Newsflash, chuckle nuts: your trash doesn't go in the elevator.

Not too many people would guess it, but I have a pretty nasty temper. Few things ignite the fury within me more than slobs that leave their nastiness in the faces of their innocent neighbors.

My apartment building has an elevator. It has one elevator. That's a lot better than most apartment complexes around here that have NO elevators. Therefore, it would make sense to treat the elevator well because everyone tends to - oh, I don't know - use it it from time to time.

Apparently some Jackass McGee disagrees with me, because he/she decided to leave three bags of opened, nasty garbage in the elevator. They were there when I left for work in the morning and when I came home at 10:00pm.

This is what happened:

The downside to season oriented work.

I would like to go on the record by saying that I really do enjoy my job at Disoda-Soda. I have interesting and fun coworkers, bosses that I get along with, and an excuse to use my elementary school level Spanish.

That said, with the inevitable post-Memorial Day drop in attendance, Disoda-Soda has been cutting back hours. Until a few days ago, most of my team hadn't been affected by the drop in volume because we had already faced a decrease in hours. Our manager had hired an army of twelve-ish additional front-of-house employees for this past summer, making hours less plentiful for year round staff. Whereas last summer I worked 39-40 hours a week, this summer I only worked 29-33 hours a week. It was a moderate price to pay for a smoother guest and employee experience.

I figured that I wouldn't even notice a change in my schedule when autumn came and the majority of American tourists reverted back to the secret lives they led while their children went to school. Then I saw my schedule for the next week: I am only working four days and two of those shifts are only half days. In other words, since management decided to some of those summer employees on until further notice, hours have even further diminished.

I panicked as I wrote down my schedule. I saw myself in a long, long hallway as I helplessly watched all of the things that I had planned to spend money on fly away from me and vanish into the horizon. Kelsey Edwards headshots. A television. A working cigarette lighter for my car so that I could finally plug in my ipod again. Phone bills. Rent bills. Abelard's castration bill. These expenses can be managed with a steady paycheck, but I can't expect to take care of business without depleting my savings unless I find an additional source of income.

"Alright, gang," said the Head Manager at the daily morning pep-talk, "I open the floor to you guys. I want to know what you think. And if you have any questions, now is the time to ask them. I'm opening myself up to you."

There was a silence. Finally, Emeril raised his hand.

"Look," he began, "I know that the season is slowing down and we're not as busy, but I'm only working three days next week. I've got rent and bills to pay. Is there any way that we can, you know, work?"

"I'm glad you said something about that, Emeril. We were wondering if we were going to have to address this issue. It's a big one. It's a tough one. And the truth is, we're trying to be fair to as many people as possible and make sure that everyone has shifts to work and that they aren't left out in the cold. That said, we have a plethora of private events coming up. So just let us know when you're available to work in the evenings and we will be sure to get you on board with some of the banquets and dinners. They are a wonderful way to get more hours in. Anything else?"

Disoda-Soda's schedule had me worried. I spent the majority of my four hour shift wondering: Could I get another job in addition to the internship I've already got going on? Could I could get more than four dollars for my copy of Austin Powers: Goldmember? Abelard is an indoor cat. Does he really need to have his balls cut off?

It almost makes me wish that the huddled masses would get right back on their wheelie chairs and electric scooters and scoot back to Disoda-Soda in droves. I would lovingly assist the family of nine that pulled into the parking deck in two luxury Hummers with American flag vanity plates on the back in exchange for a week of decent shifts again.

It sure would be better than standing outside, smiling and greeting people, while I'm actually thinking, Dear god: I'm running out of possessions to sell.

A couple of bloggerful nuggets:

Well, butter my biscuit and call me your daddy: I won a couple of blog related goodies!

First: my first little blog award from Kate over at SimplyKate. I get a little button that tells me that my blog is lovely and I get to feel down with the blog community. Thank you so much, Kate!

Here it is:


Second, check out Awkward Sex and the City, specifically the post with the three most awkward sexual experiences. Look who was featured. In case you're the kind of person who is going to skip past a hook like that, I'll go ahead and tell you that I've got a little anecdote in there. I have no idea how many people submitted, but I'll go ahead and pretend like it was a billion and that my experience was just horrifying enough to explode like a brightly colored supernova. Or those frogs over in Germany.

SBAP's moving on up in the world, you guys. Moving on up.

Edit: Apparently there are rules for blog awards. I have to award this to fifteen other bloggers. Well, I don't exactly know fifteen other bloggers yet. I will keep this little award here and hand it out whenever I get into someone else's blog.

