So – in honor of almost the one year anniversary of not writing in this blog, I thought I’d…start writing in this blog again. A lot has happened in the past year, and I will not waste your time by giving you an in-depth update on everything I’ve done in the meantime. I’ll pick up in the now and if I need to give some contextual information to make something make sense, I will. I also won’t beg you to trust me that I’ll post regularly again, because that would be unfair. I’m not a consistent poster. I will try to be, but I don’t want to build any expectations that are too high.
So—without further ado—the continuation of…my silly little blog where I give too much information about my day to day endeavors to act and write and exist in LA-- today, I will tell you about...
My First Job:
So—a note of context—at the end of January, I signed with a commercial agent, and I’ve been going on (as you can probably gather) commercial auditions. The world of commercial auditioning has been, in a word--- short. Every audition is short. Extremely short. I had an audition last week wherein I drove to Santa Monica in almost rush hour so I could literally pretend to pump gas for ten seconds. I was supposed to pump gas with an attitude that was “Pleasant. Not necessarily smiling, but happy. You’re in a good mood. Not amazing, but good.” I did get the chance to try it more than once— the second time around, I was asked to move my eyes a little bit. I did not get a callback for this role.
But this story is not about the gas pumping audition— it’s about the first (and so far the only) commercial job I’ve booked—It was the second commercial I auditioned for, a promo for CMT’s “Big New Comedy Week.” CMT as in Country Music Television. In this audition, I read for “girl in bar,” and I did this:
Girl in Bar:
Why can’t I meet the right kind of guys?
CMT Spokesman:
Here try this- it’s CMT’s Big New Comedy Week in a Can!
Spokesman then hands me a large can (or in the case of the audition, a tiny Dixie cup) of water, and my job is to take a sip and then do a spit take, laughing uncontrollably and saying “that tastes funny!” They had a plastic trash can filled with water for us to spit the spittakes into. It was a really fun audition because I was instructed to “make it big,” or to over-act…which I’m quickly learning is the only kind of acting I really do. I’m shooting a web series with some friends right now, and as I watch the footage, I’ve realized that I have an unfortunate acting tick—some people blink too much while acting, some people take unnecessary deep breaths, some people mumble—I embody a full-on crazy person. In about half of our takes, I look like I’m trying to re-enact one of the more intense scenes of Shutter Island.
Anyway—I hit a wonderful stroke of good luck and booked the Comedy Week Commercial—I was obviously thrilled— my first paying job, my first commercial, my second commercial audition booked— I was on cloud nine.
I was also excited to be cast in the role of a cute girl in a bar—I thought, "take that, Hollywood, with all of your unfair standards of beauty and body. Take that—I thought I’d only be eligible for character roles and especially forgiving roles of “cute indy girls.” But no—I can be a regular girl, looking for love in a bar. Just a normal, reasonably attractive girl. In a bar. That’s me."
On the day before the shoot, I got a call from the wardrobe guy, and I was ready for him to tell me all the kinds of cute girl in bar clothes that they were going to fit me for, and all he said was, “Well, it looks like you’re going to be in a hospital gown. So, bring clothes that you could wear under a hospital gown…and maybe some business clothes too.” I imagined a surreal version of this commercial, in which I was actually wearing a hospital gown in a bar, and the CMT spokesman was in a chicken suit, and he handed me a balloon full of water that I popped all over everyone before the frame flipped upside down and a soundtrack of Mahler's Fifth started to play.
That’s not what happened in the commercial— What actually happened is that I arrived at a warehouse of a lot in Downtown LA, and I discovered that I was actually playing a person in the hospital. The hair and makeup people put me in pale makeup and pulled my hair back in a messy sick person ponytail. Then, I went to wardrobe, where the wardrobe lady tried a blue hospital gown and a yellow hospital gown before settling on the blue. I had to put on a pair of men’s boxers underneath the hospital gown so I wasn’t in my underwear. She gave me a down dive jacket to wear between takes because it was about 40 degrees inside the warehouse.
The scene went like this:
Doctor:
You know what your problem is?
You need to laugh more.
Here- try this.
(he hands me the big can of comedy, filled with seltzer. I take a sip, spit it out, trying not to ruin the thousands of dollars of camera equipment surrounding me, and say…)
Patient:
That tastes really funny!
Doctor:
Also, you have gout.
(I laugh even harder at the fact that I have the disease once known as the “disease of kings.”)
That was it— it went well, and it was fun. We did another scene where I reacted to the doctor’s spittake, and that was also fun. The rest of the cast and crew was talented, the directors were both really nice, and it was overall an incredibly positive experience. Until the gynecology stirrups. The final shot, the coup de grace, was a shot of the doctor facing the camera saying, “As an actor playing a doctor, I can tell you it really works!”
My legs are propped up in the background on the infamous stirrups used for spreading a lady’s legs so a doctor can look at her unmentionables. What you can’t tell from tv is that my legs are certainly unshaven and that behind that hospital down is a loose pair of men’s boxers. And that opposite my spread-eagle legs is a grip trying not to make eye-contact with me—which I appreciate. And my line is, "Actor?!?!?" Because I'm upset/appalled that the guy who just gave me a pap smear wasn't actually a doctor. Get it?
This was the unexpected part of the shoot, and it taught me lesson #1 of being a “working actress” in Hollywood: Always shave your legs, because you never know when you're going to be put in a hospital gown and stirrups.
And, as a reward for those of you that have read this entire, rambling post, here’s a link to the commercial, recorded off my teeny, tiny TV. Take the crappy quality as a confirmation that this was in fact on TV. (mostly during “Extreme Make-Over Home Edition.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ljwlg5kSITg
Until next time, thank you for watching,
The One With Gout
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Girlesque
As I put all of these things in order, it becomes increasingly clear that I only audition for things that sound like porn. This was my first theater audition, and it was at a theater which is part of a three-stage consortium called “Papoosian Stages,” because they are owned by a guy named Jon Papoose.*
*I change the names of the people in this blog because I don't want to be a jerk.
The three stages are actually three small theaters in the top of a strip mall on La Brea Avenue, next to an insurance agent and across the street from a Burger King. The audition description for “Girlesque” describes an all-female musical revue in which girls take off enough clothes to make the audience happy and leave enough on to keep their parents happy. My boyfriend was especially opposed to my auditioning for “Girlesque,” because, in his words, “What are people going to think when that’s the only credit on your resume?” I thought that he was probably right. I was, after all, embarrassed to tell people that I even had this audition. I just lied and told them that I was doing something else. But, again, saying yes to the universe sometimes means saying yes to “Girlesque,” so on a cloudy Sunday afternoon, I walked up the steps to the second level of the “what’s it called?” shopping center, and found an auditorium full of eager women sitting in pew-style seats, looking at a pear-shaped man with shoulder length, heavily blown-dry hair, and a khaki vest with many pockets that closed by Velcro. This was Jon Papoose.
He opened this meeting of the minds with a hearty welcome:
“Welcome to Papoosian Stages. My name is Jon Papoose. And I bet your asking yourselves, ‘How much is this going to cost?” And I’m here to tell you that being in a show at Papoosian Stages is 100%, with no exceptions, Free. I know…you’re all like, “What? It’s free to perform here?” And I’m here to say, “Yeah. It’s about talent here. Not paying to play.”
