weekend achieves!

In addition to doing absolutely nothing, I actually accomplished quite a lot this weekend! Here's a sampling:

1. I slept. A lot. Now, to make this happen, on Friday night, I turned off my cellphone and, to thwart the early-morning telemarketers, I took my cordless phone off the hook. When it started beeping in the middle of the night, I wrapped it in a towel and put it in the bathroom sink and closed the door. AWESOME!

2. I ate one of the best burgers I've ever had! I went to McCoy's Irish Pub on 9th Avenue around 52nd or so. They should call it Divey McDivington's Pub, but boy was that a tasty burger!

3. I swam! I swam and didn't seem to break my shoulder too much! (see "dorky headset" posting earlier for backstory. ha! BACKstory. that's funny)

4. I vacuumed my apartment. Having gone for more than (ahem) several weeks now with no vacuum belt, the dust was winning the war, not just the battle. But I showed them who pays the rent around here!

5. I ate Mr. Softey. With rainbow sprinkles. While I walked in the sun from 23rd and 8th to Essex & Delancey.

6. I started reading a great book, Behind the Scenes at the Museum.

7. I met my friend's girlfriend and really liked her. I was afraid I wouldn't (or rather, that she wouldn't like me), but she was wikkid cool and they didn't get all mushy around me, which was good b/c I was too hungry to barf.

and

8. I made a meatloaf. Well, I'm making a meatloaf. Which is why I'm still awake.
I would like to order several more of these weekends to go, please.

what i learned on the other side of the table

So I sat in on EPAs yesterday for the theatre company where I am the literary manager (Boomerang Theatre Company) and I learned more in those three and a half hours than you could ever learn in a monologue class. I HIGHLY recommend that every actor do this at least once, if not many, MANY times.

Tips on Monologues:

We'll start with the overused monologues. Nothing really jumped out except for Saint Joan in Henry the VI part I (go here and search for "Joan"), Phoebe from As You Like It (think not I love him, though I ask for him... you already know it) and Portia in Julius Caesar (go here and search "ungently") Don't do these. And if you insist on doing them, do them well.

The popular plays among the men were Measure for Measure and Death of a Salesman. Which I can't really argue are overused. All in all, actually, there was a pretty wide variety of monologues.

In choosing a monologue, pick one that you can easily make sense out of. One that really speaks to you. Because, sure, you can go off on some diatribe, but if that light is off in your eyes, I know you don't know what you're saying, and I stop listening.

Pick one that is short. Let me say that again: pick one that is short. Or pick the first ending you can find in your piece. There was a woman who came in, and I thought she was done, and then she kept going. Then she was done again, and started up again. That happened three or four times, and, near the end, I began to wonder why she hadn't stopped the first time. Sure, the whole monologue packs a bigger wallop if you do the whole thing, but you're more likely to lose me the longer you go on. And you run the risk of being cut off at your first plausible stopping point. Leave them wanting more. Because if they want more, they'll ask, or they'll call you back.

Make choices with your monologue that make the piece go somewhere. One guy came in and told what started out as a horrifying story which turned into a bore-ifying story because he never changed modes. He ended exactly where he started. Only it was three minutes later, and I was already gone.

Avoid original work, unless it's been through a reading series or has been produced (i.e., edited or refined). There are plenty of good plays (& books & movies) out there. Pick one of those. Especially because if it's original to you, and it stinks, we'll think you stink, too.

When you announce your monologue, announce it clearly. We were writing down names of monologues to keep people clear in our minds, and someone came in with a monologue from (judging by our notes) "Something from the Something with Hats"

I found it useful when people announced the name of the playwright. Except when it was Death of a Salesman or Vanya. Because I know who wrote those.

I found it irritating when people asked what we'd prefer to hear (the season has Shakespeare and modern stuff in it). If you can communicate clearly with your Shakespeare, do that. Because if that makes sense, modern language is a piece of cake!

Tips in General:
Ok. The main thing I'd say is this: Own the space. Don't apologize, don't rush, don't ask permission. A few of the actors (including some I know personally) didn't take enough time to really be in the space before they started. Let the auditor either look you in the eye or tell you "whenever you're ready." Because they may be interested in your credits, but once you start your monologue they want to look you in the face.

If you don't feel like you deserve the time of the auditors, they won't feel it either. Be confident (but not retarded about it).

Clothes:
Don't wear pants that are too big and need to be ferociously belted in the front. That's distracting. I can't tell you the guy's name or his monologue, but his pants were too big.

