ASS-U-ME

The other night, Archie* wanted to take me out for a celebratory cocktail - his celebration, not mine, but who am I to turn down a cocktail? - so we headed to a gay bar around the corner from the tenement. Now, keep in mind that I am a married woman. For me, a gay bar is like a license to let loose. Put me in a room full of gay men and you've just given me a free pass for a wild night of shameless flirting. In a gay bar I can be as seductive, as dazzling, as gregarious as I want to be, because none of the boys have any interest in me. I can bat my eyelashes, laugh loudly and dance the night away without worrying for a second that I've given someone the wrong idea or that I'm asking for attention that I really don't want. I love gay bars.

We settle ourselves on a couple of bar stools and order two dirty gin martini's from the bartender. Minutes later, we're approached by a second bartender, a tall bartender, a gorgeous bartender with lustrous hair, full lips, broad shoulders and bedroom eyes. He just wants to make sure we've been taken care of and he makes us promise that if we need anything, we will yell for him. And then he starts chatting with us and he lingers, just a moment too long, making conversation. As soon as he walks away I jump on Archie.

"OH MY GOD HE'S GORGEOUS AND HE TOTALLY WANTS YOU."

"He's so hot! Do you really think he likes me? He's soooo hot." Archie has become a drooling, incoherent 12-year-old. That's what gorgeous men do to him.

"Um, yes! He was totally flirting with you!" And then in a sing-song voice: "He wants to marry you. He wants to have your baaaaabies." I am also a chattering, incoherent 12-year-0ld.

Archie is squealing. And panting.

"Five bucks if you get his number."

Panting. Squealing. More panting. "Ok. Ok. This is why you're my best friend. You put money on the table, so now I have to do it."

As soon as the first bartender drops our drinks off, Talldarkandgorgeous is back, to make sure we're happy. "Need anything else? Extra napkins?" His biceps are pulsating. "Extra olives? A foot rub?"

Archie and I start giggling. We're drunk on fantasy. Archie, no doubt, imagining a stellar romp in the sack and me, well, I'm picturing their wedding, the dress I'll wear, how I'll rent out my womb so they can have a child of their own. This is love at first sight and I am going to play Cupid. 

"I'm Trish. This is Archie."

"Justin*. It's nice to meet you." He shakes my hand and then takes Archie's. I watch, on the edge of my seat, as their fingers meet. Their eyes lock. The energy between them is palatable. I grab Archie's knee under the table and squeeze. Justin walks away and Archie and I press our foreheads together in ecstasy.

"HE SO WANTS YOU OH MY GOD."

"I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW I'M DYING!"

"ASK FOR HIS NUMBER."

"HOW?? I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY!"

So we start plotting. Whispering about how Archie will coyly, cleverly acquire this beautiful man's phone number. Archie is uncharacteristically nervous. That's how gorgeous this guy is. I mean, Archie always dates gorgeous guys, but this guy is an Adonis. We come up with a plan and we calm down a little, our conversation developing a natural flow. All the while, Justin is dropping by to check on us, joke with us, tease us, and shamelessly, relentlessly flirt. Before we have a chance to finish our martini's, Justin has brought us shots of something pink, sweet and wonderful. They're double shots, on the house. Just because, he says. A few minutes later, he's back with more. This time he takes a shot with us, proposing a toast to "New Friendships". We are giddy with the attention. Me, because it is fun to be fussed over by a gorgeous boy, especially if that boy prefers other boys, and Archie because, he's going home with a number! (It is that obvious.) When Archie wants to smoke a cigarette, I offer to stay and watch our stools, but Justin says no way, I should go, and he makes little signs out of napkins, to reserve our spots at the bar for us. I follow Archie outside and not thirty seconds later, Justin is outside too. I want very badly to get these two together, so I start asking Justin all about himself, to get the conversation going and also because Archie is too love struck to speak. Justin and I have a great conversation, and because I can, because it's safe, I'm totally flirting with him. Laughing at his jokes, complimenting him, batting my eyelashes, saying witty things. You know. The usual. 

