Charm School

I'm kind of a charmer.
Really.
I'm an acquired taste-- "Like sushi," says the Canadian. Or dark chocolate, perhaps? Instead of raw fish?

We've determined that it takes me a while to get to know people and it takes people a while to warm up to me. But something I've learned, and have become more forthcoming about is that when I put my mind to it, I have the manipulative skills to get anyone I want to to really really like me. A lot. Seriously.

I have used this skill many times throughout my life. As a child, teachers fought over who would get me in their class. And once I set my sights on someone who I want to like me, it usually only takes a few weeks to accomplish my goal. It's manipulative, sure, I guess. But it comes from a very real desire on my part to get to know someone and be close to a person who I think is wonderful. So in the end we've both gotten what we want. Or, what we think we want.

So when I (and this doesn't happen often, although it's occurring more and more recently) come across a person who is so clearly indifferent to me, someone who, even after a handful of meetings in which I've turned on the requisite charm and the pizazz, seems as disengaged as on Day 1, I get even more intrigued.

My, oh, my, what is it that makes these people so incredibly fantastic, unique and intelligent that they can see through my witticisms, self-deprecation and sparkly silences?!

And then I get mildly needy.

Like me. Please. LIKE ME.

"How do you change the world?"

If you know me you know that I struggle with "getting to know-yous." The prospect of a party in which I know less than 30% of the attendees makes me sweat. I have a difficult time coming up with questions to ask that are not boring and cliche. I sometimes forget that you're not supposed to just talk about yourself when you meet a new person. I know that makes me sound like a narcissistic, self-absorbed bitch, but I don't think I necessarily am. Maybe. But hear me out: "Me" is something I know about. I can be charming about. Self-deprecating about. Other things-- the election, climate change, DC culture-- I am considerably less well-informed about. And speaking about important things ups the chances someone will find out just how ignorant I am about important things. Which is the problem with living in DC. Nearly everyone is smart and well-informed half-nerds. So I have trouble.

I am trying to get better.

Good friends down the street had a fabulous party a few weeks ago. There were popsicles, a sprinkler, and delish, yes that's right: DELISH! strawberry rhubarb pie made by the Canadian. I was doing very well in conversation. I was reconnecting with some college people I hadn't seen in a long time and I was meeting some nice new climate change action folks-- a group I have come to quite enjoy. I was doing well-- being myself, being honest, talking about mutual interests-- I was channeling all the normalcy and coolness I could. I began talking to a girl wearing a fake straw cowboy hat.

I should have known from her headwear that she was bad news. I'll breeze by the agregious fashion choice and merely remind the wearer that it is no longer 2003. I should have sensed before we began speaking that anyone who wears a straw cowboy hat to a house party on a Saturday night in Washington, DC is begging for attention. I also found out later, that unlike many of the people I met at the party that night she is not even from the Midwest-- where donning a cowboy hat might signify something of heritage or at the very least be a high-quality family heirloom. No. She was born and raised in North East DC. Which may or may not explain a lot.

Hat girl: "Oh, yes, well, I have created for myself some super important politico non-profit orgnization. I use my many persuasive powers and my army of magical cowboy hats to send young, impressionable Dems into battle in the Red States. The young Dems secretly infiltrate the lives of the Right and slowly convince them to vote for Obama. We're using they're own "missionary" technology against them. So far we think it's really working. They are a very open minded group, the Right Wing. What do you do?"

Me: "I'm an actor."

Hat girl: "Oh. Wow. That's great, you know! I think that's....great. I think I really would have loved to do something like that with my life if I had the...If I... didn't feel so self-indulgent."

Me: "Hmmm."

Hat girl: "I mean-- you know what I mean."

Me: "...Yeah."

Hat girl: "So...how do you get involved in theatre in DC?"

Me: Same ol' jargon about making connections, having friends, auditioning, *smile* *sigh* *self deprecating chuckle*

Hat girl: "No, I mean, how do you...get involved?? Other than going on auditions, obviously. Do you do political work? Do you donate your time?"

Don't you strive for change and happiness and correctness? Don't you use all your energy and brain to support Obama like the good well-educated young Dem you are? Surely, you attend bi-weekly rallies? And give to Green Peace? And you call yourself a Liberal! Don't you do anything AT ALL to better the world and the people in it while you're getting rejected over and over at auditions and dreaming up ways to fund an artistic endeavor? However could you dream of being so self-absorbed that you're willing to spend your early 20s knee-deep in debt, not making any money in pursuit of bringing a little bit of art and culture to a world and city without any room to breathe? What a stupid, self-indulgent twat you are, Caitlin. Really.