Do wear a bra. Please, for the love of all that is holy, wear a bra.

Physicality:
Try not to be all mouth-sounding. If that means drinking water beforehand, do that. Nobody really likes the sound of a mouth.

Try to connect with your body. Don't do what I call "musical theatre body" which is having these cute poses or odd positions that you put your body into because that's how you did it in the show. It just looks awkward and detracts from what you're saying.

Know what you're doing with your arms. Don't let them flop alongside you and slap your thighs. That's irritating, and if you're not aware of it as a habit, watch yourself. It's really noisy and distracting!

Don't do what I always used to ride my ex-boyfriend for doing, which is Thinking With Your Mouth. If you have a thought in your head that's hard to get out, find another way to express it. (this may be a me-xclusive pet peeve, but it was really distracting -- and often led to mouth noises)

Props:
Just don't. (come on, you know better than that.) No, this is not a dagger you see before you. Oh, look, there is Proteus writ. A bloody napkin? I'd rather not even see it in performance, thanks. And if you INSIST on using props, don't use any that require you to clean them up afterwards (this means you, letter-shredder...)

Greetings:
Don't shake my hand. Especially if you walk towards the table, hand extended and nobody stands up or even looks like they want to shake your hand. Because now we just hate you.

Don't chatter. Don't tell me how great I am or how excited you are or what a great company we are or how much you love the play. It's all "blah blah blah" when you've been in there for hours.

Delivery:
Don't look at the floor. Let me repeat: DON'T LOOK AT THE FLOOR! You'd be shocked by the percentage of people who delivered their monologues to the floor -- almost 25'd say! We lose your eyes and your voice and your everything. Unless you mention how the person you're talking to is laying down on the floor... and even then... look up!

That said, don't look at the ceiling! Pick a spot between the heads of the auditors. Not too far above -- because then it feels like you're leaving us out. The best choice, I felt, was the one that was just on my eye level, but not looking at me.

That said, don't use the auditor exclusively. Connecting every now and then was ok with me, but using me? I felt bad looking at your resume, and then resented you for making me pay exclusive attention to you. (ooh, that sounds awful, doesn't it? But it's how I felt!)

Also, don't drop your focus. No matter where you've picked (ideally between the auditors), don't drop your intention and keep going back to the floor. Really distracting!

Voice/Projection:
We were in a tiny room. Please don't scream at me. Please don't hyperventilate, either. That makes me nervous. Please don't sigh. That makes me want to yawn and go to sleep. Please don't mumble. Please don't have monstrously heavy accents. Please commit to one accent. Please don't talk so fast that I can't follow you -- at least not right off the bat. Be aware of your space, and the surreality of an audition. It's not the same as being on stage. (unless, of course, you're auditioning on stage. duh.)

Other:
There was a woman who came in, and halfway through, forgot her monologue. And I remember her because she was playing this dippy character and never dropped it and just said "well, I guess that's what I get for using a monologue I learned the day of!" I don't know if she'll get called back, but I bet she thought she tanked, and actually, I was quite charmed.

There was a man doing a cursing speech from Richard III, and he cursed each of us individually. I wouldn't recommend that.

Murphy's Law said that the worst monologues were the ones that went on for seven days. And boy howdy, did they!

And how many people didn't look a THING like their headshots! Longer hair, different makeup, different hairstyle, fine. Ten years ago? Try again. Dreamy, blurry shot? No thanks.

The Moral of the Story:
The big thing for me was the cleanliness of your entrance and your exit -- give us a chance to be ready for you, and give us a chance to be ready for you to leave. Take your cues from us. We were very friendly. Some auditors are less so. But we didn't really want to chatter, so I can only imagine how little the grumpy ones want.

On the other side of the table, while it was exciting and inspiring to see some good performers, it really felt like more of a job. And I really valued people who were super-professional about it.
Keep at it, guys. It sucks, but I can guarantee you there are actors out there who are worse off than you!

the world of smell

This morning there were a ton of people on the platform at my subway station, so I could tell that there hadn't been a train in a while. And when that happens, it's usually because the R train isn't running (because not having the stupid old M train isn't going to pile people up like this, since nobody other than me really rides it -- although you're about to find out that's not true... but I digress).

And as a bit of (type A) back story, I like to ride the M train in the front, so I can get out near the front exit at Chambers Street, or ride the R train in the back, so I can get out near the back exit at Union Square. And since there were so many people on the platform, I was counting on an M train, and moved to the front.