Jon Papoose’s assumed inner monologue somehow did not match my actual thoughts, which were closer to, “Why would you have to pay to be in a play? That’s retarded.”
I looked up and these women were entranced. They laughed, they nodded vigorously, they looked at each other knowingly. Jon Papoose was in rapture.
“So….the show here is called Girlesque. And no, it’s not a strip show. Will you have to strip in this show? Yes. Will you have to dance? Yes. But have parents come see this show? Yes. Even boyfriends have come see this show. Friends, everyone can come see this show. And also…I’m in a committed relationship. So…” He then relayed a funny story about a woman played the nurse in a previous production of the play. The costume that she'd bought for the play malfunctioned, exposing her nipples to the whole crowd. What fun.
My thoughts wandered to the fact that parents will see anything. My grandparents saw me in an all-female play about the men of the French Revolution. I kissed a girl, caressed another one, spoke at length about the world being a “festering wound, with creation as its rot,” and was guillotined with a symbolic chopping block and a bucket of red paint. And they’re not even my parents. They’re once removed.
Jon Papoose goes on. “So the show isn’t about stripping. It’s about the various female fantasy characters…you know…the nurse, the French maid, the housewife, the stripper…all coming together to tell their stories. So, it puts a face with the fantasy really. They’re all united by this central character, Madame X. She’s also a stripper. I know these things because I wrote the play.”
Jon Papoose seems to write an awful lot of his own material. For example, I was also invited to Dark Side of the Moon, an interpretive, wordless theater piece set to the music of Pink Floyd’s Album of the same name. John Papoose wrote that too.
Now, we begin— a very softspoken redhead, dubbed by John Papoose as the assistant director comes onstage to teach us the dances that we will be doing for our auditions. The audition only consists of dancing. I am sensing a theme.
30 women crowd onstage to learn this dance, and I try to commit, but my mind is bouncing between various distracting thoughts:
“Where did all of these capable-looking, attractive women find this audition posting?”
“That girl can really do a high-kick. She’s, like, a real dancer!”
“I really don’t know how to dance. This is going to be awfully embarrassing.”
The red-headed dance instructor teaches us a routine that strings together a variety of high-kicks, 360-degree hip gyrations, and the coup de grace, a move in which one juts one’s chest out while simultaneously raising one’s arms perfectly vertically. She says, “If any of you have ever stripped before, you’ll recognize this one.”
Throughout all of this, John Papoose sits in the back of the room, at his computer. He retreated with the reassuring words, “Don’t worry. I won’t watch you.”
After about 30 minutes of learning this routine, we are put into groups of 4 to perform this dance. I perform twice. I again, am reminded that I am NOT a triple threat. I leave. I am still amazed at how many women, how many talented, beautiful, women will fight for roles in Girlesque.
This brings on my first pang of panic…I really am in a big city, filled with a huge number of people who want to do exactly what I want to do, and who are all following the same plan that I’ve made. I knew that before, but I hadn't necessarily experienced it yet. Not tangibly. In my mind, this was all meant to go very differently. I was supposed to audition for something very low-profile, get cast, and then do it, standing out as the clearly brilliant rookie, the one whom everybody talks about, saying, “Wow…she’s really talented…have we seen her on television?”
Instead, I’m auditioning for something not only low-profile but demeaning, and half of the city has turned out. I feel like the blind wandering along with the blind, and most of these blind people have more stage-presence and movement ability than I do.
This experience left me feeling...creepy. I thought I could walk into this place, feeling snarky and superior, get some writing material out of it and move on to something more my speed. Now, I feel like I’m at the dark and confusing bottom of a totem pole that diverts in such a way that I don’t even know how to get to the top.
I had to stop wallowing quickly, because I had to go to an audition for a play called “The Knight Who Was Afraid of the Dark.” This one required no dancing, but singing. And after that, I was off to audition for a UNICEF Public Service announcement, and a silent student film in which I had to move my lips to look like I was speaking French, and an independent feature about a guy who accidentally takes a Viagra and has to go through a zany day with a constant erection.
Still at the bottom, but looking up. (?)
Until next time,
The Girl who was Afraid of Girlesque
*I change the names of the people in this blog because I don't want to be a jerk.
The three stages are actually three small theaters in the top of a strip mall on La Brea Avenue, next to an insurance agent and across the street from a Burger King. The audition description for “Girlesque” describes an all-female musical revue in which girls take off enough clothes to make the audience happy and leave enough on to keep their parents happy. My boyfriend was especially opposed to my auditioning for “Girlesque,” because, in his words, “What are people going to think when that’s the only credit on your resume?” I thought that he was probably right. I was, after all, embarrassed to tell people that I even had this audition. I just lied and told them that I was doing something else. But, again, saying yes to the universe sometimes means saying yes to “Girlesque,” so on a cloudy Sunday afternoon, I walked up the steps to the second level of the “what’s it called?” shopping center, and found an auditorium full of eager women sitting in pew-style seats, looking at a pear-shaped man with shoulder length, heavily blown-dry hair, and a khaki vest with many pockets that closed by Velcro. This was Jon Papoose.
He opened this meeting of the minds with a hearty welcome:
“Welcome to Papoosian Stages. My name is Jon Papoose. And I bet your asking yourselves, ‘How much is this going to cost?” And I’m here to tell you that being in a show at Papoosian Stages is 100%, with no exceptions, Free. I know…you’re all like, “What? It’s free to perform here?” And I’m here to say, “Yeah. It’s about talent here. Not paying to play.”
Jon Papoose’s assumed inner monologue somehow did not match my actual thoughts, which were closer to, “Why would you have to pay to be in a play? That’s retarded.”
I looked up and these women were entranced. They laughed, they nodded vigorously, they looked at each other knowingly. Jon Papoose was in rapture.
“So….the show here is called Girlesque. And no, it’s not a strip show. Will you have to strip in this show? Yes. Will you have to dance? Yes. But have parents come see this show? Yes. Even boyfriends have come see this show. Friends, everyone can come see this show. And also…I’m in a committed relationship. So…” He then relayed a funny story about a woman played the nurse in a previous production of the play. The costume that she'd bought for the play malfunctioned, exposing her nipples to the whole crowd. What fun.
My thoughts wandered to the fact that parents will see anything. My grandparents saw me in an all-female play about the men of the French Revolution. I kissed a girl, caressed another one, spoke at length about the world being a “festering wound, with creation as its rot,” and was guillotined with a symbolic chopping block and a bucket of red paint. And they’re not even my parents. They’re once removed.
Jon Papoose goes on. “So the show isn’t about stripping. It’s about the various female fantasy characters…you know…the nurse, the French maid, the housewife, the stripper…all coming together to tell their stories. So, it puts a face with the fantasy really. They’re all united by this central character, Madame X. She’s also a stripper. I know these things because I wrote the play.”
Jon Papoose seems to write an awful lot of his own material. For example, I was also invited to Dark Side of the Moon, an interpretive, wordless theater piece set to the music of Pink Floyd’s Album of the same name. John Papoose wrote that too.
Now, we begin— a very softspoken redhead, dubbed by John Papoose as the assistant director comes onstage to teach us the dances that we will be doing for our auditions. The audition only consists of dancing. I am sensing a theme.
