Cranky Actress Blog

I think maybe this week there is someone with a doll that looks like me and they are sticking pins in it or something. Really, I’m not emotionally equipped for life sometimes.

It started with an audition yesterday where the director and the casting director stood me up. I got dressed, put make-up on, got on the subway and went to the appointed time and place and nothing, nobody. WTF? The room was empty with chairs piled against the wall. I waited 20 minutes and got back on the train and went home. Sent a what’s up email and got the following response the next day:

Cranky,
I’m terribly sorry. There was a missunderstanding with the times and place. We were indeed holding auditions at that time but in a different building.
It was our fault and I apologize.
Stu

Ah, yea – misunderstanding was MISSpelt And, ah, your misunderstanding with “the times” – would that be the newspaper? Stu goes to one of the most expensive, most prestigious film school’s in the U.S.
The bad thing about these people is that I have to deal with them. The good thing is, they make me feel like a fucking genius.

Then, we’re trying to get everything together for taxes and my marriage becomes a game of: WHOSE FAULT IS IT? There is nothing like going back over all the stupid things you spent money on the past year to make you totally depressed. I have to go into the computer and assign categories to everything. It’s making me feel guilty. My emotional state is making me make mistakes. A few times when I’m supposed to write in dining I actually wrote SIN. I’m not kidding. I wrote SIN as a category. Which was exactly how I felt.

Then the kitchen sink water started backing up into the bathtub and my husband didn’t like taking a shower amongst the floating lettuce.

I wanted to avoid dealing with the sink. I mean, you gotta understand. I call our apartment building “1800’s House.” We have about the same amenities here as they had in 1800. The decor of the lobby in our building can only be described as “Early Mental Hospital.” And we have the obligatory Yugoslavian super who sleeps late and doesn’t want to be bothered. I’ve been thinking of writing a book about him. I’m gonna call it: “The Super Wore Sandals.”
Anyone shuffling around in sandals with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth is not up for any heavy labor.

So due to my husband’s complaining about the lettuce in the shower situation, I got brave and talked to Mr. Sandals about it. I asked him if he had one of those snake things and I make a twirling gesture to be sure I’m being understood. He says, “NO, NO. I BE BRING CHEMICAL.”

So he goes to the basement and comes back with this scary looking bottle of brown stuff. I think the label said PIPE BOMB and it had a lot of Xs and poison warnings on it. He puts PIPE BOMB down the drain. Two minutes later my doorbell rings. The marginally catatonic guy who lives downstairs strolls right into my apartment when I open the door and mumbles with his head hanging down, “I guess you know about the leak downstairs.” “WHAT! WHAT LEAK? LEAK?” I say.

“Ah, there’s water pouring out through my light fixture in the bathroom,” he mumbles. “OH MY GOD!! OH MY GOD!” I run screaming into the bathroom to tell the super.

Skip to the end, I spent the day with a jackhammer tearing up my bathroom floor. THIS IS WHY I WANTED TO AVOID THE REPAIR. In 1800’s House every repair leads to new damage.

When the floor has been completely dug up I see the pipes. They are definitely from another century. There was more gunk inside than there was pipe. The drain pipe had a million little holes along the bottom where PIPE BOMB had done its job. It looked like an archeological excavation. Then the dust started spreading. And spreading.

Since Cranky likes to stay home as much as possible, Cranky takes great care of the house. Seriously. Anybody from “Elle Décor” wants to drop by and take some pictures, my apartment is camera ready.

So I started whining to Mr. Sandals and he looks at me and says, “NO, NO. CRANKY YOU BE GET NEW FLOOR!” This is true. I have wanted a new bathroom floor for like 10 years. But in 1800’s House you don’t get any extras. Mr. Sandals so understands me. He knew exactly how to cheer me up, and make me see the bright side of the massive hole in my bathroom floor. So I forgive him for be bringing chemical.