I make a better comedian than a blogger

Apparently I suck at blogging. This should be obvious since the last time I posted was more than a month ago. Becky says that I should be updating my blog at the very least, a couple times a week. I wholeheartedly admit, that this is almost impossible for me to do. I could go into the many excuses why, but I will not bore you with my sorry details.

However, I have recently discovered something I am good at... STAND UP COMEDY! Yes folks, I survived my first performance. I'd even say that I more than survived, that I persevered! I surprised my friends, boyfriend, co-workers, and family by making an entire room full of people laugh for almost 30 minutes. I'm still going over the night in my head, shocked that the silly ideas that run through my brain were seemingly hilarious to people.

Do you want to know a secret? The truth is, I was pretty sure that I could do stand up successfully. I didn't know I would receive as many compliments as I did, but I was confident I could complete the task at hand. The fact is, I am a machine under pressure. This is exactly why I suck at this blogging business. There are no time limits, no threat of a deadline, no stomach dropping feeling of people depending on me to entertain and succeed. Blogging isn't painful, and therefore sorta boring for Mandy. I have come to learn after almost 30 years of living, that I am most comfortable in intense situations. I am addicted to "rising to the occasion" and to pushing myself through the most challenging moments.

I'm not sure how I became this way, but I am thankful that I am. It would be intriguing, though, if I could pin point the exact moment this personality trait came to be. Or maybe, it developed over along period of time, gradually morphing out of my many life experiences. I know that for one, the performer in me as been there right from the beginning. It's as if straight out of the womb, I demanded a room's attention.

This fact couldn't have been more obvious last night, when I spent the evening watching old videos of me as a kid. I borrowed the tapes from my brother Dan a while ago, and during a mini writing vacation I've taken for myself this weekend, I finally got a chance to sit down and watch them. As a "grown up," I thought I'd see a girl on the tv screen, so unlike the woman I am today. But instead, I watched the child version of me singing and dancing, pushing my brother out of the way when he wanted to join in, and whining when my father wasn't giving me his undivided attention. There were even moments of comedy. Although, instead of making fun of my miniature sets of limbs, or the way men and women communicate with each other, I thought hitting myself and my brother would make a crowd roar with laughter.

Thank heavens my material as evolved since then.

If anyone is interested, I have been asked to do more stand up - a show on Wednesday, April 28th at the Mohegan Manor in B'ville, and Friday, April 30th at Quaker Steak and Lube in Liverpool. Life has sorta threw me a curve ball with this whole comedy thing. I always knew I belonged on a stage, but I've never envisioned myself walking down this particular path.

Always remember your audience

"Your stuff starts out being just for you… but then it goes out. Once you know what the story is and get it right - as right as you can, anyway - it belongs to anyone who wants to read it. Or criticize it." ~Stephen King


Hello again. I have been away for far too long. For the past two weeks, I cannot say I have lived up to my self proclaimed title of "writer." I apologize for this. I am sorry to any of you reading out there, and to myself. The truth is, I took a little break to heal my ego. After much hesitation and deliberation, I finally posted my blog on Facebook with the intention of acquiring followers. I officially unleashed my words to the world, completely forgetting one of the cardinal rules of writing: always remember your audience.

When I was 18, I learned this rule first hand in a writing class I was taking at Onondaga Community College, OCC, "OCC on the ROCK," "Harvard on the Hill," or whichever misnomer your would like to use. I signed up for a few courses there after graduation, it being the closest and most affordable college in Syracuse. Unfortunately, I didn't know a thing about student loans or tuition, and eventually my professor caught on to the fact that I hadn't yet payed a dime to earn a place in his classroom. He asked to speak to me after class one day, wondering if I had paid to register yet, and if not, when I planned on doing so. I lied, and told him next week, so he allowed me to stay and write with the rest of the students.

Our first assignment was simple. Write a short story. And so I did. It was about a line of people waiting in the falling snowing to get into a warm building. In the line: a teammate, my mom, kids I went to school with. In the end, it is revealed that the line leads to a casket, with my body in it. The story was about my funeral. Obviously that year of my life was pretty angst ridden and dark. I wrote the story so well because I actually had imagined my own funeral on countless occasions. I saw it in my head as vividly as if I was there in person. I was proud of the story, and anxious to have my professor grade it.