30 women crowd onstage to learn this dance, and I try to commit, but my mind is bouncing between various distracting thoughts:
“Where did all of these capable-looking, attractive women find this audition posting?”
“That girl can really do a high-kick. She’s, like, a real dancer!”
“I really don’t know how to dance. This is going to be awfully embarrassing.”
The red-headed dance instructor teaches us a routine that strings together a variety of high-kicks, 360-degree hip gyrations, and the coup de grace, a move in which one juts one’s chest out while simultaneously raising one’s arms perfectly vertically. She says, “If any of you have ever stripped before, you’ll recognize this one.”
Throughout all of this, John Papoose sits in the back of the room, at his computer. He retreated with the reassuring words, “Don’t worry. I won’t watch you.”
After about 30 minutes of learning this routine, we are put into groups of 4 to perform this dance. I perform twice. I again, am reminded that I am NOT a triple threat. I leave. I am still amazed at how many women, how many talented, beautiful, women will fight for roles in Girlesque.
This brings on my first pang of panic…I really am in a big city, filled with a huge number of people who want to do exactly what I want to do, and who are all following the same plan that I’ve made. I knew that before, but I hadn't necessarily experienced it yet. Not tangibly. In my mind, this was all meant to go very differently. I was supposed to audition for something very low-profile, get cast, and then do it, standing out as the clearly brilliant rookie, the one whom everybody talks about, saying, “Wow…she’s really talented…have we seen her on television?”
Instead, I’m auditioning for something not only low-profile but demeaning, and half of the city has turned out. I feel like the blind wandering along with the blind, and most of these blind people have more stage-presence and movement ability than I do.
This experience left me feeling...creepy. I thought I could walk into this place, feeling snarky and superior, get some writing material out of it and move on to something more my speed. Now, I feel like I’m at the dark and confusing bottom of a totem pole that diverts in such a way that I don’t even know how to get to the top.
I had to stop wallowing quickly, because I had to go to an audition for a play called “The Knight Who Was Afraid of the Dark.” This one required no dancing, but singing. And after that, I was off to audition for a UNICEF Public Service announcement, and a silent student film in which I had to move my lips to look like I was speaking French, and an independent feature about a guy who accidentally takes a Viagra and has to go through a zany day with a constant erection.
Still at the bottom, but looking up. (?)
Until next time,
The Girl who was Afraid of Girlesque
Panic at the Shower
After my schoolgirl’s try at auditioning for a music video, the other audition requests kept rolling in. It was like some things in the universe aligned in such a way that resulted in many auditions over the course of two weeks. Before giving you the snapshots of these auditions, I must refresh you on my policy: Say Yes. To everything. (within wide limits).
The point? To tell the universe: I am here, and I am ready for anything! Translation: Beggars can’t be choosers.
So….after I danced for Vetiver, I went to a smattering of other auditions, the following posts should act as a verbal photo album of the weeks of February 7th-14th.
Snapshot #1: Panic Shower
Despite the name, this was not a production company making snuff films. It’s actually a pretty interesting company doing web shorts that I thought were really cool—you should check out their website, which is www.panicshower.com. This audition was for a web series entitled “The Windsor Park Series,” in which people sit on a park bench in Glendale and have conversations while a security camera is on them. I read for the part of “Miranda, cute, quirky, and in love with her new boyfriend.” My lines were things like, “Fine…I’m gonna put mayonnaise all over your pillow,” and other flirty things that would make any onlooker (or security guard ordered to review these security tapes) feel rather nauseous. It was a good script. I prepared diligently, memorizing the lines rehearsing my movements, just as Michael Caine told me to do in his book on acting for the camera. I prepared as he prepared for the movie Zulu or any other movie he did. You know…Batman. Other British Films. Michael Caine is very big on preparation, just FYI. The auditions took place in a law office in Pasadena, I, along with many other actors, sat in the waiting room for around 40 minutes. A possibly mistake of Pad Thai for lunch made the proximity of a nicely furnished restroom a nice amenity. I went in, did my thing, got some good feedback, and read another scene for good measure.
Later that evening, I was called on my phone by one of the nice guys running the audition saying, “We think you’re great, and we’d like you to come back for a callback.” I was happy, but not thrilled. I had not yet discovered the rarity of the words, “We think you’re great.” But I’ll tell you now….I haven’t heard them since that night.
Until next time,
Leaving you with a cliffhanger...
The point? To tell the universe: I am here, and I am ready for anything! Translation: Beggars can’t be choosers.
So….after I danced for Vetiver, I went to a smattering of other auditions, the following posts should act as a verbal photo album of the weeks of February 7th-14th.
Snapshot #1: Panic Shower
Despite the name, this was not a production company making snuff films. It’s actually a pretty interesting company doing web shorts that I thought were really cool—you should check out their website, which is www.panicshower.com. This audition was for a web series entitled “The Windsor Park Series,” in which people sit on a park bench in Glendale and have conversations while a security camera is on them. I read for the part of “Miranda, cute, quirky, and in love with her new boyfriend.” My lines were things like, “Fine…I’m gonna put mayonnaise all over your pillow,” and other flirty things that would make any onlooker (or security guard ordered to review these security tapes) feel rather nauseous. It was a good script. I prepared diligently, memorizing the lines rehearsing my movements, just as Michael Caine told me to do in his book on acting for the camera. I prepared as he prepared for the movie Zulu or any other movie he did. You know…Batman. Other British Films. Michael Caine is very big on preparation, just FYI. The auditions took place in a law office in Pasadena, I, along with many other actors, sat in the waiting room for around 40 minutes. A possibly mistake of Pad Thai for lunch made the proximity of a nicely furnished restroom a nice amenity. I went in, did my thing, got some good feedback, and read another scene for good measure.
Later that evening, I was called on my phone by one of the nice guys running the audition saying, “We think you’re great, and we’d like you to come back for a callback.” I was happy, but not thrilled. I had not yet discovered the rarity of the words, “We think you’re great.” But I’ll tell you now….I haven’t heard them since that night.
Until next time,
Leaving you with a cliffhanger...
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
I Go To My First Audition
I submitted on LA Casting for about a week. Possibly five days, and I didn’t hear anything from anyone. Possibly because of patience and possibly because I reduced all of my physical measurements by a few more pounds/inches, I began to get audition notices. They came slowly at first, and one of them was not an audition but a very strange letter asking me my views on whether human beings have souls and where these souls go when we die.
The first actual audition I got came on February 4th, 2009. It was for a music video for a band called Vetiver, an indy, folksy, country-infused band with an audible aura that seemed to tell me, “Take a rest. You deserve it. I know how hard you’ve been working.” The lead singer looked a bit like he’d steal your parents’ liquor.
Take a look, they’re actually quite good:
www.vetiverse.com
I know what the band sounds like, what the lead singer looks like, and an embarrassing amount of additional information because I, with the zeal of a first-time, eager to please, somewhat clueless auditionee, did as much background research as possible on said band. Did you know that Vetiver is actually a type of grass that originates in India? Or that musicians such as Joanna Newsome (a favorite of mine), and the Fleet Foxes were featured on Vetiver’s first album? Or that the casting director auditioning me took improv class at Upright Citizen’s Brigade with a friend of mine and has done video work on the “Tim and Eric Awesome Show Good Job!” I found all of this information on the internet. I was taught that one must do research on a role. The type of research that I did is perhaps indicative of my lack of experience.
