Another thing to know about me: I am horrendously bad at being sick.
It doesn't happen all that often so, when it does, whatever the ailment, my body feels like it's been hit by a Mack truck. Seven times. With the driver pointing and laughing at me, calling out "Take THAT! And THAT, Sucka!!! AH hahahahahahahahahaaaaa!!!!"
It. Is. Awful.
Further awful: it forces me to be absolutely sedentary.
...
...This absolutely 100% goes against my nature, both as a person and CERTAINLY as a Starving Artist. I mean, are you kidding me?! We're supposed to be running around all the goddamn time like crazy people seeking out opportunities for ourselves. Endlessly. Right? AM I RIGHT?!?!...
Hence, when I can't, when I am forced into absolutely not doing any of that stuff under any circumstances, after resting and relaxing for about 2-3 hours, I panic. I panic, and start to contemplate all of the things that I maybe could get away with doing.
Because, I mean, why sit still? (Because you're sick.) Why not take advantage of this free day instead of just wasting time, like you're doing right now, because you're totally wasting time! (Except that you're not, because you're totally sick.) Why be lazy when there is so much stuff to do?! All the time!!! "Lazy" is a trap that one should never fall into, so beware. BEWARE! (Well, I am Bewaring, and will continue to do so. But, I'm sick. So. There's a difference. A big one.)
This schizophrenic talk? I've been having it with myself non-stop for the past two days.
Am I aware that I really need to just calm the eff down? Yeah. For sure. Absolutely. But, I have never been good at not doing stuff and, for as long as I can remember, feel guilty when days like this happen to me.
So, between chugging glasses of OJ and napping like a turd, I've been daydreaming up Could Do-lists for myself: as in "All of the Things That I Could Do if I Weren't Feeling Bed-Ridden". By and large, the list is comprised of totally unrealistic things that I would never think to do or have a means of doing in every day life, but, when I'm sick, I feel like those are the things that I should be doing first. ...Because being sick apparently makes me ever so slightly cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. It's fine. I'll fess up to it.
The list....
WHY AM I NOT:
--patching those pants
--Crock-Potting a soup...or braising something
--at the gym (... ... ...)
--learning a new monologue
--going through my 2011-receipts for my taxes
--reupholstering/restaining that bench in the hallway
--painting that cabinet in the bathroom
--going for a run (... ... ...)
--at a museum
--finding an audition to go to
--signing up for voice lessons
--signing up for pottery classes
--going to buy every memoir of every contemporary humorist right now
--going to buy a pair of black heels (...I mean, I need some. Right?)
--teaching myself the art of Sudoku
--teaching myself the art of Chess
--teaching myself the wonders of online poker (That's the worst idea ever. No. Way.)
--buying 30 lottery tickets
--...60 of them.
--teaching myself Spanish with that Rosetta Stone-like program we got...forever ago.
-building...something.
--teaching myself how to knit
--at a double-feature, because I should seriously take myself to the movies more
--at a Bikram-class, because quite maybe potentially I'd sweat out this feeling of "bed-riddenness" (...)
--dyeing my hair...because what if I went red-headed again and don't I deserve to feel cute in this time of utter absolute "gross"?! Don't I?!
--learning how to make my own yogurt
--drunk.
Ladies and gentlemen, behold what I've wrestled with for the past 48 hours--betwixt hacking up a lung, blowing through an entire box of Kleenex, and passing out on my couch watching mindless television. (Mindless television, PS, is never nearly as satisfying when you're sick. Why the hell is that?)
Sweet boyfriend is currently crewwing a show that is in the middle of teching, and so we knew we were going to have to spend Valentine's Day apart (yet again). He called at about 12:30am once he got out of rehearsal last night.
"Hey there, Sickie."
(Croak)Valluhtyyye!
"Oh. My goodness. Go to sleep."
Doh.
"Honeyyyy..."
Doh! Havenn taw to you...aw day.
"Honey. You need your rest."
Bin resteed! Gah SO buch sleep!
"Sick girls need more sleep."
Z'dumm.
"No it's not. It's smart, you need to get better."
Doh. I'm fined. Ah should...vaccooob. Wahdurrproof my boots.
"Nooooo. How 'bout you sleep."
Valluhtyyyyyye...
"Sleep, Honey. Get some actual rest. You never do."
...Hay dit.
And I DO hate it! I feel like such a lump and as if I'm missing out on a zillion possible things that I could and should be doing. A zillion possible things that could and should put me ahead.
The Starving Artist should never not be doing anything; the day that they sit back is the day that they will have missed out on it. ...Or so we're led to believe.
But. Maybe not.
Maybe the world can wait for me today.
...Or maybe I'll quietly nurse myself back to health, and shellack our coffee table.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
A Starving Artist Turns Pink in the Face
The MTA has this whole "If You See Something, Say Something"-campaign. It's, of course, in regard to if you see anything suspicious while riding public transportation (a big hulking bag sitting by itself in the middle of a station, a box with sparks coming out of it in the middle of the subway car...someone toting an AK-47), you have to report it immediately to someone, yadda yadda yadda. Right.
"If You See Something, Say Something".
I tumbled that phrase around a lot in my head today while writing a letter to The Susan G. Komen Foundation (which I eventually forwarded to the New York State Senate and various publications).
Now.
What I'm not about to do is preach about that issue to you, as much as I'd love to, and could quite easily. But the very last thing that I want is for this page to become anything that could even sort of resemble any kind of political/ethical platform.
What I am going to do, however, is say this:
It is our absolute right as American citizens to speak up when we feel the need to, to share our opinions with others as we see fit, to address matters that we may see as either problematic or--at the very least--simply worth discussion.
We are entitled to do so. We have legit entitlement to do this.
However...My Dear Sweet Fellow Starving Artists: I encourage you to do this all the more-so.
We are the little people.
Poetically, we are the passionfull and salaryless, bloated with bravado and devoid of security. Rationally...we are frequently just fodder for other people's jokes. We're not just a part of the 99%, we're artsy. Which means that absolutely no one wants to listen to us.
So make them.
If you have a point, make it. If you have a concern, share it. If you're looking for a change, get it to happen for yourself.
"If You See Something, Say Something".
"If You See Something, Say Something".
