former fatty

I started hating my body when I was in third grade. That's the first time I remember being aware of "weight" and "dieting" and suddenly craving a different waist, different arms or legs. My third grade teacher, Mrs. Wilder, was a very open to her third grade students about her battle with weight and even shared how her sister was hospitalized because she threw up so much, she completely ripped out her stomach lining. Soon after those stories were told to the class, the girls decided to play a game every day in the bathroom. It wasn't really a game but more of a test. There were three sinks in the girls bathroom, each with maybe 3 or 4 inches of space between them. Two of the girls stated one day during our bathroom break if you couldn't fit between the sinks, you were fat. Somehow, those two little waifs managed to squeeze themselves between the sinks, however I couldn't; therefore, I was a fatty. Later I learned one of the girls got pregnant right out of high school and the other got a painfully obvious boob job.

For whatever reason, that moment has stuck with me. I remember the first time someone actually called me fat. I was in the sixth grade and it was a Friday. I was going to be checked out of school a half hour early to go shopping with my best friend Lindsay and her mom. When I was called to leave, I grabbed my things and hurried down the hall to get Lindsay and excitedly knocked on her homeroom door. One of the kids let me in and as I walked in the room, a lovely boy by the name of Kiev yelled across the room, "HEY! You were the hippopotamus in my band class today!" Everyone laughed. And a little part of me died. Of course my shopping experience for the day was ruined and that moment started an obsession with my weight and appearance which would last me a lifetime. Kiev of course turned out to be quite a gem -- landing himself in jail multiple times for intelligent crimes such as driving drunk and running into a mailbox. I guess sometimes karma really does bite you in the ass.

I think people who crave to be thin really crave invisibility. Or maybe the crave to be thin is really a craving to disappear. I wanted to disappear in middle school and felt invisible for those three long years. As I got older and into high school, I used to stand in front of the mirror before I got in the shower and stare at the areas I hated most on my body and criticize them. At times I would poke and pinch certain areas so hard I would leave a bruise. I felt if I hated my stomach enough, maybe it would go away. High school is somewhat of a blur and I don't remember a lot. However, I was very involved in things like theatre, chorus, colorguard and had a lot of friends. I hid the hatred for myself very well.

I ended up going to college for musical theatre and quickly learned of the importance of "look" when it came to landing a job in the business. The first show I auditioned for was "Chicago" and the director had us wear nothing but tights and a leotard and stand in front of him while he judged our bodies. I was cut immediately. Soon after this experience, I found myself eating only a bowl of cereal or a tiny can of dry tuna a day. Before I knew it, the weight was coming off and people were starting the notice. I also lost all color in my face, my hair and nails were dry and brittle and I couldn't get through a dance class without becoming horribly dizzy. But the dizzier I became and the more people told me how thin I was getting, the less I ate. I loved feeling hungry -- it was so powerful. If I went to bed starving, I felt as if I had accomplished something and I felt completely in control. I loved it.

This didn't last. I feel people who have a tendancy toward eating disorders go one of two ways -- either they simply get over it or they nearly die. I got over it. And while I started eating again, my way of thinking never changed. I hated myself every time I ate and felt guilty at every meal.

My weight has yo-yo'd a lot over the years. I look back at pictures of myself in college and see how beautiful I was -- and in no way was I fat. It's sad to think of all the time I wasted and all the experiences I lost out on all because I hated my body. I've worked so hard these last six months to change my thinking, and while I've come a long way, I'm not there yet. I suppose it took me 26 years to get this way -- it's going to take a little time to change it.

I feel the media has a HUGE effect on adolescent women and their body images, but that's another blog.

ta-ta twirling

Some people might consider me a bit of a prude. But guess what this prude did this past Saturday?
Twirled tassels with my boobies.
Yup. You read correctly. I stuck some nipple tassels to my ta-ta's and proceeded to learn how to move my body in such ways to make them twirl around.
I'll elaborate.

I have a wonderful friend who is getting married this Sunday; therefore, this past weekend was her lovely bachelorette party. Her fantastic maid of honor had arranged for 11 ladies to take a burlesque dance class. At first I panicked slightly when I heard this because the thought of moving my body in a sexual way kind of makes me want to cry a little, but I was reassured it was going to be fun and silly and definitely no nudity.
Sweet. I'm in.