The three of us head back inside, Archie and I squeezing each others hands because HOLY CRAP THIS IS A NIGHT TO REMEMBER, THE NIGHT ARCHIE MET THE MAN OF HIS DREAMS. Even though we swore to only have one drink and now we've had a drink and a couple of shots, we settle at the bar and order two more martinis. We can't leave now. Not before Archie gets the digits. Justin makes the drinks right in front of us and makes us extra - now we each have a full martini glass and a tumbler-full of gin. Dear God. And the three of us are giggling and laughing and having a wonderful time. Justin is flirting, I'm flirting, Archie is grinning so wide his face is about to crack. Archie mentions that I live just down the street and Justin says he works every Saturday and Sunday and we should come in more often! Why haven't we been in before? I ask him what else he does and he says, nothing, he just works at the bar twice a week and auditions the rest of the week. I'm floored. You only have to work here two nights a week? And you make enough to live? I want to be a bartender! How do I get a job as a bartender! And Justin says, "You just walk into any bar, say you want to work there and make sure the manager can see that gorgeous rack of yours."

"Did you just say I should show the manager my boobs?"

"Well, no. Don't be a slut about it. Just, you know..." and then he pulls his shirt off and picks up an ice cube. "You know, you shouldn't like, -" as he's talking, he starts running the ice cube up his perfectly sculpted, naked chest and around his nipples. He's trying to be sexy, and it is sexy, but it's also funny. He's doing a comedy routine. (Or else we're just that drunk.) He's prancing around behind the bar, swaying his hips like a girl and in a high, breathy voice, saying all the things he thinks I should NOT say, were I to interview for a bartending job. "Hey, looking for a bartender? Because I have lots of special bartending skills. I'm really good at making drinks, with my rack, I'm really pretty, and I have a great rack..." he bends over towards us and pushes his arms together, as if to create cleavage. I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe. Now in his regular voice, "You know. Don't do that. Just be yourself." He smiles, winks, and walks away.

I'm bent over with laughter, still, but Archie looks dubious.

"Oh my god. He is really funny. Weird, but funny!" I say, catching my breath.

"Um, yeah, Trish. And he's straight."

"What? No, he's not. He's been flirting with you all night! He just took his shirt off and pranced around for you."

"Gay men don't use the word 'rack'."

"What?"

"He said you have a 'gorgeous rack'. A 'great rack'. A gay man would never say that."

"Oh, whatever. Straight guys don't bartend at gay bars."

Archie waves at bartender #1 and he comes over. 

"Hey, we're just wondering. Is Justin gay or straight?"

Bartender #1 smiles. "Straight. And his girlfriend just broke up with him a couple of weeks ago. Maybe you can help him out, sweetheart." And he looks right at me.

"No. No. No, nonononono." I hold up my left hand. "Married! I'm married. Married. Happily."

"Oh, too bad. He's been flirting with you all night."

"Me?? No, no, no. He's been flirting with Archie all night!"

"No, honey. He's been flirting with you. I'm gay, though." And he winks at Archie. Unfortunately, he's short and round and funny looking and not at all Archie's type. 

Archie sighs, a huge, heavy sigh. "Well, I'm glad I didn't ask for his number. And hey, at least we got all those free shots." He looks disappointed. I think he's trying to cheer himself up.

"Oh my god." I bury my face in my hands. I'm completely humiliated. Here, I've been acting like a trollop for the last two hours, all because I thought I was safe, I thought it was harmless, I thought I was helping a friend. And really, I've been doing THE EXACT OPPOSITE. I've made a complete ass of myself. So much for that free pass to a wild night.

So. Embarrassing. Seriously. 

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

The Intrepid Looms

The Intrepid Looms.

It's snowing for the first time today since it snowed on December 19th. Ok, it has snowed since then, but only little sloppy bits of snow that turn immediately into rain and suck my ass. Today it's snowing in a pretty way, in a way that suggests it might actually stick around long enough to pile up so that I might actually get to build a snowman this week. I wonder if that would lift my spirits?

