The Comfy Corner

This is what I see every morning when I walk out of my door. Isn't that a nice way to start the day?

So I was recently balled up into a pile of plush pillows in the corner of my bed when my mind began to reach back to a time long ago when my fascination with comfy corners began. If you all want to know how I originally came up with the title for my blog, you can find it here. But, I just realized that the history goes back much farther.

When I was a kid, I wanted to live underground. I envied animals that burrowed, like mice and groundhogs, because I imagined them to be so incredibly comfy in their little underground nooks, storing away nuts and decorating with leaves and small twigs. I stared longingly at my hamsters in their cages (I loved hamsters) as they burrowed their little bodies into the bedding and napped all day. I think, if memory serves me correctly, I even started to dig a hole in my back yard (a hole...to live in?) but I quickly hit a bunch of rocks and I was too fat and lazy to continue. So alas, all I could do was dream.

Also, I had two blankies growing up and two stuffed animals named Smooch and Snuggles. I had others, but they were the only two that mattered. Every night I would curl into bed with Smooch, Snuggles, and my blankies and I would ball up my yellow blankie and burrow my hand into the folds of the fabric. I just liked the way it felt. So cool and soft on my hand. Today, I no longer sleep with those old friends (I sleep with new friends!), but I never pass up an opportunity to feel a soft fabric, or curl up into a ball in a corner with pillows. I crave winter just so that I can where my hoodie. So, I suppose the moral of the story is that while we can change what we do quite drastically, we can never change who we are at our core.

So I had a strug today that probably out-strugged my struggest strugs all summer. My friend Anthony left a bottle of whiskey in my car (we had made a trip to New Hampshire where there is no sales tax on liquor, and when in Rome, right?) so, like a good friend, I thought that I would get it out of my trunk and bring it to him. Only trouble was, I was going to have to carry it while I was biking. I have a basket on the back of my bike, so I thought, "No problem, I'll just put it in the basket."

At first, there wasn't any problem. I successfully biked to the diner where I had a lovely strug-free breakfast (with this giant bottle of whiskey sitting right next to my chair. After all, I couldn't leave it with my bike! Homeless people don't mess around with free alcohol.), and then, after I left the diner, I attempted to re-mount my bicycle. I put the bottle in the basket, I threw my bag over my shoulder, I threw my leg over my bike and then the worst thing happened - the basket fell off the back of my bike and the whiskey fell to the concrete. All of this happened in front of Toro, the most hoppin', people-packed tapas restaurant in town. Everyone was pointing at me and staring at me and laughing cruel laughs (that's how I remembered it anyways). I could see there eyes just judging and questioning my every move "Why is the young man carrying around a big bottle of whiskey at noon?" Amazingly, the bottle didn't break, but the cork did come out and as I was struggling to get off my bike and run around it to put down the kick stand, expensive liquor was pouring out onto the hot pavement. All I can hope is that some dog or some desperate homeless man was able to drink it up before it evaporated.

I finally got the bottle up, corked it, and put it more securely in the basket and successfully mounted the bike without another spill. As soon as I biked a few meters, however, I realized that I left my bike lock lying on the ground of the crime scene. I went back to whiskey puddle and the cruel laughter and picked up the lock. When I looked at the patio of Toro, everyone was looking at me. The air reeked of hot whiskey, my hands reeked of hot whiskey, my face...reeked of shame. I got the bottle to campus only to realize that I wasn't allowed to bring a huge bottle of whiskey into the dorms (I stupidly forgot that was a rule...) I handed off the bottle to Vanessa who was heading back to her apartment and I accepted my defeat...I had failed. Anthony, if he ever gets his whiskey back, will not be getting much back.

So, it is common knowledge in the restaurant business that the foreigners who walk in probably won't tip. As a result, we have taken to racially profiling people as soon as they walk through the door. If they speak English fluently, then odds are probably in our favor. If they seat themselves and look around the restaurant confused and then order one glass of water to share between the four of them - things are looking bad.

That is all preface to the story of this one woman who walked in alone. Her name was Cecilia. She spoke about as much English as I speak Spanish (which is to say, very very little). She ordered a pasta and didn't want anything to drink (always a bad sign). After I said one tiny little thing in Spanish to her (Esta bien?), I was trapped. She rattled away all of this Spanish that I didn't understand and before I knew it I was holding her iPhone taking pictures of her. I took one candid shot of her eating her pasta (it was for her mother...I think), and then I took another picture sitting down at an adjacent booth (all at her very specific request). In the middle of the photo shoot she stopped our busser, Milena, and said something along the lines of "I saw you last night, I was eating at the bar." Milena had never seen this woman before, ever. And then, before I could stop her, she took the camera and insisted that she take a picture of me. I posed super-awkwardly and she snapped the pic. She said something along the lines of me being more attractive in person than I am in the picture. She wanted to take more pictures of me but I insisted that the one picture was good enough and then she insisted that she email the picture to me (!). I put in my email address and now I have immortalized the memory. Perhaps I should have put in a fake email, but I kinda wanted the picture and the memory. Cecilia, the strange woman that came in and acted like she was my best friend and then walked away without tipping, I will never forget you.

