The Audition From Hell

Look, don’t ever go to an audition drunk. It’s not like I was drunk, drunk. It all happened innocently enough.  You see, I was at the ballet, Don Quixote, in fact. Sitting next to me was a six year-old hellion who wouldn’t shut up. No one had taught her to use her ballet voice, you know, whisper? Her grandmother was very nice and said, yes, the little dear was rambunctious and longingly gazed at the perfect child sitting in front of us and asked why her grandchild couldn’t be like that?

             

By the second intermission I couldn’t take it. Oh, and did I mention that the two women sitting behind me were also going at it as well? Talking, that is. They wouldn’t stop. The lights go up after the second act and I make a beeline straight for the bar and order a glass of champagne. By the time I got back to my seat, everything was all right with the world. The little cretin’s voice didn’t bother me at all. In fact, I just laughed. Everything was so much better.

            

 After the ballet, I left McCaw Haw and crossed Seattle Center to where I had an audition for a short-film. This director was supposedly a big deal for Seattle. Even though he was originally from New York, he had attended Evergreen State College where he befriended Kurt Cobain. He befriended him, not the other way around. And we all know Kurt Cobain was a drug addict. Maybe this director was no great shakes after all. One thing I should mention, though, he was the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship. That’s a big deal. This was someone I want to know, right?

          

 So, I go to my audition and while I wasn’t anywhere near drunk, I was, let’s say, a bit more relaxed and exuberant than usual. I was friendly. When I walked in the director mentioned that I had impressed him by sending him a headshot for the part of the nurse where I was dressed, well, as a nurse. That’s where the compliments started and that’s where they ended. It all went to hell after that.

             

He gave me some direction and when I went in to deliver my line (which involved me moving, walking actually), I didn’t cheat the camera enough and I wound up with my the back of my head facing the camera. You know, the kiss of death for an actor. We all know that’s the #1 think you don’t do. Ever. That’s the first thing you learn in Acting 101 for crying out loud. Shit, I knew better. Luckily he let me do a couple more takes, but the damage was most likely already done. Fuck. Just shoot me now.

Feeling Like A Heffalump

My friend Navjit just launched her fabulous new website, and her new company Tenderlogic and she is offering a challenge which also happens to be a contest. If you know me well, you know how I love a contest. But that isn't why I'm entering. I'm entering because one of her questions spoke to me. And it didn't speak to me in a friendly sort of way. In fact, it haunted me.

The question is this: What habit or behavior is blocking you from your higher self?

Initially, I thought I'd answer the easy question: Do you think you're funny? Well, of course I'm funny. I'm sure if I decided to put the time and energy into answering that question I could have come up with something hilarious. Heck, I could have even written a new knock-knock joke, the likes that no one has ever heard before and know that my dear friend Navjit would be roaring with laughter. While I do enjoy making people laugh, (and who wouldn't want to make Navjit laugh?), that would have been the easy answer and honestly, the thought of answering that question didn't make me feel funny at all. Had I decided to answer that question, it probably would have had some ego attached to it.

So, instead, I'm choosing to answer the difficult question. The one I don't want to look at. It surrounds an issue that gnaws at me on a regular basis, weekly in fact. I enjoy writing down goals each week, more specifically the things I've accomplished after I accomplish them. Each Sunday starts a new week. I'm a doer. But not in the area I'm having trouble with. That area is exercise.

If I could only just get my butt to the gym!

I have a membership at a swank club and each week I imagine that I'll go there, take a yoga class, go for a swim, maybe even take a zumba class.

But I don't go. I have gone to the Saturday yoga class before, but it's been months and it's been even longer since I've gone during the week after work. I've thought about canceling my membership, but I don't want to. I don't want to give up on myself. The thing is, I know that if I just show up that the exercise part will take care of itself. It will happen because I'm there. That I know. However, getting myself to the gym is the tricky thing. And because I live in the Pacific Northwest where it rains 10 months out of the year, a gym membership is a great thing to have because of the weather.