After arriving to class on what would be my last day, my professor announced to everyone that he was going to read aloud the story he felt best accomplished the task he assigned. Shifting in my cold, uncomfortable chair in the front row of the room, my heart began quickly palpitating when I glanced upwards to see him holding papers with my words on them. No! He can't read that out loud! Please, don't! I didn't even have a chance to interject. He started with my opening sentence.

Every word was excruciating, melting away pieces of me little by little. I felt twenty pairs of eyes on my back with every description and transition. I stared down at the notebook on my desk, my breathing quick and heavy like I had just done the 50 meter hurdles. When the professor was finally finished, which had to be an eternity later, he opened the room up to discussion and asked the students to speak about my story. To this day, I cannot remember what was said, or even if their critiques were negative or positive. However, what stays with me even today is what the professor said after the comments had finished... "Whenever you write anything, there is always an audience. Do NOT forget that someone is reading what you have written."

For a brief moment, I forgot this lesson when I shared my stories with the rest of the world. I forgot that people will inevitably have an opinion about what I put out there. At first I thought, well - that sucks. I'm trying hard to do something here, for myself, for my future. I am desperately attempting to change my life, to fulfill dreams I have been chasing for too long. Basically, I had a temper tantrum. I was mad that people were mad at me for a silly blog I posted. I was sad that they didn't get my jokes, and that they didn't see my true intentions.

But time has passed since then, and now, I really don't give a crap. I've remembered how Henry David Thoreau holed himself up in a cabin in the woods to write about society. Oh man, he sure pissed people off when Walden was finally published. He was critiquing people, he was expressing his own thoughts and desires, and putting it all down on paper. Of course he was going to be judged. As will I each and every time I have something to say.

I am prepared for this great responsibility now. My tantrum is over, my ego healed, and while I should be outside running in preparation for my spring marathon, I am here, writing again. I have reposted the blog that caused such uproarious controversy, and stand proudly behind it. I am an opinionated woman. And I am a writer. Together, these will make for lengthy rants about relationships, work, friends, society, and so on. Read on if you would like. If not you, someone else will surely choose to do so.

I hate my stupid day job...

I am here to bitch. Do not mistake my doing so as whining. In fact, I HATE whiners. To me, whiners are people that complain about everything, and refuse to do absolutely nothing about it. I am bitching because I have every intention to do something about this stupid day job that I have. Not because I have a lot of time on my hands, not because I have nothing better to do, but because I HAVE to so I can stay somewhat sane in this dead end town. I’m hoping if I reach enough of you out there, if my words somehow interest you, if you agree with what I say, if you completely disagree with my thoughts and beliefs, that someday I will be able to finally leave my stupid day job and buy a great hacienda in Mexico where I can see the beach from my bathroom.

My stupid day job is at a restaurant in downtown Syracuse, New York. For those of you not familiar with this horrid place, Syracuse is part of the great snow belt of the Northeast United States. We get inches upon inches of what they call “lake effect snow” dumped on us every winter. I don’t think it is quite fair to even call the season “winter” given that I have trick-or-treated through snowflakes as a child, and run up and down a lacrosse field in slushy white, grey, and brown shit as a young adult. Note: lacrosse is a spring sport around these parts.

At one significant point in history, Syracuse was actually a hot spot. Not hot in the sense of being temperate year round, but meaning “popular” or “chic.” See, in addition to all the white stuff I already talked about, some peeps a long time ago discovered more white stuff, in the form of salt. For this reason, and because my city was built smack dab on top of the Erie Canal, lots of folks moved to Syracuse way back when. They built huge houses that the University’s fraternities have now turned into party pits. Every day on the way to my stupid day job, I pass these once glorious homes, that I imagine were filled with fine china and butlers, only now to be replaced by half naked college girls and homemade water bongs. This makes me sad, as does the ugly sloppy snow everywhere, and it gets worse (depression sinks in) as I near closer to downtown Syracuse, and the “heart” of it – Armory Square.

