The Comfy Corner

I'm currently getting paid to sort people into their Hogwarts houses. That's right folks, I work for the sorting hat now. Dreams do come true. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Of course, it is the sorting hat the does the sorting, it definitely isn't the key fob that I'm holding in my other hand with buttons that correspond to the respective houses. Oh no no no, it's all done through magic! Anywho, I've been doing this job for several weeks now and I have compiled a whole list of things that I say to people when they tell me what their favorite Hogwarts house is. BTW... I'm still... sorting things out (BAM!) so my apologies if some of this seems... old hat (BAM!! BAM!!).

Gryffindor - When someone says they are a Gryffindor, I usually genuinely agree with them, because if you are brave enough to volunteer to go up on stage with an absurdly energetic, 6'1", twenty somethin', Hogwarts "alum"wearing a rob, then let's be honest, you are probably a Gryffindor. But then there are the people who get up and say, "Oh, uh, I dunno, what is it called again mom? Gryffindor?" OR they say "I wanna be in Harry Potter house" Or I once had a kid say, "I wanna be in Dumbledore." That's just gross. And annoying. Those are the people who haven't read the books. And those are the people that I put in Hufflepuff.

Hufflepuff - When someone comes up, sits on the stool, looks at me and sincerely admits that they are probably a Hufflepuff, I have so much respect for them. It takes a great deal of self-confidence and self-examination to admit to Hufflepuff-dom. And if someone can admit to being a Hufflepuff, then I give them Hufflepuff and applaud their loyalty and trustworthiness. And I usually say something along the lines of, "You must know yourself very well. And you must be a true Potter fan." But, let's be real, I also use Hufflepuff as a punishment for people that are annoying me, because it makes everyone angrier than if I put them in Slytherin. Because Hufflepuff isn't known for much - except for, expert brooder, Cedric Diggory.

Ravenclaw - I am a Ravenclaw through and through. So when someone wants to be a Ravenclaw, I get excited and usually tell them that I am also a Ravenclaw, that I'm actually Cho Chang's brother, that I'm from China, and that I'll see them around the common room. I am such a creepy weirdo, why do people trust me with their kids?! Most of the time, though, I think people get a kick out of it. Or they are probably just confused and creeped out because I don't look Asian at all. Speaking of, I have to admit, ashamedly, that I always put Asians in Ravenclaw, even if they request a different house. It's just where we belong, y'all, so get used to it!

Slytherin - When someone says their favorite house is Slytherin, I usually respond, "Ah, you could do great things in Slytherin." But what I'm thinking is, "Ah, you must be a Republican." And I thought I was the only one who drew a connection between Slytherins and right-winged politics until today when an older man sat on the stool, said he wanted to be Slytherin, I said my usual, "You could do great things in Slytherin" and he responded, "Or I could become a politician." I laughed out loud. Way to go, sir. You are smartest Slytherin I've ever sorted. After I sort a Slytherin, I always say, "Slytherins always seem to know which house they belong to, don't they?" I think there is enough masked judgement in that phrase, yeah?

So, no matter which house you love, I will respect you, even if you're a Hufflepuff, especially if you're Robert Pattinson. Stay comfy y'all.

"So what do you do for a living?" I'll ask someone that I'm meeting for the first time. They look to the floor sheepishly and respond dejectedly, "Ugh, I'm an actor." In the same tone of someone admitting they are addicted to meth or something. I HATE THIS! No one should feel ashamed to admit that they are an actor. Being an actor is such a brave, incredible profession. You are doing what most people in this world regret not doing; chasing your dreams. So say it with confidence, y'all! I'm an actor. Don't apologize for your profession. I know that it can be annoying living in New York and LA and telling people that you are an actor because everyone's an actor. But who cares?! You aren't the same actor as the person you are talking to. You have something unique to offer the world that they can't offer. So own it! And if they roll their eyes, you slap those eyes right outta there face and then they'll be sorry. Because they won't have eyes!

This past summer I was working at a theatre in this tiny town in Colorado. The theatre was pretty much the only reason the town still existed. So working as an actor in that town was something to be proud of. When people asked me where I worked, I proudly said that I worked for the theatre, and it would spark some sort of admiration in them. They were excited and wanted to come see the show. Unfortunately, it's not always that way in New York. Admitting you are an actor seems to spark projectile vomiting and heavy sighs. But, it shouldn't! When people visit New York, they are most impressed by the artistic presence throughout the city. And you are part of that, so you should be proud.

And lastly, this is a personal rant, but Backstage Espresso needs to stop writing depressing articles like "When Should You Give Up on Your Dreams?" or "Ten Things You Sacrificed When You Decided to Be an Actor." WE GET IT, BACKSTAGE!! We know exactly what we gave up! I could write a ten page article on why I should quit acting! So I don't need to hear it, okay?! So, be proud of who you are, be proud of the amazing career you chose, and don't let the man get you down. Your life will go the direction that it needs to go. Stay comfy y'all.

So I have overheard many hilarious conversations on the streets and subways of New York City but few have earned the right to have a place on my blog. Few have caused me to miss my train stop because I am furiously typing the whole conversation on my phone with the speed of a court stenographer. When reading this, imagine two oppressively nerdy band geek boys. I have named them Dave and Rob (no offense to you, Dave or Rob, those just sound like band geek names to me). This is their conversation. It needs no further exposition.

Dave: (upon entering the train) So, what do you think Heather really thinks of me?

Rob: Dude, probably what everyone thinks of us brass players.

Dave: What's that?

Rob: All of the wind players are scared of us.

Dave: Why? What are they scared of?

Rob: Dude, you know. Our bro lifestyle, man. We're like drunk all the time. And if we're not drunk, we're really angry.

Dave: Yeah, that's true. I mean, we have pretty crazy ways.

Rob: Yeah we do.

Dave: But like, I specifically wonder about Heather ya know? Like what she thinks of me.

Rob: What, you afraid she thinks you're like a little horndog or something?

Dave: Yeah man, I mean, we're brass players.

Rob: That's true. Well, why don't you invite her over to my place?

Dave: Oh, yeah, totally.

And that's about when I realized that I was two stops past where I was supposed to get off the train. Stay comfy y'all!

1) You are trying to be so quiet going down the stairs at night, and then you miss a step and do a T-Rex stomp shaking the entire house.

2) You begrudgingly go out even though you are stupid tired. You tell yourself you won't drink and you'll head home around midnight. You wake up the next morning in a stranger's bed with no pants, a massive hangover, and no memory of the previous night.

3) You tell yourself you need to stop eating sweets and sugars, then your boyfriend bakes a giant cupcake.

4) You leave an hour early to guarantee that you'll be there on time, then there is a "police investigation" on the train and you're an hour late.

5) You tell yourself you're an independent woman of the modern age, then you're married with children.

6) You don't ask for directions because you have an iPhone, then you remember that your iPhone changed to Apple maps and you're doomed.

7) You tell your friend how horrible you are at baking and then you accidentally make the most delicious scones.

8) When you are working at your job you repeat in your head "this sucks, I hate this, I have to quit" but when you go home you think "meh, it's not THAT bad."

9) You can't find your monthly metro card you just bought so you buy a new one, call MTA, cancel the old one, get the money refunded, and then you find the old one in your bag.

