Wednesday, May 25, 2011

How A Starving Artist Does the Distance.

Love happens.

Even to Starving Artists.

...Frankly, sometimes, I feel like we feel it huger than most.  (This is just my personal opinion, but I feel like it's pretty valid.)

But here's the deal with Starving Artists in Love:  it's tricky business.  It can be.

I've very recently come to realize that a definite balance needs to be stricken between "This is my Professional Life" and "This is my Love Life" and that sometimes, you can't really master both at the same time. 

...No, I guess that's not really right.  I'll rephrase:
You can't really expand upon both at the same time.  Most of the time.

I'm sure that this is a universal truth--I'm sure that it is.  But, for us, for the Starving Artists, I feel as if it's particularly true.

And it is particularly difficult when BOTH parties in the relationship are Starving Artists.

And difficulter still:
When they live 1100 miles apart from one another.

Here. In.  Lies.  My.   Conundrum.

...

My boyfriend and I have been doing this long distance-thing for over a year and a half now--successfully.  Which in itself is a remarkable feat.

That is pretty exactly 1/3rd of the time that we've been dating.

For the prior 2/3rds:  we were living together.

(Whoa.)

Happily.

(Whoa.)

Very.

(...Whoa.)

And coming to discover who our "professional selves" were alongside one another.  Who we would be out in the real world, beyond grad school.  What all of that meant.

Thus far, this has meant that I've been running around attempting to grow/expand/make my living as an actor in New York, and he's been running around attempting to grow/expand/make his living as an actor/teacher/director...in Kansas City.

...That's far.

WHY ARE WE SO FAR APART?!?!?!

Truthfully, we both have our reasons.  And we both have thoroughly valid ones.  But in a nutshell, we both shared this aim of taking professional risks in the cities that our guts were telling us to stick to.

No regrets.

No "what if"s.

...Professionally speaking.

And we've stuck to that.

And clearly, we want to see each other all of the time--but as a Starving Artist, you're frequently trying to finagle visits with money that doesn't exist.

And occasionally time that doesn't exist (if you're in a show, or two...and/or just generally working like a dog).

Tricky.

So, we frequently go for long stretches of time without seeing much of each other beyond the scope of iChat.  Because we just can't.

Shitty.

But we inherently knew that this was what we were signing up for.  We did.

"We'll make a compromise whenever we need to make a compromise."
Right.  ...Right?
"Right?..."
...Right....


And now here we are, a year and a half later ANTSY for a compromise...but we are now both on the brink of semi-kicking ass professionally.  (AKA, neither one of us can do a thing. Presumably for awhile.)

It's thoroughly frustrating.

I was recently venting my frustrations out to my aunt who, over the past 8 years, has become my voice of reason.


I just want us to be in the same place, why can't we be in the same freaking place?!
"Honey, because this is what you chose to do. You both chose this."
It's dumb.
"I know."
I just to want to find the right words to make him just want to up and move here, I just want him here.
"I know..."
...Or maybe I'll just find the guts to go back there.  Or something.  I don't know...
"Ummm..."
It's been four and a half years, and it was so great, and it still is, and he's my best friend and I just feel like we haven't been progressing because of this distance-thing and I don't get it but I hate it. It's so dumb.
"Well..."  
What?
"Is it the distance?"
...As opposed to...?
"Are you doing the professional things that you set out to do?"
Yes.
"Is he?"
Yes.
"Then, that's just where you are. That is the road that you both have to ride upon right now. Accept that your relationship is just kind of standing where it is--happily, it's actually a wonderful kind of dilemma--and that when the professional stuff mellows out for a bit, that's when you can put your Love and all of that other stuff in the forefront as your focus again."
...
...I want both.
"Angela, you can't have both.  That's a practically impossible thing to achieve considering where you're both at, in your jobs and...where you both live."
Oh.
"You can both wait.  For each other, you can do that."
I know.
"I know you do.  Just one thing at a time, focus on one thing at a time."
...I'm bad at that.
"I'm aware."


And she's right. The fact is that she's totally right.  And I had truthfully never considered that before--being the constant multi-tasker that I am--but it does make perfect sense.

It makes it that much easier to swallow considering that when I brought the conversation up to my boyfriend in a This is my new plan of attack-fashion (this past week...during his visit...which I'm about to get into...) his response was simply "Right."
Right?!
"You weren't doing that already?"
...No.
"Well that's just silly."
Oh.