We get there and we're handed boas and gloves (I score the pink ones -- I was happy). The instructor was a little hardcore, but whatever. We've all had a few glasses of champagne so we were in for a good time. At first the routine starts innocently enough -- a little playing of the boa, walking around, some booty shaking -- nothing too crazy. This goes on for thirty minutes or so and suddenly we get to what the instructor called "the bra section". Okay. She starts showing us and suddenly I realize she's expecting us to remove our bras and dance around topless.
Panic.
However, before she removes her top she explains we are going to be on nipple tassels.
More panic.
She walks over, grabs a pair, takes off the tape and suddenly exposes her boobs to show up how to put them on. No one moves. We're all staring with our jaws on the floor.
I proceed to laugh.
She says to walk over and grab and pair and we do slowly but no one makes a move to put them on. The maid of honor looks at me and laughs and states there's a good chance I could spontaneously combust.
She would be correct.
Suddenly one of the ladies loses all modesty and throws off her shirts and says, "C'mon, ladies!! Put on your tassels!" That encourages others.
Not me, however.
Then I think, well, shit. I can't be the ONLY one who says, 'Later, ladies. I'm sitting this one out. Peace.' So, I put my balls to the wall and stick some tassels to my tits.
Before you know it, we're all standing in front of a mirror bouncing up and down, trying to figure out how to make them twirl every which way imaginable.
I laugh throughout the entire thing.

This may sound a bit "out there", but I learned something quite valuable from this experience.

I've always had issues with my body - mainly "I'm a fatty". I feel it's really caused me to miss out on a lot of things and I use it as an excuse. I've always compared myself to other girls trying to figure out how others might see me. I went to college with the maid of honor and in my opinion, her body rocks. She has boobs for days, a little waist, hips and long, toned legs. Yea, I know...I hate her, too. I've also been one to look at magazines and celebrities and assume that's what most women look like. Cellulite, stretch marks, fat roles and jiggly arms don't exist on anyone who is thought to be "attractive".
LIES.
I stood in a room full of woman, all different shapes and sizes and realized ALL woman have these things. We get so wrapped up in these images we see on TV and in magazines that we've forgotten what REAL women look like. They look like me and everyone else in that class. And we're all hot.
I walked away realizing I'm not so bad. I may have small breasts and some pudge around my middle section, but that's okay. That's sexy, too. You just have to own it.


All in all, nipple tassels turned out to be a rather liberating experience.
Who knew?

that's just rude.

I deal with rude people all day every day. From my home and through out work, it seems rudeness from others is the theme of my life.

Example:
Tonight I had a woman who, for whatever reason, found deciding what to eat to be an INCREDIBLY difficult task. Note to dine-in customers: if you don't know what you want to eat, it's totally fine. Just please, PLEASE don't allow me to stand there like an idiot in an awkward silence while you dissect the menu. Believe it or not, there are other people I am waiting on. You are NOT the only person in the restaurant. Anyway, she was debating between the salmon and the corn beef. "Which is better?", she asks. "Well...they're quite different...what are you in the mood for?"
"Well, if I knew that I probably wouldn't be asking you!" she said loudly and sighed.
Whooooa, lady. It's not MY fault you don't know what you want to eat, nor is it my fault I don't know your taste buds. Keep your panties on.

Clearly after that sassy comment things got awkward. I didn't say anything and said, "Maybe I should give you a few minutes?"
"I'll take the corn beef" she said and slammed the menu.
This woman was rude for the rest of the meal and then proceeded to leave me an 8% tip. I hope she gets hit by one of the biker guys you see riding throughout Times Square. Karma's a bitch.

About a year or two ago during a lunch shift, I had two very creepy men sit in my section. I'd say they were both pushing fifty and dressed to the nines in suits, slicked hair and gold chains; one even had gold rimmed glasses. I walked over, dreading the conversation that could potentially take place and asked them what they would like to drink. To my surprise, they smiled politely and ordered a root beer and an iced tea. Okay, maybe I'm a little too quick to judge. I get them their drinks and come back over to take their order. Suddenly one asked, "What do you do when you're not at the restaurant?"
I hate this question. What do you think I do? I'm an actress, okay? YES, I fit the stereotype. And why is the next question always, "do you audition?" Don't talk to me. Just tell me what you want to eat, if you need ketchup and let's leave it at that.

