Three.

Day Three and I promise I'm here, only in the 11th hour.

Literally.

I would have gotten here sooner, but a long walk turned into spiral practice with my football, which turned into another long walk and some hardcore boxing with the Wii. This, friends, is my ever so exciting life. It's getting harder and hard to drag my sorry self to the gym, so I'm trying to find other ways to stay active.

It's been brought to my attention that I haven't clued my audience into the ins and outs of my daily life. Well. That's because there's not much to "I woke up, ate some yogurt, went to work, made lots of people happy (I hope!), came home, went to the gym (again, I hope) and crashed on the couch with an evening of Bejeweled and bad tv." But there is something pretty exciting going on that I probably should clue you into.

I'm in my first New York theatrical production!

Yup. Three years after I moved here to pursue theatre, I finally pursued a little theatre. Sure, there have been a few auditions and a class. And I've certainly SEEN my fair share of theatre. But I dunno...somehow I never really took it seriously. I went to auditions I knew I wasn't right for that way the rejection seemed a bit less real and slightly more fair. "It's not that I suck. It's that I wasn't right for the role."

So I finally went to an audition where they couldn't type me out. Why? Because they wanted 20-something character actors who could play a wide range of ages and potentially some musical instruments. Well how 'bout DEM apples? I am a 20-something character actress who can play a wide range of ages and yes, even some musical instruments. So I submitted my two year old headshot and my laughably sparse resume and wouldn't you know, I got an audition. And instead of writing this one off and singing que sera sera all the way home, I actually prepared. I went in, belted my song, made some character choices, and smiled pretty and said "thanks for seeing me!"

Two days later, I got the call. Two roles (neither of which I read for, but that's ok). Rehearsals begin tomorrow. It's so NOT a big deal, but it is SO exciting that I'll actually be doing SOMETHING besides keeping my couch and my cat company. And who knows what this will lead to? It's a new show with a company I've wanted to work with for awhile. This could be the hobby I've been begging for.

So tomorrow, I'll wake up and eat my yogurt and put on my suit and go to work and make lots of people happy (I hope). And then, I'll go to rehearsal number one and meet my castmates and breathe life into Pearl and Patti.

I cannot wait.

Two.

It's been 10 years and that seems like a very long time. (But a very good time, too.)
I remember a night much like tonight. Cool, but not quite cold; probably something the poetic types would call crisp. I remember walking the path between Trexler and Belk and gazing at the sky, laced with gauzy clouds. I remember staring at the trees and feeling young and entirely independent and free. I remember loving that campus and loving our city and feeling thrilled to finally be a Carolina Girl. I remember finally understanding that the choices me make and the friends we have are absolutely what shapes our destiny. And I vividly remember that from inside such a moment, I felt like the luckiest, happiest girl alive.

Sure, the sky and the clouds, the trees and that campus, all loaned themselves nicely to such a wonderful feeling of pure contentment. I remember feeling that I had made it, that I had done something, that I had finally started to shrug away the angst of childhood and begun to embrace the possibilities that had arrived to pull me into adulthood. But more than anything, I remember that you were there, right next to me. And I kept this thought silent for a decade, but now I've decided to let it sing to the world. It was only a moment, but it travels with me daily. You were there the first time I associated pure happiness with my world.

So my wish for you, Jennifer Gail, is that the giddiness I felt that night with you at my side walks with you daily throughout your 28th year and beyond. You've shaped a large piece of me, and you carry a sizable chunk of my heart. Happy Birthday! I cannot wait to see you soon!

AOT.

I wanna play the game. (I want the friction.)

I let October come and go without one single entry.
I said October would be better than September, and it was.
There were palpable differences I could see and taste and touch and feel, but there were emotional ties rebound and broken, too.

And now it's November and it's going to be my NaBloPoMo. (That is, National Blog Posting Month.) A post a day, for one month straight. Being that I haven't talked to y'all in awhile, I hope there's a lot to tell you.

Of course...there is a way you can help. If you're reading this, whether I've known you a month or all my life, whether you read this regularly or just wandered in this very minute, no matter what, comment and give me some inspiration. Perhaps it's a story you already know and want me to re-tell it. Perhaps it's a small idea you once heard me say in passing and would like me to explain in more detail. Perhaps you just really care about my thoughts on okra or sequins or Kevin Smith movies. Dunno. Just be my muse. Give me something.

November is going to be beautiful. Adrian comes home and New Moon hits theatres and I start rehearsals for my New York theatrical debut and I get to visit Charlotte and Atlanta and see the most important people in the world (and meet one of them) and the holiday season arrives and there's big things happening at work and there's always that possibility that around the corner, something crazy and exciting waits. Let's get started!

