Sweating with the Stars but Puking by Myself

If you read my earlier post, you know that I'm elbow deep in the midst of a full body makeover via Mark Fisher Fitness.  I know some of you could care less about my fitness life, so to keep slightly on topic, my Snatched in Six Weeks group includes none other than Lin-Manuel Miranda, Tonya Pinkins & an old colleague of mine from back in my NYGASP days, Heather Hill (who just happens to be in the current Broadway company of Phantom).

Yup, I'm glute bridging with Tony winners, bitches.

It's difficult to describe MFF and the Snatched program because it's just so...well, not like any gym I've ever worked out in before.  And trust me, after criss-crossing the country for years on one-nighter bus-and-truck tours, I've hit just about every grungy gym and cruisy YMCA between here and Yakima.  Yeah, that's a real city and sadly I've performed there TWICE!

But to quote an article from the Huffington Post, the MFF workout is "...a combination of theater camp and marine basic training..."  And if you've never been to theatre camp, well, let's just say there's lots of gay dudes, top hats and nudity involved.  Oh, and show tunes.  So yeah, it's not for everyone.  Example: at a recent Ninja Essentials class I attended (they refer to all us members as "ninjas") the trainer - probably the only straight guy in the room - asked us who was going to watch the football game over the weekend.  Crickets.  Then the guy next to me shyly spoke up, "I think you're talking to the wrong group."

I've just finished up week two of my six-week Snatched program.  And yes, my pants are a little looser and my neck is a little less stumpy, but the past two weeks haven't passed without a few challenges, mainly in regards to diet.  Actually, "diet" is probably the wrong word for the nutrition program I'm following since "diet" usually conjures up the image of a big, empty plate of sad carrot sticks huddling together for warmth.  

With five intense workouts a week, the MFF team asked me to consume a whopping 2600 calories a day.  I know for most people (and me before I started Snatched) quantifying calories is like watching those annoying guys who break dance on the subway for money - you ignore them and just hope they go away.  But let me put a greasy face on that number for you: 2600 calories = 5 Big Macs.  And a banana.  Sadly, Big Macs aren't recommended on the Snatched program.

After about a week and half of literally gorging myself to near-puking levels, I finally spoke up and asked the nutritionist if we could perhaps dial that calorie count down just a notch.  So I'm still grazing all day like ol' Bessie out in the field, but I now have a more realistic goal of 2200 calories a day.  

A typical day of eating looks like this:

Breakfast - banana w/ peanut butter, 2 whole hard-boiled eggs, cup of Greek yogurt w/ fruit and sunflower seeds
Lunch - large bowl of turkey chili, roasted brussel sprouts and brown rice
Dinner - grilled chicken and asparagus w/tomato salsa
Snacks - protein shake w/ almond milk, a couple slices of beef jerky, some mixed nuts, a protein bar and an apple

I'm obviously not starving.  And after two weeks, I'm 10 pounds lighter.  Only four more weeks to go!

Split squats and burpees and planks, oh my…

Dear Lord, my ass is aching.  And not for the reasons you’re probably thinking. 

I know I’ve been MIA for several weeks (I guess it’s now been months, yikes!) but I’ve had some pretty intense family shit hit the fan recently that I’d rather not get into.  But I hope to catch ya’ll up soon on some of my end-of-summer fun and finish up some reviews on a ton of shows.  Keep checking back.  

Now back to my ass.

About a month ago I decided to quit my bitching and moaning, get off the couch and do something about my middle-aged, saggy tuchus (It also seems I’m slowly turning into a grumpy, old Jewish man.  Who knew?).

With lipo pricing well above my meager means, I decided to do it the old fashioned way.  That’s right, folks, diet and exercise (insert audible gasp here).  For years I’ve faithfully paid my NYC fat tax - i.e. NY Sports Club membership - but somehow have not been able to drag my self-pitying ass the three blocks to my local branch.

After surfing the web for some motivation, I stumbled upon the website for Mark Fisher Fitness.  Like a drag queen to Ricky’s (very NYC-centric reference there, sorry my non-city friends), I was drawn immediately to the glittery menu tab and pictures of muscled hotties in bikini briefs.  Could this be the inspiration I’d been searching for?  I read further – founded by former Broadway dancer, group classes taught by foul-mouthed, half-naked instructors…unicorns, feather boas and tutus!  I’d stumbled upon fitness Brigadoon, only without Scottish accents.

Though quite a hefty financial commitment, I decided the more I spent, the less likely I’d be willing to skip workouts for a hot date with a bacon double cheeseburger.  So a day after stumbling upon the website, I decided to pay a visit to MFF’s Enchanted Ninja Clubhouse of Glory and Dreams.  Seriously, that's what they call their "gym."  You can’t make that shit up.

