Personally Speaking

"Don't take it personally" has become one of my least favorite sayings, because everything really is personal. If somebody says, "It's not personal," then they wouldn't have to tell you because you wouldn't have been involved in the first place. Your situation actually had everything to do with you. More often they mean, "It is because you're you, but please don't be pissed because we'd all rather not deal with confrontation."

and that's fine to admit. I actually prefer to believe it's personal. It makes me feel more important. Controversial even.

But we've become a culture of not wanting to say, "No." We seem to have adopted "no unless you hear yes." That way, nobody has to be the bad guy and nobody's feelings (directly) get hurt. To say, "It's not personal," suggests that there was, in fact, a way that things could have been different if you just weren't you. That's even more insulting. 

Instead, we can build up a quiet resentment until we're forced to assume there were many other factors at hand and it really was nothing personal. It's that time of year, things are crazy, everyone's busy or on vacation, they would have reached out, but you understand. It's nothing personal. 

I was recently accused of not having feelings...about anything. I questioned if the interpretation of my lack of feelings was based on the fact that I do not let things greatly upset me. They took this as defensive. "It's nothing personal."

I was also recently told that I may be afraid to be the "bad cop", and that I should be wary of giving too much positive reinforcement to those doing a poor job in case messaging got mixed up. But it was just a note, nothing personal. 

I auditioned for an agent I had worked with before, but it wasn't going to happen this time. I was great, it was nothing personal.

These are three pretty specific personal situations. 

America, this is how we end up with bitter housewives who drink wine all day. Because we go through life thinking it wasn't personal and we couldn't possibly be the reason. They said we weren't the reason! In reality, we need to accept that we really sucked in a lot of situations. They didn't like you. It's OK not to be liked. 

Trust me, I'm thumbsed down like 500 times a day, but hey, somebody is trying to give me my own show. Who would have thought?

We all thought. 

The moral of the story? Stop wasting time on people who want to make it nothing personal. It's the people who want to make it everything personal that matter. 

Your feelings might get hurt, sure.

But you probably don't have them anyway. 

It's nothing personal,

TJB: Making It

Seasons of Awkward Interactions

There are those people in life who will always leave you speechless, somehow dumb upon sight. No matter how hard you try to sharpen your wit and turn up your sass, mere eye contact for more than a second seems to staple your brain shut.

Yet another clockwork year had passed to bring me back to fall of freshman year when I met The Boy With the Glasses. I had much less time to prepare myself this year. I was almost relieved when the meeting was nearly cancelled due to weather. However, it was only pushed back half an hour, which would now cause overlap with the best friend who is both smarter and quicker than TJB.

Shocking, I know.

I prepared my talking points, changed outfits to something that said "don't care", and even wore my own glasses as if the extra layer between my eyes and his would help deflect the numbing stare. There would be only 30 minutes to establish that I was the calmest, coolest internal 5th grader in NYC.

Just kidding. When I turned the corner on 8th Avenue, I found myself steps behind the best friend. I remained quiet with a whispered "fuck" and let him reach the doors of the Google offices before I tapped his shoulder.

The Boy With the Glasses was already waiting in the lobby. We checked in at the security desk where I managed to take the worst photo of my life for a badge that I quickly shoved into my pocket. I shook off the snapshot, slapped on some swagger, and followed The Boy With the Glasses through the security glass doors

which promptly shut on me, catching my entire body in them as I flailed and struggled to get out like a trapped rabbit.

The security guard shouted at me to use the open entrance on the left, but it was a little too late and my pride was left in the lobby.

We spent the next 20 minutes traveling through the Google offices, a distracting cavern of quirk and free food. I suppose aesthetics and perks are important if you hate your job. By the time we sat down, I was pretty sure everyone had forgotten about my embarrassing entrance...so I brought it up again.

Then, I brought up a boy I knew at Google in San Francisco. When The Boy With the Glasses asked if they should meet for coffee, I wanted to ask if I should just slit my wrists with chopsticks.

DAMN. I was losing traction fast. I had just set up a potential date, the best friend was nailing lunch, and I could only half answer any questions about myself between bites. My jokes weren't landing, I had to pee, and I almost choked on a shrimp tail in my sushi. I have never said "well, yeah" so many times. The realization that I had no business being at this lunch gathering slowly sank in. Obligatory-invitation-by-tradition was clear.

