Death and Dry Spells

I got my first big acting break when someone died.

I was 21 and just out of college, doing an internship at a wonderful theater company near my hometown called The Bloomsburg Theatre Ensemble.  The Taming of the Shrew was the first show of the season.  I was nervous.  I was excited.  I was playing...I don't even remember who.  I think just an ensemble member.  I don't even think my character had a name.  Not uncommon in Shakespeare to be cast simply as "ensemble."  Sort of like a musical.  The concept behind this production was that a woman would play Petruchio and a man would be Kate.  Lots of other characters were also cast cross gender.  How did it work?

It was a pretty brilliant production--I've never seen another one like it.  For you Shakespeare nerds, Christopher Sly passed out in the prologue after drunkenly throwing pewter beer mugs at the Hostess.  While he was sprawled on the tavern floor, the Lord and players arrived and decided to put on a show for him.  However, in this version, Sly was cast as the star.  When Sly came to, he was in a dress, a script in his hands, and playing the first scene as Kate, the Shrew.  The Hostess was his Petruchio.  As it happened, some of the most brilliant actors I have had the pleasure of working with were playing Kate and Petruchio.  And the adaptation worked beautifully.

An African American actress whose name I am embarrassed to say I have forgotten, was cast as the Lady of the Manner who would then go on to play Baptista, Kate and Bianca's father.   And then the tragedy.  That actress died.  Of sickle cell anemia.  And I was given the role of Baptista.

I was twenty one.  I was adequate, I suppose?  I remember feeling like every other character on the stage was absolutely hilarious and I was just...not funny at all.  And then my also very brilliant and quite hysterical friend David who was playing Hortensio gave me some advice.  He said something like, "Baptista is Newhart. He's not necessarily all that funny.  He's the sane guy surrounded by all the craziness, and all he can do is watch it all go on around him."  I was comforted.  I have a feeling a better actress...or anyway some chubby old guy...could make actually Baptista funny.  I didn't.  But I went on. 

My second big break happened when someone got deathly ill.

Almost ten years after that production of Shrew I again found myself doing Shakespeare.  Again playing an ensemble member without a name.  I call her Birdcage Girl.  It was a production of Hamlet and I was cast quite literally as a walking metaphor.  I followed Ophelia around, occasionally held her cloak when she doffed it, and carried an empty birdcage.  When she went cuckoo...I stumbled backward in a big sand pit and opened the birdcage door.   I also held ice cream cones and lusted after Horatio.  Did anyone notice I wonder...

The production was high profile and fraught with all kinds of personality conflicts and artistic indecision.  I watched it all go down from the sidelines, safe in my basically nonspeaking role.  I carried scenery and dressed the set...with myself.  The first preview was delayed a week, and we were panned in the press despite the fact that I think the dude who played Hamlet is brilliant.  A master with the language and the real deal.  An actor not just a star.

And then Gertude got sick.  First her voice started to go, and she did one whole performance with a body mike.  And then one night I got a call...from the Executive Director of the theater...telling me that yes indeed Gertrude is very sick and was I aware that I was her understudy?  I was not, in fact, aware of this.  She had heard I was a quick study and could I possibly go on tomorrow?  Less than 24 hours from then.  As Gertrude.  In Hamlet.  I remember just sitting down at my computer armoire in our studio apartment on 96th street and telling Doc Hubby that I had to learn the role of Gertrude that night so I could play it the next day in front of a paying audience.

As it happens, I am a quick study.  I had been hearing the play for weeks.  I had seen much of it.  But there were scenes I hadn't witnessed since the rehearsal room--including the notorious closet scene.  I remember that during the put-in rehearsal the next day, anytime we took a break I just went into the bathroom and cried.  I did the show that night.  Hamlet gave me flowers and champagne.  Claudius pulled me over before the show and said "Look if you're out there, and you need some help, just come on over to me...we'll have a little chat."  People were supportive and lovely.  I felt, while the show was going on, that I was running a marathon.  I would sit offstage and rub my quads and just keep my head in the game.  And I did it.  I made it.  I said all the lines and stood in the right places and died dramatically.

I went on to play Gertrude eight more times.  Never knowing any given day when I showed up at the theater if I was going to play Birdcage Girl or Gertrude.

I haven't been hired at that theater again.  Though the artistic director at the time did cast me in my second Broadway show.  We never talked about it.  I suppose he remembered...?  I feel like that was a bit of karma.

I have not had a theater job in 21 months.  I have auditioned quite a bit.  I have been called back consistently.  I have tried really really hard.  Really hard.  Really.

I am trying to make some sense of this...this..let's recall some of the names I have called my period of underemployment lately: dry spell, hiatus, sabbatical, batting slump.  I have been Kindergarten Room Mother (they call it Parents Association Rep now, but I prefer Room Mother) and tried to be very present for the beautiful small person who is in my charge.  I have written most of a screenplay and I have become something of an avid spinner and biker.

But still.  Mama wants a job.  I have thrown my hat in on a show that rehearses over Christmas.  This is just how much Mama wants a job.  I love Christmas.  This decision to be discussed later.

So my question today is: I wonder who will have to die in a car accident for me to get cast in a play again...?

Parenting Heroics

Doc Hubby is a hero (a hero minus a giant fish but still a hero).  Doc Hubby agreed to take on 11 weeks of solo full-time childcare so I could come to one of the most beautiful spots on earth and act in one of the most beautiful plays ever written with one of the loveliest bunches of people ever.  So there.  Thank you Doc Hubby.  My friends and family, rightfully so, are pretty amazed by him.  Impressed by his generosity and patience.  He deserves a medal.

Well, 9 weeks.  They were here in the Bay Area for two weeks. Right at first preview and opening.

Well, 6 weeks.  My mother did three weeks of childcare.

