Oh yeah? Take THAT.

There is a quote somewhere that says something to the effect of "The sweetest revenge is to live your life well", but more eloquent than that. I'd look it up, but I don't have time. I'm blogging. Priorities, people. You get the idea, right? I don't need to spell it out for ya....

I'm super excited. I just booked my first commercial where I'll be in front of the camera. I recently got an agent and went on my first 2 commercial auditions last week. The first one, I was put "on avail", which basically means I made it on the director's short list. It can mean nothing, as there are other folks on this list, and I may not get picked...but it's still very cool that I made the list. The second one went SO poorly that I walked out embarrassed, horrified, and with my tail between my legs. That one, I booked. I got the call from my agent today and will be filming it on Thursday. She's less than thrilled, as what they listed as the pay has been cut drastically, which they can do, since I'm not union...but she didn't really want me to take it. It's still more than I've ever made for one day of doing ANYTHING and it's an acting gig. So, yeah, I'm cool with it. And I'm pretty much totally geeking out about it.

But here's the thing. When I was around 12, my biodad and stepmother had a dinner guest. I have no idea who it was. I may have blogged about this before, cause it was a formidable event in my growing up and has always stuck in my memory. This dinner guest was making conversation with me and asked me what I liked to do. I said "I'm an actress", cause frankly, that was the only extracurricular activity I ever did. Ever. My stepmother later pulled me aside and told me I was NEVER to answer that question that way again. That I was NOT an actress, that just taking acting lessons and being in plays and student films and psa's that didn't pay and the like did not make me an actress, and it was misleading for me to tell someone that is what I was. I could say "I like to act" or "I do theater" but calling myself an actress was presumptious and incorrect. I stood corrected.

Today I was in the Social Security office, waiting for to get called in line to get a renewal card, and a man overheard me talking to my friend about getting this booking...when I got off the phone, he made eye contact and said- " Are you an actress?"

And I know it's just ONE commercial, and I know it's not even union, and it's not national...but you know what? I have an agent, and I am getting paid, tomorrow I'm going in for wardrobe, and this feels more "real" than anything I've done since coming back to this life...and now I feel pretty freaking ok saying it. Yes, I'm an actress. Take THAT.

Hide of a Rhino

Ethel Barrymore once said - "For an actress to be a success she must have the face of Venus, the brains of Minerva, the grace of Terpsichore, the memory of Macaulay, the figure of Juno, and the hide of a rhinoceros." I have none of these things.

Ok, well, let's break it down.

The face of Venus.
I get told a lot that I have "a pretty face" which, for those of you not in the know, is code for reminding me I do not have the figure of Juno. Now, whether or not said face is equivalent to Venus, I don't know. I like to think I have happier eyes than Botticelli's version. All of Botticelli's women look morose in person. But in the business of acting, having my face combined with my figure, well, it makes casting me hard. "Zaftig" girls (again, with the code) are supposed to be unattractive. I am (modesty aside) not unattractive. Not at least when I make the effort not to be. Wow, lots of negatives there but I think I got my point across. There isn't a lot I can do about the face...it's just there. In terms of acting though, it'd probably be better if I had a more "interesting" (again, code) face.

The brains of Minerva. Well, I'm no Harvard grad, but I like to think of myself as a decently smart cookie. When it comes to acting, I'm certainly in the know when it comes to general theater knowledge, acting awareness, character development, scene study, and the sorts of things you need to know to be an actor. I think of myself as a smart actor...I like having backgrounds and reasons for the choices I make, and I consider what I do when I am doing it. I know I can always learn more, and I may not have the brains of Minerva, I mean, she was born from a head and was a doctor, a war expert, a businesswoman AND the inventor of MUSIC. So it's a lot to live up to. In any case, I'm smart enough to know I could be smarter.

Let's hit the next 3 at once. Grace? Not so much. Memory? HA. Figure? Um, well, let's just say I've been the fat kid since the 3rd grade. I have a figure...but knowing full well what Ethel Barrymore meant, it's not the sort she was discussing.

The hide of a rhinocerous.

