Find Your Chicken

Dream Soaked Paper Towels

2012-01-23T11:42:00.000-08:00

I never wanted to be one of those people completely dominated by the consumption of coffee. I don’t even know when the transition from:

“What a treat to have time for a cup of coffee this morning,” to,

“WHAT?! I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR A CUP OF COFFEE THIS MORNING!!” even happened.

But, it happened, all the same. And, now I’m one of coffee’s sad, sad, little minions.

But I’m jumping ahead of myself. Let’s back track, shall we? The guy who played Lucius Malfoy in Harry Potter was a star on the show that I was doing background work for. I’m sure he has a real name, but I don’t really care what it is. He is Malfoy, and any other role he plays in his life is just Lucius Malfoy acting like someone else. Being within touching distance of anything related to Harry Potter is the only ingredient I ever need for a magical, perfect day. So, when I woke up that morning, I had no expectations other than pure, pure-blood, Malfoy-associated bliss.

I was booked as a uniformed cop - which is hilarious. I couldn’t take down a squirrel if I wanted, let alone the rough and tough of the streets of Los Angeles. But a job is a job. They must have seen the fighting spirit of my soul in my headshot.

I woke up way too late, which is never a good start to a wondrous day. Lateness is a form of arrogance, Dr. Phil says. But I was willing to overlook the bad start because I figured - of all people -Lucius was someone who would appreciate a little arrogance. As I was running around the house, collecting my things and potato-sack-racing into my jeans, I started hearing a nagging little voice in the back of my head…

Coffee, it said. Don’t forget that you must have coffee. If you don’t have coffee, something terrible will happen. Your body will shut down or the world will end or dinosaurs will come back to life and eat everyone!!! Must. Have. Coffee!!!!

The call time for Malfoy was 7am, which is not uncommon for television shows in LA. The entertainment business is a work hard, play hard type of industry. A 10 to 12 hour day (and often longer) is the norm.

There is only one saving grace when you are rolling yourself out of bed at 5am for those early calls, and this glorious thing is a little gem called CRAFT SERVICES. If I could put a light behind those words on this page and make them glow, I would. Craft Services is a gift sent from the heavens above.

Now it depends on the show and the budget, but breakfast is pretty much always included when you work an early call. And it’s not just a bagel platter and some crappy coffee. Oh, no. This is Hollywood, baby. I have seen omelet chefs, made-to-order breakfast sandwich trucks, fruit and pastry platters, cereal bars, and basically anything else you can think of. It is unbelievable. It is also the single most exciting part of my day. When a show has an amazing Crafty set up, I feel - in that moment - that all is right in the world.

So even though I was terribly arrogant and didn’t have time to make coffee before I left, I knew there was no reason to worry. Soon I would be basking in the glow of an omelet chef’s fire, sipping happily on my café au lait.

Two hours later, I was dressed in my cop uniform, almost tipping over because of the weight of the utility belt. There were guns and tasers and keys poking into every side of my waist. All I could think about was setting up my folding chair in the holding area as fast as I could, so that I could get to sipping that warm, caffeine-infused nectar of the Gods.

When all of the sudden, the PA from hell (who I will now call Shifty from this point on) walked in to tell us that they were taking us in shifts to get breakfast. SHIFTS! I considered a riot... well… I considered picking up my chair and moving to the front of the room, so that I could skip in front of everyone else. But I didn’t want to make enemies in the first five minutes of the day, so I thought, “Be cool, Jess,” and sat down to wait my turn.

My turn ended up being about 30 minutes later, and let me tell you, I was ready to make some enemies. When the little twerp, Shifty, said that my group could finally go, I was on the verge of collapsing. I shuffled down to Crafty with my fellow officers and was appalled to find that breakfast had been picked over like a scarf store in Boystown. The only things left to eat were a few jelly-filled donuts - which are disgusting, and some honeydew melon - which I don’t consider real food anyway. I was furious.

I turned to get a cup of coffee - the one thing that could still save my happy day - and the pot was empty. Oh hellllsss no. Harry Potter is powerful, but without coffee, this day was not going to be wondrous, magical, or perfect.

“Coffee!” I said, panicked, “We need coffee over here!”

Another PA (I will call him Snail) walked over to me and started the process of refilling the machine - as slow as he possibly could. I stood right behind him. The Snail kept looking back at me, trying to make his discomfort of my proximity acknowledged. I didn’t budge. The more uncomfortable you are, sir, the faster you work to get it done.

As the liquid started dripping, my panic eased. Soon, Master. Soon, we will be together again. Then, someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“Hi, we need you to go to props really quick,” said Shifty, who had snuck up behind me like a little Keebler elf. (I’m not really sure if that reference makes sense.)

“But…” I replied. My eyes darted to the coffee and then back at him. Then to the coffee, then back at him. I pouted and followed him to props.

After fifteen minutes of my fake guns and batons being twisted and moved into every possible position on my oversized utility belt and the most ridiculous conversation about what the “technically correct” position of pepper spray is, I finally was set free by the props people. Two more minutes and I would have reminded my captors that none of the viewers were going to give a shit if my pepper spray was turned the correct way because: one - I (and my belt) would most likely be a big blurry blob onscreen anyway, and two - no one gives a shit. But they set me free, so I set them free from being reminded that ninety percent of what they do in the day is not really that important and headed back towards the coffee machine.

When I got back, I poured myself a big cup of the most perfect looking coffee I had ever seen, and all was right in the world once more, and my story is over.

Just kidding, that would be a stupid story. Here’s what actually happened. The coffee was gone!!! The fresh pot had been brewed and consumed in all of fifteen minutes. But at least my pepper spray was police-force-accurate…sigh.

Panicked, I started turning in circles, searching for The Snail. I began making random comments about there being no coffee to people around me who didn’t care. I started picking up lids and containers, searching for grounds and filters and anything to help me make this machine start working again. Finally I heard Snail behind me, telling me to stop touching the machine because I would break it. Thank God.

Just as before, I stood and waited for him to refill the machine. At this point, he probably was thinking that I had a real issue with caffeine, as he had no idea that I didn’t get a cup after our last stand off.

But before I could even consider what judgment Snail was passing about my addictions, I was stopped by a firm hand on my arm. All of the sudden I was being pulled away from the coffee machine once more by an angry hair stylist telling me with frustration that there was no way - just no way - I could have a ponytail! Ponytails were liabilities for a cop in the field! A perp could grab it in a fight! In the distance I could see the drips start dripping and my heart started to sink. She had a ponytail, and I considered using her own move against her, but thought better of it.

For the next twenty minutes, I had my hair styled. And when I say ‘styled’ I mean yanked into a bun and stuck with a million bobby pins as the stylist angrily reminded me over and over again that my hair was “so thick,” “so difficult,” and “really not working with her.” I think someone else may have missed their morning coffee that day…

By the time I got back to the machine, I was more desperate than ever. My head had started aching, and I wasn’t sure if it was caffeine withdrawal or the mini knives in my scalp holding my difficult hair together. Either way, the coffee was becoming my white whale, and I needed to conquer it. Thankfully, there was still some left! I poured myself a giant cup, dressed it to the nines, and then headed back towards the holding area, slowly inhaling the cheap, nutty aroma of Grade A Foldgers in My Cup.

Sitting down, I placed the coffee on the floor in front of me, stubbornly refusing to take the first sip till I was comfortable and perfect. I had waited long enough; I didn’t want to taint the experience by rushing through it. When I was ready, I bent down, picked up the coffee…and the lid came off where I was holding it. The cup plunged back to the ground, splattering my coffee all over the cement floor.

Everyone shrieked and pulled their things off of the ground as the coffee spread. Someone had the sense to run and grab paper towels. I just stood looking down at the liquid. Well isn’t that just some bullshit, I thought…

Once I had sufficiently cleaned the floor up enough for people to put their things back down, we were called to the stage. I walked into the fake precinct feeling defeated and discombobulated. I sat down on a bench, waiting for direction. When all of the sudden, I heard a familiar, wonderfully-evil sounding voice approaching. I looked up just in time to see Lucius walking by. He had brown hair, an American accent, and a Muggle suit on, but it was definitely him. I’m pretty sure he looked at me and smiled, but I also may be making that up because I didn’t have my glasses on. (But, I’m pretty sure.) With the drama of the last few hours, I had actually forgotten that this was supposed to be one of the best days of my life, and Malfoy had jolted that memory back into the present.

I was placed doing a cross right by the desk where Malfoy was sitting in the scene. I totally and completely forgot about the coffee!! I was high on Harry Potter, and it felt goooood! I mean, I WAS ACTING WITH LUCIUS MALFOY! We were acting together in a scene! Kind of... Sure, I was just a walking blur, and he was the star of the show, but we were both essential to the reality of the scene. And, that was all I needed.

All of the sudden, the day became fun again. I gave myself a back story. I was a stubborn but genius, out-of-the-box officer who had turned down the job of detective several times because, in the end, I knew my place was on the streets with the people. I was smarter than all of the detectives in the precinct, and therefore, became frustrated with them easily. When action was called, I was supposed to walk by Malfoy’s desk and stop to talk to one of the detectives in the back. I took it upon myself to view that detective as an idiot and silently yell at him when I approached. The first time he was afraid of my sudden outburst. But then he got on board, and we played the roles I had cast us in. It was a blast!

After about an hour on set, I was asked to stay for the reverse shot. One of the other extras who had seen my coffee fiasco earlier in the day was released. Before he went, he told me he would go get me another cup of coffee, so it would be waiting when I was released from set. He had heard about my whole day and felt sorry for me. I accepted, but the truth was, I didn’t really need it anymore. I had forgotten about it completely in the last hour. I had even forgiven Shifty and Snail.

All the same, when I was sent back to the holding area, I was pretty excited to finish my day out the right way. I was like the girl in a romantic comedy who realizes she didn’t need the bad boyfriend to accomplish her goals in life, but still ends up with another boyfriend in the end because why not wrap the whole story up with a perfect little boyfriend bow. I wanted my boyfriend bow.

When I turned the corner, I saw the cup - as promised - sitting by my chair. This was it - the moment I had been waiting for since 5 o’clock in the morning. In slow motion, I undid my security belt and threw it to the side. I grabbed the bobby pins out of my hair one by one, littering the floor with little metal spikes until my hair flowed freely behind my slow motion body. I bent down to pick up the cup, smiling like the girl about to kiss her new, nice boyfriend…

And the lid came off, and the coffee spilled all over the floor…again.

Coffee went everywhere – the floor, the walls, my chair, my bags, and pretty much everything else in the near vicinity. The other extras just stared in shock. One of them looked at me and asked the obvious. “What is wrong with you?” he said. So much, I wanted to tell him… but that was beside the point.

“I’m left handed,” I said. It’s the only thing I could think of.

They all picked up their things and started to leave. I grabbed the already-handy paper towels and started to wipe it all up. A days worth of dreams, soaking into some Brawny paper towels…

I didn't need you, I thought. I've conquered you (for the day). Boyfriend bows are for wimps anyway. And, I left feeling quite energized.

Feet-Scented Air Conditioner and Utilities Included

2011-09-24T17:59:00.000-07:00

As I walked away from the bathroom wall, which was dripping with a brown substance that I had just (perhaps thankfully) realized was a past tenant’s leftover smoke residue and turned off the small air conditioning unit that had suddenly and unexplainably started smelling like feet, I realized that the time had come upon me to put key to screen and get this LA adventure on record (for my lawyers)...

Living Situation

We had arrived in a blur. I remember: celebrities, champagne, and silk linens. And, by those things I mean: old people in their underwear walking around the apartment courtyard, cheap wine, and a studio apartment furnished with the most uncomfortable, hard, wooden furniture that has ever been manufactured.

As we sat in the tiny leasing office that we had, literally, climbed over each other in order to both fit in, I didn’t take my eyes off of Scott, searching for some sign that he was still serious about signing the lease. Sure, it was only month to month, but a whole month?? Seriously??

After leaving our jobs, home, and friends, and driving thousands of miles across the country, all I wanted was to land comfortably in a place that could feel just a little bit like home. This felt more like a prison cell mixed with an office building mixed with a dorm for old people…sigh.

As with all situations, though, one adapts. We moved our things onto the brown carpet, against the brown walls, under the brown ceiling and just hoped that we wouldn’t be in the place long enough for the smell of smoke to permanently cling to our belongings.

I immediately covered the walls with whatever accessible artwork I could find in our boxes (because I would shoot myself before I actually unpacked our things completely in this place). The highly suspicious, dried, red spots that Scott had noticed splattered on the floor around the front door turned out to be just old paint (we’re pretty sure). And, we fixed the un-lockable windows with a short trip to the hardware store.

Yes, Scott is being stalked by this old woman next door. (Every time he goes out to swim, she comes into the pool area and stares at him. I think it is the funniest thing ever. He is genuinely freaked out by her.) And, yes, sometimes I do feel like I’m going to get sick just breathing in the particles that I imagine are coming off of the nicotine plastered walls. But, it is a roof over our head, and its not permanent, and that is something to be happy about!

Driving

After years of public transportation in Chicago, I would have to admit I was slightly nervous about the whole driving thing in Los Angeles. However, I misjudged the whole situation. It’s not slightly nerve wracking. It is, quite possibly, the most terrifying experience of my life – every single time I get on the highway.

LA citizens are some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. LA drivers are just horrible, disgusting excuses for human beings. You do the math. And, the more you drive, the more sporadic, second-guessing, and dangerous your own driving becomes. In turn, making you contribute to the mess and become a horrible, disgusting human being, yourself. You are constantly on the defense and constantly looking to get ahead of your next opponent. The more that you get cut off, the more cutting off you do. It’s the circle of life.

I have recently become aware of an amazing personal phenomenon where I actually stop breathing the minute that I enter the freeway. It took me two times of seeing spots to notice this as a trend and realize that I hadn’t inhaled in over a minute. Now, I have to tell myself, “Breathe in, breathe out,” every single time I drive in order to keep myself conscious.

During the second week of driving, I had my first real mishap on the road. I was heading to a doctor's appointment and an interview in Hollywood when I saw my phone buzzing over and over with calls from Scott.

I knew that he knew that I would never pick up the phone while driving in this terrifying city, so my heart sank, realizing that it was probably something important. I pulled into a Staples parking lot to call him back, also noticing that my phone was one flashing bar away from going dead.

“You left your wallet,” he said immediately upon answering.

“Damn my life!!” I screamed out loud.

However, I’m trying out this new thing where I don’t immediately panic about things (try is the operative word here), so I forced myself to calm down and think rationally. I hung up and called the doctor’s office. They completely understood and said that I wouldn’t need my ID and could still come to the appointment. Kudos to me for not panicking, I thought.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I immediately noticed how small and unforgiving the lot was. But, it was parking…how hard could it be? I saw an open spot that, in hindsight, was probably open for a good reason. But, I pulled in anyway, irrationally thinking that if I didn’t take the spot, the person behind me would know how uncomfortable I was with driving and harass me for it or something.

When my front tire first went up on the side curb, I probably should have stopped and found another spot. But, I didn’t. Instead I tried to straighten the car out, whilst on the curb. This promptly ended with a huge crash to the ground as my tire slipped off the opposite end of the curb and landed on the other side. Don’t panic, I thought.

I tried to back up over the curb, but my tire only spun around, barely touching the ground below it. The curb was so deep that the bottom of the car was actually sitting on top of it with the left, front wheel free hanging on the other side. Don’t panic, I thought.

I got out of the car to survey the situation. The back of the car was still sticking out well into the tiny parking lot, so traffic slowed as two lanes became one. I’m sorry, I mouthed over and over again to each of the cars squeezing by. Don’t panic, I thought.

Ingeniously (if I may say so), I noticed some big rocks within the landscaping that my tire was currently squashing. I started piling rocks in front of my tire, thinking that I could use them as leverage and drive up and over the curb via the rocks. This idea ended with scattered rocks and another bang to the underbelly of the car. Don’t panic, I thought.

Accepting defeat, I realized that I would just need to call a tow truck and have them haul me off the curb. It was really no big deal. This happens to everyone, I thought. It could be worse. And, then I realized that I had no license to show anyone or money to pay them or power left in my cell phone to call them. And, I had a job interview in an hour and a half.

Time to panic, I thought.

I used the last bar of power on my phone to call Scott and hysterically break down. And, I mean hysterically…

“I’m stuck!!!! I’m going to get arrested; I have no license with me!! I’m going to miss my interview!! My phone is going to die, and no one will ever find me!!! I know I damaged the bottom of the car; I just know I did!! I can’t afford to fix a car!!! Everyone in this parking lot is mad at me!!!”

Within my crying fit, I managed to get out the address of where I was. Scott got in a cab with my wallet. After about an hour, Scott had managed to find me, the tow truck had arrived, and all four tires of the car had been safely returned to the ground. It cost $100 and several ‘I just don’t know how you did this’ comments from the tow truck driver for a lesson well learned.

Good thing I didn’t panic.

Work

I’m working as an extra…a background artist for those of you who care to dignify it with a better title. It’s sort of crap.

I get paid $8 an hour, which is by far, the smallest amount of money I’ve ever worked for…ever, even as a college student. But, as an actor, I guess I’m supposed to feel thankful for the experience or some stupid thing like that. I’m not thankful. I think it’s craziness.

Ever since I moved to LA, I’ve slowly started to realize what a great business this whole acting thing is – for everyone but the actor, that is.

My first job was as an audience member on the Suze Orman show, “America’s Money Class”. Bet you didn’t know that almost all of the audience on most talk shows are sad, sad little actors, did you? I didn’t.

I showed up to the studio and found the background check-in. The few real audience members who had tickets were seated under a tent on the far side of the lot. They had chips and water. We were told to keep our line hidden behind the dumpsters.

I met a few really nice people and, of course, a few more really weird people. The weird ones attached themselves to me, immediately. I have no idea why I always attract oddballs, but it is something I’ve dealt with my whole life. If there is a straggler, a runt, or a weirdo - they find me and try to befriend me no matter what.

So, naturally, the biggest weirdo of the group started talking to me almost the second I got there. He was just one of those guys that you know has been a nerd from day one. Don’t get me wrong, most of the time, “day one” nerds turn into the best people you will ever know. They are smart and fun and not afraid to be themselves. But sometimes, “day one” nerds just get angry and grow up to be nerdy assholes. The latter is the path this fellow took.

But, I’m not a mean person so, nerdy asshole or not, I gritted my teeth and tried to converse. I made the mistake of asking him what he was interested in other than acting. When he told me he was writing a movie, I made the bigger mistake of asking what it was about.

“Well, it’s just a truly fascinating story. Truly fascinating! You won’t even believe how fascinating this story is! It’s a four part movie. It’s about this human who turns into a robot and struggles, internally, about whose side of the human vs. robot war he is loyal to.”

“Kind of sounds like Battlestar Galactica,” I said. I couldn’t help it. He frowned.

“Yes, well there are some similar story lines in the two.”

“How are you going to fund it?” I asked with a little too much sass. This guy was really getting on my nerves.

“Well, by the time I’m done writing it, I plan on having enough money and clout to produce it myself,” he threw back in my face.

I didn’t respond.

When we were finally ready to be seated in the studio, we formed a line. I went out of my way to put a few people in between Mr. Fascinating and me, so that I wouldn’t have to sit next to him. But, somehow he managed to wiggle his way up next to me, and we were seated side by side.

“Just so you know - I’m going to be making funny comments the whole time the taping is going on. If you are cool, you’ll laugh. If you aren’t cool, you won’t,” he informed me.

Yep.

At the end of the long, long taping, I had sufficiently proven to Mr. Fascinating that I was, in fact, not cool. I walked out of the studio and lined up behind the other actors to get my $64 in cash and free money how-to book (bonus!). At least I don’t have to claim the cash, I thought.

Before I left, I handed my business card out to the other two people I had met on set. And, of course, Mr. Fascinating saw the transaction and was at my side in an instant with his card. It took everything in me, but I handed him my own card back. Trying to be nice, I told him that I liked the picture on his card, and that the next time I printed, I should add a picture, too.

He responded, indicating with his finger, “Yeah you might want to lose this other stuff, too.”

I realized he was referring to the: “Hero: Han Solo, Superpower: Bravery” line under my phone number.

Jerk face.

I snapped back, “Well, I like it. I think it shows my personality.”

“Okay, if you want to be a background artist the rest of your life,” he quipped.

“You’re an extra, you nerd!" I screamed, "You can just “background” artist your face out of mine!”

Okay, I didn’t say that. I'm not even sure if that makes sense. But, I did politely turn away and roll my eyes behind my back.

Conclusion

This may all sound depressing to you, but it really isn't. The truth is, I expected every minute of the struggle when I made the decision to move out here and am still completely excited and happy to be doing it. That's what risk is. But, the great part about struggling is that when you finally start to put the pieces of your life back together, you are so aware of how wonderful you have it. We are surviving, and that is the most important thing. I survive by making fun of the mountains I have to climb.

And, every time something happens that sets me back slightly, all I can think about is how grateful I am for the good blog material...