10) You set your alarm every morning to go to the gym, and then the months go by and you forget where your gym is even located.

On the subway the other day I found myself amongst a sea of children. It wasn't a school field trip or anything, as is typical on the subway, no, it was just a very mom-and-children heavy train. One mom in particular really impressed me. She had three children. Two rowdy boys rode in on a two seater stroller and then proceeded to climb all over the crowded subway train like it was their jungle gym. Meanwhile, she had a newborn baby strapped to her chest. Hanging from the stroller were massive carabiners holding bottles, diaper bags, extra clothes, toys, shopping bags, and anything she might need to be successful in her day. She was soothing the baby on her chest while she was keeping her two boys in check. And the whole time she kept her cool and successfully calmed her rowdy boys. 

Here's the biggest problem that I've ever encountered in my young adulthood: I can't afford the lifestyle that I think I deserve. I'm a lush and I absolutely can't help it. I like taking cabs and surrounding myself with nice things. But, I'm poor. And yet, I keep trying to pretend like I'm not poor. Thus, I keep wasting my money on things that I don't really need like HD DVR packages and memory foam pillows. It's a recurring theme in my life right now. When I was younger (not much younger, let's be honest, like 18) I would watch the James Bond movies and drool over how luxurious 007's lifestyle was (I'd drool over Daniel Craig's body too, but that's for a different blog). He was always in a tailored tuxedo or beautiful slim fit suit, he was always drinking the best scotch, he was always in the nicest hotel rooms and he always had the fanciest cars. That's what I want! That's partially why I always drink gimlets and wear ties. Sometimes small things can make you feel really big. But recently the issue has escalated...

I essentially ordered the most expensive cable package available to a homeowner in NYC without really consulting with my room mate. I sort of told her how much it would cost but not really. I just really wanted DVR! And what's a DVR if it's not HD? And what's HD if you don't have On Demand and Showtime? This, to me, was a legitimate list of concerns. So after the cable was installed and my room mate found out how much our monthly bill was going to be, she called me and told me the most devastating news. We would have to downgrade cable plans. Yuck, I don't ever wanna hear that word, downgrade. Severely downtrodden, my room mate ripped the HD DVR box from my poor, wanting hands and took it back to the cable store. But then, a miracle happened! The woman at the cable store convinced her to keep the HD DVR box by cutting our monthly bill IN HALF! She even upgraded our box to a new one with more memory! Thanks Jessica, you saved my HD life!

And today, I was buying pillows at Bed, Bath and Beyond (the best place for a homebody to spend their time). I dejectedly picked up the ten dollar pillows telling myself to not even look at my other options. But then I saw the memory foam pillows at the end of the aisle and like Ginny Weasley in The Chamber of Secrets, I lost all control of my body and committed such evils. I ended up purchasing the most expensive pillows available. I reasoned that I spend a huge portion of my life sleeping, so I should obviously have the nicest pillows! Plus, sleeping is literally my favorite activity. When I wake up, I actually think to myself, "I can't wait until tonight when I get to go back to bed." But then, I was carrying these memory foam pillows through Washington Heights and I was getting the dirtiest looks from my neighbors. The looks that clearly said, "You rich douchebag living off of daddy's money." WHICH ISN'T TRUE! I WORK HARD FOR MY MEMORY FOAM PILLOWS AND MY DVR! So yeah, I need to cool it with the spending. But I have a kick ass cable plan now and I am going to sleep so well with zero neck problems. And those things make me happy. And isn't that our goal in life? Happiness? So stay lush y'all and stay comfy.

I've always considered my every day dealings and experiences to be nothing more than an elaborate journey toward myself. That's what acting skool tot me! We are constantly on a journey to become closer to our true selves. And I have never found this to be more true than when I visited one of the finest establishments in St. Petersburg, Florida: Georgie's Alibi. A gay club that boasts theme nights, drag shows, and, of course, a never-ceasing mix of bass bumping, ear-drum demolishing top 40 tunes. So what, you may ask, was unique about my experience in this particular homosexual establishment? It was the first gay club I've ever been to that had go-go boys. It's something I've always wanted to experience on this river of my life and I finally got to experience it! I walked in and was greeted by the man who my friends had been referring to all evening as "Mr. Perfect."

After being swept away to the depths of the rocky mountains for three and a half months and then hastily plopped back into the thriving metropolis of New York City without any sort of intermediary, I have quickly noted one key difference between small towns and big towns. In big towns, you can be as crazy as you want and nobody will care! I realized this on the subway upon my arrival. Usually I am very to-myself and subdued when I'm in public. I always get out of people's way and essentially try to make myself as small as possible so as to not end up with a gun in my face or on the hit-list for the mafia or something (It's probably also repressed fear of this girl I knew in middle school named Marquetta who would knock books out of my hands and shove me into the wall if I got in her way - but that's beside the point. I'm over that... sort of). I even go so far as to only do vocal warm-ups in the subway station if a loud train is passing by (nothing like a vocal sigh as the trains go by). But I realize now that I can do as much vocalizing as I want and nobody will say anything about it or even think it's that strange. I mean, my friend Elise has only been here a short time but has managed to see like three penises on the subway! Three!!! And people don't care! Someone could literally take a shit on a subway car and people would just sigh and change cars. I know this because that happened to me once. So if I do a few lip trillz or practice my riffing skillz on the subway, everyone will still keep their eyes to the floor and pretend that nothing is happening. I have officially granted myself full permission to be as crazy as I want.

In fact, being crazy can even have it's advantages. I would like to take a moment to reference an episode of "30 Rock" where Liz Lemon pretended to be a crazy woman on the subway so that she could get a seat. You don't mess with the crazies. You never know what they will do to you. So my advice to anyone visiting New York for the first time is this: If someone tries to mug you, just whip around and start making monkey noises, jump up and down, flail wildly and start shouting something like, "BANANAS WILL ONE DAY RULE THE WORLD!!!" maybe toss some flour in their face for dramatic effect. You must out-crazy the crazy and you will always win. It's not like small towns where people will actually remember or care. You'll probably never see them again and if you do, they probably won't remember you because you were just one more dose of crazy in a cray cray filled day day. And if you crazy, they will run. Stay comfy y'all.

So I think I've done enough greeting lines with enough companies now to have an opinion about them. We begin with a definition. The greeting line: the thing you do after a show where you thank the patrons for coming, shake hands, sign autographs, and take pictures. It's essentially the stage door of regional theatre! And I've officially decided that I am not a huge fan of them. I mean, I love talking to patrons and encouraging them to continue seeing theatre and what-not but the majority of the time it is just awkward. For both parties involved. It is awkward for the people who just saw the show because they are kinda overwhelmed and in a state of confusion where they are lost for words. Which is why you get comments such as,

"Wow, you can almost act, sing, and dance!"

"Is that a pillow under there or is that all you?"

"Those glasses aren't real!"

"You should consider doing this professionally!"

