Blog Post to a Young Artist

Here's a first- a request! I received this delightful message from an absolutely lovely reader who I will call Smachel.

 I have a request for your next blog: Write about the times you wanted to give up theatre but didn't and what kept you going.

Okay Smachel, I used your request as a prompt. It ended up not being exactly what you asked for, but I hope you enjoy anyway...

 What if I had magical blog that could travel to the past? And young SPJ could turn on her modem, dial up on her AOL account and read blog posts from her future self? What would I want to say to her? 

Balm in Gilead.. SPJ age 20.

Well if we are being completely candid I would want to say first and foremost...

DON'T GET MARRIED AT 21. Seriously. Don't.  Fall in love, yes! Enjoy the ride! It will be amazing! But just hold off on marriage, okay? There are some people who can find their happily ever after at 21, but you are not one of those people. You had 6 different majors. You regularly wear pajama bottoms in public because you can't figure out what to wear in the morning. You accidentally tripped through a Psych Final.You are not someone who should get married right now.  And 23 year old divorcees drink too much, eat too little, and have a lot of baggage.  Don't. Get. Married.

Whew! Well now that we got that out of the way...

I guess the 2nd thing I'd like to say is- Maybe worry less about being a working actor and more about being an artist. Hey! Look Little SPJ, I see you over there in the past rolling your eyes at the word "artist". I know, I know. You think that's pretentious. You think that is idealistic. You are realistic and pragmatic. You've got career goals and a plan of action. You know how to write a cover letter and just got some fancy new black and white headshots. You have a pager. You are ready to hit the ground running and you know you need to treat this not like a hobby, but like a J.O.B. 

Yes. Yes. And...what is a "job". The Webster Dictionary defines "job" as a regular remunerative position. That's what you are thinking, yes? That you wan to get up every morning, Monday- Friday and go to your regular, paid Acting Job. Frankly my dear, making this a goal is equivalent to deciding that you are going to fall in love with a millionaire. Impossible. Love doesn't work that way. Love is mysterious. Love can strike you like a bolt of lightening or slowly dawn on you like a sunrise. You can fall desperately in love with someone you barely like, and never fall in love with your best friend. You could possibly fall in love with a millionaire, sure. You can stack the odds in your favor by making choices that have you hobnobbing with millionaires, but at the end of the day, no matter who you are, no matter how many smart choices you make, there is no guarantee that the person you fall in love with will have a million dollars. Theatre & Love are closely related. The Theatre is mysterious. It is unpredictable. And no matter how talented you are, no matter how many smart choices you make, there is absolutely no guarantee that you will be able to make a living in the Theatre.

 Now before you go find that bottle of valium I know you keep in the bottom of your underwear drawer, let's take a look at the myriad of other definitions good ol' Mister Webster has for "job"-

a piece of work: the object or material on which work is being done: something produced by or as if by work: something done for private advantage: something that has to be done: task: an undertaking requiring unusual exertion: a specific duty, role, or function

No talk of remuneration or getting paid. no talk of regular or constant. Lots of talk about WORK, though. Private Advantage. Duty. Role. Function.  A job is a lot of work. A job is something that gives you some kind of personal fulfillment. It is part of you. It is your role.

So make smart choices young SPJ. Dream big.  Go Hard or Go Home. Maybe you will meet and fall in love with your millionaire.  But maybe you won't. Maybe you'll discover that you actually don't want or need that millionaire at all. Maybe your dreams and goals will morph and change and grow. So please remember, as long as you are working hard at making or being a part of theatre, as long as you gain some joy from making or being a part of theatre, as long as theatre is part of how you function in some way, a part of who you are- You. Are. An. Artist. And no paycheck (or lack there of), audition (or lack there of), critic, casting director, agent, teacher, disgruntled parent, or concerned friend can tell you otherwise.

Oh. And two more words- Brow. Wax. You'll thank me.

  

A Plague Upon Our House

So those of you who know me in real life (who I am kidding, that is all of you) know that my son is a CLONE of my husband. If I had not carried him inside my body for 10 months (cause you know it's actually closer to 10, right? that's something they don't tell you.) I would be suspicious that he contained any of my DNA at all. Every once in a while he makes insane random gestures while trying to communicate and he does have an aversion to weirdly textured food, but other than that...he is ALL his dad. Until now...

See we all got sick. And we learned my son gets sick just like me. Now we didn't actually have a plague, it was really just a bad cold. We never ran a fever over 100. But when I get sick, I get SICK.

