How to determine what needs to be dry cleaned, and what exactly dry cleaning is
How to recognize when I’m supposed to go to a cobbler to preemptively fix shoes before I’ve completely ruined them
Screens and how to stay off them while working primarily on them
Constant information and feeling the urge to be connected
How to get correct information
Making sure I take a break
Learning how to relax
Wars
Opioid epidemics
Refugee crisis
Family separation
Famine
How much food we waste
Meditation
Figuring out how to learn how to meditate
Overall health
What’s the pain on the inside of my right knee and how to make it go away
Eye doctor
Gyno
Dentist
General checkup
Dermatologist
Deductibles and if I ever hit them
In-network versus out-of-network
Are there other doctors I’m supposed to be going to?
All the different insurance you’re supposed to have for all the things that could potentially go wrong in your body and every single thing you own
Which insurance to get when renting a car and when are you eventually going to make the wrong decision
Juice, and whether it’s “over” or not
Feeling confident, body-wise
Which form of exercise is best for me, body and soul
Feeling confident, emotionally
Feeling confident, creativity-wise
Keeping in touch with family
Keeping in touch with friends
How to recognize relationships changing over time and be okay with it
How to manage multiple projects
Maintaining all hair removal upkeep
Remembering to stretch
Whether flossing once a day is enough
Are electric toothbrushes bad? Are normal toothbrushes back to being better?
Sneezing while driving and how to stay alive
Should I be smoking more weed?
Having the answer ready for who I’d invite to dinner if I could invite any famous people, dead or alive, to dinner
The way our country looks to the rest of the world
How disconcerting it is that so many people are hateful, anonymous trolls on the internet
If I can pull off hats
Finding a style
What brands I should be buying
What brands are terrible for the environment and humanity and should be avoided
That all brands might be terrible
How much sex everyone else is having
The fact that I don’t know how to change a tire
That the electricity might just go off one day, like that TV show that got canceled almost immediately
If I should get back into running or not
How to figure out my hair
Wanting to learn another language
Contemplating taking up an instrument
Which salt is best
Diseases
Freak accidents
Memory loss
Not being present
Whether or not I will ever have children
Whether or not I will ever have multiple orgasms
Whether or not I will ever eat a hamburger
Nail (finger and toe) upkeep
Which eye creams and salves and gels are supposed to be applied to what, and when the applying is supposed to happen
When to throw out old creams and lotions
Bar soap or liquid soap
What detergent is the best detergent
How to properly wash bras
Buying bras
How to arrange bras in a drawer—do you fold them in half and invert one of the cups, or lay them out fully, one bra on top of each other?
Socks: folding, rolling, or balling?
Wearing the right amount of makeup
How to apply makeup in a way so my face looks better than before I put it on
That I might walk funny and no one has the heart to tell me
I might drink too much seltzer and it will give me cavities
The time it would entail to get and use Invisalign
If I should be replacing my shoelaces every so often
The fact that every time I go to a concert, I end up wanting to leave before it’s over
That I’m getting older too fast
That when my life is over, I will have not experienced all the things, not felt all the things
Death and dying and when and where and how
If scrunchies are back and why
UTAH
It’s come to my attention that I am not as spontaneous as I once thought. I am not a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, wind-in-my-hair, roll-with-the-punches type of person. I don’t often find myself saying, “Whoa, it’s 3 a.m.—where did the night go!?,” or “Give me your first plane ticket to anywhere.” I like to know what’s inside the Hot Pocket, I haven’t let my gas tank drop anywhere near Empty in years, and not having a reservation at a packed restaurant but trying to get in anyway gives me heart palpitations. I’d never dare take a shot that is or ever was on fire, I look up addresses and scan driving route times the night before meetings, and I check expiration dates with my glasses on. With great comfort and ease come great amounts of preparation, limitations, and possible alternative routes brainstormed beforehand.