Well, we had a full-time babysitter for those 6 weeks.  So Doc Hubby did weekends and early morning and bedtime.  And of course, bore the primary responsibility for meals, discipline, and decision-making.  He limited his workday to 9 - 5...for 35 days.

You know, come to think of it, remember last fall when I was doing the play in town?  Yeah that was a 16 week commitment.  We had babysitting while I was in rehearsal, but once the play was up and running (the final 3 months or so) I was home all day taking care of the Bean.  And then I'd make dinner, and then Doc Hubby would get home and I would go and do the show.  The show was nearly 3 hours long...a five hour commitment when all is said and done (warm up and wigs and getting laced into corsets take some time--not to mention getting out of them).  Times 8 shows a week...that's 40 hours.  I was working full time. And taking care of the Bean all day.  Oh and remember the fall before when I did that other play?  Pretty much the same thing.  Only Bean wasn't in school so we really had every minute of every day together.

Doc Hubby definitely deserves a medal. He's been heroic.

I haven't had too much time to write lately.  I'm working 40 hours a week.  But here's my question.

Why is it that when Daddy does it, it's heroic and when Mama does it, it's just parenting?

We Are Gypsies

Most actors work away from home. We get the odd job where we live, but far more often we are called upon to leave our homes, and our loved ones, and our furry friends, and travel somewhere else to do a show. More often than not we are unemployed at home and employed on the road.

When you are single...this is awesome. So I have been told. When you are married it stings like a ground wasp, but it's kind of fun exploring a new area when your spouse comes to visit. Trying new restaurants. Driving around on the day off. I actually quite liked the feeling of showing my new surroundings to Doc Hubby. My little apartment and my newfound coffee shops and grocery stores. When I work out of town, everything here is mine. My accomplishments. My friends. My bravery to start fresh on my own and dare to do this thing. And everyone knows what a little absence can do to the heart....

But when you are a parent...work out of town is...I don't know yet. For the first time since the Bean was born I have taken a job out of town. And not just a quick hop on a plane or train or even the car. Totally across the country. To a different time zone. The farthest I have ever traveled from home to work. For the longest I have ever been gone (well, it's tied with another job). 11 weeks away from home. And away from my Bean. AM I INSANE???!!!!???!!! I already miss her so much I could eat my arm.

She and Doc Hubby will come to visit for two weeks in the middle. FIVE weeks from now.

I AM TOTALLY INSANE! Commence gnawing.

I already miss the squiggly weight of her on my lap. My mother said that after dinner tonight Bean had a cupcake. As per usual, Bean licked all the icing off her cupcake. Then she set the cake down. But then, Mom said, she stared at the cupcake, completely bereft, as if to say "where did all my icing go?" And then her eyes welled up and she said "I want my Mama."

A little girl, not much bigger than Bean, projectile puked on the plane today. (Note to Doc Hubby, pack wipes and an extra change of clothes in the carry on). I was far enough away to only see the flurry of cleaning from a distance and catch a delayed whiff. We took Bean on her first plane ride about two weeks ago. I am delighted to say she did not puke. Hoping desperately she has inherited Doc Hubby's hearty New England constitution in that regard. I watched that clean up with a teeny bit of schadenfreude I will confess.

So far, not having to clean up puke on a plane is the only good part of leaving a child behind to go and do a play. So far, when you are a parent, work away from home is horrible. I will check back in when I have found a few good coffee shops.

I miss you Bean.

Backstage View

There is something melancholy about closing a show. Knowing that this particular group of people will never stand together, wearing those exact clothes, and telling that one story. Ever again. Even though for many weeks after, we all still could. The play still resides inside of us, even though it's been dismantled physically. If we met in a park we could still do the play. Ish.

There are dressing rooms and wings of theaters that I don't remember any more. Time is passing and with it my memory, my memory that I am oh so very proud of and oh so confident of its exactitude, fades. So I took my little camera and grabbed a few shots of what I saw, every day and every night for over 80 performances of "A Free Man of Color." And what I won't see any more.

This was my life for four months. We are gypsies. We are storytellers. Who sometimes get to wear really nice shoes.

Joy

Ok I totally can't leave it like that. You all are the best. And her birthday party was a total success. She managed to pull her tiny little three year old self together and have a wonderful time. Four of her friends came. The theme was whales--selected by none other than herself of course. And thanks to Etsy, man did I have super cute whale-themed cupcake toppers and stickers.


I'm so fascinated watching the raw emotion of being three. Nothing is filtered. Nothing is held back. When she's happy she laughs. When she's sad she sobs. When people are singing "Happy Birthday" to her she feels uncomfortable because everyone is looking at her. I know this feeling. What do you do during that agonizing minute and a half when everyone is singing "Happy Birthday" and looking at you and you are to simply sit and listen? If you are the Bean you do this:


And honestly, that's kinda what I want to do every time a group of people sings "Happy Birthday" to me. It is hard to just sit there, smile, and listen.

I'm still thinking a lot about how I don't feel things as strongly any more. Or maybe I just don't allow myself to feel things as strongly any more. I have another job. Another good one as it turns out. But it's a little scary to let myself just be thrilled about it. I always feel like I have to couch my excitement in something so I don't end up disappointed. I kind of think that, ironically, actors learn to feel things less. We can't want jobs or opportunities or accolades because in this business we just really really rarely get them. I, for instance, am continuing my remarkable run of ending up on the cutting room floor. Remember the movie from exactly a year ago as it turns out? Well, recently I did this really hilarious web advertisement for the video game Civilization V. Doc Hubby and I happen to be totally addicted to Civilization which made the whole thing all the more sweet. I had a really funny short scene to do. A good actor playing my husband. I never dreamed that we'd be cut. Here's the final video. Look carefully and you'll see me smacking the hell out of a sock puppet, but snip snip snip goes my scene. My record is, like, 8 and 0 for having lines cut from anything on film. Anything. What's up with that, yo? Hm. So I have to stop hoping my lines will end up in whatever I shoot and just be glad I can pay for preschool.

