Not ready yet, Mr. DeMille

Okay, so here’s how it went down.

I had like, oh, say, about 3 thousand times more stress getting out the door this morning than usual. Fretting over clothing and hair and make up. Forgetting things. Realizing I need gas. Getting to the gas station and realizing that I had forgotten the directions. Finally making it onto the road. Getting lost. Finding my way back onto the route. Getting lost again. Ending up in the weird industrial/trucking and transportation area. Wondering vaguely if this is really an elaborate, if not very well thought out, plot by some serial killer to break a record by corralling a large number of 40-ish victims and bumping us off in rapid succession. Deciding that was being paranoid. Deciding that paranoia was a symptom of anxiety. Rethinking every choice I’d made about clothing, hair and make up. Deciding, fuck it. And walking in.

Into a strange, semi-abandoned warehouse, with the odd (and I do mean odd) direct to video movie poster slapped on the wall. Eventually, I found a big room with 30 folding chairs of varied provenance and questionable levels of sturdiness, and a moderately perky, professionally hip gal wrangling a bunch of vaguely middle-aged people. She had me fill out a form, and in a friendly yet firmly impersonal way told me to go cool my heels until they called for me. So, being me, I took one of the sturdier looking chairs and whipped out my knitting. About 10 minutes later, I was called up and told to put a sticky note with a number on my sweater and follow her. We passed the woman who was before me leaving. Let’s just say, I didn’t get the job. That was no real person. Amazons are not real people. If I had an ad campaign, I’d pick her over me any day. Anyway. They at least took a few pity shots of me, just so that I wouldn’t feel stupid for coming out. Which I appreciate. And the photographer was a cutie. So. I’ve spent worse mornings.

And it was a novel experience. I am quite fond of novelty. And I learned a few things. Should you ever find yourself in a similar situation, check your full-length profile in the clothes you decide to wear. While the slacks I have on are pretty flattering from front and back, they made me look like I had a poochy tummy from the side. Okay, it’s my tummy that makes me look like I have a poochy tummy from the side. But the pants weren’t helping. Also, carry a decent-sized pocket mirror for a last minute check. There may not be one in the room. Why they wouldn’t want you to look your best, I don’t know. But there you have it. Also, check to make sure your top doesn’t get lap wrinkles from sitting. Yes, by the time I got to the office after the casting call, and saw myself from all angles in a full-length mirror, I was less than satisfied by my efforts. Well. If it ever comes up again, I’ll know. If I decide to do it again. It kind of put my head through the wringer. The pain:gain ratio may be more than this petunia can handle.

An odd idea of "fun"

Okay. So here’s what I did. Last, I don’t know, I think it was in spring, I signed up for a talent agency. No. I’m not secretly harboring mad juggling skills. Or a set of super hot gams. It’s a “real people” talent agency. They specialize in work that involves people who are not models. And it don’t get any realer than me, baby cakes. I signed up partially out of curiosity. And partly from the same impulse that leads me to buy the occasional lottery ticket. I don’t think anything big will happen, but an extra $50 never hurts. Nothing happened, much. I got a few e-mails, but was never chosen for anything. No big.

So, I got my first call for a casting this morning. I’m starting to wonder if I made a mistake. This is bringing up major insecurities that I thought I’d let go of long ago. What if they think I’m too [fill in the blank with any number of shortcomings]? I’m trying to remember what a wise man once told me – they don’t know me; they don’t love me; they can’t reject me. Regardless, I’m feeling slightly 13. I don’t know how people who do this for a living do it. I’m feeling slightly erpy thinking about it, and I’m just doing it for . . . fun. Hmmm.

Anyway, the curiosity thing is definitely in full-force. I’m just going to be open to the experience. And of course, play girl reporter. Okay, it’s not exactly Diane Fossey venturing into the mist, but it’s definitely something I’d never be exposed to otherwise. I’ll let you know what happens.

Somewhere in Transylvania

Okay, last night was Young Frankenstein at the PAC. Kind of one of those good news/bad news things. Though the bad news wasn’t all that bad.