As it turned out, the day of my visit coincided with the first day of registration for MFF’s highly popular Snatched in Six Weeks program – kind of like a super intense, gay fitness boot camp with lots of talk about unicorns and "nailing it."  I took this as God saying, “You are a lazy whore.  Get your shit together and sign up now!”  And when God calls you a whore, you’d best listen up.

I plunked down my $800, cried a little on the inside, and committed myself to six weeks of "fitness glory" (another popular Mark Fisher-sim).  Good thing, too, because it turned out the program completely sold out in a matter of hours.  But how was I to satiate my newly awakened fitness hunger?  It was early September and Snatched wouldn’t start until mid-October. 

I’ve always been an “all-or-nothing” type, so on impulse (I may have been hypnotized by all the smiley faces and disco lights in the Clubhouse) I drained the rest of my bank account and treated myself to a month-long, trial membership.  Might as well have a little make out session with Mark Fisher before I decide to go legs up (metaphorically, of course).

After an initial consultation where trainer Geoff continuously told me - and rightly so - that I was awesome, amazing and sexy, I decided this was definitely the gym for me.  I then met with trainer Stephanie for a kettle bell (basically a cannon ball with a handle) primer and to learn the core exercises I’d be using in class.  We instantly bonded when she equated proper goblet squat form with trying to impale your butthole on a suctioned dildo on the back wall of the gym.  Finally, a trainer who speaks my language.

If you haven't realized it yet, cursing and sex talk is a main component of the Mark Fisher experience.  Fundamentalist Christians and Republicans, this may not be the program for you, though you'd be welcomed with open and loving arms.

I’ve now been taking class religiously (pun intended) twice a week for three weeks.  To be honest, it’s not even the exercise that keeps me coming back (or the loosening pants or increased energy).  It’s the simple fact that people there tell me I’m sexy and hot even with my belly hanging out from under my T-shirt, my face grimacing and pouring sweat, while I’m lying on my back glute pressing and grunting.  That's true love.

Though I realize in an office setting, such encouragement would seem a tad bit inappropriate (sexual harassment suit, anyone?), I, for one, would welcome the opportunity for my boss to say, “Hey, you sexy bitch, go ballz deep and type up this memo!  Your are fucking nailing it today!”  Seriously.

Is Bernadette Peters a vampire? Is Baltimore the ultimate straight dude party town? Is a T-shirt with the pun "Harry Otter" emblazoned on the chest inappropriate even at an aquarium? These and more burning questions answered in today's lengthy post...

The woman (Ms. Peters) does not appear to age.  At all.  As I was getting off the train Sunday night from Baltimore, I noticed a cute red-headed girl and her mother sitting a few seats behind me waiting for the crowd to thin out so they could grab their bags from the overhead.  On second glance I realized it was Bernie.  No doubt returning from DC after the Sunday performance of Follies at the Kennedy Center.  And we did have eye contact.  Exciting.  But I didn't want her to think I was some crazy, obsessed fan, so I gave a pleasant smile that I hope read, "Don't worry, I'm not going to jump you, hold you down, pull out a pair of scissors and make off with a lock of your famous red mane.  I'm just going to acknowledge that I recognize your fame and respect your privacy."  Yes, I can say all that with a single look.  I am Norma Desmond.

Seriously, though, the woman looks amazing.  She had not a wrinkle on her face and sported the bod of a 25 year old.  I'm guessing the older woman was her assistant, since she ended up hauling this huge traveling bag while Bernie toted her tiny rolling suitcase.  Not that I'm judging.  If you're an assistant, that's what you sign up for, right?

It was actually refreshing to see Ms. Peters mingling with the riff raff on Amtrak, though we were in Business Class, thank you very much.  There was no special attention from the porters and no entourage (except the old lady).  Just her and a hundred other sweaty passengers squeezing onto a tiny escalator in the oppressive tunnel humidity.  She must use some amazing product because that curly hair still looked fab.  I guess I had a romanticized image of her being escorted by a team of hunky, black-suited guards, hovering and protecting her from a desperate groupie or jealous show queen.  Oh wait, that's my own personal fantasy.  Forget I said that.

Anyway, the reason I was in Baltimore was to keep Trish company while visiting a friend celebrating her Birthday.  Trish's friend is from Richmond, but they planned the trip to coincide with the New Kids on the Block / Backstreet Boys tour playing Baltimore over the weekend.  I opted not to attend the concert since I figured the arena would be filled with screaming housewives longing to relive their faded high school glory days.  Who am I to get in the way of a 40 year old mother of two wanting to toss her granny panties at Joey McIntyre?  Sounds like a boatload of crazy to me. 

