Author: Christa Avampato

The short of it: Writer. Health, education, and art advocate. Theater and film producer. Visual artist. Product geek. Proud alumnae of the University of Pennsylvania (BA) and the Darden School of Business at the University of Virginia (MBA). Inspired by ancient wisdom & modern tech. Proliferator of goodness. Opener of doors. Friend to animals. Fan of creative work in all its wondrous forms. I use my business skills to create passion projects that build a better world. I’ve been called the happiest New Yorker, and I try hard to live up to that title every day. The long of it: My career has stretched across Capitol Hill, Broadway theatre, education, nonprofit fundraising, health and wellness, and Fortune 500 companies in retail, media, entertainment, technology, and financial services. I’ve been a product developer and product manager, theater manager, strategic consultant, marketer, voice over artist, , teacher, and fundraiser. I use my business and storytelling to support and sustain passion projects that build a better world. In every experience, I’ve used my sense of and respect for elegant design to develop meaningful products, services, programs, and events. While building a business career, I also built a strong portfolio as a journalist, novelist, freelance writer, interviewer, presenter, and public speaker. My writing has appeared in The Washington Post, The Huffington Post, PBS.org, Boston.com, Royal Media Partners publications, and The Motley Fool on a wide range of topics including business, technology, science, health, education, culture, and lifestyle. I have also been an invited speaker at SXSW, Teach for America, Avon headquarters, Games for Change, NYU, Columbia University, Hunter College, and the Alzheimer’s Foundation of America. The first book in my young adult book series, Emerson Page and Where the Light Enters, was acquired by a publisher and launched in November 2017. I’m currently working on the second book in the series. A recovering multi-tasker, I’m equally at home in front of my Mac, on my yoga mat, walking my rescue dog, Phineas, traveling with a purpose, or practicing the high-art of people watching. I also cut up small bits of paper and put them back together as a collage artist. My company: I’m bringing together all of my business and creative career paths as the Founder of Double or Nothing Media: • I craft products, programs, and projects that make a difference; • I build the business plans that make what I craft financially sustainable; • I tell the stories that matter about the people, places, and products that inspire me. Follow my adventures on Twitter at https://twitter.com/christanyc and Instagram at https://instagram.com/christarosenyc.
Life

Running Toward Sunshine

Christa Avampato

I live in an apartment just off of Riverside Park. Every time I take a walk there, I see kids playing in one of the many playgrounds. The other day I saw one dashing away from her mom toward the sunny side of the jungle gym. It made me think of how often we go running toward light, toward something that will reveal to us some kind of warmth, comfort, and joy.

In this spirit, I went to see H.H. the Dalai Lama on Sunday with my friend, Rob. I have had a hard time writing this piece for this blog party because I am afraid that no words I am able to express will lend the kind of simplistic beauty that his message sends. However, after reading in the paper today about China’s threat to destroy relations with the U.S. if H.H. is given the Congressional Gold Medal tomorrow at the White House made me realize I must spread his message. We all must. As he says, “dialogue is the only way.”

His most incredible attribute is without doubt his unbridled humility. He sat center stage in lotus pose, with matching visor because the lights were so bright, and spoke to us for two hours. No notes, no teleprompter. It was as if we had been invited to his living room to ask our questions and tell him our fears. He made very clear that if we came to be fixed, to be enlightened, that we would be very disappointed. He could only tell us how he saw things. This was ironic because just as my friend, Rob, and I entered Radio City, I was thinking of the spiritual song whose verses end “oh lord, fix me.”

H.H. made clear that he does not think prayer fixes anything. There is no magic in it. It will not stir change. The only way forward is effort, failure. More effort, more failure. And again, and again. The only way forward, quite simply, is to keep going.

Fundamentally, he believes we may all be non-believers because for most of our lives, including his own, we do not practice our faith at every moment. It is in the background. We are human.

His talk was entitled Peace and Prosperity. He explained to us that this awful gap between rich and poor in the world must be closed. We will never all have peace if we don’t all have prosperity. It is almost as if the two must be achieved jointly. Not one before the other.

Despite his professing that he does not know the answers to most of our difficult situations in the world, people asked. They wanted to know how he felt about Burma. He replied, “This is very difficult. Very sad. The monks there wear robes similar in colors to mine. And I don’t know how to help them. I don’t know.”

He does believe fervently that war is outdated. That while we see so much tragedy and hardship, the world is getting better. He says there is no cause for hopelessness. There are only pockets of distress. By and large, the world is vastly improved from when he was a young man.