Nautica Guy

For the most part I am not a gawker.

Sure, I notice attractive men on the street (usually if they're significantly taller than me, wearing glasses, etc), but often it is with the same appreciation that I admire a woman's beautiful wool coat or fabulous spring dress.

Recently, however, DC Metro changed their ads. To this fella. CLICK IT.

And I objectify him, okay?

There's no two ways about it.

I admit it.

He is really very good-looking. Congratulations, Nautica. Because while I have always been able to appreciate beauty, I am now the pervy girl on the train. If I am unlucky (read: lucky) enough to get onto a car with this ad, I do my best to stick my nose in the Express or become very interested in my ipod. Else I start ogling like a teenage boy. Ogling an advertisement! Who have I become?!

This is inappropriate and embarrassing. I am not proud of the lip-biting and glazed over eyes that invariably occur when I see cute blue-deckshirt guy. But it is Nautica who should be the most embarrassed. After a few weeks of enjoying attractive Nautica guy, I am retracting my congratulations, and I'll tell you why:

Who in God's name thought it a good idea to couple this photo, of this very attractive man removing his shirt and exposing his perfectly tanned midriff with ads about Father's Day?? What the crap, Nautica? "Father's Day is June 15, make your dad a hottie"? "Is your father a FILF? Let Nautica help."

It was bad enough that he's plastered all over train cars where unsuspecting and sexually repressed 23 year-olds can be captivated without a moments notice. But Father's Day? Let's hope that I'm the only one who's so captivated, or DC is just asking for some weird string of Electra Complexes.

**In the Spirit of Honesty

Of late I have been noticing the socially incorrect elements of my personality. There are an overwhelming number of things that, try as I may, I am incapable of faking. So, in the spirit of honesty! (or, **"things that I have found it, up until this point, impossible to fake, or lie about"):

My room will never be clean. A clean bedroom has a shelf life of about 2.3 days for me. In which I am inspired to rehang all my clothes after I've tried them on and discarded them in the morning. 2.3 days that I'll make my bed or organize my side table. In which I'll fold my clothes before stuffing them back in the drawers (but the drawers will ALWAYS be closed-- open drawers being something I have been unable to abide since as an 8 year old my tall bureau, too many of the drawers left open, tipped over on top of me and the small TV on top hit me in the face, leaving 2 small knots--1 on my forehead and 1 on the bridge of my nose-- that have remained to this day.). I recently heard a radio interview with 23 year old Tony award winner John Gallagher, Jr. in which he admitted to having a messy room. It inspired me. I, too, will wear it as a badge of artistic honor.

I like white bread. I realize this is a completely inappropriate behavior from a young lady raised in the suburbs and educated at Middlebury College. No properly reared, affluent young white person with real aspirations would ever choose white over wheat when given the choice. And should probably even turn down a sandwich, wrap or pasta dish meal in general if white is the flour used. But wheat pasta makes me want to gag. And why eat flax pancakes when you can have delicious pancakes? I will concede that as far as sandwich bread goes, whole wheat sometimes tastes best. But you'll never find me eating a whole wheat bagel. My wheat will always be frosted and mini. This predilection for eating things that taste good to 9 year-olds extends beyond white pasta and white bread. I like my oatmeal in packets and full of brown sugar and vegetables are best soaked in gravy or sauteed.

I can't walk around in high heels. I can barely handle most cute flats: narrow toes, unsupportive arch. Yes, I realize I live in a city now. A professional city. In which, for the time being, I work in an office and commute with the suits and the stilettos. But you will not see me in heels taller than 1 inch. And my shoes will never be as shiny as everyone else's. Even if I bought them shiny, they undoubtedly lost that luster after 1 day with me. My shoes will be comfortable, size 11 friendly (that's right, I'm a drag queen), rubber-soled, practical and probably ugly. (Ugly, because it is a universally acknowledged fact that women with big feet actually would rather their shoes be uglier, less trendy and look like they belong to Cynthia Nixon's girlfriend.) Even if they did make giant sized cute shoes, I still could not wear them like all those beautiful and empowered business women you see on the metro, because I am at my most unpleasant when my feet hurt. I will wear my men's Asic tigers or my hot pink and grey suede diesels with my pantyhose and pencil skirt during the commute and change into my 3 inch heels for walking back and forth from the copier to my cubicle: 9142C. Disregard, for a moment, my plantar fasciatis-ridden left foot. I still wouldn't be rocking the stilettos. I'm just not that girl.