My stupid day job is one of a handful of small, privately owned restaurants and bars in this square radius, the only section left downtown that provides entertainment to its zombie-like, overly bundled residents. From time to time, aliens to my hometown inquire, “So what’s there to do here? Where should we go tonight for fun?” With which I reply, “If you walk about 25 yards in either direction, and pray to the heavens above that people are drunk enough, you most likely, but not positively, will find something to pass the time.” The problem is, the people that usually ask this question are not interested in the bars and the people that I would be. They want to go somewhere to “go dancing” or somewhere with “a great jazz band.” I’m sorry dude/sweetie/ma'am/sir/douchebag, but you may have to burn this Salt City to the ground, rebuild something much more trendy on top of it, before you ever experience such a rarity in entertainment. However, what I can offer you instead is maybe a house blues band served with brunch, or an over-priced craft beer in a bar playing the entire 3 day long Phish set over a sweet satellite radio. Does that work for you? No? Well get outta my way then. I’m already late for my stupid day job.

Stay tuned. Next post will be equally riveting as we will finally leave the bitter cold and enter the doors to my stupid day job.

Torture on a Treadmill

Today was the last day of a 5 week Sculpt class that I have been taking at the YMCA. Every Tuesday and Thursday morning for more than a month, I have dragged myself out of bed and to the gym, only to be physically and mentally pushed by my 2 trainers, Maggie and Dina. Alongside a handful of other women, the "torture duo" as I will call them now, lead us through an hour long, high intensity workout that cycled through various weight training and plyometric exercises, with bursts of cardio in between. Let me give you an example: we'll do a minute of scorpion push ups (one leg in the air), followed by sumo squats in combination with bicep curls, then squat thrusts. The goal is to use our own body weight as much as possible during strength exercises, and to not allow for much of a recovery so your heart rate stays up.

It hurts. A lot. Anyone that knows me can attest to the fact that I am in pretty good shape. I am a runner, and since joining the Y, I am there doing some sort of exercise 4-6 days a week. But for crying out loud, lunges and 5 minute long planks are NOTHING compared to an hour long run in my neighborhood. This month I have been forced to use muscles I didn't even know I had. Did you know there's a muscle surrounding your pelvic bone? I sure as hell didn't until the "torture duo" entered my life. I'm still not sure how a strong pelvis will help me in a fight, but it feels cool to punch myself there and not feel my fist padded by inches of soft, cushiony skin.

As it was the last day for my sculpting group, our trainers moved us extra quickly through each exercise, and pushed us even farther when they saw our bodies shaking. Since the start of this class, I have gradually come to like this physical pain. It's worth it.. after anyways. During the pain, I just want to fall to my knees and cry like a toddler. So when the "torture duo" said "ok ladies, that's it for the day," I found myself asking for more. My "already?" comment was followed by moans and groans from the others in my class. Unlike me, they had taken these sculpt sessions before. So they knew my wish for more pain would indefinitely be granted.

And yes oh yes, it was. They lead us over to the treadmills and told us to run with it off. I thought to myself, "ummm... ok?" and began to jog in place. Easy. Then I was schooled and told to make the belt move without turning the machine on. Hard. Much MUCH more harder. Even worse when you are forced to do it for almost 2 minutes straight, the "torture duo" standing behind you, yelling your name and "FASTER!"

Owie. I challenge any of you out there to attempt this exercise. Please get back to me and tell me what you think. But make sure you're "making that belt move!"

While enduring this and all the other grueling exercises I have put myself through these last 5 weeks, to my left, and to my right, I was always surrounded by a group of women, all of them - mothers. Out of the entire bunch, I was the only one without kids. One has a 2 year old girl, another has 4 children all in school. Going to sculpt class is just one of the many difficult things they do throughout their days. Before they've even thought about getting ready for the gym, they've already made breakfast, packed lunches, cleaned the house, started laundry, and brought their kids to school or daycare. All I did this morning before 10:30 was roll out of bed, make my egg whites and oatmeal, and drive to the YMCA 10 minutes before class started. My life is so simple compared to theirs.