(So, I'm apparently the last to know about this--I AM THE ALWAYS THE LAST ONE TO KNOW EVERYTHING!!...)

(...That's not true.)


So, I adopt this brilliant philosophy from my aunt as my own, and attempt to just keep going forward.

Right.

But then, he came for a visit last week--we were way way way overdue, it was so so so necessary and so so so great.  He had a week before he started rehearsing a show, I was off from work, I had nothing else to distract me, we had no agenda...and there was a torrential downpour for pretty much the entire length of his visit, so we had NOTHING ELSE TO DO except for hang-out with one another.

Rare.  For us, that is an insanely rare occurrence.

It was amazing.

I had my best friend/backbone finally by my side again, finally, and we didn't even have to do anything but all felt entirely absolutely wonderfully right with the world.

...And suddenly, four days had just evaporated, and it was dawn, and I was on a train taking him back to the airport, where he would leave me, with no concrete date in mind as to when we'd see each other again.


I was a disaster.

He was a disaster.

And I stood there in the middle of the Astoria Blvd-stop crying like a maniac.


I'm so proud of you for doing as well as you've been.
"I'm proud of you, too, Angie."

...And then I caved and asked a stupid question.

Wanna think about staying?  Maybe?
"Honey, I can't."
Uggh, fiiiiiiiiiine.  I know.
"Angie."


And he looks at me, mid-disaster-face.
"You're a strong girl."
...Maybe.
"Noooo, you are.  Be strong for me, OK?   We know we can do this."
OK.
"We won't always have to do this.  Maybe we won't have to much longer.  I'll get here, for you, soon enough." (That huge huge statement making me feel simultaneously thrilled and supremely horribly greedy.)  "OK?"
OK.


And then, he was getting on a bus.  And then, he was gone.

I'm aware.  I am thoroughly 100% aware that I am living in the city that I am supposed to be living in and doing the things that I'm supposed to do.  Right now.  I am.


And for right now, he is, too.

And I know that I'm not a girl who wants much in this world.  Truthfully.  (To pay off my student loans before I'm 92.  To actually for real have health insurance. ...A KitchenAid standing mixer. ...)


But.

I do want a life where I can thrive artistically--and I think I'm getting it, and so help me when I do, I'm keeping it.

But.


I also want a life that is overflowing with Love. And I want it within reach.


I want both.  In tandem.


And soon.

Is that unreasonable?

Sunday, May 15, 2011

This Starving Artist Could Serve You Some Cheese With Her Whine

Dear Shoes,

Hello.

You're flat.

...Very.

I've just spend the past 11.5 hours running around in you, slinging bloody marys/pizza/eggs/pizza/sangria/mimosas/pizza/pizza/beerbeerbeerbeerbeer--and whereas I'm thoroughly appreciative of the wad of cash that you just helped to deposit for my (hopefully "not as" for too much longer...)broke ass, I'm tired.  And I hurt a little.

It's just a statement.  I won't really complain.  I actually like the job.  A lot.  I do.

However.

I can't help but think that as I'm running around this restaurant for all of these minimally make-upped Park Slope-mommies in their Tory Burch-flats (which also might not be conducive to running around in for 11.5 hours, but DAMN they're cute!) that I want to like qualify what I'm doing.

I would love to occasionally--while being sweet and providing both sugar highs for the young and tipsy happiness for the...older--look at these people and say Hey there.  Hey.  So, I do hope that you're having a good time, and enjoying yourselves and everything.  Let me know if you're not.  But.  I just wanted to let you know:

I don't really do this.

I mean, I do, but this is just my day-job.

I'm actually an actor.  (And then I'd stop myself because I'd realize how 100%-cliche that sounds...and I'd get all embarrassed and back-track.)   

I do stuff.  I actually shot with HBO a week ago.  (And then I'd realize that they were the kind of family who never watched TV...except for CNN and National Geographic and Baby Einstein-DVDs for their elitist ridiculously high-IQd two year-olds who would be at that moment boring holes through my head with their huge huge eyes as if to say "Lady, you're weird, and why is your hair so big?")

Ummm. ...

I have this manager, actually, and he's really great, and I'm actually signing a contract with him this week.  Which is great.  Which is really great, actually. So that's, like, legit.  (...)  I'm legit.  Kind of.  ... (...) I'm not.  But, I'm working on it. 

...
"Can we get that Brownie Dee-Luxe now?"
Yep, sure thing.

Blargh.

