I WANT CANDY*

Food, food, food, eating, healthy, food, yum, food, hungry, fat, skinny, heart, food, food, food. It’s all we hear about, all we read about, all they’re talking about on TV, in magazines, even in the ads in the subway where I practice my Spanish. We are officially obsessed with food and how to eat. There are diets upon diets upon diets. No carbs, all carbs, all bacon, organic only, eat like a caveman, eat like a French woman, eat like someone who doesn’t eat. We literally take pictures of our food and plaster them all over the Internets: Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, and our newest social media app: Periscope, where you can show people what is in your fridge. In real time. Because people will actually watch this. Seriously, try it. Then follow me on Periscope @pattimurin.

The main message in all of this? Eat Healthy!

IMG_3562

This is horrifying.

Whatever the heck that means. One year dairy is in, then it’s full of hormones and will make you fat. Red wine and beer drinkers live longer than teetotalers (SAT word alert), but don’t have more than one glass a day, or else you’re considered a binge drinker. Carbs are terrible for you, then all of a sudden they’re totally fine as long as you’re eating whole wheat products that taste vaguely like the dirt you used to plant your seeds in in elementary school science class that you may have tasted when no one was watching.

Full disclosure: I like to eat crap. In-N-Out is my church. My regular concoction at Yogurtland has been described as “a whorehouse of flavor.” Right now I’m eating a dinner fit for a ten year old boy rushing from baseball practice to Boy Scouts: mac and cheese and chicken nuggets, with a healthy side of barbecue sauce. I’ve been known to eat one singular food group as a meal, and it’s usually cheese. I just don’t gravitate to healthy foods, no matter how hard I try. Even when I have salads, they’re filled with cheese (cheese is a big part of my life) and croutons and enough dressing that I can’t actually taste the green stuff at the bottom (I think it’s called lettuce?). After years of trying to clean out my diet and clean up my act, I finally came to a crashing, yet remarkably simple realization.

You know why it’s so hard to eat healthy? Because it’s AWFUL. Healthy food is TERRIBLE. Vegetables are the Earth’s revenge for trampling all over it. Earth literally said, “Dude, I JUST decorated! You gonna cut my babies down to make prom corsages and those stupid subscription inserts for magazines that you already subscribe to? Fine, then I’m gonna grow a bunch of crappy tasting green edible plants and you’re gonna eat them because I will make them good for you! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA.” Damn you, Earth. We coulda had candy trees.

And then we decide to cook these nutritious little devils, to make them more exciting! I am absolutely baffled at this idea. Why would I take something that, in its raw form, tastes the best it can ever hope to taste, and make it hot and limp? Hot and limp are not words you want to describe anything in your life. Trust me.

(Note: raw carrots are exempt from this blog. There is nothing more satisfying than a crunchy, freshly peeled carrot. Unfortunately for me, I am allergic to them.)

Beet-Pancakes

DO NOT BE FOOLED. These are beet pancakes..

To make vegetables good, you have to disguise them. There are entire cookbooks that exist solely filled with recipes designed to hide vegetables in them. Beet flavored pancakes? Punishable by 3-5 years in a minimum-security prison. Pureed cauliflower that looks like mashed potatoes? Expect divorce papers. Spinach in my brownies? That’s literally the meanest thing anyone could ever do to me.

But what about deep frying, you say! Yes, deep fried asparagus is obviously preferable to sautéed asparagus, but then you hear the voices in your head telling you that “deep fried anything is most likely not as good for you as non-deep fried anything**.” So using this logic, as long as your Oreos aren’t deep fried, they’re healthi-ER for you than deep fried asparagus! Right? No? Great.

And the worst offender of them: kale. Is there anything worse than kale? To make it even remotely interesting, you have to stuff it in a salad and pour dressing all over it, or make freaking CHIPS out of it, and THEN sprinkle said kale chips with weird seasonings like coconut or cayenne. Whose idea was that? Give me ten full-fat sour cream and onion potato chips instead of a whole bag of kale chips any day. I’m not that hungry.

image1-2

A perfect meal.

But you know what tastes great all by its lonesome? Chocolate. Chocolate tastes amazing without cream filling or peanut butter (even though it is drastically improved by peanut butter in 99% of cases***). Guess what else tastes awesome all by itself? Cheese. When push comes to shove, cheese don’t need no crackers or fancy meats to make it better. You can shove that stuff in your face straight out of the package. So it’s tasty AND convenient.

