Craig and I were woken up at noon by the sound of our downstairs neighboor's very loud reggaeton. He's hungover from a night of partying, and I'm exhausted from working tol one and not getting home til 2:30. We go about our morning, not really minding the music, it is the weekend after all. As I sit at the kitchen table checking my email, the resilient thumping from downstairs switched from reggaeton to merengue.
Craig's bedroom door swings open.
C: This song sounds just like that song from "In the Heights!"
E: Which one?
C: you know... um... 'Yeeba dabbadoo dedah!'
E: (gigglesnort) WHAT?
C: I realized as I started to quote it that I don't speak any Spanish!
E: (dies laughing)
C: I'm hungover!!! (slams door)
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Gainfull Employment, WHAT?!
I got a job this week! For two glorious months (April and May) I'll be in Coral Springs, FL, doing A Little Night Music at the Broward Stage Door theatre. I'll be playing one of the five Lieberslieder singers, and I'm STOKED! I'm doing a real show, I'm being paid for it, and I get to live in FLORIDA for two months. I'm ALL about that.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
My First Commercial Audition... aka The Day I Couldn't Stop Laughing.
So I'm on my couch (read: futon), dicking around on my laptop doing whatever it is I do while I'm on the internet (read: Luke and Noah on YouTube.) My cell phone rings and its someone from a casting office I'd never heard of. She says she found me on Actors Access, and would like to bring me in for a Panasonic commercial she's casting.
Actors Access is a website that lists casting breakdowns for just about everything, from stage to commericals to webisodes (seriously, that's a genre now. I'm not sure where to put my emotions about that) Actors can create a profile with their headshots and resumes, peruse the breakdowns, and if they come across a project they'd like to be seen for, the can electronically submit their info to the casting directors for $2. Its a pretty sweet way to avoid open calls, and I've actually been called several times from submissions I've made there.
Because your info is on the website, they're able to create this database of actors which can then be searched by producers and casting directors according to whatever they're looking for (por ejemplo: blonde actress in her 30's who can play the uklele). Just search "blonde, 30, ukelele", and you're off!
And so this casting director (or the intern who works at the front desk, I never found out which) says that she would like me to come in because of a certain special skill I have listed.
What could it be? My belt to an E? Quick study of dialects? Killer "Xena" call?
Beatboxing.
I'll give you a moment.
Yes. I can (kinda) beatbox. I learned in college while I was a member of the all-female a capella group and took to it like a duck to water. This of course led to me having to do the beatboxing for EVERY song and getting to actually sing maybe once or twice. I quit the group after a year and a half. Irrecconcilable differences.
Anywho, Ms Casting Director/Intern asks me if I'd like to come in and beatbox for her.
Ha, um... Yeah. Sure, why not?
She schedules me an appointment time and I click my phone closed. I then proceed to laugh hysterically.
WHAT??? Of all the things to be called in for, my mediocre vocal percussion skills? Ridiculous. What do I need to bring? Do I prepare a little beatbox demo? And what does one wear to the beatbox call?
So I set off for midtown the next day. I had practiced the few beats I knew earlier that day and had compiled them into a nice little demo. I wore jeans, a black button down, my converse sneakers and my sassy black knit cap that I'm so fond of. At the casting office, I was joined by a nice guy in his 30's, who was also a beatboxer. He asked if I was there to dance, and I said I was indeed there to beatbox.
"That's so cool, I've never met a female beatboxer!"
And today is no exception, I thought.
I was called into the office, slated, and the CD asked me to beatbox a little. I did, screwing up in the middle and losing the beat, but I finished. She then told me we would do a little "battle of the beats", in which she'd start a bad beat, and I would jump in with something better. "And like, attack the camera, lots of attitude, you know?"
People, it was all I could do to not die laughing right there.
So she gave be a bad beat, and I did my best to jump in and come up with something on the fly. I kind of wish I could have this same attitude for every audition... the "I'm so not gonna get this job, lets just have fun" feeling you get sometimes.
She thanked me and told me "Not bad. Not the best we've seen, but we've certainly seen worse."
Um, thank you? Was that even a compliment?
I thanked her and left. And then cracked up laughing in the elevator.
