Day 268 : It puts the lotion on it’s skin…or else the bunnies go blind.

Hey there adoring fans (Aliza Sollins)!

ballet 2

It all started around my 4th year of taking dance class (the first 3 years were spent focussing on not peeing my leotard).  I was 7 years old and my dreams were finally coming true.  I had officially been transferred from the blue studio to the pink studio.  The blue studio was for the less talented kids that were only there because their parents forced them to take ballet when all they really wanted to do was take karate, or soccer, or go home and shave their barbie heads.  The pink room was for serious dancers.  To be honest, I really only got moved up because I was good at headstands (our reward for being good in ballet class and not peeing our leotards was that we got to do 10 minutes of acrobatics at the end of class and I was a headstand prodigy) and got recruited to be the star of the pink room’s prestigious  “Acro team.”  Once on the acro team, I kissed the blue room of barbie head shavers goodbye and was on my way to becoming a famous dancer.  Except, now I was a little fish in a big pond.  I was the smallest and least coordinated girl in my new dance classes, where everyone could do headstands, and pirouettes, and time steps. I had 2 options, I could either go back to the blue room and drool myself silly, or I could work hard and become the best pink room-er there ever was.  And as you can see by my urine free leotards, and (unpaid) Equity card, I picked the latter.  So here I am a few decades later and still at it.  Still trying desperately to be better.  And the awesome thing is, I am better.  I’ve been working really hard to get things going in the right direction and it’s paying off. The not so awesome thing is that I still find myself getting angry…at myself!

What happens once you achieve the better part of doing better?

I’ve done so much work on becoming More Successful Sarah but am still left disappointed.  Why?  Well, I’m no doctor (unless you can get a PhD in head-standery) but I figured it out.  My brain has just been programmed to see myself as always falling short. It makes perfect sense really.  Being in the entertainment industry means facing rejection on a daily basis. Plus, every magazine I read gives me 27 tips for losing weight, or 97 moves for flatter abs, or eleventy billion sex positions to better pleasure my mate implying that my  weight, ab flatness, and my current 2.5 sex positions aren’t good enough as is .  It’s no wonder I can’t accept the possibility that I’ve already done a good job at anything when the world has been telling me there’s always a better way.

Which brings us to yesterday…

    I went on a mission to buy some lotion.  I really wanted a few bottles of Victoria’s Secret Strawberries and Champagne because it smells like a mixture of strawberry ice cream and losing my virginity. On the downside, I knew that Victoria’s Secret used terrible chemicals that were bad for us and probably tested their products on baby bunny corneas.  On the up side, they always have sales where you can get 117 bottles of lotion for $11 that also includes a free VS bowling ball bag…winner!  So there I was, on my way to get my Straws and Champs on when I walked right by the store Lush.  I peaked in just to see (pocket some free samples) what they had to offer.  I was greeted by an adorable employee named Jaime who told me all about their products. Did you know that Lush only uses natural and organic ingredients?  Did you know that the sh*t they don’t use like banana peels  get put into a compost, then the compost gets sent to some scientists who turn those banana peels into energy, and then that energy is donated to people in need??  Now, I have no idea how energy is made, or donated, or given away, but I figure if there’s a little homeless boy in Kenya running around with a Toms shoebox full of energy, then Lush has got a pretty great company going on.  So, I spent $22 on the lotion, chatted with the adorable employees about the power of positive thinking, daily mantras, and organic hair care and even got invited to a bird and squirrel rescue charity event.

Jaime, my adorable sales clerk.

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Ruth, on a mission to save bunny eyeballs.

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A fun night right?


The Problem

Within 5 minutes of walking out the door I had a panic attack.  22 dollars on lotion!  Who am I?  Mark Ruffalo? Plus, I spent so much time chatting about bird and squirrel rescues that I didn’t have time to pick up my groceries and ended up buying a $12 grilled salmon dinner and completely forgot to purchase toilet paper!  Then it clicked.  My brain was on auto-pilot and punishing me for the choices I made because it assumed that I should have made better choices.

What the f*ck!  I had made great choices! I finally got some lotion, which I needed, supported a company that is making the world a better place, nourished my body with a healthy meal, got to chat with some pretty cool ladies about life, and still had time to pick up a roll of toilet paper on the way home.  What a great and productive evening!