I wasn’t always like this, I swear! I used to get blackout drunk, be okay with crowds, and often said and meant with enthusiasm, “You know what, surprise me!” I’ve slept in a ton of tents, my favorite Airhead flavor was the white one, and for a while there, I took mushrooms—for fun! What happened to me? Is this what your thirties are all about, entering deeper and deeper into the fear of unknown outcomes?
The older I get, the more anxious, more reserved, and more particular I seem to be becoming. I try my best to foresee anything that might make me uncomfortable, I plan, I micromanage, I say no to things. But then, there’s this other part of me, this sneaky side that keeps showing up. The Jekyll to my Hyde, or the Hyde to my Jekyll—I honestly don’t know much about this reference other than it being two drastically different personalities and sides to the same guy (also a themed restaurant on Seventh Avenue that I’ve had mediocre drinks at). This rebellious outlaw is desperately trying to retain any sense of spontaneity, pushing me toward all the things that initially terrify me, like jumping off bridges (bungee jumping in Costa Rica), going for things that seem impossible (whole career), and putting myself out there (asking people out). That part of me, let’s call her Babbi (which is what someone once actually thought my name was after I introduced myself), is why I’m on this trip in the first place. Without her, I probably would have stayed in Brooklyn and got some delicious chocolate chip cookie with salt on top every day, instead of driving across the country. This hypothetical cookie (clearly a real cookie, and one of the best I’ve ever had) would have satiated me temporarily but I would have stayed put, in all the ways. Babbi is fucking heroic! Thank whoever for Babbi! She keeps me on my toes and away from the cookies with the salt. But because of her, I also end up outside my comfort zone, in unwieldy territory—like falling in love or eating alone at a bed-and-breakfast. A wide variety of situations.
When I was planning this trip, one of the main things I wanted to find was space. Mostly space in my head, away from my usual day-to-day work life full of screens and emails, but also actual physical space. So far, my trip had been city-based, and usually involved me finding cute restaurants and wandering around, popping in and out of cafés and shops. Marfa had been more remote but was still a small town, and I’d known people there. I’d yet to really experience nature. I’d also yet to really challenge myself. I was on this trip alone, yes, but so far, I’d been staying in busy hotels or bed-and-breakfasts in mostly smaller urban areas, su
rrounded by other people. I had to force myself to go somewhere that kind of scared me at this point in the trip, and that kind of quiet and open space felt necessary. I’d been wanting to go to Utah for a while, hearing stories from friends who’d been to Moab, Monument Valley, and Zion National Parks, about the breathtaking hikes through the narrow stone canyons. I was hoping the distance from bright lights might allow me to release some of that unrest that had been cluttering my mind.
Because my route so far was southern, I ended up picking Zion as it was the closest to my next destination in Arizona. On my way northwest from Santa Fe, I drove in complete silence through Monument Valley. I had to turn my music off, as nothing could pair properly with what I was looking at, the massive, ancient spires of stone, jutting up toward the sky. I wound my way up through the mountains, thirty minutes outside Kanab, to a lodge I’d found online. The website made it look incredible, and when I pulled into the parking lot, it looked exactly the same. I let out a sigh of relief, you never know how stuff you look at online is going to turn out in real life.
There was a main lodge, and next to it a small restaurant. Cows wandered inside a fenced-in area beside the main road that led up to small cabins, neatly nestled on a hill, overlooking the canyon below. I went inside the lodge to check in and noticed all the women were wearing traditional Mormon clothing—long-sleeved dresses in muted colors. Right, I was in Utah. Their clothing—along with their hair, braided or pulled back—was something I’d only seen on TV, but reminded me of the Amish women that worked in the local farmers market in my hometown, across from the stand my mom worked, selling homemade pastas. I felt bad that my immediate, gut reaction was negative, that these girls made me uneasy, but the wardrobe alone scared the shit out of me. You don’t see a lot of images or representation of Mormons having fun in those long-sleeved, muted-colored dresses. It’s always something horrible—some cult is being broken up, or women have been found in secret basements—emerging after years of being locked up. The woman behind the counter handed me my key—the keychain, a buffalo carved out of wood—and told me there was a TV in my cabin, but no cable. She showed me plastic drawers full of DVDs and said I could rent one for the night if I liked. I figured, when in Utah I should follow the local’s recommendation, so, I borrowed a DVD of My Best Friend’s Wedding. I had to, I was in Kanab!
