's favorite TV show together, "The Big Bang Theory". Set entirely in Amherst, OH, shot entirely in Amherst, OH, living and breathing the energy of Amherst, OH. A feature film. Guys. When you watch this movie. You will see my high school. The small-town Americana Main Street downtown. One of our really sketchy bars (or maybe it's the nice one?) in our row of sketchy and nice bars. A real live Amherst home. Perhaps our 1-screen $3 movie theatre. Perhaps my old substitute teacher famous infamous for being an extra in the Shawshank Redemption. I don't know. But it's really pretty ironic that it's shooting here, now, and about a gymnast with an injury. 

Are you still not ready to finish these ingredients? Because I can stop now and come back--- OK! Let's finish talking about coincidences.

• ... Nope, that's pretty much it. Just find 1 summer of your life right after your first real acting job in which you then have to leave New York to return to a small town in Ohio for an indeterminate period of time, and then stick a big feature film right smack dab in the middle of your town, and then show up at an open casting call at the same mall as where you once worked at Victoria's Secret. Oh, but do remember that you're on crutches. You know you still can't do anything on crutches. Right? Making your last ingredient: PATIENCE. 

Instructions:

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

OK, OK, I know, I know it sounds so silly but yes patience is key-- ... Ha-HA-- ... No, but seriously. 

1. Take, for example, a young girl's stomach. Can she expect it to be in proper working condition at all times? Well, actually, I guess that's not too much to ask for, but-- Take, for example, someone who has had stomach issues for years. Is there going to be a 1-cure-fix-all method? Will he or she need to reevaluate the eatability of his or her favorite foods of all time, ice cream and pretzels? Patience, my dear stomachs, patience will let you know when it's time to enjoy those glorious rounds or mounds of dark wheat and yeast once again. Patience will guide you away from nightly bowls of lactose. PATIENCE... gives you this:

A stylized photo of your first breakfast sandwich in years, in plans of starting a new hashtag, #tastytuesdays. You rightfully held that back. 

2. Think of the young man who moves all of his (booted) girlfriend's belongings down 5 floors in 90° heat with only 1 other guy, puts it all in a storage unit, and then by himself drives a full-sized mattress he strapped to the top of an SUV through NY traffic, only to unload it & her suitcases again at his apartment. Patience? Saint-ience. There's another young man of another young lady's hand who jammed all of her grad school belongings into a teeny tiny little car two times, once by himself, and then drove all the way to a different city to drop it off. Who are these young men and why do they have so much PATIENCE? To the aforementioned mattress strongman, his patience was rewarded with a 6-pack of  and a carton of . And that was our dinner. (Did I also feverishly pop open a beer-shaped bottle of alcohol when our moving day ended, sweaty and exhausted, even though I didn't move a single thing? Yes. Yes, I did. It was a difficult day to watch.)

3. You have to think to yourself: What can I do with a 100% free, open schedule in a beautifully quiet, peaceful, Midwest town in the beginning of summer? You have no job, ability to drive a car & thus leave the house, or real responsibilities. I made myself a daily schedule that was full of memorizing monologues, writing, playing the piano, searching for jobs, and working out. Have I ever followed it? Absolutely not. However, I have spent hours (more than schedule-ly alloted) memorizing a new song on the piano & fiddlin' out a few others. I've had a phone interview with a new start-up organization by one of the New Housewives of... somewhere. I, only yesterday, finally wrote down in a Pages document (acknowledging your judgment, moving on) some scenes to a webseries I've been thinking about. And my stars I have gone through approximately 80 episodes of "The Office" and that is not nothing. Yes, I wanted to write every day. I wanted to be truly productive. Have I wasted my time? Maybe some days, a little bit. But, with time, with PATIENCE, I have at last gone through all of my emails, applied for a plethora of new nanny jobs, and now am finally fed up enough with the fact that I haven't written anything that I AM! See! You just have to get angry enough at yourself. Don't do something, wait a bit, still don't do it, and then retaliate! Against yourself.

I'm not saying you should stop doing productive things. I'm not saying you shouldn't properly follow a to-do list. Getting things done feels great. Making that phone call or answering that email that you've been putting off for weeks feels splendiferous. But if you need time to do other things (more prevalent-- or less prevalent, sometimes), do them. Just do something. Maybe I shouldn't be watching 5 episodes of "The Office" in one day, but 1 is OK. And, in time, with patience, there's always that one day in which I don't watch any. And I feel good about it. 

More practically and honestly, I could merely say "don't waste your time like I usually do." But where's the learning in that? Only PATIENCE, my cumquats, brings you a calmer stomach, a healed foot, a larger perspective on motivation, and the newfound, passionately heartfelt statement: 

I NEED NEW YORK CITY. 

~*~*~*~*!*~*~*~*~

Howdy, there! I thought it'd be real fun to rediscover some of my favorite memories of my now FOUR boots! Wow! I am truly a lucky girl. Enjoy-- and let's stay safe out there! LOL, am I right, ladies?! 

             

The glory of living.