It’s been a week of gluttonous celebration, but for good reason.
The New Colony somehow managed to rally enough support via the social-networking interweb we live in and placed in the top 100 for Chase Community Giving contest. That means there was a collective jaw-dropping when we realized we’d gotten enough votes to win $25,000 for our cause.
Eventually I’ll realize that such good news doesn’t warrant downing a near-bottle of cheap champagne. Eventually I’ll remember that downing that much cheap champagne is no cause for celebration the next morning. Until then, on with the show and we toast to all that voted for us! Many many thanks!
No soup for me.
Close, but eventually released. Today, an awkward audition for one person and a camera guy. I was liked but not cast. Tomorrow, a pretty big deal audition where I’ll my best to say the product’s tag line without flubbing, or at least be likeable as I butcher it.
In the real world my coworkers and I discuss auditions with vigor and enthusiasm, hail artistic projects and collaborations, swap ideas for upcoming pieces of brilliance… and then put on the customer service phone headset and get chewed out for 25 minutes by a patron.
As if cued by the snow landing on the sidewalk outside my apartment, I finally discovered a link to the commercial I was in posted online.
So at least I know I didn’t end up on the cutting room floor and there will be some form of financial gain to this whole adventure. I can’t wait to blow it all on jelly beans and popsicles. Once I found out the other hip TV spots the producer was responsible for, I was a smart ass on the set and asked if there would be a cute indie rock song accompanying the images. Damn cute indie rock songs are damn cute, aren’t they?
Speaking of tunes and show and tells… For my theater company’s upcoming show, I’m writing the music for the scenic transitions or ambience, or whatever else I can squeeze in there.
And dammit, I still can’t figure out a good Wordpress plugin for a media player. So I’ll save it.
Thought I tweaked out on the soup commercial.
Got a callback, at least. First right of refusal, even. Which leads to relief, happiness, confusion and hopeful panic. I think I must be at my best when I’m clueless and rusty. ”Clueless and Rusty” a new cop drama on CBS. Staring Martin Sheen and some dog. (Not Fran Drescher. I kid, I kid… I love Fran Drescher. In “Spinal Tap.”)
I spent the holiday at The Boyfriend’s family’s house. I was surrounded by foods made of butter and cheese and a cute 6 mo. old baby that would rip a fart loud enough to make a grizzly bear blush. It sounded like a lot of doors were opening until you checked out the little bugger’s smug expression. The 6 (and 3/4) year-old did a good job at following suit, er, toot. Nearly levitated herself off the couch a few times with her rocket-butt. So there was a lot of eating and a lot of farting. God bless us, everyone. What the hell kind of update is this? Fart. Farty fart fart fart… fart.
We also got a real live Xmas tree like real live adults do. The smell of pine and hand-me-down decorations made a slight dent in my normal case of the bah-humbugs. Not working Black Friday has also helped. I’ve spent my days off crocheting additional ornaments and tree skirts and now have arthritic snaggle fingers. I should be doing more things like music, sketching out some Etsy drawing ideas, and editing a children’s story I unearthed from an archived email, but there’s crocheting and fart talk to be had, dammit.
Made it out of retail without getting sick this year.
Now I hab a code in by node. (Cut to my mother poised at her keyboard ready to click send on the “Re: Have You Snorted Salt Water Yet?” email. I’m sure she Spidey-sensed it already and there’s 7 kilos of Zicam C/O Me @ my new job. What can I say? She wants to keep me around for some reason. And she swears by snorting salt water. Neti Pot ain’t got nothin’ on my Mama. I’ve mentioned this before.)
I also have an audition for a big-time soup commercial tomorrow (I never thought that sentence would ever exit my mouth), as I’m sure the rest of Chicago America does. I’m hoping my swollen holiday sinuses and down-trodden immune system will bless me with the appearance of a late 30 year-old who is “average or simple looking.” I will be your broken woman. I promise you I will not be overly attractive or “modely.”
