What I Learned At Tennis Camp

When I was in 7th grade (I think it was 7th grade), my Dad thought it would be a good idea to send me to a week long tennis camp. I think he thought it would be fun, and since I was relatively athletic and enjoyed playing sports like field hockey and soccer, that I would like tennis. Plus, we lived in rich, snooty Princeton, where everyone played tennis. Obviously, I needed to play to fit in.

The day consisted of playing tennis, playing tennis, playing more tennis (in the insane Jersey humid heat with no shade on said tennis courts, mind you), then taking an hour for lunch and watching old tennis matches in air conditioning (in which I would usually fall asleep because it was the most boring thing ever), and then (ready?), more tennis. From 8am until 4:30pm. Every. Day. What a stupid idea.

When placed in situations such as this, the least one can expect to gain (even when miserable) are some comrades to pass the time with, right? You can almost always find someone who is even more unhappy than you are at tennis camp. However, it seemed as though I ended up in the happiest tennis camp in the world, where everyone bonded over their passion for the lamest sport in the world (sorry to any and all tennis lovers out there, but I just don't get this sport).

I decided to try and make conversation with the girls I was grouped with (we were placed in groupings of 6). Unfortunately for me, the other 5 girls already knew each other, and were not too keen on getting stuck with the miserable (and now highly sun-burnt - I'm paler than a vampire) newbie. That's fair, I suppose - I mean, I get it, you go to camp with your friends, you want to hang out with your friends - but is it necessary to be horrible nasty bitches to the nice little new camper? No, no it is not. That, however, is precisely what happened.

And these girls weren't typical mean girls. These girls? Well, they were tennis girls, which apparently are the worst kind. These girls picked on me like there was no tomorrow (which there was, because they picked on me then, too). They made fun of my clothing, they pulled my hair, they sat at a table across from me at lunch and threw pieces of food into my hair and into my drink, they giggled and pointed and laughed, and they told the other girls I was a lesbian, and that they should stay away from me because I might try to hit on them (so of course, the other girls did). As the week wore on, the teasing got worse, and I began to beg my parents not to send me back to camp. My Dad didn't understand why I couldn't handle a couple of mean little girls, and my Mom gave me the worst bully advice ever that all parents, at one point or another, tell their children - "Just ignore them; they are probably just jealous of you because you're so wonderful". Complimenting your children (which while kids are little, is sort of just complimenting yourself, parentals) does not make bullies stop bullying.

Thursday of my awful week came around, and I walked into camp, armed with my "ignoring" technique, and was greeted with a giant hug from one of the bitches - she was the chubby one out of the group, so I thought perhaps she had been ousted as well. She spent the entire day being nice to me - she sat with me at lunch, she talked to me, asked me questions about myself, told me how pretty my hair was - was I making a friend?! I was instantly happy. Suddenly, tennis camp didn't seem so bad! And maybe, she would talk to her bitchy friends and tell them how now that she had gotten to know me, I was actually awesome, and we could all be friends! Oh happy day (I wasn't really that ecstatic or pathetically hopefully, but let's say I was, for dramatic effect)! I went home with a renewed sense of self, and a lot more confidence. I couldn't wait until the next day, when I could expand my group of friends, exchange phone numbers, and leave tennis camp for good.

Unfortunately, I got to camp the next day to find that Chubby Magee had been toying with me the whole time, and had gone back to the evil wenches and told them everything I had said, thus fueling their making-fun-of-me fire. Awesome. I spent my last day of camp faking period cramps and sitting in the shade of a far away tree, reading my book and watching the girls from soccer camp play their final games. I ate lunch by myself, and hid out in the bathrooms during our video hour. When my mom picked me up, she asked how my last day of camp had gone. I told her if she ever sent me back to tennis camp, I would shave my head and tattoo something obscene on my face. They never sent me back.

The moral of the story?  Kids are assholes.  And that is what I learned at tennis camp.

Charities and Opera Houses

Is it considered a shameless plug if it's for charity?  I think not.

I am extremely excited about this: in2books

in2books is an incredible volunteer literacy program I signed up for (thanks for the amaze balls suggestion, Cara!), that connects adult volunteers with 3rd-5th grade students from under resourced communities via ePals, an internet pen pal program.  In a nutshell: You read 5 books selected by the students over the course of a school year, and write a letter (an email, in our super advanced society) about said book to your student pen pal, discussing the themes and important issues in the story they have selected.  It's a super easy way to help out and make a difference in a child's life - a child who may not have had the opportunity to read as many books, or be able to talk about what they're reading.  Each book is chosen from a different category (Realistic Fiction, Social Science, Biography, Folktales, and Science), and each title is chosen by the students themselves.  How great does this sound?  Great, right?  It's great.

In other news: I went to the Stephen Schwartz tribute concert tonight at the New York City Opera, aptly named "Defying Gravity".  It was also, in fact, amaze balls (overused in tonights entry, yes).  While I was already in love with the adorable Kritsin Chenoweth (especially after working with her at the Drama Desk Awards - another story for another time) and her impeccable comedic timing and spontaneity, and while I was also already obsessed with Raul Esparza's wet-my-pants-amazing voice, I now have new found admiration for Victor Garber, Ann Hampton Callaway (who, for the record, wrote and sang the theme song for The Nanny, what?!), Lauren Flanigan, and Todd Wilander.  OH, and Stephen Schwartz, who finished up the night playing and singing "For Good" with the fabulous Ms. Chenoweth, who cried her eyes out as the song progressed.  And was I not completely floored by Esparza and Garber's Godspell medley (shout out, Godspell cast - it was incredible and made me miss you), and Esparza singing Defying Gravity himself?  I believe I was.  Holy Bazooka Joe, Batman.  The best $12.00 I have ever spent (aside from the $1.75 Happy Meal toy I purchased at McDonald's today, don't judge me).

