Pinch Me

It’s been a spell since I put thought to paper, and I gotta say, it was all because of superstition. I have been cautious to allow myself a moment to reflect, ponder, accept the truth of my situation, and I think given the months that have passed, it’s high time I allow the truth to come out.

I am blissfully, peacefully, utterly happy. I have finally finally FINALLY found what I’ve been needing and wanting and yearning for. I have found home.

Six months ago, I was a wreck. I was stressed to the point of desperation, pulled in a million directions that I didn’t want to be stretched. My job made me feel, on an hourly basis (whether I was on company time or not) as though I was an idiot, incompetent, inefficient. I had no outlet, no positive reinforcement to pick me up, other than those who loved me, who encouraged my discouraged soul with words of inspiration that didn’t seem to click anymore. I was anxious, surrounded by so many angry strangers, so many unhappy faces, that I found myself drowning in a sea of sulkiness. It was few and far between the times I got to spend with good souls (Fashion Jess, this means you!), and I felt if something didn’t change, FAST, I would be lost for good.

I spent years being lonely in one of the most overpopulated cities in the US. I could count on one hand the acquaintances I had made that actually kept in touch on a regular basis. I was heartbroken by the countless times I had tried to forge some sort of bond or connection with a new person or group, only to have them flake out and disappear from existence, as if they were some apparition I had created to stave off the loneliness. I had grown accustomed to a life where all I did was sleep, eat, work, and watch television. No social activity, no hope for doing any of the things that I’d set out to do in this life. Theatre and acting had all been lost. Writing took so much energy to commit to. Even venturing out of the house to get the laundry felt arduous. I didn’t feel like I mattered. In a city where thousands of people want you to know THEY MATTER, I didn’t matter to ME anymore because I was not important to anyone, particularly myself. The gal who was scrappy and sassy and funny and goofy and dramatic and outgoing had become a shell for a lost woman who just wanted someone to know I was here, I was alive.

You know what was lost? Hope. Dreams. I stopped caring about me. I figured, what’s the point? I felt invisible in Los Angeles, unimportant, and I didn’t want to leave my apartment, instead holing myself up with the Big Guy and Fiy, often drowning my self-pity in a sorrowful brew. I had stopped going to the gym because I found the experience to be altogether too depressing, having to fight my way past juiced-up and glistening Venuses and Adoni (is that the plural for Adonis?) just to run my fat ass for a few minutes. No one said “Hi” back, no matter where I was. No one made eye contact. If I needed to sneak my car into traffic, no one would allow me the chance to merge in. Isn’t that a metaphor for the life I was living? Just let me in, people! I know others don’t share my experience, and I thank God for that. I don’t disparage Los Angeles—it just turns out that the city of Angels wasn’t for me.

So it took a major leap of faith to think I might find a scrap of happiness in the Midwest. I had run out of hope, had given up on prayers for guidance. I was taking a long shot, but it was the last one I had to take. I had fallen in love with Michigan some years prior on a trip with The Big Guy, and I would often find myself clinging to the memory of the area as a solace to my disillusionment. And sure, I’ve heard from nearly everyone(!) that I am crazy to choose Michigan for sunny California. I’ll take crazy for miserable any day of the week.

The alienation that I felt in Los Angeles was all too damaging, and I could genuinely feel the affects of it when, as we made our way cross country to Michigan, a stranger in a restaurant in Kansas tapped me on the shoulder to have a polite conversation about IPhones (on which I had keenly focusing my attention so as to not have to bear being in a sea of ignoring strangers) and I DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO HAVE SMALL TALK ANYMORE. I literally found myself panicking, wonder what this stranger’s motivations were—why would he want to talk to ME? What could I possibly offer him? And how could he see me when I’ve been invisible for so long? As I struggled to carry on the exchange, I realized we left LA not a moment too soon.

