Humblebragging does not always neccessarily come from a bad place.  Perhaps it is the way women are socialized since birth, but we are usually much more comfortable at the humble part and the bragging part usually comes later. (I am grossly generalizing here of course)  It tends to be the opposite for guys.  What probably started at its root as a means of ensuring that it was their sperm that’s had pieces published in the New Yorker and whose film was even at Sundance (short film, but come on, let’s not split hairs) that would be the one fertilizing the best looking, most well accomplished eggs.  So it should not rankle me and make me as blind with rage as it does considering the vast amount of braggers I encounter daily.  Whereas with most other careers, your job title or company/ start-up you work for will convey much, people in the arts rather than saying “freelance” which makes them sound like any other struggling person, will brag and boast and list all their credits.  Don’t guys understand that they should just play it cool, for girls usually will find it all out through friends or facebook anyway?  The thing that particularly kills me about guy humblebraggers is that they are so bad at it, and usually all but forget the humble part entirely and just end up bragging all over you.   

I arrived early to a show I was in the other night and sat at the bar.  There was one other person at the bar as well – a guy roughly around my age.   Hoodie, angry beard – the usual.  Thirty seconds passed when he emitted this loud guttural sound. 

“AHHHHHH.  I have so many emails it’s ridiculous!  I’m a sound designer here.”  he complained.   This tone of voice sounded familiar.  It was the exact same pitch and tenor  I have when I complain loudly about how sore I am after a gentle yoga class just so people know I did, in fact, work out.

“Ahh work emails?” 

“Work/personal.  People are emailing me about April, it’s like – let me just get through this week first.”  Hmm, I myself like to book things out, and my pet peeve is when I’m emailing about shows and someone responds “Email me again as we get closer.”  It makes me feel like Lloyd Christmas.  “Do you think you’re free to tech for next month’s show?  Ok, I can check in with you in a couple weeks… I’ll just not cross it off my to- do list, but then add it to next week’s to do list as well.  But if you had to, are you telling me there’s a chance?  Just – this is funny – I got a missed call from a private number and thought it might be you, so I wanted to get back to you… Ah, it wasn’t!  Ok, I will check back in next week then!”  The worst.

“That sucks.  At least we have a long weekend with Monday off.”   He gave me an eyeroll I can only describe as what I might look like when I visit my parents and try to convince them we should go to an authentic local restaurant instead of a chain.   

“OK.  In the arts we don’t get things like President’s Day off.”  I haven’t wanted to be disassociated so strongly with a group of people since we first found out about the Madoffs.  I rolled my eyes (but not too obviously because I didn’t know if he was doing the sound for the show I was about to be in).  I returned to my notes and was contemplating if I should bring my coat and bag in the bathroom with me or if he was trustworthy enough to watch it, when he interrupted-

“OMG!!!!!”

“What happened?”

“Yoko Ono’s birthday!   I completely forgot about it.  It’s gonna be so fun!”  This I couldn’t take.  Be bad about returning emails?  Fine.  Insinuate I’m not an artist?  Well, I’m wearing my particularly edgy outfit from Ann Taylor, with certain accessories even from Urban Outfitters, but OK, you just don’t get me.  But I had enough.

“Yoko?” I made the same face guys make when I tell them I still listen to Wilson Phillips.  “I’m not sure if you heard.  But she split the Beatles up and left Ringo to a career of PBS and performing in state fairs.  Terrible.”  He gave me the same Wilson Phillips look I just gave him.  “One sec – gotta go to the bathroom before the show, just gonna grab my stuff…”

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It was a day like any other Thursday.  I’m wearing a new dress since I have something after work.  I was just trying to make it till 6pm with neither staining it nor having it absorb the myriad of tiny degradations one gets through in a day.

I had resigned myself to the standard lunchtime salad.  Two coworkers were going to Chop’t which is like the Chipotle of Midtown salad places, so I joined.

