Small Ode To NYC

In Central Park today I meditated by the lake under the foot bridge. I just had a really great audition from my most favorite casting director and dear friend and I was feeling pretty darn good.

Being Yom Kippor and all, I was reflecting about my past year which included my move back to NYC, a few really cool auditions, some fortunate jobs, beautiful times with my best friends and a few recent heart fluttering kissing sessions.

This is all balanced by the constant questioning of where and how the next paycheck will come, why I'm an actor when the path is so uncertain and will I ever find the right man for me. So many questions on such a mellow and dizzy (due to lack of food and a lot of walking) sunny, October, NY day.

I closed my eyes and felt the sun on my shoulder. Then I heard the sound of a saxophone. Cliche? Maybe. Fabulous? Absolutely. It was crooning an old standard. My favorite stuff.

I opened my eyes and saw the green and brown mallards diving for their mid afternoon snack. I then spyed a young couple kissing by the bank of the lake. Smiling, I looked up at the handsome carriages clipping down 5th.

I felt so blessed to be alive and in NYC, so filled with love and hope that  I was unashamed as a few quiet tears streamed down my cheeks.

 The relationship I have with this city is the longest one I've ever had in my life. I love it here. I hate it here at times, but like family, it's in my blood no matter what.

There's so much I yearn for, so much I wish to manifest here and make a reality. I know I can't pull on shoots from planted seeds and turn them into fully grown plants any sooner than they're ready. I know I have to practice patience and keep on doing what I do. I know I need to continue to expect without expecting. I know I have to be grateful for all the blessings in my life now. Being so focused on what's next , or how can I fix this or that, or where can look for something I don't yet have, it's easy to loose track of the moment.

Sometimes this is harder than others,especially in NY when somedays you just want to get to where you're going and there's so many 'obstacles' in your way.

Sitting on that warm, gray slate rock in the park today, listening to the wail of the sax and the flutter of the ducks, all I could feel was gratitude, love and joy.

So thank you, NY. Thanks so much for being here for me upon my return. Thanks for the kisses from beautiful men on 9th street, the food, the smells, the sounds and the dog walks in the park. Thanks for not asking me WHY I came back, but accepting my return open armed and unquestioned.

Thanks for reflecting back to me the joy, anguish , anxiety, beauty, faith and humanity I see in you every day.

This is home. Above and below 14th street, East side and West side, this is home. This is my hearbeat, my salvation and my nemisis. Thanks  above all, for being honest and real, both a super romantic and stark realist, major inspiration and total buzz kill. I have no fucking clue where I'd be without you.

I just wanted to sing your praises for a bit before the can man wakes me up at 5 am and I scream out my window for him to shut the hell up.

I love you truly, from Veselka to Hungarian Bakery, from Thompkins to Prospect and from Shopsins to Red Rose Cafe.

Happy New Year.

Procrastination, I'm Your Bitch!

I have been trying to work on this script for over a couple months now. I am no where close to meeting my self imposed deadline of 10 pages by next Tuesday. I have plans, see? Like checking Facebook, walking the dog in the park and fantasizing about the new guy I met. Important shit...and then there's Oprah.

The phone beckons, the cupboards call my name and the wind whispers "Shari... don't you want to go to yoga? You lost a couple pounds, don't you want to tighten your bootie now? You should also go shopping for new jeans. Hell, you should take off and get your nails done! You deserve it!"

I don't. I know I don't. Not until the writing is on the way...

The house looks dusty. Maybe I'll clean? The floors need a good mopping and I DO need to get another key made for the neighbor to walk th dog when I'm on vacation...whenever that happens.

Suddenly I get the urge to call friends in LA. Call friends in D.C. call friends in Spain! I don't have any friends in D.C. or Spain, but maybe I can make some? THEN call them.

I've been meaning to get my bangs cut and make these new, cool feathered headbands that maybe I can sell for the Holidays to local boutiques and make a lot of money?

I am hopeless.

I make cookies and then give them to the mailman. I make pasta sauce and jar it for later. I defrost chicken for the dog and then go to the bank. ANYTHING to keep me from commiting to being creative.

Why? Becasue I am creative and I am an artist and this is what we do. We just do.

Eventually I will sit down and type some words. Hopefully they're funny.