I tumbled that phrase around a lot in my head today while writing a letter to The Susan G. Komen Foundation (which I eventually forwarded to the New York State Senate and various publications).
Now.
What I'm not about to do is preach about that issue to you, as much as I'd love to, and could quite easily. But the very last thing that I want is for this page to become anything that could even sort of resemble any kind of political/ethical platform.
What I am going to do, however, is say this:
It is our absolute right as American citizens to speak up when we feel the need to, to share our opinions with others as we see fit, to address matters that we may see as either problematic or--at the very least--simply worth discussion.
We are entitled to do so. We have legit entitlement to do this.
However...My Dear Sweet Fellow Starving Artists: I encourage you to do this all the more-so.
We are the little people.
Poetically, we are the passionfull and salaryless, bloated with bravado and devoid of security. Rationally...we are frequently just fodder for other people's jokes. We're not just a part of the 99%, we're artsy. Which means that absolutely no one wants to listen to us.
So make them.
If you have a point, make it. If you have a concern, share it. If you're looking for a change, get it to happen for yourself.
"If You See Something, Say Something".
Thursday, January 19, 2012
A Starving Artist On the Radio(UH-Ohhh)
Two pieces of glorious news:
1) Lip: it's fine. After a week of utter paranoia and swollen whatnot and not being able to consume next to anything that wasn't cold-ish and didn't require either a straw or the gentlest of forks (...It's cool, I'm shaking my head at myself in "Aw for fuck's sake"-fashion, too...) it's fine. And of COURSE it is!
(Minus the two stitches that are still hanging out there sorta and the little slice that's gonna hang out there...maybe always. But whatever. That'll add character. Cute-like. Fine.) Sweet sweet sweet relief.
2) I BOOKED MY FIRST EVER BIG GIRL VOICE-OVER GIG!!!!!!! JUST!!!!!!!!! YESTERDAY!!!!!! OK. So I found out yesterday, booked it Tuesday...I guess...
I am so so so excited I can't even begin to tellllll you! For A, it's a gig (obviously) and I've been itching for one. Hard.
For B, it's VOICE-OVER!!!! These things take forever to get into, and I've been going out for them for...ok, awhile. Been giving a good showing (...so I guess "showing" isn't the appropriate word...still...), striking up a nice rapport with at least 5 of the casting folks I've seen over the past two years, and now, finally. FINALLY!!!!
OK, so here's how it went down:
Sweet darling boyfriend came to visit last week for our 5-year anniversary (!!!!!!!) and immediately before his plane touched down, I received an email from my manager about an audition for a voice-over spot the following day.
You can absolutely come with me! It'll take, like, 10, 15 minutes at most.
"Are there things to do in the neighborhood we're going to?"
Yeah. Tons.
"Perfect."
Honey, no. Nooooo, seriously, just come with me.
"IIIIIIII really don't feel like being that guy who's looming outside of a room while his girlfriend's auditioning. That's weird."
No it's not!
"It is."
... ...
...Seriously, I'll only be 10, 15 minutes at most.
"Great. I'll be at that Sports Authority-whatever-place around the corner. What's the spot for, anywho?"
Chuck E. Cheese. ...
"... ...Perfect."
This was at 1:50pm.
...
At 2:45pm:
"Only 10, 15 minutes, huh?"
That has absolutely never happened before.
"Suuuuuure."
No, really! These things are...I mean, voice-over auditions are always so quick!
"Well. I guess that must mean they like you."
(EEEEEEEEEEK!!!!) Maybe.
There are three different spots, all with the same basic premise: a mom who is totally enamored with her kids is hanging out with her snarky (entirely single, entirely anti-kids) best friend and attempting to explain the joys of Chuck E. Cheese to her.
"Which one did you read for?"
Both.
"Awesome. Well. Which one did you read for more?"
...Both.
"Oh! Hmm..."
Yeah.
And that? Another kind of thing that had never happened to me before.
But, I do my best to not think too much about the audition, put it aside for awhile, and glide through the next four days of romanticalness and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. (Not "romantical" by any means, but a pretty damn good flick just the same.)
...
I have the copy for 4 different spots (2 of which were absolutely brand spanking new) in my hands as I walk up to the callback audition Tuesday afternoon. It's a tricky thing to not harp on a script, to not attempt to over-think it, but if there's one thing that I've found out about voice-overs after all this time, it's that doing so is essentially a death sentence.
They're simple. Everything you need to know is right there on the page.
Actors generally spend a ton of time fretting over what's not being said on the page/in the script, what else needs to be discovered and uncovered and revealed and whatnot.
Not so with voice-overs. They are as absolutely uncomplicated as you can get. And I love that.
I'm sent in with the gal that I originally auditioned with: a sweetheart of a thing who I actually shot that infomercial with a few months back (...No shame...No judgement...). And we giggle our way into the room, all excited-like.
"So, wait. Were you told who you were reading for?"
(...No, actually...) No, actually. Were you?
"No. I wasn't."
Oh! Hmmm...
"Right. Weird. Well...we'll see."
Yeah, I mean...yeah.
But my curiosity has been peaked. Am I the sweet-natured mother, or am I the snarky clueless best friend?
(The Snark & The Mom...what a perfect title for a fable that would be...)
But really: who am I?
Both the casting director and the producer are behind the table same as before, two smiley middle-aged gents with gloriously voluminous hair.
"Ohhhhh, boy, you two again." Says the producer with a wink. "Alright, you ladies clearly know what you're doing, you obviously like each other...this is good."
(This IS good, you're so right!!!)
"Ummmm, ok, let's start with the second copy and then let's just jump right in and give it a go, shall we?"
(Waiiiiit...)
The casting director: "I'm sorry. Who do we want reading for who?"
(Right.)
The producer: "Oh!...You know, I don't really care." (Hmmmm...) "Angela, let's have you slate and start off as Tina the mom, and you'll be Diane the best friend."
So for the next...I don't even know how long, we go back and forth through three of the four copies an upwards of ten times apiece. (Which, if you've never auditioned for a voice-over, is quite a lot.) Every other read, we switch roles; both roles of which feel really good, but could not be more different.
"OK. Great. Thanks, Ladies! Ummmm...Angela."
....Yes?
"Could you stay? For like, one more?"
(REALLY?!) Really?!