But something was amiss.  It was…. Drizzling.  1/3 of the people on the street were even carrying umbrellas!  The rain had to be avoided at all costs – they did not have umbrellas, and I assume like me, wanted to avoid frizzy hair.  We decided to walk through the tunnel to Grand Central.  Making conversation, I asked if they had to move to a suburb around New York City, which they would choose.  “I’ll decide that when I have to.”  Ok then.  Conversation denied. 

We entered Grand Central to that familiar train station smell, like a slightly classier Penn Station, due to a lack of Carvels and in-house TGI Fridays.  We went down to the food court.  I was about to head to Hale & Hearty when something caught my eye.  There was a new restaurant called Tri-Tip with a huge line of excited looking people.  This was a new steak sandwich place, which looked like a more healthy version of a normal cheese steak place.  My heart was split.

A Gwyneth Paltrow voice came into my head.  “Go to Hale & Hearty!  It’s only a boring Thursday lunch.  Might as well be healthy.  How much would you really enjoy a heavy steak sandwich?  DO THE RIGHT THING.”

Then this Lindsay Lohan voice took over.  “Wouldn’t it feel great to eat a sandwich and carbs right now?  You deserve it.  You’ve been good all week.  Just one.  Try it.  Look how long that line is, it must be so delicious.  Go for the steak sandwich.  Trust me.  By the way… No pressure….But have you ever had a girl experience?  I heard you were a theatre major, sooo…”

The Lindsay Lohan voice had a point.  (about the steak sandwich – not the lesbian part.  I was a theatre major, but the theatre and film boys were so sensitive so I feel like I had that college lesbian experience in a way anyway)  I stood in line.  I did the requisite debating between the steak salad and sandwich with the sandwich ultimately winning. 

There was steak.  And bacon.   And blue cheese.  On a toasty baguette.  I brought it back to my desk, preparing it on a paper plate with a plastic fork and knife in case things got crazy.  I needn’t have bothered with the fork and knife if you know what I mean.  I took the first bite.  It was as if a bacon cheeseburger had a lost weekend with a Philly cheesesteak at a remote cabin somewhere.  Some crumbled blue cheese stopped by, lost and looking for directions, then the burger and cheesesteak gave him directions but then  were all “Don’t leave now.  Stay awhile… You’ve been with buffalo wings for so long, give yourself a break.  Explore your options.”  And then this baguette from next door popped in – “Hey I was just gonna take a quick dip in the Jacuzzi – care to join me, guys?”  That is what this sandwich was like.  It was the kind of meal that as you are eating it you are getting sadder by the moment that it is soon ending.  You tell yourself to enjoy it and live in the present, but you want this sandwich to last forever and grow resentful that you can’t be together for always. 

It felt like a shame that I was eating it at my desk.  Surrounded by cubicle walls, phones ringing, and work to do.  It was the kind of food that you can only truly enjoy when you are alone in your apartment, shame eating it while watching the better episodes of Sex and the City and wearing something flowy.  It ended almost as soon as it began.  I know that the next time I order it, there is no possible way that it will taste as good as it did today.   Like first love, there is no going back.   Did it change me?  Well yeah, actually I feel slightly nauseous now as I’m typing this. 

To paraphrase Woody Allen, it was the most fun I’ve ever had without laughing.

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So no one ever gets my references.

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Just returned from my daily lunch routine.  Today was no different than my usual.  When not having power lunches with colleagues and friends, it is roughly as follows:  walking while listening to mood reflecting music, stopping into either Ann Taylor or Sephora  (I’m 30 now, remember?), then picking up a healthy lunch consisting of  local organic vegetables (kidding of course).

Today as I was walking by the Ann Taylor on Fifth Avenue I paused to look in the window first.  Hmm, those dresses look a bit boxy, we can do better than that Ann… A weird guy stopped next to me.  How to describe him?  He was like a 45 year old less attractive Louie Anderson type.  I am picturing blonde chest hair for sure.  He yells out “Well I’m one of the producers and he works for me!!  I’ll tell Paramount myself!”  Then he hangs up abruptly.  This conversation could not be more cliché.  It is the equivalent of a finance guy screaming out “Well I told him to buy it at 6.  Now we have to sell!  Check the S&P Index, I have to close a deal now, then go out for expensive sushi!!”  Or a tech entrepreneur screaming out “Google did WHAT?!!  Classic!  Fools!!  K, gonna go meet with some angel investors now, we’re kinda the next Groupon, we have so many meetings its embarrassing!”