What have I found since departing from Los Angeles on that balmy day in May, as neighbors who’d never bothered to wave back scraped the furniture we couldn’t fit in the truck down the street to their modest duplexes-- Quiet, wide open spaces, with lush green fields and trees of all shapes and sizes. I’ve found a place for my beloved pooch to run free without the annoying neighbor feigning fear that he should happily bounce her way. I found that though I hold the same position I did in LA, I can now proudly shout from the rooftops that I LOVE my job, I LOVE my team, I LOVE my company, derive inspiration, knowledge, laughs and true spirit from my fellow managers and associates. I love that even though I drive 30+ minutes to work, I don’t sit in angry, bumper-to-bumper traffic but cruise down a highway bordered by trees and old, beautiful cemeteries. I love that I come home to a HOME, where I find family who I genuinely love and care about and can’t wait to see every day. I love that after years of forgetting how to be ME, I’m starting to find Shannon again.

And I’m doing a play… me! I know, shocking.

It’s just the beginning of my life again. And as the trees’ leaves begin to burst with beautiful ambers, golds and reds as I see my first Autumn in ages, I am bustling with hopes, dreams, and eagerness for the coming change of seasons, the possibilities that exist when I finally find what my soul needed.

"Glee"less

I don't watch series premieres. Or series pilots. I'm not someone who can adequately gauge a book by its cover, and as far as new shows go, there's no worse barometer for what that show might be than the first episode. Just look at the pilot ep of "Sex and the City", with Carrie cutting away to speak directly to the camera (awful; the voiceover was better serving), the girls reduced to interviewees, or the character Skipper. Had I seen the pilot and been asked if the show was going to become one of my favorite series of all time, I would have told you and Skipper to take a hike (he eventually, begrudgingly, did).

So when it came to May 2009, when a new FOX pilot was slated to premiere post-American Idol finale, I had zero intention to tune in. Nope, I'm good watching vids online, thank you. But for some ungodly reason, I succumbed to my steadfast rule to avoid premieres. And boy, was I dealt quite the hand-- misunderstood teens; a creatively-stunted teacher; a young diva with a nose not unlike my own; and Journey, my God, they played the Journey card. I was SUCKED into the show. I found myself sobbing, gasping for air, so emotional was my first experience with the show. It spoke, no, SANG to me. I must have watched that pilot at least 60 times between it's original airing and the series' prolonged crawl to regular season. In the meantime, I spoke the Glee gospel, telling anyone who would give me a minute that they MUST watch it. I even caught The Big Guy into the Glee net.

I was delighted to watch the first season. The first season, though not entirely like the pilot, was quite entertaining. There's still a soft spot in my heart for the ep where Mr. Schu finds out Teri's terrible betrayal... and the scene where he, broken, rips the plastic off the ridiculous stack of new mattresses in the Glee room so he may rest his weary head on a comfy bed? Kills me. I even loved loved LOVED when the WHOLE New Directions group sang "Don't Stop Believing" for Regionals.

But then something happened. The second season was... well... remember when "Will and Grace" starting having a big name guest star here and there? And then, when they realized the audience liked seeing Michael Douglas act silly, the producers started adding famous guests in EVERY EPISODE and the show just sort of stopped being "Will and Grace" and became The Muppet Show? Yeah. Glee started to feel like Ryan Murphy's musical wet dream. Gaga likes Glee? Well, let's do a GAGA SHOW. Madonna's kids like Glee? MADONNA EPISODE! And then every episode had a Rachel solo... some pop ballad or song that she sings in such an overwrought, overdrawn voice. And the other Glee members, you know, like Tina-who-stutters-but-then-doesn't-stutter-because-Ryan-Murphy-copped-out-and-decided-she-was-faking (way to negate) or Mercedes, who can SANG? Well, they don't have Chord Overstreet's Abs! Or Darren Criss' Teeth! When was the last time Mercedes had a song, or a storyline, or a SONG? When was the last time anyone gave a crap about Finchel? What the hell is a Finchel? Really?