Seriously? SERIOUSLY?
Actors Access is a website that lists casting breakdowns for just about everything, from stage to commericals to webisodes (seriously, that's a genre now. I'm not sure where to put my emotions about that) Actors can create a profile with their headshots and resumes, peruse the breakdowns, and if they come across a project they'd like to be seen for, the can electronically submit their info to the casting directors for $2. Its a pretty sweet way to avoid open calls, and I've actually been called several times from submissions I've made there.
Because your info is on the website, they're able to create this database of actors which can then be searched by producers and casting directors according to whatever they're looking for (por ejemplo: blonde actress in her 30's who can play the uklele). Just search "blonde, 30, ukelele", and you're off!
And so this casting director (or the intern who works at the front desk, I never found out which) says that she would like me to come in because of a certain special skill I have listed.
What could it be? My belt to an E? Quick study of dialects? Killer "Xena" call?
Beatboxing.
I'll give you a moment.
Yes. I can (kinda) beatbox. I learned in college while I was a member of the all-female a capella group and took to it like a duck to water. This of course led to me having to do the beatboxing for EVERY song and getting to actually sing maybe once or twice. I quit the group after a year and a half. Irrecconcilable differences.
Anywho, Ms Casting Director/Intern asks me if I'd like to come in and beatbox for her.
Ha, um... Yeah. Sure, why not?
She schedules me an appointment time and I click my phone closed. I then proceed to laugh hysterically.
WHAT??? Of all the things to be called in for, my mediocre vocal percussion skills? Ridiculous. What do I need to bring? Do I prepare a little beatbox demo? And what does one wear to the beatbox call?
So I set off for midtown the next day. I had practiced the few beats I knew earlier that day and had compiled them into a nice little demo. I wore jeans, a black button down, my converse sneakers and my sassy black knit cap that I'm so fond of. At the casting office, I was joined by a nice guy in his 30's, who was also a beatboxer. He asked if I was there to dance, and I said I was indeed there to beatbox.
"That's so cool, I've never met a female beatboxer!"
And today is no exception, I thought.
I was called into the office, slated, and the CD asked me to beatbox a little. I did, screwing up in the middle and losing the beat, but I finished. She then told me we would do a little "battle of the beats", in which she'd start a bad beat, and I would jump in with something better. "And like, attack the camera, lots of attitude, you know?"
People, it was all I could do to not die laughing right there.
So she gave be a bad beat, and I did my best to jump in and come up with something on the fly. I kind of wish I could have this same attitude for every audition... the "I'm so not gonna get this job, lets just have fun" feeling you get sometimes.
She thanked me and told me "Not bad. Not the best we've seen, but we've certainly seen worse."
Um, thank you? Was that even a compliment?
I thanked her and left. And then cracked up laughing in the elevator.
Seriously? SERIOUSLY?
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Who's a Big Fat Fattie? ME!!!
Ah yes, it has returned. Those pesky 10-15 lbs that keep my semi-hourglass figure looking a tad too thick in the middle.
It happens. Things get complicated, or depressing, or complacent, and I start eating. I haven't been working out due to no gym membership ($70/mo to use a treadmill and freeweights? I don't think so) and haven't been to a dance class because of a general lack of cash. Not to mention its winter, which means far less "Hey I have a day off I'm gonna go walking around Central/Prospect Park for a couple hours cuz its gorgeous out and oh why not walk from he Upper West Side down to 14 street I have nothing better to do."
No seriously, when its warm out, I do crazy shit like walking three miles down eighth avenue, stopping only for the occasional iced tea and or Sephora run-through. I'm broke and I like to walk.
And now it's winter, which means less outside time, more baggy clothes, heartier foods and less concern about how I look in a strappy tank top. So I have been eating a bit too much, and its starting to show. I'm someone who carries all their weight in their torso, and so when I start to feel my tummy touching my thighs while I'm sitting down, I know I've gone too far.
I'm not completely delusional. I know that generally, I'm a "big girl." I've never been particularly skinny, thanks to genetics. Whatever skinny gene my family may have had was incapacitated at by creation, most likely being crushed by my family's dominant fat gene. I also have an addicition to anything greasy, covered in cheese and/or salt, and consume far too many carbs. For years I've had it drilled into my head that something was wrong with me because I couldn't just BE SKINNY. Other girls were skinny, why couldn't I be too?
