Nick Kid

Nickelodeon is effectively taking over BAM for the weekend, with their highly anticipated Mega Music Fest. No, I can’t get you tickets, but I am doing a little scheming of my own.

Today, I was waiting in line on the 5th floor for the bathroom (There are 2 stalls there to accomodate roughly 300 people, so a line is typical. The best part is to see the look on someone’s face after they’ve taken “a while,” when they come out to see 7 people giving them the evil eye.)  I saw a sign on the wall: Quiet, Rehearsal in Process.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” I shouted at the sign, then quickly covered my mouth. I rounded the corner to peak into the Attic Studio, where I found a group of kid dancers rehearsing for the show this weekend. There were about 12 years old, and O.M.G. were they fierce. I mean, they could strut. Gently, I placed my hands to the window, peering in at what I wanted to be, a pre-adolescent back-up dancer.

I watched them as the sergeant, excuse me, choreographer, shouted “5, 6, 7, 8!”  Those kids broke it down, and it was only 9am (I saw them later around 5:30, so I’m pretty sure they are slaves). “I wanna be you,” I mouthed threw the window. “I wanna be just like you.”

Tomorrow, I plan to wear my hair in pigtails, and sport lots of pink, maybe something with hearts or words like “Brat” or “Cool.” I’ll casually walk into the studio with the rest of the kids and their parents. I’ll stand in the back to pick it up, at first, and I’ll join when I feel more confident. Sure, I’llmess up all the steps, bump into the other kids and maybe even accidentally punch a chick in the face if she gets in the way of my money shot, but that’s how I do.

“Who’s the tall one?” one of the mother’s will ask another, as she admires the diamond ring that little Tyler got her after dancing back-up in a Demi Lovato video.

“I dont know,” another will say, “but she’s completely overdeveloped and can’t even do a friggin jazz square.”

These two heinous stage mother’s will plot to destroy me, but during a bathroom break, I’ll head down to my actual work desk, take down my pigtails, and no one will be the wiser. That is, until I get busted (in kid attire, again) flirting with Justin Beiber in the elevator.

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Halfway to Glory

You’re probably tired of hearing about it, because it’s all anyone can talk about these days, but on Wednesday May 12th, I, Lauren B. Morrow am turning a whopping 23 years old. In actuality, this means nothing. 23 is a notoriously uneventful age; a time of continuation and complacency. Instead of celebrating exciting things like “college graduation” you find yourself in eating popcorn on your futon, Facebook stalking people from high school, wondering where the good times went. I’ll tell you where the good times went: to the future. For me, the good times went to 46.

I’m ultra-pumped for my 46th birthday. It will be a year of celebration and triumph. By the time I turn 46, I will have recently been divorced (he was a really nice guy, but I think we all knew he was gay), so I’ll definitely be on the prowl. I will also have just kicked a mild addiction to Tylenol PM for children, as well as having recently gotten out of an accidental adoption (Yes, the two were related. It was late. There were infomercials. I thought they were dolls…).

To replace my Tylenol addiction, I will be an avid Zumba student (eventually teaching a Tuesday night class to seniors at the community center), and I will be a weekday vegan (because what’s a Saturday night without a gyro?) Thanks to my new lifestyle, I will be disturbingly fit and uncomfortably energetic. This boundless energy will allow me excel at my job in ways that I cannot even imagine today (I feel the urge to nap every two hours at my present age). I will be a power something-or-other, and make a stupid amount of money, despite the fact that I use very little brain power. I’ll say things like “BUY! SELL!,” I OBJECT!,” “YOU’RE FIRED!,” or “PAPER OR PLASTIC!” and I’ll be damned good at it.

My 46th birthday will indeed be a time of reflection and merriment. I’ll rent out a VIP room at some chic Meatpacking District club, and there will be more twenty-somethings on those leather seats than I can count (the inability to count high numbers is a side effect of the Tylenol abuse). I’ll hire tons of international models, and maybe even some break dancers and contortionists. I’ll wear an animal print one-piece, and dance on a glass table. It’ll be disgusting.