I get that we have to avoid obesity and keep our hearts going as long as possible so we can live long and prosperous lives, watch our children grow and finally have money and time simultaneously so we can travel to the Australian Outback. So I shall continue to do my best, if only for the sake of my fiancee, my parents and my future children. I mean, I want to be alive to bake them Squash Pizza.

Just kidding. I would never be that cruel.

*There are absolutely no scientific facts in this blog. I am not a scientist, even though I read every UberFact on Twitter and most of the articles in Dr. Oz magazine.

**I just made up this quote. I didn’t actually quote it from anywhere. It just seemed like it belonged in quotation marks.

***This is a scientific fact. For sure.

What I Did For Love

1374291_724263284266109_1603825607_nSo I openly and loudly consider myself one of the luckiest women alive, because somehow I managed to find one of those incredibly rare and unique men who is kind, loving, loyal, intelligent, funny, laid back, and who puts up with me willingly and happily. Oh, and he’s hot. Like REAL hot. Good work, Murin.

Fear not, this whole blog is not going to be a sickeningly delirious post about how much I love my fiancee and how lucky I am to have found him and blah blah blah chick lit novel I can’t believe he’s mine what did I do to deserve this. No, I deserve him. Oh, I freaking deserve him. Because when I look back on everything I went through to get him? I can’t believe I lasted this long without becoming a nun or a cat lady, or worst of all, a contestant on The Bachelor.

So for a moment, let’s travel back in time to my younger (stupider), more innocent (stupider) days, where I was willing to give 98% of men a chance to be my Prince Charming, and I believed that every time a guy slept with me, he obviously must love me and would never be able to live without me. Yes, I did all of the standard insane things one does when their adrenaline and emotions and libido are all racing to an unforeseen finish line. I called too much, texted too much, stalked MySpace (yup, I said it), and IMed with my friends late into the night, cutting and pasting every IM chat I’d had with him, analyzing all the different things “gotta go now bye” could possibly mean.

When I was in college, I wore the same kind of deodorant that my crush wore because I wanted to smell him all day. It was Old Spice. What I smelled like for love.

Also in college, I was SO determined to make an ex-boyfriend jealous that I somehow finagled myself a solo in a presentation for the whole theatre department which involved performing a striptease down to my underwear and seducing a guy. (Fun trivia, it was Mark Fisher of Mark Fisher Fitness! And for you musical theatre nerds out there, it was “Some Other Life” from Hello Again.) And as Mark Fisher had not yet invented his stellar Snatched workout program, I was not snatched in any way and had somehow gained 22 pounds my freshman year. What I did for love. Or revenge?

There was yet another college boy who I was sure was the love of my life. One summer night while we were both home with our parents, we each drove halfway towards each other and met at midnight on the Palisades Parkway, just to say hello. Actually, that one is kind of awesome. Except that he happened to be my boyfriend’s best friend. #whatididforlove #oops

One night, while I was out of town doing a show, I had a one night stand with someone I was working with. I knew he was leaving the next day, so when it came time to go back to my hotel room, I purposely left my bra in HIS hotel room so I could go back the next day and see him one more time before he left. When I knocked on the door, he told me he had already packed his suitcases and he didn’t find a bra anywhere. I mean, dude, I know it was there. He still owes me a bra. What I lost for “love.”

When I was 24, I somehow convinced myself that the guy I was meant to be with was a 20 year old who illegally owned a gun, grew weed in his closet, and kept all of his cash in his underwear drawer because he didn’t have a bank account. But he was sooooo sweet. What I could have gotten arrested for for love.

Within one year, I flew to three different states to visit three different guys and then never saw them again. What I paid for love.

I moved to Long Island to live with a guy I had only been dating for 5 months, and started working as a nanny. I was away from my wonderful apartment that I shared with my best friend in the world, away from my favorite city in the world, and away from where all of the auditions were held on a daily basis. Which meant I gave up a little corner of my own dream of being on Broadway, because it was just easier to stay home and cook him dinner. And for the first time in my life, I actually had to think about my answer when he asked me, “So how long are you going to do this acting thing for?” What I sacrificed for love.

I got married and divorced. What I really truly believed in for love.

And the worst offense of all? I, Patricia Marie Elizabeth Murin, lifelong New York Giants fan, rooted for goddamn New England Patriots. What I am still ashamed of for love.

For all of you singles out there, it took me way longer than I hope it takes you to learn what it means to really know yourself, and to respect yourself when it comes to dating and mating and love. Because if someone really loves you? They won’t care if you own a sweatshirt with the logo of their crappy football team on it. And if you really, truly love someone? You’ll never even consider buying one.335098_374674802558294_1896347909_o

Let’s Get Physical!