However, armed with much personal information about many people peripherally involved in this music video project, I drove to Hollywood on a rare rainy day for my big audition. 3:30 PM. I arrived at 3:00 PM, at the latest. I parked and then walked down the street to a Mobile gas station to use the restroom. In the process, my shoes, canvas flats resembling ace bandages in their color and resilience, became soaked to the point of no return. I too became soaked, because it never rains in California. So, somehow, I’ve entirely forgotten how to prepare myself for the rain. I was wearing a very short (sleeved and otherwise) dress, which was also soaked by the end of things.
However, I arrived with enthusiasm, finding my way into an empty office at around 3:20. Nobody was there. I waited on the landing, pretending to arrive a couple more times, until I heard voices upstairs and finally, two young men emerged, wearing jeans and plaid button downs, hair unkempt, ironic scowls on their faces.
“You’re early,” the chubby one said.
“I know! I’m soaked. I was like, waiting outside, and I was totally unprepared for the rain, and it’s like, my feet are so wet. Yikes! I was waiting downstairs, but it’s like…I’m here. Right? Hahaha…” I thought that acting like the adorably flustered-yet-suprisingly-talented young female archetype would steal their hearts and win me the role in this music video.
“Oh. Sorry to hear that,” the one with the thin face said.
“I can wait downstairs. I’ll just go back downstairs.” I started walking down the stairs.
“Don’t worry about it.” They began looking at me as though I might be entirely out of my mind.
“Can I help?” I watched as the thin-faced and chubby hip guys began to move tables and chairs around in the office, putting two tables on top of each other.
“First you wanted to leave, and now you want to help? Make up your mind.”
“Hahaha…okay.” I stand and watch.
They finish moving furniture and lead me into a smaller off-shoot office where there is a camera on a tripod.
“How long have you been here?” Thin, hip, up-and-coming music videographer asks me. Code: Have you ever interacted with another human being before?
I tell him. Five months. He nods. He now begins to instruct me for the audition. I am to look longingly, as though I’m waiting for a long lost love to come to me, but he never shows up.
20 seconds passes. I try to long for someone.
“Ok. Great.”
Now, I am to dance.
This is the problem. It’s not so much that I don’t dance, it’s that I can’t. I have rhythm, but it’s the kind of rhythm that enables me to tap my toes in time with a song or clap on cue. Once, in my representation of Judah in “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” I was nominated for an award for my standout performance in “movement and song.” It took me months to learn the jazz squares required of me, and I use that chapter in my life to claim that I have “dance/movement experience” when asked.
Music is put on, I am asked to dance, as though said-lost-lover has returned. I smile, I raise my hands in the air in my traditional “I’m confident enough to dance,” gesture reserved for select parties, and I…dance.
After giving them a final requested demonstration of a “bad girl,” I leave. I give them my “theatrical” headshot, and someone says that I look like I’ve seen a ghost. In the headshot. Then, I leave, feeling pretty good about the whole thing, for some reason.
I do not get a call. But still, I feel triumphant. I am an actress in Los Angeles, because I have done what actresses do in Los Angeles: they audition! Who cares if I got cast? Plenty of actors, the best actors audition a TON and don’t get cast! I am living the dream.
Until next time,
Everything’s Coming Up Roses
The first actual audition I got came on February 4th, 2009. It was for a music video for a band called Vetiver, an indy, folksy, country-infused band with an audible aura that seemed to tell me, “Take a rest. You deserve it. I know how hard you’ve been working.” The lead singer looked a bit like he’d steal your parents’ liquor.
Take a look, they’re actually quite good:
www.vetiverse.com
I know what the band sounds like, what the lead singer looks like, and an embarrassing amount of additional information because I, with the zeal of a first-time, eager to please, somewhat clueless auditionee, did as much background research as possible on said band. Did you know that Vetiver is actually a type of grass that originates in India? Or that musicians such as Joanna Newsome (a favorite of mine), and the Fleet Foxes were featured on Vetiver’s first album? Or that the casting director auditioning me took improv class at Upright Citizen’s Brigade with a friend of mine and has done video work on the “Tim and Eric Awesome Show Good Job!” I found all of this information on the internet. I was taught that one must do research on a role. The type of research that I did is perhaps indicative of my lack of experience.
However, armed with much personal information about many people peripherally involved in this music video project, I drove to Hollywood on a rare rainy day for my big audition. 3:30 PM. I arrived at 3:00 PM, at the latest. I parked and then walked down the street to a Mobile gas station to use the restroom. In the process, my shoes, canvas flats resembling ace bandages in their color and resilience, became soaked to the point of no return. I too became soaked, because it never rains in California. So, somehow, I’ve entirely forgotten how to prepare myself for the rain. I was wearing a very short (sleeved and otherwise) dress, which was also soaked by the end of things.
However, I arrived with enthusiasm, finding my way into an empty office at around 3:20. Nobody was there. I waited on the landing, pretending to arrive a couple more times, until I heard voices upstairs and finally, two young men emerged, wearing jeans and plaid button downs, hair unkempt, ironic scowls on their faces.
“You’re early,” the chubby one said.
“I know! I’m soaked. I was like, waiting outside, and I was totally unprepared for the rain, and it’s like, my feet are so wet. Yikes! I was waiting downstairs, but it’s like…I’m here. Right? Hahaha…” I thought that acting like the adorably flustered-yet-suprisingly-talented young female archetype would steal their hearts and win me the role in this music video.
“Oh. Sorry to hear that,” the one with the thin face said.
“I can wait downstairs. I’ll just go back downstairs.” I started walking down the stairs.
“Don’t worry about it.” They began looking at me as though I might be entirely out of my mind.
“Can I help?” I watched as the thin-faced and chubby hip guys began to move tables and chairs around in the office, putting two tables on top of each other.
“First you wanted to leave, and now you want to help? Make up your mind.”
“Hahaha…okay.” I stand and watch.
They finish moving furniture and lead me into a smaller off-shoot office where there is a camera on a tripod.
“How long have you been here?” Thin, hip, up-and-coming music videographer asks me. Code: Have you ever interacted with another human being before?
I tell him. Five months. He nods. He now begins to instruct me for the audition. I am to look longingly, as though I’m waiting for a long lost love to come to me, but he never shows up.
20 seconds passes. I try to long for someone.
“Ok. Great.”
Now, I am to dance.
This is the problem. It’s not so much that I don’t dance, it’s that I can’t. I have rhythm, but it’s the kind of rhythm that enables me to tap my toes in time with a song or clap on cue. Once, in my representation of Judah in “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” I was nominated for an award for my standout performance in “movement and song.” It took me months to learn the jazz squares required of me, and I use that chapter in my life to claim that I have “dance/movement experience” when asked.
Music is put on, I am asked to dance, as though said-lost-lover has returned. I smile, I raise my hands in the air in my traditional “I’m confident enough to dance,” gesture reserved for select parties, and I…dance.