On the good side, I LOVE Mel Brooks. For good or bad, a good portion of my sense of humor was influenced by far too many viewings of Blazing Saddles, at far too young an age. And the songs in Young Frankenstein are pure Brooks. Dirty word play. Lurve it. And they made sure all of the big jokes from the movie were there, but supplemented by plenty of new material. That formula was just about perfect. And it was directed by Susan Stroman, so fab dance sequences. I do loves me some tap. (And, can I just say, where does Stroman find the women dancers? Legs up to here, thin, but with big knockers. They are genetic freaks. Gorgeous, gorgeous genetic freaks. But still. I say we chase them with pitchforks.) The performers were all top notch.

But in spite of being top notch, the fellow playing Frederick Frankenstein, and the gal playing Elizabeth suffered in comparison. How could they not? They are standing in the shadow of Gene Wilder and Madeleine Kahn in their prime. That’s some shadow. I wanted his hair to be a little weirder. Her voice to be a little more flexible. Well, frankly, I just wanted them to be Wilder and Kahn. And I felt progressively worse for Frederick as he went into Puttin’ on the Ritz. He’s just tap dancin’ his little heart out. And the big guy stumping around in platform boots gets all the applause. What can you do?

It was still fun, just for the fact that it’s such an old fashioned show. Lots of singing, lots of dancing, and plenty of jokes. Gotta give it to Brooks. He can make ‘em laugh.

Hitting the Sauce

Okay, quickly, in this 5-A-Day mission, I have discovered that there are 2 different kinds of hungry. One is “I’m empty. Feed me.” Which happens regularly (one would hope), and can be managed better with whole foods and a bit of fiber (that regular thing again). Which is pretty intuitive. It is the simple “better choices” choice.

The other kind of hungry is the “My blood sugar is in the toilet, and I’m either going to go cannibal or eat the nearest available King-Sized Snickers. I don’t care which.” And this one usually is accompanied by bitchy or weepy (at least for me, your results may vary). And this kind of hungry may or may not coincide with the first one.

So, here’s where the veggie thing gets complicated, and a lot counter-intuitive in my mind. If you’re eating veggies for snack, they don’t have a lot of sticking power, blood sugar-wise. They are crash and burn food at best, and calorie poor at the worst. You know what makes that calorie burn slow down? Butter. Or cheese sauce. Or hamburger. Fat. Protein. Hell, even ranch dressing.

But here’s the thing. I’ve been trained to think that veggies don’t count if they’re drenched in fatty goodness. "Broccoli in cheese sauce" is really just "cheese sauce". The broccoli just becomes a convenient delivery mechanism. It’s the same kind of magical thinking I do when I’m being unhealthy. Bad food magic – broken cookies have no calories (they all fall out). Good food magic – carrots with butter lose all their nutrients. I suppose I have to admit that both are wrong. No magical thinking!

So, maybe a little butter isn’t a bad thing. A little!! I’m not going all Paula Deen or anything. That woman is out of hand (bless her heart). I can do moderation. (Stop smirking! I can!) Drizzles. Sprinkles. Pats. Portion control. And who knows? With a little sauce, I might just find myself LIKING this veggie thing. Maybe. Don’t want to get all crazy or anything. Maybe just liking.

What a Goofus

You know what I miss? Goofus and Gallant from Highlights. It was that cartoon in the Highlights magazine that had the two little boys. And you knew whatever Goofus was doing was just plain wrong. That kid could not get right. Always doing something stupid. And Gallant was the dude. Never put a foot wrong.

There was never any question about who was the role model. And it wasn’t like they were telling you exactly what to do. It wasn’t a cartoon saying “Write thank you notes.” Which would have been boring. And no matter what a hot mess Goofus was, he was always entertaining. And no kid likes being told what to do. But it was like the cartoon was tipping you the nod on how to be a playa. Make like Gallant. Don’t be a Goofus. Hell, no. Not me. Gallant all the way.

Though I don’t know if kids today would get it. It’s kind of low-tech for them. But there are still plenty of adults who remember the Highlights, and could still use a few pointers. Like Goofus takes non-emergency cell phone calls when he’s on a date. Gallant never has more than 10 items in the express check-out lane. Goofus wears knit basketball shorts and scratches his testicles in front of a train full of people. Not that I’m thinking of anyone specific there. But really, I think it’s time for the boys to have a career comeback. There are a lot of Goofuses out there.

5-A-Day Check In

Dang, y'all. This is a lot of work.