I am certainly thoroughly very very very aware that this job is a means to an end (Clearly.  In my interview, my boss asked me "OK, so what do you want to be when you grow up?").  And that's great, and that's fine.  And it's not that I'm not patient--frankly, this bitch is insanely patient.  I am, if I do say so myself.

...I just get antsy on occasion is all.

And maybe a little "proud", or something.

...Or maybe it's the opposite.  ...

Which is it?!  That whole feeling of Hey--you work on Wall Street?  At the UN-Plaza?  Well I don't!  But I am doing stuff, I swear! 

Nevertheless...well, whatever.

Thank you, Means to an End.  Thanks a lot, you're doin well for me, kid.  I apologize in advance if I don't act overly appreciative or grateful all of the time--it's not you, it's me.

But, damn you, Shoes--you're all I've got and I'm plenty nice to you.

Return the freaking favor.

Thanks much,
Ange

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

A Starving Artist Readies, Aims...and "FIRE!?!"

...I have attempted to write about this for days.

It's a realllllly hard thing when there's so much to talk about.

I could tell you about my getting lost, sprinting my way through the rain in the West Village and the sheer panic of running late to set.  ...And that ultimately being just fine.

I could tell you about the millions of lines of communication that it takes for one day-player (aka, Me) to apparently get from Point A to her own little "rabbit hutch" in a trailer (whaaaaat!!!).

I could tell you about the gloriousness that is Hair and Make-Up.

I could tell you about the panic that I felt knowing that the wardrobe guy who openly loathed my thighs was going to assess my outfit for the shoot...and the overwhelming relief when he yelled "UGH!  I LOVE iiiiiiiit!"

...I could tell you about the awkwardness that was him showing me off in that outfit to his two random lady-friends.

(Fact:  Being on display can totally be fun, in my personal opinion.  As in being on display "on stage", etc.  However, I have never ever been good about the whole "being on display...to just be looked at" kinda thing.  It's bizarre.  I don't know how much I belong there.

But, that happened.
And regardless, it felt way better than the alternative of "Way to go and get upstaged by your thighs, Ladyface.")

Instead, I'll start with this:  the waiting process.

...


...Three hours after being assessed in the outfit, I'm still holed up in my rabbit hutch.  My mind has wandered across the five boroughs and back a million times, I've played a zillion failed rounds of Angry Birds, and have no idea how long I'm going to be staying in this precise spot.

I truthfully don't care, because I'm still here, and that's crazy enough...but the anticipation is killing me.

Knock-knock:  "Heyyyy, Angela, you can go ahead and get dressed, we're gonna go on set and rehearse the scene in like 10."
OK, great!  Thank you so much.

And then I just kinda started grinning.  Stupidly.  Because I was alone and looking snazzy and had been for hours already--but now, it was actually happening.

It was all happening.

And then, another knock on the door.

And then, I'm walking to the set.

And then, I'm there.

I'm.  There.

As are the other two day-players, and the director, and the writer...and David Rasche.  And Oliver Platt.  And Ted Danson.

Fine.

...Fine.

(Side-bar:  I think that I managed to successfully achieve a kind of calm game-face for the rehearsal--something I'd been legitimately practicing for two weeks after my aunt had thrown the good suggestion of "Don't be weird" my way.  Thank you, Aunt Linda.  ...However, in my head, I was giggling uncontrollably like some awkward nerdy school girl who's been locked into a room with 1/2  of the football team.)

Fine.

I couldn't have been more ready to go, I was pumped (...that word sounds ridiculously early-90s and I apologize, but I can't think of anything more sufficient), and was starting to feel really stupid great.

And then we broke for lunch.

...


I can only imagine what it feels like to have blue balls, but if ever it could be considered a "fun" predicament, this shoot was shaping up to be quite similar.

The two other day-players and I are escorted to the craft services tent together (...that's still a weird thing to say), and that's when I saw them:

The background actors.

All 40ish of them.  Anxious, dressed in similar cocktail attire...and staring daggers into us.  This silence pregnant with "Who the shit are you?" overwhelmed the room, as we walked from table to table pretty much reenacting that scene on the bus when Forrest Gump is going to his first day of school.

"Seat's taken."
         "Taken."
                ......
                    "You can sit hee-yuh, if ya want."

But, no matter!  There was cioppino and cucumber water to be had, and lines to be said (on-camera...eventually...), and the other two day-players and I thereby chose to keep our spirits up by talking amongst ourselves.  Loudly.  (Very, now that I think about it.)  Despite the glares.