I'm not sure why, but I've spent the last 24 hours in my Black Hole Of Despair. Meaning: I spent all day yesterday in my jammies, on my hands and knees scrubbing the tenement floor, sobbing. At least now the floors are really clean. I mean, REALLY clean. I went over them three times. I had a lot of crying to do. But Ah! Such Clean Floors!

I have no reason to be in the Black Hole Of Despair (BHOD). Things are good! Mike registered for classes on Thursday - his schedule is great, he's taking a full load and his work schedule won't interfere with his classes at all. Except that he won't get to sleep much. Oh, and he won't ever be at home. But I'm not complaining - I'm really excited for him and I want to do whatever I can to make this easier on him because I know what a challenge it is to be a full time student and have a job. Although, I was lucky enough never to have to work full time when I was a student, a luxury he does not, so far, have. I would like him to have that luxury, I really would. Which is, ah ha! part of why I'm so freaked out. He also applied for his student loan, which we are waiting to hear back about. NERVOUS. That's what I am. I'm very very NERVOUS. School is expensive and we can barely pay our bills. I'm seriously wondering if we can get by without cell phones. And internet. I mean, I could just check my email at the library down the street, right? And if people know to email me instead of calling me, I could live without a phone, couldn't I? I could make phone calls at the pay phone on the corner, couldn't I? That is totally reasonable. And how important is electricity, honestly? We could just light candles at night. It could work. No, no, I'M NOT JOKING. I NEED SOME HELP.

Yesterday we got three letters from three literary agents that Mike queried. The first one was from a woman to whom he'd sent the first two pages of the book and a synopsis. She wrote asking him to send her the first fifty pages of the novel. HOW WONDERFUL IS THAT? I was elated. And then we opened the other two letters. Thanks, but no thanks, they said. I took it much harder than he did. He shrugged and said he hadn't expected anything else and he was just happy that one person wanted to read more of his work. It was all I could do not to throw up. I wanted to die. Seems this is going to be harder on me than it is on him. Is that what threw me into the BHOD?

I'm a ball of anxiety. I need another job. I applied for eight different jobs yesterday. I'm terrified that we won't be able to cover our February rent. I hate this apartment. I want to move as soon as possible because the rent is eating us alive. I don't see how we will be able to move considering our current financial state. My agent hasn't sent me on an audition since before Thanksgiving. Since my LIFE ON MARS audition. That was nearly two months ago. Oh god, the world feels so hopeless today.

How do you keep from losing your mind when you feel like this? I'm assuming I'm not the only one who feels like this sometimes? I'm exercising, I'm taking my serotonin-enhancing vitamins. I'm trying to keep a positive attitude, but I'm sick to my stomach. I'm so terrified I feel paralyzed. And I'm starting to get paranoid about little things, like the pimple on my left cheek that doesn't look like a pimple and has been there for over two months. I think it's skin cancer. I'm probably dying. And I'm tired all the time. I have horrible black circles under my eyes even though I'm sleeping ten hours a night. My neck muscles have been sore for the last three weeks. I think the cancer is spreading to my lymph nodes. But I'll never know because we don't have health insurance, so I can't go to the doctor. And this is all ENTIRELY MY FAULT. I AM THE ONE WHO INSISTED ON DISRUPTING OUR EASY LITTLE LIFE IN CALIFORNIA. I AM THE ONE WHO INSISTED ON MOVING TO NYC WHERE WE ARE BROKE AND HAVE NO HEALTH INSURANCE AND LIVE AMONGST FILTH IN A NASTY TENEMENT ON THE HUDSON RIVER. You might be thinking, So why don't you just go back to California and quit yer whining? Well, I just can't. I just can't. I want to figure out a way to get through this. To survive this. To beat this. I can't chicken out now, when things are just starting to happen. I'd never forgive myself.