"The Latest Silly Man Trends"

Nope.  Absolutely not.  I am not on board with the latest fashion "trend" pouring out into the streets of Manhattan.  I put trend in quotations for the following reasons: 1. It's thoroughly disturbing, 2. I refuse to acknowledge it as being such, and 3. If you are my friend, and I see you partaking in this eyesore?  We will not be friends any longer.  I'd say this is the epitome of an instant deal breaker.  Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you: Meggings (not to be confused with Jeggings or, my personal favorite, Pajama Jeans).

Don't get me wrong - I am all for equality and freedom of expression and professing your inner fashion diva, but this?  I just got used to skinny jeans.  Regardless of your feelings on the matter, I feel as though we can agree on these guidelines:

1. The outline of the male member should be obscured while wearing meggings (ladies - same for you and your camel toe.  I mean, let's get real.  No one wants to see that).

2. The wearer of said meggings should not be seen also wearing tacky sweaters.  Not okay.

3. You should try your hardest not to look like a medieval cartoon while wearing said meggings.

I don't even think body size is an arguable issue - even overweight men can have killer legs, so it's a moot point.  Regardless, this doesn't settle (what should now be) the age old question: Is it ever acceptable to wear meggings, even if you look good in them?  Sorry men, most would say no.  As much as we women enjoy your thicket of sex, I don't think anyone wants to see it wrapped in spandex.

New York Fashion's article describes it magnificently and with dead on accuracy:


Stylesight has been noticing a lot of men in leggings lately, and kindly e-mailed us the above snapshots. Apparently meggings have been pouring into the streets of New York, Paris, London, and Tokyo since last year. Men wear them year-round as a fun way to practice layering, mix up everyday proportions, and stay warm. It was only a matter of time before men discovered what Lindsay Lohan discovered about leggings long ago — that they are awesome, extremely versatile, and even more fabulous in leopard print. Well, it's probably too soon to confirm that last part, but men will inevitably branch into new colors and patterns. All kinds of meggings have been popular on the men's runways for seasons. Because whatever women fall in love with, men will inevitably fall in love with some years later, like manpris, mirdles, or short shorts, to name a few. And of course increasingly tight pants are sweeping through the male community faster than you can say, "Can Zac Efron even sit down in those?" Meggings offer the stretch he needs. 


Men, take note - if you must partake in this hideous fashion faux pas, wear your meggings to your hearts desire.  I beg you, just keep it locked up under the bed with your teddy bear and porn.  Maybe not even there.

True Friendship

Tiffany: You slore.
Hilary: Slut plus whore?
Tiffany: EXACTLY
Hilary: Solid.

Bookie Wookie

Childrens books that were, sadly, never written, according to members of The Wedding Singer Cast (and thanks, largely in part, to Loaded Questions, the new best game ever)

- Why Your Teacher Should Be Black
- Hello Little Girl, Want Some Candy From My Car?
- Touching Teachers
- Sex, For First Graders
- Little Timmy Learns to Blow
- We Rub Our Pee-Pees Together
- Lick My Balls: The Untold Story of Lassie




Kim: Hilary, is this going to be a blog?
Hilary: Pft.  No.

Tee Hee

Peep Show.  Love me some non-Jew holidays.

Christina (via FB chat in the next room): Can I come to you and fake slap you so I can get five dollars from Matt? (who was FB chatting her on the couch next to her).  Don't tell him.

Hilary: So what, you're asking to come in here, slap your hands together, and for me to scream 'WHAT THE FUCK, CHRISTINA?!'

Christina: Yeah.

Hilary: Okay.  But you owe me ten dollars for this.

Christina: Deal.  Wait no.  You get nothing.

5 minutes later

Christina slaps hands together

Hilary: WHAT THE FUCK, CHRISTINA!?

Christina: Matt, give me five dollars.

Matt: ...but I don't have five dollars... wait, where did you slap her?

A New Show!

Disenchanted: Bitches of the Kingdom

William Paterson University

June 2011

I'm pretty pumped, yo.

Eating In Connecticut

This weekend, I took a much needed impromptu road trip up to Wallingford Connecticut to visit my dear friend and former college roommate Tiffany.  Tiffany and I met my very first semester of college.  We bonded over playing little boys in Great Expectations - her being cast as Young Pip, and I, Young Herbert (and also Clara - who, if you are familiar with the story, later marries Herbert.  I married my future self.  Solid) - and had to have a ridiculous fist fight on stage, dressed as frilly little boys.  Needless to say, I got my ass kicked, and thus a friendship was born.