"I'm at actress", I said forcing a smile. "Oh yea? We're in the acting business, too" they said and chuckled. "You ever do film?" he asked. "Oh, I did like, two independent films in college -- nothing too exciting. I'm more of a stage actress." I made the mistake of asking what they do in the film business and the gold rimmed glasses guy said, "We do pornography. I'm the director and the big guy across from me is the producer and handles the money". What else could I say to that except, "...Oh." Then he says, "Listen, if you're interested, I'd be willing to pay you two grand for some stills. We're looking for some women to be Glamazons in our next film -- you'd be perfect. We work right uptown from here. When do you get off?"
I couldn't help but be extremely offended. Sadly, people seem to think all actresses are desperate to get any work they can. I'd rather ask you how you like your burger cooked instead of getting naked for the camera. Sorry fellas, but you're talking to someone with a little more self respect.
I wanted to say "No, thank you" but instead I said, "Gentlemen...I am not your girl for this job. In college I wrote a very lengthy research paper on the negative effects of pornography. What can I get you for lunch?"
They left me a 25% tip.

Another thing -- telling me what a great server I am doesn't pay the bills. I can smell that a mile away. The moment someone starts telling me how great and perfect everything is, I know I'm in store for no more than a 10% tip. Don't say it. Just show me the money.

I know if you're in a deep conversation it's awkward when someone walks up in the middle of it. Trust me, I don't like it either. But what else do you expect to happen when you go to a sit down restaurant? So, let's make it easier on everyone and simply take a second from your conversation, tell me what you want to drink and I'll leave you alone. Don't continue with the conversation once I've walked up. You know I'm standing here, I know I'm standing here -- don't be an ass hole. Because one of two things will happen -- either I will continue to stand there and stare at you until you finally decide to acknowledge me or I will walk away and take a very, very long time to return. And I'm not talking one or two minutes, okay?

If you order a burger well done and it comes down medium rare, I'm sorry. But guess what? I'M NOT COOKING THE FUCKING FOOD. So don't get all pissy with me saying how disgusting it is and how it's so unbelievable that you can't even get a burger cooked properly and blah blah blah. I know. It sucks. But this isn't life or death.
On the same note, if the food is late I'll tell you if it's my fault. I've been known to ring in orders late once or twice, but when I do I haul ass to the kitchen and tell them to bring it down immediately. Otherwise, I have no control over how quickly or slowly your food comes down. Relax, fatty. You're hot dog will be down when they've finished cooking it.

And a note to the senior citizens out there -- it's not 1950 anymore. A 10% tip is no longer acceptable. Get with it. And YES, it's a decaf coffee. Ask me again and I'll make sure it's loaded with caffeine.


How the hell did I become a waiter?

toppers, toupes, and wigs ...oh my!

I have alopecia. I am losing my hair. My precious, long, thick, beautiful hair. My security blanket, the one thing I truly loved about myself was leaving.

Nothing in my life has been more devastating than hearing, "You have a female balding pattern, also known as androgenic alopecia". I cried for weeks. It's been 6 months and I still have nights when I cry myself to sleep.

When I started telling people how heartbroken and sad I was, a lot responded with, "well, be thankful you're healthy!!" Yes, thank you and thank goodness. However, I don't know what it's like to be dying from cancer, I don't know what it's like to get in a car crash and have all my limbs severed, I don't know what it's like to lose a parent....but I DO know what it's like to be told I'm losing my hair. Maybe that makes me lucky, I don't know, but it's utterly terrifying.

My Grandmother has the same thing and has been stuck in a wig since she was in her early 40's. Sadly, 60 years ago they literally couldn't do anything to help the problem except direct her to the nearest wig shop. I've actually never seen her without her wig. Since I have been diagnosed with this, I have made it my mission to make sure I will never place a wig on my head unless for costume purposes. It's been a long journey, but there's been great, great improvement.

Let's start at the beginning, shall we?