Don't waste your heart on a wild thing

Earlier today, I wore an Anne Klein suit with pearls.
And here I sit now, in a Bama hoodie and no name jeans.
I'm busy flipping back and forth between the Alabama/Arkansas game and America's Next Top Model.
I realized earlier how much I whine about being tethered to work via my blackberry, yet I can't go more than 2 minutes without glancing at the thing.
I claim to be a literature snob, but somehow I'm currently re-reading the Twilight Saga, because once wasn't enough.
I'd like a boyfriend, but only if there's plenty of room for things like space and freedom.
I beg for down time, yet immediately become bored and restless after five minutes alone.
I can't go in public without styled hair and applied makeup, yet will be the first to whine about those who judge based on outward appearance.
My cat annoys me when she won't cuddle but irks me if she meows for attention.
I'll sleep with the windows open or AC on only so I can wear more layers and snuggle with the comforter.

There's no point to this entry. I just felt like punctuating the fact that I am indeed a little bit strange.
Now. I think I'll go order dinner. A quesadilla. And a salad.

I tried my best to be guarded, but I'm an open book instead

Happy Anniversary, Baby.

At this exact moment three years ago, I was crammed in a minivan with all my wordly belongings and two of my very best friends. There weren't as many tears as I'd anticipated, but there was a racing heart and a roving mind and a whole lot of "what ifs" on the wide open horizon that stretched up the road from North Carolina to New York.

We all thought I'd be back after one year. We all thought I'd have my fun, stick my foot in the proverbial pool of New York life, discover the icy reality and run straight back down yonder where I am still quite positive I belong. I don't really know what's come over me or understand the force that binds me to this city. But here I am, and here I'll stay, for the time being.

And it's a different New York than the one that initially greeted me. There's no longer a Crissie residing in the bedroom next to mine. I've walked in and out of 3 jobs, into a 4th and been promoted to a 5th. I now swear by my blackberry and own Prada, but no longer wear high heels. I weigh 30 pounds less and don't wheeze after a single flight of stairs...or even 2, 3 or 5. I can tell you how to get wherever you're going without ever looking at a subway map. I've seen well over 100 Broadway, off-Broadway and off-off Broadway productions and have even auditioned for a few. My heart has broken, healed and broken again and boy hidey, have there been some atrocious dates. I've moved out of Brooklyn and into Queens and discovered that closets really do exist in this city. I've kicked Joanna Gleason out of her rehearsal space, gawked at Will Smith, smashed into John Lithgow and Diana DeGarmo and been stalked by Seth Myers. And more importantly than anything, New York owns an independent Alison who's not entirely afraid of being alone. Which is weird, and also kind of huge.

Anyhoo. I've done hardly anything I set out to do, but a million and one other things I'd never have dreamed into my own reality. I've quit guessing what the future holds and stopped acting like I have any decision making rights on this crazy ride of mine. It's more than a little bit funny that one of the loudest, rudest, brightest, most chaotic places in the world taught me how to relax and stop trying to control silly little things like life, the human spirit and destiny.

I guess I can't help but wonder if we're going to make it to four years.

Allow me to exaggerate a memory or two...

Following a failed attempt at a cartwheel in a park, my glasses found themselves fastened together with superglue. I received a lot of crap for this but didn’t actually care because they still helped me to see, which is exactly the kind of thing glasses should do. And though I live in New York, I’m mostly still a hick from Alabama who cares more for functionality and comfort and overall look than labels.

Seriously. If I feel like splurging, you’ll find me at Macy’s, as opposed to Target or Old Navy. The only labels I own were purchased in Chinatown, so I’ll give you a couple guesses as to their level of authenticity.

And I had contacts anyhow, so this whole conversation was pointless. Until, of course, the seasons shifted and the allergies attacked and I found myself with chronic dry eye and non-existent desire to poke myself in said dry eyes, pre-mascara in the mornings. Fine. Time to make room in the monthly budget for something more important than wine and new shoes. (Ok, so perhaps New York is rubbing off on me afterall..) So I headed to Cohen’s Fashion Optical, lured in by the promise of $100 glasses. I gave myself a very strict talking to prior to my arrival. I was to seek aforementioned functionality and comfort and, if necessary, compromise style.
But then I saw the sad little $100 glasses case. I think, in actuality, this case is not where glasses come to find their new homes, but rather a glasses graveyard. This case is where ugly, outdated glasses come to die. I knew no mate for me waited inside that case, what, with their rhinestone embellishments and golden feathering. (I am NOT kidding.) And frankly, by the time they add in all the things you need to get the glasses out the door (you know, like lenses and an eye exam) it’s gonna go over $200. So I wandered to the next counter. And the next. Ah yes, and that display, too.

