To Share or Not to Share?

I had a costume fitting today.  Two fancy movie costume designers were measuring me, pulling beautiful vintage dresses and coats for me to try on, and making idle chit chat while I stood there in my underwear.

And NO ONE asked if I was pregnant.

Apparently, my waist is still the same size it was pre-pregnancy, although my hips have gotten a couple inches...more ample.  My chest has gotten "healthier" too, but I'm not hearing any complaints about it.

Here's my question:  Do I have to tell people I'm pregnant?

I recently met with two lovely agents, who told me they'd seen my reel on my website, the very site you're reading right now.  To me, that suggested they'd read the TITLE of my blog, and already knew of my condition.  Last week, I asked a commercial casting director what his experience has been working with pregnant women, secretly hoping he'd say, "It's the BEST!  We can't get enough!  It's so hard to find real pregnant women for the LOADS of commercials that call for someone with a huge belly.  Putting a pregnancy pad on a really beautiful, talented actress just doesn't cut it."

But that's not what he said.

He said, "It's a problem."  And went on to explain that CDs want actors who can work NOW, not in 4 months or 6 months or a year.  That made my day!  I didn't want to cry AT ALL!

Tomorrow morning, I have an audition for a theatre's upcoming season, and the shows I'm interested in are in the fall, after the baby is born.  If I wear something to the audition that conceals my growing belly, do I have to say anything?

On the flip side, I have another audition tomorrow afternoon, with some very cool people whom I already know and respect.  I DID tell them, and explained I wouldn't audition if my pregnancy wouldn't gel with the vibe of the show, because I didn't want to take an audition slot away from an actress who might be better suited for the role.  And they said, "When would you like to meet? That sounds VERY intriguing."  Which really WAS cool, not the sarcastic kind of cool from before.

I don't have a wacky answer for all of this.  No funny tagline for this blog entry, no clever way of working it back to whatever I said at the beginning (hallmarks of my blogging.)  It's just a "hmmm" moment I'm sharing.

The bottom line is this:  I'm so excited and proud (I almost typed "round") to be having this baby, I feel a little strange NOT telling everyone, like I'm doing the little bundle a disservice.  But Mama's gotta work, and if somebody wants me to play Liz Lemon's mom in a flashback on "30 Rock," then mum's the word.

Pun intended.

(Examples in this post are purely hypothetical.  I am not on "30 Rock."  Yet.)

Take THAT, Overcommitment!

Sometimes, we over commit.  I overcommit.

I have the best intentions.  Typically, I overcommit because there are just so many cool things to do/people to see/projects to work on, it's hard to say no to any of them.

This Commitment to Blog Every Day in February is one of those things I've agreed to, but am- in this moment- swearing about.  It's been a Liz Lemon type of swearing, with lots of words like "Blerg," rather than crazy lady on the 1 Train swearing, with lots of words that would bother my mother to see in print.

My friends Amanda, Jenny, and Ami have all made the commitment to do this same thing, but when we said yes, did we think about the Super Bowl?  Did we think about how much time we'd want to spend with our husbands before they go to Rwanda in three days?  Did we think about all the plays we have to read by Tuesday, and the monologue we need to learn?

No.  We did not.

We just thought about being good writers.  About getting in the habit of sharing our thoughts.  About not letting the other three women look better than us.  We.  Will.  Not.  Fail.

Which explains this rather thin blog post.  But you know what, bitches?  I did it. :)

(Sorry about the "bitches," Mom.  I meant it to be sweet.)

MW

What's a Pregnant Actor to Do?

I'm in a pickle.  And right now it's the size of a cantaloupe.

So, I'm this New York actor now.  I'm in all the unions, I have some good NYC credits on my resume, a decent reel, relationships with some popular casting directors and agents, and a flexible schedule.

And I'm not able to work.

See, I also have a bun in the oven.  If you've been pregnant lately, you know that all those pregnancy websites describe your baby in terms of fruit.  Early on, it's the size of a poppyseed, then a blueberry, then an orange, a pineapple, and finally the size of the ever-popular jackfruit.  (All these fruits make me think about frozen cocktails, except the jackfruit.  If memory serves from my time in Australia, a jackfruit is incredibly stinky when you cut it open, not unlike a baby's diaper.)