Of course, the R train pulled in. (but you saw that coming)

So I take that to Pacific Street, thinking to change to an N train (which I also ride in the back of), and I'm hightailing it to the back of the platform, when the next train pulls in, and it's (you guessed it) the M train. So I'm somewhere in the middle, an MT(type)A no-man's-land, if you will. But I'm not SO terribly anal that I run to the back of the train. I just get on.

And for my levelheadedness and patience, I am blessed with a reward. I know someone on this car! It's my college-and-slightly-post-college boyfriend, David (whose beautiful writing can be found in the Spring 2006 issue of Glimmer Train Stories here -- although he may be on the web in other places I'm not aware of. Let's just say we're not regular commuting buddies. I mean, he rides in the middle of the train, for crying out loud!)

ANYWAY, we chat about his wife and son, about his family and mine, about his new book and my current acting career, and it's really nice to reconnect with someone who played such a big role in my early years in New York. And right before he got off the train (and this is where I'm finally reaching my point) he leaned in and gave me a peck on the cheeck, and he smelled exactly the same way he did 9 years ago. It was as if, by breathing in that tiny whiff of David-smell, I was transported back to Yale, back to the time we spent together, but only for that split second, and then I was back on the train, back in New York, I was 29 again.

I love that. I love the immediacy of smell. How, when you've been gone long enough, you can walk through your front door and smell your own home smell again. (although in my apartment, that's not the case. It just smells funny all the time, but I think that's about to get better since Mr. Smellypants downstairs moved out) I love how certain smells are associated with time periods -- for me, Tatiana perfume is eighth grade, the body shop's white musk room oil is junior year of college and the burning-diaper smell of Grand Central is my childhood (no, I wasn't a homeless child living in a train station. I just remember coming in to see shows or have dinner with my folks and how familiar the rank smell of Grand Central can get). My Honda used to have a pink stick-up in it, and I have no idea what it was supposed to smell like, but it brings back all the memories of my car.

Technically, touch is the most immediate sense, because if something touches you it has to be close to you. But I think that smell is mind-immediate. Because nothing brings back memories as quickly and as fully for me as an old familiar smell.

[SIDEBAR: There's a great book about the senses called A Natural History of the Senses by Diane Ackerman that devotes a whole section to smell, and the various ways humans have used smell over the centurires. It's fascinating to me. Anyway, I'm not actually reading it now, but I'll pretend that I am, so you can see what it looks like below]

movie rental recommendation (if you can stomach it)

Last night I was really moved by a powerful documentary called Children Underground, in an uneasy and thought-provoking way, and would recommend it to anyone who doesn't mind being really disturbed by films.

The official info about the movie can be found here, but the long and the short of it is that a filmmaker chose to follow six or eight homeless children living in a subway station in Bucharest.

The back story is part of what's killer. Basically, Nicolae Ceauescu , the head of the Communist party in Romania from 1965 to 1989, at some point outlawed birth control so that he could increase the nation's workforce. So Romanians had children coming out their ears. And many of them were unwanted, and with the fall of communism and the dissolution of the economy as Romanians knew it, many of them could not be cared for -- either by their parents or the government. So tons of them are homeless.

The kids range in age from about 8 to 16, and suffer from a variety of problems -- most are beaten, most are addicted to paint fumes, and it's unclear if any of them have additional mental problems beyond being a child with no home. But they are charming, honest, and most of all, kids.

It's really intense, and almost appalling. And I can only imagine it's because of this movie that I had the weird-ass dreams I had last night. But that's a whole nother story.

To the gentleman on the train with his hand on my ass...

To the gentleman on the train with his hand on my ass,

Let me make this perfectly clear.

Just because my ass exists does not mean that, even though we're packed like sardines into this subway car, I want you to touch it. Just because my pants are red and tight does not invite you to test their fabric. Simply because I'm completely helpless and not about to shout out to a packed subway car "GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY ASS" doesn't mean that you're free to feel me up.

That's MY ass, and if you were a decent human being (let alone even remotely a gentleman), you'd find something to do with your hands that kept them above your waist -- or at the very least, mine. Mickey and pals find a way to make it work in pictures at Disney, you can find a way to do it for the seven and a half minutes it takes us to get to Grand Central.

Why can't you be like this kindly gentleman next to me, reading a paper with both hands?
How about the guy over there, using both hands to hold onto a pole... and no, NOT THAT POLE.
Or what about your pockets? They're nice, spacious, friendly. Why not check them out??