More on that anon.

We're shuffled back off to hair and make-up for final primping-ness pre-shoot.

"Are you getting exciiiiiiiiited?"
I really really am.  I'm so pumped (there's that word again) about this thing!
"Great!  Should be fun.  ...Oh."
What?
"Are they going to see your legs on camera?"

...

(NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!)

I don't know...
"Oh.  Well they're doing that thing that my legs do in the cold, they're turning like blue-white."
Oh.  (...Hahahahahaha.  Ha.Yeah, they do that.  I guess.
"Well, we'll do this just in case."  And suddenly, I had two women on either side of me like intensely rubbing my legs with this airbrush/instant tanner-stuff.  I wanted to tell them that they didn't have to do that; I felt awful, they were on their knees, I could have easily done that myself.


Then I realized that that was apparently just a part of their job.

And I simultaneously realized that this leg rubbing was the most action I'd gotten in months.  (Hm.  ...Well, OK.)

Thank you so so much.
"Go get em, Lady."
         "Yeah, have fun."

And with that, the door of the trailer opened, and we were whisked away to set.

There were all of the lights.  And the booms and the monitors.  And the crew.
"Hey there."
          "Hey."
 Hi!  How are you?!  (MAN, they're friendly!  How great!)

And then, there they were:
The background actors.
Already there, already in place, leering at us even harder than before.
...
(This is just what it's gonna be.  OK.)  And I just stood there and smiled.  Totally un-weird-like.

"Hi, are you Angela?"
I am, yeah.  
"Hi, I'm Michael the director."  This little grinning man in hipster glasses and an oversized vintage sportscoat and dilapidated New Balances gives me the most genuine firmest hand-shake in the worldI am instantaneously thrilled and at ease...but mentally pinching myself a million times over.


Hiiiiii, it's so nice to meet you!
"Well, likewise.  You're the 'Fire!?!'-line, yes?"
I am.
"Great!  Then we'll need you right by the cameraaa..."  (EEEP!  WHAT?!) "Why don't we put you right here."

And he points to an empty chair at a table right by the camera...with 9 other background actors sitting at it.  Glaring.

"That guy to your left is your date, we'll say.  Sound good?"
Great!  Thank you!

He squeezes my shoulder and walks away, leaving me alone--the nine other heads at the table craned as far away from me as is humanly possible until, for a brief moment, I catch a glance from the guy playing my "date".

(Don't be weird.  Don't be weird.  Don't be weird.  Don't be weird.) 

I promise I'll try to not screw this up for you, I hear myself say.  (Shit.  Dumb.)  And shoot him a stupid bashful grin.

(Wait, is he smirking?  He's fucking SMIRKING!  I AM SO IN!!!!)

And I had been feeling so awkward about the extras at the table that I hadn't noticed Ted Danson and the other two big-man-on-campus-actors hovering in a cluster just behind my shoulder.  And then I do.

(Do I shoot them a "bashful grin", too?!... Mehhh, they're not paying attention to me, that's fine.)

"Alright, let's rehearse this, people!"

(Oh man oh man oh man oh man OH MAN!)

And thusly begins an exchange of lines that were said at least 150 times over the next four hours (and I guess this is a pseudo spoiler alert...):

"CHARACTER WHO SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS" (I'll get to why in a sec): (...gives a very long speech that I'll get into shortly, and we're all acting elitist.  When...)

BERNARD:  A rat just ran up my pant leg! A large rat!

Day-Player #1:  I think I see it!

BERNARD:  I think it's right over there.

Day-Player #2:  Ohhhh, something just ran over my foot!

GEORGE (Ted Danson):  Um.  Fire!

MEEEEEE:  Fire!?!

GEORGE (Ted Danson):  I think the rat is on fire!

I shriek.  A couple of people start to run.  Then there's a stampede.  ...End of scene. 

Simple :)
Super fun  :)

Now:
Interesting things start to happen when you do a million takes a million times over.

For A)  It allows you the opportunity to see people for who they really are, because it allows you to see up close and personal the way in which they work.  And therefore, you get a really good assessment of the egos in the room.

I think that the Plushie from the reading had a point: I'm finding that the people who are deserving of the big ego (the Ted Dansons of the world, for example, etc.) don't have it.  Because why bother.  ...And that's awesome.