Working on it. All the time, working on it. I just got turned down for a role I've wanted to play since 12th grade. Again. In 12th grade, I got coached for several lunch periods from the director, trying to get me to be able to sing it as well as my competition. He wasn't successful, so neither was I. I will play the part one day, but next month in a production in my hometown with 5 of my friends, I will not. I moped a bit, but only within self allotted confines (I got an hour), and then moved on. So far in my "acting comeback", I've been told I'm too pretty, not big enough, and too young. Not terrible. But every time I don't get a part I audition for, it feels like a tiny failure. Silly in a profession where I won't get parts 99% of the time. Where there are 1000 actors for each part being cast. Where even if I am the best they see, they'll still cast the director's babysitter instead. I'm a little fearful about being cast in something where I get told the sort of mean things they tell people in this business. I want to be able to hear it and take it in stride, with that hide, but I know when it comes, it's going to sting. I signed with an agent 2 weeks ago and she told me not to lose weight. I got less competition in my size bracket, you see. But I have to take these things as tiny stings flung from well meaning bows...they won't actually injure me, they'll only annoy until I pluck them out and throw them away.

If I could learn to have this tough skin in my acting life, maybe then I could bring it to my regular life, where an angry email from one friend upset with something I said off the cuff put me in a bummed out, crappy mood for days. Where someone else's off the cuff statement about me can make me second guess all my choices. Where the kids consistently not wanting to eat my cooking makes it so I don't want to cook anymore. Then, after that is solved, I can work on that pesky world peace problem.

Parenting Sucks

Yesterday I posted as my facebook status the following conversation between Max and I:

Max: Mom, just so you know, sometimes, at night, I play with my weenis.

Me: Well, sure, honey, that's normal. It's natural to want to do that. It feels good.

Max: (incredulous) But, how would you play with a vagina???

Me: You can! With your fingers.

Max: Do you play with YOUR vagina?

Me: Yep.

Max: Cool.

To be fair, I only posted Max's first sentence as the status, because I'm all about the funny, and honestly, I was a little embarrassed to admit how the conversation played out. My recently graduated from PI school friend sleuthed it out of me, and it didn't take *much* arm twisting to admit the rest of the conversation. The 36 comments that followed were a mix. I got everything from the *actual* definition of weenis, to being called a stripper, to being called (repeatedly) the best mom ever. Honestly, I felt like this all was part of a larger conversation...and that was what brought me here, to the blog I've all but abandoned the last 6 months. And for the 6 months before that.

I struggle all the time with parenting. Having been raised by 4 incredibly different parents, with 2 auxiliary parental figures, plus the rest of my "village"...I've got a lot of parental baggage to manage. There isn't time in the world to walk through my therapy needs when it comes to sifting through all that craziness, so I'll stick to this particular issue. Firstly, I usually feel like I'm a terrible parent. It's not in any way what I expected. I wanted to be a mom, a stay at home mom like the moms in the books I read growing up, like the shows that I watched, for as long as I can remember. What I didn't really realize, was that they were fictional. I've watched and been responsible for more children than some people have spoken to over the course of their lives. I've been a camp counselor, a child care director, a teacher, a mentor, a camp director...very little of which actually prepared me for the reality of my children. I thought I had a battery full of tools in my arsenal. Good, solid parenting tools which would help me navigate through every new situation and issue which might come up with my own children. The day I realized I was wrong is one of my strongest memories. Magnolia was 18 months old and we had our first throw down. It was after the 90 minute battle that I realized I had no idea what the hell I was doing, no matter what kind of experience I had under my belt.

I was raised (by large measure) by 3 relatively conservative Latinas who gave me a lot of outdated and bizarre notions about sex, many of which were reinforced at Catholic school. I didn't really have any friends, so my actual sex ed came from 1. a nun, and 2. books like Flowers in the Attic. Also, we had cable. It was a bizarre educational experience. I remember setting the table when I was 14, and my mom nagging me about the napkins (totally out of character for her to care) and my response was - "Don't have an orgasm!", an expression I'd read in a book with NO concept of it's meaning. Her reaction sent me looking for a dictionary, I'd never seen anything like that. Obviously (to anyone who has known me more than 10 minutes) I got over all the lack of knowledge, and even most of the shyness about sex...but as much as people may not believe it, there is a friendless, shy, naive, Catholic school girl buried inside me...and I mainly have to fight with her to be me. As a parent, I struggle between wanting to be "appropriate" and knowing what the hell that means.