Because, see, I'm not above calling you out to everyone on this train. Your hand on my ass makes my whole body shake with fear and loathing and more fear and a ton of frustration. And I continue to shake for the entire walk to my office, because you have violated me in such a subtle and evil way. Did you do it on purpose? Maybe not, I have no idea. Did you do it because you could? Probably. Do I want you to do it?

Not in the fucking least.

Love and kisses,

Kate

the saga about the door

So I live in this railroad apartment that looks something like this (I've drawn the whole floor so you get a sense of things)

As you can see, our apartments are laid out slightly differently, but the main doors for both come from the hallway into our kitchens. And my kitchen is right next to my bedroom (so as to more easily facilitate midnight snacking!)

My neighbors are, for the most part, decent people. They're married and recently moved to the city from grandma's apartment on Long Island (or something) and they enjoy music and food and generally good times. And there are two of them living in the space I inhabit by myself. I really have no complaints against them.

Ok, that's a lie. I have two.

1. They periodically have these blood-curdling SCREAMING matches where no holds are barred, no volume too loud, and if there were more doors in our apartments, they would all be slammed. At one point, I heard one shout at the other "I HOPE YOU DIE SO I CAN SPIT ON YOUR DEAD BODY!!" Good times.

So there's that; and

2. They slam their door any time they go in or go out, and often times, that's at 3:00 in the morning.

I've acknowledged that there's nothing I can do about #1 (except maybe slip the name of a couples' counselor under their door... although being single now, perhaps the name of my counselor isn't the best suggestion...) but as for #2, I had to try something. My beauty sleep was at risk!

The slamming had been going on for quite some time, but I had been spending a great deal of it at my (now ex-)boyfriend's house up the street. Once it started to bother me, though, I left a note to the neighbors, kindly begging them to cease the slamming.

They wrote back that since his grandmother had died, they didn't need any more stress in their lives and would try to be more quiet.

(There was a secret logic at work in that note which, to this day, I haven't figured out) Nothing got better.

Round two: I left a snarkier note saying that the slamming didn't bother me, except when it happened at 3 a.m. Still nothing.

Round three: Went to the landlord. Begged him to do something. He said that he lives right next to the front door of the building and if I want to talk about slamming I can call him any time. Yeah, still nothing.

Round four: Fume.

Round five: Wake up early after having the door slammed at 3 a.m. and slam the door into the living room, just for effect. Nothing.

Round six: Start screaming every time the door slams.

Round seven: Wake up with the slamming of the door. Unable to get back to sleep, go to their door and secretly masking tape the back of their door ornament (this attractive metal and glass hanging thing that CLANGS every time the door slams) to the door in a fit of pique.

Round eight: Go back to the landlord. Boss him into dealing with the situation. He says he'll take care of it when he comes back from vacation in May.

Round nine: Go to the neighbors myself to see what the fuck is going on.

Round ten: Quietly, solemnly and tearfully admit defeat, as I see that they have two deadbolts, and neither of them line up well enough for them to be able to close the door with anything resembling quiet. The landlord will have to replace the entire door frame for this problem to be fixed.

So now I know that they aren't doing it to be mean or out of any kind of laziness, selfishness or stupidity. They just need a new door.

I can't wait for May!

THE MORAL OF THE SAGA:This whole issue with the door is something that my ex-boyfriend could easily have taken care of (even fixed, perhaps) if I had asked him to. It would have been a no-brainer for him, as he's very handy and excellent with tools and fixing things. But he's not here to take care of me anymore, and I knew that nobody else could address this situation for me. I loathe confrontation of any kind, so just asking them to stop slamming made me nervous. But I'm very proud of myself (I've earned my muscley profile picture!) for dealing with this myself. And for only crying part of the time.

a tribute to my brother-in-law

The first weekend in May, my family is having a Clean Out the Basement Weekend, and I've been invited to join them for the fun in CT. And while, to most normal people, that sounds something akin to having a Long Weekend at the Dentist's, it actually could be kind of fun. Especially since my sister and brother in law will be coming in from Boston.

This morning I started thinking about the way my family (pre-Scott, my brother in law) has always operated -- we've always had very distinct roles to play every time we've gotten together. For example, when we used to go on vacation, this is how it worked:

Mom plans everythingDad pays for everythingPriscilla (I still reserve the right to call her Polly, but will endeavor to use Priscilla) bosses us all into doing everythingand I step in in case of an emergency

So I was imagining a whole weekend of not really having a role in my family (which sounds far more dramatic and psycho-babblish than I really mean it to) and thought that maybe I'd skip the whole affair, until I remembered that Scott would be there. Because he's kind of like a twin me, except shorter, smellier and faaaaaaaaaar more patient with my sister. So if I had no role to play, I'd at least have Scott to play with (unless, of course, my sister co-opted him first).