Maybe that's my problem. Maybe the people who really succeed don't let that wanting dim. Maybe that's what drives their ambition. Frankly, I'd rather be basically happy all of the time.

But in this case I am happy. I have a new job. And that's thrilling. I will turn 41 during my second Broadway show. Hopefully when the cast and crew sing Happy Birthday to me I will be able to sit there and just listen.

Huckey Berries

So I did go to the Tony's. Like two months ago. But it's summer. Who's counting?

I wore the shoes.


I didn't start getting ready early enough. Which is weird. I'm chronically, freakishly, eerily, supernaturally, time-warpingly early most of the time. But I guess that's once I leave the apartment and assuming I don't have to return from the subway to do an obsessive compulsive check to make sure I turned the stove off. So we didn't really have time to take good pictures before we left. And like an idiot we took a bunch in the lobby which are horrendous. Really really ugly. Took a few in the natural light and they were tolerable. Took lots afterward in the dark which was actually pretty fun. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It started to rain a bit while we were in the car. The streets next to Radio City were closed and the traffic was gridlocked so we got out of the car at 7th Avenue and 50th to walk over. When we first got out of the car it felt funny to be holding my train, jumping puddles in my $220 shoes and dodging tourists in I heart NY tees. But as we got closer, more and more people in formal dress joined us, having also abandoned their cars in the traffic. Umbrellas. Long and short dresses. Tuxes and suits. It was a truly New York experience.

Radio City was a mob scene. I didn't walk the red carpet, though my parents definitely wanted me to. Which is sweet. Some day I hope to walk the red carpet when the people taking pictures know my name. So we lined up and gave our tickets and went in.

In the future, if you happen to be attending the Tony's, I encourage you to avoid a dress with a train. Everyone stepped on the train. Doc Hubby stepped on it three times. Honestly I stepped on it a time or two as well. Trains are good for presenters. And winners. A pain in the ass in the line for the bathroom. The dress however? Thank you again Carmen Marc Valvo. Like a column of silk. Which it was.

The ceremony itself was tons more fun in real life than on TV. Full disclosure--I hadn't seen all of the shows nominated. But the performances from the musicals were thrilling. Totally. Sean Hayes was adorable. We sat in the very very very back row of the orchestra, but we were right on the center aisle where all the entrances that were made from the house happened. Sean Hayes running like Spiderman. That girl from "Glee" singing Barbara Streisand. And Will Smith and Jada Pinkett entering about an hour into the whole event and then turning around and walking partway back up the aisle and then going back down. Most exciting celebrity sighting by far.

Our play didn't win anything. Which was more of a bummer than I imagined it might be. I think I really wanted it to. My sweet friend Maria looked beautiful, but she didn't win either. She came over to bum a snack from our assistant costume designer (and the fact that our costumes didn't win was just criminal), and I got her attention. She hugged me and said "Oh Wendy, I wanted to win so much--just so I could thank you." And I was so very touched by that.

Maybe I've been feeling nostalgic ever since.

A month later I was at the Farmer's Market in my hometown trying to pick out the best and freshest corn. This is not an easy task. The Farmer's Market in July is buried in corn. And local peaches. And blueberries. And toy John Deere farm equipment. But I spotted an old man in a bright blue trucker's hat. He only had two things for sale. Corn and "Hucky Berries." I bought his corn. The hucky berries were what my grandfather would have called huckleberries--small and I imagine a bit tart. It seemed to me that if all he brought was corn and hucky berries, both of them must be pretty good. It's been so dry in Central PA that lots of the corn is chewy. His was lovely. Small kernels. Lots of pop. Sweet.

From the Tony's to the Farmer's Market in the span of a month. It's having experiences like that bump up against each other that I think makes life awesome. Sometimes I try to make the juxtaposition mean something. Or tell a story. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it's just kitty litter embedded in the soles of $220 shoes and huckey berries.

Here are a few pictures from the Tony's. Warning, these are a lot of photos of me. I wasn't clever enough to have a bag to take with me (frankly I'm amazed I had an appropriate dress and shoes that semi-fit. A bag was just too much) so I had no camera at the event. I know. Idiotic. Anyway, I don't usually post a million photos of me but here I am. Not at the Farmer's Market.







I wish I had taken a picture of the sign that said "huckey berries." It would have been a better picture than any of those.

Why Normal People Shouldn't Buy $222 Shoes Online

So here's why normal people shouldn't buy $222 shoes online. Otherwise known as, why I can't have nice things.

The four of you who read this blog know that I am not famous. I am an unfamous NYC actress. And somehow last year I bumbled into a Broadway show, having stopped acting to have a child, not worked for several years, and pretty much determined that no one would ever cast me in a play again. So I did the play. It was a great experience and low and behold it was nominated for a Tony Award. So I'm going. This Sunday.

What am I wearing? What, you think LL Bean might not be able to outfit me for the Tonys? Ms TJ Maxx may be out of her league? Ok, yeah. My manager knows an incredible PR guy at Carmen Marc Valvo and after two trips to a room full of dresses right out of "The Devil Wears Prada" I have a gorgeous silk chiffon dress to wear. On loansies. Amazing.

So shoes. Ok don't mock me. Because I feared I actually would make it to Sunday and not have a pair of shoes to wear other than Keens, I went to Aerosoles (I said don't mock me) and got a pair of gold shoes on sale. Just in case. Don't mock me. I then went online to the amazing Zappos and ordered two pairs of the most gorgeous Elie Tahari strappy sandals. A ten and a ten and a half. Because come ON, my feet may have flattened during pregnancy but I didn't go from a nine and a half to an ELEVEN! Right? They arrived at my door in what seemed like 45 minutes. They were on sale. They were two hundred and twenty dollars. I have NEVER bought shoes anywhere near this expensive. But come on. The Tonys! Once in a lifetime. And a kick ass free dress. So they came. Two hundred and twenty dollar shoes come in beautiful boxes. And they are gorgeous. I slipped on the tens. Too small. I slipped on the ten and a halfs. Um. Could they be too small? I wore them a few minutes. My hideous toes slid over the edge a bit. Really? So I kept wearing them around my apartment for about five to seven minutes. Doc Hubby agreed. Too small.