You may say, "What about roles for pregnant women?  You could do those!"  To which I'd reply, "Oh, it's you!  The same person with the useful advice about not drinking too much water before I go to bed!  Why didn't I think of that?" And I'd smile sweetly at you, because you mean well, but there aren't a whole lotta roles like that.  Also, rehearsals (for plays, anyway) take a lot of time- my shape would completely change from the first day of rehearsal to the last night of a show.

You may say, "What about TV or movies?  That girl on 'The Office' was pregnant, and they wrote that into the show.  And those soap actresses just stand behind plants or carry a big purse!"

Believe me, I've been carrying some large tote bags lately, but my Window of Concealment is closing.  Hell, it may be closed by Monday.

Back to the question:  What's a pregnant actor to do?

Friends have made suggestions, and I have some ideas of my own.  Here they are in no particular order (Try to guess which ones are mine):

--  Befriend Tina Fey.  Have her write a sitcom about a pregnant 40-something year old woman, starring me.  Eat brunch together every weekend, and take sailing lessons together while the wind whips through our hair and we drink champagne.

--  Write a play.

--  Go on a quest to find the best frozen dessert in the city.  Leave no neighborhood unexplored.  Go back for seconds, just to be sure.  Then blog about it, and get Pinkberry, Ben and Jerry's, and Tas-T-Delight to sponsor the blog.

--  Take another improv class.

--  Teach Hank to say, "I love you."  Create a blog for Hank, and have him be discovered by network bigwigs.  Enjoy watching Hank's blossoming acting career while I stay at home with the baby, raking in the doggie paychecks.

--  Organize the data bases on our computers.

--  Experiment with a new hairstyle.

--  Shoot a series of videos wherein Pregnant Me tackles some very NON-pregnant situations, like auditioning for The Lion King, getting a part-time job at UPS, or learning the fine art of Japanese Massage.

If you have any other ideas, pass them along.  I've got about 20 weeks to fill until it's ShowTime.

And by then, Junior will be the size of a watermelon.

It's a Baby, and I'm in Charge!

Today I got to babysit miss Bailey Bennett, and we had a grand time. She taught me a lot again today, and we did just fine without other adult supervision.

Here's the video to prove it.  It's also a pretty good example of what I'll be like once our baby is here.  :)

It's a baby, and I'm in charge!

Pee and Blame

I woke up a little grumpy this morning, because I didn't get enough sleep.  Again.

Pregnant women pee all the time.  It's a stereotype, but it's true.  Some nights, I'll get up 4 or 5 times to pee, which really screws with what normal people call "sleeping." You may say, "Well, don't drink so much water before you go to bed."  To which I'd reply, "WOW!  That is a BRILLIANT idea!  Thank you for sharing your wisdom with me.  Problem solved."  (Then I would roll my eyes, because I'd be saying that sarcastically.)

There's science involved, my friend.  I have about 50% more blood coursing through me, and this makes my bladder fill up more often.  There's also pressure on my bladder from our little bundle of joy, and I just read something about the extra fluid in my legs having something to do with it too.

But I digress.

Our bathroom is two steps from my side of the bed.  I can take one step out of bed, pivot, take a half step, and be sitting on the toilet.  (New York apartments are tiny, not like what you saw on "Friends.")  I've perfected the middle of the night pee, and I've managed to perfect this maneuver to the point where I barely have to wake up to do it.  I keep my eyes closed the entire time. (Which reminds me of an unfortunate incident in kindergarten, when a classmate shoved me into a cinderblock wall, splitting my head open- all because I wouldn't open my eyes after a rousing game of "Let's Go to the Bathroom Like Blind People."  It was Montessori school, so it was a totally normal game.)

But I digress.  Again.

Keeping my eyes closed allows me to hang on to the dreams I was having before the Urge to Go struck me.  It makes it easier to get back to sleep, which is really important for pregnant women and humans who are alive.  But LAST night, my Sleeping Pee was foiled- nay, sabotaged- by an EMPTY ROLL OF TISSUE!  I reached for it, and nothing was there but a cardboard tube.

I swore out loud (a no-no when you're Sleep Peeing), but kept my eyes closed, and felt for a fresh roll under the cabinet.  I took out the little spindle, placed the roll on it, went to lock it into place, and...the whole thing dropped on the floor in the total darkness, the toilet paper and spindle rolling away in opposite directions, just out of reach and behind the door.

I swore again.  And had to open my eyes.

I felt around for the roll, hit my head on the corner of the open door, knocked my makeup bag into the trashcan in the process, and swore again before finally locating the roly-poly roll of paper and...using it.