One of the seventeen million reasons Scott is one of my favorite people in the world is the phone call I got a few weeks ago, which, paraphrased, went something like this:

Priscilla: Hi, it's me. I just want to say I'm sorry.
Me: For what?
Priscilla: You know how I poked you in the boobs all those years? I had no idea how annoying that was and I'm sorry I ever did it.
Me: Really?! And why is that?
Priscilla: Um, well, Scott sort of started doing this thing where he just randomly comes up to me and starts tapping on my breastbone and it really hurts and is really annoying.
Me: hmmm... sounds familiar.
Priscilla: So, I'm sorry.
Me: (into speakerphone) Scott, I LOVE YOU!

an office full of 12 year olds

So I work here:

And apparently, on the floor below us, they're doing some construction.

But all we hear is farts. Big, ripping, ass-flogging farts. The kind that go on for hours at a time, and you're in tears by the time they're done.

"WHOO! Excuse me!"

"Oh, Mexican night on the tenth floor!"

"Gee, Chrysler Building, can't you control yourself?!?"

Et cetera.

Yes, we're all twelve today.

local bands i'd marry if i could

I'd like to take a second and introduce you to two of my favorite local bands, hell two of my favorite bands anywhere. One's the Hillary Step, and you can find them here, and the other is Ahab Seamus, and you can find them here.

I got turned on to the Hillary Step because I worked with one of their members, Rob Schiffmann (see below left, although he looked more like below right, as we were doing a superhero comic book show together... well, he was doing a superhero comic book show and I was trying my best not to suck, but that's a whole nother story)

They can rock out and have a good time, but their sound is really smooth --not in a lame enya-like way. They remind me a little of the dixie chicks in the way they mix their harmonies (and have as many as three singers at a time). Their lyrics are smart, touching, blah blah blah, just go there and listen. Start with Olio, it's my favorite.

Ahab Seamus is fabulous in a totally different way. They sound sort of like what you'd get if you crossed Pearl Jam (or Dave Matthews) with Jethro Tull and threw in a violin for fun. Again, I dig their lyrics and their harmonies, and come on, they have a song called "Jesus of Iowa." When you go to their site (not if), listen first to, god anything, but start with "Purple Hangs Easy." You'll be glad you did.
I'm so not a music critic. I'm just telling you what I like and trying to spread the word.

UPDATE 4/25 -- The Hillary Step is now on myspace! They are thehillarystep and you should befriend them. I have!

how popular are you?

A question I haven't asked myself since those long lonely lunches in 5th grade... how popular am I??

I've been turned on to a new (?) website that is nothing but fluff, but right now a little fluff is what I need. It's called Consumating, and all you do is look at people's pictures, read their witty little snippets and give them a thumbs up or a thumbs down. You can also give them taglines, which are just searchable labels (I put "cute" "smartypants" and "wikkid_awesome" for starters).

Essentially, you can label people and put them down without ever leaving your computer! Could it be more fun (and mindnumbing)?

TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES:apparently there's some cool picture link thing you can do so that people from the outside world can just click on you and give you big fat thumbses ups, but I can't make it work.

So you'll just have to go here and do it yourself.

(I recommend thumbing up Steena and Sadie Sonic, too, because they're totally my friends, and if my friends aren't popular, well, then I guess it's back to lunches alone...)

stupid work emails

So, I work at a law firm, and periodically, we get some really fabulous emails circulating around here. I've weeded out all the really boring lawyerly ones, and picked my top three.

First, to the selfish macaroon hogger:

Second, concerning our future freedoms:

And last, but probably most telling about my office:

lions and tigers and house cats, oh my!

I had this dream the other night that I was at this hotel in the country somewhere (kind of like in Dirty Dancing) and my parents were there, and we were looking out the front windows (into the back yard, ironically) and we saw this little yellow house cat hissing up a storm. So we look over the hill to see what it's hissing at, and sure enough, here comes this HUGE lioness. And so everyone runs indoors and locks up all the windows (which was really panic-inducing, because none of them would shut easily) and the lioness was eating a bear or something, and that little old housecat was still out there, hissing its little head off.

And all I could think was how much I wanted to go out and save the cat.

Then I was running through a parking lot with Hugh Jackman, who had lost one of his little old lady slippers. But we had to get there (wherever that was) because we were late, so we never went back for the slipper.