"Yeah. You don't have anywhere to be or anything, do you?" (Which, for the record, is the kind of question where both possible answers feel equally as uncomfortable to say.)
I absolutely don't.
"Perfect."
For the next three hours (!!!!), I read with 5 different women.
...Yet another kind of thing that had never happened to me before.
I stepped out in the hallway to wait three different times as other pairs went in, checking my Facebook a billion times over to avoid the various leers in my general direction. (Aw, what does my news feed say now?... ...How bout now?). And every time I stepped back into the room:
"YOU again!"
I know, I know. Sorry.
"Who we having her read for this time?" (...?...)
"Oh, I don't care."
(...Hmmm...) And the less the producer seemed to care, the more perplexed I seemed to get.
I have not questioned my "type" in like seven years. I haven't had to. I am who I quirkily am and that's obvious...when you're looking at me. But it suddenly occurred to me that because I had never booked a voice-over, I didn't know what my type was in that regard. Because, when you can only hear me...what do you hear?
(Holy fuck, what if I book this?)
(Holy fuck, if I do, is that one gig going to determine what my type is in this medium?)
"Jesus, you'd think we liked you or something."
Well, I hope so.
And I guess they did.
Because I did book it :)
But it's been over 24 hours since I got the email saying as much...and I still have no idea who I am: The Snark or The Mom?
And I wonder. ...
Regardless, my voice will be pumping on your stereo in some way or another relatively soon. And hopefully, it's the beginning of a trend.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
A Starving Artist and a New Dawn, a New Day, a New...Mouth?
It is 11pm on New Year's Eve and my darling friend and are driving along the BQE on our way to the East Village. Admiring the brilliantly lit skyline. Again.
Have you seen this thing?
Two-and-a-half years living in this city and not an ounce of it has gotten old, it hasn't remotely lost its luster. And I don't think that it will. Truthfully. It is simultaneously majestic and alluring and exciting and overwhelming, and straight-up amazing.
What is that?! And I point up towards the ginormous structure scraping the sky that appears to have been encrusted entirely with rhinestones. It's stunning.
"Buddy. That's the Freedom Tower."
Nuh-UH!
"Yeah. Super pretty, right?"
I mean, it's...it's so beautiful.
"I know."
We continue winding our way through neighborhood after neighborhood, dodging crazy traffic and crazier pedestrians, blaring Florence + the Machine as loudly as is humanly possible. Grinning. Pumped. Bopping around in the Honda without a single care in the world.
Ohhhhhh, it's gonna be a good year, Love.
"Yeah. If it doesn't end first."
It won't. It can't, and it won't.
When the ball dropped in Times Square and the fireworks began to go off, I was somewhere in the middle of Warrior I and Warrior II, partaking in my first ever NYE Midnight-Yoga class. Breathing out the toxins from the old year and taking in the pure pureness of the new. Feeling brilliant. Feeling excited. Feeling ready to take on the world and feeling like everyone needed to know about it.
(HELL yeah, you fighter, you resilient fighter, you!)
2012 was my delightful little oyster; I was owning it an hour in.
... ... ...And then I went home, gargled some salt water and some peroxide, popped an Augmentin and a painkiller and stared in my bathroom mirror at the stitches cruelly decorating my upper lip.
For real, you cannot go away soon enough.
And thusly began my New Year.
...
When it comes to booking gigs, there are three criteria for actors:
1) Talent. (You should probably have some.)
2) People. (You should probably know some, or know people who know some.)
3) Appearance. (You should probably look ok. Or interesting. ...Or, at the very least, blemish-free.)
**SIDEBAR: Hygiene is a different thing altogether, some people find it "chic" to look unhygienic--I don't...--however, their hygiene is typically still pretty sound. (Pomade, strategically etched make-up and thrift store-magic can work wonders, ah swear to gahd.) But you throw this wrench of "Look at this crap on my face!" into the mix and you don't have a make-up artist on-hand to make your life joyous and your oopses forgivable...I mean, then you have a serious problem, my friend. A serious. Problem.**
And so, when I found myself running to the ER in Buffalo on Friday at 3:30am with my uncle, cousin and a gaping hole in my upper lip in tow (...Also, for the record, dogs are great. I love them. SO much. And they love me back, one dog in particular. But no matter how much you love them and they love you back, it is not the wisest of ideas to startle them with a hug. I'm putting that out there. Do what you will with the advice. ...You have been warned.), once in the hospital, all the middle school-girls buried deep in the recesses of my self-consciousness were incredibly quick join us.
(UGH! Ohmygod, you look so. Stupid.)
Shut it.
(Your lip is like. Huge.)
Hey.
(And like. Bloody. And huge.)
Hey!
(All the boys are gonna think you're like. The opposite. Of cute.)
Wait...
(For forever.)
I mean, that doesn't...I don't care about that at all.
(Yeah. Ok. But. Who's gonna cast you. With that. Faaace?!)
...Oh. Oh no.
And I sat there on the hospital bed swinging my feet around all nervous-like while the nurse prepared a zillion needle-things and swabby-guys and the ice that had been soothing my stupid lip had long since melted into a sad puddle between my cousin and I, feeling worrisome. My sweet sweet lovely wonderful uncle picked up on this, and before I could say anything:
"Nurse. Can you tell me how long this is gonna take to heal?"
"Oh. Oh gosh, ya know, I don't know. These things are all different."
"Do you have some kind of ballpark time frame you could give us?"
"Well. It is the mouth..."
"Yeah..."
Yeah...
"And I don't think it's gonna take forever, but it certainly won't be better overnight."
"Right..."
Oh god...
"I'm only asking because, ya know, she's an actress, and these kind of things are. Ya know. Pretty important."
Yeah...
"Oh." ... ... ...(Say something. SAY SOMETHING!)
"Well. The good news is it's a clean cut, so if it scars, you probably won't notice it too much."
(AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! NOT THE RIGHT THING TO HAVE SAID!!!!!! I don't want it to scar at ALL, and what happens in the MEANtime?!?! WHAT?! HAPPENS!!! IN THE MEANTIME?!?!?!)
"You ok, Honey?"
Oh. Sure. I'm fine. I have this fun story to tell now, so, it's fine. (AHHHHH!!!!!)
"I wouldn't call it a 'fun story'."