If I can only focus enough to stay in one place for a while...

Hey- is that button falling off your shirt? Give it to me, I'll sew it for you. Then do some laundry- right after I return some e-mails.

What?

I'm Feelin' Lucky

First dates are weird. I never go on them thinking anything is going to happen. If I’m pleasantly surprised, then I consider myself lucky. “Lucky” is my new word I am consciously using to describe myself. This is in hopes that the “power of attraction” will rub off on my psyche, or aura or whatever the hell it rubs off on, or attaches itself to. As long as it’s not my thighs I’m ok.

I have had a lot of “first dates”. A lot. Not that I’d even say I date constantly, but I seem to go in spurts with long breaks in between. Few guys seem to get a second date, let alone a third. It’s been suggested (by my mother) that I’m too picky. Hey, I’ve waited this long to find a man I’m on the same page with and who’s company I enjoy( one who I’d ALSO like to sleep with often and FOREVAH), so why settle? I’m perfectly fine being alone unless it really fits. However, I do want to say “I Do” and I’d be beside myself, silly with happiness to share my life with someone. It’d be nice to have someone to bear witness, to participate, to “yes, and...” me. Someone to bump it up a notch, as it were.

 Recently I have removed myself from all dating websites. Which may seem counter productive to what I just said I wanted, but it’s like having another thankless, underpaying part time job. I started when I lived in LA and was writing an article about J Date. I went out with almost every nebbishy, Jewish sit-com writer in Hollywood and would always leave the date with one question, “How the hell do you have this high paying writing gig when I am infinitely funnier than you?” Lots of exciting things happened. I got stood up, rufied and a guy masturbated on my front porch while I was getting us a bottle of wine inside. That was just one date!

 I’m lying, but all those things did happen separately. There was never a dull moment and I got some great material, for sure. I left LA and J Date with the bad taste of crappy Chinese food in my mouth. Not pretty. LA sucks at Chinese food.

 Upon officially moving back to New York I’d decided I’d try again. This time on the “edgier” sites like Nerve and The Onion. I know, right? Someone hold me back from the ‘edge’ before I leap into a sea of posers and middle aged men saying they're 35. I went on three months of terribly boring ‘firsts’…and ‘lasts’. First drinks, first meals and first walks in the park. I got so good at being able to tell whether or not there was any chance of anything happening within the first 2 minutes, I kind of felt sorry for the guys. But who has the time to sit through an entire meal if you just know there will be no phone call or kiss?

Ever.

 Unless… you’re broke (hey, I’m an actor), in which case I view the whole date as a character study.  I’ll ask questions that I really have no interest in finding out the answers to just so I can order more food. Just keep ‘em talking through appetizers and then take the entree home where you can eat in peace. If you get good at this, three first dates can potentially provide you lunches for up to a week!

 My last and final online date was with this guy who told me he had just come from a male support group where they sit and drum. In a circle. In unison. Then they talk about what’s on their minds. Now, I’m all for therapy, even alternative forms. Whatever helps, I say. I am a part of a meditation group and some people could find that odd or too ‘new-agey’ for their taste. I really try not to judge being that I reside in a glass house. But when this guy said he broke off an engagement two months ago because his fiancée just didn’t have, and I quote, “Goddess energy”.

I ordered another yellowtail/scallion roll, ate one piece, then asked the waiter to wrap the rest up and headed for the hills of East 9^th st. As we left the restaurant he asked if I wanted to go back to his place and smoke ‘grass’. Gee thanks, but I’ll pass. By the way, 1973 called and it wants it’s vernacular back.

 Shortly after this experience I took myself off the sites but kept my Facebook account. I love Facebook. This is mostly because I am now in touch with family and friends who’ve dropped out of my immediate 'zone' and it’s nice to have the equivalent of a virtual cup of coffee with them. You can also see friends of friends and check them out. It’s fun and not like you’re on there for the sole purpose to nab a mate. It’s all under the umbrella of “networking”, which it’s a great tool for as well.

 I got asked out on the site twice. The first time was by this sort of famous NY actor who has garnered a few Tony Awards and I am actually a fan of his work. He’s quite talented and he sent me a message saying that he liked my face. Cute. Ok! I’m game. “Hey! Wanna see my Broadway show where I’m the lead?” is not a bad opening line. Um, do Mary Kate and Ashley want an I V instead of real food? Yes! Our first date started with me sitting fourth row, center.

