And maybe tomorrow

When my dad would drop my sister and me off at school, he'd say, "I want you both to smile at least 10 times today." Even through college, he would text to ask how many times I had smiled. If you don't know my dad, it sounds a little creepy. If you do know my dad, you're like OMGzies he is the cutest. 

Now, here at the beginning of adulthood, I find myself still counting smiles.

I realized recently that I was falling far behind the quota. There's something jarring about 5 p.m. and recognizing the first faint smile crawl across your face after scrolling deadpan through a newsfeed for the umpteenth time since breakfast. I'd even get pissed when it was because of a stupid 27-things-you're-not-going-to-believe-are-the-cutest-puppies-since-which-cereal-box-are-you article. Like, if I was going to smile, it had better be for a f*cking make-Dad-proud reason.

So, I set out into the city to find reasons to smile. I walked on the sunny side of the street and crossed every time I hit a shadow. I looked up like a tourist and counted the floors of buildings. I read street signs for bus stops and the map to see where it could take me. I window shopped at stores I couldn't afford and decided what I would buy first when I could. I walked up the steps of an office building just so I could walk down them again, then circled the block to see how many people I would pass a second time.

Finally, I took a book to a park and sat, watching the throngs of people walking through a city that most only dream of visiting. And there I was, daring to live in it.

I smiled at least twenty times during my jaunt, making sure to direct each one at a passerby just in case karma was real. But that last smile that came when I realized that my dreams of making it in the Big Apple were still hiding somewhere behind my smirk - that was worth at least ten on its own.

As I flipped the book open to Chapter 8, a park pianist down the way started playing Rhapsody in Blue. I turned towards the music and smiled to the girl on my right. She looked at me with no response and turned her head away as I thought,

"Bitch."

And I smiled again,

TJB: Making It

Careers are for Queers (and I need one)

I met with a manager yesterday. The meeting had been rescheduled several times over the past week - just enough anticipation for me to draft an acceptable award speech I could use for either a Tony or Emmy (I had already committed to ad-libbing the Oscars.)

The manager had been introduced to me through my agent-who-didn't-want-to-be-my-agent-again while I was dressed in a youth sized football uniform at a Halloween party. You can imagine how I thought this was the perfect business relationship to foster six months later. But since I had just finished a successful spec script of The Mindy Project that received rave reviews (from my roommate), I decided it was time to jump back into performing. Keep myself rounded. And since my last 20 submissions of headshots and resumes went unanswered, why not start with that guy who saw me drunkenly eat finger foods?

Before you completely write off my ability to live as an independent adult, know that I used my tax return to go to the dentist this weekend. I had a cavity. Probably too many fistfulls of Lucky Charms before bed.

I woke up for the meeting with just enough time to decide which shoes to wear. Outfits can be decided the night before, but shoes are so dependent on the weather and how conveniently close my Converse are to the door. Like a good gay, I wore my expensive shoes and forgot to eat before I left.

When I arrived, I was handed a clipboard of papers to fill out. It was helpful that most of the first page wanted the information for my agents I didn't have, so I could skip straight to pages 2 and 3.

Pages 2 and 3 consisted of columns and columns of skills. In each category, I was asked to rank my ability from 0-9. Fuck being a 10. I imagined some crafty potential-talent had ranked themselves a 1-0 in singing ability, and when they bombed their first audition and the management questioned their perfect 10 self-evaluation, the talent said, "Oh no no no. I said I was between ONE and ZERO."

0-9 it was.

Once I had ranked myself in "Aerobics" (I gave myself a 7 because I was familiar with, had never done, but was fairly confident in my ability to pick it up quickly) and had come across "Billiards" a second time (I guessed too many people had confused "Pool" with "Swimming," or this list had not been updated since 1965), I started to wonder if it was all a test. Perhaps if I actually finished the list, they considered me a desperate loser who would rub my belly and pat my head for any chance at fame. But if I called them out on their endless list of surely useless skills, I risked looking like an asshole. Perhaps this list was a proven path for countless stars. What did I know?

I did know that I had no knowledge of any of the 6 listed types of horseback riding. I finished the list and patted my head.

