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*Improv Will Not Reduce Belly Fat – Part 2

Fellow Boston-area improvisors playing a scene in my apartment, which we got together to (drink and) do one Friday night. Because we're awesome. I wish I had better pictures for this series.

Fellow Boston-area improvisors playing a scene in my apartment, which we got together to (drink and) do one Friday night. Because we’re awesome. I wish I had better pictures for this series.

After re-starting improv training in Cambridge despite having already been through a fair chunk of training at Second City a few years ago, this second consideration of the “Rules of Improv” made me realize how said rules can be applied as a guide to life, especially in a new city (which is, ostensibly, what this blog is about). You can read Part 1 here. Below is Part 2.

Rule Number 2: “AND.” An audience member declares you, a very white and only mildly but aspiring to be quite funky white chick to be George Clinton, leader of the P-Funk All-Stars? Hell yes. AND, you add, you’re the owner/operator of a struggling dog grooming business, hampered by the fact that no one wants their dogs to be funkified in this economy. By not just going along with the original idea (the “yes”) but adding to it (the “and”), you’re giving your partner(s) something new to build on and you’re (hopefully) surprising and delighting the audience by taking the scene in an unexpected direction. Which scene would you rather watch, George Clinton wandering around aimlessly, or George Clinton complaining about the lack of funk in the dog grooming landscape? Or whatever. There are no wrong answers – this is make-believe, after all. Whatever random crap comes out of your mouth, add to the scene with confidence and your partner(s) and the audience will happily follow you down whatever rabbit hole.

Again, of course, in the “real world” there are sometimes wrong answers, but the idea is the same. Once you’ve gotten brave enough to say “yes” to whatever, “and” it. Come up with your own plans for weird blogger outings. Hang out with the people you meet (and like). Build on the relationships you started when you meet people. If you’re confident and affable (not an arrogant asshole), people will go with it – and some of those people will probably end up being your friend.

 

You can read part 3 here!

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*Improv Will Not Reduce Belly Fat – Part 1

A girl can dream. (Photo via Access Hollywood)

A girl can dream to join these ranks. (Photo via Access Hollywood)

When I lived in Chicago a few years ago, I started improv comedy training at Second City. My love for the stage and comedy and propensity for randomness meant that improv would probably be a good time. Also, I’ve had a long-standing dream of performing on SNL, and Second City is essentially the “Harvard” (sigh, I know) of training programs that feed into a possible SNL career (or season standing in the background, which still counts). When $300ish is all it takes to “get into Harvard” and start following your silly (but unwavering) dream of comedy semi-stardom, you should just go for it. So I did, and I made some great friends and had some incredible experiences.

Having to leave the program before finishing (to move to San Francisco) kind of put a damper on my comedy career development – too trained to justify starting over, too inexperienced to start auditioning. But after moving to Cambridge and going to see an improv show (and being the most vocal audience member when asked for suggestions, and also giggling uncontrollably when offering said suggestions, resulting in the nickname “Gigs”) I realized I needed this in my life, even if it meant starting (re)training from the beginning.

I already knew that the rules of improv were a good guide for life, but thinking about them again at this juncture made me realize how absolutely applicable they are to a life after moving somewhere completely new. So without further ado, I present to you all “The Rules of Improv As Applied to a Post-Move Life,” a piece in, I don’t know, maybe 3 parts. Maybe 4? Some parts. This is Part 1.

For a classic (and much funnier) explanation of these rules, please refer to Tina Fey’s “Bossypants,” wherein she outlines “The Rules of Improvisation That Will Change Your Life and Reduce Belly Fat*.” Tina Fey is my hero and unwitting mentor, but I promise to you that I am not plagiarizing her here. These are just the rules of improv. They will change your life if applied correctly. They will probably not reduce belly fat.

