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.