This is Tiffany and I in our last show together in college (she was Hermia in Midsummer, and I was Viola in Twelfth Night)

Tiffany and I also worked at the campus Writing Center together, along with an array of some pretty awesome characters.  Jeff, for example, would walk around campus with a paper bag over his head, pretend to fall, and have "break-up fights" with Tiffany in the Atrium lobby while students and professors looked on.  There was also Phoebe, who was an incredible poet, Pablo, who would sit at the front desk playing guitar, and Dreadlock John, who had dreadlocks and made up songs about Zombies while eating Cap'n Crunch and peanut butter.  Now, Jeff is a lawyer, Phoebe is married and lives in Florida, Pablo moved back to Venezuela, and Dreadlock John  is a teacher who cooks, records music in a studio, and inspires children every day.  He also dates Tiffany, who cut off his dreadlocks.  When did we become adults?  I miss the Writing Center and it's eccentric collection of misfit toys.  But I digress.  Back to Connecticut.

I drove up Friday night, and arrived in the cute, exactly-what-you-would-expect-Connecticut-to-be-like-town of Wallingford.  Tiffany and I settled on Iron Chef, a sushi and hibachi joint just down the road, where we indulged in hibachi goodness, salmon and steak, and the yummiest ginger dressing and fried rice I've ever had.  This is what it would look like if I had remembered to take a picture of us eating:

Next, we stopped at a Friendlys to get fat.  It was awesome.

We also stopped at Walmart (yuck), where we picked up Funglish (which we ended up not playing, though I'm sure she will enjoy for years to come), and I bought an extension cord.  Exciting, right?  You're jealous.  We ended our evening by staying up until about 3am watching the first 8 episodes of Arrested Development.  If you haven't watched this show, I suggest you download Netflix and get on it.  I don't know if a TV show has ever made me laugh this much.  Aside from maybe Modern Family.

The following day, after sleeping until noon, we took my car in to get the headlights replaced (they went out on my drive up - I know this because after 9 people flashed their high beams at me, I figured something was up.  Oops).  $72.00 later (ugh), we went out to lunch, and enjoyed this fabulous treat:

See that side noodle salad?  Awesome.  They also accompanied my sandwich with an olive tapenade instead of a balsamic dressing.  Score.

Once we finished lunch, Tiffany introduced me to my new favorite sport: Duckpin Bowling!  It is apparently only around in New England and Maryland, but it's really quite fun!  See:

After bowling (and doing pretty well for a first timer, if I do say so myself - a 120 in Duckpin is equivalent to a 200 in normal bowling, so judge accordingly, please), we grabbed a bottle of wine (and three Absolut shots), and went food shopping for pizza and brownie ingredients.  We returned to Tiffany's apartment, watched, and cooked this delicious sucker:

(before)

(after)

YUM.

We also made brownies with thin mint cookies sprinkled on top, and ice cream on the side.  I would have taken pictures of that, but we ate it too quickly.  We then spent the rest of the night watching all of season 1 of Arrested Development, drinking wine, eating our bangin' homemade pizza and brownies, and doing my taxes (shout out - THANKS TIFF!). 

(she is so sexy when she does my taxes)

All in all, a fabulous weekend.  I think it was just what we each needed - a chance to catch up with each other, take a break from our real lives, clear our heads, and eat a ton of food.  While daylight savings time really threw me for a loop and I woke up entirely exhausted, I feel refreshed and recharged, in a way.  Sometimes it's just important to get away, even if it isn't far, and come back with a new outlook on things.  Tiffany has always been that friend that I can bounce myself off of, and get the real deal in return.  I'm so thankful for her friendship, and the fact that we have been able to keep in touch and stay close, despite living a few states away.

Now, back to the land of subways and skateboards, graffiti and bicycles, laundromats and Mexicans and double bolted iron bars.  I love New York.

The Things We Talk About

Rachel: I just found a Cheerio in my Ugg.  Just wanted to tell someone.
Hilary: Do you eat a lot of Cheerios?
Rachel: No not really.  It was odd.
Hilary: Maybe an elf put it there.
Rachel: Or a gnome.

Ten minutes later

Rachel: Send me Kelsey's number you oreo.
Rachel: I went to call you a whoreo, and it autocorrected to oreo.

Bursting With Pride

I am proud of all my friends this week.

First and foremost, my roommate, Matt.  He is an aspiring actor (you may have seen him as President Duck), oddly obsessed with Carol Channing (he may or may not have a Carol Channing ventriloquist dummy - it's scary), and has way too much time on his hands.  But dammit, he makes me laugh:

Allow me to share the newest YouTube sensation, or as we over at Kelsey Theatre like to call her, "Chelsea".  She finally hit it big, kids (she's actually got a great voice!), all thanks to some wisdom teeth, a camera, and some killer Novocaine:

My friend Kyrus has become obsessed with Charlie Sheen.  This is his final straw.  Funny funny entertainment:

Left In Brooklyn

I wrote this about 4 or 5 months ago, but then never posted it.  I have since looked at it a few times, but never really had the [balls] to publish it.  I came across it tonight when I was looking through my cover letters, and decided that, now that months have passed, I could put it up without regret.  Maybe I should have posted it back in October.  Regardless, here it is.  About 5 months too late.  

You threw me away when you left me in Brooklyn.

You came to my apartment, and sat on my bed - a bed that has seen two break ups, two shattered ideals, and hundreds of tears, in two very different worlds with two very different women.  You lied, you fought, you insisted, and you begged.  You pleaded and held my hands, avoiding eye contact to the end.  You fell asleep holding me, reassuring me, while I ached with a new reality, and my heart caved within itself.