Then, I approached the manager. He asked for my headshot and resume, pointed out my blank first page, and quickly scanned through my skillset. Suddenly, "Do you know the difference between an agent and a manager?"

I wanted to say I barely knew how good I was at Aerobics and this question was probably not the best start for somebody who had just turned 25 and paid $200K at a top-tier university. I wanted to say that I knew I appeared embarrassingly unprepared and novice compared to my peers who can kick their face and cry on cue. Instead, I rattled off what I remembered from the last time a manager raised an eyebrow at me. I was sinking fast.

"Do you have any questions for me?"

It was the question that let you know the meeting was over. And though I had so many questions, my survival instincts kicked in.

"No. But where are you from originally?"

OH my GOD, why didn't I just say "world peace"?

"Why?" he asked in just the right way to allow me one more chance at redemption.
"Because you don't seem like somebody who's from New York" I said in just the right way to make it clear that I absolutely already knew he was from New York and recognized there were so many bullets in my foot that one more shot wouldn't matter.

He politely handed me his business card and told me to sleep on it. Consider if a manager is the move I want to make at this point in my career.

As the elevator doors opened, I thought, "First Impressions: [1-0]."

I spent $300 on a tooth,

TJB: Making It

Just the Tip(s)

I am no longer a restaurant manager.

I didn't get fired. I don't think. But I also didn't really quit.

Well, I kind of quit. My coworkers have chosen to describe it as "demoting" myself back to being a server, which is mildly offensive and illogical - my "demoted" salary has increased $100-$200 per week.

That's shocking, right? You would think an increase of responsibility would come with a significant pay raise. I've learned from my PR/Marketing days that this is rarely the case. At least, not in the beginning. It's called paying your dues or you are pretty but have zero qualifications. Actors: think of it like Non-Equity theatre (which I never had to do but heard it was terrible for the rest of you).

Remember the next time you ask to speak to a manager at a restaurant, they are making very little in comparison to the waiter's dignity you just disregarded. Really consider your bitch level before you expect anyone to sympathize.

I'll miss the job. I was good at it. I won't say great at it, because I don't think I was. Mostly I didn't have the mental capacity or patience for learning to be great at it. But I learned an awful lot. For instance, one boss taught me that just because you can be really good at something doesn't mean you should do it. Again, I was not fired.

I would say the most important lesson I learned, which I wish I had learned before 25, is that we really do get only one life. I want that to sound more morbid and less uplifting. Thanks.

I was trying to live two lives. During the day/night/times-I-was-getting-paid, I was this really cool/hip fine-dining career schmoozer who pretended to know what I was doing and sometimes ordered napkins (and only once in an emergency on my last day) waiting for guests to comment on my cheekbones so I could buy them a drink. During the times I wasn't getting paid, I was a writer/actor/singer/dancer. All the time, I was broke.

So, instead of continuing to dream about getting fired or worrying about a baked fish taking longer than expected and continuing to pretend that I had any business running a restaurant at 24, I did everyone a favor and pulled the plug before 25. Was it a quarter life crisis? No. I know this because I have no intentions of living to 100, and I had a quarter life crisis YEARS ago. The piercing didn't last and I almost declared a Gender Studies double major.

Teachers of artists are known for saying, "If you can imagine yourself doing something else, do something else. Life will be much easier."

I can finally say at 25, after having been A LOT of things for what my mom thinks were very short periods of time, I can't imagine myself doing anything else. Not now. Maybe never. Sometimes boys.

Would you like fries with that,

TJB: Making It

To thine own selfie be true

I'm spending a few days in D.C. on a writer's retreat (aka getting laid JK Mom), and I've come to realize - through all of the moving history and patriotism I've experienced here - that our greatest historians are Asian teen girls taking selfies.

Seriously, I've been sitting in this Starbucks for over an hour and this girl has taken approximately 45 selfies of herself drinking coffee. Right now, her camera is set on repeat and she is changing poses every five seconds. She's really struggling with a hair choice. I want to recommend she wrap it behind her neck to one shoulder, but she seems set on making this bobbypin work.

Oh, now we've moved on to a braid. This will be cute. OH MY GOD, she has a light pink clip-in hair extension. We've just taken it to a new level.