Day #4 - Goodbye and good luck

2011-08-31T21:23:00.000-07:00

Well, that's all folks. We made it! We move into our apartment tomorrow. We are both so overwhelmed with happiness, sadness, fear, and excitement, but we know that it is all for the better of our careers and that makes it all worth it. I would recommend doing that drive to anyone - at least just once in your life. It is an eye-opener in so many different ways and an experience that you cannot compare to anything else. Just make sure to do it with someone you don't mind being a foot away from for 8-10 hours a day!

Day #4 - City of Angels and horrible drivers....

2011-08-31T21:15:00.000-07:00

We finally made it to LA! After 8 hours and experiencing our first encounter with LA drivers, we were so ready for a drink.

Day #4 - Not all fun and games...

2011-08-31T21:04:00.000-07:00

Scotty and I decided to record one of our lower moments in the car. There weren't many, but when it hit, it hit hard...

Day #4 - Happy California!

2011-08-31T20:41:00.000-07:00

We finally crossed the California border!!!

Day #4 - How do you eat your sunflower seeds??

2011-08-31T20:35:00.000-07:00

Scotty grossed me out with his sunflower seed eating habits. How did I not know this about him??

Day #4 - Wine and Dine in Tucson

2011-08-31T20:28:00.000-07:00

Happy Day in the Prius...

Day #3 - Gwen and Cacti

2011-08-30T22:43:00.000-07:00

We ended Day #3 at our old Chicago friend Gwen's house in Arizona. After three days of strangers, it was so good to see a friend! Also, we learned a lot about cacti...

Day #3 - Thunder Mountain

2011-08-30T22:34:00.000-07:00

While driving through Arizona, we were suddenly surrounded by the craziest bubble rocks ever. They were so crazy, Scotty almost kills us while looking at them.

Day #3 - Welcome to Arizo --oops.

2011-08-30T22:31:00.000-07:00

At the 1 mile marker, I grabbed my camera to welcome you all to Arizona...

Day #3 - No Sympathy for Hippies...

2011-08-30T22:27:00.000-07:00

We stopped for lunch at a local Mexican place in New Mexico. Let's just say I was not a popular girl there.

Day #3 - New Mexico Missile Range but no Indiana Jones in sight...sigh.

2011-08-30T22:23:00.000-07:00

We stumbled upon the White Sand Missile Range heading out of NM. We were both hoping for a show...

Day #3 - Billy the Kid Casino

2011-08-30T22:16:00.000-07:00

We randomly came across this horse racing track and casino. There were jockeys and horses out on the track, so we had to stop!

Day #3 - Charmed to Death

2011-08-30T22:07:00.000-07:00

I was in raptures. Raptures I say.

Day #3 - Farley's Fun Pub is not so fun...

2011-08-30T22:04:00.000-07:00

We left our inn at 9am and started our day headed towards Tucson. But we took a moment for a reflection on Roswell first...

Day #2 - Yeah - you wish you were here.

2011-08-29T19:37:00.000-07:00

We FINALLY made it to my real destination of this whole trip... LA shmell-A. The International UFO Museum is where. its. at.

Day #2 - Welcome to Roswell - It's out of this world...

2011-08-29T19:32:00.000-07:00

We finally arrived in Roswell! It was such a perfect break from the long boringness that is New Mexico.

Day #2 - New Mexico, stop being so long and boring...

2011-08-29T19:27:00.000-07:00

Ugh.

Day #2 - OMG What is that!??!?!?!?

2011-08-29T19:21:00.000-07:00

We entered New Mexico and were greeted with more than we bargained for!

Day #2 - Texas doesn't offend me...

2011-08-29T19:18:00.000-07:00

Shout-out to Lizzie Lovelady! We had Subway in your hometown!!!

Day #2 - Texas: The friendly state?

2011-08-29T19:13:00.000-07:00

I finally drove some of the stretch (from Oklahoma to Amarillo). We entered Texas and gave our thoughts... Scotty apologizes for not zooming back out.

Day #2 - Tolls and Rolls

2011-08-29T19:09:00.000-07:00

After staying the night at the Best Western Plus (we spurged for the plus), Scotty and I had our breakfast, gave our thoughts on Oklahoma, and hit the road. Our goal was to get to Roswell by 4pm, so we would have an hour to walk the International UFO Museum...

Day# 1 - Dance Party USA

2011-08-28T21:32:00.000-07:00

To finish up day# 1, we decided a dance party was neccessary. Now we are settled in Oklahoma City and leaving for Roswell tomorrow!!!! I'm so excited!!!!!

Day#1 - Big Bugs and Mini Ferris Wheels

2011-08-28T21:22:00.000-07:00

Outside of the Ozark Village was this amazing antique shop. Scotty was only interested in his fudge.

Day#1 - Giant Cowboy Hat

2011-08-28T21:06:00.000-07:00

Inside the Ozark Village - a special place....

Day#1 - The wonder that is: Ozark Village

2011-08-28T20:52:00.000-07:00

No need to really explain this video. The awesomeness of this place stands on its own.

Day #1 - St. Louis lunch...

2011-08-28T20:41:00.000-07:00

Around 1pm Central Time we hit St. Louis...

Day# 1 - Illinois has corn.

2011-08-28T20:34:00.001-07:00

Illinois has corn.

Day# 1 - Frodo and Sam have left the Shire!

2011-08-28T20:29:00.000-07:00

8:45am - Just as Frodo and Sam walked across the thresholds of the cornfield and entered the furthest they had ever been from home, we sort of did the same thing...sort of. We just got beyond Indianapolis...

Day #1 - Leaving Indy!!

2011-08-28T20:15:00.000-07:00

Woke up at 6:30am, had coffee with the Pellmans, left at 8:15am....

Jessie and Scotty Moving Video Blog Extravaganza - Day before the big move!!

2011-08-27T18:12:00.000-07:00

Well, we are off tomorrow! Scott and I spent the day packing and fighting as all good couples moving across the country should. We are waking up early to start the journey! Stay tuned.....

A Teen Beat Love Saga

2011-05-25T19:20:00.000-07:00

J.T.T.

Ladies, if you are under the age of 30, please don’t try to be cool and pretend like you don’t know what those initials stand for. You aren’t fooling anyone.

Jonathan Taylor Thomas - born Jonathan Taylor Weiss. Changed his last name to his brother’s middle name when he decided to be an actor. Born September 8th, 1981. A Virgo. Had two cats growing up. A vegetarian.

Some may know him better as Randy Taylor, the precocious middle son of Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor in the popular 90’s sitcom, “Home Improvement.” Others may know him as the rambunctious child voice of Simba in Disney’s, “The Lion King.” At 8 years old, I only knew him as one thing…

My future husband.

I understand that I was not the first eight year old to choose my future husband from the cover of Teen Beat. Many little girls have repeated wedding vows to the kiss marked posters of Scott Baio and Rob Lowe long before my little heart committed to the charming Mr. Thomas. But, I must separate myself.

My childhood love of JTT could not be described as anything other than a full blown, psychotic obsession. Between the years of eight and nine years old, I tracked that boy with the accuracy of a Tom-Tom Navigator. And, in pre-internet 1993 that is saying something.

Upon acquiring this obsession, I very seriously committed my sponge-like child brain to knowing every single piece of information that had ever been written, said, or heard about JTT. I would scour my pre-teen magazines till my eyes burned and watered, my little child hands grasping at the blurry pages in desperation.

Just a little longer, I’d tell myself! And, when I found something, even the tiniest nugget of information, I was like a prosecutor who had just found the case blowing clue. VICTORY!

It was necessary, as his future wife, that I knew more details about him than anyone else in the entire world. Preferably, I would know more about him than even he knew about himself. Does he like pizza best? Or, Mac and cheese?! Because this issue of Teen BOP says he likes Mac and cheese, but in May’s issue of Tiger Beat, I swear he said pizza!! AHHHH!! How can I not know this!? Who am I!??? I’ll check the archives…

JTT was the Justin Bieber before there was a Justin Bieber. Actually, I really hate to even compare him to The Biebs because while Justin has gained his fame by being a tiny version of that douchbag guy no one really should be dating, JTT gained it by being the complete opposite. JTT was the smart, witty kid who always did the right thing in the end. He was the guy that you should be dating. While Bieber would be telling you that your new, expensive dress made you look skinner in the store, JTT would be handing you flowers and adorably tripping over his words to compliment you. He had class.

When Valentine’s Day came around the year of my great obsession, it was quite obvious that a move needed to be made. The time had come for me to introduce myself to the sandy blonde trapper-keeper of my heart. When I explained this to my mom, she got on board right away. Only a good mom will shamelessly encourage her daughter’s insane, dead-end, celebrity crushes.

We put together a Valentine’s Day package, which included a card and a little bear carrying a candy-filled plastic heart. I wrote to him. I told him how I was his biggest fan and how I loved him and how I knew everything about him, including that he loved pizza the most, not Mac and cheese like that magazine had said, and I was a vegetarian just like him, but not because he was; I just also didn’t believe in hurting animals!!! I didn’t hold back! This was my chance! And, then I signed it,

“Love your future wife, Jessica Monet Spear.”

I knew with such sad, sad confidence that this was the beginning of something big in my life. There was no way that he would not want to, at the very least, respond to me. Who wouldn’t be curious about someone claiming to be their future wife?

At the ripe old age of eight, I learned the harsh disappointment of dating and waiting. Every day I checked the mail with innocent, unbending hope. With each delivery, my young face would light up, my chest would become a balloon of inexplicable happiness, and I would know, deep down, that today would be the day that I would get an answer.

And, every day, this burst of joy would, inevitably, be followed by sheer and utter letdown. With every JTT-less stack of mail, my heart would completely break, over and over again. It would take the entire night for me to put the pieces back together, only to have the episode repeated again the next day.

It never got easier. It never hurt less. In fact, it hurt more because with each day that flew by, it took a valid excuse for him not writing along with it . For the first time in my life, I was experiencing rejection in its most painful form – I was being ignored.

(If I had known that this feeling was completely unspecific to this one situation and that I would be experiencing this exact thing for many years to come, just in updated forms of communication, I probably would have cut my losses right then. But, alas, we humans will never learn this lesson.)

The thing is that, sometimes, being ignored ends in just being ignored forever. But, sometimes, just once in awhile, it ends in a long awaited answer. And, it seemed that Mr. Taylor Thomas was, in fact, just a little bit curious about his future wife.

I remember the day so vividly. I was playing with my cousins in the living room. My uncle, who was babysitting us, was napping in another room. My sister walked in. I knew, immediately, that something was off. Her face looked odd. That’s all I can remember thinking is, ‘Her face looks odd right now.’ She smiled and into my eye line entered a flash of white. She was waving something at me. My heart stopped.

“Jess, look what I found in the mail,” she said.

She smiled, and in slow motion, a perfectly crisp, perfectly white envelope fluttered down to the floor in front of me. Could this possibly be? Tunnel-visioned and cotton-mouthed, I grabbed the envelope off of the floor and held it up to my unblinking eyes which had, at that point, grown to the size of oranges. In all its glory – a perfectly hand written “JTT” sat beautifully on the top left hand corner. My heart went from dead stillness to raging, maniac, coke head palpitations in seconds. I lost it.

Now, I am not going deny having one or two ‘crazy person’ moments in my life. When my dog, Gidget, gave birth to her baby, Cricket, for instance, I may have had a slight mental breakdown resulting in me being removed from the premises and taken to Pizza Hut, so that I "didn’t freak the dog out."

There was also an instance where I had heard a neighborhood girl had been followed home by a white van from the bus stop. The next day, I found myself running around my sister in circles, yelling like a maniac, because a white van had passed us on the highway as we walked home.

The JTT letter, however, took my crazy and fed it crack.

When I tore open that letter with my sharp, unused, child canines, what lay inside would have set Gandhi off the deep end (if Gandhi had been a hopelessly in love eight year old girl).

Mr. Jonathan Taylor Thomas had received my present. PRAISE BE TO GOD! He was very impressed with me! IMPRESSED, HE WAS IMPRESSED!? And, he thought there would be no one better to represent ‘just what a girl aught to be’ in a fabulous beauty show that would be taking place in my city in one month! He, personally, would be judging!!!!! OH.MY. GA.

That’s right - MY future husband wanted ME to be in HIS beauty show because HE thought I was a BEAUTIFUL, PERFECT GIRL!

Confused yet? I was not!

It all made perfect sense to me. Why wouldn’t it?

I started zooming around the house like a trapped bird, screaming at the top of my lungs and bumping into walls. I jumped on ever piece of furniture that would hold me. I knocked pillows off the couch. I ran into the bedroom that my uncle was sleeping in and jumped all over the bed, sending him into a startled frenzy! My heart was bursting open! There was no holding me back.

After spreading my crazy through every corner of the house, I found myself back in the living room twirling around two shocked cousins, one completely confused uncle, and a sister who was grabbing at me with a panicked look on her face. Suddenly, she yelled over my screams.

“Jess! Jess! Stop, stop, stop! It’s not real! I made it up! Stop screaming! I’m sorry.”

In a moment, the world stopped. Before I could even begin to process what she had just said, everyone in the room became watery, blurred versions of themselves. It was like my tear ducts had heard the news before I had even stopped screaming.

Everyone was frozen. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. My sister stepped forward and pulled me down from the couch. She looked terrified. She just kept saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again.

Words were having trouble forming in my head. Nothing was connecting. My brain was struggling to find some reason in all of it. How could she have gotten Jonathan Taylor Thomas to go along with this scheme? Did she know him? Slowly, the stupidity of each section of that letter started crashing in on me. With each realization, my heart took a blow. Can you picture a slinky slowly dropping down a set of stairs? Yeah, that’s pretty much how I felt.

He was not impressed. Slink.

He had never even seen me. Of course, he wouldn’t put me in a beauty show. Slink.

Why would he even be judging a beauty show? Slink

There is no beauty show. Slink

He didn’t actually write that letter. Double Slink.

“I thought it would be funny,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d believe it.”

It suddenly hit me that the reason why my sister looked odd the moment she gave me the letter was because she was lying. I know exactly what my sister looks like when she lies. I know this, not only because I have been around her for so long, but because my sister has the unfortunate habit of flaring her nostrils when she lies. It is an infallible trait. I knew the very moment that she handed me the letter that she was kidding. It had been so obvious and, yet, I had completely ignored it.

Within seconds, I would find myself on my bed, soaked in tears, so angry at her that I could not even breathe. But, in that one moment after I fully realized what was going on, I felt so horrible for her. She didn’t mean for it to hurt me like that. I knew she didn’t. She was just a funny kid, and that is what funny kids do to their little sisters. They torture them. It was not the first time and it, certainly, would not be the last. And, for one little second, I really did feel bad for her. For a second.

But after that moment had passed, the tears began flowing heavily, and I stumbled into my room, so upset that I was unable to even yell at her. I collapsed on my bed like a house of cards.

It took awhile for me to get over the disappointment of my fake JTT letter. I guess I could make the argument that I am still not completely over it. I realize that sounds pathetic. But, that was the first time that I experienced any type of love, hope, and rejection in my life, regardless of whether it was real or not. The feelings were spot on.

You’ll be happy to know that Jonathan Taylor Thomas did, in the end, write me a real letter. I, personally, took the postcard out of the mailbox. (My sister is cunning and a little bit of a trouble maker, but she isn’t mean.) There was a picture of him on one side and the other side simply said, “Dear Jessie, Thank you for the bear and candy. It was a very thoughtful gift. JTT.”

This time, I didn’t scream or jump around or tear pillows off the couch. I didn't even speak very much about it after the fact. But, it did make me feel good - in a completely sane and rational kind of way. And, by that I mean that I kept all of my psychotic excitement concealed on the inside. And, for that small dose of love and dating reality, I am grateful.

Cheap Cotton and Giving Mice Cookies...

2011-03-20T16:01:00.000-07:00

8:10am. The instant I open the door from my building, an explosion of icy air rushes at my face and pours into my lungs causing a slight, but traumatic, coughing fit. I gasp for air, immediately upsetting the peace of the morning around me. The maintenance man shoveling the snow on the sidewalk pauses to shake his head at my weakness. He is judging me. All Chicagoans do. There’s no crying in winter. Not in this city.

After a few breaths, my body adjusts to the arctic air. My eyes refocus through the instant tears, which are already forming into instant little pieces of ice on my eye lashes. I walk through the courtyard, zipping my jacket higher and higher up my neck. It slips back down under the weight of my scarf. Stupid zipper. Stupid scarf.

I turn the corner towards the main road. I am a walking burrito, tightly wrapped with all the fillings. I pass other burritos on their way to work. I have no idea what gender they are, how old they are, or whether they look like they are having a good morning. I pick my head up just enough to not run into them.

The fresh snow creaks and squeaks under my feet. It’s like rubbing cheap cotton between my fingers. I shiver at the feeling. There is nothing worse than the sound and feeling of walking on fresh snow. I hate it so much that I get a little nauseous every time my foot hits the ground. Squeak, squeak – like fingernails slowly moving down a chalkboard. I can feel the vomit entering the back of my throat. I find it so odd that this sensation, which most people would consider delightful, can have such a violent effect on my digestive system.

My eyes dart around for my one savior in this wintry mine field - broken, salted ice. Walking on cracked, salted ice is like a drug for me. If fresh snow is my foot’s sober living facility, cracked ice is its heroin - quickly settling my stomach and taking the edge off. I live for it in the winter. The crunch is as stress relieving as popping those little bubbles that line the inside of a package. Sweet, snap crackling stress relief.

I am disappointed when I see that everything is too fresh to be salted or cracked, and the only type of ice in my future is the bad kind – the sneaky and dangerous kind. It is the kind that you don’t even know is there until you are halfway to the ground with both of your legs heading in opposite directions. But, I would rather risk breaking all of my limbs than step back onto that vomit inducing snow, so I put my hands out on either side of me for balance and head out onto the icy sidewalks.

I walk with the care of a mother not wanting to wake a colicky baby. My body is tense and suspicious of each step. I barely bend my legs as I walk and start to closely resemble Gumby. Gumby dressed as a burrito.

As I get further into the walk, however, my legs begin to adapt to the terrain below me. They instinctively start to gauge the amount of pressure to put down and how wide my gate should be. I become confident – which is the biggest mistake someone could make in these conditions. And, we all make it. Always. Over and over again. The very second that my shoulders relax completely and my legs bend normally again is the guaranteed moment where my toe catches the smooth, dangerous criminal lurking below, and I drop quickly to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

After picking my dignity back up from the sidewalk, I eventually make it past the back streets and into the Square. My lovely Lincoln Square, loaded with rich people, boutique shops, and a million potential law suits. The sidewalks are shoveled before the snow even falls. The ice has been melted long before the first gaggle of shiny housewives and their screaming brood have strapped on their Burberry boots to make the enormous effort towards the nearest café. Nobody slips on a sidewalk with Burberry walking on it.

As walking becomes easier, I prep myself for the next battle of my mornings – unwanted salutations. Now, I wouldn’t consider myself a mean person. I wouldn’t even consider myself a reserved person. But, when it is 5 degrees and 8:20 in the morning, I don’t want anything to do with your 'hellos'. Frankly, the temperature doesn’t even have anything to do with it. If it is 8:20 in the morning and any temperature, please don’t talk to me.

The first of these oh so chipper greeters is the man whom I have appropriately named the “StreetWise guy”. StreetWise guy is a homeless man who stands on the corner by the Cold Stone Creamery every day selling StreetWise Magazines. StreetWise is a magazine that highlights social issues in Chicago, specifically poverty. It is sold to the homeless (or I guess anyone who wants to sell it) for $0.75 an issue, and then, they can turn around and sell it for $2 to the general public.

SWG is somewhat of a minor celebrity in Lincoln Square. He is charismatic and effective. I guarantee he is one of the top sales men in Chicago. With his sales talent, I'm sure he is not actually homeless anymore. The magazine even wrote a story about him and how well he sells. Everyone knows who he is, and if you are cool enough, he knows who you are. When SWG recognized me for the first time, I truly felt like one of the locals. That status bump comes with a hefty price, though, and it’s called guilt.

When I get within thirty feet of SWG, the anxiety begins. It’s not that I don’t want to buy his magazine three times a day (he never seems to remember that you just bought one four hours ago). It is just that I, honestly, don’t carry cash. I know, I know, it sounds like a lame excuse. But, get that man a credit card machine, and then, you can judge me.

“STREEEEETWIIISSEE! NEW ISSUE! JUST CAME OUT YESTERDAY!”

I turn my eyes down and hope that someone walking in front of me distracts him long enough for me to get by, unnoticed. It really never happens, but I hope.

“Hey young lady!” he yells to me. Crap. I look up and give him a surprised smile like ‘oh, I didn’t notice you standing there at that corner that you, literally, are always standing at.’

“Hi, how are you?” I say, never slowing down. That’s the key really - polite and in a hurry. It keeps the guilt sting down to only a moment.

“You have a nice day,” he says to me, following my hasty body with his smile. I step quickly until I hear him say hello to someone else. Finally, my body relaxes. One down, two to go.

I walk on. The worst are yet to come. I walk past the train just as it rumbles by, erupting through the general silence of the winter morning. Turning down Western Avenue, my eyes search for the next disruption. This one is hit or miss. Sometimes, I am lucky and have timed myself around him. But, I see a flash of blonde, curly hair ahead, and I know that today is not a lucky day.