There’s a new revolution going on, sweeping the nation faster than a Law & Order: NCIS: CSI: Miami of Ohio spinoff. Everyone is either doing it, talking about doing it, talking about NOT doing it, or just dressing like they do it so they don’t feel left out cause they don’t actually do it.

I think it’s called “exercise.”

image1

I discovered “exercise,” in the standard sense, about 2 years ago. I was going through a divorce and felt that clichéd superficial urge to be as skinny as possible, desperately needing a change of lifestyle while stuck in the same apartment I had been living in as a married woman. And what better way to do it than go to an insanely freaking expensive ultra-luxurious urban country club with hot trainers and a steam room that piped eucalyptus through the vents? Oh yeah, I was on TOP of it.

(You could argue that I’ve been “exercising” all of my life, since every time I do a show that involves any kind of movement or dance, I’m “exercising” on a daily basis, sometimes for as much as 7 hours a day. But because it’s what I love to do, and I’m being paid to do it, it’s just not the same as the necessary evil so many people put up with on a daily basis, dragging yourself out of bed, going to the gym/park/studio where you intentionally make yourself sweat for 30-90 minutes, and all you get at the end is a high-five. If you’re LUCKY.)

But somehow “exercise” has become a true part of my life, and one that I actually (no don’t say it don’t say it) enjoy (dammit I said it). And through the trial and error of the workout regimens/classes/crazes I went through, I’ve finally found what works best for me and makes me as excited as I can possibly be about going to a gym. It will never rate up there with getting an unexpected package in the mail or sweeping the Musical Theatre category in Jeopardy while your non-actor friends look on in amazement, but I do feel good baring my abs at a Skivvies concert, so it’s pretty much worth it.

So for all of my very official research on “exercise,” the following is my very official findings on some of the places I have visited, all with the goal of finding a positive environment in which I feel comfortable sweating my butt off while being supported by the instructors and staff.

EQUINOX

These people are SERIOUS about fitness. These people have stock in Lululemon, own different workout shoes for running, training, walking, jogging, standing and peeing, and have way better hair than I do. These people literally “woke up like this,” have no problem accidentally on purpose elbowing you out of a good spot in class, and unironically drink fresh green juice after a workout at the smoothie bar. These people are not my people, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be your people.

www.equinox.com

image2PHYSIQUE 57

The hardcore cheerleading of Barre Classes! The instructors are ready to ROCK, pump you UP, and be your best friend as long as it means you keep pulsing until your thighs actually give out and you melt into a puddle on the floor! Smiling is your best defense here, as is making pain faces so it looks like you’re working harder than you are!

www.physique57.com

THE BAR METHOD

Out of all of the options out there for barre classes, this one is that sorority in college that you didn’t belong to, but are almost sure liked you anyway. A pretty Midwestern girl named Kristin who pronounces the word “per-FECT” taught my class. She actually seemed disappointed with my work because I knew what I was doing. Like, she was so ready to be my Big Sister and bond over 2 pound weights and encourage me that maybe in a few weeks, I would be ready for 3 pounds. But I didn’t give Kristin what she wanted, so she turned her attentions to Joy, the other new gal in class. I proceeded to go home and write in my diary, agonizing over whether I wore the wrong thing or said something stupid, and would I ever be invited back to the house??? But my ass hurt the next day, so I will go back and try to win Kristin’s sisterhood once more.

www.barmethod.com

PERSONAL TRAINING

Can be done at most gyms. Is expensive. Makes me look like Xena the Warrior Princess, and not in a good way.

Jimmy--Taylor_220x329Luke-Milton_220x329TRAINING MATE LA

For my West Coast friends, this is the best workout you will ever have. Not just because the High Intensity Interval Training (HIIT) workout is fast, efficient and appropriately difficult. But because the classes are led by incredibly hot Australians WHO YELL COMPLIMENTS AT YOU. Luke and Jimmy will know your name immediately upon entering, and once you see their butts in those almost-too-short-but-not-quite shorts, you will never forget them. (Full disclosure: My fiancée has just as much of a crush on Luke and Jimmy as I do. They’re THAT AWESOME.) A 45 minute, fast-paced, loud and fun workout, you will thank me profusely if you are able to attend a class. I’m not kidding. Go now. NOW.

www.trainingmatela.com

SOULCYCLE

At the one SoulCycle class I took, I was shocked at how many men were there. Then I realized that the instructor was simply stunning, with her little tiny sports bra and 6 pack abs and long flowing hair that never seemed to absorb sweat, no matter how hard she pedaled. There are candles and positive reinforcements and happiness, which I’m pretty sure is all there to distract from the searing pain going through your thighs as you struggle to pedal in time with the music. Being someone with an innate sense of musicality, it drove me INSANE that I couldn’t always keep up. Candles or not, this is spin class, and it hurts.

www.soulcycle.com

BIKRAM YOGAyoga

That’s just nuts. I ain’t doing that.