No no, it's cool. It's totally fine. Really. (Eeeeeeeeeeeeee.....)
"OK."
Two hours and four stitches later, we're back home. And, honestly, it could look a zillion times worse.
The next day, the rest of my family either doesn't notice or believes that I have a cold sore. (Criminy. I don't have herpes.) But it's fine.
The next day, I'm sore, the inside of my mouth is slightly inflamed, but generally, the same story as the day before.
The next day, New Year's Day, back in the city:
"AH! Oh my god! What happened to you?!" Awesome.
"I didn't notice anything. Really."
"It's so so small. It's fine."
"That looks fucking painful."
"I thought it was a cold sore, I didn't want to say anything."
I DON'T HAVE HERPES!!!
"Ohhhhh, Angela, that sucks."
Thanks.
Today (my legitimate favorite):
"Ooh. Honey. I think...I think you have some chocolate chips or something stuck in the corner of your mouth."
Oh. Noooo, no, it's not....nope.
And it's official: I am a walking "gross".
So now, there's this conundrum. How am I supposed to be an actor out in the world with this new friend on my face? Can everyone actually see it? Is it as totally unavoidable as I feel like it is? Will I walk into a room and have that be all anyone sees?
And how long will I be stuck with said newfound friend? A week? Two? An exceedingly long lonnnnnnng time?
How likely is it that this thing is gonna stand in my way?
The possibilities are...well, they're fucking endless, really.
And tomorrow, in like 9 hours, there is this glorious audition for a glorious role that I would be glorious for--because I do, in fact, look identical to the woman who is currently portraying her and it is, in fact, right directly smack-dab in the center of my wheelhouse--and I'm walking in there totally raring to go, as per, but with a mouth full of yikes.
...So maybe, I say Fuck it! and walk in there with my lips painted bright red.
Maybe, next time someone thinks it's a cold sore, I say Yeah. So? ...My boyfriend's cool with it....?
Maybe. Maybe I just ignore it altogether. As much as I can.
I mean, it is 2012.
It very well might be the end of the world as we know it...and I feel fine.
Monday, December 26, 2011
A Starving Artist On Getting Old(er).
Two weeks ago, I turned a scary age.
I mean, it was my Birthday, and I will always always love that day unabashedly no matter what happens (and will continue to announce its approach 4 weeks in advance, if not earlier). But.
This was the last Birthday of my 20s.
...Kinda terrifying.
I took a good long hard look at myself in the bathroom mirror late late late that Saturday night/early early early that Birthday morning:
There I stood, with layers of alpha-hydroxyness on my mug, all of this pro-baby's bottomesque moisture and anti-wrinkleness. I feel like I maybe potentially still have the face of a 24 year-old (25...maybe...). And no, my hair is not turning brittle or falling out (I have SO much hair), and no, nothing is even somewhat drooping or sagging (sweet jesus, thank you).
But.
Fact remains, much to my chagrin: I am getting older.
(...Don't. Tell. Anyone.)
And, frankly, I don't feel like doing it.
And so, while standing there staring myself down in the bathroom mirror at 3:30am, I made the conscious decision to fight against it, this aging thing, and actively. All year long.
I had no idea what that meant, but I felt great about it, and slept like the baby that I was but a mere 29 years prior.
When I woke up 6 hours later thinking that my voice had dropped like 9 octaves overnight, my teeth felt abnormally weak and that I should probably start thinking about a life insurance policy, I decided to establish a more definite plan of attack.
I ran back to the bathroom mirror, and waited to be enlightened.
...
...
...(staring ahead at myself all blankly) You're bad at this, all of a sudden.
...
...This is dumb.
...
...
It then occurred to me that my roommates might be waiting for the bathroom and would know that I'm in there just kinda like staring at myself, and I started to feel ultra lame and kinda shameful and...EUREKA!!!
What if I seek out a different way to make myself uncomfortable every day? Antsyness and discomfort can keep you feeling young because....you're unsettled. Ish. RIGHT?! ...
...It's a start. Done.
And off I went in search of discomfort.
The day began gloriously. We were hosting an intimate little drunken Birthday-brunch, and the mimosas and conversations were flowing all afternoon. We bounced back and forth between discussions on early-90s hip-hop, the Buffalo Bills being perpetual heartbreakers (...I'm still scowling...), donuts, daiquiri drive-thrus, and the best Brooklyn-neighborhoods to live in right this second right now.
Eventually, however, (and as is often the case), we got talking politics: the walking embarrassment that is Rick Perry, the walking oxymoron that is Marcus Bachmann, Herman Cain quoting Pokemon, Obama and Teddy Roosevelt, and what the shit is going to happen to us between 2012 and 2016.
This is territory that I tend to thrive in. (Ah LOVE it!)
However. I also tend to get really heated when I run into a bullheaded/narrow-minded individual who is daring to contest certain things that--in my very educated and exceedingly liberal personal opinion--just shouldn't be contested. Say educational reform, gay marriage...eliminating student loan debt.
...WHY! WOULD ANYONE! CONTEST THIS?!?!
And yet, there I was, in my living room, with a friend telling me how many topics were more pressing, how irresponsible most people with student loan debt were, how those without scholarships should have worked harder, or only gone to school part-time, or not gone to grad school, or not gone to school at all.
And I. Was. Furious.
Furious in my living room on my Birthday and UNCOMFORTABLE (!!!)...but uncomfortable and decidely stressed-out and cornered in a bizarre way. I was blowing it, blowing it!, this was not going at all the way I had been aiming for it to while staring in my bathroom mirror 3 hours prior.
(New topic, new topic, new topic...)
..."...So, are they really building that Whole Foods in Gowanus or is it all just talk?"
Yeah, and anybody want a cream puff?
Uncomfortability, 1. Angela, zip.
...This was not working at all. I needed to further refine my search in such a way that I would stay away from becoming abrasive or remotely bristly, because that just can't be good for anybody. And I hate it. And I was certain that I had sprouted crows feet within the past 5 minutes from the sheer stresses of debate and confrontation.
(It's gotta be simpler. ...Maybe I just make a further attempt to like step outside of my little box o'comfort, and take a miniature risk of some kind every day. ... Better. I think... OK, great.)
And thusly, I embarked on Attempt #2. ...The next day.