After giving them a final requested demonstration of a “bad girl,” I leave. I give them my “theatrical” headshot, and someone says that I look like I’ve seen a ghost. In the headshot. Then, I leave, feeling pretty good about the whole thing, for some reason.
I do not get a call. But still, I feel triumphant. I am an actress in Los Angeles, because I have done what actresses do in Los Angeles: they audition! Who cares if I got cast? Plenty of actors, the best actors audition a TON and don’t get cast! I am living the dream.
Until next time,
Everything’s Coming Up Roses
I Join LA Casting
On February 4th, 2009, I went to my first audition in Los Angeles. Yes. That is correct. The first audition, other than my audition for my Groundlings Improv Class, which I eventually failed. Perhaps due to karma’s response to my decidedly bad attitude during the audition process. Perhaps because when I started an improvised scene, my teacher’s most frequent note for me was, “Don’t look like a deer in headlights.” Here’s another apt characterization: Toward the end of my six-week class, we did a somewhat catty exercise in which we did imitations of everyone else in the class. My impressionists stood very rigidly in front of the class and began to scream. Not everyone in the world of Groundlings Improv passes each level. So, for the fist time in my life, I was ordered to repeat a grade.
That is neither here nor there. I am, after all, planning to talk about my first real audition. Here’s how it happened. I came back to LA on January 4th, after a refreshing Christmas/New Year’s time in New Jersey, committed to fulfilling my New Year’s resolution, which was/is “Act.” In as many ways as possible. So, the way that one gets auditions in LA when one has no agent, no union membership, and relatively no resume is through a lovely little site called “LA Casting.”
For only $9.99 a month, $25 for my first uploaded headshot, and $10 for each additional headshot when added at the same time as original headshot, I am now the proud owner of an LA Casting profile. This consists of a heavily-retouched headshot of myself smiling, a less-retouched photo of myself asking the camera “what the fuck are you looking at?”, and a resume that tries its best to pump my community theatre experiences into robust credits. For example, if you are a friend of mine who happened to work with me on, say, an informal musical performance at the Wesley Foundation Student Methodist Chapel, congratulations! You are now a credited director of “Behold The Lamb of God, a Christmas Cantata.”
You can also find out my height (I added an inch), weight (I subtracted six pounds), and my bra, waist, and hip size (I tried to measure these using a tape measure, and then I made them up). I’m fairly certain that most people do this, because I often stumble upon profiles and headshots in which people (women) state that they are 5’10’’ and 102 pounds. That’s pretty much physiologically impossible, and in their photos, these women rarely look like they have terminal illnesses. If you’re going to lie about how tall and thin you are, you have to be smart enough to know how thin is too thin. Like literally, too thin to make any sense.
Anyway, if you’re curious, you can see my LA Casting Profile at
www.lacasting.com/madelinewalter .
All I ask is that you refrain from ridiculing me too much…because the thing about LA casting is that this profile is what gets me in the door to an audition. Any audition. Every day, I get about 30 emails notifying me of auditions that fit my demographic, which is “Caucasian Female, 18-30.”
Some of these roles are somewhat appropriate for me:
Louisa in “Sex, Relationships,and Sometimes...Love”- Lead - Female / 25 to 50 / All Ethnicities - This part is a jewish Lesbian who has breast cancer, she is from Brooklyn and through it all has an enormous sense of Humor.
Some of them are stretches:
Booty Girl in “Hip Hop Video”- Featured Female / 18 to 24 / All Ethnicities - Prominently featured. Must be a strong/confident hip-hop dancer. Sexy. Willing to wear GoGo style outfit.
Many of them are mildly degrading toward women:
The Slut in “Phone Sex Grandma”- Supporting - Female / 25 to 40 / All Ethnicities - The small-town local town slut
Some of them are clearly scams:
Variety Acts - Guest-Star - Male or Female / 10 to 50 / All Ethnicities -We are looking for great talent here. Do you sing? Dance? Act? Tell a a good joke? Have great songwriting skills? Able to bust a move or rap? If you think you have what it takes, then we want to hear from you! PLEASE LET US KNOW YOUR TALENT IN YOUR SUBMISSION!
Some of them are clearly porn:
Nymphs in “The Plunge of Icarus”- Featured Female / 22 to 29 / African Am, AfricanAm, Asian, Caucasian, East-In, East-Ind, Middle-East, MidEastern, Mixed - The nymphs are all presented in extreme body paints/nude with masks and elaborate headresses and jewelry. (Must be legally 18 and older to participate) Nudity (in body paints) with simulated sex in surreal orgy scene(s). Will consider male partner/spouse/associate (on approval) for photo model partner on camera (submit photo also). Minimal shoot days - estimating 1 day
Some of them are incredibly eye-opening:
Twins in “Weight Loss Drug Ad” - Guest-Star Female / 20 to 65 / All Ethnicities - I am looking for real identical twins! One must be obviously heavier than the other...this is for our "before and afters" of our product. This is a wieght loss product...so the twins must look like the same person..just after shedding the extra weight.
And I submit for nearly all of them. Other than auditions calling for nudity, an "androgenous physical build," or a "booty girl," I submit, based on the philosphy that now is my time to say yes to everything, to take it all in, use it all as a learning experience, to keep buying small lottery tickets from the universe, because you never know when it's your time. I didn't come here to be a snob. I came here to start at the bottom of a ladder that I've always wanted to climb. And sometimes, fate requires you to submit yourself as a "jewish lesbian with breast cancer." Sometimes.
Until next time,
NOT the small-town-slut in "Phone Sex Grandma"
That is neither here nor there. I am, after all, planning to talk about my first real audition. Here’s how it happened. I came back to LA on January 4th, after a refreshing Christmas/New Year’s time in New Jersey, committed to fulfilling my New Year’s resolution, which was/is “Act.” In as many ways as possible. So, the way that one gets auditions in LA when one has no agent, no union membership, and relatively no resume is through a lovely little site called “LA Casting.”
For only $9.99 a month, $25 for my first uploaded headshot, and $10 for each additional headshot when added at the same time as original headshot, I am now the proud owner of an LA Casting profile. This consists of a heavily-retouched headshot of myself smiling, a less-retouched photo of myself asking the camera “what the fuck are you looking at?”, and a resume that tries its best to pump my community theatre experiences into robust credits. For example, if you are a friend of mine who happened to work with me on, say, an informal musical performance at the Wesley Foundation Student Methodist Chapel, congratulations! You are now a credited director of “Behold The Lamb of God, a Christmas Cantata.”
You can also find out my height (I added an inch), weight (I subtracted six pounds), and my bra, waist, and hip size (I tried to measure these using a tape measure, and then I made them up). I’m fairly certain that most people do this, because I often stumble upon profiles and headshots in which people (women) state that they are 5’10’’ and 102 pounds. That’s pretty much physiologically impossible, and in their photos, these women rarely look like they have terminal illnesses. If you’re going to lie about how tall and thin you are, you have to be smart enough to know how thin is too thin. Like literally, too thin to make any sense.
Anyway, if you’re curious, you can see my LA Casting Profile at
www.lacasting.com/madelinewalter .
All I ask is that you refrain from ridiculing me too much…because the thing about LA casting is that this profile is what gets me in the door to an audition. Any audition. Every day, I get about 30 emails notifying me of auditions that fit my demographic, which is “Caucasian Female, 18-30.”