CLASSPASS

I’ve recently found my groove by joining something called ClassPass, where you get to go to as many classes you want at any of the hundreds of participating gyms. Physique 57, Crunch, FlyWheel, dance classes, Pilates, lots of yoga, etc. It’s only $99 a month, but the catch is this: you can only visit each studio 3 times in one month. So it basically forces you to change up your workout daily, or at least try new studios and push yourself outside of your comfort zone. Therefore, I hereby promise that I will someday get up the nerve to take a pole dancing class and be sure to report back to all of you.

www.classpass.com

M is for Milo

If any of you follow me on any social media platform (@pattimurin on everything come follow me be my friend me me me), you know that I have a very special man in my life that I love more than anything. He’s loving, loyal, exceptional at cuddling, and very very hairy.

My dog, Milo.

My fiancee and I found Milo on petfinder.com at a rescue in Tennessee, and had to commit to adopting him without meeting him. He was 8 weeks old, about 2 pounds and came from a great organization called Moonshine’s Rescue. I mean, if that wasn’t a sign that this puppy was meant to be ours? Come on.

Because he was being transported from the south on a mobile veterinary unit by some incredibly generous volunteers, we had to go pick up Milo in the parking lot of a random Sheraton in Parsippany, NJ at 4:30 AM on a Saturday. Yes, you heard that right. Colin and I poured ourselves into a Zipcar and drove the 35 minutes in the dark. When we pulled in, we laughed about how much this resembled a drug deal. Not that I’ve ever taken part in a drug deal, I swear! But in all honesty, it felt a little bit sketchy, and we wondered for a second if maybe we were unwittingly contributing to the illegal sale of designer dogs as opposed to actually rescuing one from a potential life of ill treatment.

The huge truck finally showed up, right on time. As it pulled into the parking lot, people started getting out of cars all around us. A lot of people. It felt like a really heartwarming version of “The Walking Dead,” if all the zombies were really nice alive people who just wanted a new animal to love. We all formed a line outside the truck, and one by one, our new family members were brought out.

When it was our turn, I said to myself, “Remember this moment forever. This is the moment when you get your new best friend.” The door opened, and a volunteer put our little tiny Milo into my arms. He was warm and curious and I could feel his baby heart beating as he strained to see over my shoulder. He fit in my two hands, and I couldn’t believe that this little guy was ours to keep. My heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest. So often we lose sight of what is feels like to love something unconditionally and purely, and Milo is my little living reminder that love can, and should, be uncomplicated.

Milo turns one in just a few days, and I can’t believe how fast the time is going. He’s my buddy, my bubba, my peanut. He was the perfect addition to our very new family unit, and I can’t get enough of his face. I’m sure there will be more stories about Milo in the future, because I literally can’t stop talking about him in an annoying baby voice.

Now, for fun, go back and re-read this in an annoying baby voice.

“Never underestimate the warmth of a cold nose.”IMG_3151 IMG_0143

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun (and not have to wear makeup)

crazyhairpattiprettypatti
I’ve always been a girly girl.
 
Not in all of the standard ways, of course. When I was a freshman in college and going to my first fraternity semi-formal, my dorm mates had to tackle me on the ground so they could put eyeshadow on my sad naked eyelids. I wore flannel pajama pants to high school for the entirety of my senior year, which I’m realizing at this moment is really mortifying. I still opt for practical, comfortable clothing before I submit to wearing things that look great but feel like I’m slowly being murdered by fashion asphyxiation. 
 
However, I always loved playing with dolls. I changed Barbie’s clothes 47 times a day, and I chased boys around the playground until they were forced to be my little tiny sweetheart slaves. I was a cheerleader from 8th grade until freshman year of college, mainly because I just loved (still love) those freaking skirts so much. When I got the opportunity to wear a Cinderella dress at an elementary school event, they had to rip it off of me.
 
But nowadays, I regularly mock the girls wearing $200 yoga pants with their perfect high ponies and a very specific way of saying “Thiiiinnkkk yaaaaaaw” (translation: thank you). And yet, when I have on fancy exercise clothes and my hair miraculously curls in just the right way, I feel like Supergirl. I scoff at women with perfectly enviable makeup applications, and yet I literally dance with joy on the rare occasion that my own foundation covers up everything I need it to. It seems like while the inside of me is pink glitter and sparkles to the core, I’m not as inclined to make an effort on the outside as many of my fellow females are. I am constantly battling between the awesome feeling I get when I look polished and put together, and the stubborn part of me that just wants to wear sweats and not actually HAVE to make an effort. We’ve all heard of inner beauty, and it seems the highest compliment a woman can receive is, “You’re beautiful, inside and out.” 
 