I can't even answer my own questions. I stopped watching a long time ago. And I did so reluctantly, like I didn't want to pull away from the scene of the crime. I feel the same way about "Heroes" and "Saturday Night Live"-- I feel like, if I stop watching, THAT will be the week it stops sucking. But with "Glee"... man... does every episode have to have a message brought to us by Ryan Murphy's favorite artist? I liked it better when Mr. Schu was trying to get the kids to find their voice, make their mark... if they weren't going to let us explore the core characters and allow us to see them evolve (besides, of course, Kurt, who is a great character, but let's face it, is he the only character besides Rachel that gets face time on that show? I mean, besides Chord's Abs).

I remember the last ep I watched... it was the Rocky Horror ep (Again, Mr. Murphy living out his fantasies... try to guess which Rocky Horror character is his favorite!). And it was so FORCED. The music was more fun when it had fresh arrangements, evolved from the plotline of the episode, and didn't feature Lea Michele EMOTING through every word of a song. I mean, she flares her nostrils better than the rest of us.

There was a time I dreamt of a "Glee" episode inspired by Janet Jackson's music, or Elton John's music, but I dreamt those because I theorized what the characters' storylines could evolve into and how the music could lend to those stories. Now, I quietly roll my eyes when Perez posts OMGOMGOMG GLEE SPOILERS!!!!! And maybe I stopped being the target audience of the show. Or I was never the target audience of the show.

Oh my God... that's it. It's not for me. Craaaaaaaaaap. But they had me at Journey! That's cold-blooded, Ryan Murphy.

On the Road Again.

This is a weird post to compose. I am a myriad of emotions when posting it. Though I've been aware for some time of its subject, only a select few have been privy to the details.

I'm 32 years old. In two months time, I will be 33. I will turn over a new calendar year in an all new state, literally. My address, my environment, will be foreign to me as I welcome this new year.

Another new beginning.

I will soon exit Los Angeles. God, I tried. I did. I didn't get to try as often as I would have liked at the things I hold dear to my heart, but somehow those things are tarnished by this Hollywood light. I came here idealistic, hopeful, dreamy. I leave here a little hardened, down-to-earth, weary. I leave here for the reasons that maybe no one can appreciate... I want more. I want more than I can and have reached in four years. And yet, I want less. Less traffic. Less people. Less hoopla. Less anger and more love. Maybe I won't find that (again, idealistic), but at least I can try to pin my hope on the chance that maybe there's more love when the population is less.

I want something a little less complicated and a little more close to the heart. I'm still the same me. But I want more in the less. I want a family of my own. How I yearn, ache, LONG to have a child of my own. But for me, this is not the city to do that. I want to do more for others, but this is the city that won't accept it. I'm a simple girl, simple dreams, big ideas, but this place is not for me.

I am scared. Scared for me, The Big Guy, my Best Pal. But I know that I've exhausted my avenues here.

Into the great, wide open...

So, Dad's A Porn Star

Sometimes, you can will something to be. If you wish for it hard enough, or dream big enough and you keep vigilant, you can make something come true.

I have a self-fulfilling prophecy on a daily basis-- "Today, I will be yelled at by a crazy woman," and POOF! It happens. It varies, really, whether someone of authority or some lunatic with a few bucks in her pocketbook, but I can WILL this to be a truth. I've become so accustomed to it, that it really is funny at this point, and no longer shocking/uninvitingly rude as I once perceived.

I've wanted to do a show for YEARS now. My last time on stage was with the Big Guy in a summer stock show-- one of my fave shows, and a great experience save for the inclusion of my enmeshed-former-mentor-who-needs-to-learn-to-cut-the-cord (a story for another day). I've lived in two states since my last time "pretending" to be someone else, and I gotta tell you, life sucks without theatre. It is unbearably boring. It is unassuming, unpredictable, and completely beyond my own desires. I've expressed this so many times, I don't wanna do it anymore; you get it.

So an opportunity presented itself from an unlikely source-- a friend of the Big Guy referred me to the show she's starring in. They needed a fill-in for an actress who was going to be out for one performance. Could I do it? They heard I was funny.

When I got the message, I initially got scared. It had been soooooooooooo looooooooooooong since I did anything. Did I know how anymore? My Jessica Fashion and my Ma told me I could. So I did it. I returned the message, and I got the part-- something not all-too-far off from myself. I was cast as a character, an Orthodox Jew who let's loose with a couple adult beverages.