The Solution

   Once I realized what my brain was doing, I took a minute and acknowledged that buying this lotion, eating a salmon dinner, and eventually remembering toilet paper equals a  pretty great day and not a downward spiral towards my inevitable life as a hobo.  Then I went home, slathered my self in my new goo and took some time to write down all of the things I was proud of accomplishing in those 24 hours.  I had 14 things!  Including talking to my Dad on the phone for 20 minutes, writing a kick ass newsletter for my improv company, and making this awesome flyer for our Oktoberfest party.


   I titled the list Night Time Affirmations: The Reasons I love Myself Today…

(insert barf here)

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PS: I keep this notebook on my nightstand to write down weird ideas that I have in the middle of the night.  If you look closely you’ll see that one of my ideas was: how I feel about youths wearing their pants below their asses must be the same way my grandparents generation fealt about homosexuality.  Not my best work, but sometimes you gotta get the bad ideas out to make room for the good ones.  Now back to the point…Acknowledging the positive things I did for myself yesterday was surprisingly empowering and something I realized I should probably take the time to do everyday.  By adding positive daily actions to that little notebook before bed each night, I hope to re-program my nogin into being proud of my accomplishments, and to stop reacting negatively to everything, because although there is always room to do better, sometimes you just need to sit back and acknowledge that you’ve already done your best.  

Hello, my name is Sarah and I used to be a self hater, but now I am a self lover.

And I’m also still really good at headstands…


Day 74: So I guess “the Children are our Future?”

Hey there adoring fans (Doug Smith)!

It’s time to let all of my fans out there know that I have come across a new job opportunity…

A.  Argentinian Cardinal.

B.  Mob wife of the MiddleWestSide.

C.  Teaching dance to youths.

If you guessed C, you are correct (A and B are both just fantasy jobs that I create for myself while selling shots to 21 year old hoodlums)!

  This new job opportunity situation all came about because my roommate John had been teaching kids to dance for like ever and had just booked a job that would take him out of the city for 4 months.  Hold on…rewind…before we continue on with John’s story, you need a little background information about me:  You see, I never really took a stab at teaching (stab is probably not the best term to use when speaking about teaching children… Let’s change that to “teaching has never really tickled my fancy”…wait no, that’s just as bad…in a gross way…Ok, how about “I never thought about becoming a dance teacher because) I was far too busy auditioning and performing as a professional dancer.  Plus I always hated hearing that depressing advice: “Well, you could always teach,” which in my mind was the equivalent of saying: “You’re all washed up Sarah.  Throw in the towel and get some use out of that diploma your mother and I are still paying for.”  Now to be clear, my parents have never said that to me, nor has anyone else for that matter.  It’s just one of those snarky little beliefs that I’ve had in my brain about teaching since I was a teenager.  Which is completely silly because had I not had amazing teachers growing up, I wouldn’t be nearly as talented and successful as I am today (What?  I AM talented and successful!  What’s that?  Yes, I did write a blog about only having 37 dollars to my name earlier this week.  Success isn’t measured in money you d-bag!  It’s measured in how many times you’ve been nominated for a Grammy in the category of Original Cast Recording,..which I have….one time…so basically I’m famous.  Suck it.)  I’ve taken a look at what I’ve been up to job wise since I “took a break” from musical theatre audition land, and thought that teaching a few classes here and there could be a good thing.  It would definitely reduce the amount of time I spent working (and drinking) in bars.  Ok, I’ll do it!  Wait are you confused?  I am, I wrote this blog in several nonsensical chunks before putting it together.  And now, I’ve poured myself a glass of wine, so things could get messy.  Let’s go back to where we left off with John…

    Along with teaching tap, jazz, and ballet classes at a studio in Westchester, he was also the choreographer for a junior production of Tarzan.  This is how it went down in our apartment after celebrating the news of his fabulous gig:

 “I know,” he said to me from down the hall, “You could teach my classes and take over choreographing Tarzan!”

(notice the exclamation point).

“Sure,” I replied.

(notice lack of exclamation point).