I’m going to start saving up now for this affair, because believe you-me, it’s gonna be wild. So this year, it’s gonna be pretty low-key. Just a few friends out on the town, with minimal animal print. But in the back of my mind, I’ll know. When people say “Happy 23rd!” I’ll think, 23. Halfway to glory.

Friends Forever

I don’t know about you, but I‘ve been getting a TON of Facebook friend requests these days, and I think you’ll agree with me when I say IT IS AWESOME! It’s like I have the popularity I wish I had in junior high.

Just last week I got about 14 requests, and trust me when I say I accepted them all. One was Holly of Hartford, CT. She’s about 18, with long blond hair and a sick collection of ankle bracelets. Ashley is about 18 too and lives in Newport, RI. She likes to write haikus and to dress up like Lady Gaga (believe me, I’ve seen the picks. You’d swear it was really Gags!). Kim is from Boston, and cannot get enough Justin Beiber (who can, really?).

I was getting pretty excited about all of my new friends, so I sent out an invitation for us all to meet up. They all seemed like they were college freshmen or sophomores, and I thought it would be nice for us to all meet up, and I’d give them tips on how to with the trials of womanhood and the changes their  bodies would encounter in the coming months. Since they were pretty young, we couldn’t meet at my usual hangout, Happy Hour at Chevy’s Tex Mex, so on the suggestion of Keisha, the cutest little thing from Chicago, we met in a dark alley in Chinatown around 3am.

They were all there when I arrived (which is strange, because I arrived 15 minutes early to avoid such an embarrassing situation…and out of excitement). At first I thought it a bit strange that no one was speaking and that they were all wearing Crocs (which I still can’t explain), but I was pleased to see them all there, nonetheless.

“Hey guys!” I waved. “I’m Lauren, from St. Louis!” None of them responded. They all just stood there in silence, which was weird, because we’d had so much to talk about on Facebook chat. I figured they were all just shy, until the earth began to shake and their irises turned a fiery orange.

“Son of a–” I could not finish my explitive, before my worst nightmare came true. From the middle of the crowd of adorable teen girls emerged an enormous pair of Crocs with ruby jibbitz. I looked up, and there she was. Gayle King. I felt a chill run through my body. (See Dec 15 post “While I Was Out” if you don’t understand my terror.)

“Thought you could get away, did you?”

“Well…I mean, I…”

“SILENCE, FATTY!” she screamed.

“You’re fatter than I am,” I mumbled.

“What was that?” Her breath wreaked of sour cream and onion Pringles.

“I said you’re beautiful and generous.”

“More generous than who?” she asked stroking my cheek with her right hand.

“More generous than Oprah.”

“That’s right!” She turned to the other girls. “SAY IT!” she commanded.

“Gayle King is more beautiful and generous than Oprah,” the girls recited, as the beams still shone from their eyes. Gayle turned back to face me.

“You thought you could escape me, but look at all the lovely slave girls I found to replace you!” she laughed. Not an evil laugh, but more of a giggle, which seemed odd considering the situation.

“Gayle, we went over this. Slavery is never ok, and–”

“FATTY, SHUT UP!” She threw her hands in front of herself as if casting a spell on me, but nothing really happened, which was awkward, like the giggle. Before I knew what was happening, I was being lifted off the ground by a dozen 18 year old girls, and thrown into the back of a UHaul. One of them beat me over the head with a billy club, and when I woke up I was in a triangular room decorated with tapestries and incense.

Now please stay with me, you’ve got to listen (I’m whispering. Gayle thinks I’m working on her autobiography right now). The reason I haven’t posted anything in three weeks is because I’ve been trapped in this unknown location. Do not accept any of the friend requests you get on Facebook, unless you went to elementary school with the person, or they used to dated your cousin, or something like that. All of the girls requesting you are hypnotized slaves of Gayle, and they mean you harm. Don’t end up like me, in this room, with all of these incense. Save yourself.