Exactly two hours after he began he put up his hands and said, “well that’s it. Until our next meeting, take care.” And with that simple statement, he stood up, bowed with his hands in prayer position, and bid us farewell. No fanfare, no excess. Just, “until we see each other again.” And I believe that moment will come. I really will see him again.

The thing I remember most about him is his rich deep laugh that enveloped all of us, took us into his comfort, and held us for a little while. A man who has suffered so much, who will undoubtedly never see his homeland again in this lifetime despite his constant effort to free his people, was by and large a happy, even joyful, man. And it made me think that regardless of my hardships in life, they are nothing compared to his. If he could laugh, and mean in, then so can I.

A few years ago I read H.H.’s book “Happiness at Work”. And at the end of the book the author was looking for some piece of pure wisdom. He asked the Dalai Lama how he could get up every day and work so tirelessly with seemingly little results. What would he do if he was not able to free his people in his lifetime? “Well, we will do the best we can.” And that was that. He would do his best. It’s all he could promise. And that small phrase gave me freedom. No matter what terrible loss or sadness or disappointment I may suffer, I had to know in my heart that the most I could was my best. If H.H. asked no more of himself, and he is enlightened, then how could I ask more of myself.

There was the sunshine I was looking for. I didn’t have to run toward it. It has been with me all along. It is with all of us, at every moment.

Life

Knowing our strength

Christa Avampato

I couldn’t help myself. A brand new Target store opened close to work, and my boss asked me to poke around at retail stores on Thursday afternoon for a project we’re working on. It was pouring rain,but I didn’t get wet. On top of being an absolutely gorgeous store, the new Target has a covered parking garage. I could hardly believe it. $144 later I left Target, and felt good about it. And I NEVER feel good about spending money.

Because of the rain, it took 2 hours for me to get home. And by a remarkable stroke of luck, there was a parking space right as I exited the West Side Highway, three blocks from my apartment. I pulled in, and was thrilled that I would not have to hunt for a space on the flooded streets. I bought a few groceries while at Target, including some perishables, and I wanted to get them inside. I had forgotten that I bought 9 bags worth of groceries, and that my apartment is not only 3 blocks away, but three blocks away – uphill. I struggled uphill, stopping every half block to switch arms and give myself a little break. Thankfully it was only drizzling. It wasn’t until halfway home that I realized this was a very bad idea, and to turn back would be just as far as it would be to get home. So, I kept on toward home.

I am sure that I looked ridiculous. I got more than one strange look from the doormen that line Riverside Drive. Neighborhood folks regarded me suspiciously, even though I was wearing business casual clothing. I guess it was covered up by all the bags. At least they were Target bags so I looked like a stylish crazy person.

Once I got inside I let out a big side and fell on my couch laughing. I always think I am stronger than I am, and then through sheer stubbornness I push through to do what I should not have attempted in the first place. The first step to recovery is recognizing you have a problem. So I’m finally at step one.

When I do things like this, I tend to think that everyone in the world would never do anything so ridiculous. That’s one of the reasons I moved to New York City. No matter how nuts you think you are, there’s always someone just a little more nuts right around the corner.

Today on the subway, a woman entered the train with a giant planting pot. I could have taken a nap in it is was so large. When she entered the train, there were very few people so it wasn’t too hard for her to manuveur. By the time she needed to exit the train, it was packed. So she gave fair warning that she would be getting off the train, and everyone just started to laugh outloud. A strapping man helped her lift the pot above everyone’s heads and then off she went dragging the pot behind her. How she planned to get through the turnstile I wasn’t sure. But I was grateful for the laugh.

Life

How do we escape consumption?

Christa Avampato

I laugh when my friend Kelly says she’d like to find a boyfriend who doesn’t suck her will to live. It’s only funny because it’s true – I know what she means. I have strange phases of love, regardless of whether or not my love is a man, a job, a hobby, a piece of writing. I become so enchanted with my love that I literally wear myself out. Then I fall over in exhaustion, and inevitable sadness and disappointment, only to repeat the process once I feel stronger again.

Today I felt a little bit better when I read that even Mother Teresa struggled with this idea when she said that “what we need is to love without getting tired.” And she won the Nobel Peace Prize. If someone up for sainthood is having trouble figuring this out, then why am I so hard on myself for having difficulty with love?