Love me, love my ugly shoes, delicious pasta and messy room.

(ham and) Egg (croissant) on my face

Today I was called out.


I stopped into Heller's (awesome neighborhood bakery) on my way to work this morning. The same cool, tall, black guy with diamond studs and braids past his shoulders that usually helps me, called me over to the counter. I had to sidestep a ridiculously cute Mt. Pleasant family with an infant and a toddler in tow while their dog was chained up outside in order to reach the counter. I walked over and ordered my usual, perhaps a little embarassed that he might recognize me and my order from my 4 or 5 visits since I've moved to the area.


Me:"An apple fritter, please."


Now, this guy is pretty cool. He's way too cool to just be working in a bakery. He definitely has a funk band. Or does multi-media installation art using found materials. Probably he also bakes some of the delicious pastries and adds a secret Dominican flare that he no doubt learned from his senile island grandmothr. So, ordering a doughnut from him makes me a little nervous. I tend to get a little nervous like that around super hip and/or attractive people (Like when the Canadian and her boy are together, I shut down just a little-- there is just too much beautiful in one room.) Anway, his response was not what I expected.


Cool dude:"That's not how you really talk is it?"

Me: (thinking 'What does that mean? What is he talking about? Why would he say...?....Oh *realization*....I definitely just used my waif** voice.)
**The "waif" voice is what one Professor of Theatre Douglas Sprigg used to accuse me of having in Acting II, Voice and Body. It's where I sound like a pretty mcpretty little lacoste wearing Theta, and not a 6 foot tall hoss.
"Um....yeah....in the morning...."

Cool dude:"Really?"

Me: "Yeeeaah. Why?

Cool dude: *looking at me, trying to decide how not to offend me

Me: "Cause I'm tall?"

Cool dude: "Yeah, you're, you know....you're not...you're a..." (goes to get my fritter) (comes back) "You look like you know how to swing a bat at something!"


I guess "swing a bat at something" is a figure of speech that I never learned growing up in the suburbs. I know how to swing a bat at a softball. Or an intruder.

I left, mildly offended that super-hip counter help guy thinks he knows me and how I should talk. But then I realized he was totally right and even though that is how how I OFTEN talk, it's not how I REALLY talk. It's a fake voice. A lie-- trying to get people to think I'm sweet and charming and young. "Oh, she's such a sweet girl, what a quaint little voice she has!" The dumb voice came out because I was embarassed that I was having my second apple fritter of the week. And afraid that he was going to remember that I'd already been in once this week for the same sugar-loaded, deep-fried goodness.

Doug Sprigg would be overjoyed that a layman (despite the fact that he must surely be an artist of some sort) has assisted me in remembering my Linklater and freeing my natural voice.

Apple Fritter: $1.50
Impromptu Theatre Lesson: priceless

Retaining my cool factor

How do you tell your boss that you cannot, in fact, create talking points on biotechnology to assist General Colin Powell's staff in shaping his keynote address for the 2008 Biotechnology International Convention in San Diego because you're STILL NOT SURE WHAT BIOTECHNOLOGY IS?

Stewing Quietly

I've recently acquired a three month long temping gig. If I had any work at all to keep me busy it would be a pretty sweet gig. I'm under the impression that all of my bosses/people in my department are aware of how little I have to do (read: nothing). It would be overkill for me to be constantly emailing them to tell them that I have nothing to do and to please give me more work. I tell them when I see them in the hall or they come by to give me a 10 minute long project! But, apparently, they don't need me. And are perfectly fine with paying me 15 dollars an hour to use their internet and drink their apple juice and ginger ale.

Which are telling beverages for me to be drinking. Full of high fructose corn syrup, but lacking anything adult--hopps, tannins, caffeine. Moving to the big city has not made me more grown up. Instead it has made me a poser grown-up.

These
beautiful illustrations I found on Etsy



that I'm currently fawning over

and with which I cannot wait to decorate my new apartment, are merely symptomatic of a greater Peter Pan syndrome.

But, seriously, I would be unable to stop myself from impulse buying these right now if there wasn't a couch stuck in my brand new room. Which leads us to another problem of mine, semi-related to my truth telling dilemma. I hate asking people for things. It's a really bad problem. It's why I end up with overdraft charges on my bank account. And is definitely why our couch is stuck in my room-- I don't have the juevos to ask the boys upstairs to carry it out again (cause I made them bring it in there in the first place) and possibly up and down several sets of stairs. Which is why I'm sleeping in the same room as a cat hair-covered sofa. And, yes, I am allergic.