The next day, I'm walking through Union Square on my way to a lunch meeting. A lunch meeting. Me. Actor-types don't have those. Actor-types will get together over lunch and talk about stuff--headshot photographers, great scripts, and IKEA--but they don't do "meetings", generally speaking. "Meetings" are saved for people who work in offices or classrooms and wear slacks to work. I was about to cross into thoroughly unfamiliar territory.
On top of all of this, I was headed into a lunch meeting with two people that (to my knowledge) I had never met a day in my life: the Director of Alumni Relations and the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences from my grad school. These two people had actually sought me out.
I almost felt important.
I felt far more intimidated. And, UNCOMFORTABLE (!!!), but I didn't know if that was a good thing. Because I didn't know what I was doing. But, onward I pushed, attempting not to judge the two overly full bags on my back exploding with gym/shower/work-stuff, attempting not to think I looked like a hobo, and attempting to feel like I could, in fact, be perfectly cut-out for a lunch meeting. With strangers.
I was open to it.
(I could be that girl, I could wear this hat. Maybe. ...Awkwardly. ...)
And, naturally, it went great because, naturally, I know how to hold a good conversation as I am, naturally, an actor and that's essentially a prerequisite. The idea of the lunch was uncomfortable, the act was...well, it was adult. More. Adult. Huh. ...
UNC = 2, Ange = zip.
We were going backwards. It was stupid and terrible and I was 2 days into 29...and officially aging.
(New approach!...Something.)
Over the next series of days, I meandered the city attempting to think of new things that I could do, new things to try, to take on, to test my levels of comfort and fake myself out and feel youthful. And to look cool. ...I earnestly thought the plan made sense. I thought it was 100% going to work. I was coming up empty.
"Hey, Angela! I heard someone had a Birthday last week..."
Maybeeeeee...
"Happy Belated! Was it fun? How old are you? Twenty-five?"
...You're sweet.
"What, twenty-six?"
Nope.
"Twenty-seven?"
Nope.
"Wait. Ummm...."
Older, my friend, I'm older.
"Oooooh. Oh man. Ouch."
Superb.
Suddenly, I had been 29 for all of one week and three days, and I felt decrepit.
...And then, I began to Christmas-shop.
There are few things that I enjoy more than Christmas shopping. I am not even sort of kidding. I will be that girl that stands in line at a store for 45 minutes with a shit-eating grin plastered across my face all sorts of antsy and excited because I'm getting something perfect and genius and unexpected. (I was that exact girl actually 3 different times this season.) I love the crowds, I love the lights, I love carrying 7 different bags in my hands at once.
And I love waiting until the last minute to do all of this. Every single year. Without fail.
I'm on the train coming home from just such an excursion Wednesday night. I have bags on my lap and in between my legs, and I'm sleepy but cheesing it and attempting to not take up more space than is necessary whilst on the bench. (...Impossible task, by the by.) A young Cobble Hill-type plops next to me and taps me on the shoulder.
"You all done shopping?"
No. Not yet. Tomorrow, though.
She grins all sweetly. "You're loving this."
...I totally am. And I am. No lie.
"That's awesome. I somehow finished like almost 2 weeks ago."
(Nuh-UH!!!) You know, someday I should probably consider that approach. Attempt to be more responsible and exhibit some better kind of time management with myself.
"Meh. If you want."
It sounds smart.
"Honestly, and this might sound lame, I find that getting all of that done early helps me to think about all of the rest of everything earlier, too."
"All of the rest of everything", liiiiiike what? What do you mean?
"Like, I actually get to think about what my resolutions for the New Year are going to be instead of just rushing into them and not committing to them like everyone else does."
Oh. Huh. (Huh...).
"It's kind of a lot to mull over if you really want to do it right, I guess."
Sure. (...)
"Because, you want to think about all of the different things that you want to take on, the new things you want to do for yourself, for sure. But then you also want to think about what you plan on letting go of."
...Wait, what?
"Yeah, like what do you not want to take with you into the New Year? What can you shed?"
(...Eureka.) I have absoultely never considered that before.
"Oh! You should! It's, like, refreshing, it lightens you up. Your burden, if you've got one, You, and...everything."
And I suddenly realized just how much I don't do that. I'm brilliant and consistent with taking new things on, and rarely take the opportunity to let things go. And I should. For once.
I don't need to be as weighed down as I am with stuff. Bags, hats, things-not-done, whathaveyou.
"Merry Christmas!"
You too, have a good one!
And so it goes: onward, with the good fight.
I mean, it was my Birthday, and I will always always love that day unabashedly no matter what happens (and will continue to announce its approach 4 weeks in advance, if not earlier). But.
This was the last Birthday of my 20s.
...Kinda terrifying.
I took a good long hard look at myself in the bathroom mirror late late late that Saturday night/early early early that Birthday morning:
There I stood, with layers of alpha-hydroxyness on my mug, all of this pro-baby's bottomesque moisture and anti-wrinkleness. I feel like I maybe potentially still have the face of a 24 year-old (25...maybe...). And no, my hair is not turning brittle or falling out (I have SO much hair), and no, nothing is even somewhat drooping or sagging (sweet jesus, thank you).
But.
Fact remains, much to my chagrin: I am getting older.
(...Don't. Tell. Anyone.)
And, frankly, I don't feel like doing it.
And so, while standing there staring myself down in the bathroom mirror at 3:30am, I made the conscious decision to fight against it, this aging thing, and actively. All year long.
I had no idea what that meant, but I felt great about it, and slept like the baby that I was but a mere 29 years prior.
When I woke up 6 hours later thinking that my voice had dropped like 9 octaves overnight, my teeth felt abnormally weak and that I should probably start thinking about a life insurance policy, I decided to establish a more definite plan of attack.
I ran back to the bathroom mirror, and waited to be enlightened.
...
...
...(staring ahead at myself all blankly) You're bad at this, all of a sudden.
...
...This is dumb.
...
...
It then occurred to me that my roommates might be waiting for the bathroom and would know that I'm in there just kinda like staring at myself, and I started to feel ultra lame and kinda shameful and...EUREKA!!!
What if I seek out a different way to make myself uncomfortable every day? Antsyness and discomfort can keep you feeling young because....you're unsettled. Ish. RIGHT?! ...
...It's a start. Done.
And off I went in search of discomfort.