Oh, why hello Gucci, Armani. Hi Coach! What’s up, Calvin, Ralph? Heeeey Dior! Yves Saint Laurent, great to see you! You too, Fendi. And then I saw them. Purple and Prada. The saleslady sensed my weakness and had them ‘round my ears and perched on my nose before I could say “STOPITICANTAFFORDPRADAAREYOUCRAZYGETTHESEOFFME.” And you know that moment in a movie when something big happens and everything is in slow motion and everything is quiet but the manufactured sound of a heart beating? That happened, as I leaned forward to peer into the mirror. I gasped. Saleslady gasped. Other sales dude, who REALLY thought I belonged in Coach gasped. The lady with her ADHD 9 year old son gasped. These glasses had to be mine, y’all. So they are now. (Forgive the bad cell phone picture - it's all I got for the moment.)
And that is what I am up to. While my friends wander the world and prepare to be parents and attack academia and fantasize about farmland and lots of other very important things, I am here in New York, purchasing Prada.

Just because I'm losing doesn't mean I'm lost.

I may be jumping the gun...
It's too early to tell...
I really shouldn't be opening my mouth right now...
And truly, I should not count my chickens before they hatch...
Or say anything until I'm positive...

But I think I have a new obsession.

And it's kind of causing me to take back a statement I made a few entries ago. Remember when I told you I would submit to the need to workout, but probably never have the desire? Uh huh. Yup. Ok. Fine. Might have been wrong on that one. You see, I'd been dragging my ass to the gym and onto cardio equipment and frankly, that's just not all that fun.

So last night, I went to a MegaMix Aerobics class and sweated and giggled my ass off. I enjoyed it so much, in fact, that this morning I awoke full of energy, checked the class schedule, and bolted out the door for Kickboxing. I enjoyed THAT so much that after class, I marched myself upstairs and requested a personal trainer to show me the weights and machines.

And now, there is not one room in that gym that I do not OWN.

And the mirrors I once feared are slowly becoming my friends. Because at the gym, the mirrors are not there to foster narcissism or elevate flaws. They're there to help you...to reflect body positioning and focus on improvement. Today, in the middle of my side kicks and jabs and hooks, roundhouses and upper cuts, I gazed into that mirror and saw an Alison drenched in sweat but somehow glowing, with shining eyes and a great big smile. And there, in that mirror, plain as day, was something I have never seen.

My neck.

To the population at large, neck sightings might not rank as breaking news, worthy of blog entries. But to this no-neck monster, it's exactly the kind of thing I need to see. As I stretched off the squats and rolled through the pain, my body made me aware of every muscle group, leaving me strong and capable.

Perhaps I've broken through a barrier. I feel like my life has kind of settled itself into some blase form of normalcy lately, and I'm thrilled for a new focus.

All I want is to rock your soul

Dandelions.
I loves them.
Always have.

I mean, check out my computer background.



As a child, I formed some kind of unnatural obsession with plucking any in sight and scattering those petals on into the wind. I guess it's the dreamer in me. Any reason to wish is reason to get excited. (And as an adult, I still do it. And wish on the first star spotted on any given evening, too.)

I guess I just keep hoping that the wind is just going to blow that change I seek my way. Which I guess says a lot about my personality.

Dear Universe,
I bow down to you and acknowledge that you are fully capable of making wishes come true if I only bend to your necessary whims and allow you to do your thing.
Love,
Alison

Last week, I got a wild hair and organized - I mean, really organized - my room and the living room. Those who know me know this is a biiiiig deal. For a solid week, I have maintained a very un-Alison like level of continued organization. I hate to admit it but...I'm kind of happier this way. I waste less time and energy finding things so that I have more of both to do the actually important things. Novel concept, really. But even with all the now niche-i-ness, something was missing. Observe.



While perusing a cute little home goodies boutique, I came across some adorable wall decals. They were pretty pricey though, so I avoided the purchase and headed for the internet instead. (And besides, decals? Surely I could come up with something arty-er.) Initially, I looked for stencils, assuming it would be the most economical choice and lend a little more "look what I can do!" to my wall. Y'all. Stencils are both expensive, and hard to come by.

Back to decals.

So over to Etsy I headed, because Etsy never lets me down. And I found this.

Dishes are done, man. Dishes are done.
But to sweeten the deal, I also found this.

Which I ordered in light pink (not black) and will accompany the scattering seeds I will send sailing across my bright pink wall. And then I ordered a tiny set for my computer, too. It really shouldn't be left out of all the fun. There's a chance I may later order a bright pink set for my bland white wall later but I didn't want to go too overboard just yet.

So within the next week, my room will receive it's final touches. And every day, I will wake up and remember that I am a girl who never stops wishing.

It's impossible to you, not impossible to me.