I have a stalker. Okay, not like a really scary stalker, but a ‘level-yellow’ creeper. During the week, he walks to the train just around the same time that I pass it. At first, I never thought anything of him. He would smile as I walked by. I’d give him a no-teether back. No big deal.

But, if you give a mouse a cookie…

Slowly, that small smile got bigger and bigger. It started showing up on his face from further and further distances. The pressure to live up to this smile every day has really gotten ridiculous. I’ve convinced myself that if I just look down or ignore him, I’m going to hurt his feelings so badly that he will never smile at another person again. It has gotten to the point that I feel such stress when I see him in the distance, I start to panic and consider anything from crossing the four lane street in the middle of traffic to just turning around and running home.

Recently, I had a huge scare with my stalker when I walked by him, unwilling but ready to smile as usual, and I heard a meek ‘good morning’ come out of his mouth. Oh no, I thought. Do not start talking. We are not going to take this to the verbal level. A smile is one thing, but a ‘good morning’? Where will it end? I put my foot down and ignored him.

If you give a mouse a cookie…

As I approach him today, I force my eyes to the street, thinking that today is the day that I will finally cut him off completely. As always, just as I cross him, I wimp out and look over. His big teeth are waiting for me. I nod my head, give a weak turn of my lip, and look down at the ground. We pass each other, but I feel his smile still beaming at the back of my head.

I ready myself for the finale of this good morning trio. This woman is the thing I dread the most in my day. I have actually changed my daily route in order to avoid her. Sure, it takes me much longer to get to work with the new route, but it is worth it. I promise you, it is worth it. Today, though, I am running late. When, I’m running late, there is no choice but the short way.

I turn the corner, heading West on Montrose. I see her reflective orange parka ahead. I shiver at the stop sign in her hand. I hear her high pitched ‘hellos’ from a block away. To many people, I am sure that this unbelievably irritating crossing guard is a burst of happiness in their mornings. I have no doubt that the disgust that I feel when she tells me to have a good morning, no, good day, no, (what is she thinking!) good weekend, feels like delight in other people. I despise her cheerfulness.

And, it is not just her jolly disposition that bothers me. There is something else about her that offends me more than her happiness...

I cannot tell how old she is.

I am not kidding. It is the strangest thing in the world. Her face is completely ambiguous. She is a mystery of age the way that the SNL character, Pat, is a mystery of sex. If I had to guess I would say that she is either twenty years old or sixty years old. You cannot imagine how unnerving it is to look at someone and have no idea what decade they could possibly have been born in.

Now, I can fake my kindness to a homeless salesman. I can even fake my kindness to a stalker. But, the cheerful crossing guard is where my line is drawn. Forget it. I will not pretend that her weird, ageless face does not upset me. I don’t make eye contact, I don’t return her ‘have a good mornings’, and I certainly do not smile at her. For the most part, I ignore her. But, even ignoring her stresses me out, and I am so happy to finally pass her.

I understand that I may sound heartless because of this. But, I don’t care. Someone needs to stand up for the morning commuter. Someone needs to show these cheerful early morning people that the rest of us don’t want to hear what they have to say.

With the greeters behind me, I turn my attention to walking again. I slip and slide and rub cheap cotton under my feet for the last few blocks to my office. I open the door and let out a big sigh of relief. Finally, I have nothing else to worry about except my entire day.

Tiny, Little

2010-10-19T19:14:00.000-07:00

He is 6’2” at the very least, this tall man with his tiny, little, convenient things.

His tiny, little glasses look upon his tiny, little laptop, which sits next to his tiny, little espresso cup. Nothing fits, here. He can barely keep his long fingers typing on his tiny, little keyboard without them slipping off to the side. I feel that, inside, he must be bursting to stretch his fingers across a proportionate keypad and around a proportionate cup handle. To feel the cool air pass between his cramped bulbous knuckles must be a dream.

This convenient world with its tiny amenities is a circus show.

A Cool Brain

2010-10-03T11:51:00.000-07:00

“You need the cool of the brain,” said Kris with a “K.” I looked up at him in the rearview mirror, my eyes teary and puffed to the size of marshmallows.

“A cool brain sounds nice,” I replied through my sniffles.

Kris, my cab driver, had recently had the misfortune of responding to my desperate hand in the air. He and I were now flying down Lakeshore Drive at 2:30 in the morning. I was crying in the backseat. He was throwing me pamphlets about the healing of Hare Krishna and looking back at me far too often for my comfort as his car passenger.

“Kris, have you ever felt completely confused about everything that you ever thought you wanted? Like all of the sudden, everything that you were ever certain of is not so certain anymore? I am just losing it, man. And, I feel like I am just disappointing everyone lately, mostly myself.”

“Ah yes,” replied Kris, with a smile in the mirror. “I have had that.”

“What did you do?” I asked him, desperately. I inched up on my seat in the cab and peered through the little cubbyhole in the glass.

“Ah, I meditate, and then, I feel like I just woke up again. I feel cool in the brain.”

I collapsed back on the leather and sighed. I buried my face in my hands and rubbed my eyeballs. “Unfortunately, my body resists meditating at all costs, Kris. Maybe I need a therapist.”

I could almost hear Kris shaking his head in disappointment. I closed my eyes.

I had just finished my first day of training as a waitress in a bar. It was the same bar the Kris had just picked me up from. I had an awful night and left in tears, knowing that I would never be stepping back there again, not even as a customer. I thought that I was making the right decision, but all I could think of was how guilty I felt for not keeping the job and how much I would disappoint everyone in my life because of that decision. This was, now, the fourth job that I had turned down in the month that I had been unemployed. My track record was getting pretty interesting.

One time, I was watching Dr. Phil, and there was a woman on the show who was blaming all of her previous partners for their respectively bad relationships. Dr. Phil told her that, if she really thought about it, she was the only consistent thing in all of those bad relationships. So, perhaps, she was the problem. The moment stuck with me at the time because I remember thinking that the poor woman didn’t seem bad enough to be chastised as the instigator of all bad relationships. Now, however, that moment was coming back to me a little clearer and a little closer to home.

I couldn’t help but question myself about my poor statistics. Every time I turned down one of the jobs, it seemed like there were valid reasons behind it. It seemed like I had hard facts to support my decisions. But now, looking at them together in one heaping hill, I was starting to question myself. What was going on here? Was I the problem? Was I just too afraid to start something new? I had quit my secure, 9-5 job to find one that was flexible and edgy, something that would fit better with the life of an actor. But, my body and mind seemed to be resisting every opportunity being given to me to do that. I had been offered four very flexible, very risky, very actor friendly jobs, and I wanted nothing to do with any of them.

I felt so guilty. I felt guilty that I wasn’t strong enough to take care of myself. I felt guilty for not having what it takes to be an actor. I felt guilty for putting my parents through the stress of me not having an income. I even felt guilty for poor Kris having to worry about me on a perfectly pleasant night in Chicago.

As Kris pulled up to my apartment, he scribbled down his email address and phone number and handed the paper over with my change.

“If you are stranded, if you need a cab, call me. If you need advice on meditating, write me an email. Jessie is a good name. Don’t worry.”

I wanted to give my new best friend a hug, but I felt like that might be uncomfortable for both of us. So, instead, I thanked Kris with a “K” with an extra dollar and stepped out into the early morning air.

As I lay down to try to fall asleep that night, the guilt started to creep in again. It slowly twirled its black, smoky tendrils around my brain, quietly whispering sweet nothings of disappointment in my ear. What is wrong with you, it asked? You want to be actor, so start acting like one. A job is just a job. You should be able to do anything for a little bit in order to pursue your dreams. What a failure. Successful people don’t have so many weak moments.

Ever since quitting my job, I had fallen into this sort of ridiculous pattern of self-contempt. I had never felt so confused about which direction to choose in my life. And, the only thing that I could think to do was to sit around and contemplate and worry about my options. Before this moment, I had always been a doer in life. I had always known where I was going and what I was going to do when I got there. I was someone who made plans and stuck with them. And, I was always successful.

But, all of the sudden, I was looking in every direction with fear and uncertainty. For the first time in my life, I was truly unsure if I had what it takes to be successful as an actor. I felt like I didn’t take enough risk for my dreams. I felt old and tired. And, truthfully, I felt like a loser. I hated the thought of failure, but I couldn’t figure out what to do that would prevent that. All of my choices seemed wrong. I seemed wrong. The dream of being an actor just started looking further and further away every day.

The thing is, I knew early on in life that I was completely the wrong personality to be an actor. I’ve never been one to live on the edge. I am the straight A student, the girl who always had her homework done. I am the person who plans relaxation time like a business meeting agenda. I am the person who likes knowing that my bills will be paid and food will be on my plate. I have never been into the whole starving artist thing. I never wanted to live in an actor’s tenement spending my last days of each month scrounging around my couch for rent. But, I always figured that my love for acting would help me overcome those personality roadblocks. I thought that I was strong enough to ball-up and live outside of my comfort zone in pursuit of the greater good. After all, no one can be an actor and a responsible employee at the same time. It just doesn’t work that way.

I turned over in my bed, unable to sleep with my guilt on replay. I thought about Kris and his cool brain. I considered what he had said. How lovely it must be to live life with joyful determination instead of self-deprecating judgment. Hope instead of expectation. I closed my eyes and tried to clear my head. Focus on the fuzzy nothingness. Meditate, Jessie, meditate. My efforts lasted about ten seconds. I rolled over and sighed into my pillow. This was crazy.

Exhausted, I decided it was time to put an end to this one way or another. If I couldn’t meditate it away like Kris, then I’d have to do it my way. Either I fixed these feelings, or my brain was going to seriously overheat. I needed to wake up again. I needed a cool brain. So, I did it my way. I got up and made myself a list. I wrote down everything that I worried about. I wrote down everything that I feared. I wrote down everything about myself that I knew would prevent me from being an actor. And, then I read it back to myself and realized just how ridiculous I was being.

The thing is that no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, the path to success just isn’t that black and white. There is no formula for guaranteed victory in life. I think that all you can do is work hard in the way that you know how to and hope. Hope that things work out in the tiniest way how you imagined. Hope that you stumble upon some luck. Hope that everyone else, no matter how artsy or edgy or talented they are, is working just a little less hard than you. I can’t sit around and worry about things not playing out perfectly. I can’t obsess over the fact that I may not fit the cookie cutter pattern of an artist. Because all that does is take precious time away from working towards my goals.

So, I have decided to try to accept the type of actor that I am. And, more importantly, I would like to work on accepting the type of person that I am. I am an actor, but I like having a regular paycheck. I want to go all the way, but not by the skin of my teeth. I want to do it with a savings account. So, I need to get over it. Perhaps, my way of being an actor will stand out from the crowd. Perhaps, my lack of an artsy edge will make me more appealing to others in the business like me. Perhaps, my love for paying bills on time will keep me in the acting game just a little longer than my competition. Perhaps, just long enough to get a little lucky.

Fantastical

2010-08-08T11:39:00.000-07:00

Today, I rode the EL during a night rush hour, if that even exists. I got on at Chicago and off at Western and somewhere in between, I had a daydream that I could fly. With my face pushed up against the grease smudged window of the metal door, my eyes searched for a spot that didn’t reflect an unhappy Chicagoan staring at me in utter weariness from the day’s activities. The only spot that wasn’t reflecting that was down, so I looked down. High above the city streets, the train seemed as light as a feather and as powerful as a punch at the same time. It shot through the air, like a magic dragon, rocketing through the sky with ease and authority. It headed straight, with too much intent and pride to take one last look behind. I thought of how wonderful it would feel to take my hands and pry open that big, metal door and tumble out into the thick, musty air that would hold me up like a warm pool of water. With the train rushing past, I’d stretch out my arms and pull the atmosphere behind me, propelling myself into an effortless soar through the night. I'd fly away from the angry people of the train and straight over the honking taxi cabs. Up, up, up until I couldn’t hear anything of the city. All I would hear would be the sweet humming of the stars, and all I would feel would be the warm wetness of the summer sky.

That would be fantastical.

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A Letter to Chicago Actors:

2010-05-11T07:34:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago, while sitting at book club, I had an epiphany. We had just read a book that, at one point, discussed the fact that every city has a personality that can be described by one word. New York’s word was achieve. LA’s word was succeed. The next appropriate question for our group: what is Chicago’s word? What is the one, single remark to describe our city? Do you know what we chose? Content.

I can’t say that, at first, that didn’t bring a smile to my face. The thought of an entire city being genuinely happy in life was something to be proud of. Here, we don’t get caught up in the stress of perfection. We don’t mind leaving work early to grab a few beers. We don’t mind taking three steps forward, two steps back, and hanging tight. Who wouldn’t want to live like that?

But, the more I thought about it, a small little seed of discomfort started germinating in my stomach. Being defined by joyous complacency was sort of depressing. It seemed lazy. It seemed anti-progressive. And, the thing was, I really, really want to progress. Sure, one can argue that contentment doesn't trump success. The two can coexist, technically. But, usually, they don’t. Normally, people who are striving for some sort of success are not content. Content people have already reached that goal. I want to be an actor and a writer and so many other things in life that I am not, right now. I am not content. Does that mean I shouldn’t be here? Do I not belong? Can I not live in the Second City if I want to be number one?

It wasn’t until three months later that my suspicion was cemented in proof. I was called out for an audition. It was for a national commercial for a well-known product. I was excited, to say the least. The exposure could be very helpful in my young acting career. However, when I got the sides, I quickly realized that the roles being cast in Chicago were far from career changing. Despite the fact that the commercial was filming in this city, the principle roles were cast in Los Angeles. Background talents were the only roles that Chicago actors would be considered for. My official role would be the “scarf girl.”

The connection between the two things may not seem initially clear. But, in my opinion, one is clear proof of the other’s negative affect. After living in this city for two years, and going on audition after audition, I have realized that my crappy commercial audition was a serious trend. It seems like Chicago, literally, never casts principle roles for big-budget or national projects. Even the few films that come to Chicago to shoot principle photography will cast their main actors in New York or LA and get their small roles from Chicago when they get here.

For example, when the “The Dark Knight” filmed here a few years ago, I heard that they cast almost every speaking role in LA and all of their background actors here. They did save a few minor roles for our actors, but the majority of the main talent was from the west coast. This happens all the time. It is so depressing. There are great actors in this city. There are very committed, very educated, very talented artists here. And, acting agents continue to send those talented artists out for the roles of the “guy with an apron” or the “person walking by.” So, why do they keep doing that, you ask?

Contentment. Chicago is so content with being second fiddle that it is seriously damaging its true potential. And, it is absolutely infuriating for anyone who came here to do more. Young people come here because they hear it is a place that is up-and-coming. They hear it is a new place with new opportunity. I did. And, that is such a fake. Chicago and its directors and its producers and its agents and its actors are so content with what the film industry is willing to give them that nothing will ever change if it continues. And, the people who are not content are forced to leave a city they love to seek out success. I have been told by my own agents that if I want to make anything of myself in film, I shouldn't be living here.

This has to change. I love this city, and I hate the fact that I have recently committed to leaving for the sake of my career. If movies and commercials are filming in our town, we deserve the first chance at those roles. Outsourcing is not an option. I have no idea what the answer is. I don’t know where the change has to start.

Maybe it has to start by simply defining ourselves differently. I am not content and neither is Chicago. Instead of content, why don’t we be something really great like Transform or Revolutionize or Attain? Maybe if we think of ourselves differently, we can make other think of us that way, too.

Whatever the answer, “scarf girl” can kiss it.

Walk Like a Model

2010-04-20T09:56:00.000-07:00

Like all perfectly normal, perfectly human girls, I hate models. Why? Because they are perfect. It is that simple. Perfection is detestable in all forms. The word “model” is like a four letter word in the girl language. A girl hears the word “model,” and immediately, her defenses go up and spiked armor shoots out of her skin. It is natural.

It is natural because, honestly, models are freaks. They are not normal human beings. The majority of the female population is not 6’0”, 90lbs, and gorgeous. And, I feel like if they get to be beautiful and rich and silly, the least they could do for the rest of the girl population is let us hate them. We deserve it.

When I was growing up, I was a bit of a freak myself. Not the model type of freak. The opposite, actually. I was more like the girl from “The Breakfast Club,” who put Captain Crunch and Pixie Sticks in her sandwich. Okay, I guess maybe not that bad. I had friends and ate grilled cheese sandwiches. However, I did go on a “hair brushing strike” in my Junior year of high school…

That’s right.

I stopped brushing my hair for like…months. I think I had a good reason. I was protesting something. I can’t remember now.

Anyway, I had friends, and I hung out with the popular kids, but I guess I just never quite fit the “popular girl” quota. I was weird. I was interested in things like politics and the environment instead of parties. I didn’t wear a lot of makeup. And, I can’t remember tons of boys ever having a crush on me. I stayed out of their eye line. Literally…

I was stupidly tall.

The point is that I always accepted the fact that I was a cute and quirky person, but not a sexy person. It was never my thing, physically or emotionally. I remember an acting agent once asking me if I could make a sexier face in a headshot that she was sending on to a director. I just said, “no.”

In my acting career, I fit the “kooky neighbor” roles much better than the “vixen bad-ass” roles. It has always been that way. I would rather play the crazy best friend than the leading lady. I know this. I am happy with this. But, sometimes my agents get confused. Very, very confused.

A few weeks ago, I got a call for an audition. I was, initially, excited. I was told it was for a hair show. I just had to show up to the audition, someone would look at the texture of my hair, and cast me based on that. If I was picked, they would cut my hair, I would smile onstage, and then, I would get paid. Easy Peasy.

So, I showed up. The minute I walked into the building, I knew that it would be anything but easy. The moment I entered the room, I found myself totally and utterly surrounded by models. Tall, gorgeous, sexy, rail-thin models. Ugh. What the heck!? There were over a hundred of these freaks filling the large, industrial loft space that I had just stumbled into. My mouth fell open. My gut turned to Jell-O. Forget this, I thought. As I turned to run out of the room with my cute, quirky tail between my legs, I suddenly heard a voice behind me.

“Come on girl. She’s just giving instructions. You aren’t late yet.” I turned to see a young PA with a clipboard. He was shooing me in with his hand. I hesitated, not sure how to explain to him that a mistake had been made. Some wires were crossed in the audition notice. This was supposed to be based on hair potential, not model potential. But, he shooed me again, so I slowly and reluctantly walked into the room. Arms folded, I made my way to the back of the room where I could blend in with the interns. A non-model lady was on a platform in the center of the room talking.

The non-model lady explained to us that the show was a runway show that was taking place at a beauty show at a convention center downtown. Four top stylists from past seasons of the show, “Shear Genius,” were going to pick two people each to be their hair models for this show. If chosen, we would immediately be taken to the convention center for our hair consultations.

Most of this information I found out after this lady’s speech because in that very moment, my ears had stopped at the word “runway.” At that word, my heart had started beating so hard that I could actually see it moving my shirt. Runway? I was not told there was going to be a runway! I thought I just had to sit onstage, while someone cut my hair! My eyes, all of the sudden, focused on the long platform that the non-model lady was standing on. It was a runway. Oh god.

It seems utterly stupid that I would be afraid of something as simple as walking. But, I instantly found myself terrified of having to move my legs. I wasn’t a model! I don’t know how to walk like a model. I don’t know how to look like a model. Why is this happening to me? Panic bubbled in my brain.

Was there a special way to walk on a runway? There must be if models get paid so much to do it, right? What if I trip? What if they laugh? And, worst of all, what if they actually ask me to do the show??

By the time I had come back to reality, the non-model lady had stopped talking, and the stylists had started their ascent upon the models. They weaved in and out of the crowd on the floor, running their hands through hair and consulting each other. Every ten girls or so, they would point to the stage, and the chosen model would quickly climb the stairs and “walk” for them. After the “walk,” sometimes, they would hand the girl a packet of paper to fill out, but mostly, they would ask the poor model to get back in line.

The models had all formed a big ring around the dreaded runway and were shooting daggers at whoever was onstage at the moment. We were all fully exposed. But, as the stylists got closer, I felt myself slowly searching for a way to get out of their sight. I didn’t want to do this. So, I sort of stepped back a little and to the side a little more. I was awkwardly behind the girl next to me. She glanced back at me, uncomfortably.

I looked over at the stylists. They were close. Then, on accident, I did the worst thing that I could ever do. I made eye contact with one of them. She stared. I looked back at the ground, cursing myself. I felt her approaching. Oh dear god no. Do not talk to me.

“Can I see you walk?” asked the stylist named Daisy.

I looked up and did that stupid, silent, “You talking to me?” pointing thing.

“Yeah, you. Can you walk for us?”

“Sure,” I heard myself say.

Record scratch. What? Sure? No. No, Jessie, you don’t know how to do that, remember girl?

I started walking towards the steps to the stage. I felt the model dagger eyes piercing my back. Get ready for a show, ladies, I thought to myself. I tried to look confident. How can I get out of this, I asked myself? Could I pretend to sprain my ankle on the way up?

In no time, I found myself on the stage, looking at the crowd of Amazons surrounding me. I had to do it. No escaping now.