Rule Number 1: Say YES. In an improv scene, you’re trying to build a world out of next to nothing, so it’s up to you and your partner(s) to build that world as quickly as possible so you can get on with the scene and let the hijinks ensue. The fastest way to do that is to say yes to (the dress?) everything. Imagine standing up there shooting down idea after idea – you’d never get anywhere in the scene, and you’d bore the hell out of and lose your audience very quickly. (Audiences are usually drunk, but they’re never stupid.) Worse, if you say no all the time, no one in your improv group will ever want to play with you because you’re a total buzzkill.

So say yes. Your partner says you’re a squid? They’re goddamn right. Someone declares you allergic to clothing? Absolutely. When asked for an audience suggestion for a celebrity impression, an audience member declares you, a very white and only mildly funky chick to be George Clinton, leader of the P-Funk All-Stars? Hell yes.

When you’re living somewhere new, living by the “rule of yes” is the most important thing you can do. It forces you out of what you think is your comfort zone and throws you into a world of possibility. Of course, the “real world” has limitations – financial, social, physical (you’re not going to be able to transform into a squid, sorry) – but it’s important to push yourself to try new things and meet new people. Go to that weird blogger event, join that random volleyball team, take that improv class even if you’ve already done most of the training at Second City. Nothing bad will happen. Probably good things will occur. And, hey, it’ll keep you from moping around on the couch, so maybe it will even reduce belly fat.

You can read Part 2 here!

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Friday Beer – Tales from a Perfect Dive Bar

“It feels like you’re drinking in someone’s basement.”

There are many types of bars. Speakeasies, swanky lounges, airport bars, beer bars, sports bars, wine bars, tequila bars – you name it and there’s a specialized bar for it. Like restaurants, these various types of establishments will go in and out of style and popularity.

Throughout time, however, one type of bar has remained unchanged: the dive bar.

Unpretentious, even neighborly, a great dive bar operates without a speck of irony. It is what it is – take it or leave it. And while I’m a fan of fancy places and certainly am a fan of places with nothing but craft beer on 100 taps, sometimes a dive bar is exactly what you want.

Last weekend, Colleen and I went to what I’m considering one of the best – truest – examples of a dive bar, at least that I’ve ever seen. We walked in and were immediately greeted with a cheery “hello!” from the gang seated at the bar. Everyone looked to be about 60 years old, men in their Red Sox/Celtics/Patriots sweatshirts, women in light denim and red lipstick. TVG – the channel for off-track horse betting – flickered on one TV, hockey and basketball on the other screens. A lotto ticket machine glowed in the corner. A fridge containing neat rows of beer and also what appeared to be someone’s lunch was on the back wall.

“Is this your first time here?” asked the group.

“Not mine,” said Colleen, referring to the visit she and her boyfriend had made the week prior, “but it’s hers.”

“I just moved here!” I offered.

“Oh yeah? Where from?” asked the man who had a presence that suggested he owned the establishment. It’s really difficult to tell who is working and who is a patron at any given point in time here.

“San Francisco.” Immediately the man launched into a full belt rendition of “I Left My Heart in San Francisco,” and we knew we were in for an experience.

Colleen has described this place as being “like drinking in someone’s basement,” and it really did feel like I was at one of my Catholic friend’s family party. The tables were covered in green vinyl St. Patrick’s day table cloths. The beer choices are limited – which would annoy me at a different kind of place – but a Sam Adams wheat was a fine choice in this situation. There were (shockingly vulgar!) sing-alongs sung and (shockingly clean!) jokes told. Near the end of our second beer, an old man came out from the kitchen carrying a tray of potato pancakes, some apple sauce, and some sour cream.

“Have some, girls!”

“Oh, no, thank you,” we said, suddenly shy. “Actually… I feel a little rude NOT taking any,” I whispered to Colleen. Family party etiquette had taken over. I got up and grabbed a small plate for us, and while the grease content in these things was enough to make even Paula Deen blush, they were delicious.

It’s easy to see how people can end up spending their entire afternoons in a place like this – one beer turned into two, which then turned into three (though at $3.50 a pop, this was no big deal). We went from feeling like interlopers to feeling like we had been accepted by this group of people who had clearly known each other for decades. This is the beauty of the neighborhood dive – things barely change. The people and this bar, to put it in biological terms, have reached symbiosis.