And that's just a select sampling. Don't get me wrong, most comments people make are genuinely heartfelt and lovely to hear. But every so often the comments are inappropriately hilarious or sometimes they can be kinda unintentionally mean. It's worse when you have to collect money in a basket at the greeting line. Because then you actually need something from them so you have people doing the avoidance smile-and-nod as they guiltily breeze past you. Also, at the theatre I'm currently working for, I've had the unique added frustration of people congratulating me for shows that my friend Anthony was in last summer and I was in fact not in. I usually just say thank you and pretend to be him for a second, but sometimes I have to explain that they have the wrong person. "We went to college together, he's a good friend of mine, we get confused all the time." Although, we don't look that much alike in my opinion. Maybe it's our Emerson training they are getting confused...

There is one greeting line situation that I love. And that is the greeting line for kid's shows. I get to feel like a rockstar and see all the cutest babies in the world at the same time! When I was with "Seussical" there was the cutest handicapped boy who came through the greeting line in a wheelchair and sang "How Lucky You Are" to us. If that doesn't make you cry then nothing will! There was also a kid that came up and handed me and my other Wickersham a banana because he thought we might be hungry. I could have died from the cuteness. Not to mention the hoards of kids dressed like the cat in the hat. I could sit in those kinds of greeting lines all day long. Otherwise, I'd rather change into my footy pajamas and crawl into my comfy corner with a bowl of mac and cheese. So whether you are in the greeting line, greeting people in the greeting line, or if you don't have to deal with this at all, stay comfy y'all.

"White, a blank page or canvas." These are the first words spoken by George in "Sunday in the Park With George." I've never really understood the depth of that first sentence until recently. There is nothing more magical than that silent moment before a band starts playing, the blinking cursor before the first word is typed, the empty staff before the first note is written, the moment before an idea becomes a physical reality. The blank canvas. It is my favorite part about art and I didn't really understand that until very recently.

I am not much of a composer/lyricist but I have written a few things and that moment when the idea in my brain becomes a song that someone else is singing or playing - that moment is more powerful than anything else in the world. I remember in college, when my class sang this group number I had written, I sat there in awe. I could have cried. I didn't write anything down or record anything because I was so mesmerized. It was the first time I've ever heard a made up song from my brain exist in real time with real people. Where there was nothing, now there was something. I also remember my very first day of marching band in the eighth grade and hearing that first downbeat of the first song of our show for the first time. I got chills. I. Always. Get. Chills.

The show I'm in currently in, "The Drowsy Chaperone" has an incredible moment when the overture is being played on a record player and midway through the song it seamlessly shifts from the record player to the live orchestra. That moment always gives me chills. Always. And this is my third time doing this show. I'm currently working on a solo show and I've turned a bunch of my blogs into songs. And that moment when I just sing a melody to my music director and he lays down an accompaniment out of nowhere. That moment is so magical. I hate to use the world "magical," but that's what it is! Harry Potter magic doesn't exist to my knowledge, but that "group mind" where two artists can be on the same page about something without even describing it in words - that be nothing else but magic, right?

So when you are hesitant to start something. If you're hesitant to write that first word, sing that first note, drop that first downbeat, take that first stroke - don't be. Because you are about to create something out of absolutely nothing. And that is magic. And that in itself is a miracle. And that feeling is incomparable to anything else in the world. Stay comfy y'all.

People say that improv can be a kind of therapy for some people. Heck, people say that about theatre too. And it's simply because in improv you get to just be as weird as you want to be. As weird as you probably are. So all of the misfits and weirdos that have never been able to find creative satisfaction in other fields find improv to be a rather comfy corner. I know this to be true because I am that misfit weirdo that recently found his comfy corner in improv. I used to hate improv. Sorry to all my friends that were in improv troupes in college, but I just did not enjoy seeing improv shows. I didn't like watching actors struggle on stage. I didn't like the discomfort of knowing that things could fall to pieces at any moment. I am the type of person that practices too much, demands perfection when perfection isn't reachable, and generally just tries too hard. I like theatre to be in a nice, squeaky clean little box that is polished till it shines. That's probably why I like musical theatre so much. But then I forced myself to join an improv troupe and the walls came tumbling down.

All of the freedom, the relaxation that I worked SO HARD to achieve in college has finally started to sink in. It's like I took some miracle antidote that made the metaphorical stick up my butt just disappear! The problem in college was clear. I was "working so hard" to "relax." Not really very effective, right? But in improv, I can't really work too hard because I don't know what's gonna happen next. So voila! I stopped working so hard and finally I was able to relax and just do it. And the fear of failure in improv is silly because the odds are totally in my favor. Just by the nature of it, it's all totally made up, so you are going to be funny 95% of the time if you are being honest.

So, therapy indeed. It seems like a contradiction to put yourself in a high-stress situation in order to unwind all the things that are tightly wound inside of you. But it totally has worked for me. All of my favorite actors started out as improvisers so of course this is the path I want to be on. So to all of my fellow therapy group members here in Boomtown, thank you for welcoming me into your world. Whether I'm actually good at it or not, it doesn't matter. It's become like a weird drug for me and I'm gonna keep taking this drug until I need something else. For now, this is the best high I've ever had. Stay comfy y'all!

Train travel: a method of travel which popularly attracts smelly people of lesser mental stability, people who highly enjoy talking about themselves and their problems to strangers, and a few normal people who are just trying to save money or avoid planes. I proudly label myself in the third category of train travelers. At least I wear deodorant (usually), I hope that I'm fairly mentally stable and I don't think I talk about my problems too much (except on this blog). I was lucky enough, however, to experience all types of travelers on first-time ever, long-distance, 13-hour train trip to Ottumwa, Iowa. Here is my story.

I arrived in Denver a couple of hours before my train was to depart. Plenty of time to grab a nice dinner, take care of my banking needs and relax at the station, right? Wrong. All of the Bank of Americas in Denver have permanently closed down (but they annoyingly still pop up on Google Maps taunting me like a mirage in the desert), Union Station is under construction so the Amtrak station mysteriously moved to a secluded, hard-to-find part of town (WHO MOVES A TRAIN STATION?!?!), and all of the searching for stations and banks left me with zero time to have dinner. So when I finally found the station (imagine me lugging all of my luggage around the sketchiest part of Denver) it turns out it was packed with approximately 300 high school Christian singers who wanted to constantly practice their Jesus tunes. These were to be my train-mates for the entirety of the 13 hour journey. When I boarded the train, however, I was lucky enough to not be seated next to one of the high schoolers. No, I was seated next to a very large, bald man with a ton of piercings who reeked of weeks of not showering and continually sniffed his shirt and asked me a ton of personal questions. Meanwhile, the mentally unstable, elderly lady in front of me asked on a continual loop, "Where are my socks?" while her twenty-something chaperone kept feeding her yogurt ("You like yogurt, don't you grandma? Isn't this train nice? Do you need your sweater?" meanwhile, "Where are my socks? Where are my socks?"). I desperately attempted to drown them out with my music, but I was sat in a seat that made me go backwards on the train. So there I was feeling slightly dizzy, surrounded by crazy strangers, absolutely starving, and all the while watching the outside world whip past me as I traveled backwards to Iowa. On top of all of this, I took a small sedative to help me sleep. This, however, affected me in the most negative of ways. I got so drowsy that that I couldn't get out of my seat to get water or use the bathroom without the fear of falling on my face. I arrived in Iowa a battered boy and extremely loath to train travel.