No worries! Zappos pays for returns. Genius. I determined to pack them up. Order (gulp) elevens tonight. They'll be here Saturday. Return the others. I pulled them off my feet and HOLY CRAP WHAT IS THAT ALL OVER THE BOTTOMS OF THESE SHOES!!!!

So there are two problems. Well myriads really. The bottoms of these shoes are like butter. Soft gorgeous leather. And the first thing I noticed when I went to carefully slip the shoes back into the box--spots. Water I believe. I am making pasta for the Bean. Probably a few drips on the floor. Maybe that will dry? And then I noticed the brown crungies. Food or crumbs or something. Now may I remind you, I did not wear these on the streets of New York City. Just in my teeny tiny apartment. Possible to carefully scrape off the crumbs? Possible. But then I took off my glasses and looked carefully. They soles are pitted. Pocked. With what?

Kitty Litter.

Yup. Kitty Litter. Embedded

This is why normal people should not buy $222 shoes on Zappos. Because we have hardwood floors and small apartments, and when we have never worn a pair of $222 shoes before, we have no idea how incredibly soft and fragile the soles are.

My advice to you if you decide to buy expensive shoes online and need to try them on before you decide to send them back? Sweep your danged apartment. You'll be glad you did. And Zappos, I love you, but if you can figure out that I'm an LL Bean girl ordering $222 shoes using all that wacky computer stuff, can you put a little note in my box that tells me "wear these shoes on carpet or sweetheart, you're buying them." Thanks.

Two Child Stars and Acapella Groupies

Do you know that I know two child stars? Like, right now. I am actively friends with two child stars. Neither of them are from this country which may explain why they are so relatively well-adjusted. Compared to our child stars. None of whom I know, personally.

Both are ageless. Both are incredibly warm. Both love children. Both are still actresses. Both have beautiful accents.

I have not worked with either of them, but I would very much like to.

The universe has asked me to think a lot about getting older in the last few weeks. First, I wasn't cast in a play because (among other things as well I'm sure) I am too old to make the production work. Then, I went to see an absolutely brilliant high school production of "Hamlet" directed by my absolutely brilliant friend, Sarah, starring an absolutely brilliant high school senior whom I once had to nearly fail in a 9th grade acting class, but that was just because he was lazy and this famous actor's kid was dragging their whole scene down by being a jerk. Not because he wasn't talented. So I went backstage to congratulate this kid, who will be famous in about five years, mark my words. I was standing outside the dressing room waiting for him to emerge, when another cast member breezed out with all the casual confidence of a 15 year old New York City prep kid. I asked him if Hamlet was still in the dressing room. He hovered briefly in flight, looked me up and down and said, "Are you his Mom?" May I remind you that Hamlet is a high school senior. Oh hello pride...so nice to eat you.

So then I got an audition. I have been getting a lot of little TV auditions for character roles. One line in a TV show...two lines in a movie. I show up, and as a young "character actress" I find myself in a waiting room full of old ladies, fat African American women, and weasel-faced, frizzy-haired forty-somethings in sweatshirts. I guess I fall into the latter category? And may I say, thus far I have thought to myself "If I were casting this, I'd choose the old lady, the fat African American lady, or that frizzy-haired chick in the glasses over me in a heartbeat." And may I further say, I have not been cast in any of these roles. But then I got this audition for a one-act play festival. I got the script. I read it. And the whole premise of the play is that the character I was auditioning for was devastated because she's too old to be hired as a topless dancer. Really? Really really? I mean, not that I'm looking for employment in that line of work, but really?

Thank you universe.

When I was 20, I was in a beautiful play in college called "Abingdon Square." Funny, I now live in the city that is home to Abingdon Square. I was cast as Aunt Minnie, a white haired, old lady--wig and all. I have been a "young character actress" since I was 11 and cast as Mrs. Fuddy in the 5th grade winter play, "The Christmas Elf." During rehearsal for "Abingdon Square" I remember getting a piece of advice from one of my teachers, a brilliant actor who happened to be performing in the show as well. He told me, "Stop trying so hard to play her age. Don't act your idea of what it is to be old. No one feels old inside. I am surprised every day when I look in the mirror and I don't see a 25 year old looking back at me." This to me, at 20, was a revelation. And some of the best direction I've ever gotten.

So then tonight we went to this crazy event. The United Glee Club of NYC, this 114 year old group of rich white guys from fancy-schmancy colleges who, like, rent Lincoln Center so they can still wear tails and sing with other rich white guys like they did in college (and to their credit also do a lot of wonderful charitable work) had a concert. The acappella group Doc Hubby sang with in college was their special guest group. I fell in love with Doc Hubby when he was the leader of this particular group. I was their biggest groupie in the early 90s. I have a soft spot. So this group was there and singing and bouncing around and being 20 and doing a lot of the same exact stuff they were doing 20 some years ago and I thought...wait a second. If we went up afterward and talked to them, and told them who we were, and who Doc Hubby was, and how awesome they were...even if I'm the only one hip enough (or lame enough) to be wearing jeans to this event, and even if I have a good haircut and don't really look my age, these sweet faced boys would smile benignly and nod and think, as we did in the late 80s, "Man that dude and his wife are ancient." And if they bothered to do the math, or if we simply said what year Doc Hubby directed the group, they might scratch their shaggy heads and go on to say, "Dude, I wasn't even born then."

What they don't know, is that I still wake up every morning and look in the mirror and wonder why I don't still look like I did when I was singing the first tenor part of "Somebody Loves Me" to myself in the shower in my senior dorm.