I had stocked up on food the night before at the Whole Foods in Santa Fe. The guilt I feel toward the number of Whole Foods I visited along this road trip is real and alive. There are so many local eateries and cultural mainstays I missed out on, but I opted for convenience and ease, like the privileged yuppie I sometimes check all the boxes for. I might as well have been on a mission comparing produce sections of the country’s various Whole Foods locations—Wow, they really don’t like ripe avocados in Nashville…Austin is INSANE—too big to handle in one trip! Did you know it’s the flagship? ENOUGH ALREADY! I made dinner in the “kitchen area” of my cabin, which was really just the table closest to the sink. There was no cutlery provided, so I ran out to my car to grab my knife. Yes, I brought a knife…a pocketknife. My dad had given it to me—a small, decorative knife that my grandfather on my mom’s side gave him a long time ago, my one piece of wilderness survival gear passed down through generations. He told me to put it in my glove compartment, for protection, but I mostly used it for romantically cutting apples while pulled over by the side of the road, overlooking a magnificent view (which I did on more than one occasion). I expanded the knife’s repertoire to include cutting and slicing avocados for my famous (world-renowned) “’Cado Cakes,” which is how Ilana and I refer to avocado toast on rice cakes. A delicacy that seems concocted specifically for a road trip, as no cooking is actually required, but I’d mastered this dish in my New York City apartment long before this journey.
I sat on the porch of my cabin and watched the sunset as I ate dinner, little pieces of dried rice falling everywhere, making a mess. The sunset was like a spectacle, a show you’d buy tickets to see—the rays of light burst out in a way I can’t remember experiencing before. As I was taking it in, one of the women in the dresses crossed the large field in front of me, carrying cleaning supplies, and without even thinking, I ducked down on the porch. What am I doing? She clearly works at the lodge! I’m being crazy. I sat back up on the chair and pretended like I was cleaning up. What had Babbi gotten me into? I was nervous and scared, of what, I’m not exactly sure. I didn’t think these women were going to harm me, not really, but the energy here felt off. You know when your hands get cold, but the rest of your body is fine, and you’re not sick or actually cold, and you nervously drop to the floor at the mere sight of a woman in a long-sleeved, cotton, muted-colored dress and you worry maybe the avocado you just ate had gone bad or was harboring salmonella or E. coli, and it’s starting to make you act funny, but then you’re like, no way, that’s so rare, and Whole Foods is a brand you trust even though it’s a huge corporation and you shouldn’t really trust them, ’cause they’re taking over the world and controlling us in ways we have no idea about, but you can’t seem to stop buying stuff from them—but all that aside, you just know deep down that things aren’t right? That’s how I felt. I didn’t like being alone anymore. I wished I was with someone. I went inside, locked the dead bolt, drew the shades, and watched the shit out of My Best Friend’s Wedding.
A few thoughts on the 1997 film My Best Friend’s Wedding:
How was Julia Roberts’s character such a respected and feared food critic by the age of twenty-seven? Is this possible?
They made a pact that if by the age of twenty-eight they weren’t in a relationship, then they would get married. Twenty-eight? What!? Twenty-eight was the low point where they would have to give up?
That scene where they’re on a boat on the river that goes through Chicago, and they keep going under bridges, into shadow…and she has a moment where she could speak up—tell him she loves him, to marry her instead of Cameron Diaz—but she doesn’t say anything…well, that scene just gets me every time. Come on! What’s happened to Rom Coms like this?
What are the moves she’s got that he’s never seen?