The ride back to Denver, I must admit, was much much better. I secured a seat all to myself going forwards not backwards. And I even took advantage of the dining car. I had a lovely dinner with wine (no sedatives this time!), however, they made me sit with strangers. More crazy people who were just competing with stories of how awesome and crazy their lives were. The type of people who talk but don't listen. Beyond that, the trip was amazing. I doodled a lot, read some, listened to music, slept a little, and had a great trip. So Amtrak, you redeemed yourself, sort of. I've decided that there is potential for a comfy corner on a train. But I will never forget the stress of my first-ever train trip. Stay comfy y'all.

It's funny to me. When I am negotiating contracts for a job I always insist that I am given at least one day off a week to relax and explore. However, when I am in the city, building my own work schedule, I don't give myself the same luxury. I always fill my schedule to the max with work, class, errands and chores and I give myself a day off every month if I'm lucky. It's cruel! But New York has this weird way of making me feel like I'm wasting my life away when I'm sitting in my apartment. When I'm at home, I always feel like I'm missing some amazing opportunity. And I probably am, but there are just too many amazing opportunities occurring at any given moment for one person to take advantage of. It's a constant anxiety for me. So I suppose I just have to embrace the fact that I'm not gonna catch everything that is happening in the world and enjoy my days off, kinda like I enjoy my days off here in Creede.

For three of my days off I have ventured down to this magical place called Pagosa Springs. I say this place is magical because it has all the things Creede doesn't have: Mexican food, pizza, a movie theatre, Sonic and the most amazing hot springs I've ever seen. It's like a real life heaven on earth! There are probably about thirty hot tubs hugging the Rio Grande and you can take a dip in each and every one of them. Some of them have waterfalls, some have jets, some are 115 degrees. It's our planet's very own comfy corner! If you are feeling adventurous, you can even take a dip in the river and then dry off by the fire that is always going. Every time I've gone to Pagosa, I've had a lovely dinner, seen an amazing movie, and then watched the sunset (and the rainbows, there are always rainbows!) as I soaked in the healing sulphur waters heated by the core of our beautiful mother earth. And the whole time I've felt completely at peace! I haven't felt like I was wasting time or missing something important or letting life pass me by. I've just embraced my relaxation and lived in the moment. I suppose it's a pretty easy thing to do, though, since I'm surrounded by old biddies who sneak flasks of white wine and whiskey into the hot tubs and drunkenly talk about absolutely nothing in particular. They know how to relax. They've spent their whole lives perfecting the art.

And so I've come to the conclusion that actors don't know how to relax. They party hard, they work hard, they are in class all of the time, in rehearsal, waiting tables, making rent, performing, on the road, but they don't plan vacations often enough. They book a job near a beach and consider that job their vacation when in fact it isn't. It is still a job. Too often do we mix work and free time. We aren't wasting our lives away when we go to the spa or take a summer off to see the world. No, in fact we are giving ourselves the fuel we need to do what we do better. Theatre is gonna keep happening y'all. Auditions are never gonna stop occurring. So why not live life for a bit? After all, it's kind of hard to imitate life on stage when you're too busy making art to live the life the art is imitating, right? So I will soak in my earth water comfy corner guilt free. Because my body deserves it. Stay comfy y'all.

Last week I was waiting tables when a woman stopped me by grabbing my arm and asked me (in the most stereotypical way imaginable), "You ain't from 'round here are ya?" I responded in my usual way, "No mam, I'm not. I live in New York." She then smiled a toothy smile and knowingly replied, "Yeah, I could tell by your pants that you've never stepped off a sidewalk before." To which she slapped me on the back in that joking Southwestern way and I politely laughed and then walked away in that state of confusion where you are trying to decipher whether or not you should be offended. I don't feel particularly "New York." I've only lived there like four months. I was just wearing dress pants. Yeah, they were skinny and fit me well, but I didn't think they particularly screamed, "I've never left a sidewalk!"

So several days later, after digesting this comment and analyzing it, I have decided that yes, I am indeed offended. I'm from North Carolina. I'm a Southern boy at heart. I spent the first 19 years of my life not caring what I was wearing just like the rest of the people here in Colorado. Hell, I was practically born in a pair of cargo pants! And I'm an Eagle scout. I've probably walked more miles on trails than I have on sidewalks. And I've probably canoed more miles on rivers than this woman ever will in her life.

So, yeah. I've changed a lot on the outside since I left the South. My clothes fit a little better, I own more than one pair of shoes, I moisturize with Mary Kay facial products, but deep down I've still got grit under my nails, I can tie a clove hitch double half hitch no problem, and I've still got a pair of waterproof camo pants in my North Carolina closet (where they will remain until I'm in the wilderness). I may have a taste for fine wine, but I can also drink Tang and eat corned beef hash with the rest of these Coloradans.  So sidewalks be damned, New York City, you will never take that away from me. Stay comfy y'all.

So I often wonder what Harry's life would have been like post Hogwarts if he hadn't had to defeat Voldemort and destroy the horcruxes. Like, what if Voldemort had died the day he killed his parents and that was that? What if he graduated an aimless college grad like the rest of us? I imagine he would be going through what I'm currently going through. He considered grad school for like .2 seconds and decided against it. He then wandered from job to job trying to figure out what direction he actually wanted to take his life in. He interned at the Ministry of Magic for a summer (he hated it but he learned a ton), then he moved to London for a bit to experience city life (felt lonely and ADD), then he decided to travel the world for a bit (met a bunch of awesome sorcerers but missed that sense of home), and then he decided to visit Hogwarts again and ended up spending the next summer pouring butter beers for peeps at The Three Broomsticks and complaining about poor tips. These are essentially the lifestyles I've experienced over the past year and can't decide which I prefer...

1) The intern - I started my internship the day after graduation arriving slightly hung over with emotional remnants of the previous night still visible in my slightly bloodshot eyes. Just like Harry's internship at the Ministry, I learned a ton, made some amazing friends, but I also worked my ass off and finished the summer battered, broken, and in need of about a month of missed sleep.

2) City Boy - I spent the next few months a slave to New York City. As is the case with most new, young New Yorkers I experienced 3 months of crazy ADD. So many things to do, so many places to go and not a single idea of where to start or where to focus my energies. I spent too much money, had some horrible jobs, some awesome jobs, saw a lot of amazing theatre, took a lot of classes, but somehow managed to feel like I was going nowhere and the city was flying past me as I scrambled to pick out something useful from the rush. In the end, I picked out a tour.

3) Tour - Tour, for me, was kinda like an internship on the road. I learned a lot, I made some awesome friends, saw a lot of awesome places, but I finished a battered and broken boy. What I loved about this lifestyle: I didn't have to wash my towels, make my bed, or clean my room. What I hated: having no sense of home. I learned that I am a homebody. I like to have my bed, my keyboard, a kitchen.

4) Retirement - This is my current lifestyle. There is a direct ratio between how hard I'm working and how many blogs I publish each month. And I am currently twiddling my thumbs doing a show once or twice a week (the life of being in one show at a rep company). This is a welcome change to my previous lifestyle, but I am still missing that sense of home.