But wouldn't I make a great sitcom character? The crazy neighbor who lives without electricity and gets really depressed and convinces herself that she's dying of cancer when she's clearly just being a drama queen? Are you laughing yet? Please laugh. Please, someone, get something positive out of this. I'd like to, ONLY THIS IS MY LIFE. THIS IS REAL FOR ME. I ACTUALLY THINK I'M DYING. 

Alright, alright. Enough is enough. I refuse to spend the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself. I refuse. In fact, right now, I'm going to pick myself up off the couch, wash my face, get dressed, and do something productive. HEY. BLACK HOLE OF DESPAIR, YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME. HEAR THAT? YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME.

UPDATE:
I just sent an email about a job and they asked me to write all this stuff about my life goals and whatnot, and IT MADE ME FEEL SO MUCH BETTER. At the end of the email, I actually thanked them. And then I re-read this, and the gloom has vanished. Really. Everything is going to be ok. I'm sure of it. (Insert huge sigh of relief here.)

I <3 Cops

Today is the second day at my new job. I am the proud new Monday and Tuesday evening receptionist at a nice little Non-Profit in Manhattan. I don't know about you, but I can't pay my rent on only twelve hours of work a week, so I'm still looking for another job (let me know if you hear of anything.) I like this new job, though. It is very very very busy, and while my responsibilities are few, (I answer the phones, transfer calls to voicemail, babysit the therapists and run credit cards - literally, that is all I do) I am busier here than I've been at any job I've ever had. Including Starbucks. But I love that. It makes the time go by fast and makes me feel like I'm useful. I like feeling useful. But while I'm still the new kid on the block, it can get a bit hectic up in this joint. Like tonight for example. At seven o'clock I was starved for dinner, three phone lines were ringing, two people were on hold waiting to be transferred, five people were in line to pay for their sessions, a therapist was whining at me because someone was in the room she was assigned to and when were they going to be done and why couldn't she just see her client in the library, and someone had accidentally locked the door to the waiting room so that there were three other clients piled up by the door, wondering why they couldn't get into the waiting room. I was slightly flustered, but I was managing. If I could just transfer these calls and finish this transaction, I'd be able to run across the lobby and unlock the waiting room door. Suddenly, this therapist who I've never met, comes behind my desk and starts feeling around by my knees.

"WHOA!" I yelp.
"Oh! Sorry! There is a button under here that will unlock the waiting room door so you don't have to get up. Here it is!" And she pushes it. And pushes it again. And the clients by the door push on the door. Nothing. She pushes the button again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

I assign an empty room for the whiny woman who needs a room, run the last three credit cards and then I jump up, run across the lobby and unlock the waiting room with my keys. And I breathe a sigh of relief because I actually got through that without having a heart attack and now maybe I can go take my fifteen minute dinner-and-pee break.

Forty minutes later the phone rings.

"Good evening, Blankety-Blank-Not-For-Profit."
"Trish! Are you alright? I just got a call that the alarm went off." It's my supervisor on the phone.
"Oh, wow. I have no idea why. Everything is fine." I say.
"Well, check the alarm panel because they're saying it was set off." I check the panel, I can't tell that anything is wrong, I assure her that I'm fine and we hang up.

Five minutes later the phone rings again.

"Good evening, Blankety-Blank-Not-For-Profit." It's one of the other girls who works in the office.
"Are you ok? Is everything alright? The alarm went off!"
"Yeah, Mary just called and said the same thing. I have no idea why."
"The alarm company said you hit the hold-up button."
"The what?"
"The hold-up button under the desk. Maybe you hit it with your knee?"

And then, of course, I remember the frantic moment forty-five minutes earlier when the nice helper therapist kept hitting the button to unlock the waiting room door, and I realize she must've been hitting the hold-up button. So I explain the situation to the girl on the phone, we hang up, and I begin to wonder why, if the hold-up button was hit so many times in a row, the police never showed up. Fifteen minutes after that, the Boss Lady calls.