As a theatre person and educator, I experience a lot of situations (rehearsals, performances, auditions, classes) where people need to power through an illness. And I have always been so impressed when I meet those people who are like "Oh my GOSH, stay away from me, I am SO SICK" and yet I would never know. They look totally normal. Maybe their voice is raspy or they sniffle or the have a cough. But physically they look maybe tired, but otherwise healthy.

This is not me. I look like I have some rare deadly infectious disease. I get red and splotchy. My nose starts to peel after, I swear, an hour. My eyes are red and teary. My hair instantly turns greasy, no matter how much I wash it. I sound like I am drowning in phlegm and I don't just cough, I cough up a lung.  I look disgusting. I feel disgusting. I am disgusting.

Now the good news is I don't get sick often. And when I do, I have a sure fire remedy to get through it. I take NyQuil every 6 hours and sleep until it's gone. When I wake up between dosages I will have a few bites of chicken noodle soup or drink some tea. Let the dog out, if necessary. And then back to sleep. I can usually get through it in 24-48 hours without too much drama. Or I could. Until now.

Now I have this kid. This kid who gets sick just like me. A kid who is so miserable that he cries because he doesn't know what to do with himself. And when he cries all that phlegm that we drown in makes it hard for him to breathe. And he gets scared. And I get scared. And now They (the all knowing They) don't recommend giving cold medicine to children under 2. So we use steam. And humidifiers. And lots of hugs and love and rocking. We let him sleep in our arms. But he only wants his mom, so I let him sleep in my arms.

And all of this throws a huge kink in my Illness Plan.  I can't pass out for 24 hours. I am sick as a dog and totally miserable, but my kid needs me. He needs me.  And for the first time, truly for the very first time, it hits me that I am a Mom and my life has changed forever.

Because until this moment, everything was kind of new.  Yes, it was crazy and overwhelming when he was a newborn and couldn't function without us, but I had nothing to compare it to. That was like teaching a new class or starting rehearsal for a new play. I am good at embracing the new. And as you know from previous posts, I was all ready to embrace the homebody life of a new parent. But this was the first time I realized that this journey will not be all about embracing the new. It's about letting go of the old, of the comfortable. And I have to confess, that shook me up. More than I care to admit.

I tossed my NyQuil. I am not ashamed that I cried a little doing so. And the past week was a mess. But here we are on the other side of the experience. I have the rest of my life to figure out a new Plan.

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Worst. Blogger. Ever.
Please enjoy this photo of festive autumn gourds while we try to reach an actual blog post.

(Here in the Suburbs it is apparently actually required by law to possess festive autumn gourds from September- November. Don't judge me.)

Saturday Night Live or It Gets Better

Live from my house...It's Saturday NIGHT....

In that mug? Hot Cider
On that plate? A slice of chocolate chip banana bread (long since eaten)
On the computer? Self Explanatory (I am on Season 8. Lenny Briscoe- I love you.)







My younger reader(s) may look at this post and think I am being snarky or ironic. Or think this is part of my whole "My life is boring, what on earth do I have to blog about" schtick. But my dears, I say with complete and utter honesty- I am in HEAVEN. There is nothing I would rather be doing right now- curled up on my couch with my dogs, kid asleep upstairs, husband watching some sporting recap or something in the basement.

I seriously want to make a series of "It Gets Better" videos for twenty-somethings, especially early twenty-somethings, of all sexual orientations. Because my twenties was so full of DRAMA and ANGST. Don't get me wrong, it was a ton of fun. But there was so much pressure for all that fun. So much pressure on EVERYTHING. I always felt like I should be doing MORE- socially, romantically, artistically, financially.  I was always looking for what was next, wanting things to be better, faster, more beautiful, which of course sometimes lead to worse, slower, uglier. And damn I was tired.

I wouldn't trade that time in my life for anything, made me who I am. But this...now...ahhh. I earned this.

I don't feel the need to impress people anymore. I'm in my thirties so I don't have to know what's new, what's hot, what's happening. If I do, people are impressed. If I don't, no one is surprised.

I don't have to traipse around in heels and a short skirt in the freezing cold or rain to go to some party to meet/hang out with/hook up with/fight/make-up with the person I love. He's in the basement. He's not going anywhere. We can do that on our own schedule, ideally when the weather is nice. And we WILL go home together. And I WILL get lucky.

I can have a cocktail or two to take the edge off, not drink to get me through the night.
I can eat dinner AND have a dessert and not freak out about the scale and my bank account.
I can smoke a cigarette and..oh wait... No.I can't. I do miss that. Not gonna lie.  But other than that..

My thirties RULE. Maybe this sounds awful to you. And I respect that. This is not your path. Rock and roll, my friend.  But if you are a closet introvert like I was, I have this to say..

It gets better. I promise. Hang in there. I put in my time and now I am proof. I am living the dream.