The day began gloriously. We were hosting an intimate little drunken Birthday-brunch, and the mimosas and conversations were flowing all afternoon. We bounced back and forth between discussions on early-90s hip-hop, the Buffalo Bills being perpetual heartbreakers (...I'm still scowling...), donuts, daiquiri drive-thrus, and the best Brooklyn-neighborhoods to live in right this second right now.
Eventually, however, (and as is often the case), we got talking politics: the walking embarrassment that is Rick Perry, the walking oxymoron that is Marcus Bachmann, Herman Cain quoting Pokemon, Obama and Teddy Roosevelt, and what the shit is going to happen to us between 2012 and 2016.
This is territory that I tend to thrive in. (Ah LOVE it!)
However. I also tend to get really heated when I run into a bullheaded/narrow-minded individual who is daring to contest certain things that--in my very educated and exceedingly liberal personal opinion--just shouldn't be contested. Say educational reform, gay marriage...eliminating student loan debt.
...WHY! WOULD ANYONE! CONTEST THIS?!?!
And yet, there I was, in my living room, with a friend telling me how many topics were more pressing, how irresponsible most people with student loan debt were, how those without scholarships should have worked harder, or only gone to school part-time, or not gone to grad school, or not gone to school at all.
And I. Was. Furious.
Furious in my living room on my Birthday and UNCOMFORTABLE (!!!)...but uncomfortable and decidely stressed-out and cornered in a bizarre way. I was blowing it, blowing it!, this was not going at all the way I had been aiming for it to while staring in my bathroom mirror 3 hours prior.
(New topic, new topic, new topic...)
..."...So, are they really building that Whole Foods in Gowanus or is it all just talk?"
Yeah, and anybody want a cream puff?
Uncomfortability, 1. Angela, zip.
...This was not working at all. I needed to further refine my search in such a way that I would stay away from becoming abrasive or remotely bristly, because that just can't be good for anybody. And I hate it. And I was certain that I had sprouted crows feet within the past 5 minutes from the sheer stresses of debate and confrontation.
(It's gotta be simpler. ...Maybe I just make a further attempt to like step outside of my little box o'comfort, and take a miniature risk of some kind every day. ... Better. I think... OK, great.)
And thusly, I embarked on Attempt #2. ...The next day.
The next day, I'm walking through Union Square on my way to a lunch meeting. A lunch meeting. Me. Actor-types don't have those. Actor-types will get together over lunch and talk about stuff--headshot photographers, great scripts, and IKEA--but they don't do "meetings", generally speaking. "Meetings" are saved for people who work in offices or classrooms and wear slacks to work. I was about to cross into thoroughly unfamiliar territory.
On top of all of this, I was headed into a lunch meeting with two people that (to my knowledge) I had never met a day in my life: the Director of Alumni Relations and the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences from my grad school. These two people had actually sought me out.
I almost felt important.
I felt far more intimidated. And, UNCOMFORTABLE (!!!), but I didn't know if that was a good thing. Because I didn't know what I was doing. But, onward I pushed, attempting not to judge the two overly full bags on my back exploding with gym/shower/work-stuff, attempting not to think I looked like a hobo, and attempting to feel like I could, in fact, be perfectly cut-out for a lunch meeting. With strangers.
I was open to it.
(I could be that girl, I could wear this hat. Maybe. ...Awkwardly. ...)
And, naturally, it went great because, naturally, I know how to hold a good conversation as I am, naturally, an actor and that's essentially a prerequisite. The idea of the lunch was uncomfortable, the act was...well, it was adult. More. Adult. Huh. ...
UNC = 2, Ange = zip.
We were going backwards. It was stupid and terrible and I was 2 days into 29...and officially aging.
(New approach!...Something.)
Over the next series of days, I meandered the city attempting to think of new things that I could do, new things to try, to take on, to test my levels of comfort and fake myself out and feel youthful. And to look cool. ...I earnestly thought the plan made sense. I thought it was 100% going to work. I was coming up empty.
"Hey, Angela! I heard someone had a Birthday last week..."
Maybeeeeee...
"Happy Belated! Was it fun? How old are you? Twenty-five?"
...You're sweet.
"What, twenty-six?"
Nope.
"Twenty-seven?"
Nope.
"Wait. Ummm...."
Older, my friend, I'm older.
"Oooooh. Oh man. Ouch."
Superb.
Suddenly, I had been 29 for all of one week and three days, and I felt decrepit.
...And then, I began to Christmas-shop.
There are few things that I enjoy more than Christmas shopping. I am not even sort of kidding. I will be that girl that stands in line at a store for 45 minutes with a shit-eating grin plastered across my face all sorts of antsy and excited because I'm getting something perfect and genius and unexpected. (I was that exact girl actually 3 different times this season.) I love the crowds, I love the lights, I love carrying 7 different bags in my hands at once.
And I love waiting until the last minute to do all of this. Every single year. Without fail.
I'm on the train coming home from just such an excursion Wednesday night. I have bags on my lap and in between my legs, and I'm sleepy but cheesing it and attempting to not take up more space than is necessary whilst on the bench. (...Impossible task, by the by.) A young Cobble Hill-type plops next to me and taps me on the shoulder.
"You all done shopping?"
No. Not yet. Tomorrow, though.
She grins all sweetly. "You're loving this."
...I totally am. And I am. No lie.
"That's awesome. I somehow finished like almost 2 weeks ago."
(Nuh-UH!!!) You know, someday I should probably consider that approach. Attempt to be more responsible and exhibit some better kind of time management with myself.
"Meh. If you want."
It sounds smart.
"Honestly, and this might sound lame, I find that getting all of that done early helps me to think about all of the rest of everything earlier, too."
"All of the rest of everything", liiiiiike what? What do you mean?
"Like, I actually get to think about what my resolutions for the New Year are going to be instead of just rushing into them and not committing to them like everyone else does."
Oh. Huh. (Huh...).
"It's kind of a lot to mull over if you really want to do it right, I guess."
Sure. (...)
"Because, you want to think about all of the different things that you want to take on, the new things you want to do for yourself, for sure. But then you also want to think about what you plan on letting go of."
...Wait, what?
"Yeah, like what do you not want to take with you into the New Year? What can you shed?"