It's funny how rusty you feel, doing things that are so second nature to your being. Learning lines, something I could do at a moment's notice in the past, now was a TASK to complete. No rehearsals? Normally, no prob. But I actually found myself quite anxious about how it would all play out. No worries, though. A supportive director and producer helped to guide me through the process.

Then... I got sick. I mean, COME ON. The other 363 days of the year, I'm jacked and ready to go. But as soon as something that strays from "What can I help you find?", my body shuts down. I fought against the physical illness, though it threatened to (and eventually did) take my voice, I was determined to make it through and succeed at the performance. Feverish and wearing three layers of clothing (to combat the fever and make me seem more "bound up"), I was ready to rock this show. My first show in years... my first show in Los Angeles.

My BFF, my Jessica in the Land of Enchantment, heralded the day with a simple text:

"Break a leg... I'm proud of ya, girl. You are meant to be on-stage. :D fuck LA"

Fever making my brow sweat, my nerves focused more on my fading voice than on my return to stage, I went before a live audience of no more than 50... and I lived to tell the tale. It went well. Sure, my voice began to fade ON MY FIRST LINE, but I fought against the pounding, sweaty fever and failing voice to make it through the performance. My fellow actors, many of whom I met for the first time on performance night, were incredibly gracious, supportive and loving. I made it. I did it. I did a show in LA.

As I made my way to the Big Guy post-show, he hugged my clammy, feverish body, told me I did a good job. I smiled, sipped his drink, began to strip the layers and layers and layers of clothes I was now sweating through.

"You know..." the Big Guy began, "I recognize your dad," referring to a fellow character in the show.

"Really? From where?" I asked, stripping back the 2nd most layer of shirt.

"Well... let's just say... oh, fuck it... You're 'Dad's' a porn star," he said with a smirk.

"Whaaaaa?" I asked, intrigued.

Turns out, the actor playing my dad... well, he, unlike me, has booked jobs in LA. And his jobs? Well, they might be best viewed if you're over the age of 18. I didn't need the proof, for the Big Guy knows his "stuff", but he revealed the proof anyway.

And I gotta say... I am tickled. It's LA, people! And I am so glad that I finally did a show! And a show with a "porn" star? AWESOME. Judge all you want, I don't care! I've worked! He's worked! Welcome to show biz, biotches! I could leave this town today, and I have a fun story to tell. Now, would I like more stories? DUH. Come on, City of Angels-- DELIVER.

The Hollywood Dream

I didn't get much sleep last night. I found myself stirred awake much too early by The Big Guy's phone alerting him to an email-- why he can't figure out how to turn off this perky jerky little sound, I'll never understand. But I was surprisingly grateful for the wake-up. I was having a much-too-real dream that seemed to strike right at my most vulnerable and private of insecurities. And once released from the dream's grip, I found that I not only couldn't return to slumber, but I also couldn't escape what the dream was articulating.

I've spent my life committed to one mission after the other. I would have called myself a "driven" person years ago, though today the description seems laughable. When I wanted something, I was gonna get it, even it took me to great lengths to achieve it. I've never been a things-come-so-easily-to-her type of gal. I've scratched, clawed, chewed and gulped my way to anything I wanted. I'm never the obvious choice, but I'll wear ya down til you see it my way. Sure, the fact that I've had to fight for it all has taken its toll on me at times, frustrating me as I watched those who I thought didn't want it nearly as badly as I did come upon it so easily. But I'd continue to fight and fight and FIGHT until I too succeeded. And the success was always so sweet, so delightful... and so short-lived.

I dreamed a big dream when I was a kid. I wanted nothing more than to be three things when I grew up-- I wanted to be a teacher, to be a mother, and to be an actor. I've been a teacher (in a traditional and non-traditional setting) for more than 10 years now. I've been a mother of sorts to a wonderful little Poo for close to 6 years. And in some places, I could have said I was an actor-- as long as those places weren't Los Angeles, California.