I walked from 34th street to Central Park.  It was cold and windy, and I wasn’t wearing a warm enough jacket.  I walked through mud and trees, past benches, bridges and horse drawn carriages, half frozen puddles of melted snow and dripping icicles, temporarily abandoned playgrounds and swings, swaying empty in the chilly breeze.  I climbed a rock by the southwest entrance facing Columbus Circle and nothing.  I sat on the frozen mound, stuck headphones in my ears, and closed my eyes.

I listened to my indie rock, you listed to your classic mix, your Billy Joel, Led Zeppelin, DMB with Guster hope.  I am not your Dreamgirl or your Mona Lisa.  I’m sorry if you thought I was.  I’m sorry I was unable to express it any more there than I could here, or that I didn’t react appropriately to your gestures of courtship.  While the kindness may have been looked upon with appreciation, I could not encourage such behavior.  And I was completely out of straws.  My glass was almost empty anyway.  

A mother and her two boys played on the tarmac below me.  A scruffy man in his twenties ran laps around the baseball field.  I let myself cry for about a minute, stopping before the tears absorbed the mascara and ran with it down my cheeks.  I can be strong, too.

I always found it funny when you insisted the Indigo Girls were phenomenally exceptional songwriters.  Maybe you stored your Doc Martins under your sisters bed, along with your secret identity, super hero mask, and hidden girlfriend(s).  I feel tarnished for ever having been a part of your secrets.  

I walked past the carousel - a favorite of my sisters, surrounded by tulips and daisies all summer long - now covered in water-stained brick, rusted chain fences, and fallen tree branches.  I walked past couples holding hands, drinking coffee and laughing to each other, sharing inside jokes and moments of pure love and genuine happiness.  I left the park.

I never saw you again.  I see you occasionally.  I see you all the time.  We never speak.  Our phone calls are sparse, yet meaningful.  I can’t talk to you.  If given the chance, I would still look you in the eye and tell you what you did, hoping for you to finally understand - I now embrace knowing that you never will.  I gave you time, you gave me time, and we found each other in the right times and the wrong times all over again.  I’m not sure how I will ever escape you.

Maybe I was never where my heart wanted me to be.  Maybe I always have been.  I have always been certain that every person who has come into my life has entered for a reason.  Sometimes they stay, sometimes they leave, and sometimes they don’t even leave so much as a tire mark (cue cheesy metaphor: on the pavement that is life, whoa).  And I may never share this.  Would anyone be interested in the scattered thoughts of a twenty-something girl with dreams far exceeding the limits predetermined by the life surrounding her?  Getting people to read anything I write proves difficult enough.  Let’s be honest, reader - you’re here for one of 3 reasons:

1. You don’t like me all that much, but since you are my Facebook friend and I sometimes link this to my profile, you want to follow me and see what I’m doing.  We’re all guilty of it, including myself.
2. You want me to post something juicy.  Spoiler alert: I don’t know anything juicy.  Ever.
3. You genuinely enjoy what I have to say.

My point here is this: I started this to write without limitations, then found myself doing nothing but that - limiting myself, and censoring my own thoughts, knowing who my audience was.  Sort of defeats the purpose, no?  I would be interested to see what would happen were I to send this out to the world wide inter web.

So here goes.  Nothing but unadulterated me, I suppose.  Could be fun.

Some Things Are Necessities

I'm pretty positive I need to own this:

What People Must Think When They Hear These Things

Steph: See that?  His collar is popped.  Preppy.  Like you.
Hilary: I am not preppy.
Steph: You're a little preppy.
Hilary: How am I preppy?
Steph: You own polos.  You dress well.  You look down on people with unintentional non-designer holes in their jeans.  And you're from Princeton.
Hilary: You are also from Princeton.
Steph: I am also a little preppy.
Hilary: Most of this is untrue.
Steph: I'm choosing to ignore that.
Hilary: Don't you have to be rich to be preppy?
Steph: It's a state of mind.  You can take the girl out of Princeton, but you can't take the Princeton out of the girl.
Hilary: You're kind of a bitch.
Steph: Ding Ding!  Preppy bitch!  And a cultural snob with big boobs.
Hilary: What makes one a cultural snob?
Steph: I don't know, preppy bitch, shut up and listen to the hot gay men sing.
Hilary: ....my boobs are not that big.

Doppelganger?

This evening, I was told by a sales associate at Express that I looked like Lady Gaga.  Exact conversation went as such:

Sales Associate: Hey, has anyone ever told you that you look like Lady Gaga?
Hilary: I'm sorry?
Sales Associate: You look like Lady Gaga.  Only without all the crazy shit on her face.
Hilary: Is that a good thing?
Sales Associate: You seen Lady Gaga?  Yeah it's a good thing.
Hilary: Well thanks.  I think.

This upset me very much, mainly because Lady Gaga without "all the crazy shit on her face" looks like this:

Hi.  This looks nothing like me.  Especially the whole blond hair thing.  For real, sales man?  You blind.

This made me go back to what is my (not exactly even close to) ultimate dilemma: Who is my doppelganger?  This question initially arose about a year ago, when everyone on Facebook changed their profile picture to that of their own doppelgangers.  I did not have one (well.  I did - I'm just still in denial about it.  More on that later).  I remember asking people who they thought I looked like, but no one could really give me a decent answer.  Apparently I look like Matt's friend Megan because she also has "a big nose" (I do not have a big nose).  I have never seen Megan.  Therefore, I decided to combine the suggestions I was given, and see what they had in common.  Aside from being white with dark hair, I don't think I look anything like most of these people.  But here goes.