The consideration of how to love without wearing out is something I catch myself thinking about very often as of late. I’ll be walking along in my neighborhood or in the park or to meet friends, and all of a sudden I’ll find myself thinking that I’m not ready again for love, of anything. I’m not ready again to be consumed by it. And then I remember how intoxicating and magical it can be.

I do love my job, though I manage to keep it in check. I think about how I can improve all the time. I stop in to competitors to check around. I mull over how what I’m learning will fit into my life down the road, into the big picture.

I love my neighborhood and my apartment, despite the fact that I’m spending so much on rent. It is a cozy, comfortable haven for me. It’s quiet and beautiful, while also being filled with conveniences that make every day life easier.

I love my friends and family, though I am careful to take time for myself when I can because I know of my inability to turn down going out and having fun. Luckily my huge impending loan payments are making me mindful of how I spend my money, and more importantly how I save it.

The piece that still alludes me, that still has me wincing when I think of it, is starting another romantic relationship. Sometimes I think it’s past disappointments or failures that have me running scared. And sometimes I think it’s that all-too-memorable pain that my relationships have caused. Though these are only excuses, and not reasons. What really has me scared is that I really love my life, and my independence, and my ability to dream unencumbered by responsibility to someone else. I can go anywhere, doing anything, spend time with anyone, or completely alone if that’s what I need. The question becomes not whether I can love without growing tired; it’s can I learn how to love without losing who I am now that I’ve become a person I am really happy to be.

Life

Did you say there’s meat in my mojito?

Christa Avampato

Nuance is on my mind today. I had brunch with my friend, Dan, over the weekend and I was explaining to him that during dinner with my very sweet and handsome neighbor, I had sometimes had trouble with his accent. He would say a word like “axe” and I thought he was saying the letter “x”. He would say phrases like “my brother is in the army” and I would here “my brother’s my enemy”. The more this happens the more embarrassing it gets.

Dan said he had a similar experience when he first met his friend, Giel, who is from France. Giel would say a phrase like “mojitos are great. They have “meat” in them.” And Dan would look at him with a face of confusion. They would go back and forth for a little while until the reverted to spelling out words, or in my case, I would make hand motions to be understood, despite the fact that both people are speaking the same language. And invariably, these conversations end with the person coming out of the fog of confusion saying something like “oh, MINT in the mojitos.” We seek to be understood.

I’ve noticed that this also happens to me lately with emails. I immediately assume all emails are hostile until I see them laden with smiley faces and xo’s. I’m exaggerating here (slightly) though I have a really uncanny knack for assuming that anyone emailing me is actually yelling at me. Then I read a “decidedly” mean-spirited email to an unbiased friend, and that friend will say, “um, Christa, I think you’re completely making up that tone of voice. It sounds fine to me.” And I reply, “oh! Now I see.”

I wonder how responsible nuance and mutual misunderstanding are for where our lives end up. Do we infer things that are not there, and in turn walk away from situations that we should have stayed in, or vice versa? How do we clear up this business of nuance? How do we hear what’s really there, and really isn’t there though it should be?

There’s a case to be made for spelling out the world as we see it, and having the humility and grace to accept correction when we misstep. This is hard word, and it takes time and patience, on both sides. I’m making a pact to listen more completely and more openly, and making myself understood in the way I wish to be understood. Again I am reminded that constant, clear communication can make all the difference, or at the very least keep meat out of my mojito.

Life

Truly awful

Christa Avampato

My natural culinary inclination is toward Italian cooking, mostly because I was raised with it and those ingredients make sense to me. They’re comforting, and they remind me of simpler times. I am a good cook because I love eating, and I have a need to eat ALL THE TIME! I have my regular dishes, what I consider my tried and true standards. Lately though I’ve become more adventurous in my tiny hovel of a kitchen. And the results have been, well, awful.

I’ve been experimenting with recipes that combine different cuisines and flavors, especially ones that on the surface sound counter-intuitive to me. Though in my efforts to keep an open mind and try new things, even if they sound strange, I have been giving the weirdest of combos a shot.

My mistakes have begun by thinking that every recipe that is published must be somewhat decent. After all, publishing is expensive (not to mention competitive) and supposedly these recipes have been tested before going to print. I am learning that these assumptions are complete fallacies, and my poor taste buds, not to mention my stomach, are paying the price. I am also realizing just now that I have been watching too many episodes of Iron Chef America. The other day a culinary master made ice cream out of – are you ready for this – asparagus. I’m not kidding. And the judges raved about how delicious it was. This has completely screwed up my sense of cooking logic.