Some of these roles are somewhat appropriate for me:
Louisa in “Sex, Relationships,and Sometimes...Love”- Lead - Female / 25 to 50 / All Ethnicities - This part is a jewish Lesbian who has breast cancer, she is from Brooklyn and through it all has an enormous sense of Humor.
Some of them are stretches:
Booty Girl in “Hip Hop Video”- Featured Female / 18 to 24 / All Ethnicities - Prominently featured. Must be a strong/confident hip-hop dancer. Sexy. Willing to wear GoGo style outfit.
Many of them are mildly degrading toward women:
The Slut in “Phone Sex Grandma”- Supporting - Female / 25 to 40 / All Ethnicities - The small-town local town slut
Some of them are clearly scams:
Variety Acts - Guest-Star - Male or Female / 10 to 50 / All Ethnicities -We are looking for great talent here. Do you sing? Dance? Act? Tell a a good joke? Have great songwriting skills? Able to bust a move or rap? If you think you have what it takes, then we want to hear from you! PLEASE LET US KNOW YOUR TALENT IN YOUR SUBMISSION!
Some of them are clearly porn:
Nymphs in “The Plunge of Icarus”- Featured Female / 22 to 29 / African Am, AfricanAm, Asian, Caucasian, East-In, East-Ind, Middle-East, MidEastern, Mixed - The nymphs are all presented in extreme body paints/nude with masks and elaborate headresses and jewelry. (Must be legally 18 and older to participate) Nudity (in body paints) with simulated sex in surreal orgy scene(s). Will consider male partner/spouse/associate (on approval) for photo model partner on camera (submit photo also). Minimal shoot days - estimating 1 day
Some of them are incredibly eye-opening:
Twins in “Weight Loss Drug Ad” - Guest-Star Female / 20 to 65 / All Ethnicities - I am looking for real identical twins! One must be obviously heavier than the other...this is for our "before and afters" of our product. This is a wieght loss product...so the twins must look like the same person..just after shedding the extra weight.
And I submit for nearly all of them. Other than auditions calling for nudity, an "androgenous physical build," or a "booty girl," I submit, based on the philosphy that now is my time to say yes to everything, to take it all in, use it all as a learning experience, to keep buying small lottery tickets from the universe, because you never know when it's your time. I didn't come here to be a snob. I came here to start at the bottom of a ladder that I've always wanted to climb. And sometimes, fate requires you to submit yourself as a "jewish lesbian with breast cancer." Sometimes.
Until next time,
NOT the small-town-slut in "Phone Sex Grandma"
Friday, November 7, 2008
The Post Where My Brain Explodes
So- I just wrote an email to a friend, trying to give him an update on my life here. What resulted was a mess of internal dialogue with myself, more of a venting process than a true "update," or a stream-of-consciousness update, or something like that. One of the things that I spilled out in this email was, "I think I'm getting tangled up in my safety nets." Which is exactly what I'm doing. I'm completely and utterly overwhelmed by my day jobs. By my four day jobs. I wake up and spend at least half of my day brainstorming ways to sell more copies at the copy shop where I work, often sneaking away to write emails to the producer of the promo video that I'm managing for the scholarship program on the east coast that I work for, and I feel guilty for taking days off from the print shop to travel to places like San Diego and Idaho to do high school recruitment, also for the scholarship program. On the East Coast. And all the while, I've been trying to "start my own tutoring business," which has fallen by the wayside as I've been trying to make a good impression at the print shop, because it's my most consistent paycheck and trying to keep up with my scholarship jobs because I have a personal connection there and a desire to please.
So, my initial financial safety net plan, the tutoring, is being pushed aside by my second safety net, the print job, which is being jeopardized by my first safety net, the scholarship work.
And then sometimes I'll run into people who are acting or writing, and I'll look at them like their from this foreign world and say something like, "Man, I wish I could do that."
Wait-- is that not why I drove my car 3,000 miles through Ohio, Kansas, Missouri, Indiana, Nevada, Colorado, Utah, and some other states I'm forgetting? I wake up feeling old, I get in my car and drive to a job where I'm surrounded by people who have resigned themselves to their lives, who have been doing the same thing for 10 to 40 years, and I try to relate to them, but I feel like I'm suffocating.
For my print job, I've been interviewing all of the employees to write bios of them for our website. Nobody pretends to be excited. Everyone has a couple of hobbies, and goes to work for the paycheck. And here I am, totally wracked with anxiety, trying to extract "fun memories" my boss has had in the past 40 years that she's had this job, and she can't think of anything, nobody can think of anything. I'm working in a time warp, trying desperately to move forward, but I'm in my own timewarp that I've created. I can't let go of anything. I can't let go of my old job from last year, which was an extension of my college scholarship, which was in some ways an extension of my over-achieving high school identity. My life is a cluttered apartment of ceramic cats that I bought at gas stations and pictures drawn by children only vaguely related to me. Nothing goes. I managed to leave a lot of my favorite clothing behind during my trek to the West Coast, but I was unable to leave any of my jobs, any of my anxious attachments, any of the classes that I took or the desires I had behind. I crave expulsion, just to purge myself of so much of this heavy, banal, cargo. I guess this is what people mean by baggage, huh? But it's not so much baggage as it is junk. Junk stuffed into the same bag, until the zipper breaks and you're dragging a half-empty suitcase around the airport, and you're always nervous about losing something when you roll over a bump, leaving something in the overhead compartment.
I feel like I'm slowly going crazy. I feel like I'm forcing myself further into irrelevance. I feel like I'm living in a pocket of Kansas in the middle of the most industry-saturated city in the world. I feel like an aspiring writing tutor in the middle of a city of actors. I feel incredibly isolated, like I'm running out of my potential, like I'm turning into every character that Philip Seymour Hoffman has played in recent distopic movies.
By the way-- I'm not even succeeding at being a writing tutor. I've missed my window-- the first round of college applications is over. I've worked on a couple of people's essays, contacted a couple of counselors, and I have contacts hanging in the wind now, waiting for me to fulfill them. I'm not in any way putting even 50 percent of my time into "building this business." I'm putting more than 50% of my time into the job that I told myself was the least important thing I'm doing here. And I spend more than 50% of my copious anxious energy worrying about doing insufficiently in that job.
I suppose the thing to do would be to quit that job. Of course, I'm nervous that I won't get another one that pays that well. I'm nervous that the tutoring won't pan out enough to pay my rent, and I won't get the print job back when I go broke and need it. I'm nervous that I don't know where to start with this acting thing, because that's the truth also:
I have NO idea what I'm doing.
I met with an agent a couple of weeks ago, and she told me that I literally wasn't in Los Angeles yet. Until I had my look down, until I knew how to sell myself, knew what I wanted, I wasn't even here. I took that to heart. So now I live nowhere. I'm not here. I'm not in LA. I'm in North Carolina, I'm in my room that I rent, I'm in the print shop where I work, I'm in the living room of one of the two students that I tutor. Those are safe places. Those are places where I'm not afraid to fail because I didn't risk anything to get here. I care a lot about what happens when I arrive in LA. And I've literally driven across the entire country, and I'm STILL putting it off.