If I could just get there once a week I'd be ahead of the game. Three times a week and I'd be ecstatic. Five, and....oh!!! Stop! Let's not put the cart before the horse. See, I can easily work myself up about my fantasy workouts and get excited just by thinking about them. While I'm sure if a trainer showed up at my house every day and forced me to exercise I wouldn't like it. In fact, I'd probably resent it. I want the freedom to choose when and how to work out. I just need help getting there. Getting to the gym that is, and just getting started. It's not like I don't exercise at all. I do. Sunday mornings I walk with friends along the Burke-Gilman trail, no matter what the weather, and then take a yoga class. On Saturdays sometimes I'll hike. What I want to do, is not let my gym membership go to waste.

The Seattle Freeze

Seattle, you're not as progressive as you think you are.
Oh, you compost and you recycle...
But what about the gay men who come here and hide out in marriages to women? Hey, Mister, you're much more transparent that you think you are. I see you.
With the Subaru being the state car, you're much more conformist than Portland and not that creative.
While it's admirable that most of your citizens are card carrying library members, and walk around with a book in hand, would it kill them to open their mouths and speak to a stranger? Just because?
The chill infuses everything and everyone.
Oh, and I've heard different excuses: the constant rain, that the city was founded by Swedes. Boring, boring.
Unfortunately the Seattle Freeze is real and people think it's okay to act that way. Even if they were friendly at first they eventually succumb and conform. It's not okay.
What makes a city is its people.
Smiling and looking someone in the eye doesn't happen here.
And that's what it's about, for me anyway. Connection. The older I get the more I want to be a part of something.
Perhaps I need a smaller town in order to feel a sense of community.
Seattle chose me for various reasons and I obliged.
Perhaps, the next time, I'll choose differently with what's important in mind.

Hey, I'm Not Gay

When I turned thirty, I cut my hair short and never looked back. While I wore it in varying stages of long for my entire life (with it almost to my butt as a young child), I was so relieved when I found out that short hair looked good on me, since I'm lazy in the mornings and it's so easy to care for.

As you may know, I've lived in several other places before landing in Seattle and in every other place I've lived, my sexual preference has never before been questioned to the degree that it has here in Seattle. While I know I'm not a Pretty Young Thing, I've never lived anywhere that when it comes to dating where I cannot get arrested.

Even in LA, the land of the superficial, I could probably do better than I'm faring here in Seattle. Although, it is possible that I may be deluding myself and looking at L.A. through rose-colored glasses. But believe me when I tell you - it's been very disheartening here in Seattle, a city that seems to be obsessed with hair. The men here have way too much of it in my book and that's just on their heads. Facial hair is also terribly out of control in this city and most men look like Grizzly Adams. It's definitely not coiffed facial hair.

Seattle is a city where you will also see women with hair that does not match their age. I am of the mind that as you age, your hair should get shorter and thus more tasteful. Not in Seattle!!

Here you see lots of women with long hair, and about half of them should cut it. Long stringy hair on an older woman is anything but flattering. "Look in the mirror!" I want to scream. But no one would listen if I did; I'd be preaching to the choir. Plus, I'm living in the land of Gortex, where sadly I've started fantasizing about purchasing completely water-proof hiking boots rather than the glam, suede high-heel boots I've been swooning over at Marshall's. The entire city could be on What Not To Wear.

Someone seriously needs to slap me. But, unfortunately, when it rains 7 months out of the year practicality takes over. As a last-ditch effort, I'm trying to save myself from becoming a fashion nightmare.

But, back to Seattle being a sucky place to date. In addition to stopping myself from thinking about Gortex, I've finally figured out part of my dating problem: my very short hairstyle.

In the year that I've lived in Seattle, only women have been knocking down my door.

My housemate recently confirmed my fears and she told me that she too, when she wore her hair very short, was completely ignored by the male species.

Fabulous.

We all know that men like long hair. Yawn. It just so happens that for several reasons, as well as the fact that my hair is super fine, that wearing it short seems to be the best solution. However, I can be proactive and have decided to grow it out to a short bob and see what happens. I'm approaching it as a scientific experiment. We'll see if any of the men in Seattle notice.