Instead, I used the opportunity to visit the National Aquarium and explore the Inner Harbor which I hadn't visited since performing at the Morris Mechanic Theatre (now defunct with tours booked into the larger Hippodrome) in the National Tour of Grease! way back in 1996 (damn, I'm old)!  The aquarium was much smaller than I had remembered.  Funny how time tends to exaggerate your memories.  Or is the extra 30 pounds I've put on since 1996 skewing my perception?  Who knows, but even with timed entry, the place was packed.  And the new Australia section is an architectural wonder, though it's really just a giant green house with an alligator and some exotic birds thrown in for good measure.  Add a couple of natives, i.e. Hugh Jackman and Eric Bana in loin cloths, and you might have something.

As for the rest of the Inner Harbor, it's impressive at first sight.  But once that initial impression wears off, you realize you're just wandering around a really nice mall dressed up with a harbor view.  I'd definitely head back for a more in depth exploration of the outlying neighborhoods, especially to experience more of that famous Maryland crab.

Saturday night I agreed to join Trish and the other Richmonders for an evening of Birthday debauchery.  If you're a straight dude into getting wasted and hooking up with skanks, the Power Plant Live! is the place for you.  This weird adult Disneyland is a complex of bars and restaurants tailor-made for straight swinging singles looking for booty.  Though I'll admit, as a sociology experiment the place is fascinating.  You could probably base a doctoral thesis on just the wierdly homoerotic, bromance action on display.  I'm not going to imply anything, but is it normal for drunk dudes to constantly hang, hug and maul each other's chests when their wasted?  Seriously, I think 10% might be low-balling it.

As far as the Birthday girl (I'm keeping it vague to protect the innocent), she got sufficiently wasted and we ended up having to pull her down from a table where she was dancing and showing off the goods in her short skirt.  Ah, youth.  We dragged her drunk ass about 4 blocks before she decided she couldn't make it the rest of the way back to the hotel.  We promptly hailed a cab to avoid getting arrested for public intoxication.

As for the Birthday girl's supposed "friends," well, let me just say, I was not impressed.  They showed up four hours late, didn't offer to pay for any of the Birthday girl's drinks (other than a round of shots) and then basically abondoned her when she needed their help most.  With friends like that...

The highlight of the weekend?  The peach cobbler and red velvet cupcakes at the Ooh La La Cupcakery and our now regular stop at the Maryland House truck stop for a Phillip's crab pretzel.

Inappropriate aquarium T-shirts:

A weekend flat on my back

Minds out of the gutter, people!  I threw my back out a couple weeks ago during the strike of La Traviata.  Forgetting that I'm no longer a nubile, young thing but a fat, middle-aged theatre queen, I tried to move a set piece that probably required two fat, middle-aged theatre queens (or one fairly in-shape young person).  Alas, I thought I was recovering well enough until I spent a weekend on Juan and Val's click-couch futon and a night awkwardly twisted in my own bed. 

Too embarrassed to call out of work due to a bad back, I instead did what any honest working girl would do, lie.  Feigning illness, I spent the day reclined on my couch, wrapped in an ace back support, watching twelve hours of holiday-themed cooking shows - actually not a terrible way to spend a cold winter day.  Note to self, back braces only look good on hunky weight lifters, professional wrestlers and delivery men.  On regular schmucks like me, they only accentuate an already bulging muffin top. 

I did manage to make it to rehearsal (for the Very Merry Pineda Holiday Spectacular!) Sunday evening, but wasn't much help.  Thankfully, Chris was on hand to whip the Pineda-ettes into shape for their featured number while I remained sidelined at the keyboard in my back brace.  Coincidentally, Chris also had a senior moment earlier that day.  He lost his car at the Short Hills mall parking lot.  Yes, he actually forgot where he parked and spent a panicked 15 minutes roaming the huge lot in a cold sweat.  What a sad pair we make.   Was it really only 13 years ago that we hand-jived our way across the country playing teenagers?!  Now we're wearing back braces and losing our cars.  Sad, just sad. 

2009 bites the dust

After being bombarded with year-end stories and articles from every media outlet and publication on the planet, I thought I’d add to the white noise with my own truly insignificant (well, not to me) Year End Wrap-Up! So if you haven’t been keeping up with my blog, it’s OK. I won’t think any less of you, loser.

Well, from the sidebar you can see that I spend, and in some cases waste, much of my hard(ly)-earned paycheck on shows. I was thinking of listing my top ten theatrical experiences, but sadly upon review, couldn’t find five truly outstanding performances to list. So in no particular order, my best for the year are:

Ragtime, Broadway revival - Will we ever hear a true legit score on Broadway again that isn’t a revival? It’s pretty f*cking depressing that having too much vocal training is now a detriment to casting. The only way this revival could be any better would be to get Audra to reprise her performance as Sarah.

