Seeing Myself on TV

Every commercial has a target audience.

You can tell when a commercial is made for you, can't you?  I know Dean gets especially quiet and focused when luxury car commercials are on.  While we don't drive luxury cars (we don't drive ANY cars these days except the ones from Hertz), Dean sees himself as the potential driver of one, and therefore sees himself in those commercials.

I have a harder time seeing myself adequately represented in TV ads.

Here are a couple of commercials that don't represent me:

- The Chanel spot with Kiera Knightly, where she drives away on a motorcycle.  I think I could handle the motorcycle- it's the tiny, square bottle of perfume she tucks into her bra at the end that makes me uncomfortable.  I try to keep pointy things away from my breasts.

- Any of the Kay Jewelers spots where a soldier or a work-a-holic gives his wife a Jane Seymour Open Heart Pendant.  Or one of those Pandora/Persona Add-a-Bead bracelets that also serves as an airport conversation starter.  I would rather have the lady at the Korean nail salon dig out my ingrown nail than receive either.  (If you personally like those jewelry items, then THAT commercial is for you!  Congratulations, you found yours.)

Here are some spots where I DO see myself:

- That pasta sauce commercial where the red-headed lady flashes back to her hair and fashion choices in the 80's.  It reminds me of goofing off with my friend Kelley McDonald in 1986.  Or 1987.  Either one.  We were rad and had a great time, despite our hair.  Or because of it.

- Anything with a baby in it.  Lotion ads, detergent spots, diaper commercials (NOTE:  Not that animated "Poop, There it is" diaper spot.  That is disgusting, and I would never buy those diapers, even if I could remember what brand they were selling.)  I'm not drawn to spots with toddlers or older kids.  Just babies.  One step at a time.  Baby steps, as they say.

There's one spot where I'm on the fence.  I haven't quite decided if I love or hate the Garnier hair color spot with Tina Fey.  I adore her, and love that she's a sexy spokesmodel now, but somehow I see less of myself in her now that the glasses are gone and the goofy is rubbed off.  I like a fresh hair color, but I don't like adults in tutus.  I like Awkward Tina, but don't know if Shiny Tina and I would be able to polish off a box of Cheezits together.

So there it is.  I wish you happy commercial watching, and hope you see yourself in there somewhere.

Just not in that one where the kid gets the wedgie, or the spot for Beano.

Nesting

In the past two days, I've spent a lot of money at Ikea and The Container Store.  I haven't bought things that I personally want, but instead have come home with things that I think our home needs.  

Apparently, I'm nesting.

I typically hate shopping.  It takes me months and months to finally break down and buy new bras.  I have a 90 minute tolerance for places like Ikea.  Bed Bath and Beyond has too many choices, too many decisions to be made there.  It's akin to the reason Dean and I eloped.

But lately, I've been struck with the undeniable need to make the most of our space.  To store things we need to keep but don't daily use.  To have pieces of furniture that serve double, if not triple duty (though I'm not sure what that might be.)  I've debated basket colors and picked out a bright orange throw to match the new pillow I suddenly HAD to have.  I mean, the sofa needed it.

Our spices need to be on those stairs.  Under our kitchen sink needs to be organized.  A tiny curtain must go up in front of the shelves that house the tools.  Because tools need curtains.  The cat food needs a new plastic tub to be stored in.  Our nightstands need to match.  And this is just the beginning.

I think it's worth it.  Getting our space together, getting it organized before our baby arrives makes me feel good.  The less chaos the better.  

Because I don't want anything distracting that little guy from our new orange throw.

Doh!

Pregnancy Brain is a real thing.  Look it up.

My mom is in town, and we went to Ikea yesterday, and I spent most of last night putting together drawer inserts for a bookcase we have.  And in my focused state, I neglected the blog challenge.  

I hate that phrase that has become so popular lately, "I fail."  It bothers me when I see people use it on FaceBook, and I'm not exactly sure why.  Homer Simpson's "Doh!" seems a much kinder alternative.

So, "DOH!"

But here are the drawers I built.  They are much more impressive in person.  You'd be proud.

Where I Get It. So Get Used to It.

My friend Sam Pancake did a one man show called, "Sam Pancake and How I Got This Way."

This blog installment should be called, "My Mom is in Town, and That Explains a Lot."

Mom arrived this morning, and spending time together is like...well, spending time with myself.  Meaning, sometimes I see qualities in her that I realize -in that very moment- I possess myself.

These are typically wonderful qualities like generosity and care for others and helpfulness and adorableness, if I do say so myself.  And sometimes they are qualities like asking lots of questions and interrupting.

You may say, "Monica?  You don't ever interru--," and I'd say, "Interrupt!  I know, right?"

Or maybe you and I have hung out and I've asked pressing, important questions like, "Why would anyone buy a PT Cruiser," or "What did my cat just say?"  And perhaps, though highly unlikely, you rolled your eyes when my back was turned, or responded with an exasperated and non-commital, "huh."

Well, I am here to tell you...get used to it.  It's genetic.  And since my mom is awesome, these qualities are also awesome.  In time, you will find them endearing, just ask Dean and my stepdad Mike.

Or ask my kid in about 30 years.

By then he'll have stopped rolling his eyes behind my back.

Sharing the Love.

Yesterday, I gave my wedding dress away.