I fight with myself all the time. Intellectually, would I think a conversation about masturbation with my 6 year old is a good idea? Probably not. But he watches movies that have violence in them (Disney), that have evil in them (Harry Potter), and I struggle with the idea that sex is forbidden and wrong and shouldn't be discussed. The American Puritanical "notion of sex" and the fact that it is to be kept quiet and not discussed FEELS right, but I KNOW it isn't. Interestingly enough, the thing that got me thinking about this a LOT was the movie "This Movie is Not Yet Rated", talking about the mpaa and the rating system for movies, and how absolutely fucked up it is. How can I allow my child to watch a movie where a parent is trampled TO DEATH (thank you, Lion King) and not let him know that playing with his penis is natural? I mean, I'm not suggesting I buy him a box of Kleenex and a bottle of lotion just yet, but I don't want him to have shame in it. I'm sure the time will come when I have to give parameters about appropriateness of where one does things and such, but as of yet, he's kept it private. And above everything, I want my kids to feel they can come to me and ask whatever they need to ask. I don't want to give them shame about their urges.

Last night, a friend called me hippie dippie. She does that a lot. But it's really inaccurate. I struggle with my decisions every day. I hope to Bertha that I am making the right ones, and am not screwing them up too badly. I overanalyze and consider pretty much everything I do and say and often than not snap then I say and do things I regret 5 minutes later. But sometimes I do it right...and I have to say, as squeamish as I feel about the conversation Max and I had, I think it was the right thing to say. I give my kids shame over treating another person badly, or not doing their best, not being good to Mama Earth, not cleaning their room, or beating each other up...but I will not pass on totally misplaced shame we as a society in general put on the issues of sex. I just won't. This doesn't make me the best mom ever, but I'm working on it.

Tap Tap Tap

Been thinking about you a lot lately. Yes, you. Reader of my blog. I miss you. I miss writing. I miss having a spot where my verbal diarrhea can go on for more than 140 characters. I've been thinking a lot about things to talk about. The issue is time to write them down. But isn't that pretty much everyone's issue? We have this finite, unknown amount of time, and we tend to fill it up. And then some. If we're evolved properly and smart about it, we fill it up with the important stuff, and we recognize what the important stuff is. If anyone else is like me, then our optimism outweighs our actual ability to finish all we start off to do...but we keep trying.

I'm planning on trying to get out some of the nonsense in my head...hoping that it works out ok. Oh, and if you're still there...thanks for hanging in with me. :)

Save The Earth Fail

I'm heartily indignant right now. Indignant at conversations had long ago and with people I don't even know, but if they were here and now, I'd give them a tongue lashing, oh yes.

6 years ago I commited, via New Years Resolution, to start using canvas/reuseable bags when I shopped. This was waaay before the greening/eco movement had made it so that everywhere, including my local latin market, has their own, logo stamped, re-useable bags for sale. I got weird looks. I had bagboys tell me, perplexed at my repeated requests to NOT wrap my groceries in plastic before putting them in my canvas bags, explain to me as though I were stupid, that the plastic bags are free. "Not for the Earth", was my usual retort. We went from having a surplus of plastic bags in the house, bags of bags in the garage, bags of bags in the kitchen, under the sink...everywhere there was space because this was before you could recycle them, and I wouldn't throw them away...to having one plastic bag holder packed to the brim with bags. But where did these bags come from, if I've been so good at taking canvas? Well, sometimes, ladies and gentlemen, I forget, ok? I'm not perfect. I end up at the store and realize my bags are at home. Oh well. Also, and this is the part that's got me somewhat indignant- I save ALL plastic bags. The ones that carry my pita bread, the ones that carry the bread, the ones that carry the ones that carry my bread. Despite my best intentions to eliminate plastic bags, they're everywhere. And you know something? It's ok.