The mothers in my class, along with the "torture duo" that also belongs in that group, have inspired me today. I almost want to go back and slap myself every time that I bitched about how "hard my life is." The reality is, taking care of little ole me is nothing in comparison to providing for an entire family. And further, to have the motivation to do something for yourself, to get to the gym and test your physical limits, is even more admirable. As I whine through shoulder raises and mountain climbers, these women buckle down and do it like all the rest of the things they are responsible for in a day. I feel humbled to have met them, and fortunate to have been there to hear about their lives while we sweat, tremble, grunt, and collapse alongside each other.

Working out is hard work, as I'm sure you are all well aware of. But next time you are feeling unmotivated to get your heart going, I hope you think of the mothers at my gym that do it every day in between diaper changes and feedings. They are the strongest women I have met to date.

Bucket List (Circa Year 2000)

I think most of us these days have some sort of "bucket list." I'm not sure when the idea gained popularity, but in recent years, I hear more and more people promising to take a hot air balloon ride or go on a safari in Africa. Or maybe, I am just getting to that age...the time in a person's life when they start really thinking about death, and all the things they want to do before it's too late. I made my own bucket list for the first time in my early 20s. I remember rummaging through my craft box and finding different colored, square sheets of paper. They seemed perfect for listing each item that I wanted to accomplish in my lifetime. The following were written with my favorite markers, and taped to the back of my bedroom door so I could be reminded of them each morning...

1. Win an Oscar
2. Learn to play the guitar
3. Backpack throughout Europe
4. Drive cross country
5. Get something published
6. Finish a crossword puzzle all by myself
7. Learn to play the piano very well (I had already taught myself the basics)
8. Go skydiving
9. Go white water rafting
10. Go bungee jumping
11. Speak to my father

I am proud to say I have accomplished 6.5 out of the 11 items on my list. In recent years I have taught myself a couple chords on the guitar, but I don't think playing "A Horse with No Name" over and over again constitutes full completion of a task. Despite my lack of musical expertise, the percentage is good, given I've been working on them less for than a decade. However, one obvious number 11 even now glares at me from the computer screen as if it is asking, "Hey, when ya going to get to me? I'm pretty dang important!"

See, most people believe that having a list is productive, that it defines clear goals for oneself. What could be wrong with that? Ultimately though, holding yourself to such high expectations will indefinitely cause at least one moment of disappointment. Most the listed tasks require money and time. So at one point in my life, I took out extra student loans, loaded a bag full of my belongings, and boarded a flight across the Atlantic. I spent almost a month trekking, sweating, getting lost, finding directions, and getting lost again through 4 European countries. At another period in time, I bought a one way ticket to meet my best friend Amy in San Fransisco, just to marvel at America's diverse multitude of landscapes on the way home to New York. But the one thing that requires absolutely no income, or longer than 10 minutes of my time, is still sitting there... undone.

It has been more than 20 years since I have seen my real father and about 10 since I've even spoken to him. This is a long story, one that may possibly be shared with you at a later date. The point I am trying to make by bringing this all up is that today, I am doubting the worthiness of bucket lists. Recently I was just asked to do a 10 minute long stand up bit, as an opening act for a local comedian. My immediate thought was, hell no! I'm not funny when I try to be! The only time I make someone laugh is when I say something so randomly, so off topic, that it kinda stuns them and they have nothing to do but smile and let out a chuckle.

After giving it some more time to simmer, I recalled that "Become a stand-up comic" was never added to my initial bucket list. It wasn't something I ever desired to become, or wanted to attempt for the plain sake of trying. But for some reason, that's exactly why I want to do it now. It doesn't require any funding, nor should it take much time to prepare for. I never planned for it to happen, so even if I choose not to go through with it, I won't be disappointed. "Comedian" can't ever linger on a colored piece of construction paper as a representation of what I didn't do this year. It won't haunt me as a promise to myself yet to be fulfilled. It is a new experience - a surprise. Not an obligation. For that reason, I owe it to myself to jump right in.

Stay tuned for the details of my first live audience, joke-telling, unbucketlisted experience. It shall be a new one for sure...