Funny.

The absence of children in the house has left my mother and father free to buy the finer things: organic eggs and softer toilet paper.

Responsibility.

Contrary to what my parents may or may not have told me, responsibility really is an art one must cultivate. You aren't born with it. Some people are better at it by nature and others are like me; they must actively pursue a constant state of staying on the ball.

This morning, I woke up to the sound of my phone that I forgot to charge. It was the instructor from a voice-over class I had registered for. She was calling to inform me that I had missed the first session of class. It was last night. She kept saying things like, "Yes, and, well. See, there was a lot of material that you missed. Yes, and, well. You see, Mmhmm, can't catch you up" until I finally understood that I would not be able to continue with the class. I saw a chunk of change to the tune of one hundred dollars sliding down the drain until she said, "Well, what I can do is move you into the next session that starts in October. The other option would be for you to have a private session with me, and trust me: you don't want to do that."

The way she said, "You don't want to do that" made it sound like a private session was on par with a visit to one of those fancy dungeons where you pay ladies $300 dollars an hour to be mean to you.

So I took her offer.

Afterward, I decided to head to Target and get something to cover up my boobs when I go kayaking tomorrow that will still allow me to even out this furious farmer's tan I acquired from my summer uniform days at Disoda-Soda.

Ironically enough, I got to Target and, almost immediately, a child pulls on my jeans and says, "I can see your bra."

Responsibility: wearing a flesh colored bra and keeping a calendar.

Speed up or GTFOOMW.

Are you ready for metaphors?

You're walking on a sidewalk and there are two groups ahead of you. As you approach them, they both continue to walk at their slower pace, but one will move out of the way to let you pass and the other will stay where they are, as if to dare you to see what happens if you run into them. What do you do? And if the situation was reversed, which group of slow-walkers would you fit into?

I am fast. However, I seem to be fast where speed doesn't exactly matter; it's not like I'm Speedy Gonzalez in areas where speed benefits: memorizing a dance combination or learning complex mathematics, just to name a couple.

I walk six to eight steps faster of the average individual. I have accrued exactly eight speeding tickets since the age of sixteen. I can clean a nasty room in one hour. At work I can stamp, fold, and laminate at the speed of sound. These are the things that I am fast with. In fact, if you were to compare my end-of-day totals with those of my co-workers, you would find my pile of receipts and promotions to be considerably denser. One simple process after another; that's how ticket sales are for me. For example, someone walks up to the window. It takes about twenty seconds for the following to occur:

"Hi, how are you, welcome to Disoda-Soda. How many tickets? Great, that'll be fifty dollars. Hold your photo ID to the window, please. Wonderful. Sign your receipt, please. Wonderful. There you go. Have a fabulous day."

Rinse and repeat. I feel like I can confidently put "fast talking" on the special skills section of my resume. The ability to get into a fast-as-lightning groove with menial tasks seems to be a great skill, until I realize that I'm good at repeating a simple process over and over and over again and begin to feel incredibly unimportant and stupid. There are people out there who are out there being productive and succeeding and I'm sitting inside a ticketing booth, punching buttons and daydreaming about "making it" as an actor when there is totally a possibility of that dream never coming true, and oh my god: why the hell am I sitting behind this window when I could be out auditioning or doing something more productive, but where are all of the auditions at and I have to be here so I can make money to be productive, but HOLY SHIT, WHAT IF THIS NEVER HAPPENS?

By that point, I have been chilling at the peak of Mt. Jaded for a while and I begin to take out my frustration in ways that I only feel comfortable describing as "less positive."

For example, if I'm walking with someone slower than me by an average of 4-5 steps, I get pissed off. If they keep the same distance, but they are in front of me (translation: in my way), then I begin to feel violent. Who is this person and why are they walking slow when I clearly want to get somewhere faster than the speed they are going?

When I was in high school, there was this group of kids that walked slowly and took up the entire hallway. If you sped up to bypass them, they would migrate to that side of the hallway. Every single day, they found a new method of getting in my way and fueling my festering gripes. I imagined how grand life would be if I could just pummel over anyone and everyone who got on my nerves for being stupid, inattentive, and slow. As I looked back and saw them, knocked over on their backs and rolling around because they were too slow to figure out how to roll over to their front and pull themselves up off the ground, I would laugh as I finished my journey from point A to point B.