When the best friend mentioned he had to get back to work and would leave us to have a private goodbye, I almost spat up the shrimp tail in horror. No way was I going to leave myself one-on-one to risk the chance of any real emotions or honest thoughts existing. I would be getting in that elevator.

I said "see ya" to The Boy With the Glasses as if I would, knowing that if I somehow survive another five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes in the pity graces of nostalgia, I will be the most single man in America. Still one of the prettiest, but very single.

I looked at the best friend talking on the way down but never listened. As we walked out into the rain, he said goodbye, and I said, "Just hug me." He begrudgingly wrapped one arm around me like the sad wet puppy I was before running off. I didn't open my umbrella for 3 blocks in some weird poetic gesture to the day.

I should have worn contacts,

TJB: Making It

Alive from New York

I hadn't been to 30 Rock since my audition in 2011. Had it really been almost two years since I stormed through the hallways in a sweat to repeat one line into a camera three times? I pretended Tina Fey could feel my presence as I entered from the rain. Perhaps she had put a hold on my visitor pass for the mockery I had made of NBC casting that day.

No such luck. They handed me my pass and I pretended I had been there "tons of times" before checking the directions my friend had messaged me an hour before. This was a spur-of-the-moment visit from the boredom of my third day off. Still, I felt the need to impress. But the elevator attended had to unclip the pass from my jacket and scan it as I stood staring blankly at the barrier that hadn't opened for my confident strut straight into it.

Attendant: "Enter 17 on the key pad."
Me: "Right. Sure, sure. It's been a while for me here."

I realized I hadn't been listening and looked down at 1-9, *, and #.

Attendant: "One. Seven."

Please God, do not let Tina Fey be in this building.

I exited the elevator on the 17th floor and turned in two circles before I decided to head in the obvious direction, towards the one girl I could see sitting at a desk. She had been watching my flawless entrance.

Me: "Hi. I'm here to see my friend Kaitlin. She works here. For SNL. Do you know her? Where she is? She should be here."
Girl at desk: "She's...right there...Kaitilin...visitor."

I pretended like it was all a big gay joke and sauntered the 6 feet to my friend's desk. Gays can always get away with stuff like that.

My friend - and by friend, I mean a girl who grew up in the town next to me and judged me in high school (literally in events, not prejudicely) and used to get me into The Late Show VIP - suggested we head to the commissary for coffee, unless I wanted a full meal. I assumed she meant I already looked bloated and should stick to coffee, so I said coffee sounded great even though I was starving.

She got tea. Damn that skinny bitch.

We sat and talked about how we had both ended up where we were from the forests of Michigan. We were living in a city that only existed in movies and on TV growing up, and now she worked in TV and I...watched a lot of movies...

Between the talk of siblings, school teachers, apartments, and promotions, she casually mentioned a few weeks prior when she taught Miley Cyrus how to play cups for a botched Anna Kendrick impression on SNL. Everybody in the Midwest knows how to play cups, but she mentioned the Miley Cyrus portion so off-hand, I had the strange urge to both slap her and beg, "TEACH ME EVERYTHING YOU KNOW!"

This girl had come a long way from the days of Kohl's and Culvers, but there was still a comforting humbleness to her Manhattan noir wardrobe and green tea lunch. The fact that she was 28 but didn't look a month past 21 probably helped her climb quickly, but the composed stare of her listening eyes told me that her wheels were always spinning. Always in drive. I couldn't help but feel lucky to look out over Rockefeller Plaza, lifted by the grace of her hand (and an overly complicated elevator system) to a new height.

I left with a refreshed perspective as I only had to press "1" on the keypad. Going down and getting out was much easier, but the experience of pushing my way down a wet 5th Avenue and staying calm through the confusion to make it to the 17th floor was well worth it. I chuckled at how easy it seemed to get here after so much thought but simple effort, and how willing she was to take the time once I had offered.

There are a lot of floors to go above the 17th, and a lot of people that like tea who work on them.

Just remember: One. Seven. And you won't look so stupid.

Going up,

TJB: Making It

You'd look OK naked.

Sometimes you sit on your bed and stare out the window, counting the people you know would like to see you naked. No, I'm not naked. No, I'm not even depressed. I was just curious.

I was having drinks with a friend (who I will be bold enough to say is quite attracted to me and I somewhat to him) who mentioned a trip home. He found it refreshing to be around people who were just excited to see him, unlike New York where everybody wants something from him. As he touched my thigh under the table and picked up his phone to text for the 6th time during the first and last drink I would allow my self-esteem to sit through, I wasn't sure I agreed.