Things that hurt, but we do them anyway. Oftentimes we do these things because the aftereffects are totally worth it. Or we do them because it's pleasureful at the time but we know we'll have to suffer the consequences later. Warning: some of these may apply only to me.

1) Listerine - It burns oh so good and the refreshing aftereffect is totally worth the pain.

2) Scratching bug bites - We know that scratching only makes it worse, but we do it anyway because it feels orgasmic.

3) Going to the gym - For some reason we like to torture ourselves. We sweat and burn and our heart hurts and we get pains in our sides and we get cramps and we are sore for the next week, but our doctor tells us we should do this 5 times a week. And we do it and we get addicted.

4) Plucking hair - We pluck because we care. We care so much in fact that we will rip the protein out of our bodies, making us tear up a bit and leaving a red mark (and sometimes drawing blood).

5) Popping pimples - It hurts, research shows it isn't good, but we do it anyway.

6) Holding in pee just to feel the release - Sometimes when I'm at work and I have to pee, I'll wait until the last possible moment just so I can feel the release. Just me?

7) Anal sex - ouch.

8) Poking bruises and injuries - We know it'll hurt, but for some reason we are fascinated with our wounds. Perhaps it is our way of making sure everything is still working correctly.

9) Going to see bad musical theatre - Probably one of the most painful/fulfilling things on this list thus far. Sometimes you just crave meaningless belting, Andrew Lloyd Webber awfulness, and sparkly costumes.

10) Drinking heavily - Despite the horrible hangover, the puking, the poor decisions, the black outs, the accidental skull and cross-bones tattoos on our faces, we still get drunk the next night.

Blogging to you live from New York City folks! I always seem to end up back in this city, and every time I visit, I am filled with inspiration and renewed vigor for life and art. It's like the collective creativity and talent crammed onto this little island is just seeping into my pores. I can't wait to move here after I graduate (that is, as long as I do actually graduate).

So, the best thing about having a large network of friends in NYC is that I never have to find a hotel when I visit. I can always just crash on someone's couch. So for this particular trip, Chris and I decided to crash on his friend Drew's couch. It was a very kind gesture on Drew's part, so naturally I felt obligated to get him some sort of gift, although I didn't have a clue what it would be (me being on a very tight budget and all). But, as Chris and I were walking toward his apartment, my prayers were answered. Sitting on the side of the street was a knee-high, stuffed horse mounted on a wooden stand with wheels - and there was a sign attached to it that said "Take Me!" So, naturally, I took him and decided that this would be the perfect "Thanks for letting me stay in your apartment" gift.

As I was walking down the street with my new horse, however, the worst possible thing that could have happened, happened. We passed by a mother sitting on a stoop with her little girl and her little boy. The little girl took one look at my new horse, dropped her jaw and looked directly into my eyes with the most pitiful, disgusted and horrified look I have ever seen on a human face. The look said "That was supposed to be my horse! You bastard..." Sure enough, after we passed her, I looked back and saw her running up the sidewalk to look at the empty spot where the horse had previously been. Now, I have a little knot of guilt growing in my stomach. We had taken this toy, that could have been enjoyed by this little girl for the rest of her childhood, perhaps she would have passed it down through the generations as a family heirloom, it would have a permanent spot in the playroom next to the fireplace, all of her kids would have pictures with it, and we used it as a joke thank-you (we ended up putting the horse in his bathtub with a bottle of beer. Drew found it this morning). I feel despicable, but it was so worth the laughs.

Okay, comfy cornerers, I know that I try to keep posts light and fun, but sometimes, life is serious (very rarely, though). I have a couple pearls of wisdom I have come upon due to recent experiences that I thought I might share with all of you so that you may take it out into the world and make some changes for the better. Hopefully Heidi Montag is reading this (through her tears of sorrow over the death of her plastic surgeon, aka a death in the family...too soon?).