 After the show he whisked me away to an Italian restaurant in midtown. I was dodging scaffolding in four-inch heels and almost fell over a few times. This did not seem to slow him down. He walked fast, talked faster and made elaborate declarations at lightening speed. Within ten minutes of our first glass of Chianti he asked if I wanted to go to Turks in Caicos with him.

I made the Scooby Doo noise out loud. I even used my hands as ‘ears’ and moved them as I said, “ Zoinks, Scoob! I’ve only known you for ten minutes!”

“Too soon?” he asks.

“I don’t even know the name of the band you had in High School yet. Yes, I think it’s too soon.”

 Now, I really, really need a vacation. He’s attractive, successful and funny; the triumvirate of qualities. Much like what herbs d’provance are to cooking, these three attributes make any single gal salivate. Would it be TERRIBLE if I went away with him? Our date was fun, lots to talk about, we have great repartee. He kisses me (fairly well) goodnight and puts me in a cab. He says he’s on his “best behavior” because he knew I wrote about my dating life and said he didn’t want to become an anecdote. I told him this was strictly up to him. It was. He lost.

Sorry.

 After he obsessively texted me for the next week, and I mean obsessive. Trust me, I know from obsessive and this guy was the poster child. I could time it like a summer storm. How many minutes elapse in between the lightening and the thunder lets you know how fast the storm is approaching. In this case I believe it was a barometer of his horniness.

 While sharing frozen yogurt with a girlfriend on a park bench a red painted tourist bus pulls up and his face takes up the entire side of the bus.

“There’s your new boyfriend”, she cajoled.

Beep Beep Beep. I have a text.

“No, I say”, “There’s my new boyfriend. Again”.

I received seven texts during my double vanilla, key lime swirl. As we all know, when it’s that crazy at first, there’s no where to go but down, fast and hard like an  ingénue who wants to sign with Endevor. (rim shot anyone?)

 When I just couldn’t possibly return a few texts the following day because I was in my shrink’s office talking about him, he texted me,” Abandoning me already?”

Oh my. Then there’s a bunch of stories friends I have in the Broadway community told me about him that confirmed my suspicions of his serial dating-ness and borderline personality.

No second date for you Mr. Actor Man.

 Then I was truly done. I mean stick a fork in me, turn me over, done.

Until last week.

 I had a really nice first date with this other guy. I won't nick name him yet. It's too soon for that kind of intimacy. We have plans for a second date this Friday.

I’m not holding my breath here or anything, but there’s always a chance he makes it to a third. Then… who knows? Maybe I’ll go to Turks in Caicos with this new guy and send Mr. Actor Man a postcard?

“Thanks for letting me know about this place! It’s beautiful!”

After all, I’m lucky.

Rats I Say

From the LA Weekly

One of the major perks of moving to L.A. from N.Y. besides my obvious top three -- weather that never changes, more space for the money, and cheap smokes -- is the absence of rodents and cockroaches in my home. I'm a pretty tough cookie (I am a New Yorker, after all), so when I came face to face with new roommates who refused to pay rent and wreaked havoc on my life, I had to take control.

I was nursing a seriously bruised heart from a recent disappearing act flawlessly executed by a guy I thought was on the same train as I was. Turned out his stop was San Francisco with a different woman, and mine was past Fucked Up, disembarking at Deep Introspection.

My roommate was gone for two glorious weeks. Just me, my dog and quiet -- the triumvirate of healing and a recipe for restoration. On my first day solo in the house, I cleaned, organized my desk, set some short-term goals and got ready for meditation before bedtime.

Around 2 a.m. I was in my tank top and panties, sans contacts or glasses. I stumbled my way to the kitchen for my dog's water dish. Bending down blindly to pick it up, I was introduced to one of the largest rodents I've ever seen.

I screamed, it screamed back. I moved one way, it moved in the same direction. Both of us were scared out of our minds as we danced the "No, you first! Please get the hell out of my way!" rat dance. It was my homage to I Love Lucy.