For the record, I never pummeled anyone. However, if you took Present Me and sent me back in time to live as Past Me, it would be a different story. I still wouldn't pummel anyone, but I would brush past them hurriedly and not think twice about it. (Yeah. So.... there.)

I suppose that all of this circles back to the issue of time; something that has plagued my mind as of late. Somewhere in the timeline of recent years since I left Ubel, I lost that submissive, eager-to-please streak and developed this "Why the hell not me?" mentality. I have no idea if that's a good thing or a bad one.

While I am happy to have a job at Disoda-Soda, I'm ready for something other than pushing a button and saying "Thank you and have a good one!" one hundred times a day. I'm tired of feeling that same anxiety I get when I want to walk at a brisk pace and all of the slow people around me keep strategically getting in the way. There is a way to get ahead and it's called initiative. However, I am thinking about personally campaigning to change the definition of initiative to "one who is totally fine with looking you square in the eyes and formidably saying, "Get the hell out of my way."

I wonder: can I really turn into that kind of person or will I always be that girl who lets everyone at the table talk me into letting them take their opportunity before mine? I like to think that I can find that balance between being a gracious, lovely human being and knowing when to snap necks, but the reality is that I believe there is a reason that these are only violent fantasies. I am severely lacking in whatever part of a woman or sassy queen's brain has that enables them to be a vicious bitch. I personally feel that that is the only acceptable bitch since it is the kind that gay men seem to love and everyone knows that gay men run the world of performance art. Talk about a brisk walker; vicious bitches will impale you with a stiletto for stepping an inch in the wrong direction. I feel like the highest I've gone in the scale of bitchiness is Level 6: Clumsy Bitch.

So that's where I am right now, one of brisk walkers trying to get by without getting so ahead of myself that I explode. In the mean time, though, I guess it makes me feel a little more at ease to know that I have a degree, no debt, and a job that's easy enough and still manages to pay the rent while simultaneously allowing me to hone my fast talking skills.

If anything, I possibly have a future in the town n' country estate auctioning scene. There's never a shortage of dead people who need their possessions to be sold.

Smile Big and Pretty Presents: My on-camera acting class

I was going to write a whole post about the cast of characters in this camera class I'm taking, but I took the fun route and decided to show you instead.



I don't know if it lives up to the epic level of the last video I made, but I'm still proud.

The varying degrees of "immediately."

"They said that they were looking to cast immediately, so if you've got it then you'll be getting a call from me soon."

That's what my agent said after my television show audition, but what does immediately mean in the entertainment industry? Does it mean within a few hours? A few days? A few business days? Does that include bank holidays and Yom Kippur?

I shouldn't be as concerned as I am because in all likelihood, they won't cast me. Now that I look back, my on-camera audition could have been much better. I know for a fact that I looked directly into the lens at one point and off-camera-left at another. And I don't think they are going to see those in their review session and think, "Oh wow, what interesting choices."

An open letter to that chapter of Sigma Nu:

This is the face of someone volunteering backstage during a production of a show. Well, I'm working the first half. I'm going to time out and watch the second. The show is called The Supervillain Monologues and it's comprised of several monologues and vignettes where comic book-esque villains share details about their lives and the trials and tribulations therein. The money scene begins with one of the players holding a talking Moon on a yard stick and shouting,

"HEY YA'LL, I'M THE MOON, MOTHERFUCKER, SUCK MY DICK!"

With that kind of vivacious spirit in mind, I will be formally accepting an internship at this theater in a couple of days. Technically there is no monetary compensation involved, but I'm getting free classes and I'm hoping to acquire skills and qualifications that I can list on my resume as a means to find more fulfilling work than Disoda-Soda. The game plan is to one day move on to a job that doesn't involve women slipping dirty diapers under my ticketing window for me to throw away instead of walking the six feet to a trash can.

I also hope to develop a thicker skin. Any job where you put up with drunk masses is bound to make you a badass. Take last night, for example. I think I can sum it like this:

Greetings, Sigma Nu.

How are you guys? Good? That's surprising, considering the fact that your entire, drunk-ass fraternity and pack of shit n' vomit spewing hoodrat chicks stormed the theater last night. You defiled our property, spewed barf on our floors, and accosted our women. No, really; several of you raised your voice and your fists as you screamed things far worse than, "Fuck you, bitch!" before crowding into your parade of golden Range Rovers faster than a scene in an American movie making fun of Mexicans and drove off into the night, presumably to get even more trashed than you were in the first place. I, personally, hope that you swerved off the road and perished in a giant fireball of booze and latex condoms that you probably weren't going to put on properly if you had lived to date rape your girlfriends, anyway.