"People always think something's all true"

The first time I read J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, I was in high school. I remembered it, among the many other books we were forced to read as an adolescent, but mainly because the "main guy thought everyone was a phony."

The second time I stumbled upon the book was on a movie set. I had recently moved to Wilmington, North Carolina, about a year after my graduation. "The Chester Story" was the first film I worked on as a bona fide Production Assistant. I was told specifically to take care of the star of our film, Teri Hatcher (post-Superman and pre-Desperate Housewives). This sometimes meant convincing the manager of a restaurant to please, pretty please, turn on the oven in the kitchen you have closed, and cook a dry, broiled, unseasoned piece of chicken for someone very important. Other days, I would entertain her daughter, Emerson, and when we had hours of downtime, Teri would challenge me to a game of Boggle on the back porch of a stranger's house. Despite the fact that these tasks seemed trivial and meaningless, especially in regards to the rest of the work that is done on a film set, I convinced myself that I was important. That fending off autograph hungry fans was absolutely necessary to the art of great film making.

One humid afternoon when we were shooting in a house on the edge of the Intercoastal Waterway, I wandered into one of the owner's many bedrooms to find a small bookcase by the doorway. While scanning the titles of the dusty mix of paperbacks and hardcovers, The Catcher in the Rye stood upright looking straight at me, almost asking me to pick it up. I glanced over my shoulder to see if any of the crew was watching me, because I so badly wanted to take it. It was a small and disheveled copy, so I delicately flipped through it's pages looking for Mr. Caulfield. I hope all of you have, at one point in your life, taken the time to smell the pages of an old book. The scent is so strong that it feels like it almost carried history along with it. I'd say that I'd wish they'd make it into a perfume, but honestly, I kind of like forgetting the smell and then being reminded of it when I browse through a used bookstore or garage sale.

Anyways, I lied to myself, and everyone else that asked about where I got my new book, by explaining that the Prop Master agreed I could have Salinger's masterpiece. This time when I read the words, I fell in love Holden Caulfield. Every opinion, every secret, every hate and desire he shared with me, made complete sense to a person having just left a sheltering hometown. I even found myself to hate phonies too, actually. Whatever I felt, was for this fictional character, a person that wasn't real in my life or anybody else's. Standing in the filtered light of a film set, I saw Holden and Mandy as one in the same.

Progressing through my early twenties, I read and reread Catcher a handful of times. The reason being, I was lost. There was so much I didn't understand, and plenty of reasons why I hated society like our hero did. Or, like I thought he did...

About 7 years later, I was assigned to read the book again, in one of my literature classes at Syracuse University. After almost a decade of relocating from place to place, city to city, I had made the decision to hunker down and get my degree. Ironically, I chose to come full circle, and finish it in my hometown. Since the last time I visited Holden, much had transpired and changed. I had my heart broken a couple of times, I had decided on a career, changed my mind, and decided again. I had lost friends, and gained new ones. I saw parts of Europe, and experienced different cultures. I went from hating myself, to liking who I was, and finally understanding the real Mandy Howard. In other words, I had grown up.

So when my professor sparked a debate in class about whether or not Caulfield was "depressed" or not, I was one of the only few that had his back. While this may have been the result of an obvious age gap between me and the rest of my classmates, I argued in his behalf so well that at the very least, I am sure I got at least one person to change their mind. I proposed that maybe our hero actually loved society. That he saw them in the most brightest of lights, that maybe only he, could really appreciate people- both good and bad aspects of them, because he listened and saw them more clearly than any of us do. I believe, like Holden, that we should expect the best from each other. And like this character, I am also hypersensitive to life, and easily disappointed by other people. Does this mean I am depressed? No. Rather, maybe it means that I feel everything, and see you all as vividly as I can smell the lingering scent of life on the pages of an old book.

During this class, I also found that since the first time I read The Catcher in the Rye, that I began to appreciate someone even more than the character I so desperately defended. J.D. Salinger, in the progression of life and time, had become an inspiration to me. As my eyes darted around the classroom, following each student that presented their opinion, I thought to myself, "Congrats Salinger, you have succeeded." After all is said and done, this is the sign of a good book. If a writer can entice people to think, to argue, to debate, and to think again, then he has pretty much done his job. Decades after he wrote it, people are still wondering aloud if Holden Caulfield should have gone to a psychiatric hospital or not.