Right after he hung up he looked at me while I accidentally gave him the judgy side-eye. 

Him: “You’ll have to excuse me.  I am in the middle of tense negotiations.  I’m casting a feature film I am producing for Paramount.”  I told him no worries and shrugged then started to walk away.  “I’m a little stressed out right now.  This is weird, but are you in the industry?  You look familiar.”

Now Readers:  This isn’t Michie’s first time to this picnic.  While I may look much, much younger than I am, I’m not quite as naïve as I once was.  I’ve been to far too many fake industry events, accidental pyramid scheme interviews, and “meetings” with agents held in Starbucks, and after a while it hardens you.

I am still only human though.

Me:  Oh really?  I look familiar?  Ha.  Well, umm… do you go to indie comedy shows at all?  You may have seen me at the People’s Improv Theatre, or UCB East, or Union Pool in Brooklyn?  Hmm no?  Umm, well maybe you saw me at that Chipotle on 50^th Street?  I grab lunch there quite often…  Or are you on twitter at all?

Him:  No.  That’s not it.  You  look like an actress.  (this is industry speak for “care to bone?”)

Me:  Oh.  Well…I….

Him:  Because I am casting this project and there are some smaller parts you might be great for.  (this is how every Law & Order featuring a young murdered girl begins)  My project is about – you really can’t tell anyone – (oops.  But also he did reveal this to a stranger 15 seconds after meeting, so it’s probably fine) this guy who goes on a road trip to find himself but ends up with a stripper who teaches him about life.  I think you’d be great to play… (Ah there we go.  He wants me to audition to play a stripper.  No way.  I didn’t study Restoration theatre acting techniques to end up murdered for his fake movie.  I am an artist!)… a waitress at a Midwest diner.  He later has an encounter with her.  There can be something very erotic and sexy about a non-model looking girl.

Me:  UGHHH.   No thanks!   That sounds terrible.  OK, gotta check out Ann Taylor.

So there we go.  I am still alive and not auditioning for a fake movie due in no small part to a measure of common sense and pride.  If only I hadn’t told him about my favorite spot, Chipotle…  I guess I’ll have to play it safe and change the routine up a bit.  I’ll be at the 54^th Street Chipotle if any (real) movie producers are looking for me.

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I just put up Australia pictures, and my phone has been blowing up
with my #1 commenter, my Mom. Any photos with any guys whatsoever
will include her mandatory comment, either "who are the hunks??" or
when she's holding back, "who are the dudes??"

I think she's vaguely aware they can see it too, but it doesn't phase
her. When not commenting on myself or my sisters' pictures, her
Facebook comments reveal much. For awhile she was obsessed with Katie
Couric, and would tell her "Katie, you look beautiful!" or "Great
makeup today Katie! You're a wonderful interviewer!" but instead of
writing that on Katie Couric's fanpage, my mom simply wrote it on her
own page, as if she was having an imaginary conversation with Katie
Couric by herself.

I have accepted all of this until today. The only quote on her page
from My Cousin Vinnie? Sure. Announcing herself as a fan of The
Ghost Whisperer? Not my favorite of Jennifer Love Hewitt's work (that
would be Party of Five), but fine, I celebrate our differences.
However, today something happened and an intervention must be called.
She LIKED John Tesh's fan page and then wrote on her own wall that she
hopes she wins his fan of the week! In honor of the fact that I know
this will be me in 30 years, I am telling you what I hope my future
daughter Sophia Gosling will tell me: It's time to shut this down.
You are better than liking John Tesh.

Love you Mom.