That too much? Whoops.

So answer a question for me: did all the money in the world and all the luxuries that the cookie cutter gated neighborhoods of the suburbs allowed not endow you with any kind of manners or knowledge of how to act in a public place, let alone a theater? Did no one ever tell you that you're supposed to watch the show, not talk/text/tweet your dates and buddies? Are you aware that when you go to the theater to watch a live show, you are expected to stay there until intermission and then get up and go to the bathroom? You don't get up and walk across the stage in groups of two and four at a time you don't pee on our seats. Shut up, I cleaned up after your drunk asses and I smelled it. One of you peed a little in that theater! Do you not know that that's gross? Actually, don't bother taking your buddy's junk out of your mouth to answer me because I already know the answer and it's obviously "NO."

So here's a little tip or two for next time, assuming that you survived the night of driving drunker than someone from an episode of Intervention: next time, check the internet to see how much a venue holds before bringing your entire frat to a show. Don't show up to a theater with 80+ people and expect to pay at the door and be accommodated without a problem. Since we're on that subject, when you are refused service because letting any more of your drunk asses inside would jeopardize the safety of our other customers, it is incorrect to wave your credit card in my face and scream, "DON'T BE A BITCH! SO YOU'RE GOING FUCK ME OVER? FUCK YOU!"
Also, don't yell at your girlfriend when she is the only sober one in the bunch, you dick.

Speaking of girlfriends, I'll leave you with one final nugget of advice: while we're on the topic of girlfriends - if you plan on drugging and boozing them up before you take them out, carry a little baggie with you so that you can clean up after them when they inevitably make a mess. Actually, scratch that: just do us all a favor and don't ever come back.

Peace out, Sigma Nu. In the words of one of the most badass ladies I'm aware of:

Gargle my balls.

Jas

Picking your battles: An actor living in the city on a budget

I am an actor. I am my own investment and product. If I want the movers, shakers, and casting directors of this business to buy what I have to offer, then I need to have a quality product that they will want to spend their money on. However, I also live in a city and have a limited income. What is the smartest way to spend my money and take optimal care of myself without going broke?

Recap:
1. I am an actor.
2. I am an actor who lives in the city.
3. I am an actor who lives in the city and my income is limited.

As of right now, my only job is with Disoda-Soda. My average, weekly paycheck is around $260.

$260 x 4 pay periods a month = $1,040

That doesn't sound so bad until you multiply that by 12. In one year, working the one job I have with Disoda-Soda, I make $12,480. That is barely above the poverty level. In order to make due with what I've got, I need an clear understanding of what I need. As a person, I need a groceries and a place to live. As an actor, I need to keep up my body and my abilities. With these in mind, what is the right way to live a quality life and take care of these priorities? The answer is simple in concept but harder in practice: you have to learn where you can cut corners and where you really ought to spend your money to get a quality service or product that will serve you better in the long run.

Finding a place to live that satisfies your wallet and your desire to stay alive is a process in and of itself, especially when you live in a city with a considerable crime rate. I wanted to live near the midtown area; out of the sky-rise districts but still in the city. The ballpark rent for a one bedroom or studio in this area is $600-1400 dollars. That would be impossible for me to do alone, but I just so happen to live with someone. We were able to find a great apartment for $745 a month. Down the middle, that is $372.50 that I pay a month in rent. I live in a hip, busy area of Midtown and our apartment building is entirely green; the average power bill is only $35-$40 dollars between the two of us. We also have internet, which is another $25 dollars a month. Water is included with the rent. This apartment was a terrific find for us.

All in all, the apartment, amenities included, will cost me $410 dollars a month.

I have $630 left. Let's be honest, I spend about two hundred dollars a month on groceries. I prefer to eat decently.

I now have $430 left. But I have a monthly cell phone bill of $54 dollars. I have an iPhone 3GS because having a reliable, useful smart phone was important to me. It allows me to receive important e-mails from my agent regarding work opportunities at the drop of a hat. It helps me when I'm lost in the city. It helps me eat at cool restaurants for %50 percent off - an awesome tool if you're living on a budget but still want to go out and have fun once and a while. I consider this a good investment.

I now have $376 dollars left. But my monthly car insurance payment is $73 dollars.

I now have $303 dollars left.