Besides the fact that there’s zero non-white people in the ENTIRE movie, and the one gay character is pretending to be straight and no one questions it, this is a classic!
Maybe it was my nerves about my surroundings or remembering Rupert Everett exists, but I couldn’t sleep. After a few hours of skilled tussling, I figured reading a chapter in my book might lull me to sleep. But when I turned the bedside lamp on, the first thing I saw was that carved buffalo keychain on the nightstand. It’s bizarre, the way our brains work, a visual cue can dart us back to the most random event. The memory the buffalo took me back to is one I avoid, a night from my past I’ve pushed deep down into the dark hole of things to purposely not revisit. You’d think I’d be referring to the time my dad fell through the crawl space in my mom’s garage when he was helping me move during college, when he landed on the floor and stared up at my mom and me, blankly (a stare I will never forget my whole life). When I sprinted inside the house, frantically looking for the cordless landline telephone to call 911, so he could be medevac’d to the hospital. [Sidenote: In an emergency situation, cordless phones are NOT COOL, all you want is a cord that leads you right to the phone.] But no, not going there tonight. You might imagine I’d be thinking back to when my parents got divorced, my teen years spent moving back and forth, my internalized emotion spilling to the surface—that must be the thing I was losing sleep over? No way, I might never figure that shit out! Instead, I’m referring to the time I couldn’t throw a set of keys into a small panel of breakaway glass on an independent film shoot at four thirty in the morning.
Completely understandable and entirely relatable! Here we go:
I never refer to myself as an actor. If I meet someone and they ask me what I do, I usually say I’m a writer. This isn’t false, I am a writer, but most people who know my work recognize me primarily
as an actor. Don’t get me wrong, I love acting. I want to be an actor and I’m on the prowl for opportunities to grow as one, but proclaiming it is almost always a hesitation. I am an actor. Why is that so scary for me? I think it’s because whenever I think of actors, I think of Meryl Streep or Viola Davis or Tom Hanks, and then I’m like—I have the GALL to think I’m in their category? Besides my obvious insecurities, being an actor is terrifying. It means constantly putting yourself in other people’s hands, inside other people’s visions. When I was starting out, I would have done anything to get a part in a play, or a house team at the theater, or a shitty commercial. I remember auditioning for a foot fungus commercial and being bummed I didn’t get it! I was desperate to be a part of someone else’s vision. I became a writer because being a working actor wasn’t really happening—I had no control over my career being just an actor, and as I’ve said before, I enjoy being in control. So, in a bizarre turn of events, I ended up in the driver’s seat of my acting experience by creating a part for myself, which is extremely rare. But once you have that control, it’s hard to let go of it.
Case in point, one of my first big projects as an actor for hire was an independent film called 6 Balloons. It is mostly dramatic and deals primarily with heroin. I know, sounds right up my alley! But it was, in fact, right up my alley. The script for the film was written beautifully and the story was important. The opioid epidemic in our country is rampant, and I have known more than one wonderful human being who has died from a drug overdose. That experience, of losing friends so young, has stayed with me. This script, about an upper-middle-class heroin addict and his enabling sister trying desperately to save him, felt like something I wanted to be a part of telling.
The memory in question—the one that is keeping me awake in a cabin, thirty minutes outside Kanab, Utah—was during a week of night shoots for this particular film…in the middle of a production consisting almost entirely of night shoots. The film takes place over the course of one evening, so for nineteen days, we shot primarily overnight. Filming overnights for this long can make you feel like you’re living in an alternate reality. You start work at 5 p.m. and get home at 5 or 6 a.m. The farther along into production, the more normalized this becomes: eating, “dinner” at 1 a.m., and waking up at 1 p.m. every day. It’s bizarre. I’m not a fan, but it is one of the things I like about this industry—it makes you realize how many different kinds of lives you can live, not just through the stories told, but in the manner in which you can use the hours in a day. You can shift your life in many ways.
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