In all seriousness, this girl taking selfies has reminded me of something very important.

I spend a lot of time stressing. I just ended a phone conversation with my mom about student loans, my debit card being stolen, and potentially being fired from my job. You know it's bad when you're one week from 25 and still calling your mom to say, "FIX THIS!" But then I turned to my right and this girl reminded me that the rest of the world (aside from Mom, maybe) doesn't care about how much money we have or how much stress we're under. They don't see any of that.

But they do see your selfies, so you'd better take a good one. And they will like it. Or they'll hate it.

Or have no opinions, which is really the worst result of all.

So take a page from the Asian girls and give a smile. Throw a peace sign. Don't let the world see you sweat.

Double click to heart me,

TJB: Making It

A Sense of Pride

I was not beaten, I was stung by a wasp in the eye.

My 10th grade research paper was titled "Child Abuse: Bruising a Nation". I still have a habit of using wordplay at the most inappropriate times. In fact, I wrote a lot of apology e-mails to TAs in college, ensuring them that my writing style should in no way affect how seriously they thought I was about the course. That was a big hurdle in a class I will call Serious Things About WWII. Luckily my TA was Australian, so quite distanced from any personal ties to the subject matter. I think Australia was still a penal colony then.

Back to the kids. 

I chose the topic because child abuse is the one thing that makes me angrier than all anger-inducing things. I can't understand how an adult could ever hurt a kid. I see a child cry and all I want to do is adopt them. A lot of my trying-to-impress-someone career goals through adolescence involved pediatric something. Point being: kids are precious and I'm a really selfless human being. 

But that's not so great for the blog. Here's what's good for the blog:

Before writing my research paper, I had read that opening with a quote was a really writery thing to do. I was all over that. I opened my paper with this:

Whitney Houston once said, "I believe that children are our future." 

I masterfully dispersed the following lyrics throughout. After turning in the first draft, it was returned with a red circle around the initial quote with the note "NO". 

The conversation that resulted went like this:

Me: What do you mean "NO"?

Teacher: Whitney Houston did not say that. 

Me: I'm pretty sure she did. It's a really well known Whitney Houston song. 

Teacher: Yeah, but she didn't write the song.

Me: But she said the words. 

Teacher: But she didn't write them.

Me: But it's a quote and she said them. Well, sang them. 

Teacher: You have to give credit to the originator. 

Me: Who's that?

Teacher: Whoever wrote the song.

Me: But nobody knows who that is. I can't open my paper with a quote from nobody. Who wants to read that?

Teacher: I do. I'm the only person reading this paper. 

Wrong answer. Once I realized this paper was only being read by this dude, my shits given hit zero. What good were we doing the children if only this dude was reading it?

Whitney stayed in. But I did meet him halfway and cited Michael Masser and Linda Creed in the bibliography. 

My parents had been warned by my sister's junior year English teacher that this sophomore year guy would challenge me. I hadn't seen a minus next to my A's since 2nd grade. That Whitney maybe-not-her-quote (combined with a following comparison of happenings in To Kill a Mockingbird with the Nelly/Alicia Keys hit "My Boo") would earn my first ever B+. 

Don't worry, I still ended up a valedictorian. But I have to give credit to that teacher. I inadvertently learned a lot through my arrogant dismissal of his power.

1. B+s do exist. 

2. Challenging authority should be reserved for much more important causes than a 16 year old's pride.

3. There are really great lessons to be learned from To Kill a Mockingbird 
4. Seriously, 16 year olds are assholes. 

5. Nothing I could ever write will trump quoting Whitney Houston in an attempt to end child abuse.

I think he also taught me irregardless was not a word, making irregardless my favorite word that year. 

I was the future then, and he taught me well. He let me lead the way. The dude probably doesn't even remember who I am now, but every time I write, I remember him. It reminds me that I want my audience to feel something when they read my writing, even if that feeling is my own petulance. He probably doesn't remember me, but if he does, I hope its because I taught him something. Something about the greatest love of all.

