“Yea what’s up with that Harry Potter kid, anyway? He’s still at that school. Is he ever going to graduate? I mean, what is he doing - getting his PhD in wizardry?” My 12 year old brother has made me laugh so hard with his stand-up comedian voice, I’ve got tears in my eyes. Then he confesses he heard that line in a movie. Which makes me laugh even harder because kids are always repeating what they hear from adults and TV. Especially my 12 year old brother who has 5 adults for family members.
I wrote my college essay on my brother Michael who was born when I was 11 years old, and how when my parents told me the news I shouted at them “He’s going to ruin everything!!!” You’re supposed to write about a life-changing event or a significant person, showing your personality and personal growth. His birth certainly was life-changing, because I transformed from THAT type of kid into the type of person that would now shout “That’s wonderful!” at such news. I wrote that essay 7 years ago, and it got me into Fairfield University with a scholarship. And forced me to move away from my little brother when he was only 6 years old and didn’t yet know what college was or what going away meant. Although, being the oldest child, I don’t think any of us in my family knew yet what that would mean.
Every time I go home, like for this Thanksgiving trip, I sound like an old lady who pinches little kids’ cheeks. “Oh you’ve grown so tall!” I no longer think old ladies are crazy, because Michael really does grow another 2 inches every time I see him. And his voice is getting a little deeper. And he’s getting more muscle on him. And he cares about how he dresses. And he says grown-up things. And he holds the door for me and takes my suitcase up to my room. And he uses a cell phone!!!
“Mmmm this chocolate pie is just exquisite,” he says instead of “This is good.” What 12 year old describes chocolate pudding pie as exquisite? He uses big words - usually incorrectly - in an attempt to fit in with the 5 adult members of his family.
But although he seems grown up in a lot of ways to me, he is still full of youthful innocence and playfulness and purity. Sometimes I wonder if life is easier when we’re kids because we have our parents to guide us and take care of us, or if it’s because we don’t yet know about all the awful things that come with life. For most, stress and self-doubt aren’t in our vocabulary yet. Most children don’t know about loss, or heartache, or grief yet. They all want to grow up to be professional hockey players, rock stars, and astronauts. They all have big dreams and they believe they’ll come true.
“Jodie when we all grow up, do you want to live in a big house together? Me, you, Kristen and Lindsey?”
“That sounds nice, Michael. Sure.” Because even though it’s unrealistic that my 2 sisters, Michael and I would all live together, it does sound nice. So instead of crushing his novel idea, I decide to play along and partake in this dream.
“Ok, it’s gonna be an old farmhouse like in Suffield or something – so, close to Mom and Dad. But the inside will be all new. And we’ll have a huge yard. 4 acres. And we’re going to have 2 dogs – a black lab and a golden retriever, named Tiki and Lucky – and 3 cats – doesn’t matter what kind or their names yet – and 4 horses. Kristen and I will take care of the horses, so you don’t have to worry about that. And we’ll have a path down to a tributary – wait, what’s like a little river called?”
“A stream?”
“Yea, a stream. We’ll have a stream that connects to the ocean and we’ll keep 20 kayaks down there.”
“20?! Why do we need 20 kayaks?! Don’t we only need 4?”
“So our friends can kayak with us.”
“Oh, right. Duh.” How could I forget about all 16 of our friends? Maybe because I’m still thinking that it’s funny that our dogs are clearly more loved than our cats.
“And we can have a motor boat there, too. Or a sailboat. Whatever we decide. Sound good?”
“Sounds great, Michael,” because it does. Except… “Except I don’t know if I want all those animals. The house will smell.”
“That’s ok - we’ll be able to afford plenty of Febreeze.”
And with that comment – my new gauge of success in life is if I’ll be able to afford Febreeze when I’m an adult.
I have so many friends who are worried about the future – our careers, our relationships, our financial security. I confess, I’m guilty of facing those insecurities on a daily basis, as well. Am I really taking the right steps towards my career? Will I be as successful in achieving my life dreams as I was at getting A’s in school? Will I ever meet the man of my dreams and fall in love? And if I do, will I be able to raise my kids without them turning out nuts? And can we live in a nice house and buy nice things? It is refreshing – no, inspiring – to hear my little brother speak so confidently and precisely about his dreams. They say if you envision your dreams coming true, they will. And the vision my 12 year old brother sees, with the floorplan of our country home already laid out on graph paper, is so vivid, that I feel as if the 4 of us are already there. Obstacles are not in Michael’s way. His plan is flawless. His vision is clear. And he has all the details worked out. “That’s ok - we’ll be able to afford plenty of Febreeze.”
I’m hitting the one-year mark of when I lost my job at Letterman, and when I thought the world might end because I was a horrible human being for wasting my college degree by sitting at cattle call auditions instead of a desk. But in this past year, I have found that it is channeling that hopeful, confident inner 12 year old in myself and having a clear vision, complete with 20 kayaks and bottles of Febreeze, that keeps me going and keeps my world from crumbling down or turning into a waste. Success does not happen overnight, or in a few months, or in a year. Success is believing in yourself and your dream and not giving in no matter how many bumps you hit in the road. This is the longest race of my life. This is the biggest challenge to face. This is what all those childhood years have prepped me for. In the midst of my conflicting doubt and confidence, my 12 year old brother is there to remind me of the dream I announced when I was his age: “I am going to be an actress when I grow up.” 12 years later, my dream is coming true, because I have Michael to remind me how simple it is to turn dreams into realities.
We’re watching the VH1 Top 20 Music Video Countdown, when I confess a dream to Michael. “I’ve always wanted to host the Top 20. That’d be the coolest job in the world.”
“Yea, you should do it.” He says…like as if I could just march into the VH1 office, declare this and get the job.
“Well – ” before I can explain that I don’t know how to get that job, that it’s not that easy, or that there’s no application for the job, he says:
“Don’t you have a friend who works at VH1?”
“Yea – ”
“Just do it, Jodie.”
That simple. That easy. Just do it. To a 12 year old, there’s nothing in the way of a dream. And to a girl who was once 12 years old, I say,
“You’re right, Michael. I think I will do it.”
Michael didn’t ruin everything. He didn’t ruin anything. He has made everything in my life bigger and brighter and richer and more meaningful and perfect. And once again – going home for the holidays and visiting my little brother has reminded me that I can have anything and everything I want – a job as the next Top 20 host on VH1 and enough Febreeze to make a big old farmhouse smell animal-free.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Magic Rocks
"Magic Rock, Magic Rock, what will you be? Magic Rock, Magic Rock, change on three. 1...2...3! Astronauts!"