So I have come to realize that everything happens for a reason and thus we should never take anything for granted. Inspiration can come from the most unexpected of places. For instance, I sometimes get inspired to eat a healthy salad and go to the gym after watching an overweight man order two butter cakes for himself. Or I am inspired (or guilt tripped) into going to more dance classes after seeing an amazing dancer. Sometimes, however, it is difficult to find the good in certain situations. For example, I have been working at the this gym in Boston for about a year now. I opened the gym three times a week promptly at 5:30am. It is early, it is boring, I hate it. And today, I was folding the 578th towel of the day thinking mixed thoughts of suicide and quitting the job for good, when the fitness manager came up to chat. He asked me what I did and I told him that I went to Emerson College for musical theatre. He replied, "Stop, drop and roll!" An odd response, but I decided to hear him out. Turns out he graduated with a BFA in Musical Theatre from Carnegie Mellon, one of the most prestigious MT conservatories in the country. He went to school with Sutton Foster and Billy Porter! He did a European tour of "42nd Street" and did the West Coast premiere of "This is our Youth." So we ended up having a two hour conversation about the business and my plans post graduation. The conversation ended with him saying "We are not finished here. We have a year to get you in shape. I wanna see your material, we need to get you working out and we are going to get you a job in NYC. No excuses." So after a year of opening this gym with bleary eyes, drinking lots of coffee and folding lots of towels, I finally found out the reason why I was there. I found a mentor of sorts!

So comfy cornerers, I have this to say: sometimes it is worth suffering the bad to reap the benefits that result. The good will eventually reveal itself. After all, we can't truly appreciate the pleasures in life without first being without them. As that dude says in "Eat, Pray, Love" - "Why won't you give me the chance to miss you?"

Strugging is a slippery slope, folks. I came to this realization when I was reading E-Strugs (a blog created by my friend Elise that is solely devoted to her daily life struggles). And her latest post made me realize that everyone has strugs when they are in the airport (Unless you are the guy from "Up In the Air"). The place just reeks of struggles. For one, you are typically carrying a million bags, which makes it nearly impossible to get easy access to your wallet or phone without putting down all of your bags (which subsequently get in the way of other people trying to walk). And as luck would have it, the airport is the one place when you actually need to have easy access to your phone and wallet multiple times during your visit (ID, flight confirmation number, paying for that Starbucks or the "I Heart Detroit" shirt, or the plush neck pillow with blanket). And then, flights are always being delayed or cancelled or un-delayed or un-canceled so you either have boatloads of time to kill, or you are sprinting (with your millions of bags, holding your phone and your Starbucks).

And then there is the issue of going to the bathroom. Where do you put all of your stuff while you do your business? On the floor? With the fecal matter? I'll not reveal what I do in this situation, but simply say that it is a struggle.

And of course their is the issue of getting through security. Do you get behind the family with the stroller and have plenty of time to undress and unpack your laptop or do you get behind the speedy Asians and feel pressured to do everything super fast.

So after you struggled at the ticket counter finding your ID, fumbled at security trying to undress quickly, almost dropped your phone in the toilet, couldn't remember where you put your wallet at the Starbucks line, and had your flight delayed 4 different times - all of the little strugs start to arise and become all the more irksome: can't remember which pocket you put your ticket/phone/wallet in, internet won't connect, Ipod battery is low, you spilled your coffee, someone ran into you with their roll-y bag, your bag was over the weight limit, people mover is broken or people on the people mover/escalator aren't walking, etc. etc. etc.

Airports are strug central folks. One might say - the least comfy.

So I was perusing my news feed recently and I noticed a comment (that somehow ended up on my top news) from one friend to another that said simply "I wanna Skype you ;)" The responding comment was simply "buttskype." This got my brain juices a-flowin' and I started to think about how absurdly sexual technology has become! I mean, think about it for a moment: poking on Facebook, sexting - I mean, even the word Twitter sounds very sexual (in my opinion, it's a very short leap from the word "Twitter" to the word "cliterus.") And don't get me started on the word "YouTube"! I mean, before all of this technology nonsense, if you were sending "direct messages" to someone, then you were probably in a bar groping him (or her). Now, if you send a "direct message" then you simply wanted to just send them a message without broadcasting it to the world wide web. And take a moment to consider emoticons. They can totally take a simple texting convo or IM to the next level - "I'm so happy we saw each other tonight ;)"

I believe we have officially reached "futuristic flirting" or as I am going to officially term it (you heard it first here on the Comfy Corner, folks) "sexnology." Well, actually, I just Googled the term, and it's on Urban Dictionary, so I suppose there are officially no new ideas in this world. Ah, well. Stay comfy, cornerers.

No matter where I am, how old I am, or what values I cherish at that particular moment in time, I will always put the empty or expired milk back into the fridge. Or I will use all of the milk except the tiniest amount and put it back into the fridge thinking, "Oh, I might need that tiny bit of milk later." (I never need that tiny bit of milk). This is also true of cereal boxes. I will always have 4 or 5 pretty-much-empty cereal boxes in the cabinet. So when do these things actually get taken care of? When I open the fridge and smell something rotting. Then, I will do a mass cleaning of everything expired or empty. But I will always wait until the mass cleaning to throw things away. And I know for a fact, that I am not alone in this habit. This little fact of life is a mutual laziness amongst all humans.