To be fair, I have been making tiny substitutions – kosher salt for sea salt, soy milk for cow’s milk. Nothing drastic. Grocery shopping in NYC is challenging to say the least so if I can keep from making an extra trip and making due with what I have on hand, I cheat a bit. Still, that is no excuse for the simply horrible things I have turned out from my stove top and oven in the past two weeks.

An example: I found a recipe in one of my favorite magazines for sweet and sour chicken with a twist. Using apricots for the sweet part, and onion soup mix and vinegar for the salty and sour. I winced a little when I saw it but thought I should give it a shot. If asparagus could be made into ice cream, then surely this odd mélange of flavors could create a sweet and sour chicken. Nope. I’m sad to say that it may have just been the most disgusting chicken dish on record. Straight from the oven and into the trash.

The other additive into this situation is that I absolutely refuse to ever be discouraged by anything. I was determined not to lose my battle for home-grown food adventure because of one little silly chicken recipe. So this week I found another odd-on-the-surface recipe in yet another one of my favorite magazines. This one for warm red cabbage salad. It looked lovely in the photograph. A beautiful purple color. Very autumnal. And I hate cabbage (another side effect of growing up in an Italian household), so maybe this recipe will make me like this good for you vegetable. Give me a new outlook on it.

I packed up a serving for lunch today and my stomach is furious. It’s actually screaming at me right now. “How could you do this to me AGAIN???? Didn’t you learn your lesson from that chicken? Are you trying to kill me???” I’m feeling bad. Very, very bad. Red cabbage is not my friend. I have developed a new disdain for it. I am nearly through my small travel pack of Tums.

There are times and places meant for adventure. My kitchen is not one of them. It’s back to my Italian mavens, Giada and Rachel Ray, for me. I will leave the combining of strange and exotic flavors to the experts in New York’s fantastic restaurants that I love to frequent.

Life

What do we not see?

Christa Avampato

I am now engrossed in a book about vampires. A side effect of working at a toy company is that I have become quite interested in all things kids and tweens. And that includes young adult fiction. Stephanie Meyer has written a trilogy of books, the last of which is Eclipse. I did not read the first two books – I actually didn’t know it was a trilogy until about 100 pages in. And now, I’m hooked. Yes, I should be reading books like “Leading Minds” and “The Innovator’s Dilemma” which actually relate to my everyday work. Instead, I’m spending my time wondering why vampires sometimes kill humans or turn them into other vampires, all with a bite. I don’t get it – why does the same action produce two different results?

Maybe it’s just my Halloween state-of-mind. (I actually adore the holiday). While I don’t believe in vampires and werewolves, I do know that there are energies around us all the time. There are systems operating in our world which we cannot detect with even the most sophisticated technology. So once I get frustrated thinking about the whole vampire conundrum, I begin thinking about what might be around me every day that I don’t see.

When we talk about serendipity, what is it that’s really causing these wonderful coincidences? And when we seem to be able to do nothing but get in our own way, so much so that we think we may have been better off just staying in bed some days, what invisible hand is actually responsible? And I think these same energies may serve to connect us to those who have gone before us, those who we will never have the opportunity to meet in this life, though we may have met them on some other plane.

My friend, Ken, told me a story about two beautiful huskies who literally just showed up at his door one morning, as if they belonged there. He had never seen them before in his neighborhood and he has not seen them since. He called me to say he thinks he may be crazy, but he had this overwhelming feeling that they had been there before.

I have most certainly felt this way about people. There are times when I meet someone and instantly there is a connection, as if I have known these people my whole life. Or many times I have visited places for what I think is the first time, and then I somehow am able to navigate them with the greatest of ease, despite my terrible sense of direction. I know these places, I have walked these streets, it all makes sense to me. The same has happened to me with books. I read some and it’s as if I know this story so well, as if the author is writing my life for me. And it happens in writing all the time. These characters show up in your life, with their own story to tell, and you coax it out of them, and write it all down.

Despite the initial chill that these thoughts sometimes bring to me, I also experience a good amount of comfort in this. It makes me feel connected. It makes me believe in magic, and who doesn’t need a little magic in their lives? Isn’t that what keeps us all going?