"I'm an astronaut!" - "Great Alex!"
"I'm Darth Vader!" - "Ok Boston."
"I'm an alien!" - "Sure Michael!
"I'm an asteroid!" - "Um, Oliver."
"I'm a shark!" - "In outer space Bradley?"
I am teaching five 4 year old boys how to act. At 10am. On Sunday morning. And it's as if they've already shoveled down five pounds of sugar and lost their sense of hearing. At least asteroids are in outer space. But sharks? Sharks aren't in outer space. Then again, I've never been to outer space to prove it. So...
"Yes! Good shark-astronaut Bradley!"
Positive reinforcement, whether they're following directions or not, is the only way to get through these 45 minutes without anyone crying...me included. And letting them run around and chase each other is the only way to keep five 4 year old boys interested in an acting class.
Magic Rocks, in case you're wondering, is a simple acting game. I whip out my imaginary invisible super magic wand which is a different invisible color each day (today it is blue with gold sparkles and a lime green star on top) and turn each kid into a rock. For one beautiful split second, the kids shut up. Then they have the power to turn into whatever I say. Astronauts. Superheroes. Pirates. Dogs. Ninjas. When things get out of hand, like all the monkeys escape from the zoo and fall into a lava pit and start screaming, my blue-gold-green magic wand transforms them back into rocks! Silent rocks! And then we sing the song again and change into something else. I don't mean to brag, but the pretty wand and the catchy song are my own special touches that I've added to the game. The kids pour into the classroom singing my Magic Rock song. With no clue that I made it up on the spot on the first day of class.
"Magic Rock, Magic Rock, what will you be? Magic Rock, Magic Rock, change on three! 1...2...3! Cowboys!"
"I'm a cowboy!" - "Good Alex!"
"I'm a cowgirl!" - "That's fine Michael."
"I'm Darth Vader!" - "Still Boston?"
"I'm a jelly bean!" - "What?! Oliver, you have to become what I say. You have to - "
"I'm a shark!" - "Bradley!!!! Ok, yes, what a great Cowboy Shark you are!"
Every day I plan to do something different from Magic Rocks. I've got a ton of games up my sleeve and I've got different stories to act out. But every day they come in chanting the Magic Rock song. I start playing a different game and they shout "Let's play Magic Rocks!" and "I like Magic Rocks better!" Don't they get sick of this game? Should I be teaching them new things? Will they ever grow as actors if they always play the same game? And same characters, even.
I may not be creating the next Robert DeNiro and Meryl Streep. I may not ever get to the Meisner technique with them. I can't even get to the Animal Charades game with them! But at the rate we're going, these children are going to grow up to teach their children how to be a Magic Rock. Knowing my legacy is bound to live on, with patience and a resignation to keeping my other acting techniques up my sleeve, I say "Ok, Magic Rocks it is."
Hey, I actually really love the game. Only in the world of Magic Rocks can sharks live in outer space and mermaids defeat dinosaurs and monkeys fly to the top of a mountain and asteroids talk AND I have ultimate power...
"Ahh! Stop pulling!" - "Alex!"
"Ahh! Stop pushing!" - "Stop!"
"Grrrrrrrrrrrrr! I'm gonna eat you!" - "Boys!"
"Ow! I'm gonna kill you!" - "Don't say that word!"
"The shark's attacking!!!!!" - "1...2...3! REGULAR Rocks!"
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"(whispering) Psst...Jodie...what does a shark rock say?" - "Nothing. He doesn't have a mouth."
"I'm an astronaut!" - "Great Alex!"
"I'm Darth Vader!" - "Ok Boston."
"I'm an alien!" - "Sure Michael!
"I'm an asteroid!" - "Um, Oliver."
"I'm a shark!" - "In outer space Bradley?"
I am teaching five 4 year old boys how to act. At 10am. On Sunday morning. And it's as if they've already shoveled down five pounds of sugar and lost their sense of hearing. At least asteroids are in outer space. But sharks? Sharks aren't in outer space. Then again, I've never been to outer space to prove it. So...
"Yes! Good shark-astronaut Bradley!"
Positive reinforcement, whether they're following directions or not, is the only way to get through these 45 minutes without anyone crying...me included. And letting them run around and chase each other is the only way to keep five 4 year old boys interested in an acting class.
Magic Rocks, in case you're wondering, is a simple acting game. I whip out my imaginary invisible super magic wand which is a different invisible color each day (today it is blue with gold sparkles and a lime green star on top) and turn each kid into a rock. For one beautiful split second, the kids shut up. Then they have the power to turn into whatever I say. Astronauts. Superheroes. Pirates. Dogs. Ninjas. When things get out of hand, like all the monkeys escape from the zoo and fall into a lava pit and start screaming, my blue-gold-green magic wand transforms them back into rocks! Silent rocks! And then we sing the song again and change into something else. I don't mean to brag, but the pretty wand and the catchy song are my own special touches that I've added to the game. The kids pour into the classroom singing my Magic Rock song. With no clue that I made it up on the spot on the first day of class.
"Magic Rock, Magic Rock, what will you be? Magic Rock, Magic Rock, change on three! 1...2...3! Cowboys!"
"I'm a cowboy!" - "Good Alex!"
"I'm a cowgirl!" - "That's fine Michael."
"I'm Darth Vader!" - "Still Boston?"
"I'm a jelly bean!" - "What?! Oliver, you have to become what I say. You have to - "
"I'm a shark!" - "Bradley!!!! Ok, yes, what a great Cowboy Shark you are!"
Every day I plan to do something different from Magic Rocks. I've got a ton of games up my sleeve and I've got different stories to act out. But every day they come in chanting the Magic Rock song. I start playing a different game and they shout "Let's play Magic Rocks!" and "I like Magic Rocks better!" Don't they get sick of this game? Should I be teaching them new things? Will they ever grow as actors if they always play the same game? And same characters, even.
I may not be creating the next Robert DeNiro and Meryl Streep. I may not ever get to the Meisner technique with them. I can't even get to the Animal Charades game with them! But at the rate we're going, these children are going to grow up to teach their children how to be a Magic Rock. Knowing my legacy is bound to live on, with patience and a resignation to keeping my other acting techniques up my sleeve, I say "Ok, Magic Rocks it is."
Hey, I actually really love the game. Only in the world of Magic Rocks can sharks live in outer space and mermaids defeat dinosaurs and monkeys fly to the top of a mountain and asteroids talk AND I have ultimate power...
"Ahh! Stop pulling!" - "Alex!"
"Ahh! Stop pushing!" - "Stop!"
"Grrrrrrrrrrrrr! I'm gonna eat you!" - "Boys!"