"Patricia, what is going on there?"
"Oh, Janet. Everything is fine." And I tell her how the button accidentally got pushed. And she reprimands me for letting one of the therapists behind my desk and lectures me on how I am never, under any circumstances, to hit the hold-up button unless there is a gun in my face and someone demanding money. That's why it's called "a hold-up button." And then we hang up.

TWENTY MINUTES AFTER THAT, NYPD shows up. A full hour and twenty minutes after the hold-up button was frantically pushed many many many times, three uniformed NYPD officers with the faces of pimpled teenage boys saunter into the lobby, meander over to my desk and stare at me. I stare back. By now I've forgotten all about the alarm and I don't know what the hell they want, but by the looks on their faces I'm thinking they want cookies. Or dog biscuits.

"Can I help you?" I ask.
"Uh.... um.... I think... wait. Uh.... did your alarm go off?"

Oh jeez.

The moral of this story is that if I am ever held-up or otherwise threatened while I'm here in this office building all alone late at night, I can be sure that the NYPD won't show up until I'm laying in a pool of my own blood and guts, cold and dead. I am just so glad that I pay all those city taxes. What is it that money is used for again?

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Again.

Mike has been bugging me for the last few days to "take down that damn fire-hazard, already". He's afraid we're going to end up those people who still have their Christmas tree up in April. But that little tree has made me feel so happy and cozy for the last few weeks, that I couldn't bear to take it down! Until he told me that his ex-wife used to leave the tree up for weeks after Christmas and in my ongoing efforts to out-wife her, I decided to take it down today.

We had such a lovely, quiet, comfy little Christmas. And I realized that without even trying, we've already developed some of our own little holiday traditions that I will look forward to year after year. Like my (now) traditional mangled and mutilated gingerbread people.

And my (now) traditional blackberry Christmas pie.


And the new tradition of having brown paper packages delivered to my door all week before Christmas, full of gifts from family in California. And without realizing it, just in one Christmas, we accumulated a whole box-full of Christmasy decorations that we can put up next year. This is all very exciting for me and I reflected on all of this as I stripped our little tree and thanked her for giving me weeks of happiness this year.

In other news, our New Years Eve was spectacular, thanks in part to the lovely dinner that Joe threw at his and Adam's apartment.


But mostly it was spectacular because, as you all know because I can't shut the F up about it, MIKE SENT HIS NOVEL TO DAW PUBLISHING HOUSE AND THEN HE QUERIED TEN LITERARY AGENTS.

(Valentine and Theo pose with the manuscript, moments before it was taken to the post office and sent off to Daw.)

God Speed, Shadowline. May the force be with you.

I hope you, too, had a wonderful holiday and a happy new year. May we all thrive, evolve, love, live and learn in 2009.

Asking for your good thoughts and your crossed fingers.

This is one of the most exciting moments of my life. Mike has finally deemed his novel COMPLETE. He's submitting it to his top choice publisher tomorrow morning. He's also prepping queries to his top five lit agents - some to be sent via email first thing in the morning, some to be sent via snail mail, depending on the agents preference. I am shivering with the thrill of it all. I read the new draft over a 24 hour period because I LITERALLY COULD NOT PUT IT DOWN IT IS THAT GOOD. And please believe me when I say that I am almost as harsh a critic of him as I am of myself. There is no biased-ness going on here. The man is gifted. This is as exciting as the day my agent called me to tell me I booked 'Life On Mars'. I can't sit still. I'm totally freaking out. And you know what else? He told me today that he is 23,000 words into his second novel AND HE WON'T LET ME READ IT UNTIL THE FIRST DRAFT IS DONE. 

I'm asking for all of your most positive thoughts and feelings and crossed fingers and crossed toes and goodwill. I can't think of a better way to close out 2008 - and a better way to welcome 2009.

HE'S SUBMITTING HIS BOOK FOR PUBLICATION! HE'S SUBMITTING HIS BOOK FOR PUBLICATION! HE'S SUBMITTING HIS BOOK FOR PUBLICATION!

I'm so happy I could cry. 

Happy freaking New Year, people. I could kiss each one of you!