I am a Knee Jerk

So this last week or so I've been worried that I go through life saying "no" to the universe. I'm I'm totally honest with myself, my knee jerk reaction to most every suggestion, is really usually "no." No I don't want to go see that play, I just want to stay in and watch TV. No to this job. No to that event. No to this meeting. No to that social invitation.

I have really started to wonder what I'm hiding from...

Is it just that I'm a scaredy cat?

Is it that I'm truly lazy at heart?

Why do I look for the bad, and indeed expect the worst, from new situations or experiences?

Aren't I a little old to be afraid of everything? (And while I'm at it, aren't I a little old to worry so much about who I would eat lunch with?)

I am so adamant to Doc Hubby that we raise the Little Bean to expect the best from the world. To trust people. To be Anne Frank in post 9-11 NYC. I don't want her to get in the habit of making decisions based on fear. I want her to be adventurous.

My friend Sam's dad is an old British actor who has been around the block more than once in this business. One of his mottoes is "Just do the audition." Nike got wind of it and made a lot of money with that idea.

However, I have recently learned that his other motto is "Your career is not defined by the jobs you do. It is defined by the jobs you choose not to do."

So how do I listen to my gut about what not to do when my first impulse always seems to be to do nothing.

My friend Rebecca says that she thinks it's the jobs that make you want to cry that you should take. True. But I think that refers to the challenge of the role or the play itself, not the challenge of trying to arrange babysitting. The thing is, lately, I'm not sure if I can tell the difference.

Lately, I just feel like a Knee Jerk,.

Calling All Artists- Win This House Essay Contest

A Facebook Friend who is also an actress (and a brilliant one at that) posted this link today on her Facebook page and I had to blog about it.

Are you an artist? Are you longing for an artistic home? A couple from Maine, a musician and an illustrator, realized that (in their words) they had one house too many. Their sweet little cottage in Sanford, Maine was sitting empty. So they want to give it away to a self-employed artist. Give. It away.

Here are the basic rules as they outline them:

The contest is open to anyone in the Arts, any field; musical, dramatic, visual, writing etc. if in doubt, ask. Entries will be limited to 4,000. when we reach that number the contest will close. If we do not reach 4,000 entries by June 1st 2010, we will close the contest and determine if the house can still be given away if not, everyone who submitted will receive a refund. We will post when the entry level is reaching maximum. We will post when the limit is reached and the contest is closed.

You must be at least 18 years of age at the time you enter the contest.

You must write 500 words or less expressing how the world will be a better place if you win this house. You cannot use names of people or names of specific towns. Essay entries will be anonymous. Pertinent information must be submitted on the separate form provided to insure anonymity. Spelling does not count, (we are artists after all) but content does. The essay can take the form of poetry, dialog or song verse if you choose.

I love everything about this. Follow them on Twitter to see how the contest is progressing. I know that I will.

Things I Could Blog About

• Food blog: I made Coq Au Vin for the first time last night. The Barefoot Contessa's recipe. My friend Rebecca made this for us once last year and she pulled the chicken off the bone before serving it and served it over egg noodles so I did too. I felt so Julie and Julia. Except I didn't use Julia Child's recipe. And my name is Wendy.
• Mommy Blog: The Bean is sick. Third week of preschool. Only four other kids in her class. She cannot live in a vat of child-safe Purell....right? This will happen. This must needs happen. As must her first stomach bug. At which point I seriously fear instead of standing there and holding her forehead while she barfs into her princess potty, I will run the other way, trying desperately to stifle my own gag reflex. I often fear I am not cut out for this.
• Actress Blog: What is it with the callback? I feel like I'm some kind of callback jinx. To be honest, I can't give you any details about the callback I went on today because I totally honestly had to sign a confidentiality agreement before I did the first audition. I am not joking. This has happened a few times in the past when I was auditioning to hock new products. One of them was that bagel stick thing that came with the cream cheese stuffed inside it. Bagelfuls or something. A complete breakfast in a cellophane wrap. I guess that was a pretty good idea. Has anyone tried one? So I went to the callback for the aforementioned secret thingy. The format was improv. No scripted lines. The first audition was just me and a camera and I felt all free and hilarious and said funny stuff about jello salad. So today I had new funny ideas about jello salad that I was all ready to say when they asked me (no the product is so totally not jello salad or jello in any form). And there were four of us called in at once into a room full of auditore--like twelve--most of whom were staring at computers. They were all sitting around a table, and we had to improvise together. And I got nervous and said the same old stuff about orange jello salad I said the first time instead of the new funnier stuff about green jello salad I thought up last night. And then I couldn't think of anything to say and I just kind of laughed nervously and the man in the suit running things had to prompt all of us and that so isn't a good sign I don't think. But honestly, the guy playing my husband was so funny and believable that when the audition started and the woman asked him a question to prompt him I totally thought it was real and that things just got super awkward in the room. I was fakey and kitchy and stupid. Still I hope they really liked the guy playing my husband because he was so tall that no one else could be his wife except me the Amazonian actress. Did I mention that I used to be in a Broadway play.
  When Allison Janney was first trying to get work, some casting director or agent notoriously said to her, "I don't know what to do with you...lesbians or aliens maybe?" Or wives of very very tall men.
• Mommy Blog meets Actress Blog: So this is too good. Just as I was finishing that last sentence, I got a call from the Smarty Pants Preschool where we are applying for next year. (I love saying "where we are applying"--it's so totally snooty and obnoxious that I kind of get off on it). We're in the midst of preschool applications for next year and this is New York so it is, of course, insane. Where I grew up you "register" for preschool. Here, you "apply." So stupid. The Bean had a playgroup session for the Smarty Pants school today, and her Daddy had to take her because Mama was at the above discussed total waste of time callback. So the Smarty Pants Preschool just called. The Bean has a callback. Another playdate next week. If I mention our trip to Starbucks for Vanilla Bean scones on the way home, then this post becomes a triple Food/Mommy/Actress post.
  