 I been told I look like Michelle Branch.  Who I believe (and I may be mistaken about this) is part Native American.  I am not that.  Jews don't look like Native Americans.  Sorry guys.

Do I appreciate being compared to Anne Hathaway?  Yes, thank you.  However, aside from my having large features on a relatively small head and similar coloring, I don't know that there are many true similarities between us.

Then there are the fictional, and more obvious (and slightly wishful) comparisons - Snow White, and Wonder Woman.  They both have shiny dark hair, and are white as ghosts.  They are also cartoons/comics, as I clearly am.












But alas.  I am forced to own up to what I have always known to be true.  My true doppelganger, despite all my denial, my embarrassment, is none other than Lunette.  The clown from The Big Comfy Couch.

That's right, I look like a giant ass freckled childrens show clown who talks to a puppet with giant ears, and lives on a giant piece of furniture with big, poofy hair, drawn-on freckles, and a shirt with bananas or moons or something on it.  Gross.

The Moment I Said It

I don't think I've ever posted any of my choreography up here - so I thought I'd give it a shot. This is a piece I choreographed in the summer of 2009. What started out as an emotional roller coaster coming out of a serious relationship and months of heartache turned into a productive and, what I like to think, successful work. As with all of my dances, I look back and want to change a million things, but I wouldn't touch the amount of raw emotion these kids put into the piece of my heart I opened for them. If I had had 3 months, this would have been one of five numbers - but alas, I only had 4 weeks to teach and perfect.

With that, I hope you enjoy, and I apologize for the poor video quality.

Choreographed by Hilary Goldman

Music by Imogen Heap

No copyright infringement intended



And this was from 2 years prior:







Choreograped by Hilary Goldman
Music by Queen
No copyright infringement intended

Here's The Thing

I find the topic I am about to divulge into comes up a lot – specifically, with me, and in my writing here – but here I am again, ready to tackle it.

The only way to maintain your sense of self is to stay true to yourself, yes? Well, what if you do, and it doesn’t make a difference? I could keep my mouth shut, but that would be going against my nature to talk incessantly (not necessarily something I’m proud of, but I’ve learned to embrace). I spent the first 17 years of my life not talking. Anyone who knew me from age 5 on knew me as that quiet girl in the corner with big eyes who would always speak up when spoken to, but would say very little in between. My best friends had my undivided attention over my teachers during school hours, and while notes and whispers were shared nonstop, I always kept to myself and my friends. I had dance classes and sports to express myself and vent, so I didn’t need much else. I always had my 3 or 4 close friends, and while most people liked me, I was never popular – I’ll never know if it was by my choice and opting for silence, or if my hair just wasn’t shiny enough. That, and while my family was never in financial trouble, we lived in a ridiculously wealthy town I never quite fit in to. The friendships I maintained sometimes suffered, as I was occasionally referred to by my peers as being “bossy” when in groups of 2 or 3. I’m more than positive this is accurate, as even now, I like to be in control of situations.

As I got older, and started reaching the awkward middle school phase of my life, I started to get picked on – and I got picked on a lot. So much so that even now, it’s sometimes tough for me to talk about. This, no doubt, aided in my overall silence, and continued until I really started participating in theatre. I enjoyed high school, but it wasn’t until college that I really came out of my shell. Since then, I am often found, to put it bluntly, talking. Maybe the years of not speaking my mind have caught up with me, or maybe I just have a lot to say – either way, I talk a lot. It’s not that I talk just because I like the sound of my own voice - but I like to think that I have things of interest to say, and I am no longer afraid of expressing myself, or voicing my opinion. If people don’t like it or if things I say have an impact on whether or not a person likes me, then so be it. At least I’m being honest and true to myself.

That being said, I feel the need to reiterate a point I have made before: I am not a liar. I never have been, and I never will be. There was a time in my life where I was lost and searching desperately to fit in somewhere – anywhere – and in that time, I would absolutely tell people what I thought they wanted to hear. I take full responsibility for that time, and, again, I am not proud of it – but I am human, and we all make mistakes. However, outside of that brief stint of insecurity and desperation, I consider myself to be a straightforward and sincere person. Not everyone seems to agree. While I don’t think I have ever been doubted on my sincerity, I have often been accused of being a liar, or of simply making things up. This sometimes comes from my keeping certain things to myself. For example, I don’t often share information from my personal life or my romantic life with everyone I come into contact with. I just don’t always feel the need. Plus it’s hard to trust when you’ve been burned so many times before. I’ve opened up to people in the past, and been royally screwed. Or I’ve shared details of my personal life and then had then shared amongst other friends (not cool). It sometimes leads me to believe that there is no one I can truly trust. Then there are times when I’ve been overly honest (is there such a thing?), and entirely candid about a situation or event, and that has also backfired. All of this leads me to believe that it’s hard to find a happy medium between sharing too much, and not giving enough.

Am I over thinking this all? Most likely. Yet I believe I have reason to do so. While I know my friends like me, I also know there have been conversations (most likely far in the past, but conversations nonetheless) about me and my reliability – which is not a good feeling to have, nor is it a feeling one should have. Even this past weekend, when referred to as “a really great liar” by someone with whom I have been nothing but completely truthful with, I felt a great deal of hurt. While part of me wants to address the issue, another part of me wonders if it’s worth the energy. People will think what they want to think sometimes, regardless of truth. As the awful saying goes, you can’t get blood from a stone. And I can’t get people to believe in me if they don’t want to.