Touched by the Christmas spirit. Not in a creepy way, don't worry.

Surprised by a day off - I thought the temp agency was going to call me for work today but they didn't - which is too bad because, holy crap, I'm unemployed - but it's also good because who really wants to spend a snowy, wintry day stuck in some crappy cubicle at some crappy temp job? I mean, really.

Anyway, since I've some spare time today, I thought I'd tell you the story of how the Christmas spirit touched me this week. It all started this past weekend when my husband and I had a little falling out because I felt like he wasn't taking Christmas seriously enough and he felt like I was being childish. And maybe I was. I don't know. Christmas has always been my favorite holiday and the weeks leading up to it have always been my favorite time of year. In my family, as I imagine in most families, Christmas really is a wonderful celebration of, well, family. And it's not just the 24th and 25th that are special. Weeks before, we gather together to drink eggnog and trim the tree. Even after all of us were grown and had our own trees in our own homes, the trimming of Mama and Papa's tree continues to be a family tradition: A chance for us to joke and laugh and talk about our Christmas wishes and admire all the ornaments that we'd made throughout the years. My parents tree is not draped with store-bought balls and trinkets. No, no. My parents tree is hung full of memories - each ornament has a story, a memory attached. The family Christmas tree, hugged by hundreds of ornaments made by each of us over the last forty some-odd years. Here are egg-shell ornaments made by Nana before any of us kids were born, here are the milkmaids and geese-a-layin' and golden rings made by Mama when her children were babies, here are ornaments made by my brothers and sister when I was still just a glint in Papa's eye, here is the first ornament I made in pre-school, here hangs Sweetie's scarf, here is the glass ball gifted to me by my brother when I was five, here is the little cardboard Santa put on Mama's dinner tray when she was still in the hospital after Trina was born, and it goes on and on, this tree shrouded in the past of my family. 

I am married to a wonderful man who cares deeply about the environment and what Earth will be like for his grand-children. This means that he does not believe in cutting down a tree to put in one's living room for a couple of weeks just so that it can end up in a landfill by January 1st. Then there is the matter of us being Adults with Responsibilities and A Budget and the fact that one of us (me) is Unemployed. So even if he did believe in the cutting down of balsam firs for the holidays, a Christmas tree is not in The Budget. Especially not an environmentally-friendly reusable "fake" tree. And this is largely due to decisions I have made that affect our life, so please do not think I am laying blame. I am not. But as a result, I have been feeling very sad at the absence of Christmas in my life this year - because that's what it's felt like. 

Maybe you, like my husband, think I'm being ridiculous about the whole thing. But in my childhood family tradition, the tree is always at the center of things, like a symbol of the family. It is hard enough to spend such an important day away from my family, but to have to do it without any semblance of the things that make the day special for me? And of course, I left all of my Christmasy things in a box in my parents garage in California, apparently to give myself a reason to feel blue for the holidays. I know, this is a superficial, first-world problem. If this is the worst thing that happens to me all year, I am extremely fortunate. I know. And I try to take comfort in that. Call me ridiculous, but maybe I would be further comforted if I thought my husband felt as strongly about the holiday as I do, because then at least I could believe that we would make our own holiday magic. But instead I think that for him it is really just another day. He's spent more Christmases at work than he has with family, so it doesn't hold the same kind of importance for him. And so I feel very, very alone.

Until last Sunday.