Three hundred and three dollars. This is what I have to spend "freely." Except it isn't so much free spending, because I have another expense: "actor upkeep." This consists of classes and training, promotional materials like headshots, and body care. I am taking an acting class that will be $125 dollars a month for three more months. I also have started taking a voice over course that is another considerable sum of money. Classes are expensive, but necessary.

I also prefer to use quality make-up and skin care products. Every four to six months, I make a trip to ULTA and buy the necessities. With ULTA, you can walk in and say, "I want to buy quality skin care products and make-up, but I'm on a budget. What do I absolutely need from the high-end section and what can I get away with from the drug store brand section?" I end up spending a considerable amount of money, but I make my purchases last for a long time. That way, the pricey items do not become a monthly expense. Sure, it's an occasional huge blow to the wallet, but it is worth it to be 100% certain that I won't have a pool of congealed of third tier make-up making me feel nervous about my appearance before an already nerve-wracking audition. Since I made the switch to better make-up, my break-outs have virtually stopped. Plus, ULTA gives you tons of free shit with your purchases and they have a killer rewards program. Sorry, Sephora.

So I have rent, phone bills, insurance bills, and actor upkeep. This eats up the majority of my monthly earnings. Where do I cut corners?

I'll start with groceries. There are so many ways to save money on groceries. First, get some Tupperware and learn the art of making a lot of food at one time. Your freezer is your friend. Also, check on the web and figure out which chain has the best sales and promotions for the week. Websites like CouponMom.com will even compile the coupons and let you compare them side by side. Don't be afraid of being that person who uses a lot of coupons at the grocery store. That's what they are there for. Do you really want to pay $17 for that refill of Gilette Mach Whatever-number-they-are-on-now razors? Yeah, I didn't think so. Fuck that shit.

Only buy spoiling foods like bananas, fresh herbs, and tomatoes if you know you will use them within the week. Don't waste money on food that will go bad if you aren't going to eat it. If they begin to get a little ripe, figure out a way to use them. I'm making banana bread this afternoon.

Often, bulk produce really is cheaper. You have the option of buying pre-cut veggies for 4.99 a bag. You can get the same thing in the bin for 97 cents a pound. Don't be a lazy bastard: cut it up yourself and save a few bucks.

Off brand, off brand, off brand! Unless it is Publix. Then make sure that they aren't ripping you off. Publix will raise the competing brands on an average of 30 to 50 cents to make it look like their store brands are saving you money. I'm not joking. Nutella is $3.29 at Kroger and $3.79 at Publix. Bastards!

Big Lots! This place is the JAM. Big Lots is the place to go for household product needs and pre-packaged food deals. This is where overstock goes. I can't tell you how much money I have saved by doing half of my grocery shopping here. Nutella may be $3.29 at Kroger, but it's $3.00 at Big Lots (if they have it that day.)

That's just some of my advice for saving money on groceries.

Now: how do I save money on actor upkeep? This one is trickier and more time consuming, but you can do it. I'll start with headshots. When I was about to graduate from The Program, I paid $300 dollars for some absolutely gorgeous pictures. While this was money well spent and I fully intend to go back to the same photographer once I have some extra money, I lightened my hair recently and I need newer pictures now. Luckily for me, I know at least five people with DSLR cameras and I know one person with a Nikon D3900 and a killer portraiture lens. He's taking some pictures tomorrow - for free. Chances are you also know someone with a decent DSLR camera, too. All you need is some good light and a photographer with a decent idea of what they are doing. Chances are those photos will work until you can get something better. I used to believe that a perfect headshot was key to getting an agent and getting work, but the more I look around the talent pools of major agencies in my area, the more I notice that some of their talent's headshots are pretty bo-bo looking.

There are ways to get free classes if you feel like trading some of your time and work ethic. For example, I volunteer/intern with a local improv comedy theater. As an intern, I am entitled to free classes. This is fantastic - those classes are $275 per eight week session. This frees up money to take classes over at the On-Camera Studio, where no such programs exist.

I also found a way to avoid paying a gym membership: I use my friend's apartment complex. No, seriously. A buddy of mine lives in a gated community down the street and he'll buzz me in whenever I need to use his gym. If you have friends that live in gated communities, strike up a deal. Make them some food. Offer to walk their animals. Figure out what you can do in exchange for this incredible favor. This will work until I go red badge (what we at Disoda-Soda call the "hire" part of "temp to hire") at Disoda Soda; they provide a fitness reimbursment for a real gym.