Sometimes you just need a freaking plastic bag, ok? As the conversations fueling the indignation reminded me, the justification for why we're packing our groceries in multiple bags to carry the 50 feet to the car, then another 50 feet to the house....or even to walk home with (triple bag it then) is that sometimes you need a plastic bag. We uuuuuse them. Ok. I get it. I use them too. But I cannot believe that anyone who goes full gangbusters at the store on the "free" bags actually uses all of them. And I'm aggravated today because I just had to pack up a BAG OF BAGS because I had too many than fit into my little happy chef's butt (this is my grocery bag storage. And I don't even want them. As I bundled up a bag from the wheat bread I bought from Costco, and went to shove it in his butt, I marveled at the thought that these people who tell me they HAVE to get the bags, because they uuuuuuuse them, though I never say anything about their bag consumption...it's obviously their guilt upon seeing my canvas bags and the need to justify their consumptive behavior. How many of them throw away the bag their bread comes in? And this pisses me off.

Yesterday I sold my first eggs to strangers. I've sold to friends before, but never to strangers. I put an add on Craigslist, and boom! Business. I met the cute hippie couple next to the theater before rehearsal and sold them my eggs, then chatted with them for a little bit about chickens, compost, veggie gardens, and flax seed. You know, hippie talk. They were lovely and brought me cartons for my future eggs and gave me some flax pulp they had just received for their worms to try feeding to my chickens. All in all, a nice experience. On my ride home after rehearsal, I was chatting with a castmate and I said something to the effect of having not paid attention to something as it was "hippie talk" and he laughed and rebutted that it was ironic that me, raiser of chickens, would be berating that sort of thing. But I'm not a hippie. I do have hippie tendencies, but I mainly just have eco-OCD. And I like keeping chickens.

This notion that in order to care for our planet you need to be some kind of liberal, labeled hippie person is so very damaging. 18 years ago I took on the challenge of the purple rag, which is a challenge to define a noble life and then to live it. In my journal entry from the night I took on this challenge, I espouse very clearly the importance to me of living a life that is careful and respectful of the earth. This is 18 years ago, people. I'm not saying I started the green movement or anything, but I'm pretty damn impressed with 19 year old me. I also talked about not "preaching" about my life choices, but to just live the best life I can and to lead by example, not by words. But here I am blogging about it. Oh well, it's supposed to be a lifelong challenge.

Make a conscious effort to stop using plastic bags at the grocery store. I promise you, you will still end up with bags you can uuuuuse. Look to ways you can stop throwing so much away, and think of things you can do that won't even change your life much, but will help the planet. And if you need a tote bag, I know where you can get some.

Afternoon with M and M

Children are crazy. Honestly, crazy and also- hellbent on making their parents crazy. Since it's been so long since I've brought you a "morning with Max" story, I thought it's high time I share something. It's brought to you by our school system.

We're in the car after school today, running errands, and I hear the following from the backseat:

Max: Eat my nuts, eat my nuts, eat my nuts!

Stunned, I look back to get a visual on what is going on, but since I'm, you know, driving, I don't get a good look. The chant changes:

Max: Up my tree! Eat my acorn! Eat my acorn!

I sigh a sigh of relief, knowing that my sweet 6 year old boy is just being squirrel obsessed as we, in this house, all are want to do on occasion. Then, a pause in the chant...and Max explains:

"My acorn is my penis!"

I choke a little...but say nothing. With this child, I've now learned it's better to not make a fuss. He LOOOOOOVES fusses.

Evidently, at this point, we're in a testicular nickname discussion, so Magnolia chimes in:

"Today in class I had to read a sentence which said 'She was playing with some balls' and a bunch of kids laughed at me. "

At this point, I have a small stroke. I recover enough to hear her say- "But I don't know why they laughed, do you?"

Channeling my mother, I think "Because they're a bunch of uneducated, classless asshats whose parents don't bother to teach them right from wrong or how to read or add but have no issue teaching them multiple inappropriate euphemisms for body parts and letting them watch movies and tv shows that make those euphemisms a joke."