I took a breath. Just work it girl, I surprisingly said to myself. Just walk however you walk and don’t look down and don’t smile. Don’t let them smell your fear. It will be over soon. May the force be with you. And, off I went.

Amazingly, I got to one end without tripping. Then, I got back without tripping, too. Sure, my leg muscles felt like rubber bands, wiggling the whole way, but I made the trek. I walked down the stairs, proud of myself for going through with it, but perfectly ready to get back into my place in line. Instead, Daisy told me to hang on. She pulled over a girl who had already been chosen and had started filling out her paperwork.

“Walk together,” she said to us.

Again!?? I have to do it again!? Freak.

The prettiest girl who ever lived joined me onstage. She was that kind of pretty that didn’t need make up or nice hair. She could have put on a potato sack and made it look chic. I found myself even more nervous than before.

In a weird fit of panic, I turned to her.

“I’ve never done this before," I whispered. "I mean, I’ve never done this before that one time that I just did it two minutes ago,” I confessed with terror in my voice.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look at me. I wasn’t sure if she had even heard me. But then, just barely audibly, she said, “Follow me.” And, before I knew it, I was.

“Step, step, step, step, we are going to stop right here,” she whispered. I don’t think that her lips were even moving. She continued, “Pose, now we are turning, step, step, step, step, step, step, stop, there, we did it. Good job.” She was already down the steps before I realized that we were done. I was so lost about what had just happened.

When the man with the clipboard gave me my paperwork to fill out, I was even more confused. Did I just get picked to do this? Did I just beat out all of these real models to get the job? Did I just walk a runway?

Well, booya, you freaks of nature, I DID! Muahahahahahaha. The cute girl did it! The quirky best friend is totally IN. And, you are out! You are no longer in the running to become America’s Next Top Model!

I jumped in the car with the models and was at the convention center within minutes. As we walked through the hallways, my new confidence proved to be short lived. What if they found me out? What if, all of the sudden, someone looked at me from a different angle or for too long and saw through my mask.

“WAIT A MINUTE. Hold on, young lady. You are NOT a model. Guys, who said she was a model? Who ruined the show? Alright, out you go, girly!”

How tragic.

But, as the day went on, and then, the next day started, no one was figuring me out! No one was even questioning my presence! My confidence started rising again. I started to feel, dare I say it, sexy. Like maybe I could keep the gig up till it was all over and get paid! How wonderful!

I’m not going to lie; it felt good to walk with the group. I knew I was supposed to hate the girls around me, but I didn’t. They were sort of nice. I felt like I was part of a chic secret society. It was like I had gained admittance to the VIP lounge of some awesome club. People looked at me differently. People spoke to me differently. It was pleasant.

When I sat down to get the finishing touches on my hairstyle, my head was floating. Daisy, the stylist who chose me, walked over. She had chosen me for my stylist, Nicole, because Nicole had no time to go to the casting. I smiled at Daisy, the very first lady to recognize my Tyra potential. I felt so good. She spoke to Nicole.

“So, she is working out? We couldn’t find anyone else with short hair that was willing to go really dramatic.”

Sigh.

My bubble popped so loud, I think the audience could hear it on the main stage. So, there it was. I was an afterthought. I was a last resort. I was a normal person. I wasn’t one of them. I wasn’t the leading lady.

I was Carol Burnett, again, in a room of Angelina Jolies. Blah.

But, you know what? Who cares, I asked myself? Cute and kooky is chic, too, dammit! I would rather be able to make you laugh than make you swoon. I would rather be someone that people felt at ease approaching and weren’t intimidated by. I actually felt bad for the beautiful girls who everyone dislikes. And, if there was one thing that these models taught me, it was to embrace your oddness. Make it an asset. Make it something that people will pay you loads of money to display.

“She’s working just fine,” said Nicole, unexpectedly. She smiled at me in the mirror.

And, not to sound too corny, but for the first time since I had started the job, I was totally convinced that she was right.

The only thing we have to fear is...everything.

2010-03-23T19:28:00.000-07:00

So, I am quite literally, afraid of everything. It actually scares me when I think about how many things that I'm scared of. Today, I read an article online about watching too much television. It said that if you watch more than four hours of television a day, your chance of getting Alzheimer’s doubles. Doubles! I watch way more than four hours a day now that I am unemployed, so you can see how I began to worry. I switched off the TV, vowing to not turn it on till Scott came over from work. I had about an hour. I stood in the middle of the room, confused with the silence. The television was my constant companion - my protector in an empty house. I pursed my lips, put my hands behind my back, and rolled back from my heels to the palms of my feet. I whistled, rocking back and forth. What. To. Do.

So, I took a bath. I decided to sit and watch the water fill up my bathtub to waste time. But, since my tub was made in 1539, it was taking quite awhile, and I got bored. So, I got some chips, sat back on the bathroom floor, and stared some more. The chips helped.

It took so long to fill up the tub that by the time I got in, the water was already getting cold. I sat down in my luke warm sanctuary and stared at the ceiling. What. To. Do. All of the sudden, the silence started to get to me. It was like...horror movie silent. Someone slammed a door out in the hallway, and I jumped out of the water.

Goosebumped and feeling guilty about my dismal display of anti-water conservation, I sat down at the kitchen table, far away from my TV. I still had fifteen minutes till Scott was going to get to my house, and I figured if I couldn't see the television, I was in a better place - emotionally. What. To. Do.

I started feeling anxious again from the silence. Then, a brilliant idea hit me. An act of self-help crept into my brain. I decided to waste my last few minutes of fearful solitude by making a list of every single thing that scared me. I know. Why am I so weird, you ask?

Well, here is something even weirder for you. In ten minutes, I came up with 100 things that scare me. That's right. I am a freak. After completing the list, I read it over and found many things that probably everyone fears, many that no one fears, and many fears that I might share with a select group of people doctors have studied. My only criterion was if the thing gave me tightness in my chest. It didn't matter the degree of tightness; it just had to be of the same make.

I've decided to share these fears with you. I don't know why. Probably because I found some of them to be funny. I encourage you to make your own list. Mine was eye opening to say the least. These are in no particular order. You can see how some of them built off the last. Here we go...

1. Helium balloons
2. Opening champagne bottles
3. Spiders
4. Snakes
5. Anything small that moves fast
6. Strangers
7. Dark
8. Being alone in a house
9. Unlocked spaces
10. Raw egg yolk
11. Failing
12. Not being liked
13. Ticks
14. Brain damage
15. Dry drowning
16. Regular drowning
17. Heart stopping
18. Paper cuts
19. Garbage juice
20. House catching on fire
21. Carbon Monoxide poisoning
22. Talking to new people
23. Peeping Toms
24. Theft
25. Not being as smart as people might think
26. Getting old
27. Tornadoes
28. Sleeping outdoors
29. New jobs
30. Not knowing more than everyone else
31. Being annoying
32. Getting fat
33. Proving a talent
34. Meteors
35. Reincarnation
36. The bible
37. Republicans
38. Government conspiracies
39. Bad dreams
40. Pretty girls
41. Rejection
42. Tetanus/lock jaw
43. Hidden charges
44. Identity theft
45. Loud, sudden noises
46. Wrinkles
47. Earthquakes
48. Heights
49. Planes
50. Dinosaurs
51. Geese
52. Radiation from microwaves
53. Lung cancer
54. Family dying
55. Being poor
56. Tsunamis
57. Loose plugs
58. Earthworms
59. 2012
60. Jokes that I don't understand
61. Spending money
62. Never getting another role
63. Auditioning
64. Expectation
65. Death
66. Intruders
67. Boyfriend's parents
68. Boyfriend's friends
69. Religion
70. Responsibility
71. Commitment
72. Moving home
73. Staying in Chicago
74. Moving anywhere else
75. Gas stoves
76. Cooking
77. Drugs
78. Wrong answers
79. Sleeping in unfamiliar places
80. Getting into trouble with any authority
81. House blowing up
82. Sam the maintenance man
83. Woody (my old boss)
84. Overstaying my welcome
85. Answering unknown calls
86. Health insurance companies
87. Getting bills in the mail
88. Depending on others
89. Murderers
90. Rapists
91. Stalkers
92. Never being happy
93. Something bending my nails back
94. Scorpions in my bed
95. Eating spiders on accident at night
96. Sleeping wrong and stretching my face out
97. Scoliosis
98. Someone knocking at the door
99. Other people being more successful than me
100. Hammering things into the wall

Poor Girl

2010-03-02T08:06:00.000-08:00

Apartment searching sucks. I’m just going to put it out there. It especially sucks when you are not rich. Which, honestly, makes most things suck, not just apartment searching.

I really try to avoid moving as much as possible in life. In college, I lived in the same house for the four years that I was there. I think that is very rare in college, where bad roommates are rampant. In Chicago, I have lived in the same apartment for the past two years.

However, certain things have occurred that have pretty much forced me to pack my boxes and say goodbye to my humble abode and go out searching for a new place to call home. Partly, it is the ceiling that looks like its going to collapse on top of me at any moment. Partly, it is the fact that I am convinced that the building owner shuts off the heat every other day to save money. Partly, it is the broken buzzer that has been broken for two years. Partly, it is the pipes that sound like they are going to burst open every time you wash your hands. And mostly, yes mostly, it is the maintenance guy, Sam, who has sealed the deal for the separation.

Sam, Sam, Sam.

I think that everyone in this world has had a Sam of their own at one point in their lives. I hope, for your sake, only once. Sam is an elderly man who wears a newsboy hat and a frown all twenty-four hours of the day. A real Grumplestiltskin, if you know what I mean. As soon as I moved in, I was warned by the other tenants of my building about phoning Sam if anything broke or I needed help. “Don’t do it,” was the main warning. I won’t go into the details, but Sam has yelled at me several times for ignoring that warning.

Sam’s horrible attitude was the biggest catalyst for me to move on. And, some part of me is thankful for that. Despite the stress, there is still something exciting about getting a new apartment. The possibility of finding the perfect little gem for the perfect very little price was the main one. So, thanks Sam. You old bastard.

So anyway, I will admit that I was just a little bit optimistic the other day when I decided to go look at a few apartments with some local leasing agents that my boyfriend, Scott, had found. The possibilities that lay ahead were sort of exciting.

We found the first place pretty easily. It was an old Victorian house that was really close to the brown line. Train proximity was my biggest requirement, so things were looking up. We were supposed to call the girl who was going to show it to us when we got there. She must have lived in one of the apartments in the house because, after the call, she came sauntering down the stairs with sweats and flip flops on. I started walking up the stairs to meet her, but saw her hand gesture that we were, in fact, going down the stairs. Interesting.

She walked underneath the house and pushed open a gate thing that, at first glance, looked like part of the grating put on houses to keep animals out. After leading us down a scary alley to the back of the house, my mind was already made up. There was no way I was going to push open that weird thing and walk down that weird alley every day. No way. However, I couldn’t say that at that point, so we kept going.

The apartment was in the coach house out back. We walked up the stairs and she unlocked the door to the left. There must have been another apartment upstairs because there was another door to the right. Or, maybe it was a torture chamber. I don’t know why my mind always thinks that I’m going to accidently stumble upon a torture chamber. Paranoid. Anyway, we walked in, and the one on the left was actually an apartment. Sort of.

Have you ever been in a place that makes you feel like you are entering a house down in the rabbit hole of Alice in Wonderland? Like everything is just a little bit uneven? I don’t know if it was the time period that this coach house was built, but I really doubt that a level was used in the construction. All of the walls seemed wonky. It felt like some sides were taller than others, the floor was higher in some places, and the ceiling came down on one side. My head started feeling dizzy.

There was this weird living room/kitchen divider, which had a top that felt like it was made out of tub caulking. The dishwasher was literally falling out of its place in the counter. And, the ceilings were made out of those panels that you see in office buildings. It was so weird! I could tell that the girl knew it was weird, too. She was doing that weird apology thing, like she knew what she was selling was crap, but maybe I would feel sorry for her and take the crap anyway.

“It really isn’t that bad,” she said. I wasn’t buying.

In a pathetic last attempt, she showed us the “bedroom” of this “apartment” (Both of these words are in quotations marks for the obvious reason. They were both not truly those things at all). The “bedroom” was the size of my current closet. I think it actually was a closet, but they slapped a window on it and called it a bedroom. That way they could charge another $200 a month.

Anyway, I did my best to be polite, but I quickly shoed everyone out of the rabbit hole and back onto the street. There was no way I was living in that place. Think of the headaches. Thanks, but no thanks, Flip Flops.

Next, we went a stop down on the train to another apartment. We were met by Chris Farley’s little brother, Dave. Dave wasn’t really Chris Farley’s little brother, but he could have been. In looks and demeanor, he was the deceased star. I hope that he uses that gift to get into places for free.

I really liked Dave, which made me want to really like the apartments he was showing us. He buzzed the building manager of the apartment and said a few, lovable comments about having trouble finding the place while we waited.

Mrs. and Miss Bates from Jane Austen’s, “Emma,” appeared on the sidewalk with the apartment keys. I heard Dave under his breath say, “I knew the weird of this place had to be hiding somewhere.”

They lead us back to the apartment, chatting in this weird, Siamese twin rapport, finishing each other’s sentences and everything. I couldn’t tell what their relationship was. Sisters? Lovers? Mother and daughter? Aunt and niece? Friend and friend? Whatever their relationship was, I knew that it must involve several cats. They opened the door to the apartment and turned on the lights.

My heart sank. It was such a dump. I ventured in, once again knowing that I would not be living in this apartment. Dave and Scott got silent, as well. I think the look on my face said it all. As we moved through the space, the younger Bates lady was literally saying over and over, “This is loose; this will be fixed,” “Oh, that sink is wobbly; that will be fixed,” “Just don’t turn on that light or it will fall on you; that will be fixed, too.” Sigh.

When they asked if we wanted to see the laundry room, I speedily said, “No, no thanks.” Scott was trying to be nice, and I could tell that he was totally about to give them a pity “Yes.” So, I turned towards him and widened my eyes so big that they felt like they were going to fall out. He got the picture and closed his mouth.

When we got outside, we said our thanks and goodbyes to the sisters/aunts. As soon as they were out of site, Dave Farley let out a big, “Well, can I just say that those two were AWESOME!” We all burst out laughing with relief that everyone felt the same level of “twighlight zoneness” as each other.

Dave drove us to the next place in his car. Scott and I were feeling quite discouraged at this point, but Dave was so likeable, I felt confident that he wouldn’t lead us down the wrong path again. I thought that we were all on the same level after the last place.

He parked on the side of the street, and we all walked up to, what looked like, a nice place. I felt hope in my heart. The downfall of this place was that it wasn’t so close to the train, but after what we had just experienced, I was willing to walk a bit. We approached the apartment, and Dave told us that the building manager had left the apartment unlocked for us. We walked into the building; Dave opened a door. To my dismay, I saw that, once again, the stairs lead DOWN. A garden apartment. The peons in the hierarchy of apartments. Ugh.

We walked down stairs, and people, please believe me when I say that these next descriptions are not exaggerations. I have Scott as my witness. This apartment was the Pièce de résistance of the whole crappy dwellings feast we were eating that evening.

There was no floor. Like, really, no floor at all. Which, thinking back, really should have had me walking out immediately. I looked over to see Scott’s reaction to the no-floor thing and saw that he was actually hunched over a bit because the ceiling was so short that he didn’t feel comfortable standing up straight. There were pipes everywhere, but not the cool, exposed pipes in a loft or something. This was like…exposed plumbing. There were yellow stains all over the walls, possible residue from the last mass murder that occurred down there.

For some stupid reason, I walked over to the bathroom and switched on the light. A dead cockroach in the tub welcomed me. I switched it back off immediately. For some other stupid reason, I switched on the bedroom light. Dull, grayish-brown carpet with frayed edges gave the room a nice feeling of dirt. Maybe it was dirt. I didn’t go in.

For the first time, Scott was the one who spoke up.

“Like, I’m not trying to be mean, but is this really a $900 apartment?” he asked. “Is this really an apartment?” he repeated for emphasis. Dave fumbled with his notes.

“Yeah. That doesn’t seem right, does it?” he answered.

It was my turn.

“I know this is your job, and I don’t want to insult you, but do you really think that I would live here?” I asked him. He was so nice that I felt this need to not hurt his feelings.

“Right, right. Honestly, I can’t believe this is on the market,” he replied, apologetically.

I turned to Scott.

“I think this whole thing needs to be reevaluated if this is what $900 gets in this part of town,” I said. Sam and a broken buzzer were looking mighty nice all of the sudden.

I looked at Dave. “Just to be clear, I would rather live in a shoebox that was clean than this. Like, a real shoebox. Let’s think quality rather than quantity.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. I think that I better understand what it is that you want, now,” said Dave. He continued, “Some people really like the exposed pipe thing, you know. It’s all preference.”

“Exposed pipes can be cool when they aren’t low enough to knock you out,” said Scott. He added, “I feel uncomfortable down here; we should go.” I agreed. I whole-heartedly agreed.

We reached Dave’s car, and he offered to take us to one more place. I said we were done. He totally understood. I think he felt really guilty about the whole night.

When we got back to my beautiful, quaint apartment, I think Scott and I were both feeling a bit depressed about the whole experience. What was I going to do? Live in the suburbs? Rent a closet in someone else’s awesome apartment?

I wondered if I could possibly break into my leasing agency and find the hate note that I had sent them when I denied the lease renewal. I could shred it and deny that it was ever written, I thought. Sam really wasn’t that bad, as long as I never called him for anything again. And, would the ceilings really fall in on me? That was a bit dramatic. They’ve stood up this long; I’ve probably got some time left.

But then, like a sign from the Apartment Gods themselves, my heat turned off for the night. My freezing toes under the covers that evening assured me that my gem apartment was out there waiting for me. I just had to go through a few more cockroaches to get to it.

Quit who? Quit you!

2010-02-17T15:36:00.000-08:00

I am going to turn over a new leaf, flip the page in the book called Life, upset the universe with one fell swoop, jump on the midnight train going anywhere, open my box of chocolates and find out exactly what it is I’m gonna’ get. So, first things first…

I quit my job. Dramatic, I know. But, I’m an actor; dramatics are my specialty. And, as an actor, I feel it is my life’s duty to eventually quit my job in pursuit of the art. I signed a contract on my way in. It was written in the first clause. “Thou whilst quit thy job in pursuit of thine own happiness”… or something like that.

So, I did it. I quit my (not-so-comfy-anyway) job with little prospect and even less money in the bank. I was so tired of wishing every single day of my life away just to collect a paycheck every two weeks. I’m sure that something is wrong with that statement. I’m sure that this is not the course that people are supposed to take in life. I mean, everyone hates their job, right? Buck up, you say.

But, the thing is that some people don’t hate their jobs. Some people love their jobs. This concept is so unfamiliar to me that it actually took me two minutes staring at my computer screen to come up with how I felt about this concept. Unfamiliar was the winning word. It is true, though. Some people do exactly what they want in the day and get paid for it. And, I am determined to make that happen for me. And, I’ll tell you what, it wasn’t going to happen sitting in front of a desk all day with nothing to do but fill out deposit slips for checks that were headed for the inside of someone else’s bank account.

Ultimately, the decision came down to the fact that I moved to Chicago to be an actor and a writer. And, if I wasn’t doing those two things, there was no reason for me to be here anymore. I need to give this thing a real shot - a running start out of the gate. I need a job that doesn’t need me as much. I need a job that doesn’t expect me to make a career out of it. I need a low-maintenance job with no commitments. I need to have a fling with a job, if you will.

Part of me feels guilty about this decision. Irresponsible, I guess. What right do I really have to quit a job anyway? Isn’t that an action you should earn? Isn’t that quite arrogant of myself to feel like I can just do whatever I want? These are the questions that are currently twirling around in my head at every moment of the day.

But, the truth is that we all deserve to go after what we want. Whether we are successful at it is another story. But, I have the right to pursue happiness, and goddammit, I am going to cash in on that right.

So, wish me luck, world! Wish me my fling job. Send me some gorgeous, model, no-brain, hottie of a job, and let me keep my deeper commitments for the things that I really love.

And, I’ll wish it for you, too.

The Pigeon

2010-01-24T11:47:00.001-08:00

I am going to go out on a limb here and say that pigeons really are the coolest of all the birds. I mean, if I had to choose a type of bird to be my best friend or to go get a beer with on a Saturday night, there would be no other choice than the pigeon. Really, who’d want to go with a dove or a blue jay? The dove would order an appletini and complain about the noise. The blue jay would turn into a crying mess after the first drink. The pigeon is solid. He’d sit there with you, singing Irish love songs till early morning, just having a good time. He is not a crier. And, I know the pigeon gets a bad rap for being stupid or annoying, but I think the world has it wrong about the pigeon. I really do.

Sometimes when I’m waiting for the bus, I watch these little guys going about their business, and I cannot help but feel a certain fondness. They plow through people on the street without a care in the world. Winding in and out of large crowds, they have no fear of being stepped on, and this makes me laugh. Gumption, they call it. Nothing scares them. And, it’s not stupidity; it really isn’t. When something actually dangerous is present, they are the first to bail. But, until they feel that real sense of danger, they go on like one of us. Any other bird would freak at the mere presence of a human. They’d start flying the minute you got within twenty feet. But, I have actually had a pigeon walk up to my shoe, stop, and check it for food. Gumption.