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A few observations about Australia:

1.  The men there are very masculine.  Like at Eric Bana levels.  The reasoning for this is that all their forefathers were basically criminals, and if there is anything we have learned from Lifetime movies, women are attracted to bad boys.  Whereas in America most of our forefathers were rebels in that they wanted to be even more Puritan and anti-sex and fun than the British government would allow.  What I found most surprising was how, well, into it I was!  I've never been usually attracted to traditionally HOT guys (to ex-boyfriends reading - except for you, boo!) and so was totally surprised when I felt the scorchies for a group of people who seemed wholly comfortable with the outdoors, being tan, and fitness in general.  Not once did I even think "well ok, but I wonder how good a blogger he is?" 

Take for example our scuba instructor who was super hot.  He was tall (can get behind this), blonde (what?!  Never like blondes, reminds me too much of Robert Redford's character in The Way We Were), and seemed no stranger to the gym.  He even wore crocs, and seemed to have no working knowledge of early Judd Apatow TV shows.  But I was into it.  As Dee said "He's super hot.  I don't need to ravage his body, but I would definitely date him and see where it goes."  Totally.  I would definitely date him and eventually if I feel he is a good communicator and really emotional and great in small groups and fun to hang out with when running errands, I would indeed consider doing sex to his body at that point.

2.  The town names are insane.  We went to Manley Beach, Coogee Beach, and Darling Harbour.  It was hard to keep them all straight.  We took the train out of Sydney to commune with animals.  On our way back we had to get a shuttle.  I asked our bus driver (who happened to be black, I don't normally notice race or age at all, but stay with me here...)
Me:  Just wanted to make sure - this shuttle goes back to the station right?  We're trying to get back to BlackMan station.
Bus driver:  Uh, it's the right shuttle.  And it's called Black Town.
Me:  Super!!  (dying inside)

3.  Doing outdoorsy stuff can be fun!  This is entirely against all my instincts.  When we first arrived Dee asked what I'd like to do.  "Let's see, walk around.  See a show.  Heard Melbourne has a great coffee culture, so we should go for coffee lots and read."  "What?! No.  You do all that in New York.  We are doing things you can only do in Australia."  We went scuba diving (her) and snorkeling (me) in the South Ocean.  (apparently they named a new ocean since I left high school).  It was super fun!  I was a bit nervous on the boat when told about a tide that can potentially take us all away, but asking all types of "what can I do that can lead to death, so I can try to avoid it" type questions, snorkeling was really fun!  And I only peed in my wetsuit a minimum of times.  And we went to two rain forests, which I've never been to before.  I always thought that when I went to a rain forest it would feel peaceful and majestic, but really it was just us quoting movies, talking about dudes, and gossip and every once in a while saying "wow, that's beautiful! picture?"  Apparently hiking is just a dirty version of walking also.

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Failing Our Twenties

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However.

I am constantly on the business end of racial profiling.  Just this morning as I was dropping off my laundry it happened again.  We did our typical ritual where she says it will be ready far into the future (tomorrow afternoon) and I ask if there is any way I can pick it up tonight at closing  (11 hours from now).  She eyes me skeptically, sighs dramatically,  and says fine, she will do it, but only for her special clients.  It is our own little thing.  She asserts dominance over me, and I like that she calls me her “special client” because it fulfills a secret wish I have of being a beloved neighborhood fixture, not unlike the East Village man who walks his pig on a leash through Tompkins Square Park.  This morning was no different, but at the end she handed me my ticket with the name “Sarah Cohen” on it.

“Oh, that’s not me.  Here you go – it has the wrong name on it.”

“But that’s your name right?  You look just like-“ and then she trailed off.

So there we have it.  Apparently my exotic dusky looks are reminiscent of any other girl in my neighborhood who also has a partiality towards Ann Taylor, Portnoy types,  and dropping her laundry off last minute.

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I have recently gotten more and more into twitter.  Now, it can be used for a variety of purposes.  I'm sure there are even one or two people who are using it for the good of humanity, promoting coal miner's rights and Kickstarter campaigns so their friend from high school can FINALLY make that short film they've been writing for years.  However, once again because it is now 2008 on my blog, I will therefore share the following things that must stop on twitter:

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Me:  I booked my ticket to Australia!!!

Dad:  Oh, Michie.  I get so nervous when you leave the country.  I don’t know what Australia has that Key West doesn’t.