So where do I find the extra cash to stow away in my savings account? Okay, for starters: did you know that if it has a barcode on it, you can probably sell it on Half.com? Because you can. I sell things that I don't want anymore. I also visit my grandmother every week because I like hearing her tell stories about life in the Great Depression. I have found that every third visit or so, she likes to give me $40 dollars. While I don't want her to think that this is what keeps me coming around - I'd go and sit with her regardless - it is an incredibly nice thing for her to do and I'm in no position to refuse it. I look for odd jobs on Craigslist and the local theater websites. You can get paid and you have a funny story to tell when it's all said and done.

Lastly, I go to as many auditions as I can and hope that all of this training and effort pays off. Speaking of which, my agent called to inform me that I have an audition tomorrow morning with the casting director for Vampire Diaries. Clint and I both do. Good roles - it would really help out with all of this financial 'ish if even one of us booked this show. Not to mention it's a show. On TV. With vampires. And that guy they killed off in the first season of LOST.

Anyone care to keep their fingers crossed?

Closing time at Disoda-Soda: "Screw these guys, drink BEPSI!"

A few days ago, I felt the distinctly satisfying pleasure of watching a woman lose control of her anger and spew her savage, menecing screams all over the Disoda-Soda park. Why? We had closed and we wouldn't let her in.

At The World of Disoda-Soda, the museum where I work that is dedicated to one of the most well known brands of soda in the known universe, we stop selling tickets at five o'clock pm on the dot. If you are not in line by five, then chances are you won't be entering the building until we promptly open up at ten o'clock the next morning - nine o'clock if it's a Saturday. Those are just school year hours. During peak season hours, AKA summertime, we stop selling tickets at six and stay open until seven-thirty. During peak season, however, that building is always open by 8:50.

We open early and close on time, giving our average guest an average of nine to ten hours to see The World of Disoda-Soda and pay homage to the god of high fructose corn syrup and alarmingly effective marketing techniques.

That's more than enough time, bud.

We currently shut down the ticket booth at five. When 4:45 rolls around, we make an announcement over the intercom system that blasts the following message throughout the entire park:

ATTENTION ALL GUESTS OF DISODA-SODA: THE WORLD OF DISODA SODA WILL BE STOP SELLING TICKETS PROMPTLY AT FIVE PM. ANYONE WHO WANTS TO ENTER THE WORLD OF DISODA-SODA MUST BE IN LINE BY FIVE PM. ANYONE WHO WANTS TO BUY TICKETS TODAY MUST BE IN LINE BY FIVE PM. IN CASE YOU WERE OUT OF EARSHOT A SECOND AGO, BUT YOU ARE IN EARSHOT NOW, WE'RE GOING TO STOP SELLING TICKETS AT FIVE PM. NO TICKETS WILL BE SOLD AFTER FIVE PM. Have a nice day!

When 4:50 rolls around and I see people rushing to the ticket window to purchase their hour and a half of frills and thrills, I am more than happy to give them what they want. The type of guest who frantically runs to the window is 90% less likely to the the type of guest who wants to hassle me about coupons that don't exist, discounts that don't exist, or tell me what a terrible person I am for giving their soldier husband or father a free ticket instead of a 10% discount for the whole party. It's always the wives and the kids. Trust me, the free ticket saves them more money. But I digress. The type of guest who makes a dash for the window to purchase tickets is less likely to yell at me and ask dumb questions. They get in line, buy their tickets, and they go inside without a hitch. Usually.

When the 4:50 rush ends, the 4:55 toodlers straggle on in. These are the guests who know we're getting ready to close but don't care. They saunter down the park pathway, fanning themselves, stopping to take pictures and dig for gold in their underwear; whatever they can think of to waste the next five minutes. When they get to the window, they'll stand there as they muster up the energy and will to sound out the words on the screens above each ticketing node that read:

ADULTS: $15.00
SENIORS: $13.00
CHILDREN (AGES 3-12): $10.00

GROUP RATE ADULTS (TWENTY-FIVE OR MORE): $14.00
GROUP RATE SENIORS (TWENTY-GIVE OR MORE): $13.00
GROUP RATE CHILDREN (AGES 3-12) (TWENTY-FIVE OR MORE): $9.00

I don't know what the hell they are doing as they look at the pricing screens, because the next part almost always plays out this way:

"One adult," they will finally say.
"That'll be fifteen dollars."
"Fifteen dollars?"
"Yes."
"I thought you said it was fourteen."
"That's our group rate."
"Group rate? Well how much you gotta have for a group?"
"Twenty-five people."
"Well, shit. I guess you're not going to give me one, are you?"