Thanks, Canada

After making it through my first year in Seattle at the beginning of August, I have to admit: I wasn't loving Seattle. It's not a very friendly city and I was starting to fantasize about living in other places.

Over the past several days, something has shifted. Not just one thing happened, but a combination of things that helped change my perspective.

On Friday I was excited because I had an audition for a national commercial. While I didn't get a callback or the job, it got my creative juices pumping and made me realize that the Seattle acting market is the perfect size for me given my experience.

Then on Saturday, I visited Vancouver, British Columbia for the day and I'm pretty sure that's what caused the paradigm shift.

What a freaking cool city! And, it's only 2 1/2 hours away. Yay!!

Having a city like Vancouver so close by has given me a new lease on life. I cannot wait to go back.

On Sunday, I auditioned for a play lab for a staged reading and while I don't know if I'll get cast or not - it felt so good to be acting. They were casting for 4 different plays and I got to read for all of them and the response was good. Really good. While I haven't heard back yet, and it's driving me batty, it was a good reminder that it's about the process - as actors we don't have much control on the outcome. We just have to keep plugging away and fighting the good fight.

I've also started writing a one-woman show with my much esteemed acting coach and she's just as excited about my project as I am and I believe her enthusiasm is authentic. She really feels I'm developing something worthwhile and it's nice to not only get the validation, but to be working with someone like her. She's a master at what she does and I feel I've found the perfect person to work with.

Being an artist isn't easy. Most people don't get us and there is no guarantee we'll get the reward.

Thank goodness, I've been inspired to keep going. My eye is back on the prize.

Dating In The Time Of Cholera

I once had a college professor who was a complete moron. I know you might find this hard to believe, especially at a school as prestigious as UCLA, but I assure you: the man was an idiot. During the quarter that I took his Sociology course, the only wise thing that he would mumble on occasion was, "We have to laugh, so we don't cry." This comment seemed to allude to his Mexican heritage in some way and it was implied that he felt he'd gotten the ethnic short end of the stick.

Who knew, this many years later (and it's been many years) that I would take this phrase to heart - particularly in matters of the heart.

While I didn't expect to find myself middle aged and single - guess what? Here I am.

Fantastic.

Actually, no - not really.

When I lived in Los Angeles (where I lived for 18 years), dating was challenging. While I have friends who have succeeded in finding admirable mates, I tend to think of the dating mores in LA and get hives. It's not uncommon to be talking to someone of the opposite sex, say, at a party and for them to be looking past you: to see who better they can converse with.

It's frickin' depressing.

From there I moved to Las Vegas - a place I never intended to live, that in fact chose me. I went along for the ride kicking & screaming, but, once settling in I made the best of the situation and found dating in Sin City to be, well, surprisingly easy.

Even though my banker at Wells Fargo warned me when I first got to town to beware of men on the down-low and men who pay for sex (unfortunately I would later meet one of each variety), I found that any man who caught my eye would then ask me out. It was like...well...magic! I'd never experienced such amazing dating juju in my life.

Life in Seattle would beckon to me and I would follow, and after a few excellent dating years in Las Vegas I would find....in Seattle...

I can't get arrested.

Excuse me? What the...???

Okay, I know I'm over forty, but I look reasonably good. It's not like I'm an old hag or anything. I still think I'm sort of a....catch.

When I first arrived a year ago I tried online dating and met some truly vile men and decided it was time to move on and have faith that a man could appear in another fashion.

I recently got set up on a blind date as some of you know and....nothing. Apparently we weren't on the same page. I seemed to think we had a good time after spending 4 1/2 hours together. To me it seemed like a sign of success. Apparently, I was wrong.

I'm not stupid, and I've read "He's Just Not That Into You." And my friend Seven was kind enough to reiterate that "he's not into you." Thanks, Seven. I needed the reminder.