Me:  It’s gonna be great, don’t worry, I’m very safe.

Dad:  I just don’t want you girls to accidentally break a law you don’t know about, and then we’ll be in a situation where we’re at the mercy of the embassy…  

Me:  Neither do I Dad.  You do know we’re not secretly drug mules, right?

Dad:  Also, you should know that the Australian culture is VERY misogynistic.

Me:  Really?  I’ve never heard this… When did you hear this though?  Was it in the 1960s?

Dad:  I have heard it, trust me on this one.

Me:   Wait, are you basing you assumptions of all of Aussie culture off of the movie CROCODILE DUNDEE??!

Dad:  …...  I’m putting your Mom on now.

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I have no idea why this happens or what started it. I had a conversation with someone in 'the industry' the other day.  The fact that I put that in quotes might explain why I am not fully a part of said industry yet.  According to this advice, one must use the same principles of seeming confident and appealing in one's personal life to project an air of being insanely busy at all times.  Like the heroine in every romantic comedy who wears pristine pencil skirts and never rewards herself with reading home decor blogs but fastidiously works all day,  I must act like a person who is extremely busy and humblebrags loudly about it.  I personally cannot stand when people complain about how busy they are.  Why?  Oh yes.  Everyone's busy!!  I was texting with someone last week and he was complaining about how looking for a new job (while he still has his current one) is pretty much the worst thing.  You know what else is the worst thing ever?  People that have real problems. 

All this is to say, I am ready to try the plan of projecting an air of importance and demand in the industry.  The last time I tried it, the results were disastrous. 

I had first moved to New York, and met with a manager I found through a random mailing.  I was so excited he called me in.  I woke up early that morning, put on my best H&M, and planned out the meeting in my head.  I pictured us having a fun slightly antagonistic relationship, like how all famous actors always tease Harvey Weinstein, and he takes it good-naturedly.  I walk in and open his door.  His office was covered from floor to ceiling in CLOWN paraphernalia.  Clown bookends.  Clown pens.  Clown paintings (which were popular in the seventies, I'll give him a pass).  Bozo mug.  Krusty the Clown throw pillows.  And he wore a clown tie.  I walked in excited to do my monologue and immediately my shoulders slumped as I took in the clown menagerie and thought "Yeah, this seems about right."  One of his career highlights was the six years he spent in the Barnum & Bailey circus he told me, and he can still juggle.  OK.  I did my monologue.  Afterwards as he eyed me skeptically, a thousand clown eyes seemed to be giving me the once-over.  "Well, I work with a lot of big name clients."  I summoned all my acting skills.  "Oh yeah?  Anyone on stage or on TV I would recognize?"  "Did you watch Sopranos?"  "YES.  I LOVED the Sopranos!!  Who did you represent??  Uncle Junior?  Silvio??  Not Edie Falco??"  "No... I represented several of the BADA BING! girls."  Ahh, the topless dancers with no lines.  I felt like the biggest clown of all in that room.  (Ok, that's not true.  I remember thinking that line at the time, and even then deciding it was too self-indulgent a line to actually think.)  Before we parted, the manager gave me one piece of advice:  he told me that in any meeting or audition, I should seem like I have many irons in the fire and that I am on the verge of booking major work.

Three days later I had an audition at NBC for Saturday Night Live!!!!

No.  It was at NBC but it was actually for some webisode type series that never came to be that I found on nycastings.com.  As I recall there was quite a bit of prop humor involved.  I was auditioning for the young Gallagher ingenue part.  I thought it went well. Remembering the clown manager's advice, I tried to play it perfectly.

CASTING DIRECTOR:  So we will most likely start shooting this summer, what's your availability like?
ME:  I have several projects right now.  I would love to make it work though.  I have been auditioning a ton...
CASTING DIRECTOR:  Would you be free next month?
ME:  Hmm.... (dramatic pause)... Next month?  Which days potentially?  I am thinking of my other projects I've committed to...
CASTING DIRECTOR:  We are not sure on the exact dates.  It could be anytime from June 1st through August 31st.
ME:  (dramatic pause)... Let's see.... ANYTIME during June, July, or August? .... Let me think.....  Uh yeah, I am free completely during those months.... After that I am pretty booked up though.... Unless you'd need me then, I am sure I can work it out.
CASTING DIRECTOR:  Great.  We need to still our insurance to clear for dropping fruit off the roofs of buildings, but we'll be in touch.