And it’s because of its similarity to a sort-of-ecosystem that I’m not going to share the name of this particular bar. I don’t want to throw off the symbiosis by inviting a bunch of invasive species into the midst. It’s too perfect of an example. But you can bet every penny you win off of that lotto ticket that I’ll be back to visit.

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The Thrill of the (Apartment) Hunt

As a part of the move, I prepared myself for an epic battle of an apartment hunt. I was prepared for battle, I was prepared for blood. I was prepared for it to take weeks.

It took me one afternoon.

This isn’t to say that it wasn’t tricky. Here are the most Important Things I can tell you about apartment hunting in the Boston area:

1. Know what you want.
2. Be ready to act fast.
3. You need help. Get. Help.

On a recommendation from Colleen, I made an appointment with the “Apartment Experts” office in Davis Square. I sent an email outlining what I was looking for (1 bedroom or large studio, somewhere in Cambridge or Somerville’s Davis Square, hopefully lower rent than San Francisco, etc.) and shortly got a call back from a leasing agent named Tom. We had a chat about what I was looking for, and I arranged an appointment for the following Monday.

The week before I moved to MA, my sister introduced me to the addictive HGTV show “House Hunters,” wherein prospective buyers visit three dwellings on the market and pick the one they like most in the end. Watching so much of this show, it turns out, was very good preparation. Who says reality TV is completely useless?? The appointment on Monday went pretty much just like an episode of House Hunters, with less kvetching about granite countertops:

Davis Square – Two-room studio, 5 minutes to the T, gas stove, LOTS of closet space. Extremely budget friendly, close to Colleen and Davis’ awesome bars and restaurants, convenient to work. This was cute, and if you felt like getting really creative with your space it could certainly be a nifty place, but this was SMALL. Sharing this with two cats would have driven me through the roof. Next!

Porter Square – Another two-room “studio,” 10 minutes to the T, off-street parking spot included in rent. This was also extremely budget friendly, and bigger than the first place. There was also a cute built-in cabinet in the living room, which I’m a sucker for. But the apartment was in kind of no-man’s land, and the closet space was seriously lacking. Worth consideration, but I wasn’t feeling it. Next!

Cambridgeport – 1 bedroom apartment, 12 minutes to the T, studio price. On our way to this place I was so stunned by the price for a 1 bedroom that I grilled poor Tom the leasing agent about what could be wrong with it! I’m glad the current tenant was home during this viewing since I was able to get her opinion. I knew this was the apartment for me the minute I walked in. It’s super cute, with an open plan kitchen and living room, a little fireplace in the bedroom, and was cool and breezy even though it was 80* and muggy outside. AND – it has a full size gas stove. None of this “apartment-sized” bullshit that only fits two pans even though there are 4 burners. The neighborhood is awesome – I’m right on the river, but also a short walk to all the fun stuff in Central Square. Super bonus: my neighborhood grocery stores are the only Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods that can sell beer and wine in the Boston area, meaning there will be no need to remember the awkward MA liquor laws! All in all, I knew what I wanted, and this apartment had it. Important Thing #1, check!

I forgot to take pictures, but I did remember the placement of a standard-sized couch in the apartment, and could draw up a rough floor sketch around it!

Come to think of it, this would have made a terrible episode of House Hunters. All the fun is in the suspense about which place they’re going to choose, and there was none of that today.

When you find what you want, Important Thing #2 is crucial. Be ready to act fast. Tom the leasing agent was literally checking his phone constantly to make sure the place in question was still available. If you find an apartment that fits all of your criteria, you don’t have time to hem and haw and think another day, you have to pounce. It feels like an impulse buy, it maybe feels a little irresponsible, but you just have to do it. I pondered for 3 awkward minutes in the car on the way back to the office, and announced “ok, let’s do it!” The apartment had been on the market for two hours.