I climbed back in bed wide awake, with a burning resentment for the only person who could have done this.  Dean had been the last one in the bathroom before bed, I remembered it clearly.  He was to blame, and if I was awake, then he should be, too.  I leaned close to his sleeping ear, and recreating the voice my mother used when she caught me smoking in the shower in middle school, I said, "Replace.  The.  Toilet.  Paper."

He was a little taken aback, but I felt mildly vindicated as I yanked the covers towards my side, sighed extra heavily, and tried to go back to sleep.

This morning we both woke up grumpy.  And then my grumpiness turned to horror, for I had been WRONG.

In my midnight bathroom frustration, I had lost count of how often I'd gone prior to the Toilet Paper Incident.  Yes, Dean was the last one to go before bed, but I had already gone 2 or 3 times before the TPI.  I was the saboteur.  I was She Who Should Not Be Named.  I had been (whispers) wrong.

The bed is the best place to be embarrassed, because you can just pull the covers up over your face while you wail your apology at the loved one you wrongly accused.  And if you're lucky, the Loved One will accept your "I'm SO SO SORRY," and still make the coffee and take the dog out.

Which is exactly what happened.

We've both learned a valuable lesson from all this.  Mine has something to do with jumping to conclusions, and his has something to do with earplugs.

It's a win-win.

Learning Up Close and Personal

Today, I learned a lot.

I learned (from experience) that workout pants with elastic waistbands aren't as comfy as they used to be, and I now recognize the importance of those big, stretchy panels in maternity pants.

I learned (from Real Simple magazine) to call a plumber immediately if you have a leak, no matter how small.

I learned (from Dean) that a good logo is all you need to get really inspired at work.

But the BEST things I learned today were learned up close and personal from Meredith Moseley-Bennett.  Meredith is the mother of 4 month old Bailey, the sweetest baby girl in all the land.  I spent a couple of hours with the two over them, over lunch today, and learned LOTS of things about being a new mom and living with a tiny, tiny person.

In a nutshell, I learned:

Babies can entertain themselves for longer than I thought.

Dogs love babies.

Poop can be projectile.

Babies can go through 14 diapers a day.

Breast feeding is pretty much what you think it is.

Vaseline serves many purposes.

Generous friends give you clothes.

Doulas cost $1000.

A doula is a person.

There was more, but I should save something for future blog posts.  And you, gentle reader, are in for a treat- 30 straight days of blogging from yours truly.  I've got some great ideas, too- blog-within-a-blog, video blog, pig latin blog, Hank's own blog...It's gonna be a great month.

But first, I need to get this poop off my shirt.

Slowing it Down

I hate Slow Walkers.

For me, getting from Point A to Point B is a sport, and I've prided myself on being an Olympian in this event.  I look beyond the slow walker, scoping out the available spots, and planning my sling-shot navigation of the busy sidewalks.  I quickly gauge my speed and size and complete complex mathematical equations to quickly determine if I can dodge Fat Man with Suitcase and scoot in front of Foreign Tourist with Map, before slamming into Mountain of UPS Packages Sitting in the Sidewalk.

It is My Thing, and I'm great at it.  At least, I used to be- before I was pregnant.

Now, I have become the very thing I despise.  One of the most startling discoveries I've made in recent weeks is that my stamina has gone out the window.  While most people may not even notice I'm pregnant (though I do- none of my regular clothes fit anymore), my body sure as Hell knows, and reminds me when I get a little too full of myself.

After a few blocks of hustling and dodging, I get light headed and overheated, and I am forced to walk at the same pace as our elderly neighbor, Irene.  Actually, Irene is faster.  I can't lie.  I find myself keeping to the right on the sidewalk, out of respect for the fast walkers who are likely cursing me.  My timing is all off now, too- what used to take me 10 minutes now takes significantly longer.  And the stairs coming out of the subway?  Puh-leeze.  No more jogging up those bad boys.  I make good use of the handrail, and try to keep moving.

I started going back to the gym this morning, and have to slow it down there, too.  When some hardbody gets on the elliptical next to me, I can't secretly race her anymore.  I am forced to focus on my own workout- and on Kathie Lee and Hoda- and not compete with those around me.

Maybe that's the problem I'm having.  I'm no longer a contender.  I've had to pull out of the race, a race I was mastering, and now I'm an amateur.  A hobbyist.  A sideline commentator.

But I'm also Making a Human Inside of Me.  And that's a pretty good reason to slow things down.  At least the other contenders have a fighting chance now.