Perhaps this is a battle I will never win. Maybe everyone goes through this, or similar insecurities (or is it just me?) regarding how they are perceived. However, I know who I am. I know when I’m honest and when I’m not, and I know when to keep my mouth shut – if doing so makes me a bad person, than so be it. I know I’m sincere and honest, and direct when need be, and I will not be forgiving for that. I have been lied to, cheated on, and mislead more times than I can count – I would never do that to someone else.

And that’s all I got. Rant over.

The Wedding Singer!

There is still one more weekend!  Come check out the 80's with great music and dancing, drag queens, and parachute pants.  You know you wanna...

For more information, check out the info, here: http://nj.broadwayworld.com/article/Kelsey_Theatre_Presents_THE_WEDDING_SINGER_20010101

Stupid Takes On A Whole New Level

I know it sounds boring, but when I consume alcohol, I tend to drink it - be it from a glass, a bottle, or through a twisty straw. Sounds pretty reasonable, right? Apparently, that's not enough anymore for those crazy teenagers and young college students, who are finding new and interesting ways to get their drink on, using new and interesting orifices to do it, to say the least.

Now yes, this topic may be slightly older, but it was just this past weekend when I learned of “eyeball shots”. Yes, you read correctly. An eyeball shot is just as it sounds - a shot of alcohol you take with your (wait for it) eye. You simply hold a shot glass (or, to be extra classy, the mouth of a bottle) up to your eye socket, lean back, and voila! Insta-drunk! Alcohol is absorbed best through mucous membranes, and according to college students in England, since the eyeball and eyelids are covered in said membranes, it is the fastest way to get drunk. Really? Personally, I think it sounds like the fastest way to sting your eyes and go blind.

According to opthomologists, this practice not only can cause permanent damage to the surface of the eye, but it will hurt like crazy. Oh, and it doesn’t even work. That’s right. Those kiddies may think they’re rocking a drunken high, but really, they’re just stupid. Seriously. Type in “Eyeball Shots” on YouTube, and enjoy hours of dummies being super cool.

Another rad practice consists of pouring vodka into an asthma atomizer or inhaler, and snorting it. Guess what that does? Nothing but burn your sinuses. Cool!

I have, however, saved my personal favorite for last. According to my extensive internet research, this technique was first rumored to exist back in 1999 – but who’s keeping track. Ladies, this one’s for you! Did you know that you can now soak a tampon in vodka and insert it inside of yourself to get buzzed (vaginal mucous membranes anyone)? That’s right! It doesn’t work, but I’ll give someone ten dollars to try it (not). I can only begin think of why a person would maybe even consider doing this; Maybe to avoid the smell of booze on ones breath? To perhaps avoid the nausea and post party blues? None of these seem like justifiable reasons to shove a soaking wet tampon up your who-ha. And how someone would do this is another story all together. It just sounds uncomfortable.

I personally enjoy this quote, which I think sums up the current generation quite well, taken from an article written in USA Today:

What has changed is that the Internet now allows stupid behaviors to be amplified in ways they couldn't easily be before, Lyons says. For example, there's no epidemic of students punching themselves in the face, but there are more than 20 videos of youths doing so online.

Pure genius. Who wants to go buy some vodka and tampons?!

Daily Advice

Dina: Hilary, you need to spice up your love life.  See this scratch on my eye?  Carras hit me with in the face with a slice of pizza.  See?  We keep it real.
Annie: And totally not weird.
Dina: Exactly.

Rainy Days and Mondays. Or Tuesdays.

Rain always makes me one of the following things:

1. Stir crazy
2. Feel the need to put on galoshes (yup, galoshes) and jump in puddles, or
3. Overly contemplative.  Today is a 3 kind of day.

I was told today that I don't know what love is.  Maybe that's true.  Maybe no one truly knows what "love" is, until they are in it.  Even still, how can one person determine whether or not anyone else feels it or not?  Isn't love one of those feelings that is different for each and every individual?  Emotions are only emotions because of the way they effect people, and can really only be determined by the severity in which one feels them.  I've always felt as though feelings and emotions can't necessarily be exactly defined because they are so personal and unique to each person that it is hard to pin point exactly what the "definition" of one is.  Sure, when a person is happy they feel good - but happiness means something different to everyone.  The way a person expresses oneself is specific to them, not to the dictionaries determination.  It aggravates me that, knowing this, people still pass judgement on other peoples reactions and interpretations.  Some people are more or less sensitive than others, and therefore react differently to situations in which someone else may feel is either ridiculous or not severe enough.  Who are we to judge how someone feels?  In addition, it's not always about intent, but perception.  Sometimes what you say may be interpreted differently than what you initially meant.  I just don't see why people can't just be honest and forward, and say what they mean.  Maybe I'm too harsh.

My ultimate point here?  Just jumbles of words mindlessly floating.  It's topics like this, and being called out on something I maybe once questioned that remind me of who I am, and what I believe.  I spent so long being unsure - of myself, and of everything in my life - only to come to the conclusion that nothing is certain or finite.  Things change in an instant, and there isn't always a way to be prepared for them.  I put too much stake in people and events, and allow too much meaning to be placed on words and emotions.  I don't know if it's good or bad, but it's me.  Being aware of it helps me put things in perspective, and realize when I'm maybe being ridiculous or on point.  What I've learned from it all is simply not to judge others on their emotions.  Sometimes, there is simply no right or wrong.  And I'm okay with who I am.  Learning and growing.  What total cheese.