None of this would have been possible without abiding by Important Thing #3 – Get. Help. The Apartment Experts not only drove me all over Somerville and Cambridge to look for this apartment, but they had an in with the landlord, and took care of all the paper work. Yes you have to fill out a lot of paperwork and hand over a couple fairly large checks, but they manage the whole process flawlessly. The next day they let me know that the apartment was mine. A few days later, I had a fully executed lease in my mailboxes, both real and virtual. There is almost always a fee when dealing with brokers in the Boston/Cambridge area, but in this case that (half) fee was 100% worth it. If you’re nice, these guys will do anything they can to get you into the apartment you choose.

Really, the only downside to this whole experience is having it be such a quick process that I’m now left with a little over a month to daydream about furnishing the place! June 1 cannot come soon enough.

If you’re looking for an apartment in Cambridge/Somerville:
Apartment Rental Experts – (617) 666.5031
My agent’s name was Tom Carr, but everyone was very helpful!

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An Introduction. (Or, I think I need a new town.)

A rolling stone, as they say, gathers no moss.  Or, more accurately, very little.

I know I’m starting this whole thing off with a cliché, but it’s the best way I can think of to sum life, or at least adult life, up to this point.

When people ask me where I’m from, I always unintentionally take a beat before answering, because I don’t really know what to say. I’ve lived more places than most people.

  • Birth – 0.5 years: Beverly Hills, Michigan
  • Age 0.5-2.5: Holden, Massachusetts
  • 2.5-16: Birmingham, Michigan
  • 16-18: Annapolis, Maryland
  • 18-23: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
  • 23-26: Chicago, Illinois
  • 26-28: San Francisco, California
  • 28-???: Boston, Massachusetts

Usually, I end up telling people that I “grew up” in Michigan, since that’s where I spent the majority of my life. But the truth is that Michigan is not what I consider home. When I say “I’m going home for Christmas” or some other occasion, I’m referring to Annapolis, where my parents have lived for the past 12 years and where I graduated from high school.

(I feel the need to add that all of this wishy-washy “I don’t know where I’m from” stuff goes right out the window when we’re talking about hockey, because if you say anything that goes against my Red Wings I will go Detroit on your ass so fast your head will spin.)

And, even though I refer to Maryland as “home,” it is not my home. I have been on a search for my home for what seems like forever. I moved to Philadelphia after high school to go to the University of Pennsylvania. While I steadfastly believe that Philly is the BEST “first city” for a young adult to live in, after college and another year (and a bad, bad breakup) there it got a little claustrophobic. And so, essentially on a whim, my best friend Colleen and I packed our possessions and unwitting cat into a Penske truck and were off to Chicago.

Chicago is another truly great city, and there are many things that I miss about it. It has this awesome blend of culture that comes from Midwestern sensibilities blending with more cosmopolitan tastes, and is an amazing place to be when you’re in your early 20s. I would also guess that it’s a great city to start a family in. Mid-20s, though, get a little awkward if you aren’t careful. One day about two years into our time in Chicago, Colleen and I stepped out to go get brunch, and both wondered aloud “why did we move to a neighborhood so full of 23-year-olds who think that they’re awesome?” And we realized, of course, that we had been 23 and thought we were awesome when we moved there. It was clear that we had outgrown the neighborhood and it was time to move on. So Colleen moved to New York and later Boston, and I made it my mission to get myself to San Francisco. Six months later, I got my wish, and was asked to move there for work.

Why San Francisco? I have very little idea, actually. My little sister lives in LA, but she also went to college in LA and has always wanted a very LA job – that has always been her city. I wanted to try California, but in my own way. Also, pale redheads have a hard time in LA. Also, my job was in San Francisco.

A year or so after moving out here, it dawned on me that I wasn’t really building a life. Yes, I had some friends and a career and a hobby and an apartment I had finally finished furnishing, but it didn’t feel like I was putting down any roots. I tried making plans to do that by getting back into horseback riding more seriously and planning to move to the East Bay, but I realized that I probably wouldn’t be able to fake my way into making a permanent home out here. So, when the opportunity to move to Boston came up – home of much of my family and my best friend – I embraced it.

And my goal? Make it stick. Y’know, gather a little moss.

So here’s the story of how I stopped coasting, and tried to build a life.

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