(...Eureka.) I have absoultely never considered that before.
"Oh! You should! It's, like, refreshing, it lightens you up. Your burden, if you've got one, You, and...everything."
And I suddenly realized just how much I don't do that. I'm brilliant and consistent with taking new things on, and rarely take the opportunity to let things go. And I should. For once.
I don't need to be as weighed down as I am with stuff. Bags, hats, things-not-done, whathaveyou.
"Merry Christmas!"
You too, have a good one!
And so it goes: onward, with the good fight.
Monday, November 28, 2011
A Starving Artist Plans.
It's nearing the end of the year (WHAT?!) which for me, means two definitive things:
A) ...My Birthday is fast approaching :)
B) I need to start planning my Next Step.
Like most people, the second that the holidays start to explode and Christmas/present-buying (yessssss!!!!)/the New Year become unavoidable, I sit back and start to reflect on what I've done and, therefore, what I need to do next. Soon. ...Pretty much as soon as January 1st happens.
Every year, I feel as if this list of "To Dos" becomes ever so slightly more dire.
Every year, I feel as if this list becomes tremendously more exciting.
And, for the first time in QUITE awhile, I feel as if this list is being equally as devoted to personal stuff as it is professional.
...I NEVER THOUGHT I'D SEE THE DAY WHEN SUCH A LIST WAS COMPILED!!!!
(It has been. ...Let's see how well we can actually achieve all of this stuff. We can. It's fine.)
The current list is as follows:
*I am funny. ...I think. I can be. But, I'd like to be funnier and kick ass and get cast in things because of said "funny". Hence:
To Do #1: Sign-up for classes at Upright Citizens Brigade.
Get my ass kicked, get shaken out of my head, have a brilliant time--stay there and love it.
If (on the very very off chance that) the vibe at UCB and I don't quite jive:
To Do #1B: Sign-up for classes at The Pit.
Get my ass kicked, get shaken out of my head, have a brilliant time--stay THERE, and love it.
I'm pumped about this. I'm itching to get back into some kind of classroom and itching to get to work at being better at something, and I inherently know that this is 100% the next thing I need to be doing in THAT regard.
(...It is at this moment that I ignore all of the dollar signs that are starting to dance in front of my face.)
NEXT!:
*I have been in the city now for over two years, and I'm represented, which is great..but I'm not satisfied. I want to be getting out there more than I am, and feeling like I have someone who is really playing/pushing for me. I know this kinda deal takes time, supposedly a lot of it, but still. Hence:
To Do #2: Find more/other representation, specifically of the Legit/Theatrical-variety.
Put myself out there, talk to friends, take workshops, shmooze--see what happens.
If no one is biting with this approach:
To Do #2B: Invest in improv classes even harder, & hope that something arises from being there.
Put myself out there, talk to friends, kick ass, shmooze--see what happens.
This Representation-game is stupid, and dumb, and I have a feeling that it might not really ever end (I hope it does, happily...that would be great), and I can be resilient, and patient. I'm good at these things. And I'm thoroughly aware that being Represented is not the end-all-be-all, clearly, obviously. ...But, really. Really really really, I want one. I want to feel like I'm actually playing this game as opposed to just tapping in sometimes.
(...It is as this point that I attempt to tag an extra two days onto every week/extra 5.5 free-for-all hours onto every day.)
NEXT!:
*Whether I like it or not, I'm turning 30 in a little over a year. (...) Three of my girlfriends and I have been talking about taking a "Goddammit, We're 30"-trip for the past two years in an effort to leap into this particular chunk of our lives with a sense of whimsy and liquor-fueled escape. Hence:
To Do #3: Plan this trip. And take it.
...
(It is at this point that I begin to physically bat away the dollar signs that are dancing in front of my face.)
NEXT!:
*I love my headshots, and they've worked for me incredibly well (which is a HUGE sigh of relief)--but I've been sitting with them for awhile, and even though no one in casting/agents/managers/etc. have said anything about them looking dated or inappropriate, it's a thing that I'm starting to think about. Hence:
To Do #4: Assess whether or not I actually need new headshots right this second.
-AND-
(Potential) To Do #4B: Get them taken.
(...It is at this point that the batting of the dollar signs becomes a bit more manic.)
NEXT! (A series of non-negotiables that need no explanation):
To Do #5: Attend grad school classmates' beautiful super fun wedding.
To Do #6: Go home the weekend that wonderful childhood friend is having her BABY!!!
To Do #7: Go back and forth visiting boyfriend. A lot. Considerably more than this past year.
To Do #8: Embark on a series of DIY-projects around the apartment (throughout the winter specifically, in an effort to beat away any semblance of the depression that New York Winter-Dead can encourage).
To Do #8B: ....Hope to uncover the DIY-guru within me, and ignore the fact that my mother never even taught me how to sew a button. ...
(... $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ ...)
NEXT!:
*BOYFRIEND IS MOVING HERE!!!!!! EEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! SO IS THE DOG!!!!!!!!! YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYYYYYY!!!!!!! HAPPINESS ABOUNDING!!!!... ... This means I need a new apartment.
To Do #9: Find. A new. Apartment.
(...These fucking dollar signs are everywhere. They are FUCKING EV-REE-WHERE!!!!)
Other Things That Would Be Bonuses (Because I Don't Have Much Control Over Them):
To Do #10: Get cast in a show.
To Do #11: ...Or two.
To Do #12: ...Or five.
To Do #13: Get cast in a big fat national commercial.
To Do #14: Wake up to find that my student loans have been obliterated.
Other Things That Would Be a Swell Idea:
To Do #15: Go somewhere just to go somewhere without there being an actual purpose behind it (ie: vacation with Boyfriend, home just to go home...Wegmans...).
To Do #16: Find yet another job/means of supplemental income.
To Do #17: Have a sit-down with Judy Greer and ask if I can play her sister in everything. Always.
To Do #18: ...Freeze my eggs.
To Do #19: Run a half-marathon.
To Do #20: Get a sunburn.
...
...Really, realistically, this is a list that I could continually add things to. For a long time. And very well may, for that matter.
But, the immediate things--the immediate 10ish--are absolute necessities. And it can be an intimidating thing, to look at a list of things that you need to do within "X"-amount of time. I earnestly create these kinds of lists for myself constantly just to stay on point, frequently asking How the shit am I going to do this?