The picture above can be found at http://7art-screensavers.com/screens/magic-tree-clock/magic-tree-clock.jpg

Life

What’s in front of us

Christa Avampato

I’ve spent some time recently doing some long-range planning on my life. With so many people around me starting businesses, starting school, moving to far-flung locations, trading in one job for another, I cannot help but spend my long walks in the park imagining life. New York City, as exciting as it is, can be a distracting place. It seems that everywhere you look, there is something new and interesting going on. There is another road to take, another person to meet, another thing to do. And before I know it, I’ve completely forgotten where it is I’m going.

Last weekend I walked from Chinatown to the Upper West Side. For those of you who are not too familiar with New York, that’s roughly seven miles. Most of it I walked with my friend, Dan, and we talked about direction and vision and taking advantage of being young and having the freedom to capitalize on possibility. And that’s the thing about New York: possibility really is everywhere. It’s so abundant that it’s very difficult to discern exactly which possibility is the right one right now. And so, we wait. For inspiration, for a sign, for a directional arrow to get us going.

Paul Gauguin is one of my favorite painters and when asked about how he envisioned his paintings before putting brush to canvas, he said “I shut my eyes in order to see.” There is too much fear in the world, too much intimidation, too much competition. If all we did was look out for direction, we’d never find our way.

So rather than evaluating possibilities, I am considering that really we just have to make our own. There are places I go to shut my eyes in order to see, which is to say places I go to imagine. And sometimes that’s in a museum or Riverside or Central Park. Sometimes its on my yoga mat. Or snuggled up in my warm, comfy bed with a book that lights up my sense of wonder. Often it’s to this computer screen to put together words that communicate what I’m thinking about, what I’m feeling, and what I’m wishing for. I shut my eyes, open my ears, and let my fingers dance in order to see life as I want it to be.
The picture above is “Tahitian Landscape” by Paul Gauguin, 1891.
Life

The shape of lives

Christa Avampato

We have choices in every moment. I decide what time to get up, I decide when to leave for work, I decide what route to drive, I decide what to eat for breakfast. These are the mundane choices of my life on weekday mornings.

And there are choices like whether or not to accept a dinner invitation, to go to a party with a friend even if I know no one else who will be there, to volunteer with an organization, to attend a reading by a favorite author at Barnes and Noble. And some times I choose to stay in, give myself a facial, shut off my phone, get out my yoga mat, and light a candle.

I am becoming particularly conscious of my decisions to do, or not to do, things. Mostly because there are a million options in New York, and I have a great crew of friends here to do things with. And so sometimes my calendar is overly stuffed with activities. I struggle with this. I wear myself out over it. I have a hard time saying no to doing something fun for the sake of getting to bed early or just staying in to take time for myself. I am terrified of missing out, even if I don’t have the foggiest idea what I may be missing out on. I like hearing stories, and to hear stories, we must get out there in the world and listen and move and be open to taking it all in.

Flora Whittemore was an author and historian, the oldest living citizen of Caribou County, Idaho. Surprisingly little info is available about her. The only information I could find on her seems to suggest that she lived to a ripe, old age. Which is to say I believe she discovered more about life than I have thus. Yet, she is quoted for one very simple sentence on hundreds of web pages. The very simple wisdom that “The doors we open and close each day decide the lives we live.” It’s about choices.
I have this terrible habit of thinking that life happens to me. Quotes like Ms. Whittemore’s snap me back to reality. It doesn’t happen to me. I choose to open and close opportunities and meetings and experiences, and those choices have shaped my life, made it possible for me to have this life. Life didn’t happen to me; rather, I made my life happen. And while that’s scary if I really think about it – I own all of the success, and also all the failures, of my life – it’s also quite empowering to think that my simple, everyday choices create what collectively becomes my life.

Now, the enormity of this opening and closing of doors could be daunting, even paralyzing. I hate shutting doors truly. I think, well if I just leave this door, this option open a bit longer, maybe something incredible will come of it, so I better not turn away just yet. What the quote doesn’t bring to light is that leaving each of the doors open takes some energy, some amount of time. And our lives have a set amount of time. We have a limited amount of energy, even the most energetic of us.

I think about it in terms of a financial investment – if we perfectly hedge, then net net we come out even, no loss, but no gain either. Leaving doors open is the same way. If we never close a door, then we never have the time or energy to open new ones and play out the option behind each to its full potential. To be sure the opening and closing can be joyful and painful, and sometimes, it’s both. In case, often it’s both.

I recently rediscovered a CD I have loved for years – Hymns from the 49th parallel by k.d. lang. my favorite track is “Love is everything.” It’s also about opening and closing doors. She talks about a love that she gave her all to, and then ultimately had to give up. “Love was everything they said it would be. Love makes sweet and sad the same….I can’t wait for you to make the whole kingdom come, so I’m leaving.”