Wish me luck.  If there are no clowns, topless girls, or bad prop humor, I will already feel like I am succeeding this go around.

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Scene:  Wine bar, Upper East Side, New York (for my non-NY readers- this is the neighborhood the Jeffersons lived in once they made it, and where Gwyneth Paltrow grew up)

My three girlfriends proceed to ask thoughtful questions about wine and order a variety of reds.

Me:  (looking at menu) I'll have a glass of the Riesling please.
Bartender:  We actually are not serving that now, since it's winter.  Are there any other wines you like, I can point you in the right direction.
Me:  Great, thanks.  Let's see, do you have anything dessert Moscato-like?
Bartender:  Hmm.  I'm sensing you like sweet wines.
Me:  Yes!  Anything sort of Mom like I love.
Bartender:  Tell me what you think of this... (pours a tasting)
Me: (tries it, and it tastes for lack of a better word, like rubbing alcohol) (trying to be classy)  Hmm.  Thank you.... I am sensing notes that are somewhat....heavy in tone (why am I describing wine using the same description as I would for a holocaust themed movie?)
Bartender:  Understood.  It may help if you spit your gum out too.
Me: (resigned) Touche. 

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Here's the thing.  I actually think I am really awesome at dating.  

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She did the usual “No, it's way too soon!!  Who knows!” which is womanspeak for “I think so too!!!  And he has blue eyes, so our babies will too!  I just need to be careful to reveal my craziness in small, manageable increments.”

 I asked when his last relationship was, she said “it was fairly recent.  They were together for awhile.  He’s 40.”

 RECORD SCRATCH.

 He’s 40?  Wo.  Way to bury the lede!  I mean he’s way cute.  Hmm.  Wow.”

 “Michelle, you do know we’re in our thirties now.  It’s not that weird anymore.  It's less than ten years apart.”

Now technically, I am still in my twenties.  (For three more weeks.  I might have mentioned it?  I don’t like to make a big deal of my birthdays, but if you’re so inclined I would kill for the Dean Martin Roasts on DVD)  She was right.  We are older now.  When we were in our early twenties it was completely normal to date someone who was around 30.  At the time, they seemed mature and were so appreciative of the fact that we knew absolutely nothing and were over the moon when one of them would spring for a whole dinner to accompany all the numerous drinks we drank to keep up with them to seem older and world weary.  I remember one date I went on when I was still living in LA.  I was 22, had unfortunate caramel highlights which accentuated my dark eyebrows for a Desperately Seeking Susan effect.  How can I best describe how short my Forever 21 skirt was?  I could have easily gone directly from drinks to a gynecological exam and no changing would be necessary.  There is no way possible way I could sit on the subway wearing that.  It was short.  My 29 year old self would have a migraine from all the judgy sideeye I’d be giving my 22 year old self.  I remember I paired that skirt with a white tanktop and black bra underneath and necklaces in an effort to emulate Sarah Jessica Parker.  While I still do use her as a style barometer, I am aiming for something more “Sarah Jessica Parker at a benefit reading of The Merchant of Venice/ Sarah Jessica Parker dropping her son off at elementary school.”  I remember that night asking this guy if the age difference between us bothered him at all.  “Uh, no.  I don’t really think about it.  You’re very mature.”   Once again I’d like to point out that my skirt could be described as cervix-grazing.  I remember thinking “Uh oh.  I think this guy has what women’s magazines refer to as a fear of commitment.  He doesn’t want to be with girls his own age because they’d expect more and be more likely to call him out on his stuff.  I wonder if his three roommates, propensity towards ironic t-shirts, and copious amounts of signed movie posters could have an indicator at all?”

“No, 40 is great-“ I told her.  “Very mature.” 