So what lifestyle do I prefer most thus far? I've learned more in the last year about myself and my craft than I probably did in four years of college. But I must say that the lifestyle I prefer most is my senior year of college lifestyle. I was living with an amazing room mate. I had amazing friends that I saw regularly. I was comfortable in the city I lived in (even though I wasn't the biggest fan of that particular city). And I had a sense of momentum to my life. It was headed in a clear direction with a clear goal at the end (graduation). So I think what I need to do is recreate those circumstances as best as I can. Move back in with Vanessa, set clear goals for myself, have a weekly thing to look forward to, and focus my energies on a couple clear things instead of throwing a wide net at the entire city of New York. Stay comfy y'all.

2:30AM on a Tuesday night, I am awoken by the raucous chatter of young hooligans beatin' their gums loudly in my kitchen as if it were a regular speakeasy. Blearily, I stumble out of my bedroom door to tell the young rag-a-muffins to pipe down and I remind them of the time of day. The next evening I settle into my bed with a blanket and a cup of tea and watch "The Truman Show" with a candle burning and a chocolate brownie cheesecake in my hand. The morning after that, I go to get my mail (a linen pocket square that I've been waiting for anxiously). On my way back from the mail, however, I ran into some buddies of mine and shot the shit for an hour and a half on Main street, complaining about the pace of New York City and how you can avoid getting mugged by simply screaming the word, "WHAT?!" at your pursuer, and the practicality of those new-fangled toe shoes and how they might cure an aching back. This conversation was quite taxing so I settled in for an afternoon nap post retrieving my mail. Now I find myself sitting on the porch on Main Street, sipping coffee and blogging.

What does this say about my personality? Well, I am an old man. A regular wet blanket through and through. I avoid activities that might excite my weak heart. When I go to bars, I go to quiet bars and I drink gimlets. I am a home body. I prefer candles and Ella Fitzgerald to a night of clubbing. I prefer cooking an Ina Garten meal and listening to Michael Buble than going out to dinner. I prefer nostalgic comedies to loud thrillers. I prefer Rodgers and Hammerstein's classic melodies to the busy music of today's composers. Okay, so maybe it is also just says that I am a big homo, but in general I think it says that I just prefer my peace and quiet to the incessant noise of a juice joint.

And I've come to realize that this isn't necessarily a great quality of mine. This is a part of my personality that I have to actively work on. I know that I need to get out and explore the world and I know that I'm not going to make any connections or get anywhere in life sitting in my bedroom. So, I sigh loudly and put on my club outfit on occasion and bump and grind with the best of them. But, it's just so much ya know? The loud music, the people hitting on you, the embarrassing drunken confessions of your friends. My senses can only handle so much! If only we could go back to the days of sitting around in our drawing rooms smoking cigars and drinking port and we could call that a crazy night. But alas, we've reached a point where a "crazy night" involves hash being slipped into the hooka and then that crazy Australian girl from the Cirque trying to give you a "space cake" and you waking up inside of giant metal tube with your pants off and no recollection of how you got there. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I can't keep up with kids these days! I haven't the energy and if I tried, then I fear the ole ticker might give out. So I'll content myself with my Ella, my port, and my blog and occasionally, when I'm provoked  enough, I'll put on my red pants and hipster glasses, get wasted, and pose for Warhol-worthy photos in the clubs with the rest of them. Stay comfy y'all.

It has been a mere six months since I walked away from my last restaurant job, the dark sleet of New York's skies washing over my tired skin, as I let the sweet burden of horrible-job-syndrome lift off my aching back, celebrating the freedom of just having quit a survival job that was sucking away the soul of my being. Now, I celebrate a return to the restaurant business in an environment that does the opposite of suck soul. It injects soul. Feeds my soul. It is called, "The Far Dog."

This tiny restaurant is situated on the main street of Creede, CO and is celebrating its 17 day anniversary. And I am fortunate enough to have been there from the first cup of fresh brewed Lavazza coffee set in front of a customer. You may be thinking, "Far Dog? What kind of a name is that for a restaurant?" Well, the restaurant is named after the owners' dog, Farley. That's right folks, it is named after a puppy. It's a tiny, comfy restaurant, in a tiny, comfy town, named after the cutest puppy that lazes at the front door greeting customers and happily accepting food donations. In other words, it is my comfy corner in Creede. It's the first time I've worked at a restaurant that I actually want to eat at and spend time at outside of work. When I'm not working there, I'm drinking there, or meeting friends there. It is an amazing place filled with amazing food and amazing people.

And the clientele is incredible. The people of Creede are a patient people. A kind, generous people. A people that tips people in fair quantities. A people that is not of the foreign/European/non-tipping variety of people. And it has been wonderful! However, just the other day as I floated about the Far Dog lost in my dream of a waiting job, one customer quickly yanked me out of my cloud and slammed me back to the harsh reality that there are assholes everywhere you go. He was apparently an extra in one of the "Twilight" films which gave him some sort of higher rank among the other piddly little human beings of the world. He is the type of person that would see me in one of them-there theatre shows and say something demeaning like, "You should maybe consider pursuing this as a profession..." As if that isn't what I'm already doing. As if I was just dabbling in the field for a short time. Well, this gentleman was eating breakfast at the restaurant and asked for a piece of toast. And, for some reason, toast is not the quickest thing in the world to make at our restaurant because it has to be made on the grill. So after about three minutes of toast waiting (it was being plated and sent out after three minutes) he stops me and says, "Forget the toast! It's too late now! What am I supposed to do with toast now?!" I smiled at him and said, "Okay!" and then proceeded to feel that sinking feeling in my heart. That familiar feeling of inadequacy and failure. And I started my internal monologue, "I could tell you a thing or two you could do with the toast... SO sorry sir that toast in Creede takes a minute longer that LA toast. I bow at your feet in toast serfdom."

And that is why I've decided that I'm not a good waiter. Yeah, I do the job well, I'm personable and good with customers, but I'm also too emotionally involved. My heart hurts because a piece of toast didn't make it to the table. In order to be a good waiter you have to have a heart of steel. You have to be able to stand up for yourself and not let people demean you or put you down. That's the only way to get respect in the restaurant business. And I don't think I quite have that yet. But, in any event, the one asshole toast experience aside, I am thrilled to be working in a restaurant that is letting me keep my soul. It's a great feeling. Stay comfy y'all.

I'm blogging to you live from the "huge" town of Creede, Colorado which boasts an impressive population of around 400. Oh don't worry, that's the year-round population. It bumps up to 20,000 in the summer! And I must say that this is the most magical place I've ever been to. I grew up in the mountains, so I thought coming here would be like coming home. Wrong-o! Here it is 9,000 feet elevation. Here there are towering cliffs looking down on you. Here I get drunk off of one beer. Here I am winded from walking up a flight of stairs. Here there are hundreds of pretty puppies walking down the street begging to be loved on. Here there are three angry cats that fight outside my front door. Here there are SEVEN DEER THAT GRAZE IN MY BACK YARD! Yes, folks, it's a new world over here. It's like the wild wild west, but I prefer to think of it as... District 12. The mining district. And I've left the capitol to live in District 12.