"Ow! I'm gonna kill you!" - "Don't say that word!"
"The shark's attacking!!!!!" - "1...2...3! REGULAR Rocks!"
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"(whispering) Psst...Jodie...what does a shark rock say?" - "Nothing. He doesn't have a mouth."
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Abra Cadabra!
When I was little, I had a thing for witches. I don't think I was weird - I just liked reading stories about them and watching movies about them. Like "The Wizard of Oz" and "Hocus Pocus." Who doesn't like those movies? My generation grew up on "Hocus Pocus." I read little chapter books about witches and girls who had clubs that did witchcraft. Still not weird - I'm not the one writing them. In high school, "Wicked" became my new favorite musical. And I did a term paper (or two) on the Salem witch trials. (Ok, now doing the writing.) I was so excited to take my first trip to Salem junior year - and then incredibly disappointed when nothing spooky or spectactular happened there. It was actually a little boring. And I love field trips! I guess I thought my witchy powers would come to life while I was there. I'd discover I could pause time, and fly, and cast spells for good luck. The forcs had been waiting for the day I went to Salem to reveal to me that I was the real-life Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Ok - I'm pretty convinced I'm not the only one with a witch fetish here. With all these pop culture references and the popularity of Melissa Joan Heart, I'm convinced other people have a thing for witches, too.
And so that is why I have been a witch for about half my Halloweens. The first time my mom drew a little moon and cat in silver glitter glue on my black sweatshirt. One year I had a cape with orange pom-poms on it. One year I got a wicked wicker broom. One year I was a spider witch (yea, just go with it). One year in college I was Glinda, the Good Witch of the North - that counts, too. Some people may think a witch is a cop-op costume considering I wear mostly black on an ordinary day. But I just love dressing up as a witch on Halloween! And despite my affection for my alter ego, every year my friends pressure me to do the same thing, and think really hard to be all creative and come up with a costume that's unique or funny. One year I actually was creative and dressed up for school like a Survivor on Survivor. Although I think it was too cold that night for trick-or-treating in the skimpy shorts, so when I got home from school I changed into the witch. Oh! Last year I was Sarah Palin! Although, some would put her in the witch category, too.
I was struggling again this year coming up with a costume. Tina Fey's Liz Lemon was my forerunner - but she only requires putting on a pair of glasses and wearing my hair in a low bun. I even thought about not dressing up. I'm not anti-Halloween or rebellious in nature, but I just don't get all excited to dress up. Maybe because I'm alwasy playing characters and wearing costumes every time I'm in a play. Or maybe because I'm 24 and Halloween is pretty much a kid's holiday. But then I had an "aha!" moment. A witch is a Halloween icon. A witch is traditional and classic, and something we think of when we think of Halloween. Nobody thinks of Tina Fey! And I figured all I had to do was go out and buy a witch hat. It would be an investment, considering I have no future plans of being anything but a witch for every Halloween for the rest of my life.
I am actually really happy right now that I am dressing up like a witch tonight! Why did I doubt myself? I have green tights and a little black dress and a witches hat with green trim. I didn't even have to buy it - the girl I babysit for gave me her old witches hat. My head is actually smaller than hers. Weird, I know. And I already owned everything else so this recession-friendly costume has cost me: zero dollars! But I'm not going to put green make-up on my face just in case I break out. What if I go through all this effort to greenify my face and tomorrow morning can't get it off? Or I have to scrub really hard and then my face is burnt and red? Or what if it creates a chemical reaciton with my face cream? If I ever go to a really huge costume party with prizes, maybe I'll consider putting on a green face.
And so that is why I have been a witch for about half my Halloweens. The first time my mom drew a little moon and cat in silver glitter glue on my black sweatshirt. One year I had a cape with orange pom-poms on it. One year I got a wicked wicker broom. One year I was a spider witch (yea, just go with it). One year in college I was Glinda, the Good Witch of the North - that counts, too. Some people may think a witch is a cop-op costume considering I wear mostly black on an ordinary day. But I just love dressing up as a witch on Halloween! And despite my affection for my alter ego, every year my friends pressure me to do the same thing, and think really hard to be all creative and come up with a costume that's unique or funny. One year I actually was creative and dressed up for school like a Survivor on Survivor. Although I think it was too cold that night for trick-or-treating in the skimpy shorts, so when I got home from school I changed into the witch. Oh! Last year I was Sarah Palin! Although, some would put her in the witch category, too.
I was struggling again this year coming up with a costume. Tina Fey's Liz Lemon was my forerunner - but she only requires putting on a pair of glasses and wearing my hair in a low bun. I even thought about not dressing up. I'm not anti-Halloween or rebellious in nature, but I just don't get all excited to dress up. Maybe because I'm alwasy playing characters and wearing costumes every time I'm in a play. Or maybe because I'm 24 and Halloween is pretty much a kid's holiday. But then I had an "aha!" moment. A witch is a Halloween icon. A witch is traditional and classic, and something we think of when we think of Halloween. Nobody thinks of Tina Fey! And I figured all I had to do was go out and buy a witch hat. It would be an investment, considering I have no future plans of being anything but a witch for every Halloween for the rest of my life.
I am actually really happy right now that I am dressing up like a witch tonight! Why did I doubt myself? I have green tights and a little black dress and a witches hat with green trim. I didn't even have to buy it - the girl I babysit for gave me her old witches hat. My head is actually smaller than hers. Weird, I know. And I already owned everything else so this recession-friendly costume has cost me: zero dollars! But I'm not going to put green make-up on my face just in case I break out. What if I go through all this effort to greenify my face and tomorrow morning can't get it off? Or I have to scrub really hard and then my face is burnt and red? Or what if it creates a chemical reaciton with my face cream? If I ever go to a really huge costume party with prizes, maybe I'll consider putting on a green face.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Three-Quarters of an Inch is a Big Deal
I used to hate when kids at camp would say they were "11 and 3/4 years old." Or when people say they've lived for New York for "4 and a quarter years." Or friends say they've been dating for "14 months, 2 weeks, and 6 days." Round to the nearest whole number, people! Do we really need to clarify on that extra 1/4 of a year? Well, lately I've found that there is one thing we do have to be that specific with. Our height. Well, specifically, my height.
I am 5 feet, 4 and 3/4 inches.
That is not quite 5'5".
And not as short as 5'4".
And yes - it does matter!
In auditioning for soaps, where people are shorter, I feel like I need to tell them that I'm 5'4" - which sounds a lot shorter than 5'5". But when a casting notice says "medium to tall," I say I'm 5'5" because that sounds a lot taller than just 5'4".