I guess it’s just weird that now we are going to have to start to be attracted to guys who are the same age as our friends dads were when we were 10.  In fairness though, being 40 in 2012 is entirely different than it was in 1992.

Ways 40 Year Old Men are Different in 2012 vs. 1992:

For starters, we have gastropubs now.  I told my Dad recently about a dinner I had the night before at a gastropub and tried to describe how great it was.  “So it’s like bar food?”  “Well, I mean – the gastropub movement is more unique to major urban American cities.  You really won’t find one in the suburbs.  Like pickles – they fry them in a duck confit then you dip them in a goose infused jelly and it is garnished with maple cured pork belly.”  “Can I get a burger there?”  “Well.  Yes.”  “Great, I love bar food!"

Guys our dad’s generation usually went straight from college to being married in their early twenties.  Since most guys now are delaying marriage into their early thirties and beyond they must find activities to preoccupy themselves, since they will have no part in previous generations’ hobbies of sitting on a bench waiting for their wives to try on work pants.  Hobbies can be a great thing.  Hanging out with friends, drinking, indie comedy and music shows, and trying fancy restaurants are all things I can get behind.  Apparently these things get to be boring by the time one is 28.  That’s when they enter the ‘I actually brew my own beer” phase of life.  This is when you know they are ready to settle down.  You must enter their lives at just this moment.  If you delay at all, they will immediately shack up with the first girl they meet who owns her own Etsy store, or they will enter the “I have my own podcast and will be too intense about discussing notes in wines for my hobbies have taken over my life” phase of life.

Finally, we must discuss video games.  Remember how in “Big” it was so laughable and absurd to see a fourteen year old in the body of a full grown 40 year old man?  The thought of a thirty year old guy still being extremely interested in video games and awkward around women was unchartered territory.  I have seen my dad play two games in my entire life.  One was Pong in the mid-80s.  The other was “Minesweeper” which used to come standard on PCs.  His love of it knew no bounds.  It was a game of calculating mathematical possibilities, and heroism.  I’d like to think he gave it a backstory of sparing remote villages and protecting women and children from landmines through using math.  But I remember not being able to access our computer to use for homework (read: AOL chatrooms geared toward “musical fans!”) for two weekends while he obsessed with Minesweeper.  He cut his addiction cold turkey.  He removed it from our computer, and his weekends went back to being spent as they always were; following my mom around crafts fairs and eating dinner at 5:30.  In 2012, this would never happen.  Even the most masculine of men will still need to play Madden at least a few times a week.  We must accept this.

So basically a 2012 forty  year old is like a 1994 26 year old.  Just please, for the love of God, never tuck any type of shirts into your jeans.

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Every single time I log on to Facebook to respond daily to the dozens of event invitations I am invited to of course,  I am bombarded by three things that constantly dismay me.  Since Facebook blog posts indicate I have my fingers firmly on the pulse of the zeitgeist (and that in my mind it is still 2005) I will tell you what they are in list form.

1.  People You May Know

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Do you guys remember that special Diff'rent Strokes where Kimberly had bulimia and the one where Arnold and Dudley were almost molested?  Or the Growing Pains where Carol's boyfriend played by a young Matthew Perry was killed in a drunk driving accident, then at the end of the episode everyone broke the fourth wall to tell us how many people were killed by a drunk driver in the thirty minutes we were watching their show, thereby driving their point home even more intensely?  You do, right?  Well like that, this Thursday night is a verrrry special Failing Our Twenties you will not want to miss!

Come out to a SPECIAL Failing Our Twenties as it will be the only one ever in which my co-host Bryan is in his thirties, while I hold on to my twenties with white knuckles till my 30th birthday in a few weeks.  Will Bryan have a newfound perspective on life?  Will I win my twenties in the end?  There's only one way to find out...

The People's Improv Theatre (123 East 24th Street btwn Park & Lexington) this Thursday, January 5th at 8PM!                                                 

Join me and my co-host Bryan Rucker along with the hilarious, lusty, and provocative:

- UCB Legend PAT BAER (Late Night with Jimmy Fallon, College Humor)

- ALISON LEIBY (RISK!, The Onion)

I would love to see you all!  Email me ASAP for comps at:  michellemarkowitz AT gmail

Or buy tickets for $5 here:  http://thepit-nyc.com/show/failing-our-twenties-5/?cur_d=120105&cur_m=1201

Or show up and get tickets at the door!