And you'd think that if Katniss grew up in the Capitol and moved to District 12 she'd be super sad. But, it's quite the opposite (except I do miss my Peeta)! Small town life is wonderful. The food here is superb. Every waiter is perfectly happy to split the check 10 ways. I can walk anywhere I want to. I don't need a car or a metro pass. The grocery store is next store to my home. It's quiet at night. I can see the stars!! And I begin to think to myself, "Self, how have you become victim to the spell of New York City?! You struggle day in and day out and the only place to find solace is in a clean bodega!" Every struggling young person in New York City should strike and move to the small towns of America and live it up. It's absurd really how much better life is in this town. In New York, it is a day long event to do something as simple as pick up a package or fax something. Here, coffee is only a dollar anywhere I go. And if I don't have the money, they'll say, "Don't worry about it! I'll get ya later." NOBODY LOCKS THEIR DOORS! And I actually feel guilty if I don't wave to people that I pass by on the street.

Most importantly, it's not that guy that gives me coffee, it's Kevin. It's not that woman who made me a biscuit, it's Jenny. It's not that cute couple that opened a new restaurant, it's Jess and Erin. I wish I could scoop you all  up into my kangaroo pouch and bounce you all over to this amazing place because despite the crazy cats and grazing deer, it is one of the comfiest corners I've ever experienced. Stay comfy y'all!

...have lego boogers or linkin' log poops? Personally, I would like to have lego boogers. I mean, every time I got sick I could just snot rocket onto the table and presto a whole set of legos to build a new space ship with! But, I can also see the benefits to having linkin' log poops. Who needs a toilet?!?

I just came off of an incredible tour with a superbly fun group of people and we spent the majority of our travel time asking each other (usually the most disgusting) "would you rathers." And then my boyfriend bought me a whole "would you rather" book that gave us all sorts of fun material to draw from. But, the more I played this game the more I realized that this was more than just a fun little way to take my imagination on a weird journey. No, this was something bigger than that. Life is essentially one giant game of would you rather. I mean, it can be anything from would you rather have  a burger or a salad? To would you rather adopt or artificially inseminate? That's when shit got real. We are constantly faced with making decisions. Some are obvious, some are really, incredibly difficult. But what I've learned is that once you make a decision you can't look back. Because ya know what game is not fun? The "what would have happened if I had..." game. Once you make a choice you gotta stick to your guns and trust that you made the right choice. The reason why it was the right choice my not be clear right away. It may take years to become clear, but eventually it all makes sense. That's what I call fate. And you gotta look for the signs. The little coincidences that tell you that you are in the right place. It's like trying to decide if you want to make banana bread or pumpkin bread and then you slip on a banana peel. Not only is that the stuff cartoons are made of, that is also fate pushing you in the right direction.

So I'm sticking to my guns. Lego snot all the way. And I'm not even gonna think about the linkin' log poop, cause I've got a space ship to build out of the legos I snot rocketed out. Stay comfy y'all.

Lately I've been having a Henry Higgins-esque cultural confusion with regards to the Amish. I've been spending an exorbitant amount of time in Amish country recently, and every time I see a horse and buggy riding down the street I think, "Look at them! Hrmph! Prisoners of the 1690's. Why can't the Amish be more like us?" I want to take one in and show them the beauty of modern luxuries ("This is called a foot massager!"). My fascination has gone so far as to writing a musical about them (which can be viewed here). But the deeper I travel into the unexplored parts of Pennsylvania and the longer I spend contemplating and absorbing their culture, the more I am starting to understand it. I feel like Jane in Tarzan, confused at first but slowly falling in love with the man in a loin cloth. The man in a loin cloth being the Amish culture.

As I gaze out the window of my Super 8 and look unto the rolling hills and lush greenery that is Amish Country, USA I start to think, "I kinda see the appeal." It truly is beautiful land. And so fresh! It's like a central park that is actually fertile and doesn't stop at fifth avenue! And it must be nice to always have a farm fresh meal on the table. A meal that you worked your ass off for which means (from my experience in the kitchen) that it automatically tastes better. And the uniform they have to wear (black and white) would certainly make dressing much less dramatic (cut to me crying in a pile of clothes).

The part that intrigues me the most, however, is this idea of "rumspringa" which is essentially a point in the adolescent Amish's youth when they are allowed to go all out, no holds barred, crazy. I'm talking INSANE! Like taking off their bonnets, driving a car, or even, dare I say it, engage in premarital sex. Why would I see this "rumspringa" as a fascinating topic? Because not having something for so long and then suddenly having everything must be so overwhelming. So overwhelming, in fact, that I've considered producing another musical entitled, "Rumspringa Wakening" with the hit song, "Totally Shunned!" It's gonna be big!

The best thing about it all is that Amish people will never read this because they can't have MacBooks...HOW DO THEY DO IT!? Stay comfy y'all.

"Okay, when we hang up I'm gonna text you to let you know when I'm on Skype. And if Skype is being finicky, I'll call you and we can talk on the phone while we're Skyping. And I'll send you an email later tonight about that thing we were talking about. And I sent you a card. It is in the mail. Love you!" Ever had a conversion like this with your long distance significant other? I have. Keeping a long distance relationship breathing is not an easy task and one would think that with so many ways of communicating nowadays long distance would be über easy, right? Wrong. I think it actually makes it harder. So I give myself some simple guidelines.

1) Skype - Skype is a wonderful, amazing thing. And it is keeping long distance relationships alive all over the country! But if it is used every single day (or multiple times a day) it can start to feel obligatory and can lose its power. And it is such a cocktease because you can see the person, but when you reach out to touch them you touch a plastic screen. It's depressing!!! Virtual love, yuck. So I think Skype should be used only when you really need to see your boo's face. So save it for those über-lonely nights. It's also so finicky that it can get annoying always being like, "What did you say? You froze." 

2) Texts - Texting is best used for those little, sweet nothings. There is nothing better than getting a "<3" in the middle of the day for no reason. This is true for family and friends too. I love getting a "miss you" or a "just had coffee ice cream and thought of you" text. What it shouldn't be used for is lengthy descriptions of how your day is going. I hate texting paragraphs.

3) Phone - The phone is probably my go-to. I like hearing my boo's voice, ya know? It comforts me. Especially, before I go to bed so that I get a "good night." Best way to end a day. But, like Skype, it should never become an obligatory thing. I hate those awkward phone convos when nothing really exciting happened since the last time you talked (yesterday) but you have to stay on the phone because you agreed to talk on the phone on a regularly scheduled basis. It ends up being, "So... how is the weather there?" And I cringe when I hear people say things like, "Sarah's boyfriend has called her like four times today and my boyfriend has only texted me once." So limit it to when you actually have something to talk about.

4) Email - I kinda love emails. But, that isn't really news to those who know me. I obviously like writing. And I like being able to edit things and make them say exactly what I want them to say. I think emails are good when you have a conflict to resolve. Because you can take time and think about how you really feel and put it into words. That is difficult to do on the phone.

5) Missive - There is nothing better nowadays than getting mail that isn't a bill or junk mail. Getting a funny/loving card from a significant other is probably one of my favorite things. Letters and cards take time and effort and when your boo is putting in effort for you, that feels good.

So, whether your boo is right beside you, miles away, or if you're still searching for a boo, stay comfy y'all.