And so we return to the beginning- I'm all tangled up in the many safety nets that I've laid for myself. I should have known this would happen.
I'll keep writing as I cut the strings.
Until next time,
The Kvetching Queen
*(Who, existential angst aside, is THRILLED to be part of this country while we move forward with a president that I am SO proud to be associated with.)
So, my initial financial safety net plan, the tutoring, is being pushed aside by my second safety net, the print job, which is being jeopardized by my first safety net, the scholarship work.
And then sometimes I'll run into people who are acting or writing, and I'll look at them like their from this foreign world and say something like, "Man, I wish I could do that."
Wait-- is that not why I drove my car 3,000 miles through Ohio, Kansas, Missouri, Indiana, Nevada, Colorado, Utah, and some other states I'm forgetting? I wake up feeling old, I get in my car and drive to a job where I'm surrounded by people who have resigned themselves to their lives, who have been doing the same thing for 10 to 40 years, and I try to relate to them, but I feel like I'm suffocating.
For my print job, I've been interviewing all of the employees to write bios of them for our website. Nobody pretends to be excited. Everyone has a couple of hobbies, and goes to work for the paycheck. And here I am, totally wracked with anxiety, trying to extract "fun memories" my boss has had in the past 40 years that she's had this job, and she can't think of anything, nobody can think of anything. I'm working in a time warp, trying desperately to move forward, but I'm in my own timewarp that I've created. I can't let go of anything. I can't let go of my old job from last year, which was an extension of my college scholarship, which was in some ways an extension of my over-achieving high school identity. My life is a cluttered apartment of ceramic cats that I bought at gas stations and pictures drawn by children only vaguely related to me. Nothing goes. I managed to leave a lot of my favorite clothing behind during my trek to the West Coast, but I was unable to leave any of my jobs, any of my anxious attachments, any of the classes that I took or the desires I had behind. I crave expulsion, just to purge myself of so much of this heavy, banal, cargo. I guess this is what people mean by baggage, huh? But it's not so much baggage as it is junk. Junk stuffed into the same bag, until the zipper breaks and you're dragging a half-empty suitcase around the airport, and you're always nervous about losing something when you roll over a bump, leaving something in the overhead compartment.
I feel like I'm slowly going crazy. I feel like I'm forcing myself further into irrelevance. I feel like I'm living in a pocket of Kansas in the middle of the most industry-saturated city in the world. I feel like an aspiring writing tutor in the middle of a city of actors. I feel incredibly isolated, like I'm running out of my potential, like I'm turning into every character that Philip Seymour Hoffman has played in recent distopic movies.
By the way-- I'm not even succeeding at being a writing tutor. I've missed my window-- the first round of college applications is over. I've worked on a couple of people's essays, contacted a couple of counselors, and I have contacts hanging in the wind now, waiting for me to fulfill them. I'm not in any way putting even 50 percent of my time into "building this business." I'm putting more than 50% of my time into the job that I told myself was the least important thing I'm doing here. And I spend more than 50% of my copious anxious energy worrying about doing insufficiently in that job.
I suppose the thing to do would be to quit that job. Of course, I'm nervous that I won't get another one that pays that well. I'm nervous that the tutoring won't pan out enough to pay my rent, and I won't get the print job back when I go broke and need it. I'm nervous that I don't know where to start with this acting thing, because that's the truth also:
I have NO idea what I'm doing.
I met with an agent a couple of weeks ago, and she told me that I literally wasn't in Los Angeles yet. Until I had my look down, until I knew how to sell myself, knew what I wanted, I wasn't even here. I took that to heart. So now I live nowhere. I'm not here. I'm not in LA. I'm in North Carolina, I'm in my room that I rent, I'm in the print shop where I work, I'm in the living room of one of the two students that I tutor. Those are safe places. Those are places where I'm not afraid to fail because I didn't risk anything to get here. I care a lot about what happens when I arrive in LA. And I've literally driven across the entire country, and I'm STILL putting it off.
And so we return to the beginning- I'm all tangled up in the many safety nets that I've laid for myself. I should have known this would happen.
I'll keep writing as I cut the strings.
Until next time,
The Kvetching Queen
*(Who, existential angst aside, is THRILLED to be part of this country while we move forward with a president that I am SO proud to be associated with.)
Sunday, October 19, 2008
I Buy a Pair of Tight Pants
So- it's been over two weeks since my last post, I believe. Which, to be perfectly honest with you, is a good sign. It means that I've been getting out of my house (room) a bit more. It means that I've been feeling slightly less sorry for myself on a daily basis. It means that I've been dealing with slightly less pent up nervous energy that I need to expel by typing frantically for thirty minutes so I can fall asleep.
BUT-- since I've received some positive feedback from some people reading my blog, and since I am addicted to compliments, I am going to continue to write, if only to feed my ego. *Note: If you ever want me to do ANYTHING, tell me I'm good at it. I will not be able to help myself. I'm very nearly not exaggerating about this.
Anyway-- Since my last post, several eventful things have happened:
- I took a trip back to North Carolina and saw people and places and changing weather that I love. (and ended up crying in a Qdoba on Sunday night because I didn't want to leave.)
- I began picking up clients for college essay coaching, and feeling like that was rolling in the right direction.
- I started class at The Groundlings.
- I started going to a "writing circle" of excellent people who get together every week to discuss...writing. duh.
- I started going to a church, which hooked me by giving me pomegranates to take home the first Sunday I was there.
- I went to San Francisco.
- I started feeling 10% more settled and 20% less lonely.
BUT- instead of elaborating on any of these fascinating milestones, I'd like to reflect on another important event of the last two weeks, something that I feel is not a milestone, but something that I've been thinking about with absolute disproportionate frequency:
I bought a tight pair of pants.
Yes- it's true. After at least years of wearing jeans that drooped or sagged or fit in the store but got really baggy as soon as I wore them out, I decided: "no more. I will buy a pair of pants that is so tight in the story that I'm 90% sure they are too small. But I will buy these pants, regardless of the way they cut me in an unflattering and uncomfortable place in my waist. I will buy a pair of pants that leaves nothing to the imagination, that makes it difficult for me to sit down, and nearly impossible for me to bend my knees to tie my shoe. I will buy a pair of...skinny jeans!"
Oh, and I did. And I have to say, I love them, despite the logistical problems they present. For example, at work, I have to try and sit on the tall stools so I can leave my legs almost straight, so the jeans don't cut off my circulation. I have to wear shirts that are slightly loose around the waist because the jeans cut me directly at muffin top point. I cannot, under any circumstances, put anything in my pockets.
So-- they are not practical, but-- my butt looks really good, I think.
And more than that, I feel like I fit in a little more in SkinnyJeanTown. (Also known as Los Angeles.)
Oh, and since most of my clothes are semi-baggy, it makes me look like I've lost a ton of weight. Which is always a fun mark of accomplishment when you haven't really accomplished anything of note in the recent future.
I should be clear: I haven't lost a ton of weight. And any weight I have lost has been nearly accidental. The non-accidental parts come from running in the morning to stave off anxiety attacks and eating more vegetables because I had been on a pretty strict processedfoodetarian diet for awhile. (I should also be clear. I love fast food. I love fried food. I do not pretend to enjoy almost any vegetable and I do not pretend to hate or be grossed out by french fries, cheeseburgers, or chicken fingers. One thing I love about LA is that it is the birthplace of drive thru windows. I feel like somehow, I was destined to come here only because of that. I have decided to become slightly more health concious because I have recently developed a slightly augmented fear of dying.)