My dear, sweet, wonderful husband went against his beliefs and brought home a Christmas tree. When I walked into the living room Sunday night and was met with the spicy sent of pine and the beautiful tree sitting there, proudly spreading her boughs, I nearly collapsed in a pile of sobs. And he started laughing and wrapped his arms around me and whispered sweet nothings until I was laughing too. And I suddenly realized how silly I've been because I am not separated from my family this Christmas. My childhood family is in my heart and my husband, my chosen family, is right here with his arms around me. It turns out I was all wrong about him - he's thrilled to share the Christmas magic from my childhood and he is eager to make our own memories and traditions. This is our first Christmas as our own little family, just the two of us and our animals. So our first tradition? Crying over the tree. No, no, I kid. We started by making our own special ornaments to hang on the tree. A tradition in my childhood family, and now in my married family. We pulled out my collection of craft supplies and combed the tenement for things that could be turned into ornaments. We dedicated a whole evening to making ornaments. And years from now, our children and grand-children will recognize these ornaments as the ones we made for our very first Christmas alone and together. 'Here is the cork from the bottle of champagne they opened on their wedding day,' they'll say. 'And here is the lacy snow drop Papa Mike made, here is a broken crystal saved from great-great-great Aunt Sue's crystal lamp, here is a wind-up toy from Mama Ish's 2003 Christmas stocking, here is the box of Christmas Cheer that great-Grandmama sent to New York for their first Christmas away from home,' and on and on.

I've been told over and over that it is time for me to grow up and become my own family with my husband. I don't want to have a separate family from the one that I was born into, but I suppose that is the way it works? My parents had to separate from their childhood families in order to create the family that I so treasure. I am just so thankful that I found such a wonderful person to do it with. Not to mention that whenever life leads me back home to California, Christmases spent with my childhood family and my married family all together will be treasured that much more.

It's still on my mind, pretty constantly.

Remember when I posted this? About all the sacrifices that actors make? Well, it was recently brought to my attention that that quote suggests that if you aren't some kind of an artist living an exciting life, then you must be a regular old boring home owner. And I was really unreasonably hurt when I discovered that someone I love and respect thought that I was trying to say that. The thing is, that is not what the quote meant at all. Not even a little bit. At least not to me.

David Ackert, the guy who I quoted (and who, by the way, I don't know anything about except that he said that and I love it) is not referring to, let alone idolizing, celebrities and famous actors. Celebrities are freaks of nature - and I mean that in a respectful way. I believe that Mr. Ackert is referring to your average working actor. He's talking about me. He's talking about the fact that I am pursuing a dream despite the very real possibility that I may NEVER own my own house. I may NEVER be in the appropriate financial situation to purchase a new car, let alone a weekend cottage. I may NEVER be in the right situation to feel comfortable starting my own family. He's talking about the fact that every single morning when I wake up, I have to deal with the reality that I have no idea where my next job is coming from. I have no idea how I will make my rent in two weeks. I don't even know if I will be able to pay my electric bill. And on top of that, my refrigerator is literally nearly empty. Not packed full of food and I just don't like what's in it. No. It's literally almost empty. Open my refrigerator and find some expired condiments and the stale heel of a loaf of bread. And I have to figure out a way to make a meal out of that. But please, don't think I am complaining. I live this way by choice - because I believe that if I persist, if I am patient, if I work hard, I will get another acting job and it will have been worth it.  (And besides, most of the time I earn enough at whatever J-O-B I'm working that I end up able to cover the rent and stuff, so it isn't all THAT bad. But sometimes it is. And that's why I'm consumed with credit card debt. And also why I no longer socialize with friends. It's too damn expensive.)

When I get called for an audition, I devote hours, days, sometimes weeks to developing a character and researching the role - I give my heart and soul. And then I walk into the audition room and open my wrists and let my heart-blood spill on the filthy floor and 99 times out of a 100 they knew before I even opened my mouth that they would not hire me because I look too young. Or I look too old. Or I'm not pretty enough. Or I'm not tall enough. Or they really wanted a redhead. But I do it anyway. I have no security, no way of knowing for sure, no health insurance, no IRA, no 401k, no savings account. But I have hope. And I work my ass off. And it's fucking terrifying. It is the most terrifying thing I have ever done in my life. Sometimes it is so terrifying that I spend months in a black hole of despair, unable to do more than function on a most basic level. And in those months, I disappear from the internets because I can't think of a single positive or funny thing to say. That's where I was for most of September, all of October and the majority of November. And then, miracle of miracles, my hard work paid off and I booked a role on ABC's 'Life On Mars'.