Unlike most people, I find pigeons to be incredibly smart. In fact, I would go so far as to compare them with one of the most intelligent human beings that I know – my sister. When I was younger, my sister could manipulate me into doing anything. In particular, she would somehow get me to make her breakfast every weekend. I never wanted to do this, and I always swore that every time would be the last. However, every Saturday morning, I would find myself whipping up pancakes for her. How could she do this, you ask? Very simply. She annoyed me into it. She whined and bugged me and threatened not to eat at all, until I finally felt guilty and tired enough to give in. I wanted her to stop, and I didn’t want her to die of hunger on my account. Pigeons do the same thing. People feed them amazing food just so they will leave them alone. Meat, bread, cheese, and anything else in someone’s lunch sack gets thrown their way, just so the pigeon will go away. My sister is smart, and so are the pigeons.

Pigeon- a smart, cool bird with gumption.

Viva la Harry Potter!

2009-12-14T20:03:00.000-08:00

The day that I became a Harry Potter criminal started with an announcement.

This announcement happened as unexpected and miraculous as Harry Potter’s first Patronus. It was 7:15 in the morning, the news was on, and I was brushing my teeth. The sound waves crept into my ears before I had even removed the nightly crust from my eyes. Upon hearing the first, telling syllables - Har-ry - I slightly turned my eyes towards the direction of the television to make sure that my ears perceived correctly. As I did this, a patch of fiery, red hair blazed in the corners of my eye balls.

Confirmation.

My head followed the path of my eyes to the television. As my mouth opened into a perfect ‘o’ shape, a slow-motion dribble of bubbled, blue toothpaste went plummeting out of my lips, hitting the wood floor and rupturing with the force of a hippogriff. My toothbrush followed suit.

I ran to the television just in time to see Fred and George and a gaggle of privileged Potter pre-teens clapping and shouting with joy at some newly discovered news. I read the headline.

Could it be? Was I reading the words on that beautiful television screen correctly? Was Chicago, IL – my place of residence - hosting the premier of ‘Harry Potter: The Exhibition'??

Ladies and gents….IT WAS!

I screamed in happiness and jumped in place right along with my fellow twelve year old HP lovers on the TV screen. I could not believe my luck! I hopped online to get the rest of the info since I had missed the first part of the announcement. With happiness in my heart, I found out that in just two short months, Chicago’s Museum of Science and Industry would be hosting the exhibit and opening its doors to Harry, Ron, and Hermione lovers alike. Original costumes, props, and scenery would be laid out for all of the lucky ticket holders to gawk at.

I did not know how I came to be so fortunate. I did not know why. But, I did know that something magical was about to happen!

As P-Day approached, I was in a constant state of excitement. I imagined exploring the Forbidden Forest, lounging around in Hagrid’s Hut, dining in the Great Hall. Everything my imagination ever wanted was going to come true. I was going to see the stitching on Harry’s school robes, the face of the Sorting Hat, and the working model of Dobby the houself. This is what life is about, I thought to myself.

The morning of the best day of my life finally came. I pulled on my Muggle t-shirt, wrapped a Gryffindor scarf around the neck of my tolerant boyfriend, grabbed my camera, and headed out into the world of the wizards.

When we arrived, a line was already forming. An adult man with a Hogwarts school robe and a conspicuously fake British accent entertained the line with a mix of Harry Potter trivia and passive aggressive rules for the tour. He went seamlessly from,

“Do you know ‘ow many Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers ‘Arry Potter ‘as ‘ad?”

To,

“Now, don’t damage everyone else’s excitement by takin’ photos and ruining the experience for ‘em! Cameras are not permitted by order of the Ministry!”

Finally, the count down clock above the door ran out, and we were brought down a long, twisting corridor. It seemed like we walked forever, when finally, our group entered a room.

My heart stopped. There, behind velvet robes, on a wooden stool, sat the almighty Sorting Hat. In its perfect splendor, it slept. I whipped out my camera faster than you can say Severus Snape. But, then I remembered the fake British man in the lobby and his words of warning about the photos. In an effort of compromise with him in my head, I turned off my flash and went to town with the pictures. I mean how could they really expect people to not take pictures? I went on for awhile, and no one stopped me, so I took more!

After the hat sorted a few stupid lucky kids up front, we were sent to another room where movie screens surrounded us. We were given a sneak peak of the new movie, “Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince.” When the preview ended, there was silence. Suddenly, the room went dark, and then…magic.

A wall to the left slowly started to rise. I heard gasps all around. Slowly the magical door revealed the Forbidden Forest behind it. The night sky was up above. I couldn’t breathe. It was glorious. And, out came the camera again. I was reckless! I didn’t care! Rules were for the meek!

About twenty photos in, I reached the staircase room. Paintings hung on every wall, and they were all moving and speaking. Again, I was in awe. I took out my camera again. However, I decided to be a little more careful in this room because it was much more open and bright than the Forbidden Forest.

I noticed a worker behind me, so I placed the camera down by my hips and pointed it up while continuing to look up at the moving paintings. Nothing fishy here, I emitted through my casual stance and innocent, inquiring looks. However, my rebellious fingers started snapping, hoping I would randomly catch some good shots. I smiled at how sneaky I was. That’s when I heard it. From right behind me, I heard, “No. Nope. You can’t take those in here!”

Crap.

I continued looking up at the paintings, hoping that the voice was talking to some other rule-breaker near me. The tap on my shoulder confirmed that this wasn’t so. I turned around to see a very large, very scary lady with a security outfit and an angry face glaring at me. Her walkie-talkie stood threateningly in her right hand. One click from her thumb, and I was out.

“You can’t do that in here!” she aggressively said to my face. Ignorance is your ticket out, I told myself.

“Oh, I had no idea. I am really sorry,” I said smiling sheepishly.

“They told you several times in the beginning,” she sassed.

“I guess I wasn’t listening. I’m sorry. I’ll be sure to stop now. Thanks.” I replied.

She continued to stare at me in silence. Not knowing if I was done being scolded, I took my chances and slowly turned my heels back towards the paintings.

“Uh, uh,” she said as I turned. “Delete them.”

I snapped back around.

“Seriously??” I pleaded. She glared at me more intensely to impress upon me that she was, in fact, serious.

“Okay, okay, I will,” I said with fake despair, and I brought the camera up to my face to feign the deletion process. Thank god you are a good actor, I thought to myself.

“I want to watch you do it,” said the picture Death Eater.

Frickazoid! She is a smart villain.

Think fast, I thought. You cannot let these pictures go so easily. These are the memories of your happiness at stake. But, alas, I couldn’t think of anything!

Reluctantly, I held out the camera and started deleting. All of my fine work was flying out of the window with the speed of a Firebolt. Picture after picture kept going. To my dismay, I realized that I was getting dangerously close to the end of my pictures. Soon there would be nothing left of this experience. And worst of all, the Sorting Hat would be the last casualty.

Not the Sorting Hat, I told myself! I was not going to let that happen. So, right before I reached the Sorting Hat pictures, I hit delete on a picture of the forest, then skillfully pulled the camera away from her face.

“There, that’s all of them,” I said hastily, turning off the camera.

I stared into her eyes and held the camera close to my chest. Would she call my bluff? I waited, never removing my eyes from hers. After several seconds, she nodded. Somewhere in the depths of her scowl, I thought I saw a hint of respect in the turn of her lips. She turned around and walked out of sight.

After that, I did not take any more chances with photos. Other than my memories, I took no more mementos from that magnificent day. However, the Sorting Hat escaped. And, I’d spend a year at Azkaban to make sure that he escaped again.

Brownie the Bear

2009-11-10T12:32:00.000-08:00

So, there is this “thing” about me…

This “thing” – much like my gigantic ant-like stature - has increasingly transitioned itself from being a source of slight embarrassment in my life to pure, unequivocal pride. Over the years, this “thing” has been my rock. It has surpassed most people as my source of happiness and comfort. It is THE “thing” that I would be most conscious of to remove in a blazing fire. Seriously, I’d probably sacrifice a limb for its safety.

This “thing” is actually no thing at all. It is a bear - a stuffed bear. And, his name is Brownie.

Brownie is brown. I want to be very clear that I did not name him Brownie because of this quality. I’m not that prosaic. He was, actually, given his name because my mom was baking chocolate brownies at the exact time that I decided he needed a name. I was five, and I thought it was quirky. Only after did I realize that he was, actually, brown and that I had just committed him to a life of ridicule for having a boring name. Sorry, B.

Brownie and I are both twenty-four. However, in bear years that makes him ageless. At this point, my mind imagines that he is somewhere along the lines of Yoda’s age. I feel, deep down, that he is the most intelligent being in the world. That his fluff-filled head carries secrets that only the smartest could begin to imagine about. He has every answer. He knows every feeling. He understands what I’m thinking before I even fully understand it. He is my little, all-knowing, Buddha bear.

To most people, I imagine that Brownie is a disgusting piece of work. His ears are going bald and are crusted over with years of salty tears and snot. They are dipped in the exact places that my nostrils have buried into for decades.

His nose has a ring of hot glue protruding around the edges from the time that my mother decided she would throw him in the washing machine behind my back. (The nose came off, and I had nightmares about my poor bear watching his own sniffer twirling around him in that suds-filled terror chamber.) My mom didn’t touch him after that.

His red bowtie, that at one time was handsome and dapper, has become wilted. It hangs low, barely held on by a few relentless pieces of thread. It is covered in a build up of dust. Sometimes, I try to straighten it with my fingers, only to have it slowly sink back down into place. It is just too tired to try to look debonair anymore.

There is a smell to him, which again, would probably disgust most people. To the layman nose, it is a strange mixture of dust and mildew with a slight tinge of saltiness. But, to me, it is the perfume of my life. To me, it is like inhaling my mother tucking me in at night or my dad reading me a bedtime story. It smells like my first bad grade or the first time I had my heart broken. There is a splash of my sister teasing me and a hint of Christmas morning. Honestly, someday I may get lung cancer from sucking in the particles that probably come off that bear when I smell him, but for some reason, it seems worth it.

What I love most about Brownie is his attitude. He is a stuffed bear with some serious sass. It is amazing how, even though his face can’t move, I can still, unmistakably, tell when he is pissed. Maybe, I shrugged his significance off in front of a new person to look cool. Or maybe, he was just a witness to me being a snot to someone else. Whatever I did wrong, there is a change in the depths of his scratched up, plastic, brown eyes. The light hits them just perfectly enough to create this hair raising, bottomless flicker. And, I know an apology is in order.

I am aware that my relationship with Brownie is probably a little outside of the normal range. I do realize that most twenty-four year old women do not still sleep with their childhood bear every night. And, I realize that even the ones who do, probably don’t take that bear when they stay the night at other people’s houses.

He is a piece of who I am, and I am truly not ashamed of his importance to me. When people tell me how nice it will be to give him to my own child someday, I don’t even blink before saying that will never happen. The kid can have his own bear. My Brownster is staying put. Anyway, I would rather be weird for loving my bear than something really strange… like a stamp collection.

I was told that Brownie was given to me as a newborn. It was a lovely thought. Best friends from birth. I imagined a little baby Brownie (sort of like Fozzie as a Muppet Baby) being nuzzled into my crib on my first day home from the hospital. We looked at each other and just knew that we would be together forever. It was the perfect stuffed animal/child love story that was ever told. Too bad it was a lie. Well a half-lie…

A few months ago, I was talking to my mother, and Brownie was brought up in the conversation. We were discussing how special it was that I still have him, when all of the sudden a bombshell was dropped. In the most nonchalant voice that I have ever heard coming from a person about to expose a terrible, horrible, unimaginable secret, my mother announces to me, “Yeah, it’s just too bad he isn’t the real Brownie.”

Excuse me? Baking Powder?

I was flabbergasted.

“I’m sorry, what?!” I said in a voice that came out more like a scream. “What do you mean he isn’t the real Brownie!?”

My imagination started spinning into horrible images. In my mind, I saw Brownie on the streets; his bowtie was ripped off. A little cup of change was in his hand, and there was fluff coming out of his seems. Rain poured down on his little face, as some imposter sat warm and cozy on my bed.

She continued – a little bit afraid. “You didn’t know?” she asked. I screeched to let her understand that no, I did not know!

“Well, you lost the real Brownie at an IHOP when you were four. I thought I told you this. Amazingly, I found the same bear in a thrift store days later. You didn’t even know the difference!” she said, laughing.

Laughing!

How could this be, I asked myself? If this were true, it would make my whole history with Brownie a lie! I felt like I didn’t even know him. I was a stranger to my best friend.

“I don’t believe you!” I said. I quickly got off the phone, ran over to my bed, and picked up Brownie. I felt his ears and the familiar crusty fur touched my fingers. I checked the glue on his nose. I ran my finger along the stitch up his back from an unfortunate accident long ago. Everything was there. I started to calm down. This was the real Brownie.

She must have been mistaken, I thought. Maybe she was thinking of my sister’s bear, Kelly. Yes, of course it was Kelly. I would never leave my Brownie at a restaurant, four years old or not! My sister used to forget which way clothes were put on; she would certainly have left Kelly somewhere by accident.

As my nerves started to settle, I happened to look down at his tag. Tragic mistake. The ink was mostly off, but there was one part that was as clear as the year it was made. And, it just happened to be…the year that Brownie was made. My heart stopped again. There it was, in bright blue ink…

1986.

I was born in 1985. “Oh no,” I said out loud.

I felt so betrayed by my mother!! How could she have gotten a new Brownie? How could she have just lied to me all of these years? What four year old is in charge of a stuffed animal anyway? Isn’t that the parent’s responsibility? She lost my bear!

I looked down at the so-called Brownie sitting on the bed next to me. He looked back up at me. There was no flicker of anger in his eyes, but, to my disbelief, there was something I hadn’t expected. It was a flicker of hurt.

Then, all of the sudden it hit me. Brownie wasn’t even named Brownie in 1986. Brownie didn’t have the cry crust or the glue or the stitched up rips or the nose impressions. The REAL Brownie was the one who had all of those things.

The real B was the bear that my roommates and sister used to hide from me in college just to be awful. He was the one that I used to dress up to match my Halloween costumes. He was the one that I told secrets to. He was the one who I hugged almost every single night for twenty-fou...I mean, twenty years while going to sleep.

I curled up on my bed and rested Brownie under my arms, the way that I always do when I need comfort. I stuck my nose in his ear and inhaled, getting a nose-full of his smell before coughing up a piece of fuzz.

The other bear was the imposter, I thought! I’m sure there was a good reason why I left THAT bear in the restaurant that day. THAT bear was probably a real jerk…

I wrote a play....

2009-10-29T07:47:00.000-07:00

A play that I wrote is being produced with the Ruckus Theater Company at the Side Project until November 4th. The challenge was to write a short play based on the lyrics of a song. I chose the song "Tea for the Tillerman," by Cat Stevens. Here is my introduction to the play that appears on the Ruckus Theater blog and the link for more information underneath:

Simple Way Cafe...

Okay, here is the uncomfortable truth. I have avoided this reveal my entire life. My world, until now, has been a series of lies covering up lies in order to block anyone from finding out this unthinkable horror that I am about to divulge. Can your heart handle the reality that I am about to expose? You asked for it…

I am not a “music person”.

Not one bit.

See, with music, I cannot help but feel like there is something that I’m missing out on. I always feel as if I am the one in the room who “doesn’t get it”. When faced with the challenge of this production, sheer terror swam over me. The panic of impending judgment lingered in my fingers, and I almost decided to not even submit an entry.

Then, I remembered a song. The first time that I heard “Tea for the Tillerman,” by Cat Stevens, it was as title music to one of my favorite shows, Extras. I remember listening to it over and over, consumed by its brevity, its simplicity, and most importantly, the fact that the other person in the room had no idea what it meant either.

To me, the great thing about this song is that no one can really define it. I have never found anyone who could give me a definitive answer, in person or online, as to what this song was truly about. Although the main theme is quite apparent, it has a sort of “take from it what you will” quality that I love. And, I can only hope that this was its original intention.

To me, this song represents simplicity. It characterizes the gracefulness and beauty of the basics in life. When I listen to this song, I revel in its fuss-free straightforwardness: Bring caffeine to the diligent. Feed backbreaking labor with meat. Give a carefree toast to the woman who made you cry. And, when it’s all said in done, play with the heart of a child.

I think that in today’s world, we all go through a period in life where we either choose to accept the complexities of life for what they are or to rebel against them. Neither choice is wrong and both are very specific to the person.

I chose to go down one path with this song. Some people may be right there with me. Others may think I have it all wrong. Either way, I’m going my way because, luckily, no one can prove me incorrect.

I wanted to present this song’s message of simplicity in the form of ridiculous complexity. And, I hope it is fun.

http://www.ruckustheater.org/home/tellit.html

Bus Boy

2009-08-25T13:25:00.000-07:00

When I first moved to the city, I was poor. Oh man, was I poor. So, the way that I got my vegetables was by going out with absolutely any boy willing to ask me.

(And, if you happen to be one of those boys reading this, I’m not talking about you. I had a great time with you *wink*)

Anyway, it was necessary. I was living off of pasta and cereal, and I needed some vitamins, people. I mean it’s not like I suffered through my dates. I met some really amazing people, and it certainly opened up the door for a few great friendships.

I know this makes me sound awful, and maybe I was. But, I was always honest with people about not wanting to seriously date. So, I sort of felt…justified?

The first instance when I actually felt that I wanted to go out with someone for more reasons than Vitamin A, however, occurred when I was on, of all places, a city bus.

I was standing between a hipster artist and a piece of Lakeshore Drive nobility, when a boy came into my view on the other end of the bus. He was glowing. He looked around 28 years old, with dirty blonde hair, and a suit – a great suit. Gosh, boys, never underestimate the power of a nice suit.

Anyway, I wouldn’t say he was anyone’s version of incredibly handsome. He might not have been handsome at all. But, there was this James McAvoy, European, mysteriousness about him that just kind of sucked me in.

As the bus thinned out, I maneuvered my way around people, giving up precious, empty seats left and right. I shimmied my way down the aisle and found a seat nearby this beautiful boy. The next things I noticed about him were his shoes. He had spectacular shoes on. They were black, Italian leather with a slight point at the toe. Guys who aren’t afraid to wear pointed shoes are a rare catch.

Like a psycho, I watched him for the rest of the bus ride. He got off at Montrose and Clarendon, and he never looked up from his book. I was hooked.

From that moment on, I made sure that I left work early enough to catch the bus at 5:59pm every day. He always caught the same one. He is so reliable, I told myself. I love that.

Every day I learned a little bit more about Bus Boy. He was an architect. (I deduced this from one afternoon that I saw him reading Architectural Digest. It was the only plausible explanation in my mind.) He worked out regularly. (One day he ripped out some pages in a magazine that explained calisthenics.) He enjoyed going to café’s and reading classic novels on rainy days. He loved art. He had two dogs. He had a summer home in Spain. He was, essentially, the perfect man. Not a flaw in sight.

It ended up that he was a very hard piece of perfection to get near, though. I saw him on the rush hour bus, so there was very little moving around room once I was on. And, by the time it thinned out, it was time for him to get off. I slowly became annoyed at my inability to get close to him. I noticed myself getting frustrated with the people around me. Can’t you see that he’s my soul mate, I would think!?

They couldn’t.

One evening, I had to stay late at work and ended up missing the early bus and, along with it, Bus Boy. When I finally got on, it was past 6:00pm, and the vehicle was relatively empty. There were plenty of seats to pick from, so I slowly made my way down the aisle, barely paying attention to the happenings around me.

When I reached the back end of the bus, a surprise awaited me. Bus Boy sat in the corner, reading a magazine. His beautiful presence totally startled me, and I stopped dead in my tracks.

He was on the wrong bus!

I was on the wrong bus!

Of course, I took this as a sure sign of our impending love.

After standing in the aisle for a good ten seconds staring at him with a super creepy smile on my face, I realized that I was acting completely crazy, and I found myself a seat.

Without thinking, I pulled out my phone and dialed a friend of mine.

She answered.

“He-is-on-the-bus,” I frantically whispered into the phone.

“What?” she said.

“He is on the BUS!” I hissed a little louder.

“Of course he is…you know his schedule.”

(Isn’t it sad that she knew exactly who I was talking about?)

“No, no, but there is no one around him. I have to do something,” I said.

“Please, don’t be weird,” she replied in a tone that was fully aware that I would be.

“How do I do it? Should I give him my card?”

“That’s weird…um…but I can’t think of anything better to do, so yeah, give him your card,” she replied apathetically.

“Oh, god. Ok. I’m doing it.”

I hung up the phone. A huge surge of confidence overcame me. I took out a pen and my “card” from my purse. I put the word “card” in quotation marks because the word card without them sounds way too professional for what it actually was. The “card” had my picture, number, email address, and a few quirky remarks on it:

Jessie Monet Spear
Actor/Writer
Superpower: Bravery
Hero: Han Solo

Nerd alert.