When I was a senior in high school we had this little tradition called "senior prank." Every high school in the country has to deal with these shenanigans yearly and our high school was no exception. The only thing was, I was incredibly nerdy and deathly afraid of breaking the rules (surprised?). So me and my nerdy friends decided to play a prank that would help, rather than hinder our school. But, we would act the part and make it feel like we were doing something really naughty.

So midnight rolled around and all 7 of us showed up in a sketch black van (that's how I remember it, anways) at the high school dressed in black and armed with copious amounts of sidewalk chalk, shovels, spades and potted flowers. We went to the hill overlooking the fine arts building and we started to dig. We planted probably 50 plants in the shape of "'07." Then we got started with the sidewalk chalk. In artistically genius lettering we wrote "School Beautification" on the large expanse of gray sidewalk in front of the hill. We then drew flowers, hearts, and peace signs everywhere. And drew little arrows leading everyone to our hippie masterpiece. We snapped one pic (the set-it-on-a-trash-can-and-wait-for-the-flash kind) of all of the outlaws and then we escaped unnoticed.


I tossed and turned in my bed that night thinking of all the rules we probably broke and half considering going back to the school and digging up the plants. "At least," thought I, "the sidewalk chalk is not offensive or anything. It's actually quite beautiful." The next morning, bleary eyed but wide awake, I arrived at school and headed towards the fine arts building expecting to see a crowd of gawking spectators. Instead, I saw a lonely janitor with a garden hose, spraying away our sidewalk chalk masterpiece before anyone really had a chance to see it. This was the state of the arts in our country, I thought. One person just spraying away creativity and probably giving more thought to what he wanted for lunch. Once again, I felt the familiar feeling of heartbreak (it doesn't take much). They cared not one bit about all the plants we planted (they remained there the rest of the year) but they could not handle anything but mindnumbingly gray sidewalk lining the walls of the school. And that, my friends, is probably why I have committed my life to the arts. To bring that sidewalk chalk out of the drain and back onto the sidewalk where it belongs.

Many people say things like "oh my God, I don't even wanna think about my freshman year self." In fact, I found myself saying that exact phrase just yesterday at work. And my co-worker, Sean, was like, "Yeah, there are so many times when I think to myself, 'I can't believe I actually said that.'" This got me thinking about how much I actually have changed. Well, I guess it's not that I've actually changed, but my mind has finally started to realize who I am. This realization came to me when I was writing alternate lyrics to the "Into the Woods" prologue (ya know, just another day in the life). I wrote a lyric for Jack that went "I wish I weren't so hot, or tall, or good" and Chris said, "Oh, so I guess you are going to be playing Jack?" I looked at him stunned for a second, but then I realized - saying something like that is so typical me. I don't think I really had distinctive character traits growing up. I always sort of adopted other people's cool traits and played them off as my own. But being obnoxiously sarcastic is uniquely, typically me. Now, I realize that this isn't necessarily the best of traits in all situations, and perhaps it is something that I should work on changing about myself, but for now, I am just happy that I am finally at a place where I am self confident enough to say, "That was so typical me."

And yes, it turns out, I am playing Jack.

Most couples resort to calling each other weird little nicknames (in private) when they reach a certain point in their relationship: Baby, pookie (gag me), love-muffin, boo, honey, darling, pumpkin (or any other pleasant sounding fruit or veggie) etc. etc. etc. But, for straight couples, when they talk about their significant others in public, it is fairly consistent: girlfriend, boyfriend, husband, wife. Gay couples, for some odd reason, seem to have a much more difficult time using these very simple, clear titles. It's as if we are afraid that these terms might offend or suggest something unpleasant to the receiver. So we resort to euphemisms which, in my opinion, are even more revolting and unpleasant. Here are three gay euphemisms that drive me bonkers...

1) The Boy- Absolutely unacceptable! If you use this term then I am going to assume one of two things: you rented some "boy" online for your own sexual pleasure or you have a son. It is disgustingly generic.

2) Big Guy- This guy I work with always calls his boyfriend "the big guy" and it makes me laugh every time. I've grown up knowing "the big guy" to be either someone's boss or God. So if you call your boyfriend "big guy" (or big gal...yikes!) I am going to assuming that you are dating your boss or you are a celibate monk in a "relationship" with God ("Hey, guess what? God's dating like billions of other men...hate to break it to ya.")

3) Partner- I don't care if you are actually married or not, just call him your husband or your wife. Or stick with boyfriend or girlfriend. Partners are in law firms. Partners are out fighting crime together. Partners are in the "Wild West." Partners are not having sex (unless you are talking about "Brokeback Mountain." They were totally partners).