I don't agree that one: his friends back home were just excited to see him and wanted nothing, and two: that it's better to be around people who want nothing from you. In fact, though he mentioned he was "just excited to see me", had he not held my hand or touched my leg a fifth time, I likely would have left out of boredom from watching him respond to texts. But I knew that he wanted to see me naked, so I stayed.

If you want to see somebody naked, put your phone away. At least let them believe through the first drink that you find them interesting.

This is the part of the blog where my parents call me and tell me to be "safe".

Don't worry, Mom and Dad. I stand far away from the flames when I burn my bridges.

And I keep my clothes on.

I read a great article once (shared by somebody who had already seen me naked) that everybody wants something from you. If they don't, they want nothing to do with you. We are only as good as what we can give.

What I'm trying to say is:

Sit on your bed and try to think of what you give to everyone you know. Think of what they're thankful for that you provide them with. If you can't think of anything...

they probably just want to see you naked.

and that's OK.

Keep your blinds closed,

TJB: Making It

And we'll never be royals.

Ladies and gentleman, my serving days are over. I am a restaurant manager.

Did you just raise an eyebrow? I sure did. In fact, when I opened my mouth to suggest they hire me as the new recruit, the voice inside my head was shouting, "Shut the hell up! What are you doing? You have zero qualifications or experience. There's not even a karaoke night."

Still, as I like to say: if you went to Northwestern, you can do whatever you want. So, here I am doing it.

OK, the job is not as glamorous as I would like it to sound. Essentially, I keep the place from burning down and entertain wealthy New Yorkers with jokes about wine and kids-these-days before they have a chance to scoff at their scallops. On paper it says "Assisatant", and I even took a pay cut (though I managed to negotiate far above the initial offer. My former agent would be proud.) However, if I'm going to stuff 100 pictures of my face into envelopes to land on the desks of new agents' interns in the hopes that I will one day sing another 16 bars, I might as well set the goddamn tray down and pour a glass of wine.

And I think I have a lot of potential in this field.

Potential. That's a word best reserved for funerals.

I figure if I'm going to be famous before I'm thirty, I could open a restaurant for my forties. I've always been a good multitasker.

The hostess asked if I had a nose job because my bone structure is so flawless. I think we'll keep her.

Looking forward to the new karaoke night,

TJB: Making It

Flight Status: It's Complicated

I just spent the weekend with one of those people who causes you to unzip the expander on your emotional baggage so much, you KNOW that shit is going to be gate checked.

I had a really beautiful blog planned all about love and loss and moving, on until he turned to me a few hours ago and made a snarky comment about my life (and my sweater).

So, I want this blog to serve as a digital reminder - shoutout to data permanence - that if, in fact, I end up married to this sway-backed buffoon in ten years, everything is his fault.

And if I end up married to somebody else in ten years, THANK YOU GOD I AM SO SORRY I EVER DOUBTED YOUR EXISTENCE.

And f I'm still sitting here alone, typing an angsty blog on a PC with a six pack of craft beer that was on sale at C-Town, well...

will any of us be that surprised?

TEXT ME BACK, MOM!

Sweatpants for days,

TJB: Making It

1,000 Words

Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a huge fan of myself. Sure, I have prominent cheekbones, a stabbing jawline, and over six feet of angelic white skin. I also have an oddly shaped head, the biceps of a sapling, and really weird baby toes. I guess we are our own toughest critics.

Unless you're an actor, and then everybody else is twice as tough and far less nice. Seriously, you should hear what some casting offices have said about my baby toes.

When it comes to picking a new headshot, I turn 13-year-old-girl-called-fat-in-the-locker-room. There's nothing like sorting through 500 pictures of yourself trying to find one that doesn't make you want to cut your face off.

Do I really smile like that? What's wrong with my ears? Is my nose too big or too small? Do I have a lazy eye and nobody told me?

Then, you find it. That one photo that represents your essence, capturing a moment in time that reflects your true self. In my case, this is the photo that makes you wonder if I'm about to say "I love you", "I hate you", or "Go fuck yourself".

Of course, once you've found that perfect reflection of your soul, you have a team of people airbrush the hell out of it until you look like a Ken doll.

Just kidding, I barely needed any retouching.

Go fuck yourself. JK.

I love you (I hate you),

TJB: Making It