Whatever, I didn’t have time for him to judge me. I turned the card over and began to write without thinking.

‘I didn’t want to bother you. I see you on here a lot. Gay? Available? Here’s my number.’

Somehow, my shaky legs stood the rest of my body up. My eye was on the prize, and I started walking. After two steps, I realized what an awful idea the whole thing was, but it was too late for my feet. They had already made their choice, and I suddenly found myself standing uncomfortably close to his pointy shoes.

“Um. Hi,” I said.

He looked up. Regrettably, I continued.

“I just wanted to…um…I just needed you to have…I just didn’t know what else to do, so…here.”

I thrust the card into his hand.

“Okay,” he said.

To my horror, he started reading it - right there - with me watching! I needed to move but my feet weren’t working. Oh freak! Someone help me! To solve this problem, I decided that the smartest thing to do would be to…

…CONTINUE TALKING!

Smooth.

“Okay, well…so that’s for you. I’m sorry. I mean I’m not sorry. Well, I am if it’s…well never mind. Okay, bye.”

His face was somewhere between confusion and pity.

“Bye,” he said.

There was an awkward silence and then, suddenly, my feet worked again. I stepped back to my seat and tried, without success, to look cool. My hands were shaking. I was a mess.

The next day, after sleeping the panic and pure shame off, I decided that I would, obviously, have to avoid him for the rest of my life. I knew his schedule well enough that I could easily miss him. I just needed to rearrange my day a little.

I waited around at work for the late bus again, knowing that the last time that he was on it was an irregularity in his schedule. He always caught the early bus. I started reading my book, thankful that I wouldn’t have to face him ever again.

His stop came, and I looked out to make sure that he wasn’t there. He wasn’t. Relief. I went back to my book. People filed onto the vehicle.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I was terrified to see someone rushing up to the bus from the side. The person was trying to catch it before it left. My head snapped to the window, and in disbelief, I saw it.

It was him!

LEAVE HIM! I screamed in my head. OH DEAR GOD, LEAVE HIM BEHIND!

Just as my luck would have it, I was sitting on the only CTA bus in Chicago with a considerate driver, and she actually OPENED the doors for him! AHHHHHH! He walked on and, for some torturous reason, started heading towards me! I had to think fast. My book immediately covered my face, and I turned towards the wall of the bus. Maybe he won’t see me, I thought.

I could feel my face turning red. He sat down. He sat down RIGHT ACROSS FROM ME! Is he crazy?! Doesn’t he see me sitting here!? What do I do? I was mortified. I could feel him glancing at me.

After a painful minute, the next stop came. Luckily, a wonderful man got on and stood between us. The bus was starting to fill up. This was the one time in my life that I couldn’t wait for more and more people to crowd on.

Once we were sufficiently blocked from one another by passengers, I sat up straight again. I tried to read my book, but I couldn’t concentrate. I knew that, soon, people would start thinning off, and we’d be left in clear view of each other once again.

Quickly, I made the decision that the late-late bus would be a better option for me that night. So, in one swift move, I pulled the string to signal that I wanted off and swung my body around the other people and out of the door without so much as a glance in Bus Boy’s direction.

When, I got home…finally…I was feeling pretty crappy. Trying to forget the last 48 hours completely, I made myself a big bowl of Ramen noodles and turned on the television to see what was playing on the three whole channels that I picked up through the antenna. Finding the weather on all three, I grabbed for my laptop that was on the floor. I flipped open my computer, illegally connected to my neighbor’s Internet, and signed on to my email. I was expecting my new Harry Potter newsletter, but instead, I saw something quite different waiting in my inbox.

It read:

Sender: JOSEPH -------
Subject: Bus Exchange

Whoa.

Up until this point, I hadn’t realized that there was a possibility of him responding! My cursor hesitated over the message. Then, I clicked and, immediately, closed my eyes.

With my eyes closed, I started thinking about the situation. The fact that he responded had thrown me, but the truth was…he responded! That was a great thing, right?? There was no way a gay or uninterested guy would write me! When I got the courage to open my eyelids, I read this:

Jessie,

My name is Joe. I ride the 148 with you. Might I say you are just as your card explains, very brave. Something, to this day, I still haven't mastered. I happen to be a straight man, but I am in a committed relationship with my girlfriend of 2 years. Sorry if this may disappoint you.

I'm sure we'll cross paths once again.

Joe

Well, shoot.

I sat back against my couch and closed my laptop. He probably didn’t have that home in Spain, anyway, I told myself.

Suddenly, I had an overwhelming craving for some vegetables.

Small Stipend

2009-08-12T09:25:00.000-07:00

The ad said that there was a “small stipend.” To an actor, this is like hitting the jackpot. Being paid to do theater, even a “small stipend” amount of pay, is rare. So if the opportunity arises, I’ve learned to jump. Don’t consider – don’t research - just jump.

Whenever I think about the excitement that occurs with the words “small stipend,” it makes me feel depressed. Considering that an actor, in any given play, could spend upwards of 120 hours working on a production, the actual numbers are dismal. How much, you say? Well, when it’s all said and done, I would average about $1.60 an hour if you’re lucky. Most get nothing.

Blah.

But, believe me. I don’t expect your pity. I could have been a doctor…*sigh*

Anyway, the audition was for a play about Chicago ghost stories. I don’t think that I can actually say the name for fear of being sued, but type those words into Google, and it won’t take you long.

It was an on-going production that had been happening for over a year, but was constantly re-cast to keep it “fresh”. I received the monologue that I was to read for my audition in my email a few days before I was to meet the director.

This really should have been my first clue, guys. First of all, it wasn’t a file attached to the email; the monologue was just typed into the body of the email. I actually thought I was reading an email from the director for the first few lines. More than several things were miserably misspelled, and nothing was formatted. I won’t deny my ability to ignore even the most blatant signs in pursuit of a paycheck.

When I got to the audition, however, I was pleasantly surprised. I walked into this really cool bar that had an awesome staged area attached to it. I was so impressed. Things were looking good. And, then I met “Rodney”. “Rodney” wasn’t his real name, of course, but it should have been. He was the spitting image of Rodney Dangerfield, only (if you can imagine) fatter and a bit sweatier. He was sitting at the bar and drinking a beer when I walked in.

He slurred his introduction, and, yes, this should have been my second clue. But, I wrote it off as a speech impediment (There was a paycheck, people!), and followed him back to the stage.

I performed two monologues – one that I had written and the one from the show that was in the email. He looked impressed and asked me to take a seat at the table, so that we could talk.

Here came clue number three! And, this one came in a form that was hard to ignore or make excuses for. “Rodney” began to tell me about his background. And, what a background it was!

Here is just a sample from our conversation: He used to be a spy for the United States because he once had a girlfriend from Iran. He was one of only several people allowed to see the McCarthy files before they were public knowledge. Playboy did a documentary on him. The list goes on and on.

After about twenty minutes, I stopped listening. In my head, this guy was a nutcase. Sure, everything he said could have been true. I’m not denying that. I have never thoroughly looked into him, so I can’t really say. But, in that moment -in that conversation, he was as crazy as they come.

What’s even worse, “Rodney” kept burping up beer the entire time he was talking. It was so disgusting. I couldn’t even look in his direction without holding my breath.

(Now, let me just say that he was a completely harmless kind of crazy. Before you read the rest, you have to know that I never once found him to be a dangerous seeming person, or I wouldn't be writing this as a funny experience.)

Anyway, you would think that these things, alone, would stop me from going any further with the audition. It really should have. But, guess what? Two days later when he called and offered me the part, I accepted immediately. Like I said before, there was a paycheck involved -nutcase or not.

I would be playing one of three girl ghosts that sort of acted as narrators to the stories. The other two girls were cast, and we would all be meeting for a first rehearsal the next day. I was surprised to learn that we were not actually performing at the bar that we auditioned at. The show would be at another bar with, as he described it, “sort of the same set-up”.

It was snowing when I got off of the bus the next day. I trudged (which, by the way, is an action that very much matches the sound of its name) through the mushy, icy snow, moving my hands away from my face only long enough to check the addresses on the buildings around me. The area looked a lot less populated than the area of the bar the day before. I tried to ignore all of my bad feelings.

Finally, I looked up to find a rickety old bar that, unfortunately, had the correct address. It was hard to tell whether the bar was still open or not. I know, I know…fourth clue. It was super creepy. Anyway, I tried the door…locked. I removed my mitted hand and knocked. I looked like the Little Match Girl, begging to get in.

“Rodney” answered the door, and I immediately smelled the beer in his breath, permeating through the cold, crisp air. He moved aside, and I was relieved to see that it was, in fact, a functioning bar and not a torture chamber. And, there were other people there. I allowed myself to go in. I breathed even easier when I met the other two girls in the production. All initial signs pointed to them both being totally normal.

“Rodney” led us up to the “theater,” which (wouldn’t you know) turned out to be a second, smaller bar on top of the first. It was nothing like the gorgeous theater that the other bar had. “Sort of the same set-up” my ass. This just keeps getting better, I thought. Finally, we got down to business. Well…the three of us did, anyway.

I quickly realized that “Rodney” was the worst actor in the entire world. (Yes, he was also acting in the show! Joy!) After almost a year of performing this play, he still did not have anything memorized, but refused to read from the script. So, instead, he literally, drunkenly ad-libbed his entire role, leaving all of us in the dark as to when we were supposed to talk. He would go off on a tangent, and we would all start looking around at each other, wondering when we were supposed to say our lines.

On top of this, the script was completely bogus. It had errors all over the place, and wasn’t even formatted. Several times, a word was so misspelled, I didn’t know what it was that I was supposed to be saying. “He was so scared of the celdk that he ran straight through the glass and fell to his death.” The child? The check?

And, worst of all, the stories weren’t even accurate! I know my Chicago ghost stories, and more than one was completely wrong. It was like he just knew the outline of the story and made up the rest. It was ridiculous.

(And, double worst of all, he kept burping from all of the beer. And, people, it was a small bar...err...theater. The smell just filled the air.)

Anyway, when it was finally over, we all gathered our stuff as quickly as possible and made a b-line for the door. I thought, for sure, that we girls would stop outside of the bar and discuss the twilight zone that we had just passed through. But, as soon as the door closed, the others quickly went their separate ways without saying a word.

What the heck? Am I the only one who witnessed that train wreck? I stood for a moment, staring at the two girls walking further and further away from me. Could I be over-reacting, I thought? Am I just delusional from the alcohol fumes? And, so I turned around and started the trudge back to the bus.

I showed up to rehearsal the next day with a heavy weight on my shoulders. Everything in me did not want to go to that next rehearsal. In my soul, I knew that I wanted nothing to do with this production. I was so close to just not showing up. But, about an hour before I was supposed to be there, guilt started to eat at my defiance. I was no quitter. And, I wasn’t going to leave the other girls hanging like that. We actors stick together!

I knocked on the door to the bar fifteen minutes late, and “Rodney” answered. I walked in, and to my disbelief, found myself all alone.

“Where are the other girls?” I asked instantly.

“Well, Lisa is running late. But, you won’t believe what happened to Claire,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

Oh god, I thought to myself. I looked at him inquisitively.

“She calls me last night, rig- (burp) right? And she says that she promised her boyfriend that she would be in his play, and she didn’t (burp) realize that it would overlap. Can you believe that?”

Yes, I thought.

“She needs to get away from that guy,” he continued. “Those are the kinds of guys that (burp) control you and don’t let you succeed.”

I looked at him with squinted eyes. Did he really believe that her excuse was true, I asked myself?! My heart told me that he did.

My head started spinning. I felt panic rising in my throat! She totally took my idea, I thought. That back-stabber! Why didn’t she tell us!? I should have quit before she had the chance! Craaaaaap! I felt like such an idiot.

I feigned concern for him. “That sucks,” I said. “Um, so when is Lisa getting here?”

“I don’t know she must be running late,” he answered, unconcerned.

All of the sudden, I sensed something more sinister was going on here. I realized, in an instant, that I had been duped. She was ditching, too. The panic reached my mouth.

“Maybe you should give her a call,” I said eagerly. “You know…to make sure everything is okay?”

“Yeah okay, I’ll give you her number,” he replied.

“Why don’t you just call her?”

“I don’t (burp) have a cell phone,” he answered.

Surprising.

I handed him my cell phone. He fumbled with the numbers, and I waited impatiently, watching him smack his lips into the phone with anticipation and stare at the wall with glazed eyes. With no particular shock, I realized, in that moment, that “Rodney” was actually very drunk. More than a few beers had travelled down that gullet recently.

I heard her voicemail pick up, and he pressed the number “5” button to try to hang up the phone.

I grabbed my phone and pressed the OFF button. I started to shake my head in disbelief.

“She isn’t coming,” I said – mostly to myself.

“Yeah, she’ll come,” he said in a tone that lacked all confidence, but reeked with the familiarity of this happening to him before.

“Maybe I should go,” I said. “We can pick this up tomorrow after you talk to Lisa.” I started gathering my things.

He tried to protest, but I was already packed and heading out of the door before he could work the words out in his head.

Right before I left, I turned to ask him one very important question. “What is the small stipend, Rodney? I never signed a contract yesterday, and I think I should sign one, now, before we get any further in.”

He looked at me with a face that silently screamed "Well, I dont have the money WITH me..."

He answered, “Well, normally (burp) its equals out to a few drinks at the bar (burp).”

I barely stayed long enough to give a muffled good-bye, before I was down the stairs and out onto the street. A wave of relief came over me.

When I got home, I wrote “Rodney” an email. If I remember correctly, it was something alone the lines of:

You are incredibly unprofessional, and I don’t think that I fit right with this crazy production.

He wrote back with some choice words for me about how unprofessional I was for quitting. I told him that he was right. The professional thing would have been to quit a long time ago.

And, so was the end of “Rodney” and his craziness. Well, the end for me. I realized soon after that he didn’t replace the actors in the play to keep it “fresh.” He replaced them because they quit. Every single time that I go online to look for auditions, a familiar notice appears on my screen offering a lead role for a play about ghosts and…

…a small stipend.

Cinderella Duties

2009-07-19T08:01:00.000-07:00

It is a very rare occurrence when I take advertising slogans to heart. For instance, I always leave home without my American Express. Coca-Cola is as “unreal” of a food product I’ve ever seen. And, I am never lovin’ Mickey D’s. It hurts my stomach. Disney World, however, is my exception. Disney World is, quite literally, my happiest place on Earth.

I cannot think of another place that brings warmer, fuzzier feelings than stepping into that magical little world, where theme music follows my every step, and big stuffed animals let me stand in line for an hour to get their autographs. If I could live in the Cinderella castle, I would already be hanging my laundry on the flag poles, people. Some judge me for this. I understand this judgment. I accept this judgment. I will continue to ignore this judgment.

When I was a kid, Disney represented everything that was wonderful in the world. I got to miss school. I got to eat bad-for-you food. I got to pretend that everything that my imagination longed to be true - really was. There were fairies that actually lived, elephants that actually flew, toads that drove cars, and sometimes…if you were lucky…a real princess to stare in awe of. And, even now, at twenty-four, I’m confident that I never want to give up on all of those things. I like that there is one place in the world that I can still believe in the unbelievable.

I get it though. The logical side of my brain knows why some people loathe the very words Walt Disney. Long lines…over-priced souvenirs…Goofy. It is understandable. It’s a business. Its number one goal is to make money. But, guess what - I’m buying.

Has it changed? Certainly. I mean, from the minute that Walt Disney died, the heart of the place died a little, too. I’m sure that if he were alive today to see the High-School-Musical-Hannah-Montana-Pre-teen-Love-Fest that his empire has become, he’d be out on the Disney lawn with a crowbar and a bucket of paint. But, it perseveres. And, I’ll take the ride - in sickness and in health.

There was one time in my life, though, that despite my torrid love affair with the brand, my heart considered a divorce. It was the beginning of college. I was eighteen. And, I decided to apply for a job at the Disney Store in my local mall.

What could be better, I thought? There wasn’t a job in the world more perfect for me. I’d be happy every time that I stepped into the place. All day, I could be surrounded by my little Disney friends, and I’d be getting paid! Woo!

When I arrived for the interview, I was so pumped. I saw Jan, the manager of the store, waiting outside for my arrival. She is so excited to meet with me, I thought! Then, I noticed several other people around my age waiting with Jan. What the…?

I walked over to Jan with my hand outstretched. “Jan! It’s so nice to see you again!”

“Hi, Jessie! How are you? Let me introduce you to the other people taking part in the group interview today.”

Crap.

The six of us sat down at one of the tables in the food court. Jan explained to us the process of getting hired at the Disney Store - group interview (yep, got that one), two private interviews, and then, if your lucky, hiring. That’s alright, I thought. I’m in this one for the long haul. That must just prove how awesome the job is!!

I made it through the group interview with flying colors, excelling in the questions related to Disney. Don’t even try to scare me with your Disney trivia, I thought. I've got moves you’ve never seen.

I had grace and style. When asked which Disney character I most related to, I jumped to the challenge. “Well, I would have to say that I’ve always felt a special connection to Bell from Beauty and the Beast. Moving to a new city when I was young was so hard. I felt so lonely and different. But, Bell taught me that it was a good thing to be different. It makes you stand out. I think Bell really got me through the hard times.”

Jan sighed with pleasure. It was all bullshit, of course. I made friends pretty fast. But, Jan was convinced that I belonged to the Disney family. I saw it in her eyes. “You know, sometimes I amaze even myself,” said my inner Han.

One of my fellow interviewees didn’t fair as well on that particular question. If only I could capture, in writing, the gasp that occurred around that table when this poor unfortunate soul answered that question: Scooby Doo. Jan glared at her as the rest of the interviewees and I stared on in silence. The poor girl looked scared. She didn’t, even at that point, know her mistake.

“THAT. Is. Not. A. DISNEY. Character,” said Jan without blinking.

The girl gulped and fear washed over her face. She sat back and stayed silent for the rest of the interview. She knew she was done. We all did.

Anyway, I wasn’t surprised when I made it to the next round, and the next round. I was overwhelmed with joy when I got the call a week later saying that I had made the final cut! And, not only did I make it, I was the only one to be offered a job on the floor. Everyone else was hired for the warehouse. Woo! You like me! You really like me!

On my first day, I was mostly watching videos in the back of the store - Walt Disney the Man, The History of the Disney Store, Disney Code of Conduct. I was in heaven.

It wasn’t until the second day, that things got a little…odd. I was on the floor (or in Disney lingo – Onstage) with my other Cast Members. Yes, everything at the Disney Store was given other names that referenced show business - Backstage, Cast Members, Costumes, Onstage. I had to admit to myself - it was pretty annoying. I forced my feelings to the back of my heart, though. If that was the only negative thing about this job, then I was in good shape.

They put me in charge of greeting customers at the front of the store. I was responsible for welcoming people and sending them in the right direction. I did this for about an hour, when a customer tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to answer her question. After pointing her in the direction of Finding Nemo stuffed animals, I turned back around. Five seconds later, I got another tap on my shoulder. I turned around to find Jan.

“Hi Jessie!” she said in her overly-happy voice that never seemed to change.

“Hi Jan,” I replied.

“So, I just wanted to mention something to you, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“Sooo, when you are greeting people onstage, you can never turn around to face the store. I mean, what if another audience member came in and didn’t get greeted. We wouldn’t want that would we?” She was still smiling.

“Well, no…I guess not. But, that lady…that audience member…just had a question.”

“Uh huh, so you understand. Thanks so much!”

Okay, so Jan was a little off. I turned back around, realizing that she had, had me turned towards the store the whole time that I was being reprimanded. I wondered if I would get another talk about that later. Again, I forced my bad feelings to the back of my heart and tried to continue on with a happy face.

Half-way through the day, someone else took over greeting, which I was very happy about. I was put onstage to help people. I felt good because I knew that I could turn whichever way I wanted while doing that.

After a half hour, I noticed two men speaking French to each other and looking very confused. I approached them both and greeted them in French, “Bonjour, comment allez-vous?” They both turned around, and a look of relief came over them. In the best high school French I knew, I asked them if I could help. They proceeded to ask me for a Little Mermaid nightgown. I showed them the nightgowns and realized that this was a good opportunity for me to make up for the “turning away from the door” incident earlier.

See, there was a policy at the Disney Store that you were supposed to show people two other items that would go with whatever it is they were buying. For instance, “Your daughter is going to love that Little Mermaid night gown, and look at these great Ariel bed slippers and this Flounder stuffed animal to go with it.” The French guys totally bought it, and then some. We laughed in French all the way to the register with not three, but FIVE Little Mermaid items! I was so proud of myself! Jan is going to love this, I thought. I made the sale and said goodbye to my new friends.

I went back to the floor and immediately noticed Jan walking over to me with the same smile on her face. But, this time, I was sure it was a good smile, not a bad one.

“Hi, Jessie!”

“Hi, Jan!”

“So, I just wanted to mention something to you, okay?”

“Okay!” I replied. Here comes the praise!

“You really shouldn’t spend too much time with one particular audience member. I mean, what if the rest of the audience feels neglected?!” she said - still smiling. I was shocked.

“But…he couldn’t speak English, and there were three other people on the floor,” I said in disbelief.