Opening and closing doors is a deeply personal decision, and I would argue that it is the most important thing we ever do. Whether it’s about a job, about love, about friendship, about where we live. Big and small choices. Decision making is an art that cannot be cultivated enough. We are sculptors, photographers, painters, dancers. And the body of our work is played out everyday in who we are, where we go, and how we spend our time.
Life

Take a note

Christa Avampato

So after months of anticipation and hopefully exiting from my apartment building, I finally have a date with Hottie Neighbor (going forward noted as H.N.) You may remember him from a previous post. He helped me move into my apartment when it was 100 degrees outside, and I thought my poor stepfather may just pass out.

In the months since I’ve been here I have occasionally seen him as we pass one another coming and going from the building. He has mentioned we should get a drink, though has been reluctant to just ask me out. Patience in these matters, or rather game playing, is something I have no time for. So with some nudging from my wise friend, Catherine (who incidentally is also my neighbor), convinced me that I needed to leave H.N. a note. Several weeks ago, I saw H.N. and he said I should just pick a place and time and he’d be there. So I picked a time.

It is also important to point out that normally I am not the least bit shy with men, regardless of how good-looking they are. H.N. is a different story. I literally end up tongue-tied. Babbling something I have not thought through. And I also always manage to be doing some glamorous task like taking out the trash every time he sees me. My hair is invariably in 10 different directions. What a mess. Apparently, he has not yet been scared off.

It is also worth saying that I have already gone so far as to imagine knocking down the sealed door that separates our apartments so we can have one great living space. I have also taken that a step further and imagined that my landlord will retire and we can buy the whole darn building to populate with my favorite friends. It’s really a lovely fantasy.

I saw H.N. on my way out today and I asked him if he had a favorite place in the neighborhood. He suggested we have dinner instead of just drinks. He chose Gabriella because it has great margaritas. So 7:30pm, Sunday night. I am going to knock on his door and off to dinner we’ll go. Great.

And then I go on my way, completely panicked. My friend Steve (who tauts himself as “almost a gay man” because he watches Sex in the City nightly, and likes it) and I had already planned my outfit. For a drink only! Now we are expanding that to dinner. This changes everything. So I call Steve back. “Now what do I do?” He needs some time, and needs to consult his wife, Lianne, on the issue. He’ll get back to me on wardrobe choice.

So for now, I am seated at my dining table, typing on this keyboard, and staring at the door that separates me from H.N. Maybe Sunday night will be the night I find my good pal to be in the world with…

Life

Omigod you guys (have to see this show)

Christa Avampato

As a general rule, I am not a huge fan of musicals. Mostly because the spontaneous bursting into song is sort of annoying, the acting is usually not fantastic, and the story is mostly contrived. They’re also expensive, which goes against my miserly ways. Yes, I made quite a bit of money working for musical theatre companies and loved my time doing that. I picked the few good shows I really liked. And though I’ve seen a few since I exited the industry, none have really jumped out at me the way Cabaret or The Full Monty did.

On Sunday, I changed my tune (pardon the pun). My dear friend, Amy, came into town and wanted to see Legally Blonde. Are you kidding me, I thought. Legally Blonde? And spend money to see it? She was persuasive. We’ve worked with Jerry Mitchell before, and L.B. is his directorial debut. Luckily for my wallet, the show was at TKTS for the Sunday evening performance. We had awesome seats in the mezz, center, for $65. I was skeptical. Amy was not.

From the moment the stage manager came over the PA and told us to not photos, I was hooked. Seriously, you guys. It was amazing and you HAVE to see it. The cast belted out some of the funniest lyrics I’ve ever heard, they had heart, they could ALL act and sing. And they were working every moment they were on stage. There wasn’t a single weak link. The story was funny and sweet, some parts even sad, all in a very genuine way. I would have paid double for the ticket and been just as thrilled.

I woke up the next morning still smiling when thinking about the show, and I have caught myself humming the music once or twice. This is extremely rare – I hum constantly, but I NEVER hum show tunes. I love the show so much, I may go buy the sound track. And I NEVER by soundtracks to musicals.
So run over to see it. When it tours to your city, make sure to make room in your schedule for little Miss Woods comma Elle. Wear pink. Practice your “bend and snap”. And make sure your cheeks are in tip top shape – you’ll be smiling so much it will hurt.