Around October, I suffered a bit of a nervous breakdown. I have acute panic and anxiety disorder which for whatever reason came to a head around this time. The next month, I was at a salon getting my haircut when my hairdresser told me to get my iron and thyroid levels checked because my hair was slightly thinner in the front than anywhere else. I assumed this was because of all the stress and anxiety I was experiencing and didn't really give it much thought. But then in January I began to notice the thinning and made an appointment with an endocrinologist.

Everything was normal -- blood chemistry, thyroid. However, I was unaware at the time my hormones and iron levels were not tested. I was still worried and decided to go to a dermatologist.
I had never been to this doctor before, but I liked her right away. However, she immediately could see I had a female balding pattern and said there wasn't much she could do. I broke down. She felt bad and said I should go back to my endocrinologist immediately and make sure everything was tested and she wrote me a prescription for birth control and a shampoo. After I left, I stood on 5th Avenue and had an emotional breakdown.

I called my endocrinologist the next day and said I needed to come in right away and be tested for anything and everything that could be effecting my hair loss. She told me I couldn't get an appointment for two months. Bad idea. I lost it. Again. I told her that wasn't going to work and insisted I have an appointment within the week. She put my endocrinologist on the phone and through sobs I explained what I had been told at the dermatologist and begged her to help me. Suddenly, I had an appointment in 4 days.

After my appointment and once the results came back, I learned my zinc and iron levels were on the low side of normal, but everything else seemed okay. I guess sometimes no news is bad news.

This week all I did was cry. I decided I would move home when the problem got unbearable. I didn't go to work, I didn't see anyone -- I became a hermit. Then suddenly I became inspired, motivated -- a fire was lit. I researched like a madwoman, joined an online support group, purchased 15 supplements all promising to thicken my hair, grow back my hair or promote healthy hair, bought male strength rogaine, changed birth controls, starting using the shampoo from my dermatologist, went to yoga class and started acupuncture treatments. I was driven. Doctors may have told me this was an irreversible problem, but that wasn't good enough for me.

The hair loss also inspired me to seek further therapy including a life coach. In our first session I told her what was going on regarding my hair and eventually she gently and kindly asked "what are you going to do with this gift?" I said I wasn't in a place where I could see it that way. I was so angry and sad and frustrated. But I was willing to do anything and everything I could to change my perspective on the situation. One thing she said that sticks with me every day is "I believe a year from now, this will no longer be an issue for you". I prayed she was right.

Six months later, there's a good chance she is right. For 6 months, 24 hours a day I have thought about this. Every night I researched another herb that could help or the benefits of laser treatments. I took my medication, used my shampoo, used the rogaine, went to acupuncture and tried to have a positive attitude. Roughly three months later, I noticed I had some new friends: regrowth.

It worked. What I did worked. I went back to the dermatologist a few days ago and she was thrilled to see my results and said she has reason to believe I've stopped the thinning. Obviously, we won't be able to know for a while but I believe her. Clearly, I must continue with all I'm doing, but if it saves my hair, every bit of it is worth it.

This could be something I deal with forever. I may have to use rogaine forever. Whenever I first started using rogaine, I used to cry when I would put it on my hair. But truth be told I've never been more thankful for something in my life because not only did it give me back my hair, it gave me back my spirit.

Back to my coach's question -- "what are you going to do with this gift?" I've realized everything is about drive. If I could learn to apply the same drive I had to save my hair in other areas of my life, I believe I could accomplish anything. And my skin has never looked better.


Take that, alopecia.

this could be theraputic.

I wait tables in the center of the universe: Times Square, NYC. I serve people who don't speak English, don't know how to tip and when I ask "how are you?", the general response is "diet coke" (for foreigners it's "eehhhh coca-lite").

I've lived in the same apartment for three years, however I used to live in the smallest room down the hall. It was 8 by 9 and when I got dressed, I had to shut the door because otherwise there wasn't enough room to put my clothes on. I've recently upgraded to a slightly larger room where I can actually have a chair at my desk. It's the little things....


I'll be writing a lot of things in this blog, ranging from cynical to sometimes even downright depressing. Boys, my job, auditioning, family and even hair loss will be making it into my daily rants.


If you're easily offended, I suggest you find another blog to read.