“Three other people onstage,” she corrected me.

“Onstage,” I said.

“Right, so you get it! You go girl! Thanks a lot.”

Jan walked away, and I stood in the middle of the floor completely confused.

I spent the rest of the day trying to fight off my horrible feelings. There was a small twinge of bitterness forming for the word Disney, and I was so lost about it. How could something so amazing be so…crazy? I tried to tell myself that it was just Jan. But, somewhere in my heart, I knew that Jan was just a product of her surroundings. This was Disney. This was the OTHER side of Disney.

Finally, the end of the day came. The doors closed, and everyone started shutting things down. I saw a smiling Jan approaching me again. Ugh, I thought.

“Hi, Jessie!”

“Jan...” I said, unenthusiastically.

“So, we have you doing Cinderella duties tonight. Follow me!”

Cinderella duties! How exciting! My heart fluttered. What does that mean?! That sounds beautiful and wonderful! That was so nice of them to assign me to that. Gosh, maybe I was wrong about this place!

Jan led me to the bathroom, where a bucket, mop, and cleaners awaited my arrival. She handed me the mop and walked away. With no signs of a fairy godmother to save me, I sighed and dipped the mop in the water. Somehow, I knew that this night wasn’t ending with a ball.

As I gathered my things, I saw Jan coming over to me once again. Oh let it stop, I thought! Please, just let it stop! I cut her off before she could say hello.

“Well, thanks for everything, Jan. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh, thank YOU, Jessie! And, welcome to the Disney team!” I cringed.

She continued. “So, do you have any plans for the night?”

Uh oh, I thought. “I’m actually going to meet some friends at that new bar down the street,” I said – a bit scared that she was going to ask to come along.

For the first time that day, Jan’s smile disappeared. She stopped and stared at me. I looked back at her, my eyebrows raised with confusion and fear.

“Jessie, can I just mention something?”

I paused. “O...k…” I finally said.

“Here at the Disney Store, we really care about our reputation. I mean, what if you went to that bar tonight, and one of the mothers who was in the store today saw you there. That really wouldn’t look good in her eyes. Do you understand?”

“No,” I said.

“Well, I would just suggest that you think about your night activities a little more carefully while you work for Mr. Disney.” Her smile resurfaced.

I didn’t smile back. I didn’t say anything. I just nodded my head and walked away. Jan called a happy goodnight after me.

By the time I had reached my car, I realized that I was quitting. These people were Class A Crazy, and I wasn’t sticking around to see more of it. My love for Disney was way too important for me to be able to work for them a minute longer. This part of Disney was insane, and I was going to spend the rest of my life trying to forget that I ever saw it.

Showgirl Woes

2009-06-11T18:41:00.000-07:00

It was a strange day to start. A kid’s lost helium balloon had flown in front of my window on the 29th floor of my building. Why the balloon picked my little window to terrorize, I couldn’t guess or try to understand. But for me, this is never a good sign. I’m sure it had something to do with me not donating a dollar to breast cancer at the grocery store the day before. Or, it could have been a result of my fake sneeze on the bus when someone tried to sit next to me. Whatever the reason, it was a bad, bad sign.

I’ve always been afraid of helium balloons. I understand that this is not rational. And, what makes it weirder is that it’s not something sort of understandable like the fear of it popping or exploding. What I am afraid of is that the helium balloon will get away from me. I don’t like to see them flying. I don’t like holding them. They make me feel dizzy. If I am forced to hold one, I will wrap the little string all the way around my arm until the balloon is right next to my wrist, and then I hold on tight with both hands. My heart races until I can get somewhere indoors, where I know the balloon can only get as high as the ceiling.

So, needless to say, when a random helium balloon found its way to my window, 29 floors up, in the middle of downtown Chicago, I nearly fell back in my chair. It was a bad omen, and I knew instantly that I was in for one crappy day.

I was confused, however, because according to all sources, it was supposed to be a very good day. I had an audition for a commercial for the state lottery. I had received the call the day before from Creepy Agent Tom. Creepy Agent Tom was an acting agent who I auditioned for once, and who had completely hit on me the whole time. I told him thanks, but no thanks for his agent services, yet he still called me for auditions once in a blue moon. I realized early on that I was okay with this. As long as I never had to meet with him in person, he could find me all the work he wanted.

Anyway, the job paid somewhere around a grand for a two-day shoot and royalties after. That was really good news to my bank account and my work ethic. So, as you can see, all signs were pointing up…until the balloon.

The first sign of its helium-inflated evil-doing came with the audition info sheet. I almost cried when I saw that the outfit that I had to audition in would be a bikini and high heels. Oh no…did Creepy Agent Tom get me an audition for an “adult commercial,” I thought? Then, I read on.

I would be auditioning for the part of a Vegas showgirl. The showgirl was one of the main actor’s fantasy girls that he gets to date after he wins the lottery. I know what you’re thinking - brimming with creativity on the writer’s part. Yep. Not only was this showgirl in a bikini, but to my horror, she only had one line! What the heck, I thought?

My first reaction to this news was, “No way! I am an ACTOR.” Then, I remembered the thousand dollars. My next thought was, “Well, it’s not that bad, I guess. Showgirls are actors, too.” That balloon could go work its evil on someone else.

When it came time to go, I grabbed my bathing suit and some old heels, and ran for a cab. I decided to use the cab time to memorize my one “very important to the story” line. I opened up the script and scanned for my part…

MAN 1…

MAN 2…

MAN 1 again…

Oh! There I am! Vegas Showgirl!

And, then, I read the line:

VEGAS SHOWGIRL to MAN 1: Do you have a big shower!? (She giggles.)

I almost got out of the cab while it was still moving. Damn you balloon! I wanted to cry. I mean, really? Do you have a big shower? I’m not doing it, I thought! I’M AN ACTOR! I have a degree to prove it!

Then, I thought of all of the student loan debt that got me that degree. Then, I thought of the thousand dollars, again. And, then, I told the driver to keep going. I had an audition to get to!

When I opened the door to the casting agency, I stumbled into some thin poles that were awkwardly placed in the doorway. When my eyes focused, I realized that these poles were actually a herd of very tall, skinny girls. Scanning the room, I saw that there were tons of these freakishly tall girls. Upon further investigation, I realized that every single one of these freaks was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Seriously? Remembering the donut that I had just eaten for breakfast, I self consciously moved to the back of the room where the sign-in table was.

“Excuse me,” I said to the fashionista behind the table. “I’m not sure if I have the right place. But, I’m here for the state lottery audition.”

“Yep, that’s what everyone is here for. Fill this out and give it to the people inside, along with your headshot.” My mouth fell open, and I stared at him for some sort of reassurance.

He handed me a pen and a piece of paper and looked me up and down with silent confusion. Then, ignoring my shock, he looked behind me at the next girl in line. I reluctantly took the paper and walked away. Seeing the door on the other side of the room, I considered walking straight out of the nightmare. I mean Creepy Agent Tom, obviously, called the wrong person. This was not a job for actors. This was a job for models. REAL models.

However, there was a side of me that looked at the situation as a challenge. That side of me told me that I had just as good of a chance as anyone at getting that part. That side of me told me that not all Vegas showgirls are models, and that the state lottery would want to show that to the people. That side of me is called the “broke” side.

As I filled out my information sheet, I couldn’t help but over-hear some of the conversations happening between the other girls around me.

“Oh, my, gosh,” one said, “I cannot WAIT till I turn 21, so that I can really go have fun in Vegas!”

“So, my mom said that I can go to Paris next year, but I’m like…hello…I’ll be 19 by then! I’m getting old, mother!

“The man said he’d fly us all out to California for his show, and he actually did it! I got my ticket in the mail last week!”

I felt sick to my stomach. For the first time in my life, being 24 felt OLD. I felt like every vein, every area of flabby skin had a spotlight on it. I looked three shades paler than I had an hour ago. How are these girls tan, I thought? Don’t they live in Chicago? Or did they fly here from some secret model-land where the sun always shines? Probably.

Eventually, the casting director came out to greet everyone. She gave us our line-up and told us that we could wear our dresses over our bikinis until we were in the room. Apparently, some of the girls missed this suggestion because as soon as the director walked out, the dresses started coming off. The room became clouded in a thick smoke of bronzer. I sat in the corner clinging to the thin layer of clothing shielding me from these Amazon women.

Every girl had on a bikini that I think had originally belonged to a real Vegas showgirl. My dingy, pink checkered bathing suit stood out like a sore thumb. Gold and glittery stilettos blinded me, as I looked down at my brown, Target high heels. I licked my finger and tried to rub off a scuff on the side. Well, at least I will stand out, I thought.

When my name was called, I went into the little room with one of the other models. Two at a time. Ugh. We took off our dresses, and there we were. Me - grandma, faded Jessie. And, her – Gisele Bundchen. “Here’s where the fun begins,” said Han Solo in my head.

As fate would have it, I got to say the line first. I took a deep breath. Here it goes, I thought. And, then, an ingenious idea struck me. I’m going to make this line funny! I obviously do not belong here, so the best thing I can do is embrace my differences. I’m going to be the funny Vegas showgirl! Thousand dollars, here I come!

The camera started rolling, and the assistant read the other character’s lines. I tossed my hair, and chewed on fake gum. I waved to the other people around me. I lost my fake gum in my top. Genius, I told myself. Finally, it was time for my line. With all of the funny bimbo-ness I could muster, I said, “Oh, do you have a big shower?”

The girl behind the camera chuckled and called cut. She looked at me with a confused smile. “Well, that was…cute,” she said. I smiled and went to put my dress back on. She chuckled, I thought! That’s good enough. I totally nailed this!

The other girl’s turn was next. She went up. She was beautiful and show-girly. She looked perfect in her hot pink glitter bikini. She said the line with the perfect amount of sexiness. Blah, blah, blah. That was boring, I told myself. Just like everyone else. They aren't going to fall for that. The casting director called cut and exploded with joy, “That was great! It was perfect! Thanks so much! Is your info all correct on this sheet?”

Shoot.

Walking out of the agency, I knew that I would never get a phone call for a callback. My rendition of Vegas Showgirl was not what they wanted. But, I was okay with that. Maybe someday they would write a clever commercial, and they would need more than a pretty face. On that day, they would remember me! Bring it on, helium balloon…bring it on.

Stomach Issues

2009-05-18T20:01:00.000-07:00

The worst day of my entire life was when I was twenty-one years old and my grandpa died. My grandpa, Papoo, was one of those grandpas that don’t come around that often. I’m pretty convinced that he was the best one. I know that everyone thinks that their grandpa is the best, but it’s my story, so let’s stick with my opinion on the issue for now.

The man was tough. I remember, as a kid, if you complained about a stubbed toe, he’d pinch you on the arm, and then ask if your toe still hurt. He was a New Yorker by birth, and had a personality to match it. He had a loud, gruff voice and a tough temper, but I’ve never met another person who could soothe a baby crying better than him. His wit was unmatchable, his personality infectious, and his love for his family unwavering.

I think that his sense of humor was his greatest attribute. And, what a great “greatest attribute” to have, don’t you think? He was the king of pranks and the master of revenge. When my aunt and sister managed to sneak up and pour a glass of water down his back when we were kids, I remember my sister’s laughing screams as he picked her up, brought her to the shower, and turned on the cold water, soaking her clothes. My aunt was in soon after.

Till the last few weeks of his life, he played tennis every single day. He was outside working in the yard when he wasn’t on the courts. The man was seventy-six or something. I’m twenty-four and don’t have that stamina. To me, he was untouchable.

I remember, one time, he was held at gunpoint in his backyard by some kid looking for cash. He had $100 in his pocket, and when the kid asked for money, he replied in his thick New York accent, “Ahh, get outta’ here.” When the kid told him to take him inside the house, my grandpa looked him straight in the eyes and said, “It’s locked and I don’t have the keys. Sorry.” The kid ran away and was arrested later. That was MY grandpa.

He got sick very quickly. Well, I guess it was quick to us. But, to him…well I think that he had known something wasn’t right for awhile. It was just like him, though, not to worry everyone with doctors and hospitals. I think he was very happy with the life he had lived and at peace with the possibility of it ending. I guess that’s the way we should all hope to be.

A few weeks before Christmas, he was diagnosed with bladder cancer. He died at the beginning of January. The last time that I saw him was at the hospital a few days before he died. I was scared to go. The grandpa that I knew would never be laid up in a hospital bed, and I was afraid I wouldn’t recognize him. I didn’t want anything to change. I prepared a joke for when I first walked in. I knew that it would be a lot less awkward if I could make him laugh. I entered the room with my mom.

“You look like an old man in that bed,” I said in my joking voice.

He laughed, and then, with a slight smile, he said something that I wasn’t expecting at all. “I AM an old man,” he said with sincerity. I stopped smiling and stared at him. I felt tears swell up, but I quieted them. I knew that, to him, this wasn’t a very sad thing at all.

I don’t remember what day of the week it was. Maybe it was a Monday. I had just left my set-design class, and I was checking my phone messages. I had a missed call from my mom, and my heart dropped. I don’t know how I knew. It is not odd for my mom to call me. But, I just knew that he was gone. I reluctantly called her back, and the tone of her voice confirmed it. She was calm and her voice was modestly pleasant. You know the tone when someone has something awful to tell you, but they don’t want you to panic, so they try to sound really calm and collected. That was her tone.

We didn’t have a funeral for my grandpa. He wouldn’t have wanted one. He used to tell me the best funerals were the Irish wakes his family used to have. Make the coffin the bar, tell some jokes about the person, and have a good celebration of their life, he’d say. I don’t think he would have liked a bunch of people mourning over him.

The one thing that my grandma did want to do, though, was go to church on the next Sunday morning. All of my aunts and uncles had come down, and she wanted the whole family to go to a Catholic Church service in honor of my grandpa.

Now, my immediate family is not of the religious nature. My mom grew up as a Catholic, but we never went to church, and I, personally, don’t believe anything about religion. My dad and sister believe in science and science alone. However, parts of my extended family are Catholic and, and some even attend church. I find church to be very uncomfortable, but we agreed to go with everyone else in support.

Anyway, on Saturday, everyone agreed to meet at the local Catholic Church for the 9 o’clock service the next morning. My family woke up, got dressed in our best “church clothes,” got in the car, and headed down town. Now, you have to understand that other than my mom, my family’s idea of what people wore to church when someone died came from movies and movies alone. We all wore black - black suit, black dress, and black skirts. I wore a velvet, black beret. We were so dramatic looking. It was almost as if we had just walked off of the screen of a Tim Burton film. We looked ridiculous.

We arrived at the church and quickly saw that we were the first of our family to get there. The Spears are always prompt. Anyway, we found seats in a pew towards the back. Most everyone was in spring dresses and sitting in the front of the church, so we were already looking like the oddballs out of the group.

Ten minutes went by, then fifteen. Still, no one else from our family had arrived. I started to feel a little uncomfortable and repeatedly asked my mom if we got the right place. She repeatedly told me it was the only Catholic Church in our small town. We found out later that the rest of the family had decided not to go because they woke up late. They just forgot to inform us. Yep.

Anyway, after about twenty minutes, the service started, and my dad, sister, and I started to panic. If you don’t know, a Catholic Church service is very participatory, and we were foreigners to the language. We fidgeted and whispered to each other about what could be keeping the rest of the family. I asked if we could go. My mom said no. We were stuck. It would be too much of a disruption for us to get up now, so we all decided to sit it out and kill our other family members later.

Everything was going pretty smoothly for the first half of the service. We had managed to blend into the background for the most part. Yes, everything was going pretty smoothly, and then…

During a moment of complete silence, my sister’s stomach decided to make the longest and loudest hunger growling noise a person has ever heard. You people can’t imagine this. It was sooo loud. It was sooo long. Once it started, it just filled up the silence. I thought it would never stop.

It ended with a squeak. And, I lost it. I burst out laughing with an explosion that turned every Catholic head in that place towards me and my family at the back of the church. The priest stopped and looked, too. I knew it was wrong! I knew it was rude! But, I dare anyone to sit in that church and hear that stomach and not laugh.

My dad was the next victim. He put his head down, and I could see his shoulders heaving up and down, up and down. Then, my sister went. She was hardly quieter than me. My mom just turned red and started pinching our legs.

Seeing the other people looking at us, I felt helpless. I had to do something, so I did the only thing that came to mind. I put my face in my hands and pretended that my laughing was crying. What the heck, we were in black. Maybe they’d take pity instead of burning us at the stake.

The priest tried to continue. Some of the parishioners shook their heads with disapproval and turned back around. Others continued to watch the train wreck.

I thought I was going to die. I thought my head was going to explode and my eyes were going to pop out. Every inch of me was trying to contain myself, but the thought of containment only made me laugh more. My mom started whisper hissing at us, “Stop it!” she said under her breath. “Stop it, now.” And, then, she started laughing, too. When she finally realized that the damage was done, she stood up and led us out of the church, snickering all the way down the aisle. Everyone watched. I have a feeling that they applauded after we left.

Once we reached the parking lot, we all exploded with laughter. We got in the car, and all felt happier than we had in days. “That was so Papoo,” my mom said between gasps. I laughed and mockingly asked, “Did his ghost come and make Coco’s stomach growl, mom?”

“No, no,” she said with a chuckle, “But, I can’t think of anyone who would have thought that was funnier.”

We all smiled to ourselves and knew that she was right.

A Nice Thought

2009-05-06T20:18:00.000-07:00

As the door closed, and the train plummeted away, I could still hear his voice resonating throughout the tunnel, his lyrics echoing with the rhythm of the tracks.

Here, this man, with little more than a penny to his name sang about bluebirds and dreams, flying over rainbows, the beauty of love, and the magic of a wonderful world. I couldn’t help but feel ashamed.

All of the sudden, this homeless man became something more to me. He seemed to have no past or future. He was just a symbol, speaking to all of us, with our depressed faces, standing in that train tunnel and obsessing about how bad we all had it. Without knowing it, he was showing us how we should be.

He was showing us that when you feel like you’re in a deep hole in life, you don’t just linger and obsess about not seeing the light. You stand up and you sing about dreams into the darkness.

Then, I realized that I was just romanticizing the whole ordeal. He probably had more money than me and felt just as depressed about his life. But, it was a nice thought.

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Betrayal of the Snerds

2009-04-26T19:15:00.000-07:00

I was beyond excited because the new Indiana Jones movie was coming out. And, I LOVE my Indian Jones. Really, who doesn’t? Han Solo dressed up as an archeologist and chasing down evil-doers is my dream. The fact that he is like sixty years old doesn’t dissuade me. Not one bit. I was so pumped to go.

One of my very favorite things to do in the world is to go to the movie theater by myself. I realize that this is, normally, a social activity, but I’m a bit weird like that. Especially if it is a movie that I really want to see. I haven’t always been this way, though.

In fact, the first time that I ever went to the movies alone was not until I was in college, and I felt awkward and naked the whole time. Isn’t that strange? People never do things alone anymore. Going out to eat alone, for instance, is unthinkable for many. For some reason, we think solitude is wrong or inappropriate. Everyone is looking at me, we think. I look like a creepazoid, we worry. And instead of recognizing this as a problem, we get out that trusty cell phone and start clicking away on it to anyone and everyone willing to hear our cry. People are so self conscience without a distraction from themselves. I read that this is called monophobia. Land of the free and home of the monophobic. Ha.

But anyway, I quickly realized that being alone at the movie theater is a perfect situation for someone like me. One: I am in the dark, so no one can see that I’m alone anyway. And, two: I watch movies with a level of focus that is disproportionate from the average human. Seriously, I’m intense. I’m like a little cat watching one of those fish movies, and I don’t need the judgment.

When I go to the movies alone, I always show up early. I like to watch the people file into the theater, so that I can label them out one by one. This helps me choose the best place to sit. From my experiences, I’ve been able to section out three categories of people at the movies.

The lowest in my made-up caste system are those whom I like to call the “Surface Riders” (or “Surfs” for short). However, unlike the Serfs of medieval times, the Surfs of the movie theater are people who are more interested in sour patch kids and Seth Rogen than freedom from a feudal landlord. These people go to the movies in order to have the most superficial experience that they can. That way, they don’t have to think. And, honestly, nothing is really wrong with this. Movies are an escape, anyway. I get it. It’s just a description, people. Don't get sensitive. Anyway, they are rarely seen outside of really awful movies, but the occasion does exist. And, one must be alert to their presence because they tend to be loud.

My second category encompasses the largest population of people – the Apathetics. They come. They see. They laugh. They comment to each other. They go home. Meh.

The third category is where I place myself, shamelessly. They are my Super Nerds. I love the Snerds. These people cannot hide their excitement. They have the shirts, the cups, the action figures. They have finely picked through the adapted novel or comic book with their hearts and souls. They judge and scrutinize. They are a films biggest fans and worst nightmares. I like to sit by them. I feel like the cool kid in the cafeteria.

When I got to the theater to see Indy, I sat in my first seat. That’s the seat that I sit in until I observe and find my second seat. I watched everyone come in and quickly spotted the Snerd section. Gathering my belongings, I found an empty spot at the end of a row. There were about five seats in between me and a Snerd group. Close enough to be in the action, I thought. Success.