I came to this city dreaming of making my claim as an actor. I received an ego bruise and then some while living in Las Vegas, a city filled with sexualized women pulled and pressed and shrunk into Barbie-sized dresses that never seemed to pay much heed to a four-eyed Italian gal with a schnauz as big as the Stratosphere. But I came out swinging-- I left the City of Sin in the best shape of my life and felt ready to tackle Los Angeles once and for all.

Saying you're going to do it and actually doing it can be a tricky bit of business. Upon arrival in Los Angeles, I quickly found out just how convoluted this biz of acting can be. Everything has a price-- the headshots, the classes, the showcases for agents and managers to see you, the clothing you have to wear, the letters you have to send out, the gas you have to put in your car to get to Sherman Oaks to audition for a second-rate manager who cattle-called every fresh face in the city. On top of that, you're expected to have an open OPEN schedule so that should a casting director or agent need to see you at 3:15 on Wednesday (and it's already 12 on that very same Wednesday), you'd better be available-- a point I could never wrap my head around given all the planning and budgeting that goes into preparing for a shoot; could they not give actors a bit more notice?

I came here so badly wanting to do whatever Hollywood told me to do-- you want me to spend $2K on some pics of myself? Need me to suck up to every phony "producer" at this party? Pretend I'm shooting a webseries (EVERYONE here is doing a webseries, even your cat)? I was willing to do it all. But everything comes with a price. And unfortunately, some of us have to work to afford the cost.

I don't have a link to a benefactor or a large bank account or a nest egg that I've been saving into for years. I lived a hard HARD 11 months in Las Vegas where I saw credit that I had been working to restore destroyed and my few scraps of precious materials nearly repossessed by the banks that allowed me to purchase them. I worked as many as four jobs at one time living in Sin Cit-tay just so I could pay the low cost of rent and keep the creditors temporarily off my back. So in coming to Los Angeles, where $1500 a month will get you a cracker box, I knew I was going to have to work. So I fought, just as I always do, to stake a claim in a job that provided me with a bit of financial security all in the hopes that I'd be able to have a good job and pursue my dreams.

I spent the first three years in Los Angeles working for a company that I loved. Loved isn't even a good enough word for it; I was PASSIONATE about it. The funny thing was, it was a business that I never envisioned liking, but found myself enjoying every day. I found myself surrounded by beautiful things everyday, wonderful teammates who I enjoyed talking to and working with, a company who embraced the creativity in us all. Problem was, I don't think I was ever earmarked for greatness with them. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I worked, I was always two steps behind others. I didn't dress like everyone else. I didn't look like everyone else. Though I loved the job, I found myself scraping by each week, sometimes skipping meals because I couldn't afford to swing for a sandwich. And in all this, forget those $2K headshots; forget the meetings with casting agents. I had to pay the bills, leaving little time to devote to becoming an actor. I went from nearly a dozen auditions my first year in LA, to a handful the following year... It's been 27 months since I last auditioned for anything. Some actor.

When the opportunity arose a year ago to go to another company for work, a company that offered me more money, a company that promised me the professional growth I so desperately wanted with the company I loved (but they weren't willing to give), a company that wanted ME, I took the chance. I wish I could tell you that that choice allowed me to strike again for that acting gold, but if I did that, I'd contradict the last paragraph.

I didn't come to this town for riches. I didn't come here to see my face on a magazine. I came here aspiring to have a career like Allison Janney or Robert Duvall, actors who seem to pop up in just about any scenario, delighting in the craft that they love so. I came here and found some pleasant surprises-- having the chance to work for three years for a company that, though it didn't leave me with much in the bank, gave me such personal delight and satisfaction. But I also find that the dream is gone, slipped away by the needs of a reality that a phone alert at 4:30 a.m. can't wake me from.

How To Accept the Excepted

I've got this long running fantasy patrolling the furthest reaches of my daydreams as I find my day being sucked into the oblivion that I've allowed myself to become a part of.