XOXO.

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“Wouldn't this be a great world if insecurity and desperation made us more attractive? If "needy" were a turn-on?” – Albert Brooks, “Broadcast News”

 Today People Magazine released their list of the Sexiest Men Alive in 2011.  Bradley Cooper was named  the sexiest man this year – I get it.  I really loved his work in “The Hangover” when his son fell asleep on him at the end of the movie (which I read was his personal idea – to add that human touch of fatherhood and sensitivity!) and “Sex and the City” when he plays that guy that Carrie decides not to go home when she jumps out of his convertible when he shows her the cover of NY Magazine with her photo under the  “Single and Fabulous?” headline.  He’s a great actor.  I get it.

 Any Ryan Gosling is on the list.  Of course.  There is nothing he can’t do.  And he’s not even TRYING to be sexy, people.  In fact, he is trying the opposite.  (See:  “Blue Valentine” – pedophile/ 70s Elton John glasses and fake receding hairline)  People even gave Aziz Ansari a shout out, which I am totally for.

 I just have one slight problem.

 So they included Dylan McDermott, for whom I have nothing personally against.  He was in one of my favorite movies that I was probably too young to watch when it first came out, “Steel Magnolias.”  And he was excellent in it.  He is even the adopted son of Eve Ensler, who married his dad when he was only 15 and she was 23.  I’m sure it was not easy having a stepmom who is only 8 years older than you and discussing vaginas non-stop while writing “The Vagina Monologues."  In theory I really like Dylan McDermott.  And I feel bad people always confuse him with Dermot Mulroney, just because they have similar sounding names and builds and levels of fame peaking in the late 90s.  They are completely different!  Dermot Mulroney is in a band!  And was involved with Julia Roberts in “My Best Friend’s Wedding” while Dylan McDermott was in a show about a lawyer I think?  And his wife is brunette, although I believe Dermot has a thing for brunettes too?

Anyway.  All this is to say that I am happy Dylan McDermott was included in this list.  I hope this will bring on a John Travoltian type career revival.  Just one small thing.

It’s not really a big deal, but could we have chosen ANY OTHER PICTURE of him besides this one??  I’m not sure why he is wearing a soaking wet button down shirt while shielding his eyes from the blinding rays of his future comeback.  And I am glad the sleeves are rolled up to reveal his tattoos which I was shocked that he had.  (Seems like a much more Dermot Mulroney thing)  But the hand?  Not the one on his forehead, which is the exact pose I used when trying to scam a nap in the nurse’s office during elementary school.  The other hand… in his belly button.  Now I may not have the most conventional taste.  If backed against a wall, I would still find most of the non-Scott Bakula members on TNT’s “Men of a Certain Age” still attractive.  But I have to say I feel like I walked in on a personal moment.  I feel like even Dylan knows this shoot feels wrong and he is trying to subconsciously revert back to a comforting place, feeling for that phantom umbilical cord.  A couple of the top buttons undone?  Great!  You’re on vacation.  A little chesthair never hurt anyone.  But the bottom buttons unbuttoned?  I will only ever think of Agador Spartacus from The Birdcage.

I really  hope that despite this picture, you get that career comeback.  You deserve it.  Just next time  ask yourself if Dermot Mulroney would do it, and act accordingly.

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Happy Cinco de Mayo!  Come out tonight if you can!

Ever feel like you're failing your twenties? Join Michelle Markowitz and Bryan Rucker, two of New York's most prominent failures, as they host a night of storytelling, comedy, and catharsis.

This month we explore failing our twenties "One Date at a Time" with storytelling royalty Adam Wade (Adam Wade from New Hampshire, The Moth) & Andrea Rosen (Ding Dong Meow, The Nights of our Lives).

Buy tickets here:  http://thepit-nyc.com/daily_downstairs.html?y=2011&m=05&d=05

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