ONE of the actors, however ("Character Who Shall Remain Nameless")...his ego was kind of overwhelming.  Whether he was skulking off in a corner with a hand-held fan in his face or effing with the script or generally being difficult, it was a kind of jarring thing to see.  But I took it in, thought That's just what he does and who he is and did my best to focus on my own stuff. 

My table was seated approximately 5-6 feet away from this particular actor's post.

The background actors at my table could not have talked more shit about this actor--OPENLY--if they tried.

"God.  You think he could get his lines right once."
          "I thought the correct pronunciation was 'eeeko-friendly' not 'ekko'.  Should we tell him?"
                   "I want his fan.  It's so hot in here.  Why don't we have fans?"
          "Ridiculous."
"I mean, I know his lines by now."
           "Right?!  God!"
"God!"

...He was RIGHT! THERE!  I don't CARE if another actor is blatantly effing around and is exhibiting blatant disregard for the other people around him--he still has a major career, and who the hell are you to be talking shit about this man right in front of him?!

Egos.
So, that happened.  And I consequently vowed to never become "that".

...

For B)  It simply affords you the opportunity to get comfy with what you're doing.  Get your nerves out.  Play a little.

So I did.  ...I had one line, I didn't feel like that would be a crazy endeavor.

A half an hour into shooting, a weird thing happened:

The director came up to me in between takes and leaned into my ear.
"I don't know how the hell it is that you're managing to make one word so funny, but it's really good."
Whoa!  Really?!
"Yes.  Really.  Keep it up."
Oh my god, thank you so much!

...Somehow, that kept happening.
With all of these different people.
And I didn't really get it (I still don't), but it felt really great and humbling and surprising and awesome.  And it gave me the confidence to actually look Ted Danson dead in the eye when I shrieked and play a little bit more--which was, you know, fun.  Very fun.

And then somehow, the more that the shoot wore on, the more you started to hear this all over the place:
"Fire!?!"
                                  "FIRE!?!"
              "Fire!?!"
                             "Fire!?!?!"
      "FIRE!?!"
                          "Fire!?!"
"FIRE!?!"  EVERYWHERE!!!!!...And here's me in a corner continually popping my ego-balloon so as to not become a swelled douchebag and let my first time on a big set in a big way ever get to me...

But godDAMMIT!!!

It is a hard thing to not feel awesome when everyone on set is walking around saying your one line. 

(How are people saying my line?  WHY are people saying my line?!  What is happening?!?!)

It was crazy.

But the whole damn THING was so much fun, I could have stayed there for days.

The longer I was there, the more I was beginning to think Really, I hope they keep me til like 2am, I don't want to be done.

But.

It was 8:30, and I was in the middle of a Ben and Jerry's-related conversation with the crew upstairs when I was released.

I ran around the set and Thank Youd everyone possible--profusely--was escorted back to the rabbit hutch...and it was done.  It was all over. 

...It's been six days.

I'm not even remotely over it.

Immediately after shooting, I made this promise to myself that just because I had that (and was really really really lucky to have had that) that it was no excuse for me to start resting on my laurels.

I need to keep pushing.

Frankly, as far as I'm concerned, I need to push even harder to ensure that this kind of opportunity can happen to me again.  Because I do want it again.  Really badly.

And maybe, I'll just become that one-line girl.  Maybe next time, I'll run on screen and scream "WATER!?!"  and run off.  Just because.

"Ay dios miiiio!"  Something.

That could be great.

Regardless, I had a day.  And it was a really really good one.

...But I do.
I want more.
And I am going to do everything everything everything I can to make that happen.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

A Starving Artist's Relationship With "Size" (Definition B)

There are certain phrases that no woman in this world ever hopes to have thrown in her direction.

I am currently thinking about one in particular.

And here I am, the night before the shoot--THE SHOOOOOT!!!--and it is absolutely all that I can think about.

...

I would like to preface this by saying the following:
              I in no way think that I am "fat".  I don't.  I eat well (and sometimes don't...and that's fine), and I work out, yoga myself and all of those things.  I appreciate the size number on my pants.  I know that I'm not waify, but I know that I'm not built to be.  I have no idea how much I weigh, and generally, I don't care.  But.

I am a girl--a woman.  An actress, none the less. 

...Size matters.  Mine does.  To me.

...

So, there I am at my fitting for this shoot a few days ago, and it's glorious.  I feel like a kid in a couture candy shop.  There I am trying on all of these cute little dresses with the head of wardrobe and his lovely assistant--getting one pair of skyscraper heels after another tossed my way.