I posted that quote as a way of trying to clear up the despair that was fogging my brain. It had been so long since I'd had an acting job that I'd forgotten why I choose to live this difficult life. I wanted to feel a connection with other actors and feel like I'm not the only one who feels as if she is giving up everything. Because the truth is, if I'd taken another career path, I'd probably already own a house. I'd surely own a car. Maybe I'd even be getting ready to welcome a baby into this wild world - an event I have dreamt of my entire life. I do not feel like people who are not actors aren't worthy or loyal. I envy them. I envy their lovely lives and pray I might have that life one day, too. I just wanted to feel like what I'm doing has some sort of purpose. And it does.

It hurt me that that quote was taken so out of context. It's taken me a while to respond because I couldn't figure out why I took it so personally - I know I'm being ridiculous. Surely my beloved family member didn't intend to hurt my feelings. I know I have a tendency to take things WAY too personally and I'd really like to be the kind of person who lets stuff like that slide off my back. I've really had to think about it and I think what it comes down to is that I felt grossly misunderstood. And terribly unappreciated. But why should anybody appreciate the choices I make? In some ways, my life must seem pretty ridiculous. Why would I choose to be so broke that I risk having my lights turned off and I can't afford to make a grocery run? Why do I spend my electric bill money on another acting class? It's fucking crazy. It's absurd. But if I spent the time and energy it takes to earn a larger income, I would not be able to spend the time and energy required to book that next acting job. So I make the trade off. I am broke and I won't get to spend Christmas with my family because I can't afford the plane tickets or the days off from the J-O-B, hell, I can't even afford a Christmas tree. (Have you ever had a Christmas without a tree? This is my second one. Talk about bleak.) But what I get in return is the time to go to auditions. And I can't give more of an explanation than that. I can say that I've just spent a week on the set of a network television show and EVERY SINGLE DAY I had to pinch myself because I couldn't believe I was actually there. For a full week, I sat on set looking around at the lights and the props and the other actors and the make-up crew and I felt absolutely breathless. It took every ounce of self-control in my body not to break out dancing like a maniac to the constant chant in my head of "THIS IS MY JOB THIS IS MY JOB THIS IS MY JOB!" And I may not know when the next job will come along, but I know that my rent is covered this month, thank god. And I believe that another job will come along eventually and if I get to be that blissfully, perfectly happy for another couple of days, than the weeks and months of hardship in between will have been totally worth it.

You don't have to understand. You don't have to care. I just had to explain it. Maybe more to myself than to you. Believe me, I quietly envy your beautiful home, your weekend cottage, your gorgeous car, and your happy family. And I hope and pray that one day I might have a life like yours. I respect you and all that you do. I love you. And if I never get to achieve the many things that you have worked so hard for, well, maybe you'll invite me over for dinner so I can live vicariously through you? And anyway, life is a journey and I will have to find whatever good I can along the way. I am blessed with a loving family, an exquisitely supportive husband, and the wisdom to enjoy what I have - despite the fact that it is nothing like what I thought I would have at my age. 

P.S. Just in case you're wondering why my husband doesn't get a higher paying job so that we don't have to be so broke, it's because he is also an artist and he is making the same sacrifices I am making so that he can pursue his dream. This is our gift to each other. The ability to recklessly chase our dreams until we succeed or decide that another dream is calling our attention. And it is worth it. It is worth it.

P.P.S. Yes, I realize that in our current economic crisis, many many many people wonder how they will make their mortgage, rent, buy groceries, etc. I realize that I am not alone. I know that I am actually lucky, because at least I don't know how I'll pay my rent by choice. But were we not in this horrid economic crisis - fuck it. You know what I'm trying to say. Hopefully. If you don't, nothing I say will make you understand. And when I say "you" I'm not talking to anyone in particular, but to everyone and anyone who reads this. 

P.P.S.S. Can I get an award for Worlds Longest Blog Post Ever? And also maybe an award for Girl Who Takes Herself Way Too Fucking Seriously? I have definitely earned that one.