When I was in LA in April for a friend's baby shower I got together with a former flame and the sparks seemed to fly. He thought it would be a good idea to get together at a time in the near future and take me away on a romantic getaway. When I got home and my hormones had calmed down, I realized that it probably wasn't the smartest idea. My friend and I had attempted to date about 10 years ago and when I took the trip down memory lane, I realized that my agreeing to the tentative romantic getaway was most probably a serious lapse in judgment as Mark (as much as I love him) was hardly a smart romantic prospect.

We spoke again about 3 weeks ago and Mark (who is very sweet) asked me if we were going to take our trip. I kind of hemmed and hawed and well...kind of agreed.

And then today, I'm on Facebook and just happen to notice that he's changed his relationship status to...in a relationship!

You'd think that I'd be happy. Relieved, in fact, and feel that he's done me a favor and that now I can slip out of our tentative commitment.

Hell no!

The very least the motherfucker could have done was told me he'd met someone! We've only been friends for twenty years.

Oh, I was pissed. And, I called him a motherfucker in the email I sent. Followed by: "I'm happy for you and I hope it works out."

What has happened to chivalry? I'm afraid it might be a rhetorical question.

Most likely, it's dead.

Today I'm A Salad

When I first found out there was a Korean spa in the Seattle area, my heart skipped a beat. I was ecstatic. It had been years since I'd frequented such a place and when I made my first visit a few months back, it was everything I'd hoped for and more.

I must say, spending the Fourth of July getting completely pampered was just what the doctor ordered.

Now, if you've never been to a Korean spa before, and aren't European - know that it isn't for everyone. What I mean by that, is that even though you're given a robe, you'll be spending a lot of time au naturel. It's not a tony spa environment where everyone is robed and shuffled in and out of their spa treatments. At this type of spa, you are laid down on a table buck naked before you are scrubbed or moisturized by a Korean woman in a black utilitarian bra and underwear.

After a morning of soaking in the various tubs, sitting in the steam room and sauna and getting a couple of treatments, I ate lunch in the restaurant and then hopped from room to room. The spa boasts room of different temperatures - varying degrees of hot - that all promise different healing properties and are supposed to regulate different bodily processes. All good, of course.

From the way they advertise it, if you spend enough time in each room before you leave, you're guaranteed not only extra vitality and energy, but also years added onto your life - just as long as you don't get hit by a bus when you leave.

After baking in one room that warns against staying in it longer for more than five minutes, I went into the cool room to "chill" and stared at a poster of a penguin family. After all the heat I could take in the rooms, I showered - as told to do by the woman who would be in charge of my moisturizing treatment - and then sat in the dry sauna. I could only stand it for a few minutes before I had to get out. It had been a long day of a lot of heat. I did pop back in (I can obey orders) for a few more minutes before Eve came and got me.

I was then ready for my moisturizing treatment. And as it turned out, I had no idea what I was in for.

For fifty minutes, Eve's intent was to moisturize the heck out of me. And that she did.

She slathered me in separate coats (and poured hot water on me in between) of olive oil, milk and honey.  After the honey was applied, she then packed my face with iced cucumber and left me to marinate.

For a really long time. At least 10 minutes, maybe longer. It felt like an eternity. And after a while, I was ready to be rid of the honey and cucumber on my body. Seriously, I had turned into a salad.

When you're lying there, wrapped up like coleslaw, you lose sense of time. It wasn't like I could see the clock - because each eye was covered by a slice of cucumber. What is supposed to be super relaxing, after a while becomes a tad annoying.

Finally Eve returned and hosed me off and sent me on my merry way. She told me not to go near water the rest of the day. I could drink it, but it couldn't touch my body. I was now as soft as a baby's hiney, so I didn't care.

On the drive home, though, I noticed there was quite a slick streak of honey on my left forearm. What do do? I promised to stay away from water. However, I think given the gargantuan ants that I've seen walking around my kitchen and bedroom lately (that I think stowed away in the peonies from the market), that it's safe to apply a damp paper towel to my left forearm. Eve doesn't need to know.