August: Osage County, Broadway - Any show where I get to see Mrs. Claire Huxtable stumble around in a drug-induced haze rates high on my richter scale. Add some incest, suicide, racism and infidelity in the mix and I call that entertainment - or a typical week with the Pineda family - minus the incest, of course. Even we have standards.

Guys and Dolls, Scotch Plains HS - Yes, I am referring to a high school production and not the mediocre Broadway revival from earlier this year. Why? Because it took a high school production to reassure me that million dollar sets cannot hide bad material, direction or casting. I was even jealous watching it, thinking it was much better - and it pains me to say it - than many Pineda productions. High school directors take note, a chorus aimlessly standing about upstage does not constitute “direction.”

And the worst production of 2009? Drum roll please - the Broadway revival of Bye, Bye Birdie. What an embarrassment. I permanently damaged the flesh around Trish's knee from constantly clutching it in shock and horror. Sure, John Stamos and Gina Gershon are hot, but dancers? Not so much. Sadly, the highlight of the evening was checking out the beautiful state of the art urinals in the theater's newly renovated bathroom. Yes, the show was that bad.

Looking back, I don’t understand how I made it through the year without collapsing. I directed/choreographed the opera company’s Magic Flute and Dido and Aeneas, choreographed Beauty and the Beast for South Plainfield HS and co-directed and did some musical staging for the conservatory’s On The Town. And as always, the Pineda family performed benefit concerts throughout the year to help pay for our summer house in Cancun - NOT! All of this, of course, while trying to stay awake at my regular nine to five at Morgan Stanley.

Pineda Lyric Opera finally received its non-profit 501(c)(3) letter earlier this year, so we now have a Board of Directors and are all official and sh*t. This has been a long time in coming and we can finally start begging for donations. That means you’d better start sending us those fat checks. We know where you live.

This year also marks the last year I can say I’m in my 30’s. Yikes! Is it really possible we are now starting to send kids off to college? And that even after working with us for years, these same kids STILL want to pursue careers in the arts? It’s scary to think that in the next decade there will be a slew of actors coming to NYC who are graduates of the Pineda Conservatory. Broadway, you have been warned.

As for resolutions - I guess I’d like to finally take a vacation that’s more than just a long weekend, preferably somewhere warm with palm trees and cabana boys in thongs. I’d also like to hit the gym again and get rid of the spare tire I’ve acquired over the last year. Maybe luxuriously lounging in my caftan while chowing down on pizza and ice cream during The Biggest Loser wasn’t the most ideal fitness regime. Other than that, I guess 2010 will be full of directing, performing, working (a real job) and more b*tching.

Spring and Swine

Ah! Flip-flops and shorts, buds on the trees and the first surgical mask sighting of the season. Spring is here! On my way to work this morning, a lady dashed off the subway looking like she was prepped for an appendectomy on the platform. Is this all really necessary? I mean, aren’t flu germs microscopic anyway? What’s a flimsy piece of paper over your face gonna’ protect you from when your packed into a subway car like a Cuban life raft and God-knows-what is smeared all over the poles and seats. It’s really surprising there’s no subway flu strain. I’ll bet you a case of Purell that the pen where swine flu originated is probably cleaner than any seat on the N train. Then again, as New Yorkers we’ve probably developed subway immunity anyway. City heat? Well, that’s a different story. After 15 years living in the city, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the oppressive heat of reflected asphalt and stale, hot city air. Don’t get me wrong, I was grateful for the warm weather this weekend, but 90 degrees in April? Swine flu, oppressive spring heat, no sign of Phantom ever closing - can the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse be far behind?

Wow, I’m certainly feisty today, aren’t I? Well, I must be going through show withdrawal. I mean, I haven’t been in a theatre in almost one week! And that’s after a marathon three Broadway shows in three consecutive nights last week (Blithe Spirit Tuesday, 9 to 5 Wednesday, Waiting for Godot Thursday). By Friday, I’ll have spent a record six nights in a row at home. Can a move to the suburbs be far behind? I admit it has been nice going home each night this week and just undress and lounge in my underwear watching TV and eating leftover Easter candy (resist your gag reflex bitches, it even disgusts me a little). I never imagined that a nine-to-five job would elicit such laziness out of me. When I was a poor, starving actor, I’d manage to cram in three auditions, the gym, dinner, drinks and a movie on a daily basis. Now I get home and literally sit on my ass until bedtime . Maybe I’ll force myself to squeeze into my old gym shorts and sneakers and try to remember what it was like to sweat. Stay tuned for updates!