Enough is Enough

For support:

The Trevor Project - http://www.thetrevorproject.org/
The National Center For Bullying Prevention - http://pacer.org/bullying/index.asp
Matthew's Place - http://www.matthewsplace.com/

It's time to end this.

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.

The Horror of Her Birthday

It would appear that turning three is a nightmare.

I don't remember so I can't really say.

But the hot mess of misery my Bean has been since Monday...the actual DAY...and today...the day that Doc Hubby and I are hauling 44 tons of shit to the park for a party for hopefully four kids but we'll see if one gets lost on the way since his Nanny has no idea how to find a street and a cross street...so maybe only three.

I mean cupcakes suck. Presents suck. Making your own pizzas sucks. Pizza sucks. Spray parks suck. Parties suck.

We apparently suck the most.

No wonder she's so miserable.

Terrific threes, huh? Someone text me when they arrive.

I just heard a kid wailing from the street below. Five stories down. Pretty sure that was her.

I'm about to go sweat off the ten pounds of weight I have gained this summer. Except that I'll simultaneously put twice as much on eating cupcakes and tiny whale fluffernutters.

Oh and finally. Sarcasm doesn't work with three years olds. So my biggest weapon is basically rendered useless.

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.

Actual Series of Emails Exchanged Between Me and Doc Hubby Today

The following is a verbatim exchange of emails between myself and Doc Hubby today between 10:11 and 11:16 am.

Me to Doc Hubby: All ok. My texting not working. At a nice blog event. Xo.

Doc Hubby to Me: You OK if I stay here late tonight to work on the grant?

Me to Doc Hubby: If you are ok with me locking our child in a closet.

Doc Hubby to Me: Funny, but dark. You need that girls' weekend.

Me to Doc Hubby: You think I am joking. Also funny.

I am finding two and 3/4 to be so so so so much more challenging than anything to date.

Screaming match two nights ago. Over chicken and a yellow pepper. Sobbing, snotty nosed (on her part), red faced, cruel and fuming (on my part...or was it the other way around). I feel that the battles, particularly over food, are going somewhere quite dark and not at all funny. It was so much easier when I picked out cute little organic green beans and prunes all tidy and pureed. Now she gags on chicken nuggets and mac and cheese and I just want to scream "MOST KIDS WOULD BE SO HAPPY TO HAVE THIS TO EAT!!! THIS IS KID CRACK!!! JUST SLATHER IT IN KETCHUP AND CHEW AND I'LL GIVE YOU A FRIGGIN' CUPCAKE ALREADY!"

Mac and cheese. Nope. Chicken nuggets. Nope. Needless to say anything green. Nope.

I think I am going to have to get some kind of book.

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.