Conan O'Brien Just Said...

To the young people: Please don't be cynical.

"If you work really hard, and you're kind, amazing things will happen."

I so want that to be true.

Course 33 million dollars makes it easy to be generous.

Oh wait...cynicism.

I still really want that to be true.

The Play's the Thing

Well I made it. Made it through the first week of rehearsal. We started a week ago today.

Bean seemed to handle things pretty well. Aside from the whole pooping in her bed incident. That was kind of ugly.

And she's cutting some nasty nasty molars. So she's a little sniffly and whiny today. But she'll have a grumpy weekend with Daddy. And I'll have a weekend of rehearsal.

And I have to say...this whole working again thing...? It's super crazy fun! I'm tired, yes. The stress of arranging childcare and preparing the house for a babysitter every morning, then going to work, then coming home, is taxing. How have you all been doing this for so many years without collapsing? I'm kinda wiped after only a week.

I'm still pretty fracking (my new favorite word from "Battlestar Galactica") nervous too, yes. But they're called "plays" for a reason, I believe. And when writers are as wonderful as the amazing Sarah Ruhl, plays are play-ful, and challenging, and terrifying, and incredible to work on.

In the meantime, we eat Magnolia cupcakes tonight and tour preschool numero uno tomorrow. Life goes on, doesn't it.

Time passes. Listen. Time passes.

Like Something in a Movie

So last night Doc Hubby and I went to the movies. This is the first movie we have seen since "Star Trek" back in June. Which was totally awesome.

Last night we went to see "Cold Souls" starring Paul Giamatti and David Strathairn. Two amazing actors. Oh and me. Yup, just a few months after giving birth to the Bean, I went to Roosevelt Island at the crack of dawn on a cold winter's day to say:

Because I'm convinced he has a twisted soul. He does things...

Try to contain your enthusiasm. And imagine the brilliance.
I have hung around movie sets a little bit. For about sixteen months in 1998 or so I went to Yankee Stadium in the freezing cold at the crack of dawn to be an extra in the Kevin Costner baseball movie (don't get too excited here...) "For Love of the Game." Never heard of it? Yeah. Not his best. I did it because I was just out of school and it was something to do and it paid $75 bucks a day. But it was insane. First of all it was friggin' freezing. We bundled up in ski coats and stuffed those hand warmers down our bras, and then when it was time to shoot doffed all the winter gear, and stood up and cheered for Kevin Costner as a washed up...catcher was it? Pitcher? As if it were a balmy early autumn day. We ate masses of macaroni salad with ex-cons and folks running from the law (no joke, someone was found and arrested there) and wackos in the bottom level of the parking garage. We watched people steal entire aluminum tubs of pudding and take them to their cars. We (my friends I met there...Jenny, Angie and I) did all this because we wanted to be actors. And cuz as I have admitted in the past, Kevin Costner kinda does it for me. (I KNOW! I KNOW! What can I say...)
When the movie came out...I went to see it. And I think I caught a glimpse of my left arm at one point.
Cut to ten years later. I show up on set on Roosevelt Island. I hang with Paul Giamatti, David Strathairn and Lauren Ambrose in the green room. I say my line. I try to be cool.
I go and see the movie last night.
And you guessed it.
My line was cut.
It's like something out of a movie.
Take home message to all you would-be actors out there: this is why you don't have a big party and invite all your friends and your mom to see your big old big screen premiere until you have gone yourself to make sure your big line wasn't cut.

Something Happened

Well kids. I'm going back to work.

http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/tag/michael-cerveris/

"Fiddler on the Roof" it ain't. A beautiful, funny and very poignant play it is.

Reality TV, Time Travel & The Road Not Taken

So I've been thinking a couple of things...mostly just trying to get some perspective. Also trying to use fewer words but that just so doesn't seem to totally happen when I sit down to write something.

Did I ever tell you about how Doc Hubby had an audition for a reality show? Yeah, while I'm out there scrambling to make anything happen, TV networks are recruiting HIM. Have you seen that talk show called "The Doctors"? It's on in the morning here in NYC and seems to be kinda a rip off of Oprah's episodes with Dr. Oz. Who, by the way, Doc Hubby knows. Have I mentioned Doc Hubby is a total rock star ? Good thing he never reads this blog because then he'd get a swelled head and it's big enough already. Anyway, I'm pretty sure that "The Doctors" on CBS is the one. The producers apparently scoured the internet, found his honestly crazy unflattering picture on the hospital website (he takes a really good picture, not sure why this horrendous one is posted online), and called him to come audition/interview. He had to go down to a hotel in midtown and talk to them I guess. My favorite part of this whole story is how he said to me the day before he had the meeting, "Uh...do you think I need to get a manicure?" Which is so sweet and hilarious because he's really not the manicure type. I told him I didn't think so. Not until he got the job. When it comes right down to it, Doc Hubby is more a researcher than a practicing physician so I don't think he had quite the right vibe for it. Patient care is only one small part of what he does. I'm pretty sure they cast this guy instead.

Actually my goal is to get Doc Hubby into the Obama administration because Doc Hubby's area of expertise is Electronic Medical Records and Obama talks about them, like, every thirty seconds. Maybe the Little Bean could go to school with Sasha and Malia? I could take yoga with Michelle. A move to D.C. might be just what the doctor ordered. So to speak.

We could wait until the second term. That would be okay.

One great side bonus of moving to D.C. would be that I could escape this crazy New York City school morass. Holy cowroni it's unbelievable. The Little Bean is one. She turns two in August. Last night we started in earnest our nursery school research. For the Fall of 2010! No joke. I saw this documentary, Nursery University, which is all about the utterly insane application process for NYC nursery schools. I'm thinking even if the smart folks in Washington realize how smart Doc Hubby is and have the good sense to offer him a job, it won't happen until after nursery school. Probably no dodging that bullet. But the whole system gets even more terrifying once elementary school starts. Maybe we could manage to be in some nice suburb with an excellent public school system by then.

