Walking the Walk...A Confession

Confession time:
I went on an audition. Being back  in Suburbia means I live in close proximity to a Big City. And in this Big City they have them some TheeAYter. I should know. I was an actress in this Big City over 10 years ago.

OVER 10 YEARS AGO.

On one hand nothing has changed and on the other hand EVERYTHING has changed.  The rules are mostly the same, but the players have changed, including myself. Its like having one of those weird dreams which doesn't feel like a dream because everything is normal, but you still know it's a dream because things are just a little off.-"Wow. I didn't realize I could bring my cat to work. Wait. I didn't know I had a cat. Hmm and my cat is wearing a tiny fedora. Oh well, got to grade these papers." That's how I've been feeling. All the time.

So much that I have been kind of paralyzed. I have lots of good reasons to tell people why I haven't been doing anything artistic- still getting settled, not sure how the "must drop everything" schedule of an actor fits in with being the mom of toddler, blah blah blah. And that's true. BUT if I am being honest, I just didn't even know where to begin. I felt too old to be doing the whole "HEY CITY! Here I AM! LET'S DO THIS!" audition shuffle. Generals? UGH! I sucked at them when I was young and perky. I can not FATHOM managing one now. But at the same time, it's been 10 years. I can't just expect work to fall out of the sky based on my good name from a decade ago.

So when I saw this audition, I figured I had to take it. It was a union general yes (vomit, vomit, so much vomit), BUT it was for a specific show and there were no monologues, just preparing sides. Okay. Okay. Less vomit.  It was a new work and the play was about meth dealers. And one of the roles was for the pregnant girlfriend in her late 20's- early 30's. Okay. Okay. This was my thing. This is what I used to do- hooker just trying to get by?  runaway drug addict? good heart, bad decisions? I was your girl. And this sounded like  one of those kind of roles, but 10 years later. Perfect. Read up on the company- small, but very respected. Ensemble was impressive. Let's DO THIS.

And so I did. I took the Steve Martin adage "Be so good they can't ignore you" to heart. I picked up the sides even before I got a slot. I did my research. I did my homework and prep. I learned my sides by heart.  I made choices. I created backstory. I did everything a good girl should.

The people in the audition room were lovely. The reader was great. It was as perfect of an audition scenario as one can ask for. I relaxed, trusted my work and just let go. I felt good. As I rewarded myself with Starbucks for hauling my ass into the Big City and taking a grown-up audition, I was pretty darn confident I would get a callback.

I got an email that night. Thanking me for my time and my preparation, but out of respect for my time they wanted to let me know they were going in another direction.

Now first of all, thank you Small Theatre Company!! That was classy. I so appreciated that. How many times, back in the day, would I wait and wait and wait, holding on with a tiny glimmer of hope "Well maybe they all got malaria and can't have calbacks yet" "Maybe I was SO perfect for the part they don't even need to call me back" "Maybe I was SO perfect for the part, they don't need me to rehearse"  The denial of a desperate actor is so powerful that if it could be harnessed in some way, it could rival solar power as an alternative energy source. I am sure it was a pain in their ass to email everyone they didn't callback and they so didn't have to do it, but wow was that kind. And thoughtful. Just classy. They earned major points in my book.

But as kind and respectful as their message may have been, my next response was...WHAT. THE. FUCK. Holy crap! Was I that terrible?? It hasn't even been 4 hours. I thought I was good. Wait. Maybe I was not good. Maybe I thought I was good, but what I think is good is bad. Was I embarrassing? Did I embarrass myself? Did they all laugh after I left the room? Did they PITY me? Oh my gosh I bet they PITIED me because I obviously worked my ass off on this and then still sucked. And on and on I fell down the shame spiral.

 Oh shame spiral. We meet again, old friend. It's been awhile.

I rode that shame spiral right on down until I spoke the following words to my husband, who found me staring at my computer with unshed tears in my eyes, "Look honey, I just don't think this should be this hard. I mean some people are meant to be actors and I don't think I am. I can't even get a callback after I worked my ass off on this? I think it's a sign that I'm not supposed to do this anymore."
Pause. Pause.
Now, my husband, who has been with me for 14 years, always takes a pause before he speaks when he finds me in these moods. Because he knows it's like dealing with a rattlesnake or a ticking time bomb. Best to move slowly. No sudden movements and no one will get hurt.
"Babe" (yes he calls me Babe sometimes. I don't know what to tell you. I like it) "If a student came to you and told you after going on one professional audition and not getting a callback that it was a sign they should not be an actor, what would you say to them?"
"But it's not the same."
Pause. Pause.
"It's not?"
"NO."
Pause. Pause.
"Okay. I love you. Goodnight" And he quietly retreats. Hoping his not completely insane wife will be back in the morning and his words might help aid in her quick return.

And they do. Even in the depth of my shame spiral, I know he's right. I know in my head, but my heart still hurts and my stomach still aches. Was this part so amazing? I have no idea! It was a new freaking play! I couldn't even get a copy of the script since it wasn't published and there were no copies made available! I had never even heard of the company until earlier that week. But it really wasn't about this part or this company. It was about putting myself out on the line to a room full of strangers. It was about feeling judged. It was about feeling vulnerable. I was out of practice. My ego was flabby.

I have no pithy or inspiring end to this story. I went to bed. I got up the next day and still felt a little embarrassed. I have no idea if I should feel that way or not. I started to replay the audition in my head  a few times, to figure out if I really did a good job or not. Was I really just not right or did I suck? And then stopped myself. I'll never know. So why torture myself? Played with my kid. Bought groceries. Had lunch with a friend. Lived life. Went to bed, woke up the next day feeling a little less stupid than the day before. Lived life.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Photo Essay the Sequel

So my kid responded to my photo essay from the other day with one of his own. Apparently he got the camera and took all of these pictures this afternoon. I say "apparently" because I was not aware of it happening in the moment.  Found the pictures when going to upload other photos. This little episode comes hot on the heels of receiving word from a former baby sitter that she had received a voicemail she was pretty sure was my kid eating the phone. She was indeed correct. Checked the phone log. I was aware he had the phone.  I was not aware he made any calls. I continue to be Mother of the Year. Enjoy...

Experiments in Parenting- A Photo Essay

As the mother of an 18 month old child, I find that a large portion of my day is spent "redirecting" him- "Let's play with this age appropriate toy, rather than Daddy's electric shaver" or "Let's eat these blueberries, rather than the dog food".

This. Is. Exhausting.

As an experiment, I decided to spend one afternoon just saying "Yes". Please do not call DCFS- I kept a careful eye and still redirected him away from anything that could cause him lasting physical harm, but for the most part, I just went with the flow.

We both had a blast.
It. Was. STILL. Exhausting.
But gosh was it fun.

Below is a photo essay this grand experiment.***

***Eating Pasta Out of a Plastic Bag does not recommend you try this experiment at home unless you have little to no attachment to most material objects and  a tenuous grasp on sanity.

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.

Place Holder

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.