Or:

"Two adults and two kids. And a toddler."
I look over and see a child who is obviously older than two.
"How old is that child?"
"Two."
"Mommy, he's four!" one of the other children will generally pipe up.
"Shut up!" The mother will say, often hitting the truth teller in the face. No joke. I have seen parents beat their children for being honest at the ticketing window.
One time, I flat out told a family that their child was not two and that I wouldn't be giving them a ticket. They gave me a look that said, "Eat shit and die, bitch," but didn't argue. That's how obvious the lie was.
If they aren't trying to get a free toddler ticket, then they are trying to get a $10.00 ticket for their fifteen or sixteen year old and they are always the most aggressive about it at 4:59 pm.
"What? You saying she's/he's not 12? You calling me a liar?"
I generally stop talking at this point. The guest will waste time stare me down for an average of 10.5 seconds before rolling his or her eyes, sloppily pulling out a crumpled bill, and pushing it under my window. They will then tap their fingers on the glass or sigh loudly into the microphone as I try to complete their transaction as quickly as possible and get them the hell out of my direct line of vision.

By being short and concise with these guests will generally get them into security by 5:00 pm and we shut down the computers and begin the ticket-prep. Then the late comers begin to arrive.
The late comers almost always have a story.

"I'm only in town for one day!"
"I'm from Nigeria!"
"I'm from Norway!"
"I'm from the next town over!"
"I have [insert random illness here]"
"I want to exploit my children in exchange for late entry!"

Here's the thing. The guest speaks English. They are holding an English guide. That has the times of opening and closing times written on it. I want to say,
"Sorry about the fact that we open and close on time. I don't care if you're only in town for a day because chances are you're a liar and you'll be back tomorrow morning."
They are almost always back the next morning. Unfortunately, not all situations can be resolved with a militant, "Sorry, we're closed," which brings us back to the crazy, shit-spewing harpy from earlier.

The CityExpress Pass, the largest pain-in-the-ass package that we sell, is a large booklet of tickets to most of the major attractions in the city. The aquarium, the zoo, the news-casting building; it's all there. And for some reason, a guest will purchase this booklet and assume that it grants them infinite leverage and power over the entire city, because these guests turn into the most hateful, aggressive, and maniacal beasts when we tell them that their CityExpress Pass doesn't get them expedited entry into The World of Disoda-Soda nor will it magically get them into the building after 5:00 pm. Both practices are printed on the back of the ticket.

The crazy women walks up the the roped off queue line and waves her booklet in the air.
"Sorry, ma'am, we're closed," I tell her.
"WHAT?" She yells.
"We close at five o'clock," I told her. She looked at her watch.
"But it's only 5:30!" I looked over to Lavathan, my co-worker. He's a sassy, gay man and he doesn't take lip for an answer.
"Let me handle this, honey," he said, switching on his mic.
"What the HELL IS THIS?" the woman begins to scream.
"Ma'am, we closed on time at 5:00 pm and there's nothing we can do. The computer system has already been reset for tomorrow."
"But we purchased CityExpress books and we drove all the way from the suberbs!"
"Ma'am, we're closed and it says so right there on the ticket. You can come back tomorrow."
"NO! IT DOES NOT SAY THAT ON THE TICKET AND I WANT TO TAKE MY FAMILY INSIDE!"
"Ma'am, don't yell at me. Turn that card over."
She did. We watched her face as she read the words, "Last Entry at 5:00 PM."
"THE HELL IS THIS SHIT? THREE MINUTES! THREE MINUTES LATE AND YOU WON'T LET ME AND MY GODDAMN FAMILY INSIDE YOUR STUPID MUSEUM? SCREW YOU!"
She began running into random guests who were enjoying a quiet evening stroll through the park, yelling, "DRINK BEPSI! DRINK BEPSI! DISODA-SODA IS A BUNCH OF ASSHOLES, DRINK BEPSI! DISODA-SODA IS FULL OF CHEATS AND LIARS! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DRINK BEPSI!"

Lavathan and I watched in amazement as she shot us the bird and continued to mortify her poor family. The father was following her around, frantically trying to calm her down, but it was too late. Security was already on their way over.

I still don't understand why people assume that threatening to convert to Bepsi, our sole competitor, will scare The World of Disoda-Soda into submission. Guests don't understand that both companies are so mammoth in size and distinctly separate brands that it actually doesn't matter who drinks what. At the end of the day, we are still going to have a gazillion dollars. If something doesn't go their way, they say, "Screw you guys, I'm going to be a Bepsi drinker for life!"