But what I say is: "Because it's a word that is a way to say testicles and children who aren't taught any better think that it's funny to say those things".

Now, considering at this point, I have some mild brain damage, here is my recollection of the conversation that followed:

Max: Testicles are like the little balls inside your scrotum.

Me: Yes.

Magnolia: Is that the hangy down thing behind the penis?

Me: Yes.

Max: Maybe people call them balls cause they're ball shaped. But on the inside.

Me: Sure.

Magnolia: If there wasn't a scrotum, where would they go?

Me: I don't know.

Max: They'd just fall out

Me: um...

Magnolia: That seems uncomfortable.

At that point, I am pretty sure I blacked out and just auto-piloted to the bank. It's not that I mind having these conversations with them, I really don't. I'm certainly not squeamish, and I'm happy that they ask me things and trust that I will give them honest answers. It's just weird that the 12 year old who lives in my head who giggles at Beavis and Butthead like remarks and who can't help but blurt out "That's what she said" at every possible opportunity collides with the June Cleaver, minivan driving, PTA vice president, soccer mom part of me that comes out when I have my kids around. Or at least, that I think *should* come out. :)

yeah, ok, fine

I am supposed to be going to Seattle tonight. Just me. No husband, no kids, no real reason...just a trip cause I have lots of friends there I've promised repeatedly to visit, and the fares were cheap. Of course, this makes me feel incredibly, incredibly selfish and guilty. I don't do well with selfish. I have a couple things I do that could be construed as entirely for me and even fall within the realm of being selfish, but they are, for the most part, private, free, and don't take up a lot of time. This trip is none of those things.

Yesterday was a banner day of issues. My Driver's license expired about a week and a half ago, and the new one hasn't arrived. Yesterday I realized this would be an issue getting on an airplane (and possibly paying for things). No problem, I'll use my passport, I thought. Except it wasn't in the passport place. Panic ensues, but I have errands to run, so Michael promises to look when he comes home for lunch and he finds it. The passport had jumped out of it's proper drawer and was residing against the back wall of the cabinet underneath it's proper home. Great. Except it expired. 18 months ago. *gulp* Ok, we call the airline and determine that if I allow extra time for searching, I should be ok. 2 different friends echoed this sentiment via IM, so I was ok, but not great...so I went to the DMV to get a temp printout, which shockingly only took 40 minutes and wasn't entirely unpleasant.

Woohoo! We're back on! Until this morning. Max woke up with a nasty, croupy cough. The sort he gets about 2ce a year. He is due, but REALLY? NOW? I know the drill...he's gonna be mellow but ok all day, but tonight (when he's supposed to be at my mom's) he's gonna be up coughing all night and miserable. This won't do. What's a mother to do? Cancel the trip, of course. Brief moment of tears, but really, there isn't a choice in the matter...so I call my mom and tell her. Her headache is so overwhelming, she is ok with it...which of course makes me more annoyed, but then feel guilty over being annoyed. UGH, guilt. I call Michael, he's in a meeting. UGH UGH UGH. So I tweet...not ready to admit defeat on FB yet. When I finally get a hold of him, it's via IM, and he tells me that I'm being ridiculous and I need to go anyway. After much back and forth and more tears, he convinces me, we work out a new plan and so I'm going again. Of course, I've stopped working on laundry in the interim, so I need to get on it. While I'm shoving clothes in the washer, Max meanders over to me, bowl of ice cream in hand and we have the following conversation:
Max: Mom, can I have a BB gun?
Me: No.
Max: But WHHHHYYYYYYYY?
Me: Because.
Max: Because I'm not old enough?
Me: Sure.
Max: But Andrew and Ian (his cousins) have BB guns and Andrew is YOUNGER than me.
Me: I don't really care. They have issues.
Max: But, what do you even DO with a BB gun?
Me: I don't know.
Max: Shoot things?
Me: Yeah, I guess.
Max: (pause) Can you shoot your eye out?
Me: Yes.
Max: (ponders this) How?
Me: I really don't know.
Max: Huh. (walks away)

Vacation? Yeah.
Changing my perfectly planned out plans? Ok.
Mother's guilt? Fine.