In the winter, when I wear heels or boots a lot more, I tend to round up and lie, saying I'm 5'5". I mean, the heel does add more than that 1/4 inch. But in the summer, wearing flats or sandals, if I say I'm 5'5", people don't quite believe me. "Really?" They say. Well, no, actually I am 5'4". ...and a liar.
I never say that I'm 5' 4 3/4" because that sounds ridiculous. But it is the truth. Whenever I slip and tell the truth, people look at me like I'm pretentious. "Oh really, the three-quarters-of-an-inch really makes a difference?," they challenge. In an effort to not sound stuck-up, and to save time, I leave out the "three-quarters-of-an-inch" because tacking that onto my height adds an extra split second of conversation with somebody, taking a split second away from all the precious things I have to do in my free time. (Hey, precious seconds - like inches - add up.) I'm either pretentious or a liar. Neither of which are a very good thing.
Oh I have tried to shrink or grow to avoid this dilemma I face daily. But I am always, absolutely, positively, 100% five feet and four and three-quarters-inches. I know I am this very specific height because my mother is exactly 5'5" and I'm shorter than her. And my sister Kristen is exactly 5'4" and I'm taller than her. My mom can reach more things than I can, like change higher lightbulbs than me. So I know I'm not quite 5'5". And I can reach higher lightbulbs than my sister, which makes me taller than 5'4"!
I used to love rounding up and standing at 5'5." It just sounds more sophisticated. More classy. 5'5" is the first height that's in the category of "above average." Who wouldn't want to be above average? But lately I have been standing at 5'4" because the guy I'm dating is only 5'6." Saying I'm 2 inches shorter than him sounds a lot better than just 1 inch. Or the actual 1 and 1/4 inches. I'm liking 5'4". It's cute. It's ladylike. And it's the average height for a woman. Who wouldn't want to fit in with the rest of the crowd?
Thus my dilemma will live on...I am done growing, so this is just something I'll have to deal with for the rest of my life. I guess there are worse things to complain about. But really - from auditioning to dating - it really does matter.
Now excuse me, I have a date with my 5'6" friend. I need to go shrink three-quarters of an inch...
I am 5 feet, 4 and 3/4 inches.
That is not quite 5'5".
And not as short as 5'4".
And yes - it does matter!
In auditioning for soaps, where people are shorter, I feel like I need to tell them that I'm 5'4" - which sounds a lot shorter than 5'5". But when a casting notice says "medium to tall," I say I'm 5'5" because that sounds a lot taller than just 5'4".
In the winter, when I wear heels or boots a lot more, I tend to round up and lie, saying I'm 5'5". I mean, the heel does add more than that 1/4 inch. But in the summer, wearing flats or sandals, if I say I'm 5'5", people don't quite believe me. "Really?" They say. Well, no, actually I am 5'4". ...and a liar.
I never say that I'm 5' 4 3/4" because that sounds ridiculous. But it is the truth. Whenever I slip and tell the truth, people look at me like I'm pretentious. "Oh really, the three-quarters-of-an-inch really makes a difference?," they challenge. In an effort to not sound stuck-up, and to save time, I leave out the "three-quarters-of-an-inch" because tacking that onto my height adds an extra split second of conversation with somebody, taking a split second away from all the precious things I have to do in my free time. (Hey, precious seconds - like inches - add up.) I'm either pretentious or a liar. Neither of which are a very good thing.
Oh I have tried to shrink or grow to avoid this dilemma I face daily. But I am always, absolutely, positively, 100% five feet and four and three-quarters-inches. I know I am this very specific height because my mother is exactly 5'5" and I'm shorter than her. And my sister Kristen is exactly 5'4" and I'm taller than her. My mom can reach more things than I can, like change higher lightbulbs than me. So I know I'm not quite 5'5". And I can reach higher lightbulbs than my sister, which makes me taller than 5'4"!
I used to love rounding up and standing at 5'5." It just sounds more sophisticated. More classy. 5'5" is the first height that's in the category of "above average." Who wouldn't want to be above average? But lately I have been standing at 5'4" because the guy I'm dating is only 5'6." Saying I'm 2 inches shorter than him sounds a lot better than just 1 inch. Or the actual 1 and 1/4 inches. I'm liking 5'4". It's cute. It's ladylike. And it's the average height for a woman. Who wouldn't want to fit in with the rest of the crowd?
Thus my dilemma will live on...I am done growing, so this is just something I'll have to deal with for the rest of my life. I guess there are worse things to complain about. But really - from auditioning to dating - it really does matter.
Now excuse me, I have a date with my 5'6" friend. I need to go shrink three-quarters of an inch...
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Commencement Speech
Dear Graduates of the Class of 2009 – SURPRISE!
My younger sister is graduating from college today. It is a significant and emotional day, full of joy and pride. The culmination and celebration of 21 years of a hopeful childhood, 16 years of successful schooling, 4 years of memorable all-nighters and one-night stands – and 0 years of preparation for what she is actually about to face.
Before my college graduation, nobody told me that all those years of hard-work and achievement would amount to not much more than over $60,000 in school loans and a babysitting-job. I got an expensive college education, why? To pursue my childhood dream with baby spit-up on my shirt sleeve? You hardly need Probability & Statistics 101 to prepare you for that. The only stat worth knowing is this: 2 million recent college graduates are unemployed, which is twice the amount more than last year’s bunch. It’s predicted that companies will hire 22 percent fewer graduating seniors than they did last year. And that’s coming straight from the National Association of Colleges and Employers. Katie Couric told me so.
Dear graduates, let me tell you now, because it’s better late than never, that what you are about to embark on isn’t as exciting as they’ve cracked it up to be. Sometimes the most exciting part of my day is making a really good sandwich for lunch. If you haven’t yet seen it, watch Dustin Hoffman in 'The Graduate. ' It won’t provide you with any answers or life-altering revelations. It’ll just reassure you that it is in fact okay to waste the summer away in your parent’s pool.
Four years ago, you set foot on this campus ready to embrace what you were told would be the best 4 years of your life, eagerly asking yourself: “What should my major be?” “Will I make my lifetime friends here?” and “Will I meet my future husband here?” If only someone told you at that moment: “It doesn’t matter what your major is because you won’t find your first job in that field anyway.” “Friends come and go quicker than spinach-artichoke dip on the appetizer table.” and “No you will not meet your husband now because 20-something men are afraid of commitment.”