Even though there were tons of opportunities for me to wear it again (to our romantic beach getaway, to a renewal of our vows, to the grocery store), I made the supreme sacrifice and gave it to someone who could use it more than I could.

In fact, I think I gave it to a whole lot of someones.

A few years ago, Dean saw a blurb in a church bulletin in Columbia, South Carolina, asking for used wedding dresses. It turned out that there was a wedding dress rental business in Kibungo, Rwanda, and this South Carolina church was taking ongoing donations of dresses to send there.  The rental business is woman-owned, and provides employment opportunities for women who alter, clean, and store the dresses, as well as a valuable service for women who want to rent a traditional Western wedding dress for their special day.


Dean was intrigued, and saw the beginnings of a fascinating play in that blurb.  There were lots of questions:  Why Christianity, why the white dresses?  Why did these SC women feel such a passionate connection to this cause, and what made them travel multiple times to Rwanda in an effort to help?  How was Rwanda different after the genocide?  And there were lots of less serious questions, like what to pack?  And will there be a chance to hold a baby gorilla?

We learned that getting the dresses to Kibungo is prohibitively expensive, and the best way to transport them is to send them with someone who is already traveling there.  So yesterday, Dean left for two weeks in Rwanda with an extra suitcase filled with donated dresses, including my own.

It's neat to think that someone else-lots of other women, potentially- will wear it on such a special day.  My dress can help some women make a living.  Make a life.

My little dress served its purpose here.  I had a great time in it, and even got to wear it TWICE- once at the wedding and once at the party two months later. And I have lots of photos to remind me how happy I was wearing it on those days.

Passing it on to lots of women I may never meet is a pretty good feeling.

And since I couldn't travel to Africa, at least my dress could.

Stop Your Whining. OK, Stop MY Whining.

So, I've had a couple of whiny blog posts about reevaluating my current place in the NYC Actor world.  Lots of "woe is me, I'm so pregnant, I can't audition for anything, wahhh wahhh, wah."

Yesterday, the universe said, "Shut up, already.  HERE."  And it handed me the coolest day I've had in a long time.  What happened, you ask?  Allow me to elaborate.

I had an audition with a kick-ass company called Exit, Pursued By a Bear (the name is taken from a stage direction in Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale), led by director Ed Iskandar.  The show is written by Jeff Whitty, who musical theatre people may know as the writer of Avenue Q, Bring it On- the Musical, and the upcoming Tales of the City, with music by The Scissor Sisters.  Yeah, that guy.  And not only did he write this show, he's in it- and...he was my scene partner for my audition.  So, that was pretty cool.

I had to walk through Times Square to get to my next auditions (details below), and it was a beautiful, sunny day.  It was kind of magical, and I really felt like an Actor on the Move.  Or, more accurately, Pregnant Actor on the Move with Sore Knees.  But it still felt a little like an episode of "Smash."

I recently re-joined Actors Equity Association (that's a story in itself, but the lesson you should take away from it is: read the fine print, and don't be dumb), and yesterday I finally got around to heading to some auditions at the AEA Audition Center on 46th Street.  Non-union actors are permitted to sign up for auditions on a waiting list, and are required to wait in an adjacent hallway with benches.  They're not allowed to use the AEA restroom, and instead must go to the nearby McDonald's or Times Square Visitors Center to relieve themselves.  To make matters worse, most Equity actors walk through the Hallway of Hopefuls to get to the slightly nicer, union waiting room, restrooms, and dressing rooms.  I've been one of those non-union actors watching the fancy actors stroll past, not making eye contact with us.  It was like we were asking for money on the 1 Train.  And yesterday, I was the one walking through the HoH, avoiding eye contact with the younger, hungrier actors.  And it felt good.  And a little bad.  But mostly good.

(For the record, I tried a new-ish monologue for one audition, and it was just so-so.  For the other audition, I went back to my tired-and-true, pick-me-up of a monologue from a play called Frozen, about a murdered kid.  It went great.)

After some dog-walking and snacking, I headed to the last meeting of my commercial class at One on One Studios- the class where we audition for some commercial agents.  I just typed this whole description of who the three agents were and what they were like, but I deleted it.  Instead, I'll say that after my audition, they were kind and complimentary, and THEN I told them I was pregnant.  I could see one visibly deflate and make a note on my resume.  One (whom I already knew) was politely congratulatory.  And the third, the only male (and French, apparently), asked how far along I was, then told me he has a client who just booked a spot and was VERY pregnant- they just put her in a big coat.  He said, "Oh, you have time still to work," and right then and there I decided he was my favorite.  

To top it all off, on the train home there were four older men singing "This Magic Moment," complete with harmonies and snapping.  I totally gave them a dollar.

So, it was a great day.  The Universe had grown tired of my whining, and showed me that I'm still talented and smart, and that there are still opportunities out there for a gal like me.

And then, in an effort to keep me humble, the Universe made my shins, knees, and ankles start to ache, reminding me that the cutest shoes are not always the best shoes.

I'll still take it.

Heading to Rwanda

Tomorrow morning, my husband leaves for Rwanda for two weeks.  He's researching a play, and I will miss him very much.

I had so many awesome things happen to me today, but cannot devote the time to blog about them right now, because spending time with Dean is most important.

After all, the theme is "Relative."

MW