And so the journey begins again. I've been stagnant and dormant too long.

On January 1st, 2005, I began Weight Watchers. Over the course of 11 months, I dropped 60 pounds.

For the year that followed, I maintained.

On September 22nd, 2006, I moved to New York. Over the course of the next year and a half, I dropped another 27 pounds. I wish I could tell you this was done entirely healthily, but I think we all know that my first 2 months in New York had me living on McDonald's Happy Meals, granola bars, and peanut butter. Ah, the life of a starving (hopeful) artist.

For the year that followed, I maintained within about a 5 pound fluxuation range.

87 pounds down, and sadly, about 50 more to go.

Somewhere in June, I joined a gym. (As you have already read.) I guess an eensy weensy part of me hoped my schedule would magically clear up, I would spend 2 hours there 4 times a week, and life would be magically healthy and the pounds would melt away. As we all know, that ain't so. After talking to Megan's parents about their success, I have decided to give South Beach a go. Frankly, my body needs a bit of a cleanse and I've got nothing on my plate (pun intended) for a couple weeks, so now is as good a time as any.

The good news is, Marielle and Megan are doing it with me which is going to make this sooooo much easier. And, Megan already had the books. Here we go.


No fruits, fewer carbs, and no alcohol for 2 weeks. If I'm crankly, I apologize. Here's hoping I emerge from Phase One at least 10 pounds thinner. From there, it will be onto Phase Two and the re-introduction of carbs, fruit, and (thank GOD) wine. The goal is 25 pounds by September 15th.

And after that? Only another 25 pounds until my FINAL GOAL. I finally feel close. Perhaps somewhere in early 2010, 5 years after I started, I will hit that "I've lost 127 pounds from my heaviest point" mark. I will slap it square across the face and remind it it is indeed my bitch. And I will never. EVER. Go back.

It gets so bad, but I just keep coming back for more

I keep meaning to write you a long and wordy post about how I'm ok and flooded with love and realizing the difference between wants and needs.

Instead, tonight I will regale you with stories from the gym. Or as I playfully love to call it...well. Hell.

I keep hoping I'm going to wake up magically one day and be one of those people who just loooooooves to work out. Now check it. I have in fact lost 87 pounds from my highest point. Across those pounds, I have tried walking. Jogging. Running. Pilates. Yoga Booty Ballet. YMCA. Curves. Yoga. And lately...Lucille Roberts. Because it's 20 bucks a month, around the corner from my apartment, and yes, I am now at the point in which I need to be toning and doing cardio in addition to learning fries and pizza a well-rounded meal do not make.

And even though I love how I feel AFTER I work out, and occasionally I love that great warm spread in my chest that comes with breaking a truly remarkable stride...I do NOT love the act of working out. For me, I look to the gym how many people look at their ex-spouse. Specifically if a marriage shattered with kids in tact. Everything is done politely, but with gritted teeth and bruised egos. Y'know. For...the kids.

Only for me, the kids happen to be my multiple chins, my jiggling arms, my buddha belly, and my thunder thighs.

On my first morning at the gym, I was a solid 7 minutes into my QT with the elliptical when a very polite woman approached my machine, demanding it was her turn. An obvious rookie, I hadn't realized when I signed up for a machine, it would do me some good to make sure I got on the right one. The silly part of this story is that amidst her yelling, (all in Spanish, to boot) no less than 4 machines stood empty. The kind woman next to me finally relinquished control of her machine only after I screeched "IT'S MY FIRST DAY. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I'M DOING. DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST DAY?!"

The past two weeks have been relatively uneventful. I'm learning the quieter times when I don't have to fight for machines and can steer clear of those directly in front of the floor to ceiling mirrors.

Yeah, can we talk about that for a second? There is NOTHING I look forward to more than planting myself in front of a mirror and watching the sweat pour and my face turn into a veritable Ally Tomato.

And then today rolled around. After a weekend of overindulging in birthday cake (for me! for America!) and beer and wine and burgers and cheese and sushi and pizza and gelato, I shimmied myself into my favorite pair of part lycra (aaaaallllll comfort) pants and headed to see good ole Lucille. 2 miles on a bike had me good and revved up for 40 minutes of "let's see what I can do!" on the treadmill. Well. 3.5 miles is apparently what I can do - 2.5 of them at an actual run. Go me, right?

Right.

Until it was time to get off the treadmill. My feet hit that nice and still and steady ground aaaaaand...I fell. Right on over. Yup. I did that. And I mean, I couldn't help but laugh because what else do you do when you appear drunk at a gym at 10 in the morning?

It's fine. I'm not bitching. I'm just aware I'm never going to love this modern torture chamber called the gym. But I'll keep on going.

Y'know. For the kids.