I feel like it is finally time to 'fess up and tell you all the story of how I got the job that I currently have. I love my job and am having a blast, but I'm gonna be real for a sec - my audition to get this job was a big strug mess! I'm talking Elise Taff level strug (she's the struggiest friend I have, check her blog out here!) I submitted for an appointment and got one late in the day the day before the audition. They very kindly said, "We will need you to be there at noon tomorrow." I, however, was not in the city. So I responded, "I'm not in the city currently so I might be a little bit late because my bus is coming in around that time." To which she responded, "Well, the dance call starts at noon, so good luck!" Now, this is where the chaos ensued. My bus was scheduled to arrive in the city at 11am. But, I knew MegaBus and how much of a strug it was about being on time anywhere. So, I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.

The next morning, I arrived in NYC at exactly 12:15pm. Thanks MegaBus! I ran like the wind to Chelsea Studios, my rolly suitcase giving me so much grief at every curb doing that whole bouncy-bouncy-twisty-topple-overy thing that rolly suitcases like to do when you are in a hurry. I get to the audition room and the monitor says to me, "You're really late, we started teaching the combo a little early because everyone was here." Defeated, I ask if they mind if I just change clothes right there in the hallway in front of them because there is no time to find a bathroom. They obviously didn't mind. Actors are always getting naked in front of each other, am I right? It is around this time that I fully realize a couple very real, very scary truths: I didn't bring dance clothes, I didn't have my book if they needed me to sing something, I didn't have a headshot or resumes, and to top it all, I wasn't feeling super on top of my game, I hadn't showered in a while, I hadn't slept, and I had just got off of a five-hour bus ride. I laugh to myself as I throw on my pajamas to do the dance call. Many of you are probably thinking, "Why did you even attempt to go to the audition?" But I walked into the room.

I get into the room just as they are doing a final run of the audition dance. I follow along in the back as best as I can and learn it on the fly (luckily, it isn't too hard and Steph Heroux taught me right). Then, they call out everyone's name to put people in groups. Marcia Milgrom Dodge (Dir. of Ragtime on Broadway) is running the audition. She calls everyone's name, but mine... because she doesn't have my headshot... because I didn't bring one. I raise my hand and say, "You forgot me." They find my name on the list and say, "Do you have a headshot?" To which I respond, "They didn't quite make it to the audition with me." One of the girls runs upstairs to print out the email version I sent them and we continue on with the audition. Luckily, they don't make me sing anything from my book (that I didn't bring) they just give us songs from the show (which I already knew). But she encouraged us to remain in our dance clothes when we sing so she could remember us. So I kept on my pajamas, but I threw on my boots so I wasn't auditioning barefoot. And then I auditioned for a Broadway director. That night, I got the call.

So what can I learn from this experience? NEVER DO THAT AGAIN! Yeah, I got the job but that was because after all I had been through I had developed this whole "Fuck it, things can't get much worse" attitude which probably read as confidence. I am the type of person that needs to have more control of my life, so I would prefer to not audition like that again. What I need to do next time is find that confidence without being an absolute mess. And I advise no one else to audition like this either.

Stay comfy y'all!

A wise man once told me to "never half-ass two things; whole-ass one thing." That man was Ron Swanson from NBC's Parks and Recreation, the best show on television, everyone should be watching it. I don't typically take Ron Swanson's advice, because if I did I would have heart disease from all of the meat I'd be consuming, but this particular quote just makes a whole lot of sense to me. I have recently started to come to terms with the fact that in many ways, I am a lazy person.

I am always searching for the easy way out of things, always choosing the less energetic route, always just leaving my clothes on the floor. This might be residual laziness from years of doing nothing but playing the Sims and eating Little Debbie's or I might just be a reflection of my generation, resting in the comfort of my parent's achievements and in no hurry to figure out my own life. But I am starting to realize that I can't get through life like that anymore. College is over, I'm in it now.

It's so easy to start a bunch of different projects, go to a bunch of different dance classes on occasion or sort-of take voice lessons on occasion. But if I wanna actually get something from my time, I need to jump into it whole-ass. I can't have just one cheek chillin' out ya know? I think this philosophy extends into my personal life as well as my career life. If I want a relationship to succeed, then I have to commit whole-ass to it. Love isn't a local brew that can be sampled before you order a full glass. You've gotta just order the full glass and trust that it'll be good. And that's what it comes down to, right? Jumping in whole-ass is scary but you have to trust that it'll all be worth it and it'll all be the right decision. In my limited experience, the danger, while admittedly terrifying, is always worth it.

Stay comfy ya'll!

In my unceasing pursuit of the comfiest corner in the world, I have, much to my dismay, found myself in the unsettling arms of the Super 8 motel chain. As I pass through the hideously carpeted hallways that wreak of prostitution and bad decisions I begin to fully realize how spoiled I've been. Growing up, I was accustomed to vacationing in the laps of luxury in such hotels as the Hampton Inn, the Holiday Inn and the Double Tree. There, I was greeted with a smile and a warm cookie. The sunshine-bathed rooms were only magnified in there grandioseness by the crisp, clean air coming out of the AC and the "heavenly beds" that were made to perfection with loving, foreign hands. However, now that I am footing the bills, I have discovered that such luxuries come with a price tag a bit beyond my budget. So, as the classically truthful adage goes, you get what you pay for. I have been kicked out of luxurious Downton and banished to the filthy stables.

I'm currently blogging from a Super 8 in Wapakeneta, Ohio. Or as my boyfriend misheard me, "Wombat-kinetic-energy, Ohio." The dim, dusky room is furnished in what I can only guess to be resold funeral parlor furniture. The absence of a fitted sheet on my bed is all too unnerving. The mysterious brown stain creeping along the edge of the box spring is only highlighting the lack of a bed skirt. The hilariously identical, old pictures of flowers hanging above each bed does little to add anything remotely cheery to the room. In fact, they only serve to show how thoughtless and tasteless the decor is. And yet, I must sadly and honestly admit that this is one of the nicest Super 8's we have been to yet!

The last Super 8 I was in, I had the great fortune of crawling into a bed that was already occupied - with bed bugs. A first experience for me that I wish to never repeat. After a room change, a hotel change (thank you Comfort Inn across the street), a couple sleepless nights, and a thorough inspection of everything I own, I have recovered from that experience and I now meticulously examine my beds before I crawl into them. The first Super 8 we stayed in was fortunate enough to have mold in the shower that didn't actually work and a faulty toilet. The Russian mechanic that came to "fix" the shower abruptly said to me, "You must lift up for water!" And left. So, what knowledge have I wrought from these experiences? That a comfy corner is not always so easy to come by. The things that keep me sane are my Yankee candle I carry to every room I stay in, the blanket that my mom gave me, and Netflix. So wherever you are in the world, I hope you are finding your corners a little comfier than the one I'm in currently. And I hope you're grateful for it. And Super 8? I super hate you. So get it together.

Stay comfy ya'll.

It’s a three-hour drive followed by an evening at the Super 8 in the-middle-of-nowhere, Indiana. The only nearby restaurant is a Taco Bell (mildly exciting, I must admit, but still sad) and the front desk person at the hotel says, “when people wanna have fun around here, they generally stay at home.”  To top it all, your TV is missing key channels such as ABC and NBC. So whaddya do?! For me, recently, the answer is clear - play Words with Friends until your phone dies. Or, play my new Boggle-inspired personal favorite, Scramble with Friends.