Dear graduates, this is the last time for a while that you will be honored and awarded for an accomplishment. From here on out, success is not measured on a timeline. There are no end-of semester deadlines to bookmark our life and there are no end-of-semester grades to chart our progress. Instead, our life will be measured as the musical 'Rent' poetically informs us: in seasons of love. Isn’t that sweet? Quite honestly, the moment you settle down and accept that...it actually is pretty sweet.
Words of wisdom and advice are going to be thrown at you by the older generations that have survived their quarterlife crisis’s because in their time quarterlife crises’s didn’t even exist. The only piece of advice you really need right now is coming from the Quarterlife Crisis Headquarters – my shoebox New York City apartment – and that is that you will be facing more trouble and uncertainty than you anticipated, therefore the only hope you have is to EMBRACE IT! You might be unemployed, you might be scared and uncertain of your future, you might be missing your friends and you might be overwhelmed with conflicted feelings. I hope you realize that although it might feel surreal, there's also something amazing and magical about the realness of it all. The road might be uncertain, but at least it's yours.
The next few months…hate to say it, but years…will give you lots of lemons. I hope you discover creative and unique ways to drink your lemonade.
My younger sister is graduating from college today. It is a significant and emotional day, full of joy and pride. The culmination and celebration of 21 years of a hopeful childhood, 16 years of successful schooling, 4 years of memorable all-nighters and one-night stands – and 0 years of preparation for what she is actually about to face.
Before my college graduation, nobody told me that all those years of hard-work and achievement would amount to not much more than over $60,000 in school loans and a babysitting-job. I got an expensive college education, why? To pursue my childhood dream with baby spit-up on my shirt sleeve? You hardly need Probability & Statistics 101 to prepare you for that. The only stat worth knowing is this: 2 million recent college graduates are unemployed, which is twice the amount more than last year’s bunch. It’s predicted that companies will hire 22 percent fewer graduating seniors than they did last year. And that’s coming straight from the National Association of Colleges and Employers. Katie Couric told me so.
Dear graduates, let me tell you now, because it’s better late than never, that what you are about to embark on isn’t as exciting as they’ve cracked it up to be. Sometimes the most exciting part of my day is making a really good sandwich for lunch. If you haven’t yet seen it, watch Dustin Hoffman in 'The Graduate. ' It won’t provide you with any answers or life-altering revelations. It’ll just reassure you that it is in fact okay to waste the summer away in your parent’s pool.
Four years ago, you set foot on this campus ready to embrace what you were told would be the best 4 years of your life, eagerly asking yourself: “What should my major be?” “Will I make my lifetime friends here?” and “Will I meet my future husband here?” If only someone told you at that moment: “It doesn’t matter what your major is because you won’t find your first job in that field anyway.” “Friends come and go quicker than spinach-artichoke dip on the appetizer table.” and “No you will not meet your husband now because 20-something men are afraid of commitment.”
Dear graduates, this is the last time for a while that you will be honored and awarded for an accomplishment. From here on out, success is not measured on a timeline. There are no end-of semester deadlines to bookmark our life and there are no end-of-semester grades to chart our progress. Instead, our life will be measured as the musical 'Rent' poetically informs us: in seasons of love. Isn’t that sweet? Quite honestly, the moment you settle down and accept that...it actually is pretty sweet.
Words of wisdom and advice are going to be thrown at you by the older generations that have survived their quarterlife crisis’s because in their time quarterlife crises’s didn’t even exist. The only piece of advice you really need right now is coming from the Quarterlife Crisis Headquarters – my shoebox New York City apartment – and that is that you will be facing more trouble and uncertainty than you anticipated, therefore the only hope you have is to EMBRACE IT! You might be unemployed, you might be scared and uncertain of your future, you might be missing your friends and you might be overwhelmed with conflicted feelings. I hope you realize that although it might feel surreal, there's also something amazing and magical about the realness of it all. The road might be uncertain, but at least it's yours.
The next few months…hate to say it, but years…will give you lots of lemons. I hope you discover creative and unique ways to drink your lemonade.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
The Frittata
I don't like to cook. But today I decided I would. Because every now and then I like to give myself a challenge.
The reasons I don't like to cook are:
1. It's time consuming. And I don't have time.
2. I like sandwiches and Lean Cuisines.
3. My cooking never tastes as good as my mom's.
I found a recipe for a Frittata in my Women's Health magazine and I said to myself, "Tonight, I am going to cook that frittata." Tonight is my night off. I don't have to rush off anywhere. I have nothing to lose with trying to cook something new. Because if the recipe doesn't go well, I will just pop in a Lean Cuisine and be satisfied. But if the recipe does go well - I might discover a new hobby! I might discover the Emeril Lagase inside of me and then start experimenting with new dishes, and then invite friends over every Sunday night for dinner parties, and then get discovered by one of my TV friends, and then have my own cooking show on the Food Network!
I went out and bought all the ingredients. I came home and laid out all the ingredients. I carefully followed the instructions step by step. Simmered some spinach. Sauteed some onions and potatoes. Whisked some eggs and cheese. Chopped some tomatoes. And then the frittata sat there on the stove for another twenty-five minutes as I snacked on about 4 pieces of toast because I was starving.
When it finally finished. It was delicious. But it kind of tasted like an omelette. ... I can make a mean omelet in about 2 minutes. Which is 58 minutes less than what it takes to make a frittata ...
Why did I think that would be fun? I guess I accomplished something new and challenging. Then again, I really feel like I just wasted my time. And now I have a million dishes to wash.
New reasons I don't like cooking:
1. There's too many dishes to wash after you cook.
2. You wolf down the food in a quarter of the time it takes to prepare it.
3. Frittata is just another word for omelette.
But I was going to be such a good host on the Food Network...
The reasons I don't like to cook are:
1. It's time consuming. And I don't have time.
2. I like sandwiches and Lean Cuisines.
3. My cooking never tastes as good as my mom's.
I found a recipe for a Frittata in my Women's Health magazine and I said to myself, "Tonight, I am going to cook that frittata." Tonight is my night off. I don't have to rush off anywhere. I have nothing to lose with trying to cook something new. Because if the recipe doesn't go well, I will just pop in a Lean Cuisine and be satisfied. But if the recipe does go well - I might discover a new hobby! I might discover the Emeril Lagase inside of me and then start experimenting with new dishes, and then invite friends over every Sunday night for dinner parties, and then get discovered by one of my TV friends, and then have my own cooking show on the Food Network!
I went out and bought all the ingredients. I came home and laid out all the ingredients. I carefully followed the instructions step by step. Simmered some spinach. Sauteed some onions and potatoes. Whisked some eggs and cheese. Chopped some tomatoes. And then the frittata sat there on the stove for another twenty-five minutes as I snacked on about 4 pieces of toast because I was starving.