An Assortment of Thought Processes

Rachel: I wanna play a Dynamite.
Hilary: Rachel, you can't.  You're too white to play a dynamite.
Rachel: I could get that Michael Jackson disease, only backwards...
Hilary: ...

How is it that I have been living in the city for 5 months, seen 8 Broadway shows, gotten trashed at blockheads, gone on a city-wide scavenger hunt, walked through Central Park 50 times, and haven't yet been to a museum or gone ice skating?

Yesterday was a terrible day.  I literally had a misunderstanding with every single person I came into contact with.  Except for Brooke, but that's mainly because I don't think she listens to a thing I say.

I take the same train at about the same time to work every morning.  It is almost always packed, and I almost never see the same people (which is astonishing to me - I pay attention to people, and there are rarely repeats).  This morning, as I was getting on the train, my book slipped out of my hand in my usual semi-klutzy demeanor and slid along the ground, just about falling into the space between the platform and the train.  Before I had a moment to even react and go after the book, another train passenger grabbed for it, saving said book from it's gruesome fate.  I was slightly taken aback by this gesture, seeing as how ever since I moved into the city, the main thing I've noticed is how self absorbed people here can be.  Everyone walks on their own line with their own agenda, and it's up to you to move out of the way, lest you get trampled.  People don't hold doors for you as often, or tell you when you've dropped your scarf - and yet here was this man practically throwing himself on the ground to save my crappy little four dollar paperback, and almost getting closed out of the subway car.  I pushed myself into the door to hold the train, and the man stood up, handed me my book, and gave me the friendliest smile I've seen all winter.  He nodded his head as I thanked him, and that was that. 

Continuing on the subject of subways, there is a man who works a newsstand at the 14th street station who is always wearing ivory-colored gloves.  I would normally assume that this was being done for one of two reasons: 1. It's cold, and/or 2. He doesn't want to handle money with his bare hands.  However, this morning, I noticed that his gloves were still ivory in color, but the palms were entirely red, as well as some of the fingertips.  So now, I think he's wearing gloves to cover his tracks from all the people he must murder under the ground in the 14th street subway stop.  He probably hides the bodies chopped up in all the crates stacked up in the corner.  Or maybe I should watch a little less Law and Order.

My winter coat is big and poofy and white - essentially, I take warmth in a giant marshmallow.  It isn't a-lined or cinched at the waist like I would have preferred, but it keeps me warm.  I did not, however, take into consideration how dirty a white coat can get when riding subways.  While last year, my jacket remained a pristine glowing white from winters' beginning to end, this year, I want to dip it in paint so it doesn't look gross anymore.  The lesson I have learned here?  The subways are dirty, and owning a white coat is not ideal.  I would buy a new one, but I just cannot justify spending money on something that I already own, and that serves its purpose.  Next year: those neon coats the NYPD wear.

I desperately need to get over my pet peeve of hearing people chew food, because it's beginning to take an unbearable turn for the worse.  I've actually gotten accustomed to muting the television whenever the Kit-Kat commercial comes on.  It's like my own personal hell.  Strap me to a horse on a deserted island with only caffeinated soda, potato salad, and the sound of people chewing their food, and it's all over.

Want to know what not to wear?  Go to Kmart for their bad eighties couture.  Eesh.

In A Nutshell

The Place: A street in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
The Time: Last night.
The Scene: Matt, Christina, and Hilary walk out of their 3 story apartment building heading for their three-way date night.  Three random strangers (2 guys and a girl) walk by, bundled up with coats, white and black scarves, and black beanies.  The men are not cleanly shaven.  The strangers greet the threesome with a friendly passing.

Three Random Strangers: (varied) Hey Guys, what's up, how's it going?

Matt, Christina, Hilary: (together and varied) Hey, hi, hey...

A few seconds pass as glances are exchanged.

Hilary: Do either one of you know those guys?  Do they live in our building?

Matt: No.  They're Hipsters.  They say hi to everyone.

Hilary: Oh.  That's...friendly.

Matt: No.  I'm from Jersey.  If someone talks to me, I say "Mind your own fucking business" and go on with my day.  I hate white people.

Scene.

Barely Out of Tuesday

I’m sitting at my computer at 10:45 pm eating Cherry Garcia ice cream straight from the pint while Christina watches Bridget Jones Diary and Matt heats up lasagna in the microwave.  A blizzard is stewing and beginning as the first inch dusts gentry atop the cars, and the brisk winds wind through the short Brooklyn blocks.  I wear my pajama pants backwards and inside out in hopes of a snow day.  Funny, how the urge to play in the snow is almost as intense as it was years ago, when all I needed to make me smile was a snow saucer and a day off from school.  Today, the same hopes ring true.  The plate suddenly shatters as Matt wails and comes to the realization that the plate was not microwave safe.  I knew, but didn’t have the heart the tell him.  He’s trying to be more domestic and independent.  His heart is broken.  I stare at the silent phone, waiting for the pot to boil as my first three pages of writing in months vanishes from my computer screen at the accidental brush of a key.  Dammit.