Bless the commercial industry for having to put in their casting notices that they want “VERY STRONG ACTORS who understand subtlety.” I wonder what it’s like to not have to worry about being a good actor.
PS: The new job is a wonderful change.
I cut my hand. I now present to you… ZOMBIE HAND FACE!
I start a new job tomorrow.
No more computer store. I’m making the big leap and going from retail to, drum roll… customer service. From one youthful, hip company to another. From standing for 8 hours to sitting. I did my first exit interview. I was told by many higher ups, “Sorry we didn’t get to know you.” It was a bittersweet parting. But, I hear that this computer store is probably going to do okay without me and I know that no one will particularly miss my presence. Facebook exists for any sentimentality we absolutely feel the need to publicly express. So in the interview I politely told them I was aware that no one knew me, hence the unfortunate leaving. It’s strange to think that such a loudmouth like myself somehow got lost in the crowd. I knew that venting wasn’t going to necessarily do any good, but I did it anyway. If I hadn’t, my eyeballs would probably have popped out of my face. I told them I hoped this experience would not prevent me from working in this company again if, say, the economy goes south and all of America loses all of the jobs, and this massive computer entity store is the only pod left for people to download their paychecks.” More or less I said that. I was ensured that my name will not be sullied by this experience. And if it is, it will be pronounced incorrectly and thought to be said by a different person.
I guess I’m happy that no bridges were burned. I’ll rephrase. I’m surprised that no bridges were burned. Wait… I’ll be surprised if there were actually no bridges burned.
I’m nervous, to say the least. This Black Friday marked my 2 year anniversary at The Computer Store and I’ll have to introduce new things to my daily routine like wearing different clothes on a day to day basis. Business casual clothes. Those words don’t flow well off the tongue since I haven’t had a real business casual job, uh… ever. Sure, there were a few temp jobs here or there, pretending to be a receptionist who cared about her appearance, but nothing where I’d have to do laundry around it–or god forbid dry cleaning.
So I’ll be the one sitting at her new desk in an ill-fitting, thrift-store button down. Pitted-out, but optimistic and hopeful that someone will ask me to sit at their lunch table. I’m glad I’ve successfully ruined any chance at feeling well-rested for tomorrow’s first day at the job by staying up entirely too late writing about my former job.
To my darling wife, Maria,
I know they say that age is a relative thing, like, our relatives are aged and grow old and die, and that’s exactly what crossed my mind earlier this evening.
This, your 30th birthday, is something to celebrate. And not just at TGI Fridays.
I don’t want you to expect gifts or songs or cheer, because think if I did not give you those things. What if I instead gave you one word: “Life.” Now, some would throw a fit and lock themselves in their room and eat the last of the Raisin Bran claiming it was the only thing she was going to have for her birthday dinner. And that someone would be guilty of two things: Not finding the $10 Borders gift card under her pillow, and not understanding that I just gave her the best gift ever. Technically the gift of life can only be given to a child from a parent. And technically that may have some truth behind it, but I am the one who will remind you of your alived-ness.
So this, on your birthday, seize it like you seize those sour cream potato chips. Stop saying the word “old” to describe yourself. You’re not old. You’re just “alive.” You’re at the age where people stop themselves when you tell them how alive you are. When you say, “I’m turning 30,” people say, “You don’t look that–you don’t look like you’ve…reached that milestone.”
You’re at the age where previously mothers would hang themselves with their newly born baby’s umbilical cord once she realized the gestation period and birth alone nearly killed her and she had two more years before a dog with teeth ate her in a cave. You have not been eaten by a dog with teeth! That’s really living!