   I was sure that I could choreograph.  I have always been a great choreographer.  Proof: In college, I had choreographed and performed an interpretive dance solo to a monologue I wrote based on the website about correctly diagnosing hemorrhoids.  It was a crowd favorite!  Plus, I had been in Tarzan in Boston the summer before, so I was super familiar with the show and had already done my gorilla research (very important for Tarzan.  Would you perform Cats without studying those kittens-playing-paddycake videos?  The answer is NO.  Just ask anyone that’s ever done Cats…that’s you Jessica Dillan!).  So, choreography wasn’t the problem…it was the kids.  Ok, let me re-phrase that.  The kids weren’t necessarily problem.  It was the I-haven’t-really-worked-with-kids-for-more-than-a-few-hours-in-my-entire-life that was the problem.  Sure, I’ve subbed a class for a friend from time to time, or taught a weekend workshop, but at the end of the day, all I do is make the tikes laugh for a few hours and then move on with my life, never knowing or being responsible for any of them learning or growing beyond those few hours.  But now, I have to care.  I have to make sure they get better from week to week.  And I do, I really do care.  I just don’t know how kids work these days.  I have no younger siblings, my cousins are all my age, and the only friends of mine that have offspring have babies, and all I know about babies is that I’m not supposed to shake them.  I cannot for the life of me tell how old kids are anymore.  And even if I find out how old they are, I have no idea what age’s know what things…

Here are some examples…

This is a picture of my roommate Abby’s adorable niece, Sadie.

kids 1

Based on everything I know about children, Sadie is between 0 and 10 years old. She might know how to use the potty OR might know the square root of pi.

Here are 2 children I saw on the street today with their Mom (presumably).

kids 2I’m gonna say the one on the left is between 2 and 17, could be having trouble telling time OR is up to date on foreign policy.  The little-er one may be mastering how to tie her shoes OR might be up to Chapter 7 in Fifty Shades of Grey . 

After realizing it might be creepy (OR illegal) to photograph random children on the street, I went into Duane Reade for some more examples.

Here is a card I found of a little boy and a little girl looking all “old-timey” while having ironic dialogue bubbles coming out of their heads.

kids 3

Let’s call them Dick and Jane.

Jane is either wetting her diaper, OR explaining how to make Dick’s bike more aerodynamic.  Dick has either just discovered that he has a penis, OR is telling Jane to get back in the kitchen where she belongs (he was named Dick for a reason).

And PS you guys. How old is this Dora the Explorer gal anyway?  Six? Quince? Taco?

kids 5

Now here is a beautiful family that I found at TJ Max (along with a frame that I am considering buying for $12.99).

kids 4

I think the little boy is between 9 and 19 and the little girl is between… wait…I’m going to go with 9 and 19 as well!  They are twins.  They both could know how to count to 100 OR the meaning of life.  Hold up…those parents are looking between 25 and 40.  That’s my age!  Oh god, people my age have 19 year old spiritually-genius twins that can count to 100.  I should just throw in the towel and call myself a spinster now.  Ruby, it’s time we get some cats!  I’ve got the perfect frame for our spinster family photo (if they take Discover).

Now that we’ve discovered that I am an idiot when it comes to children, I decided to take some time to get my s*it together and gather all of the hard core facts that I could find on kids…

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Nailed it!  I’m ready…

So children, after conducting hours of scientific research, I’ve concluded that if at the age of 12, Harry Potter can uncover the Chamber of Secrets and kill both a giant man-eating snake AND small soul-eating diary of a mass murderer, you all should be able to tendu from 5th position.  And if Rue could stay alive through several days of the Hunger Games AND complete an elaborate ingenious plan to blow up the mountain of food hoarded by those d-bag kids from the mean districts, than you should be able to show me some double time steps!  And for you other kids out there that are oddly large, small, slow, pimply, or clubfooted for your age, just take a look at our friends Neville Longbottom or even Peeta Mellark.  Dancing may be the number one best thing on the planet, but Herbology and Cake Decorating run a close second.

PS: This is another card I found at Duane Reade.  I like it even though I can’t tell if the kitten knows physics OR not…OR why it is drinking a martini…OR why it is an Easter Card?

kids 7


PS:  This is how you research Gorillas.

kids 8

This is my buddy Vasthy and I in between Act I and II of performing Tarzan.  The more you know (cue rainbow and shooting star).

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Day: Wanna come hang with my passé?

Hey there adoring fans (Mindy Dougherty Baida)!