Now, I've seen big-ass rats before. Once while baby-sitting in N.Y. I strolled a 3-year-old down 12th Street as she practiced her new word -- "doggie!" -- by pointing and clapping at a rat the size of a fat watermelon walking through the automatic doors and directly into a D'Agostino's. That, my friends, was a big rodent.

It's gross enough seeing rats on the street, but this time, it was personal. I'm in Los Angeles, for cryin' out loud! This isn't supposed to happen here. Needless to say, meditation went out the window. I locked myself in my bedroom with my dog and a bottle of vodka.

I knew I had to call someone, but who? My landlord was on vacation in Canada. I thought about calling a guy I used to date, just to crash on his couch, but he'd totally think this was a rat ruse and clearly his chance to get some tail. I opted to call my friend Al. He and his wife recently moved from around the corner from me in Los Feliz to Van fuckin' Nuys. Not even rat infestation can make me drive to the Valley. He suggested I get on the Internet to find a 24-hour exterminator. Great idea, but this isn't N.Y. -- I can't even get a friggin moo shu pork delivered to me past 9 p.m. I started drinking. Heavily. In bed. Sexy, huh?

In my vodka delirium I heard a cascade of talons in the walls. It sounded like they were going to burst through the Sheetrock and join me for a cocktail. What did that dirty rat do? Go back to his little rat family and tell them that the human is alone and totally freaked out?

I imagined the rat sounding like James Cagney. "Now she's wasted, see, and we can really fuck with her, see... Get her to leave the house, see, and take over! First Los Feliz, see, then the world!" [Insert maniacal rat laughter here.]

Where was Bruce Davison when you needed him? I'd even have settled for Crispin Glover from the remake of Willard -- are you with me, people? I stuffed a towel from my hamper in the crack below the door frame, and somewhere between the last of the vodka and 6 in the morning I passed out.

The next day I ran to The Home Depot to look for humane traps. I don't like killing anything. I tried to find these "live" traps, as they're called, so I could spare the rat's soul from being tortured. Rat-diculous? Perhaps. But even more nuts was the fact that they don't make humane traps large enough for the size rodents I had. I drove all over L.A., going into every hardware store imaginable. It looked as though the rats must die. I didn't want any of this rat-killing karma on my head, so I called in professional help.

The exterminator who came to my house was named George, or "My Hero" as I like to call him. He knew by looking at the rats' droppings (ugh) their age, gender and political orientation. I already knew they had to be Republicans because they were making a mess of things and refused to leave. Turns out I had Rattus rattus, otherwise known as roof rats. Apparently these are very common in Los Angeles, and George said he'd been getting a lot of calls about this very issue since the Griffith Park fire. These guys are like the missing link of rodents. They can adapt to any environment, and gnaw through wood, stucco and concrete. They are the Cirque du Soleil performers of the vermin world, using their tails for balance and acrobatics on power lines and rooftops.

George laid out traps that looked like black shoeboxes with holes and peanut butter inside. He put them in my attic, kitchen and laundry room, and under the house. Over the next week the scratching in the walls subsided, and a funky smell emanated from the kitchen. It can only be described as .?.?. death.

Rattus rattus was no more. I prayed the noxious odor would serve as a giant rat warning: Those who enter will swim with the fishes.

That night, I meditated in silence. Looking at my statue of the elephant god, Ganesh, while chanting my mantra, I realized his foot rests on none other than Rattus rattus himself. Namaste, Rattus. Namaste.This is your site, and what your are looking at is called an article box.  In fact everything on this page are in boxes like this one.  And, everything  can be moved, edited or deleted.

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About Shari

Shari Albert is an actress and writer who is currently in NY but could be in LA at any minute if work beckons. She's an NYU graduate and works extensively in film, television, and theatre. Some credits include the award winning film The Brothers' McMullen, The Groomsmen, Ugly Betty, King of Queens, and Law and Order. She's also a freelance writer for the LA Weekly and the Huffington Post. She wrote the one woman show Cookin' with Shari. She loves her dog Syd, her friends, family and being in New York City.

Other Articles

LA WEEKLY
Rats, I Say!
Wed, Jun 20, 2007
Unwanted roommates move in, make a mess of things and refuse to leave

Go, Speed Dater!
Wed, Jul 5, 2006
Fashion adventures in the online hookup

HUFFINGTON POST - Love Sick