"Honey, that's cute."
I know, I really like it.
"Oooh, Honey, no.  That's cute."
Ohhh man, I love this one.  I LOVE this.
"OK, we really need to push for you to wear that one, that's hot, Lady."
Eeeeeeeeeee, OK!!!

Seemingly for a while, it was like each new dress was cute and cuter and cuter still.   I was starting to feel like I was living that little montage in Pretty Woman, the one where Richard Gere has just given Julia Roberts his credit card and she goes to that one boutique and tries on all of these dresses and starts dancing in the mirror...or something.

But then.

"Oooh, this is a cute quirky stretchy little number.  Try this one on."
And it was, it was cute, quirky, and stretchy and all of those things.
"Oh."
What?
"Oh, yeah, no.  There's too much thigh."
...What?
"Yeah, you got a little too much thigh."
...Oh.
"Hmmm.  This one?  Try this one."
...
"Nope.  It's the thighs.  Ever worn Spanx?"
Uhhh...no.  No.  I haven't.
"They're like magic.  Here."

And in my brain, I know that everyone wears these, even the Katie Holmeses and Jennifer Anistons etc of this world wear these.  But shit.

"Mmmm...nope.  No.  Keep those on, keep the Spanx on, take that dress off. Try this one."

...I am a cow.

"Noooooooooo--no.  Nope.  Thighs.  Or, wait.  What if we adjust it like this?..."

GOD!  What IS this?!  And then there I am, staring at myself in the mirror while this guy is futzing with me in the dress (and Spanx...), and I begin to notice all of these other things that I have decided are wrong with my legs.

My knees look kinda bulgy.

Is that a fucking vericose vein?!  No. ...
Yes?...Nooooo.

God, I'm white.  I am so.  Pasty white.

If I stand differently...can I make my knees look bonier?


It was the dumbest thing ever. 

And suddenly, it didn't matter what dress I was trying on, it didn't matter how cute or flattering the shape actually was on my figure, all I could see when I looked in the mirror was "fat".  Lots.

I felt totally defeated.  I was overwhelmed by it, out of nowhere.

And I'm getting changed, feeling like crap, afraid to stand around in my underwear anymore in front of this guy when he peaces out and leaves me alone in the room with his assistant.

And suddenly that defeat-feeling is quelched by this overwhelming need to apologize to her.

I'm sorry.
"What?"
No, it's just...about my thighs.
"Oh..."
...No, I just...it's the craziest thing.  It's like no matter what I do, no matter how well-behaved I am, they just never shrink.  I guess...I guess this is what I've got.  I guess.
...
"OK, two things."
What?
"One, everyone has their body part.  Everyone.  That they hate."
...Yeah, you're right.
"That they can't change and just--that they hate.  Always."
Right.  These are mine.
"Do you have the part already?"
...
...I do. ...

And I finally look at her because I realize I haven't been and have been looking at my stupid legs instead, and she has the biggest sweetest grin plastered across her face.

"Then what are you worried about, Lady?"

...

Sound advice.  But I'm not over it.

I launch myself into a vow of I am working out and eating like a champion every single day until this shoot...and stick to it, and don't feel any better.  Really.

I have other legitimate pearls of wisdom thrown my way on the topic:

"Honey, was the guy a queen?"
...Maybe?
"He was.  Only a raging queen would say that--they hate curves.  They're either all about twink bodies, or they actually want the curves for themselves."
Ohhhhhh.

...

"But you like curves, right?  Don't you want your thighs because they'll make your dresses look better?"
Ummmm....

...

"Ohmygod, I LOVE Spanx!!"
Welllll...

...


"But you know he wasn't right."
                "You know he wasn't right."
                                  "You know he wasn't right."
                                                 "Angela.  Please.  He wasn't right."


...And maybe he wasn't.
Maybe not.

But.

You could not have possibly said a worse thing to a girl before she goes on camera in her most exposed way to date.  You couldn't have.


But.

This is likely the thing I need to kind of expect.  This is likely just what happens.  And I need to be braver.  Less permeable.

Regardless:

Fuck it.

I'm here.  (Or will be, at 10:30 tomorrow morning...).  And I was cast, and I am going to be on a set, and I do have a line ("!?!") to say, and I will be freaking charming and cute and nice.

I will be bigger than my thighs.

Dammit.

...


HOLY CRAP, TOMORROWWWWWWW!!!!!!!