So, you remember that day (Day 15: Ballet (the “T” is silent) specifically…you didn’t read day 15?  You’re never going to become an adoring fan with that attitude…and if you’re not an adoring fan then what are you?  Just a blog reader with no recognition…that’s like a barber hangin’ out with a bunch of bald guys…is it though Sarah?…that’s the best comparison you can come up with?…how about a hemorrhoid with no preparation H?…or better yet a hemorrhoid with no butt hole?…PS: you should probably stop talking about hemorrhoids…it makes people uncomfortable…now back to the story about the good thing you did to feel good about your life) that I got all ready to take ballet class and then the train was late (I spent too much time having my roommate take pictures of me) and I didn’t make it to class?  Well, this time…

I finally made it to ballet class!

My friend Aleka told me about this ballet class that she takes on Saturday afternoons.  Her pitch was “It’s a bunch of 70 year old women and me.”  Which (sadly) was exactly what I was looking for (because although the rest of my body is at the ripe young age of 30, my right knee is circling the drain at the age of 105, so when you average it out, a geriatric ballet class plus 2 mimosas was the perfect decision).

Before class started…

class 5

After petite allegro (small, quick jumps that remind you that you probably should have taken a poop before class started…stop talking about poop…it’s making people think about hemorrhoids)…

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After class (after a pitt stop at Duane Reade where you picked up an icepack….and a six-pack).

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Moral of the story: You’re old and your body hates you. Going to they gym all of the time (once a week) is not going to give you your dancer body back and ballet actually makes you happy and happiness is what we’re going for right now.  So, go to class more you fat f*ck.

class 4

See you next week Aleka (notice the under-boob-sweat.  You’re welcome)!

class 2

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Day 8: Sushi and little Sarah

Tonight is the night that I have ALL YOU CAN EAT SUSHI!!

But before we begin…

Do, you remember when you were in ballet class when you were like 15, and the little 10 year old girls thought  you were super cool because you could do tripple pirouettes and you kind of had boobs?   No?  That’s not how you grew up?  Loser.  Well, that is exactly how I grew up, and tonight I’m going to write about my friend that I refer to as little Sarah.  Sidenote: I’m now realizing that some people may have misinterpreted the title of this blog (I’m not quite sure why sushi is sexual, but it’s not in this case.  It’s just delicious….not in a sexual way).

Anywho, at the age of 10, Little Sarah thought I was super cool and super grown up with my triple pirouettes,  sexy training bras, armpit hair, and (coincidentally) teen spirit deodorant.  Fast forward to 15 years later, and now it is she who is super cool and grown up with giant bazoongas, and it is I who might be the B-cupped  loser.  Little Sarah works for Fordham University, has health insurance (including Dental) and is toying with the idea of going to gradschool for Ethics!  Can you believe it?  Ethics?  And here I am, an unemployed actress (with a BA in dance, holla PPU!), spending my Saturday nights selling shots out of test tubes (red headed sluts anyone?), and using all of my free time on a bucket list of silly things like ‘all you can eat sushi’ and ‘Grey’s Anatomy marathons’.   Now I know that if/when the world ends, none of this matters, and Angels/Martians don’t care about health insurance and bazoongas in Heaven/Black Holes, BUT… if the world goes on… I hope that  the “little Sarah’s” of the world will grow and continue to be amazing grown-ups with big boobs,  hearts of gold, tolerances of sailors, and  become amazing women that we can all look up to and hope to be some day (single apocalyptic tear).

So that is why I brought little Sarah to…ALL YOU CAN EAT SUSHI!

I mean, ALL YOU CAN EAT SUSHI?!   How can you go wrong, ESPECIALLY when there is ALL YOU CAN DRINK SAKE involved!   (The world doesn’t need to hold onto all that excess sake, dead fish, and sticky-rice, anyway….I mean it all comes out in the wash…gross).

I’ve always wanted to spend an sensible Wednesday night stuffing my face with raw fish, while drinking chilled sake out of a teenie tiny cup until the button on my pants burst.   So tonight, it happened, with little Sarah.  Enjoy…

BTW, look at these links.  They are a silly flip book of me getting fatter, and/or me making music with sake jugs.

Plus….we had all you can eat Sushi and all you can Drink Sake for $26.95 at Hanami Sushi on 9th Ave!   I’m hammered!

Hmmm…am I intoxicated enough to try these weird fish slab on a rice pillow things?

Now this sushi looks good and all, but I just can’t help wondering how much cooler I would look with 2 chopsticks so I would resemble a silly walrus?

Don’t worry little Sarah! If you choke on that sake I will just follow the simple steps clearly posted on the wall behind you. Oh wait, nope, written in Japanese. Your s*it out of luck…

Another one bites the dust!