It all just brings to mind roads not taken. My friend Rebecca wrote this lovely screenplay about the same woman living two different lives. The movie shows one and then the other--the whole "two roads diverged in a narrow wood" thing. I kinda think about that every day. What if I had... What if instead of staying in NYC we had... What if my parents had... Rebecca herself has spent the last ten years or so very successfully pursing an acting career in L.A. and now finds herself back in NYC studying Shakespeare for the summer. She feels as if the storyline of her life has just reconverged with the alternate storyline of her life which might have happened if she had stayed in Brooklyn in 199whatever instead of heading West. I kind of love the idea that even if you had chosen the "other path" it might have still met up with the path that you're on today. Very Star Trek. By the way, saw the new Star Trek movie last week and totally didn't get the whole Spock time travel story. And neither did Doc Hubby and he's kinda a genius. But I think it did kind of have to do with this whole parallel life choices thing.

Remember how there were rumors that the Obama administration was going to tap Dr. Sanjay Gupta from CNN to be their Surgeon General? He's a TV doc. So perhaps Doc Hubby is just on a different route to the White House.

And me? Maybe blogging will be the path to take me to my own TV show...hey, you never know.

Time to Cook or Get Out of the Fire

I said this to my friend Rebecca on the phone yesterday. "It's time to cook or get out of the fire."

I meant kitchen. We both decided we like fire. I am not totally sure what it means.

We are all about to turn a big number. Birthday-wise. And we've all got something stuck in our craws, it seems. All my "about to turn a big number" actor friends.

It comes down to several things, Chris said. Do you really just want to do good work? Or is it the whole being famous thing. Because we really are in a place now where we could just decide to do good work and then do it.

My video did not win $10.000 on YouTube. A big company was sponsoring this contest. I was so sure I would at least be a finalist. I really was. I was ridiculously disheartened when I wasn't chosen as a finalist. I was all ready to launch my Facebook campaign and my Twitter campaign and win. That money was already in the baby's college fund. But I may have said "poop" too many times and talked about my underwear too much for this squeaky clean company's liking. Or it may have been just too much about me and not enough about the cute baby. Honestly, I thought that the whole idea was for them to choose a new spokesperson for their YouTube channel. So maybe it should be an itsy bitsy bit more about me than her. But then again. Maybe they just didn't like me.

There's this theater company that I love and I have worked for for many years. I have become friends with the people who work there. I feel, in a way, that they are my family. Or I am a tiny part of the family. Maybe just that weird sister-in-law who reads books out on the deck and sips sweet tea while everyone else is in the kitchen laughing and drinking red wine. But as time goes on, it appears that I'm kind of not being chosen to be a part of this company. I have been passed over.

Wah wah wah. Poor me. Not everyone can like you. Not everyone will like you. I feel like a pretty likeable person most of the time. But I have got to come to terms with the fact that I just don't float everyone's boat.

Not everybody will like me.

So therefore, it is time to get together with my friends. And cook or get out of the fire. There are people I adore and respect and would love to work with. So maybe I should stop sitting around waiting to be called in from the deck, and actually get out my own damn crock pot and start cooking. They all seem ready to cook too.

So we're doing a reading. My friends and I. Here in New York. To benefit a new theater company. I had rehearsal for it last night. The first rehearsal I've attended in over two years. It felt really nice.

If you're here, do you wanna come?

How to Turn Your Kitchen into a Food Network Kitchen

Ok so I can't get arrested in the Entertainment Industry these days. Nothing doing. Not at all. "No thank you Wendy, we'll just pass." And pass. And pass. And pass.

I am, however, getting invited to blogging events right and left. This amuses me to no end. I'm not getting paid a dime for them, of course. Except in hypo-allergenic pillow covers, Yanni CDs and bath mitts. Oh and pasta sauce. And it was at the pasta sauce event I attended where I learned:

How to Turn Your Kitchen into a Food Network Kitchen

(not literally. the kitchen i crashed was actually just a studio kitchen and the event was not a Food Network event per se. just sounds sexier with that title, don't you think?)

1. Add water to browning ground beef if you want it to steam. And who doesn't want a little more sizzle in life? No idea what this does to the beef itself. Might it make it moister? God knows. On list of things to try someday when I have time to kill.
2. Arrange all your ingredients attractively in clear prep bowls.
3. Wear full make-up and a great (very slimming) dress while you cook. Also pretty rings so your hands look good while you're adding salt and pepper to taste.
4. Pour your sauces slowly...dare I say...sensually when you add them to things. Even if you are pouring them out of giant glass jars.
5. Always pour sauces away from you and toward the camera. This minimizes messy splashing on your aforementioned great dress and allows the viewer to see what you're doing.
6. Have fresh flowers on your counter. I mean, if you don't already. (I know, who doesn't grow narcissus on the kitchen counter...)
7. Polish your tomatoes until they shine.
   
8. Have another person actually do the food preparation and clean-up for you.
9. Put pans and plates into the oven absolutely silently.
10. And finally, don't forget "The Hero Shot." Let me explain, lest you think I have strayed from the realm of cooking shows into porn. From what I could observe, "The Hero Shot" appears the be the final shot taken, when you have cut the beautiful slice of whatever it is you are making, served it up on a pretty plate, garnished it with whatever it demands, and then you photograph or film it in all it's foody glory, being heroic. Frankly after slaving in the kitchen I think you deserve to be featured in the Hero Shot. But unless you have someone doing your makeup and providing you with the great dress, it's probably better to just shoot the damn pie.
    

Makes Me Not Want to Chant "USA"

So remember how I was all charged up about there being a woman and a black man running for the highest offices in our nation. I wanted to chant USA.

Yeah not so much any more.