I’ve gotten to the point where I can’t fall asleep because my mind is on an endless journey of letter combinations. Instead of drifting smoothly into dreamland I am chanting, “mar, ream, mare, mares, ram, rams, reams, mere, smear…” It’s actually becoming a problem. The worst part is, I’m not just playing with actual friends. I get impatient when my real friends don’t play quick enough so I play random opponents. I sit there battling with “rachelisbugmad” and I imagine this snotty, greasy-haired, little twelve-year-old girl absolutely destroying me at this stupid word game. What once was a game becomes a battle of wits and conquering the unknown. By beating this anonymous girl, I am proving to myself that I have what it takes to get through any random situation. It’s become a reflection of my life!

And then there are Words with acquaintances, Words with Facebook-friends-that-I-don’t-really-know-but-stalk-occasionally, and Words with past-professors. Each one presents its own mental stresses. I find myself sending them subliminal messages through the words I choose. I play “fart” for 8 points and they respond with “classy” for 12. It’s a whole language we’ve created and I giggle for hours afterward. Once I finish giggling I begin to evaluate my life. I think about how I ignored that phone call from my mother because I was trying to put the letter “z” on a triple word tile. I think about how I didn’t eat dinner because I was trying to decide if I could make “poop” into a longer word (Is “shipoopi” an actual word?)

And now as I write this blog, I begin to realize that what I have achieved from hours of gameplay and total word domination is – an addiction. I could be using my time in much better ways. I could be having dinner with friends, laughing with friends, watching movies with friends. REAL friends. Not virtual board game versions of my friends. So as good as my word game skillz have gotten, I think it is time to lay it to rest for a little while. I have an addictive personality when it comes to computer games. I once spent an entire week playing the Sims until I developed a headache so bad I was on the floor crying. I would say to myself things like, “My happiness meter is low.” This tells me that it is time to light a candle, curl up in my comfy corner, and contemplate better ways to use my time while on this tour. Stay comfy ya’ll, put down your phones and play with real friends.

Tour de Seuss has thus far taken me deep into and all over the most exciting part of the country - the midwest. It's a part of the country that I decided long ago I would never return to. But alas, here I am once again. This time, however, I'm checking my hotel sheets for bedbugs. So, as I sit here in my Effingham, IL hotel room nibbling on my fried chicken, I begin to think about all of the midwestern stereotypes and how very true they are. Here are 7. Warning: I'm about to get very "New York" on you.

1) Things are cheap - we Yelped a restaurant in Dayton, OH called "Cold Beer and Cheeseburgers" aka "exactly what Nathan always wants" and it said that it was 3 money signs. In NY, three money signs means "actors not welcome." Apparently, in the midwest three money signs means 7 dollar burgers. Not joking.

2) People are nice - When I need to change lanes quickly in the midwest, I legit roll down my window and ask the person beside me if I can cut in front of them. They always smile and wave me right in. "So midwest."

3) Highways are boring - I look at the lonely houses in the middle of these HUGE fields and all I can think is, "If they wanted to go to their neighbor's house, they'd have to pack an overnight bag."

4) Fast food is the norm - We went to Taco Bell last night and there were like 12 people in line ahead of us. They were having a birthday party. Or that's what it looked like. People don't mess around with fast food here.

5) Hotels are for prostitutes - My tour mate, Peter, used the hotel lobby computer to print something and all of the pictures in the documents folder were of prostitutes. Really classy. This is why I avoid the bedspreads.

6) People dress poorly - Sweatpants and Uggs. Apparently, that is apropos for all occasions. You can always tell if someone's from a city if they are wearing normal pants and shoes. I mean, I feel absurd wearing a scarf around here.

7) The gays are in Chicago - Everyone's straight in the midwest. If I felt the need to fit in, I'd throw on an Ed Hardy shirt and some baggier jeans. The only place I felt normal was in Chicago. Where there's an H&M with men's clothing, there are gays.

Did you see that episode of "30 Rock" guest starring John Hamm as the beautiful guy who turns out to be really stupid but no one really cares because he is so handsome that he gets everything he wants and deludes himself into thinking that he is actually talented and smart when in reality he's a moron? Well, I did see it. And I've been thinking about that a lot recently. It's what Liz Lemon called, "the bubble." Pretty people reside in the bubble and are blissfully ignorant as they enjoy such things as tickets to the theatre, tables at dinner, and free appetizers. When I heard about this, I thought, "Ugh, I know people like that. I hate those people." But then, something happened that made me realize that I MIGHT BE IN THE BUBBLE!!

I was attempting to get tickets to see "Follies" with Kevin. Stupidly, we slept in and got there way too late. The man informed us that they had already sold all the rush tickets. We were crushed. It was our last chance to see this amazing musical. But then, the guy took one look at the cute gay couple in front of him yearning for an evening of Bernadette singing Sondheim and he said, "Well, let me see what I can do for you guys." And then he sold us orchestra center seats for only 39 dollars saying, "Don't tell anyone I did this for you. These tickets are normally 110 or more." A rush of empowerment flooded over me because I suddenly realized what it felt like - inside the bubble.

Then, the downward slide began. I realized that as long as I look presentable and dress appropriately, I could probably use my looks to get all sorts of things! I could walk into almost any restaurant and use the bathroom without actually being a patron. I could comb my hair and waltz into a theatre at intermission and catch Act Two without a ticket. I could even charm my way into getting a free burger if I wanted! Ugly, homeless people wouldn't be able to get away with things like that, right!? Then, the horrible thought came to me, "Life must be so much harder for ugly people!" ... YUCK! WHO AM I!?! JENNA MARONEY!? Apparently, yes I am. I've joined the bubble. Now that I have reached the level of beauty and confidence that has put me in the bubble, I must deal with the consequences of feeling pity for those of lesser greatness. *Sigh* Life's hardships, I suppose. But, I'm still of humble upbringing so whether you're in the bubble or not, I wish you the comfiest of corners.

My friend Laura recently joined the peace corps. Before she left for her two year expedition she mentioned to me that she would not have running water in her African village. I checked in with her the other day on the water situation and she said that in the winter she catches rain water and in the summer she hires a village child to fetch the water for her. Both, she says, are "really lazy ways of obtaining water." So now, as I draw my nightly bath (with a simple flick of my wrist), throw in my bath bomb, and light my vanilla-scented tea lights, I begin to think about the things I often complain about - out loud. My #firstworldproblems. Here are a few.

1) "Siri never understands me! Now I have to manually check the weather forecast!"

2) "Why do we even have top sheets? No one really needs them, they just end up at the foot of the bed."

3) "My DVR is so finicky. It randomly decides what it wants to record."

4) "We ordered that pizza like 45 minutes ago. I'm gonna rip them apart on Yelp."

5) "Netflix is being so slow today, what is wrong?"

6) "Our water is too hot! And if you move the nob like a millimeter it goes immediately to icy cold."

7) "Ugh, I can't find my Starbucks gift cards!"

8) "The fresh linen scent is too harsh for me. I much prefer apple spice and delight." Sidenote: I threw away the can of fresh linen. It wasn't empty.

9) "Is it just me or is our Keurig brewing really weak coffee?"

10) "Ugh, I hate when steak is served with a sweet demi-glace. I much prefer it savory."

Moral of the story? We should all probably enjoy our comfy corners a little more and complain a little less. After all, you could be in an African village with no running water - like Laura. Stay comfy ya'll!