When it finally finished. It was delicious. But it kind of tasted like an omelette. ... I can make a mean omelet in about 2 minutes. Which is 58 minutes less than what it takes to make a frittata ...
Why did I think that would be fun? I guess I accomplished something new and challenging. Then again, I really feel like I just wasted my time. And now I have a million dishes to wash.
New reasons I don't like cooking:
1. There's too many dishes to wash after you cook.
2. You wolf down the food in a quarter of the time it takes to prepare it.
3. Frittata is just another word for omelette.
But I was going to be such a good host on the Food Network...
Friday, April 17, 2009
People at auditions are crazy.
People at auditions are crazy. (Except for me, of course.)
This has got to be the weirdest audition waiting room I have ever been in. We're all groggy because we all showed up at 6:45 am - that's in the morning - and anxious because we don't know if we'll actually get seen or not today. We're loopy because we all showed up at 6:45 am - in the morning! - and anxious because we're competing with all 100 other people here. We're high and cracked out on caffeine and Red Bull because we al showed up at 6:45 am in the Gosh Darnit morning...
And I'm completely, utterly, 100% JADED BY OPEN CALLS.
I am so over this whole open call thing. "Yes, we'll be holding auditions, and we're not quite mean enough to tell you that since you're not part of the Actor's Union, there's no chance we'll even let you audition...so we'll be nice to you and give you false hope and keep telling you that if time permits, we'll watch you spit out a one minute monologue." For those of you who don't understand what an open call is, think American Idol auditions and try not to rip your hair out.
I know almost all of these people here today. There's the girl who got here at 4 am - with her hair in her curlers and fake eyelashes on her real eyelashes. There's the girl who has been to every audition in the past 5 years and hasn't gotten cast in one measly reading. There's Polyanna, at her first ever audition in New York City and chatting to everybody in her Southern accent doe-eyed and full of hope. There's the staple clan of gay men who will get cast in this show and their single lady entourage who have just accepted the fact that they will never have real boyfriends because they're putting their career first. And then there's me...
Who's still utterly, completely, 100% JADED by this experience. Why do I do this? Why do I put myself through such torture?
Because...
I meet the most fascinating people.
Today I don't quite know everybody. There are a few more in the crowd.
Out of the silence of groggy, sleepy actors comes: "What are you reading?," from Girl to My Left to Girl All The Way Across the Room. Who doesn't answer, because she is all the way across the room and there are about 40 people in the room. "What are you reading over there?" repeats Girl to My Left. She gets a few glares this time. Now, it's totally normal to socialize at auditions and get to know people and bond over the horrible experience together. But at this particular audition, there was a mellow atmosphere and a common agreement that we were all going to peacfully mind our own business in the final two hours of this epic day. But now, Girl to My Left has disrupted the equilibrium and now all 40 people have to pretend to be interested in this book.
"Um. Latte. It's a new play," Girl All The Way Across the Room timidly shares.
"It looks horrible. Why are you reading it?" snarkily comments Girl to My Left, who officially just turned herself into Presumptuous Weird-o. I've got to admit, the cover of the paperback is a little odd. It's indeed a latte in the ugliest mug I've ever seen on a paperback entitled Latte. Still, even I in my jaded stae of being didn't feel the need to share that information with the owner.
"Um. Just to read new plays, I guess." Solid answer. I'm sure she's not admitting it's really because she's bored out of her mind but wants to keep her nose in a book to avoid awkward conversation with people like you.
"Have you heard good things about it?" Presumptuous Weird-o interrogates.
"No."
"Hm. That seems silly. Why would you read a new play if you knew nothing about it?"
"Um. Just to stay up-to-date with new things, I guess."
Now by this point P.W. has everyone giving her glares. She's outcasted herself. Is she trying to be polite? Is she trying to "break the ice" in the room by initiating conversation? Is she trying to make new friends? Because she is not doing a good job of it. It's at this point that I'm reminded that weird people bring their weirdness upon themselves.
Girl Way Across The Room pretty much goes back to pretending she's interested in her Latte, while Presumptuous Weird-o sighs heavily, looks at her watch, gets up and yawns for us all to hear and stretches as if she's about to run a 5K. "WHEN are they going to see us? How LONG will this take? C'mon! Let's get this SHOW on the ROAD!" She's not angry. She's not depressed. I think she's genuinly trying to find common ground and empathize with her fellow non-union actors. But once again, she's doing a poor job.
Are we supposed to answer her rhetorical questions? One voice of innocence dares to respond:
"I know. It's been so long," he commiserates, and then, "What is this audition even for?" the little voice adds. He's about 5'2", Hispanic, with Converse sneakers, a sequin shirt, and an emo belt and chains running across his body. And in one innocent comment, Virgin Audition Boy has both introduced and doomed himself.
The audition is for The Shape of Things. A very controversial, contemporary piece by the very well-known Neil LaBute. Paul Rudd starred in the movie. And the audition is only for two of the parts: the manipulative artist girlfriend (me. clearly.) and the preppy frat boy (not Virgin Audition Boy. clearly.)
"Oh I'm so excited! This is my first audition ever! I just decided I wanted to be an actor and so this is my first time! I don't really know what I'm doing! I just decided this is what I want to do! So here I am! What do you have to do for the audition? I have a headshot. Actually I have a few - which one do you think I should use?! What's a monologue? Do I have to say something when I go in there?! I don't have anything to say!" And I find myself debating on the glamour shot versus the bad boy shot and giving the defintion of a "monologue" to Virgin Audition Boy.
His resume is handwritten on the back of his headshot. It includes three plays that he performed in his back yard, four years of high school choir, and a movie that he and his friends made. Probably in his back yard, too.
It's a little bit cute. It's a little bit refreshing and inspiring to help someone with their very first audition. I want to tell him he stands no chance. That he's not right for this role. That it's unprofessional to handwrite your resume. But instead I tell him: "You're going to be great!"
Somehow I manage to avoid being his mentor with the next task, which is to write a monologue. But as Karma will kick in at just the right times, Presumptuous Weird-o Girl to My Left is stuck with the job.
I do, however, have the pleasure of hearing him rehearse his monologue, which goes a little something like this: "How could you? This is the biggest day of my life. I knew you would stab me behind my back. I can't believe you would do this to me. I loved you! And you said you loved me! You're a disgrace!"...It sounds like a scene from Days of Our Lives, and I shoudn't be making fun of his monologue because I am in fact an aspiring soap actress, but...well, I am.
