Had the weirdest day yesterday. Had to go to a freelance gig in the morning and then a film audition in the afternoon. Cranky had to get up at 7am. Cranky is used to sleeping ‘til 8. Oh oh.
Actually left on time. But there was a set back when the line at Starbucks in Penn Station was out the door and into the station. Of course I stood on it anyway, because even though they serve coffee at the freelance place, Cranky cannot drink just any coffee. My Italian mother used to call it “dishwater.”
So was in a hurry running down 8th Avenue with a venti Starbucks that kept splashing out of the lid and kept trying to pass the man in front of me who was walking in a serpentine pattern. Don’t these people drive you bonkers? He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth that he was actively puffing on, while texting and walking at the same time. “Why do I have to share the sidewalk with this guy?” I thought. Rushing makes me cranky. In retrospect it was funny. It was so New York. Where else you gonna see a guy like this?
Finally past him. Got there on time. Was delighted when I arrived to receive multiple compliments on my new haircut. Cranky mood improves considerably. This is big for me. You have to understand, that along with the search for happiness, stability and the meaning of life, the life long quest for the perfect hairdo has been foremost on the life to do list. Something I thought I might never achieve. The curse of having two heads of Irish Italian hair on one scalp. There have been times when people asked me what I’ve been doing lately and I’ve answered with, “Growing out my last bad haircut.”
When I go to lunch at a Greek diner with my friend and co-worker, the minute we sit down, a platinum blond lesbian who is on her way out bends over and whispers in my ear in a deep husky voice, “I have to tell you, you’re a very attractive woman.” Then five minutes later a lone man on his way out passes by our table and says, “ I’ve been staring at you. You have the most amazing eyes.” He is apparently gay also, which gives the compliment even more clout in my book. We are in Chelsea after all. Now I’m thinking of sending my hairdresser a bonus check. When we get the check I stand up and yell in a Brooklyn accent (for effect), “EXCUSE ME! BEFORE I LEAVE DOES ANYBODY ELSE WANNA GIVE ME A COMPLIMENT?” Only kidding. Only kidding. It was a fluke. And the universe sent it before I went to the audition so I wouldn’t like jump in the Hudson when it was over.
I have to walk to the meatpacking district in my high heel boots, which are not cobblestone friendly. I find the place, and it is a super trendy modern frenetic commercial casting house. Three irritated people are manning the front desk. They are throwing actors against a wall and snapping pictures, which are simultaneously spewing out of a printer.
It has a totally different vibe from the quiet serious film auditions I usually go to. They have written the sides on a board with magic marker. You have to use those and not hold the script.
I go in there, and they have me stand like a mannequin and read with another actress. They want us to cheat out and not face each other. Everything feels wrong wrong wrong. I’m used to a reader, a chair, and a script in my hand. I let it all throw me and I pretty much suck.
To make matters worse, I have kinda learned the lines and the actress I’m reading with said she hasn’t even had a chance to read it, so she improvises all over the place and I am trying to follow her and say lines from the script which was stupid on my part. It was BAAAAD. Certainly a come down after the Greek diner, huh?
I had to go home and lie on the couch and watch “Wife Swap” reruns to recover.
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