There was a time when I wrote in all italics because I thought it would make my writing more significant.  When I realized that wouldn’t make my writing better, I switched to a purely journalistic account, hoping it would 1) give me an excuse to write and keep myself current on the happenings of the world at large (be it politics, pop-culture, or some weird news account or funny animal Youtube sensation), and/or 2) get me some readers.  It did very little of both.  After 5 years of college, I took a year hiatus from writing down a single word - not a note, a line, a song lyric - nothing.  I was enervated and uninspired.  After 2 years of rejection from the writing world, I wasn’t exactly pumped about my future career - I mean, no one goes into the field they studied in college, that would be madness!  I assumed I could be the exception to the rule.  Reality slap: I am not.  I don’t even know if I’m that talented of a writer to begin with, let alone an outstanding one, which is what you would have to be in order to be noticed.  Writers Markets purchased, query letters sent, rejections received.  Moving on.  I now work in the world of Non-Profit, where I don’t get to do much writing at all.  Instead, I help people (really, check out my website: http://www.yai.org/), which is also something I always wanted to do - I just never saw it happening in this capacity, with this population.  I was supposed to be a dancer.  Instead, I’m a writer, right?  Perhaps not.  The journey continues.  

Which brings us back to the present.  January 11th, to be exact.  I’m not sure what has motivated me to sit back down and really attempt something, but it’s happened regardless.  Maybe that’s the only reason for meeting people - to have them inspire and challenge you.  To have them pull out all the good, the bad, and the ugly, and present it to you in a completely new and shiny package.  To show you where you stand with the world, and maybe where you stand with yourself.  To remind you of where you started, and help you find where you’re going.  In my experience, there are certainly a ton of pot holes along the way - but you always end up back on the track you belong on, one way or another, and not always in the same form you started in.  I’ve met a lot of people.  I’ve fallen in and out of love, and had my heart broken and smashed, then gently reserved it, waiting for the right moment.  I’ve laughed, I’ve wept, drank and partied, and had lots of sex.  I’ve gone on adventures, taken risks, jumped off high dives, driven on the wrong side of the road, run out of gas, broken down on a major highway, gotten stuck in a car, crawled inside a dryer, touched “do not touch” displays, accepted both truths and dares, been broken and bruised, played drunken volleyball and gone drunken sledding, climbed a few mountains, and have no regrets.  And that is what I have come to realize.  There are a million and one things I still want to do - but of the things I have done, I look back and just smile.

And now, it’s 1/11/11 at 11:11pm.  Make a wish.

Conversations Worth Remembering

Rachel: PJ and I just said your text outloud at the same time.  Melissa says 'fuck off'
Hilary: Tell Melissa I am going to give her a dick-in-a-box for her wedding gift
Rachel: Melissa says she already has some anal beads with the face of jesus on each bead and a crucifix on the end to scratch your rectum on the way out.
Hilary: Sweet, that will match my menorah dildo.
Rachel: For all nine of your vaginas
 
Just one of the many, many reasons I miss my old job.

New Year, New Songs, New Board Games

It's the little things, like finding Forgetting Sarah Marshall for four dollars, having a foam sword fight, or discovering gel nail polish that make days go from just okay to awesome, and push my girlie points up to double digits.  Which is okay, because I know what Chamball is.
 
I don't necessarily like to make resolutions, because I feel as though resolutions are meant to be broken (like "I will save money this year" or "I will not eat chocolate".  Yeah right on both accounts).  I prefer to think of it as setting semi unrealistic yet achievable goals that, when I do successfully attain, they are really exciting accomplishments.  That being said, enjoy my list of some of the things I would love to be able to do, continue doing, or just kick a little more booty at.
 
1. Relax.  Last year was crazy - between moving twice, jumping back and forth between homes, crashing on couches, working 3 jobs simultaneously, moving to the city - it was exhausting.  This year, I'm going to enjoy myself.  I've worked extremely hard for way too long.  Now, I'm settled, and I'm going to enjoy living here.  At least until September, when my lease is up, and I have to find a new place away from the crazy Orthodox Jew landlords who don't know how to do anything regarding an apartment building.  This goes hand in hand with number...
 
2. Have more fun.  I need to do just that.  I don't think it requires any more explanation.

3. Take risks.  I'm not talking sky diving here (no Tuesday Irregulars, I will not be jumping out of a plane with you in September), but more along the lines of generally just letting-go.  And maybe road-tripping to Vegas.

4. Get back in touch with my friends.  Silly, maybe, but I've gone sort of MIA for the past few months (since May, really), and now I'm done with that.  I miss my people.  I miss car rides and ice cream, sing-alongs and shopping excursions, photo shoots at abandoned car lots with drug dealers and rape motels in the background, dancing and board games, long phone calls and late night drinking.  I'm social by nature.  This hermit act is over.

5. Stop taking crap.  Again.  Self explanatory.

6. Get back into shape! (lame and typical, right?)  I don't necessarily think I need to actively lose weight.  I just need to get my groove back - get back to the studio, go outside and play more, you know, the usual shenanigans.  And maybe lay off all the candy bars they sell in the lobby of my building.  Those can't be good.

7. There is too much drama in drama.  I don't want it anymore.  I'm an adult, folks.  I'm just staying uninvolved for a while.  A detox cleanse diet, if you will.

8. Write more.  Dance more.  Kick more ass.

9. Be honest.  I've always told it like it is.  I'm going to continue to do so (maybe with a little more tact...), but I'm also going to try to speak up for myself a little more.  Not a whole lot more, because I think I do an okay job.  I just need to be more confident in my decisions and actions.  Cue cheesy music.

10. Be myself.



So watch out, World.  Hil-Dawg is back in action for 2011.  I'm excited.