And then it just sort of hit me: Elizabeth, its OKAY to be a little fat. And its okay to say "fat". My body image shifted, as did my confidence, and I became prouder of the fact that I had curves. I though of 1940s screen sirens and Renaissance art. I came to terms with the fact that as long as a piece of clothing make me look and feel great, I didn't really care what size it came in. That size 14 dress doesn't fit me? Grab it in a size 16, I like what the color does to my skin.
But as is often the case, I can go overboard. The winter blah's have caused a massive increase in crappy foods and inactiveness, and the curves has gotten a little less defined.
And so I had a little farewell meal this afternoon, consisting of delicious leftovers from a local Spanish restaurant. Roast pork and rice and beans and platanos.... dear god, that is the BEST. I think I'll head to a local "Buy Everything You Could Ever Want for Ridiculously Cheap HERE!" store and buy a scale and get real. That's the awul thing: I don't actually own a scale and I have no idea what my actual weight is right now. I like to feel that ignorance is bliss. Its not in this case.
So I guess we're back on the wagon for a bit. Foods to avoid: ANYTHING at that restaurant. Pizza. The red velvet cupcakes at work. Really really sugary stuff. Whole milk in my iced mocha at work.
Sigh. Here we go again.
It happens. Things get complicated, or depressing, or complacent, and I start eating. I haven't been working out due to no gym membership ($70/mo to use a treadmill and freeweights? I don't think so) and haven't been to a dance class because of a general lack of cash. Not to mention its winter, which means far less "Hey I have a day off I'm gonna go walking around Central/Prospect Park for a couple hours cuz its gorgeous out and oh why not walk from he Upper West Side down to 14 street I have nothing better to do."
No seriously, when its warm out, I do crazy shit like walking three miles down eighth avenue, stopping only for the occasional iced tea and or Sephora run-through. I'm broke and I like to walk.
Cutbacks on my hours at work. Good auditions but no jobs. Lack of love life.
Wouldn't YOU treat yourself with an extra cupcake?
And now it's winter, which means less outside time, more baggy clothes, heartier foods and less concern about how I look in a strappy tank top. So I have been eating a bit too much, and its starting to show. I'm someone who carries all their weight in their torso, and so when I start to feel my tummy touching my thighs while I'm sitting down, I know I've gone too far.
I'm not completely delusional. I know that generally, I'm a "big girl." I've never been particularly skinny, thanks to genetics. Whatever skinny gene my family may have had was incapacitated at by creation, most likely being crushed by my family's dominant fat gene. I also have an addicition to anything greasy, covered in cheese and/or salt, and consume far too many carbs. For years I've had it drilled into my head that something was wrong with me because I couldn't just BE SKINNY. Other girls were skinny, why couldn't I be too?
And then it just sort of hit me: Elizabeth, its OKAY to be a little fat. And its okay to say "fat". My body image shifted, as did my confidence, and I became prouder of the fact that I had curves. I though of 1940s screen sirens and Renaissance art. I came to terms with the fact that as long as a piece of clothing make me look and feel great, I didn't really care what size it came in. That size 14 dress doesn't fit me? Grab it in a size 16, I like what the color does to my skin.
But as is often the case, I can go overboard. The winter blah's have caused a massive increase in crappy foods and inactiveness, and the curves has gotten a little less defined.
And so I had a little farewell meal this afternoon, consisting of delicious leftovers from a local Spanish restaurant. Roast pork and rice and beans and platanos.... dear god, that is the BEST. I think I'll head to a local "Buy Everything You Could Ever Want for Ridiculously Cheap HERE!" store and buy a scale and get real. That's the awul thing: I don't actually own a scale and I have no idea what my actual weight is right now. I like to feel that ignorance is bliss. Its not in this case.
So I guess we're back on the wagon for a bit. Foods to avoid: ANYTHING at that restaurant. Pizza. The red velvet cupcakes at work. Really really sugary stuff. Whole milk in my iced mocha at work.
Sigh. Here we go again.
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