And I have the pleasure of listening to him perform his monologue for the director. And then having the director come out after the world-premiere of the monologue and inform me that auditions are over and that Virgin Audition Boy was the last actor he would get to see today...and therefore I am the first of the remainder of us not to get an audition today.
Giving me yet one more reason to be jaded.
...and one more reason to try again tomorrow.
This has got to be the weirdest audition waiting room I have ever been in. We're all groggy because we all showed up at 6:45 am - that's in the morning - and anxious because we don't know if we'll actually get seen or not today. We're loopy because we all showed up at 6:45 am - in the morning! - and anxious because we're competing with all 100 other people here. We're high and cracked out on caffeine and Red Bull because we al showed up at 6:45 am in the Gosh Darnit morning...
And I'm completely, utterly, 100% JADED BY OPEN CALLS.
I am so over this whole open call thing. "Yes, we'll be holding auditions, and we're not quite mean enough to tell you that since you're not part of the Actor's Union, there's no chance we'll even let you audition...so we'll be nice to you and give you false hope and keep telling you that if time permits, we'll watch you spit out a one minute monologue." For those of you who don't understand what an open call is, think American Idol auditions and try not to rip your hair out.
I know almost all of these people here today. There's the girl who got here at 4 am - with her hair in her curlers and fake eyelashes on her real eyelashes. There's the girl who has been to every audition in the past 5 years and hasn't gotten cast in one measly reading. There's Polyanna, at her first ever audition in New York City and chatting to everybody in her Southern accent doe-eyed and full of hope. There's the staple clan of gay men who will get cast in this show and their single lady entourage who have just accepted the fact that they will never have real boyfriends because they're putting their career first. And then there's me...
Who's still utterly, completely, 100% JADED by this experience. Why do I do this? Why do I put myself through such torture?
Because...
I meet the most fascinating people.
Today I don't quite know everybody. There are a few more in the crowd.
Out of the silence of groggy, sleepy actors comes: "What are you reading?," from Girl to My Left to Girl All The Way Across the Room. Who doesn't answer, because she is all the way across the room and there are about 40 people in the room. "What are you reading over there?" repeats Girl to My Left. She gets a few glares this time. Now, it's totally normal to socialize at auditions and get to know people and bond over the horrible experience together. But at this particular audition, there was a mellow atmosphere and a common agreement that we were all going to peacfully mind our own business in the final two hours of this epic day. But now, Girl to My Left has disrupted the equilibrium and now all 40 people have to pretend to be interested in this book.
"Um. Latte. It's a new play," Girl All The Way Across the Room timidly shares.
"It looks horrible. Why are you reading it?" snarkily comments Girl to My Left, who officially just turned herself into Presumptuous Weird-o. I've got to admit, the cover of the paperback is a little odd. It's indeed a latte in the ugliest mug I've ever seen on a paperback entitled Latte. Still, even I in my jaded stae of being didn't feel the need to share that information with the owner.
"Um. Just to read new plays, I guess." Solid answer. I'm sure she's not admitting it's really because she's bored out of her mind but wants to keep her nose in a book to avoid awkward conversation with people like you.
"Have you heard good things about it?" Presumptuous Weird-o interrogates.
"No."
"Hm. That seems silly. Why would you read a new play if you knew nothing about it?"
"Um. Just to stay up-to-date with new things, I guess."
Now by this point P.W. has everyone giving her glares. She's outcasted herself. Is she trying to be polite? Is she trying to "break the ice" in the room by initiating conversation? Is she trying to make new friends? Because she is not doing a good job of it. It's at this point that I'm reminded that weird people bring their weirdness upon themselves.
Girl Way Across The Room pretty much goes back to pretending she's interested in her Latte, while Presumptuous Weird-o sighs heavily, looks at her watch, gets up and yawns for us all to hear and stretches as if she's about to run a 5K. "WHEN are they going to see us? How LONG will this take? C'mon! Let's get this SHOW on the ROAD!" She's not angry. She's not depressed. I think she's genuinly trying to find common ground and empathize with her fellow non-union actors. But once again, she's doing a poor job.
Are we supposed to answer her rhetorical questions? One voice of innocence dares to respond:
"I know. It's been so long," he commiserates, and then, "What is this audition even for?" the little voice adds. He's about 5'2", Hispanic, with Converse sneakers, a sequin shirt, and an emo belt and chains running across his body. And in one innocent comment, Virgin Audition Boy has both introduced and doomed himself.
The audition is for The Shape of Things. A very controversial, contemporary piece by the very well-known Neil LaBute. Paul Rudd starred in the movie. And the audition is only for two of the parts: the manipulative artist girlfriend (me. clearly.) and the preppy frat boy (not Virgin Audition Boy. clearly.)
"Oh I'm so excited! This is my first audition ever! I just decided I wanted to be an actor and so this is my first time! I don't really know what I'm doing! I just decided this is what I want to do! So here I am! What do you have to do for the audition? I have a headshot. Actually I have a few - which one do you think I should use?! What's a monologue? Do I have to say something when I go in there?! I don't have anything to say!" And I find myself debating on the glamour shot versus the bad boy shot and giving the defintion of a "monologue" to Virgin Audition Boy.
His resume is handwritten on the back of his headshot. It includes three plays that he performed in his back yard, four years of high school choir, and a movie that he and his friends made. Probably in his back yard, too.
It's a little bit cute. It's a little bit refreshing and inspiring to help someone with their very first audition. I want to tell him he stands no chance. That he's not right for this role. That it's unprofessional to handwrite your resume. But instead I tell him: "You're going to be great!"
Somehow I manage to avoid being his mentor with the next task, which is to write a monologue. But as Karma will kick in at just the right times, Presumptuous Weird-o Girl to My Left is stuck with the job.
I do, however, have the pleasure of hearing him rehearse his monologue, which goes a little something like this: "How could you? This is the biggest day of my life. I knew you would stab me behind my back. I can't believe you would do this to me. I loved you! And you said you loved me! You're a disgrace!"...It sounds like a scene from Days of Our Lives, and I shoudn't be making fun of his monologue because I am in fact an aspiring soap actress, but...well, I am.
And I have the pleasure of listening to him perform his monologue for the director. And then having the director come out after the world-premiere of the monologue and inform me that auditions are over and that Virgin Audition Boy was the last actor he would get to see today...and therefore I am the first of the remainder of us not to get an audition today.
Giving me yet one more reason to be jaded.
...and one more reason to try again tomorrow.
Oh the things I do for a couple of bucks.
I'm working for the Mafia now. I've got a couple hours to kill between an audition and rehearsal, I'm debating if I should trek back to Queens or not. My Greek neighbor calls me.