All I have to say to that is, go right ahead. Trust me: I won't be offended.

Yellow Headed Freak

Last Wednesday, I thought, "My agent hasn't gotten me an audition for three weeks. What's one more week going to do?"

I chucked my sense into the wind and bought three boxes of the strongest hair bleaching kits you can get at target and went from this:

To this:

As I detailed in my previous entry, the red hair had to go. Since I hadn't gotten any auditions in about a month, I figured that it wouldn't be that big of a deal to just go ahead and switch over to my new hair color and have hair the color of Rainbow Brite for a week until I could get to a salon and have the color put in. With this mindset, I bleached my dark hair until I looked like the cracked out version of Vitamin C.

Don't be jealous.

I walked into managers' office of Disoda-Soda the next morning and stood there until, one by one, they noticed the beacon of light emitted from my head.
"What the HELL did you do to yourself?" gasped Manager Sasha.
"I -"
"More importantly, when is this," Manager Jillian said, motioning her fingers in a circular path around my hair, "going to be fixed?"
I explained my motives to them as they stood there, bewildered, with their heads cocked to one side like a pack of pug puppies. Manager Jillian broke the string of silence by saying,
"Alright. You can come to work, but only if you put it in a bun."
A bun doesn't magically tun your hair from yellow to natural, but apparently that is only a minor detail. I had one week until my hair appointment. I can have yellow hair for that long, I thought. Apparantly Jesus or Zeus or ghosts or whoever the powers that be are disagreed. I proudly wore my dandelion hair for the rest of the week, obsessing over which shade of brown to dye it. Light brown? Dark brown? Which one will get me auditions?

Then, at 9:00 am on Tuesday morning, I received an e-mail from my agent:

Good morning,

You have been selected to audition for the television movie Lost Valentine. You will be auditioning for the role of Jenny.

I didn't even wait to read the rest of the e-mail before calling her.
"Good morning, this is Talent -"
"Good morning! This is Jas. I just wanted to say thank you so much for getting this audition for me, but I need some advice. My hair is yellow!"
"Yellow? Like, yellow yellow? I thought you said it was going to be brown."
"It is, but I had to strip the red out and wait a little while before going over it with more color and my hair appointment isn't until tomorrow evening."
"Sounds to me like you'd better find someone who can work you in tonight. Or wear a wig."
I briefly considered calling in sick to work and driving up to Gainesville to borrow a wig from my Alma Mater's costume shop. Then I remembered what we put those wigs through.

I called the hair salon that I had originally booked an appointment with.
"Hi, This is Jas and I have an appointment for 6:15 this afternoon with Jamaeel. I am having a little emergency. Is it possible to be bumped up to this afternoon? I totally understand if you can't do it-"
I thought the laughter from the other end was due to my frantic demeanor. Nope. She was laughing at me for having the audacity to request such a thing.
I probably deserved it.

At Disoda-Soda, Manager Jillian heard my plight and said, "Take a ten. Get someone to cover your position. Call my salon. If you can't get them, then try someone else. Just get that," she said, waving her pointer finger in a circular motion toward my head, "taken care of. Today."
I learned that booking a last minute appointment with a salon that isn't Great Clips is troublesome. Every place that I called either couldn't take me at all or couldn't take me after 3:00 pm. On top of that, once I told them about my yellow hair, they said,
"Oh, you'll need corrective color."
"No, that's not what I need. I've already done that. All I need is the right shade put on my head."
"Yes, but you did it yourself. That means that you need corrective color."
"Actually, I corrected my own color over a period of a week so that I wouldn't have to pay you four hundred dollars to do the same thing. At the end of the day, bleach is bleach, motherfucker." I am lying. What I actually said was,
"Ok, thanks. Bye."

Finally, I called Salon Red. I had been avoiding them because Ubel used to get his hair cut there. Realizing that this was a stupid reason and that I was running out of options, I called them up. The man who answered the phone was both courteous, understanding, and knowledgeable about what I needed. I told him about my yellow hair. He asked if I wanted corrective color and I said, "No, all I need is a brown that won't turn red after I wash it a couple of times. I'm pretty sure that all I need is a single process."
"No problem, we can do it."

And do it they did. Check this out:

That's basically my natural hair color. I wrote them a stellar review on Yelp.com.

Now I need new headshots. Eeep.