And sometimes, you simply can't do it all. Which is forgivable, and human and, ultimately, fine.
Sometimes, however, you just find a way. Because you have to.
...
To Do #1: Find a way to do all of these things, without excuses, with a little flexibility, and extraordinarily fucking well.
A) ...My Birthday is fast approaching :)
B) I need to start planning my Next Step.
Like most people, the second that the holidays start to explode and Christmas/present-buying (yessssss!!!!)/the New Year become unavoidable, I sit back and start to reflect on what I've done and, therefore, what I need to do next. Soon. ...Pretty much as soon as January 1st happens.
Every year, I feel as if this list of "To Dos" becomes ever so slightly more dire.
Every year, I feel as if this list becomes tremendously more exciting.
And, for the first time in QUITE awhile, I feel as if this list is being equally as devoted to personal stuff as it is professional.
...I NEVER THOUGHT I'D SEE THE DAY WHEN SUCH A LIST WAS COMPILED!!!!
(It has been. ...Let's see how well we can actually achieve all of this stuff. We can. It's fine.)
The current list is as follows:
*I am funny. ...I think. I can be. But, I'd like to be funnier and kick ass and get cast in things because of said "funny". Hence:
To Do #1: Sign-up for classes at Upright Citizens Brigade.
Get my ass kicked, get shaken out of my head, have a brilliant time--stay there and love it.
If (on the very very off chance that) the vibe at UCB and I don't quite jive:
To Do #1B: Sign-up for classes at The Pit.
Get my ass kicked, get shaken out of my head, have a brilliant time--stay THERE, and love it.
I'm pumped about this. I'm itching to get back into some kind of classroom and itching to get to work at being better at something, and I inherently know that this is 100% the next thing I need to be doing in THAT regard.
(...It is at this moment that I ignore all of the dollar signs that are starting to dance in front of my face.)
NEXT!:
*I have been in the city now for over two years, and I'm represented, which is great..but I'm not satisfied. I want to be getting out there more than I am, and feeling like I have someone who is really playing/pushing for me. I know this kinda deal takes time, supposedly a lot of it, but still. Hence:
To Do #2: Find more/other representation, specifically of the Legit/Theatrical-variety.
Put myself out there, talk to friends, take workshops, shmooze--see what happens.
If no one is biting with this approach:
To Do #2B: Invest in improv classes even harder, & hope that something arises from being there.
Put myself out there, talk to friends, kick ass, shmooze--see what happens.
This Representation-game is stupid, and dumb, and I have a feeling that it might not really ever end (I hope it does, happily...that would be great), and I can be resilient, and patient. I'm good at these things. And I'm thoroughly aware that being Represented is not the end-all-be-all, clearly, obviously. ...But, really. Really really really, I want one. I want to feel like I'm actually playing this game as opposed to just tapping in sometimes.
(...It is as this point that I attempt to tag an extra two days onto every week/extra 5.5 free-for-all hours onto every day.)
NEXT!:
*Whether I like it or not, I'm turning 30 in a little over a year. (...) Three of my girlfriends and I have been talking about taking a "Goddammit, We're 30"-trip for the past two years in an effort to leap into this particular chunk of our lives with a sense of whimsy and liquor-fueled escape. Hence:
To Do #3: Plan this trip. And take it.
...
(It is at this point that I begin to physically bat away the dollar signs that are dancing in front of my face.)
NEXT!:
*I love my headshots, and they've worked for me incredibly well (which is a HUGE sigh of relief)--but I've been sitting with them for awhile, and even though no one in casting/agents/managers/etc. have said anything about them looking dated or inappropriate, it's a thing that I'm starting to think about. Hence:
To Do #4: Assess whether or not I actually need new headshots right this second.
-AND-
(Potential) To Do #4B: Get them taken.
(...It is at this point that the batting of the dollar signs becomes a bit more manic.)
NEXT! (A series of non-negotiables that need no explanation):
To Do #5: Attend grad school classmates' beautiful super fun wedding.
To Do #6: Go home the weekend that wonderful childhood friend is having her BABY!!!
To Do #7: Go back and forth visiting boyfriend. A lot. Considerably more than this past year.
To Do #8: Embark on a series of DIY-projects around the apartment (throughout the winter specifically, in an effort to beat away any semblance of the depression that New York Winter-Dead can encourage).
To Do #8B: ....Hope to uncover the DIY-guru within me, and ignore the fact that my mother never even taught me how to sew a button. ...
(... $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ ...)
NEXT!:
*BOYFRIEND IS MOVING HERE!!!!!! EEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! SO IS THE DOG!!!!!!!!! YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYYYYYY!!!!!!! HAPPINESS ABOUNDING!!!!... ... This means I need a new apartment.
To Do #9: Find. A new. Apartment.
(...These fucking dollar signs are everywhere. They are FUCKING EV-REE-WHERE!!!!)
Other Things That Would Be Bonuses (Because I Don't Have Much Control Over Them):
To Do #10: Get cast in a show.
To Do #11: ...Or two.
To Do #12: ...Or five.
To Do #13: Get cast in a big fat national commercial.
To Do #14: Wake up to find that my student loans have been obliterated.
Other Things That Would Be a Swell Idea:
To Do #15: Go somewhere just to go somewhere without there being an actual purpose behind it (ie: vacation with Boyfriend, home just to go home...Wegmans...).
To Do #16: Find yet another job/means of supplemental income.
To Do #17: Have a sit-down with Judy Greer and ask if I can play her sister in everything. Always.
To Do #18: ...Freeze my eggs.
To Do #19: Run a half-marathon.
To Do #20: Get a sunburn.
...
...Really, realistically, this is a list that I could continually add things to. For a long time. And very well may, for that matter.
But, the immediate things--the immediate 10ish--are absolute necessities. And it can be an intimidating thing, to look at a list of things that you need to do within "X"-amount of time. I earnestly create these kinds of lists for myself constantly just to stay on point, frequently asking How the shit am I going to do this?
And sometimes, you simply can't do it all. Which is forgivable, and human and, ultimately, fine.
Sometimes, however, you just find a way. Because you have to.
...
To Do #1: Find a way to do all of these things, without excuses, with a little flexibility, and extraordinarily fucking well.
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