"Hey Jodie, you wanna make some money," says Chris.
Uh. Let me think about that one.
"Yea."
"Ok. I need someone to sit in my car while I take pictures of buildings," he says.
Um. Let me think about that one.
"Basically, all's you gotta do is sit in my car so I don't gotta pay for parkin'. Usually I got one a' my boys do it but none a' them are around. Aight? So I'll pay you like ...pssssshaw... ten dollas an hour for four hours work. But it'll probably only take two. I'll give ya forty bucks."
This sounds sketchy. Then again, Chris is sketcky. "Ok," I say. "Why not?" Because why not? is a slogan for a very interesting life, I think.
I meet Chris at 42nd & Lex and we drive to God knows where, and he illegally parks, and I illegally sit in the car, while he takes pictures of buildings. So normal.
The best part of the job is that I get to listen to all his secret Mafia phone calls. About money. And "deals." And "closings." And more money. There's a lot of money. Chris won't settle for less than two million on one particular project. And forty of that is mine...
I find out Chris is in charge of sales for his own construction company. He's selling his new company to some new clients, but he's not admitting that he's new. Instead, he fills the company's resume with projects his buddies' construciton companies have completed. It's a great system him and "his boys" got going on - they all share the credit for each other's work and therefore make themselves look bigger and better than they stand individually in order to get bigger jobs. And then they kill the guys who disagree with them.
Chris is in the car talking on his cell as we're illegally parked on the side of the road. I'm soaking up the reality of my situation and debating whether this or dogsitting tops the chart of Most Bizarre Jobs I've Ever Done when a traffic patrol officer walks up and puts a ticket in Chris' window. I wonder if he'll still give me the forty bucks...
"Hey Jodie, you wanna make some money," says Chris.
Uh. Let me think about that one.
"Yea."
"Ok. I need someone to sit in my car while I take pictures of buildings," he says.
Um. Let me think about that one.
"Basically, all's you gotta do is sit in my car so I don't gotta pay for parkin'. Usually I got one a' my boys do it but none a' them are around. Aight? So I'll pay you like ...pssssshaw... ten dollas an hour for four hours work. But it'll probably only take two. I'll give ya forty bucks."
This sounds sketchy. Then again, Chris is sketcky. "Ok," I say. "Why not?" Because why not? is a slogan for a very interesting life, I think.
I meet Chris at 42nd & Lex and we drive to God knows where, and he illegally parks, and I illegally sit in the car, while he takes pictures of buildings. So normal.
The best part of the job is that I get to listen to all his secret Mafia phone calls. About money. And "deals." And "closings." And more money. There's a lot of money. Chris won't settle for less than two million on one particular project. And forty of that is mine...
I find out Chris is in charge of sales for his own construction company. He's selling his new company to some new clients, but he's not admitting that he's new. Instead, he fills the company's resume with projects his buddies' construciton companies have completed. It's a great system him and "his boys" got going on - they all share the credit for each other's work and therefore make themselves look bigger and better than they stand individually in order to get bigger jobs. And then they kill the guys who disagree with them.
Chris is in the car talking on his cell as we're illegally parked on the side of the road. I'm soaking up the reality of my situation and debating whether this or dogsitting tops the chart of Most Bizarre Jobs I've Ever Done when a traffic patrol officer walks up and puts a ticket in Chris' window. I wonder if he'll still give me the forty bucks...
Unemployed Day # 108
So now this is more like "Confessions of the Unemployed."
It's actually "in" to be unemployed. Everybody's doing it. I am officially on the unemployed bandwagon, rackin' up unemployment benefits from the State of New York, spending 2 hours at the gym every day, strolling down random streets and window shopping, all because I am getting paid to DO NOTHING! I am in fashion with the majority of New York. We roam the streets with nowhere important to go, with no money in our wallets, soaking up precious space and breathing precious air. I should be jumping up for joy. I should be embracing this freedom. Instead, I sit here bored out of my mind crying "I want a full-time job!" What 23 year old actress says that?!
I'm running out of ideas. I've thought so outside the box I can't even find myself back to the box anymore. I couldn't even get a waitressing job, or a tutoring job, or a part-time office assistant job. There are no temp jobs through the temp agencies. Schools are no longer hiring substitute teachers. My gym isn't hiring, there's no "Help" signs in any windows, babysitting jobs aren't following through, and every time I think "Maybe I should look for a full-time job," I say to myself "No! Embrace this time of unemployment to go audition and try new things!"
I am envious of every cashier I approach at a store. I am envious of cab drivers. I resent immigrants wearing their MTA uniforms picking up trash on the subway platforms!
I want to be a receptionist! I want to file papers! I want to send faxes! I want to do someone else's dirty work! I'll do someone else's dirty laundry! ... These are now dreams of mine.
I'm probably going to wish I had all this free time back when it's finally gone...
But I'm a do-er. Being busy and active is so ingrained into my pores that I don't quite feel like myself if I'm not working (and succeeding) on five different projects at once. I never would have guessed that being unemployed would be the hardest job I'd ever have to do.
It's actually "in" to be unemployed. Everybody's doing it. I am officially on the unemployed bandwagon, rackin' up unemployment benefits from the State of New York, spending 2 hours at the gym every day, strolling down random streets and window shopping, all because I am getting paid to DO NOTHING! I am in fashion with the majority of New York. We roam the streets with nowhere important to go, with no money in our wallets, soaking up precious space and breathing precious air. I should be jumping up for joy. I should be embracing this freedom. Instead, I sit here bored out of my mind crying "I want a full-time job!" What 23 year old actress says that?!
I'm running out of ideas. I've thought so outside the box I can't even find myself back to the box anymore. I couldn't even get a waitressing job, or a tutoring job, or a part-time office assistant job. There are no temp jobs through the temp agencies. Schools are no longer hiring substitute teachers. My gym isn't hiring, there's no "Help" signs in any windows, babysitting jobs aren't following through, and every time I think "Maybe I should look for a full-time job," I say to myself "No! Embrace this time of unemployment to go audition and try new things!"
I am envious of every cashier I approach at a store. I am envious of cab drivers. I resent immigrants wearing their MTA uniforms picking up trash on the subway platforms!
I want to be a receptionist! I want to file papers! I want to send faxes! I want to do someone else's dirty work! I'll do someone else's dirty laundry! ... These are now dreams of mine.
I'm probably going to wish I had all this free time back when it's finally gone...
But I'm a do-er. Being busy and active is so ingrained into my pores that I don't quite feel like myself if I'm not working (and succeeding) on five different projects at once. I never would have guessed that being unemployed would be the hardest job I'd ever have to do.
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