I wake up tomorrow, and everything has changed. I wake to find that everything I dreamed of doing with this lil' life o' mine has come to fruition... I'm making people, lots of people, stranger people laugh, and they're paying me for the privilege. I'm goofing on Gilda or riffing on a Kardashian and somehow, it's irreverent and delightful and they like me... no! REALLY like me. I'm sitting in for an interview on Kevin and Bean, chatting up my latest guest spot as Lucy Lemon, Liz's long-lost sis, and dodging wisecracks from Ralph Garman as I beg for a Reserved spot for the next Hollywood Babble-On (Of course, he obliges).

I'm wearing all those quirky colors I love to wear, maybe with a sassy scarf, a killer pair of denim that shows that I do, in fact, TRY to work out, and some Grey Chuck Taylors (because not every gal MUST own a Louboutin). I'm stopping in at E! and giving my take on pop culture to the likes Chelsea Handler (though I loathe that I must cow-tow to the platform). I'm zipping over to pick up Jess Fashion for one of our shop and gab sessions, complete with a bite at a restaurant she's been dying to show me. I'm cruising down the PCH with my pal Fiy in our new smoke-grey Mini with the double doors in the back (because vehicles with a back end that looks like a 1930s refrigerator rock my socks). I'm coming home to our two-story with character and a working fireplace and swapping stories with The Big Guy about how equally fulfilling we find our daily lives and careers as we sip some Paso Robles find.

It's right around the time I imagine us clinking glasses while we fight over control of ITunes that someone, some stranger, snaps me back to reality. Usually these interruptions come in the form of some cold, thoughtless question that is rarely preceded by a complimentary salutation (something I find more and more absent these days). The dream fades-- POOF! No Kevin and Bean or Psycho Mike hug. ZAP! No appearance on E!. CRUNCH! No Mini, no two-two story, no Grey Chuck Taylors. All of the little touches are gone, and I'm left with the reality that is that I've gotten this far... and really haven't reached anything at all.

This gal used to be a dreamer. I could dream my way through anything... a boring lecture, a snoozy day behind a desk, a stroll from Point A to Point B. I had plans, big stinkin' plans. I was going... PLACES. Now, I'm finding myself tuning out, turning off those little blips of bliss in my brain and giving myself over to a dark side that sucks all the giggles out of this once silly gal.

I'm confronted on a near-hourly basis by an overwhelming sense of anxiety from a multitude of sources, most of whom don't care if you're TRYING, really honestly trying, so long as they can see it in the positive percentages. I'm hounded by questions questions questions MINDLESS questions that beg me to wonder

HOW DID I ALLOW THIS TO HAPPEN TO ME?!?!?!?

You know what you're problem is? Ma asks me.

No. If I knew, I'd correct it. I snidely respond.

Your problem, Ma says, is that you haven't accepted what's around you.

Befuddled, I asked her to continue. What is there to accept? Are you telling me I should just shut up and stop complaining? Just settle and accept that all the things I wanted won't come to pass? Are you telling me that *gulp* this is as good as it gets?

No, Ma says. No, I'm saying you must first accept your circumstances, accept the things around you. Accept your life for what it is. It's only then that you can truly open the doors to the changes and the things you want.

...

She said that to me several days ago. And I'm pondering. I'm thinking. I'm turning some wheels. And though I still don't entirely get it, I'm willing to give it a shot.

So I write today at a crossroads of sorts. Picture it-- I, a bespeckled cross between Blossom and Mary Katherine Gallagher, standing at a fork in the road. On one side, "Accept"-- take this path and allow the reality of your life to wash over you. Accept it, analyze it, devour it, and open yourself up to new possibilities. On the other side, "Except"-- this way, you allow yourself to be defined as the gal who dreamed... except she never did anything about it.

So this blog is not about a whimpering 30-something (and thanks to Ma for reminding me just how close something is to 40) but about a girl on a path to Acceptance. This blog is a reminder, and check-in, that despite the things you gotta do to keep yourself afloat, you can still be open to the possibility that your dreams are just right around the corner.

Songs for the night-- "Float On" by Modest Mouse and "Jamie, My Intentions Are Bass" by !!!