The theater dimmed, the dancing popcorn emerged to tell us the rules, and then…an upset. There was a tap on my shoulder and an older woman and her husband were standing above me. They pointed to the seats next to me. INFILTRATION! I wanted to scream. They don’t belong in this section. Don’t they know? I hesitated, but couldn’t think of the right words. Maybe I could use the old, “Seat’s taken” Forest Gump impression. Cute and poignant. They probably wouldn’t get the reference, I thought. Reluctantly, I moved aside and let them pass.

I longed for my other Snerds at the end of the aisle. Oh, how I wanted to be with them! Did they sense the seperation along with me? Snap out of it, I suddenly said to myself. This is Indiana! I tried to regroup. Maybe these two will just be quiet, I told myself. They are probably just Apathetics. It wasn't ideal, but it wasn't tragic. I tried to calm down.

When the previews finally ended, the room got silent. Totally silent. And, then… “mmmm..smack smack..mmmmm..smack.” Oh no, I thought. Can it be? My head whipped around so fast, you could hear the bones in my neck crack all the way down. The old lady next to me stared steadily at the screen. There was a guilty handful of popcorn in her grip. I stared, waiting to be sure that I was looking at the right perpetrator. The popcorn reached her lips and, then, “Mmmm..smack smack..mmmmm..smack.” What in the world!?

My heart started palpitating. Why couldn’t she hear herself? I looked around for some support. No one was looking. Come on, fellow Snerds, come on! I heard it again, and my head snapped back. I didn’t know what to do. The opening credits were half way through, and there was already action happening on-screen.

“Mmmm...smack smack…mmmm…smack.”

Feeling abandoned, I decided the best thing to do was to keep snapping my head back and forth with each smack. If I just stared at her, she may not notice. But, perhaps she would see the constant movement happening right next to her….or feel the breeze. After a few minutes, my neck started hurting. This is serious, I thought. I’m going to have to go a step further. I made the decision to start my own sound effects. Perhaps, she couldn’t see well, I rationalized. So, with every snap of my neck, I began sighing VERY LOUDLY.

“Mmmm..smack smack...mmmmm...smack.”

“SIGH.”

“Mmmm...smack smack…mmmmm…smack.”

“SIGH”

Nothing was working! I wanted to stand up. I wanted to tell the guy in the booth to stop and start over. I wasn’t ready!

“Mmmm…smack smack…mmmmm...smack.” I was so desperate!

“Mmmm...smack smack...mmmmm...smack.” People were starting to talk on-screen!

“Mmmm...smack smack…mmmmm…smack.” I broke.

“OH MY GOD!” I said out loud. Several Snerd’s heads turned towards me. The smacking stopped, and the old woman finally turned and looked at me. There was silence in the audience, and, in the background, I could hear Indiana speaking. The old lady pulled her hand of popcorn away from her mouth. She stared right at me. I stared back. YEAH, I’m talking to you! I thought. I clenched my teeth and pursed my lips.

Then, with popcorn flying out of her stupid mouth, this movie theater criminal let out a big, “Shhhhhhhhh!”

At me!!!

I was shocked. My mouth fell open. She turned back to the screen, and the Snerd shadow heads followed her!

Me? You are all against me, I thought?!? How did this happen? I’ve been ousted by the pack. I’ve been defamed by this old lady. I've been abandoned. With tears forming at the surface of my eyes, I picked up my purse and slinked out of my seat and into the aisle. Is she a secret Snerd leader, I asked myself?

With my head hanging low, I trudged down the middle of the theater feeling betrayed and embarrassed. So quickly had the mighty fallen. In an instant, I had been kicked out of the cool kid table and was now looking for a bathroom stall to eat lunch.

A Jolly Snippet For Your Day

2009-04-15T18:09:00.000-07:00

This is a poem that I wrote when I was a kid. I think it may be better than the stuff I write now. It's called the Long Lost Recipe for Royal Front. Enjoy my mind as a child...

Take a clove of honesty, and put it on a plate.
Reach down inside, and find a dash of hidden fear and hate.

Measure out a perfect mix of common sense and heart,
For if you put in too much sense, it will taste a little tart.

Toss in a spoon of values and some anger, not a lot.
Be sure and let it cool a bit, for anger can get hot.

Next, pour in some forgotten love, and watch as it expands.
Sprinkle some experience and memories if you can.

The last ingredient is hard to find in tragic actuality;
You must search the markets of your brain to find your individuality.

If you get it, hold on tight, and stir it with the rest.
Then, you’ll have some Royal Front to share with all your guests.

Come See the Fantastico Train Girl!

2009-04-05T18:33:00.000-07:00

When I first moved to Chicago, I went out partying often…too often. I didn’t know a soul in the city, and I would have hung out with a monkey, if it had asked me. So, when I was invited to go out one wintry night with a group of close and personal strangers, I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my salt-stained boots and best clutch purse, put on a fancy dress, and shimmied my popular bottom down to the bar.

I had to take the train to get there, which wasn’t uncommon. So, I tromped my way through the heavy snow, and up to the platform of the Montrose brown line station. Shivering, I waited and cursed myself for being out in the cold.

When the train finally arrived, I stepped on and found a seat right away. Shaking the snow out of my hair, I glanced around the car, casually checking for scary people, as I always did (and do) on the El Train. Not finding anyone freaky enough to worry about, I sat back and waited for my stop to come.

At the next stop, the doors opened, and a group of six guys walked on. They were dressed to impress for their own night on the town. Intrigued, I sat up a little straighter, smoothed out my coat, and turned on a fake, flirtatious smile. What the heck? A little entertainment. There were a couple of cute ones in the group, and I had a few more stops to go.

After a good five minutes of none of them looking at me, I came back to reality with a bitter roll of my eyes. To my horror, I came back just in time to see that we had reached my intended destination. Not only that, but the train had been sitting at the stop, with the doors open, for several seconds. I grabbed my clutch and jumped out of the seat as fast as I could.

“Hold the door! Hold the door!” I screamed with my arm and purse reaching out in from of me. “Please, hold that…” SLAM. Blood curdling screams commenced. With three fingers and my vintage clutch on the outside of the train and my arm and body on the inside of train (and a door separating the two), the wheels started moving along the tracks.

“Oh, my god! My hand is in the door!” I yelled in a panic. The boys turned to look at me. No one moved. Hello? Did they not hear me or see the affected appendage? “My hand is in the door!” I yelled again. Finally, one of the boys stepped forward.

“Okay,” said a tall boy with pretty eyes, “Calm down. Are you hurt?”

“No, no, the rubber has it trapped, but I’m stuck! That was my stop!” I said, not calming down.

“Ok, well, you’ll just have to get out at the next stop and ride back.”

“Um, yes, I realize that would be a possibility if I wasn’t being held by this death trap,” I replied a little snootily.

The cold wind outside of the train was beginning to freeze my finger tips. Any minute now, my hand would be completely numb, and I’d drop the purse. Please, God, not the purse, I thought. Take my fingers; just leave me my vintage clutch. My frostbitten tips were the only things preventing my credit cards from raining onto the streets of Chicago, and all I could do was watch the tragedy happen from my cozy little window on the train.

“I’m going to drop it!” I said.

“No. Just, calm down.” He said. His buddies chimed in. “You won’t drop it,” one of them said. “Just hold on tight,” said another. Soon the whole train was rooting me on. Pretty Eyed boy put his hand on my shoulder. Then, with confidence he said, “The doors open on this side of the train at the next stop. Once they open, you’ll be out.”

“The doors open on this side?” I asked (actually I more pleaded than asked).

“I’m positive,” he said. He smiled, and I knew he wasn’t lying. Well, at least I knew he didn’t think he was lying.

Those are funny last words…I’m positive. I wonder if that is what the General told Custer before the battle of Little Big Horn. “I’m positive we can beat them, sir - even if they do out-number us 5 to 1. I’m positive.” Or, I wonder if that was what Dick Rowe of Decca Records told his partner, when he decided not to sign the boy band that had just auditioned for them. “The Beatles? I’m positive they are a band going nowhere.” Powerful words – I’m positive.

And, cute, tall boy was “positive.” So, we all waited…in silence. I could tell no one knew if they were allowed to go back to the conversation they had been in before the incident. So, instead, we all stayed silent and stared at the advertisement for SIDS Prevention.

There we were: me, tall boy, my frozen hand, my ever-loosening clutch, and the rest of the SIDS Awareness team. All I could do was stare at my purse, repeating my favorite Han Solo mantra to my hand over and over again, “Hear me baby? Hold together.”

After the longest, most awkward minute of my life, the next stop approached. I started to relax. I had made it. My purse was safe. Relief came on everyone’s faces as they realized that I would soon be off of the train. It slowly pulled up to the station.

“This is Belmont,” the nice lady on the intercom said. “Transfer to Brown Line trains at Belmont.” The doors opened.

On the OTHER side of the train, the doors opened. Again, there was screaming…

“You said! You said that you were positive that it opened on this side!”

“I’m sorry! I thought it did. I was trying to keep you calm!” he exclaimed.

“Help me!” I started struggling. Panic was setting in. I just knew I was going to be stuck like this forever. I would end up a Chicago attraction for tourists. Popsicle eating kids and their parents would wait around on the train platform for hours in the summer heat, just hoping to get a glimpse of the “train girl”.

Either that or they’d have to chop it. “It has to come off,” the doctor would say to the police standing around. “It’s the only option.” He’d take out a huge saw and, with a crowd watching, my hand and purse would be separated from my arm forever. Well, not truly separated. I’d get to keep my hand in a little glass jar if I wanted it. And, the train car would have to be retired for life because of the tragedy. The city of Chicago would raise its train fare to pay for the new train car, and everyone would hate me.

Riders from Belmont started filtering into the car. Some of them laughed. Others were just confused. I was mortified. I wanted to tell them what happened. I wanted to explain my stupidity and the stupidity of the tall guy next to me, but I couldn’t. I had to focus on the problem at hand. No pun intended.

In an act of heroism that should have been acted out five minutes before, the boys collectively started to pry the door open. Finally a crack, large enough for me to squeeze my purse through, opened. I pulled as hard as I could and heard the crunch of glass shattering. There goes my phone, I thought. It doesn’t matter. Every man for himself.

With my hand free, the door slammed shut and people, to my horror, started clapping. I wasted no time running off of the train through the open doors. I shouted my “thank you” to the boys as I dashed. I was too ashamed to stay on that train another second. I knew the boys appreciated me getting off quickly, too.

It wasn’t until I was bored on the train a week later that I noticed the emergency pull above the door.

PULL FOR DOORS TO OPEN
IN CASE OF AN EMERGENCY

There it was – in big, bright red letters. Wow, I thought. I wonder if Custer knew about the emergency pull.

Taun Taun Be Gone

2009-03-31T20:44:00.000-07:00

Since the moment that I had moved to Chicago, there was one day that I was looking forward to more than any other. It was the first day that the weather was going to hit 70 degrees. And, amazingly enough, when it happened, it was a day that I had off from work.

I had spent the last five months in the bitter cold of the arctic tundra, literally fighting to stay alive. I had never felt cold like the cold that Chicago winter delivered. It was death. Coming from Florida, the land of eternal heat, I had a picture of “real” winters that was more like a “fun-loving-Christmas-movie” winter than a “find-me-a-TaunTaun-to-cut-open-so--that-I-can-crawl-inside-and-stay-alive” type of winter. I imagined frolicking in warm snowflakes with cute berets on. Instead, I found myself wrapping up like a soft taco to waddle against a fighting wind and solid ice particles every day.

It was bad. There were moments during my first winter in Chicago, when I’d be walking home, literally thinking, “I am going to die. Right now. This is it for me. If someone doesn’t get me inside this very moment, I’m going to fall into this gutter and die. They will find me hours from now, and the last image the world will see of me will consist of terror and frozen snot.” I didn’t die. Man, I really believed it, though. It was madness, and I was a mad woman for putting myself there.

Because of the weather, I hated Chicago. I mean hate. I know that’s a strong word, but my feelings were strong in the area. I was ready to pack up and move the moment that I had saved enough money. I was so angry and tired at the city that I couldn’t see why anyone would stay put in this town forever. I was convinced that thousands of years ago, Chicagoeans or Chitowners or whatever, offended some God by not giving him the right amount of corn and animals, and this was the punishment...eternal ice and darkness. I don’t know.

So, as you can see, this day of 70 degree weather was already going to be the best day of my short life. It won by default. I mean, I could have gotten hit by a car that day, but it still would have won because I would have been getting hit by a car in mild weather conditions. I still hated Chicago, but this gave me some hope for the remainder of the time on my lease that I was forced to stay here.

I planned to do something that I knew I would enjoy. I booked a spot in a tour group going to the Graceland Cemetery. The Cemetery, I knew, was the home of many famous people from Chicago. Mostly, architects. I hated them all. They built this city of ice. I went, only because of my interest in cemeteries, not the people residing there.

Since I was a child, I always had a fascination with cemeteries. They were, no pun intended, peaceful to me. Wednesday Addams was my hero as a little girl, and, mostly, because she had her very own cemetery to hang out in. As a child, I used to beg my parents to stop at passing cemeteries while we were in the car. My mom thought that I was odd. After awhile, I decided I should just get it out in the open with her, so, one day, I said, flat out, “Mom, I love cemeteries.” I guess I thought that would stop the judgment. Instead my mother said, “Oh, jeesh, Jess! Don’t tell that to people. That’s weird.” Whatever though. You like what you like. So, I booked my spot on the tour.

I woke up to what I thought was the sun shining into my studio’s windows. It was a strange sensation that I hadn’t experienced in such a long time. I felt a slight sensation of panic when confronted with it. My spirit was instantly lifted, though, when I looked out to see that it really was the sun and not my imagination. The next shock came just as abruptly. There were people outside. Real people. Not little balls of layered clothing, but people. I could see their little, pale arms and legs. I saw faces with expressions on them. Some of these people even had flip flops on. They were biking and walking. Kids were playing catch with their fathers. It was like a summer movie set right outside of my window. I didn’t believe it. The scene made me a bit weary.

I got dressed, not really trusting that I could get away with the thin layer of clothes that I had put on. I checked the window once more. Everyone was in skirts and shorts, so I conceded. Wearing a sundress and flip flops, I grabbed my camera and set off into the unfamiliar sun.

When I stepped outside, I looked at my arms, waiting to see goose bumps. Nothing happened. There must be a breeze or something, I thought. I cautiously started to walk. Still nothing. I walked faster, trying to create a wind. Still nothing. Then, all of the sudden, I felt something dripping between my boobs. I looked down. There were little beads of water forming on my skin. There was a glint of recognition in my mind. Sweat. This water was called sweat. There was sweat on my skin. Then, I started feeling the same sensation on my top lip. And, can you believe it? I was sweating there, too! I walked on with confidence. The winter must have been a bad dream, I thought. Despite my buoyancy, I didn’t wipe the sweat away from my lip until I got to the bus. I was afraid it wouldn’t come back.

When I got to the cemetery, I saw the tour group forming at the front gate. I joined them, paying my fifteen dollars and getting my little orange sticker to identify myself as part of the tour. I wouldn’t want to get lost amongst all of the…dead people. Then, twenty senior citizens and I set off to learn about Chicago’s greatest, in one of its oldest resting grounds. I had an eerie feeling that some of my fellow tourists were looking to invest in some real-estate there.

The tour guide was a woman in her early sixties named Norma. Don’t you just love people’s names? Sometimes, I wonder if your name does more to shape your personality than your upbringing or genes. The old Nature vs. Nurture vs. Nameture argument. Anyway, Norma was a tomboy, and one of those people who you knew spent too much time thinking about their volunteer work. Like any good person, I judged her life immediately. Norma probably got married too young and too heterosexually, I thought. History was always her passion, but she had to take care of the five kids at home. So, now, after divorcing the guy, forming a love partnership with her best friend, Pat, and sending the kids off to start their own messed up lives, she was finally able to do what she wanted - give cemetery tours! She was funny, though. I liked Norma.

She led us through the cemetery, stopping at particularly elaborate or odd memorials to tell us stories of their inhabitants. Like I said before, the place was full of Chicago architects and businessmen – Louis Sullivan, Palmer, that guy who designed the world fair whose name starts with a letter “B” (I can’t remember his name), all still trying to prove themselves in death.

As the years passed, the grave markers became more elaborate, more creative. It was like each man was trying to outdo his old, dead friend. Competitive bastards. I had a glint of respect starting to form for them.

Not only were they competitive in death, but elitist as well. The grave markers of some of the men were all grouped together in a certain part of the cemetery. Norma made a little joke about how they loved being neighbors so much in life, they made sure to stay neighbors in death. I laughed. I decided their proximity to each other had more to do with the fact that they disliked everyone else more than they disliked each other. No “commoner” graves allowed in their part of the hill! Sometimes, now, I like to imagine an underground smoking room right below the graveyard where the decrepit, old, millionaires play cards and chew the ends of their cigars, talking about how big their…grave markers are.

Anyway, the most elaborate of these monuments belonged to Palmer and his wife. He was the Chicago business man who built the Palmer hotel for his wife as a wedding present. (As a side note, I always thought that wedding present was a little strange. I think I’d feel more like the man was asking me to be his hooker rather than his wife, but whatever. I’m sure it was a very classy place.) Anyway, his “grave marker” was a huge terrace with Grecian columns all the way around. It was more like a museum than a headstone. I mean, really, it rivaled the Parthenon.

Along with the Parthenon, some other grave markers caught my fancy. I’ll describe them, but I won’t remember their owners. I have a terrible memory. There was one grave site that was the model for the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C. This was built before the Lincoln Memorial and shows a woman sitting on a chair, in the same position as Lincoln, overlooking a pool. It is amazing how identical the two statues are. The guy who designed it was commissioned to do the Lincoln Memorial and, basically, reused this design! I couldn’t believe it! I mean, can you imagine? You are commissioned to design a national monument…A NATIONAL MONUMENT, and you are going to cheat and recycle. As my mom would say, “Oh, jeesh, architect! Don’t tell that to people. That’s weird.”

My favorite of the grave sites belonged to Mr. B, the guy who was the head designer for the Chicago World Fair. And, yes, I could have looked up his name on the internet, but I think all stories are best told without research. You can look up his name later, if you want. Anyway, to get to his grave, you have to cross a bridge to an island in the pond at the cemetery. This little island is devoted solely to his family. No other person will ever reside there. You walk out onto this little piece of land and there are no big, marble markers. There are no steps or columns or pyramids. Instead, the place is covered in nature. There are dozens of different flowers blooming around you. There are trees hovering above you. It seems more like a garden, then a cemetery. You hardly even recognize the boulders on the ground, engraved with the names of “B” and his family. The rock grave markers are so understated and such a contrast to the other men’s tombs on the site that it startles you. I found it calming that, in death, this great architect, finally put aside his steel for grass and trees. He came, he saw, he conquered, and he went back to nature, gracefully.

As the day wore on, slowly, the chip on my shoulder started to smooth out. I found myself thinking about other things than how much I hated Chicago. I was kind of, actually (dare I say it), enjoying Chicago. The weather was just beautiful. It was hot and sunny and, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in the south. And, by that, I mean, it was not humid. My hair still looked good after walking all afternoon.

The thing that came as the biggest shock to me, though, was something that I didn’t notice right away, but gradually, and through a series of feelings, and then, a bang of realization. I felt spring. I know that concept doesn’t seem like something new to many of you, but in Florida we have summer and…summer.

It started with a strange tingling in my stomach. I remembered later that this particular tingling is called “happiness”. Write that down boys and girls – “happiness”. Anyway, it was small at first, but every time the breeze hit me, it grew a little stronger. It traveled up and down my torso, eventually making its way through my legs and arms. Once it hit my head, the tingling started to warm up the icy glaze that had formed over my eyes. And, not to sound too corny, but here is where that bang of realization came.

All of the sudden, I saw colors in that cemetery that I only thought could exist outdoors on a movie screen. In Florida, we have things that are, well, green. Green grass, green trees, and green bushes. There isn’t much variation. But, here, purple and blue and pink and yellow and white little things were popped up everywhere! Flowers and trees and plants that were of every breed you could imagine. I mean REAL flowers – Tulips and Pansies and Daisies. I was in shock. To think that a place that had literally had the appearance of a glacier with a city built on it for the past five months could produce this kind of beautiful foliage was beyond my comprehension.

The funny thing was that I hadn’t even seen it start to happen. This could not have happened over night, I thought. Or, maybe, it could have. Life had won its battle over the winter, and sprang up in Chicago like a cheer of victory. Winter fought the thaw and the thaw won.

When the tour finished, I said goodbye to Norma, Gladys and Phil, Louise, Fran and the rest of the Morning Glory Retirement Home. I jumped on my loyal bus and headed off into the sunset, feeling quite content and revitalized. I fought hard through that winter, and I had won. It was time for me to spring up out of the ground, and I was going to do it whether this stupid town liked it or not.

Chicago and I got along a little better after the cemetery. Sure, it was a love-hate relationship that changed with the seasons. But, even in those bleak, wintry nights thereafter, I always knew that the warm weather was fighting for me, and that the spring would soon be there.