I'm frankly appalled by what's happening. I feel that this woman is being used, and actively allowing herself to be used, in some of the most shameful hatemongering that I've had the misfortune to see. Hatemongering so appalling that even John McCain had to silence his own supporters who have taken to shouting out that Obama is a "terrorist" and remind them that he's a good and decent man. It's shocking and appalling and upsetting and frankly, I am no longer all that excited that my daughter will learn about it one day in school. At least, not what the minds behind the Republican campaign have done during the last few weeks.

But it's been a kinda lousy day. I had an audition for an agent tonight. Not getting rid of my sweet manager--in fact he set up the audition. Just considering adding another person (read, deducting another %15) to my "team." Let me tell you, it was friggin' sobering. First of all, I didn't really do my audition pieces too well. As the Red Sox proved tonight, you can't always hit them out of the park. And I so didn't. But that aside, what followed was a respectful, but painful interview in which I answered frankly questions about whom I do not know in this industry. Pretty much, I discovered, I know no one. I mean, I know some people. I've met a lot of people. But "know know"...like if you say my name to them will their eyes light up with happy recognition? Yeah, not so much.

And this is, as I have stated before, not an industry that takes kindly to aging. Particularly to women aging. So as the years have passed, and I have lived in this unforgiving city, and my career has moved at it's own leisurely pace (note my passive voice in discussing it...as if "it" not "I" were moving so slowly) I find myself in a bit of a pickle, pushing...well pushing the age I am pushing. "Opportunities for women 40 to 60 in this country" as I heard a wonderful, creative, imaginative and smart casting director say the other day, "are limited." I nearly fell over. Did he actually lump 40 - 60? This very smart man whom I respect a lot and knows this industry inside and out? Me with my mother? Yup. He so did.

So this all brings me around to what the people who are running this campaign are doing to this former beauty queen and sportscaster. Let's face it, she was lifted out of the entertainment industry to feed the entertainment industry. She's as much a player in a drama as I am. Here was an opportunity for a woman 40 - 60. A huge one. And it has become a punchline. No worse. It's become dangerous.

And that so does not make me want to chant U.S.A.

Pole Dancing and Drag Shows

So in the last two weeks, I, Wendy, formerly of Lewisburg, PA, have attended both a drag cabaret show and a pole dancing class. Interestingly, I gained three or four new followers on Twitter when I tweeted about the pole dancing. The followers were guys. Not mommy bloggers. Go figure.

In both cases, I found myself at the event, alone, several minutes before it started. And in both cases, in an attempt not to look like a lonely loser, I texted everyone I knew to demonstrate to those around me that yes I do have friends...they just don't happen to be here with me tonight like your friends are. Plus, I wanted all my friends to know where I was because, honestly, usually I'm in front of my TV watching "Ghost Hunters" and eating brownies. 99 nights out of 100. And that's even before the baby came.

I have always been a stay at home kinda gal. I got married, when I was, like, twenty (ok, twenty-five) and just never got into the going out scene. Which frankly, is a bit of a problem when you're trying to make a career in an industry that is all about going out and meeting people and being part of the scene. I don't even know what subway stop the scene is closest to. But I like to be at home with my cat and my husband and the television. Oh yeah and the baby.

However, I'm working on this. This going out thing. Before the cabaret show, I was at an on-camera audition class, which, honestly, I'd rather have a root canal than attend. Not because the teacher isn't good. He's great actually, as are the other participants in the class. Just it's so...kinda painful. I used to think that if I just worked hard and did my best and was a good person I would find success in this business. Did I mention I'm from Amish country? I now know that I need to plunk down cold hard cash to meet the people I should have met ten years ago when I still believed all this was a meritocracy. So I did that. Incidentally, the casting director gave me a scene for a 50 year old psychologist that first week and a 55 year old truck driver for today. But that's really a subject for another post.

So then I high tailed it down to the Duplex to see the Sunday Morning Mimosa live show. As I texted my friend Rebecca (different Rebecca from the Titanic Agent post--pretty much half the women in my life are named Rebecca) before the show started, while sipping my ginger ale and peach schnapps (did I mention I was raised Presbyterian), she wrote back that she felt I was there for a reason that would become evident in its own time. I texted her back, "clear eyes full hearts can't lose" because "Friday Night Lights" makes me cry and I think that's true despite all the meritocracy hopes being dashed.

Let me say, Gina Marie Rittale and Anita M. Buffem--two lovely ladies from Astoria--were totally delightful. I have been in touch with their nephews James and Steven about maybe doing a teeny tiny part in a movie they are creating. I love them. Their show was charming and surprising and everything a root canal is not. Much more sketch comedy than "drag" in any kind of a traditional sense. Just a super fun hoot. Even by oneself!

So then the following Friday...I went pole dancing. And can I just say, pole dancing is a surprisingly good workout. My right leg is bruised from foot to knee from the vomit-inducing spins that peppered the routine we were taught. I went with friends to celebrate my friend Katie's (not the same Katie as the punctuation post--several other women in my life are named Katie) impending nuptials. And though I wasn't the pole dancing savant Katie was, and I didn't look as professional as Joey did (though she is a dancer and she has a great body), my friends told me I was "surprisingly good with the pole." Yup. Wendy from Lewisburg...surprisingly good with the pole.

Though I left my shins a goose-egged throbbing mess and nearly upchucked the delicious tomato cheddar soup I had before the party, I did spin around the pole like...well like I once spent hours climbing poles on the playground, which I did. Yes pole dancing, to me, was a throwback to playing on the jungle gym. Another delightful surprise. Though it would have been even more delightful if Anita and Gina Marie were pole dancing with me. I think they could have showed all those skinny pole young dancing actresses a thing or two.

I did ache for about four days after pole dancing. But I'm actually thinking about going back and taking some more classes...for the exercise. And the spinning. Maybe next time I'll wear knee pads and shin guards.