Thirty is the new twenty! Plus, you apparently don’t look thirty, I mean, a haggard thirty. And how are we supposed to act when we’re of age, really? I wouldn’t know since I’m not thirty, but these are all phrases that popped into my head while I was looking at birthday cards. Being thirty means that you don’t have to finish that bottle of wine. Now, there’s wine in a box now that’s perfectly acceptable for you to purchase, AND that has at least 2-4 bottles in it! Who’s going to gossip about you if you drink 2-4 wine in a box bottles? It’s not like you go out with friends or anything because they all have babies, probably.
What to do when you’re another year alive-r? Are you supposed to sit and check your messages on your phone as the young people joyously play Catch Phrase? Are you proud of your ability to spend more money on alcohol because of your discerning taste? You should boast of your many credit cards. Young people have to spend two dollars on swill to have a good time. Young people, or should I say, dead people.
(Okay, I know they’re not really dead, but they’re more dead than you in this metaphor, even though you’re like, way closer to actual death. So maybe they’re more like comatose vegetable people. Or the walking dead. Vegetable people might be less creepy.)
So you’re thirty and looking at these zombie vegetable people and still feeling sorry for yourself because you didn’t get a cake or phone call or other meaningless expressions of good will? That shit doesn’t matter. ALIVE is what matters. You know you’re alive and you know who you are. You have to go to bed at night because you have responsibilities. Young people don’t have that. They are doing things like lolly-gagging that require frivolous double letters. Your responsibilities are mono syllabic: Work. Home. Drink. Sleep. You know what’s important. You are not lost in the complications of whose bed you’re going to end up in, or what adventure you will find yourself in next. Your path is mapped.
I hope you read this birthday card. I’m sure you remember, but last year’s was nearly unintelligible after your tears smeared the ink so much, so hopefully this birthday’s message will last for years to come, unless you die within the year.
So happy birthday, my love. I know you like marble cake, but they didn’t have any, so I just got us toilet paper, which we needed anyway and you said you were going to buy but apparently didn’t get around to it.
Yours, as always,
Charles
Haven’t had much energy to say much as of late.
Computer store keeps me exhausted and no real new acting projects. Music with the new band is being formulated slowly. I’m alive, slightly bored inside… I have a few posts that need editing and the cat is restless.
What better things to do when I’m tipsy on daiquiri and purposely bed ridden with “Dirty Jobs” is on the cable teevees than to advise you to read the three star Chicago Tribune review for my lovelies with The New Colony.
Or understand that it’s Reader Recommended.
Or enjoyed by the folks at Centerstage and Chicago Theatre Addict.
Now back to my “Dirty Jobs” broadcast.
Going on vacation to Puerto Rico where there is apparently something called “heat” and “sunshine.” Even though it’s considered US territory, that’s a foreign concept to me. But when looking at the weather report I see something more familiar to my vocabulary, “rain and thunderstorms.” Hopefully that’s not Spanish weather talk for “tropical storm.”
Also prepping for swimsuits and traveling. Bikini waxes, even basic ones, make the female region so much more amusing than usual. Pained and raw after the initial procedure, the freshly shorn pelvis appears vulnerable, injured even, as the non-waxed area is surrounded by a moat of seemingly sunburned skin. If you ever had trouble locating a woman’s genitals, never fear; a waxing will clearly outline the approximate region. Also after a waxing, if you put your ear close and listen hard enough you can hear the faint crying of Gloria Steinem.
Eight minutes of small talk while a woman rips out your follicles. 55 dollars (plus tip) for a week without razor burn. God I love beauty and being so beautiful. Now, it’s not like I’m craving an hour long session or need endless small talk from the esthetician as she’s noodling with my noodle parts. It’s difficult to talk about the weather (and you know that poor girl must have to talk about the goddamn weather with every goddamn client who comes in all the goddamn time) when every three seconds you’re attempting not to wince or bleed from your eyes. But 55 bucks for 8 minutes? That’s more painful than the waxing. At least compliment my socks or something. But hey, no razor burn, right Gloria? Beauty is so worth it and I love being full of beauty.
And with that too much information, I’ll be on vacation now.
The Current Mess