Now, I know I’m super fun. After years and years of fighting with myself, I can proudly say that I love who I am, and I’m starting to really understand who I am. But day after day, I push against the notion that if I were to take just fifteen extra minutes to throw on some mascara, or do something with my hair that didn’t end in a ponytail, I would feel even better about myself. My thought is, why should some extra crap on my face define who I am? Why do I have to give up playing five rounds of Candy Crush or seeing which flat they choose on House Hunters International in order to make myself pleasing to some random stranger’s eye? I’m who I am no matter what I look like, right?
 
I’ll tell you what it is. It’s the expectation. It’s the entire industry built on having the right clothing and the right hairstyle and the right makeup, all while miraculously maintaining individuality. It’s the magazine covers that scream “BE YOURSELF!” right next to a flawless photo of today’s super celebrity and headlines like “How to lose five pounds without exercising!” It’s feeling good leaving my house and then passing a woman on the street who looks like she got all 100 votes in Who Wore It Best and instantaneously doubting every single decision I’ve made that day. It’s turning back into the fifth grade Patti, who never seemed to be able to fit in. It’s the realization that appearances do make a difference, even though there’s so much more to us than what we see in the first five seconds. 
 
The real question is, how much should I care? Do I succumb to the voices in my head telling me I should try harder? Or should I valiantly fight to be comfortable in my own 6 AM/crazy hair don’t care/what you see is what you get skin? I wish I had an answer, because then I would be the female Buddha and have lots of book deals and talk shows and billions of dollars. Unfortunately, there’s no hard and fast correct answer. It’s something we all have to dig deep and ask ourselves as individuals. 
 
So for now, I will define myself as a non-girly girly girl. If I keep working to choose a side, then I’ll always be denying one half of myself. And that’s not a super fun way to live! I’ll just have to learn to be comfortable knowing that Patti Murin is a Miss America loving, fantasy football winning princess who has rosacea on her cheeks and usually doesn’t give enough of a crap to cover it up. 
 
So, who are you?

 

Literally Patti Murin

Well, against my better judgement, I’ve started a blog.

I started writing TV recaps for BroadwayWorld.com, and realized that I was having a lot of fun with it. Add to that the many (or like 15) positive responses I got on Twitter and Facebook, and I’m thinking maybe I should see what happens when I write, and it’s NOT about The Bachelor.

And fifteen compliments is enough to start a blog, right?? One that people will actually read? Like, maybe more than fifteen people? I’m gonna go with my ignorance on this one and declare a resounding YES.

So, here I am. I have no idea what I’m going to be writing about, but I hope to keep it as positive as possible. Not like super-sweet-fake-I-don’t-believe-a-word-you-say positive, but I can say with absolute conviction that this blog will not exist to spread negativity. Maybe spread awareness about pointless minor pop culture subjects, but not outright negativity. And to be clear, slight snark does not count as negativity. TOTAL snark, yes, but not the little tiny touch of snark that sometimes proves necessary to get a point across.

A little about me: I live in New York City. I’m an actress who has worked on Broadway, TV (kind of) and across the country in various musicals, but I’m still not sure what I want to do with my life. I’m 34 years old but I still feel like I’m 25. I’m pretty sure I can communicate with dogs. Watching television is my therapy. Online shopping is my therapy. Therapy is my therapy. I have clinical depression and anxiety. I will always watch a cheerleading competition on ESPN2. I’m terrible at shopping though I love to do it. I’m getting married for the second time in June. I love office supplies to a fault. Staples is also my therapy. I have a lot of therapy but I’m still nuts. I’m pretty sure I drink too much, but I’m pretty sure most of my friends do too. I love Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand and my life will not be complete until I’m drinking Sauvignon Blanc in New Zealand. I read books like a fiend and have an addiction to magazines that actually arrive in my mailbox. I will forever secretly consider myself a princess. Maybe not so secretly anymore. I love Barbie. I love the New York Giants and the New York Yankees. I’m allergic to root vegetables and tree fruits. The only thing I want every day is to be happy.

And there you have it! I have no idea how often I’m going to be posting, or what I will be writing about, but I hope you’ll join me for the ride.

Literally,

Patti Murin

429857_10150710670400450_1995431246_n