The accidental parts come from never leaving enough time to pack a lunch at work and often eating the following for lunch:
- dry cereal, potato chips, a nectarine, carrots
That usually happens on a day where I eat Cheez-its for breakfast.
So- the moral of the story is that I have lost possibly 2 pounds, seriously, but when I visited North Carolina, everyone seemed to think that I was America's Biggest Loser.
My Grandma, literally, said, verbatim:
"You look so little! You're losing weight! Lose more weight! Five more pounds! Ten more pounds! Look at this picture of you- you're so much thinner now!"
Comments like this make me want to beef up big time as a big "fuck you" to the establishment. They also want me to lose ten more pounds because I get the feeling it might win me a Nobel Prize.
Which is the strange thing that everybody has identified but still lives on-- in LA, in North Carolina, in everwhere-- I'm torn between wanting approval, wanting to go against the grain, and wanting to be happy. The third option falls somewhere between the first two. Oh- right- and I also don't want to have a premature heart attack. So, that precludes me from totally buying into or totally rejecting the bizarrely obsessive health-conscious culture I'm surrounded by.
I feel like I meet versions of myself when I was an obsessively-dieting 17-year-old - a neighbor approached me the other day and told me what she had eaten that morning. My Grandfather asks me what I'm eating and whether I'm excercising when I talk to him on the phone. There is a place across the street from my work that is called "The Cookie Diet." I thought it was an ironic name for a bakery, but I looked more closely, and it's actually a place that will put you on an 8-cookie a day diet.
And...the point is, I guess, completely unoriginal, but it is that I still can't believe that people are spending so much mental energy thinking about food and exercise. I know it takes effort to take good care of yourself, but I wish we could just integrate it into our routines enough to set it on autopilot, to stop talking about it so much, to realize that as long as you're not in a danger zone, it just isn't that big of a deal. Or, at least, I don't care so much about hearing what you ate this morning. I'd rather here you tell me how good I look in my new skinny jeans.
Until Next Time,
Oh, I should just write a tiny op-ed for Marie-Claire,
Madeline
BUT-- since I've received some positive feedback from some people reading my blog, and since I am addicted to compliments, I am going to continue to write, if only to feed my ego. *Note: If you ever want me to do ANYTHING, tell me I'm good at it. I will not be able to help myself. I'm very nearly not exaggerating about this.
Anyway-- Since my last post, several eventful things have happened:
- I took a trip back to North Carolina and saw people and places and changing weather that I love. (and ended up crying in a Qdoba on Sunday night because I didn't want to leave.)
- I began picking up clients for college essay coaching, and feeling like that was rolling in the right direction.
- I started class at The Groundlings.
- I started going to a "writing circle" of excellent people who get together every week to discuss...writing. duh.
- I started going to a church, which hooked me by giving me pomegranates to take home the first Sunday I was there.
- I went to San Francisco.
- I started feeling 10% more settled and 20% less lonely.
BUT- instead of elaborating on any of these fascinating milestones, I'd like to reflect on another important event of the last two weeks, something that I feel is not a milestone, but something that I've been thinking about with absolute disproportionate frequency:
I bought a tight pair of pants.
Yes- it's true. After at least years of wearing jeans that drooped or sagged or fit in the store but got really baggy as soon as I wore them out, I decided: "no more. I will buy a pair of pants that is so tight in the story that I'm 90% sure they are too small. But I will buy these pants, regardless of the way they cut me in an unflattering and uncomfortable place in my waist. I will buy a pair of pants that leaves nothing to the imagination, that makes it difficult for me to sit down, and nearly impossible for me to bend my knees to tie my shoe. I will buy a pair of...skinny jeans!"
Oh, and I did. And I have to say, I love them, despite the logistical problems they present. For example, at work, I have to try and sit on the tall stools so I can leave my legs almost straight, so the jeans don't cut off my circulation. I have to wear shirts that are slightly loose around the waist because the jeans cut me directly at muffin top point. I cannot, under any circumstances, put anything in my pockets.
So-- they are not practical, but-- my butt looks really good, I think.
And more than that, I feel like I fit in a little more in SkinnyJeanTown. (Also known as Los Angeles.)
Oh, and since most of my clothes are semi-baggy, it makes me look like I've lost a ton of weight. Which is always a fun mark of accomplishment when you haven't really accomplished anything of note in the recent future.
I should be clear: I haven't lost a ton of weight. And any weight I have lost has been nearly accidental. The non-accidental parts come from running in the morning to stave off anxiety attacks and eating more vegetables because I had been on a pretty strict processedfoodetarian diet for awhile. (I should also be clear. I love fast food. I love fried food. I do not pretend to enjoy almost any vegetable and I do not pretend to hate or be grossed out by french fries, cheeseburgers, or chicken fingers. One thing I love about LA is that it is the birthplace of drive thru windows. I feel like somehow, I was destined to come here only because of that. I have decided to become slightly more health concious because I have recently developed a slightly augmented fear of dying.)
The accidental parts come from never leaving enough time to pack a lunch at work and often eating the following for lunch:
- dry cereal, potato chips, a nectarine, carrots
That usually happens on a day where I eat Cheez-its for breakfast.
So- the moral of the story is that I have lost possibly 2 pounds, seriously, but when I visited North Carolina, everyone seemed to think that I was America's Biggest Loser.
My Grandma, literally, said, verbatim:
"You look so little! You're losing weight! Lose more weight! Five more pounds! Ten more pounds! Look at this picture of you- you're so much thinner now!"
Comments like this make me want to beef up big time as a big "fuck you" to the establishment. They also want me to lose ten more pounds because I get the feeling it might win me a Nobel Prize.
Which is the strange thing that everybody has identified but still lives on-- in LA, in North Carolina, in everwhere-- I'm torn between wanting approval, wanting to go against the grain, and wanting to be happy. The third option falls somewhere between the first two. Oh- right- and I also don't want to have a premature heart attack. So, that precludes me from totally buying into or totally rejecting the bizarrely obsessive health-conscious culture I'm surrounded by.
I feel like I meet versions of myself when I was an obsessively-dieting 17-year-old - a neighbor approached me the other day and told me what she had eaten that morning. My Grandfather asks me what I'm eating and whether I'm excercising when I talk to him on the phone. There is a place across the street from my work that is called "The Cookie Diet." I thought it was an ironic name for a bakery, but I looked more closely, and it's actually a place that will put you on an 8-cookie a day diet.
And...the point is, I guess, completely unoriginal, but it is that I still can't believe that people are spending so much mental energy thinking about food and exercise. I know it takes effort to take good care of yourself, but I wish we could just integrate it into our routines enough to set it on autopilot, to stop talking about it so much, to realize that as long as you're not in a danger zone, it just isn't that big of a deal. Or, at least, I don't care so much about hearing what you ate this morning. I'd rather here you tell me how good I look in my new skinny jeans.
Until Next Time,
Oh, I should just write a tiny op-ed for Marie-Claire,
Madeline
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