You can't keep a Diva down,

TJB: Making It

I am better than you, but you are doing fine

I'm approaching that point in productivity where you're running as fast as you can, but you see the wall ahead. There are two options:

1. Slow down and see if you can find a way around the wall. Maybe you can climb it (ew just kidding I hate climbing things). Find a way around it at a walking pace.

or

2. Keep running as fast as you can and accept that you're about to hit a wall. Just turn your head to the side so you don't break your nose. I've recently started to really like my nose. It's cute.

The latter will prevail. I remember they said once in driver's training not to swerve for animals. They probably would have said, "Stop for walls," but I don't remember that, so I'm going to loosely apply the animal tidbit to walls in my creative life and hope it works.

The wall I'm approaching is built from bricks of other writer's works. Originally, I wanted to say it was built from the bodies of other writers, but that evoked a certain image I already try to avoid given my blonde hair and alabaster skin. Maybe we just imagine a wall of writers in an arm-linked-fence kind of way. Red Rover style. That sounds less controversial.

Anyway, me, running, wall, writers.

Point being: those writers are not better than me. For the first time in my life, I read things and think, "I could have written that better." I was explaining this to my roommate (who I would call my best friend, but we all know my recent luck with that title), how I am better than these writers. And I just finished reading Mindy Kaling's book. That's like the Pope saying he could have made a hotter Adam & Eve. Or at least ones that didn't have a weird thing for apples.

to which my roommate replied

I think it's time you start calling yourself a writer.
and
Stop making religious references. 

Da FUQ*? I wasn't looking for advice. I was just bitching over a grande blonde roast, but he was right. Those writers were writing successfully because they are writers. As straightforward as that should sound to anybody over the age of 6, it wasn't until this moment that I realized how much I'd been avoiding the issue.

Because if I called myself a writer, it was one more thing to fail at.

-I ended that sentence with a preposition. I know that because I am a writer.-

I had been swerving. But I didn't go to school to be a writer. What claim did I have to titleship? Then again, I didn't go to school to be a restaurant manager and I'm OK failing at that. Move over, Ellen Paige, it's my turn to come out.

Red Rover, Red Rover, this bitch is coming over.

Writer,

TJB: Making It


*Translation: The Fuck? as in "What the fuck?" Good for Snapchats.

L-O-V-Me

You'll be pleased to know I'm eating carbs again. I had a realization this weekend while eating pie a boy baked for me in the nation's capitol and binging on House of Cards.

Somebody had asked me the week before if I could ever have imagined myself where I am in life. I thought, "Yeah. I could have. But why would I have wanted to?" It was a short conversation.

I remembered an assignment from English my senior year of high school in which we had to write a letter to ourselves in 2025. I confidently predicted a post-award show TONYs or Oscars, still in a tuxedo, reading it on the sofa of my Manhattan loft or swanky L.A. hotel room.

But I always thought it would be funny if there had been stipulations to the letter. Rules of mediocrity. For instance: you never got married, your cat just passed away, you have $25,000 left in student loans, and you're leasing a Toyota.

Now write a letter to THAT, snotty 18 year old.

While I thought of this over my second heap of pie during episode 5, I realized we spend our entire lives with the hope of reaching our personal dreams. Then, out of nowhere, we are sideswiped by some terrible thing that compromises our trajectory and forces us to gamble everything we've worked for thus far in the hopes that we could still achieve our goals while pulling the weight of another person who is running in a completely different direction.

Now imagine writing a letter to yourself in 2025, but today, you've been sideswiped by this "love". There can no longer be a straight path to Happily Ever After. Well, not since we gave women the right to vote and started letting gays get married.

Luckily, I've always been a tragic romantic. If I have to make it on my own, I guess I'd rather not make it. I blame my parents for never getting divorced.

I included in my letter that my husband would be reading over my shoulder, and already proud of my undoubted win from the evening, he would kiss me on the forehead for having been so kind to include him in my plans since 2007.

I mean, I had to ensure I was still getting some at 35.

And whether that forehead kiss comes from a boy who bakes apple pies or some future man who is hopefully not leasing a Toyota, I know that as long as I'm dreaming my own dreams, I'll be braced for collision.

Hot? Unintentional, but yes.

He's going to be incredibly lucky,

TJB: Making It