For this reason, I thank you Mr. Salinger. Thank you for keeping us guessing, and forcing us to think. You have set an almost unreachable bar for writers everywhere. I can only hope that one day, a lost soul stumbles upon my book and finds some comforting answers on the pages I have written.

What a difference a day makes

I'm not gonna lie to you... I was f**king miserable yesterday. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, ready to punch the first person that said something ignorant. Do you ever have days like that? Days when you just hate people for being people? I'd like to consider myself someone who has faith in our human race, and I can tell you for sure I've never been labeled a cynic. But for whatever reason, yesterday I hated everything, humanity included.

Thankfully, I worked some of my rage out at the gym. It always feels great to beat your body into oblivion when you feel like you are going postal. I did squat thrusts, lunges, and hamstring curls until my anger subsided into aching pain. After a semi-productive day of errands, my day got ten times worse when I had to get ready for my stupid day job.

For your entertainment, I promise to post a blog I wrote recently about this stupid day job. But for those of you that have no idea where I work, note that I wait tables at Empire Brewing Company in downtown Syracuse, New York. To be completely honest, I love the people I work with. I don't even mind the work I do. Taking orders and putting them into a computer is fairly simple as jobs go. And since I've been working there off and on for almost 10 years, I can basically do the job with my eyes closed. I get to choose the days I want to work, and I actually believe in the product I sell, unlike those Gold's Gym packages I used to pawn off to random people in my early 20s.

But the part that I hate is having encounters with annoying, needy, snobby, particular, mean, idiotic people on a regular basis. In the server world, you can not escape humanity. You are forced to interact. It is your job to converse with these people. You can't say no, or tell them how you really feel about their indecisive personalities that prevent them from choosing lobster bisque or gumbo. Because that would mean no tip, and possibly, no job.

Hopefully now you see why on a day like the one I had yesterday, the last thing I wanted to do in the world is stand at a table with a fake smile on my face reciting a pan-seared swordfish special. What I really wanted to do was curl up in a ball in my bed, pollute my brain with reality television, and feel sorry for myself for being a 28 year old, college educated WAITRESS.

The worst part, is that I absolutely had to go to work, for no reason other then the fact that I need to pay my bills. The 40 dollars I walked out the door with was pathetically necessary. Sometimes I think that there is no sum of money that seems enough to get me through a shift. Even on a good paying night, I still have a sinking sense of disappointment when I drive home. My wallet is full of new bills, but I hate myself for it. All I did to earn the cash was impress a room full of drunks with my insane knowledge of craft brews and local food. I didn't create anything significant. For me, I was just playing another part. I doubt my role changed any one's life, including my own.

To heal my anguished waitress soul, I drank red wine and watched television shows on the Internet until I fell asleep, finally ending my crappy, "woe is me" themed day.

But then, this morning, I woke up to a brand new, different me. I remembered that I promised in this blog that I would start a screenplay. And yes folks, that's exactly what I did. Today, I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, and even at 11 o'clock this night, I am still writing! I am more than half way done with my first script, EVER. Albeit a short film and not a feature (baby steps people), it is actually words on a page, with a format, and characters, and dialogue! And I can't wait to finish it and watch it come to life!

In addition to the hours I spent holed up in a chair towards the back of Panera Bread Company, I fielded a myriad of important phone calls, including one from an talent agency based out of Rochester. After speaking to the manager, I have scheduled an appointment with the company next week! Wish me luck! Who knows, maybe someday soon I will be able to throw out my ratty apron and call myself an actor/writer... Until then, I'm going to keep coming here and writing all about it. Forgive me ahead of time for my moments of despair and self pity. If there is anything I can promise you for sure, it is that I will have them. Waiting tables is NOT glamorous. And humanity is definitely flawed. Both these facts will ultimately make a normally content Mandy morph into a maniacal jumble of erratic thoughts and behaviors...