Subliminal stress, anyone?

here comes peter cottontail

In honor of the pending easter holidays (and to try and cheer myself up a bit) I bring you... BUNNIES!

First off, we have Friendly Little White Bunny and someone who seems to be Possibly Grouchy Little Brown Guy:

Pretty Blonde Bunny (who apparently needs rescue in California): "Mom! Have you seen my bunnies?"

"Check the receptacle that artistically resembles a trash can, sweetheart":

One of these kids is doin' his own thing (which looks a little like his own thing is Wearing Bunnies As Earmuffs):

Then there's the indomitable Oolong who can be found here (Oolong is the Japanese bunny who balances things on his head -- or rather, balanced, until his passing a few years ago...):

That thought didn't cheer me up much. But good old toilet-paper-bunny-head helps.

And then, possibly the cutest bunny EVER:

Hoppy Easter!

PU at GCT

I'm just wondering how they manage to concentrate all the PUTRID ASS-FUNK OF DEATH into one corner of the subway stop in Grand Central. The stench there is so bad sometimes I actually consider barfing to make it smell better.

And the beautiful irony of it is that, for quite a while, actually, Clorox was running a billboard campaign in that corner (which, these days means running a put-it-on-any-remotely-solid-surface-and-call-it-a-billboard campaign).

"Let them share dreams, not germs." Yeah, let them share PUTRID ASS-FUNK OF DEATH, not the sweet, sweet bleachy smell of chlorine.

dorky new headset

So I'm in physical therapy for a mysteriously malfunctioning shoulder -- apparently my trapezius and serratus muscles on the right side are atrophied. They told me it's probably left over from an injury, but I have no recollection of hurting myself. And you'd think I would.

The result is my shoulder wings out at the bottom, giving me a pleasing chicken-y appearance.

As much as I hate the exercises and going to PT, the good part is that I'm not allowed to talk on the phone by holding it up with my shoulder anymore -- the physical therapist told me that was helping to cause the problem.

So I told the HR people at my office, and now I have a headset!

I'm the biggest work dork there is. But just think of all the other things you might think I was doing just by sitting at my desk...

I could be a travel agent!

A healthcare telemarketer!

an ad agency receptionist!

Or this guy!

I could also be Madonna or my dad, but I don't want to aim too high on my first headset day.

fabulous casting notices

So, I'm combing through my inbox this morning, trying to put off all the other work I have to do, when I come across an email with this subject:

Seeking Caucasian female, 25-40 for narration part in 1960's sexy films compilation

I'm thinking, "this is me! I'm 25-40, cute, Caucasian and sexy, I could totally do this."

I read on.

Seeking Caucasian female, 25-40 for an on screen narration part. The film is a compilation of campy sex films from the 60's. Must be wiling to work in black panties and stripper pasties,

Ok, well, that takes me out of the running, somewhat.

C to DD cups please.

Keeps getting better.

No accents. There will be no nudity or implied nudity.

Yeah, but there will be no clothes, either.

Production company projects in the past have included HBO, Disney Channel, Margaret Cho, Rita Rudner, Howard Stern, MTV and Nickelodeon.

Well, that's just fine and dandy, but what part of "narration part" implies pasties and panties?

jobs, jobs and more jobs

Life is comprised of a variety of jobs.(beware anyone who starts a posting with the word "life." you're bound to get some crack-brained, thought-of-in-the-shower theory. but keep reading anyway.)

JOB 1, THE PAYING JOB
So, obvsiouly, there's the job you go to to get paid. For me, that's a legal secretarial position that hogs up 7-8 hours of my day. This is the most time consuming job (most days) but it eats up slightly less mind power over 7 hours than does 1 hour of the NY Times crossword puzzle.

JOB 2, THE ACTING GIG
This is the job we all love and live for, if we're actors. It's the second-most time consuming job, what with rehearsals and performances, learning lines and all that gratuitous drinking with the cast (although, technically, that part falls under other categories as well). This is not to be confused with

JOB 3, THE ACTING CAREER
This job is exhausting. And can and should be performed at both jobs 1 and 2. This is about building contacts, doing mailings, meeting people and trying to get your next acting gig. I hate this part, but do it religiously. Ok, that's a big fat lie. I try to do it religiously. And if I say in public that I do it religiously, then I have to live up to that.

JOB 4, THE GYM
This shouldn't be a job. In an ideal world, this would be a recreation, a pasttime, fun, actually. But an actress in NYC has to add this to her list of jobs or eventually her ass will get too big for costumes and then what is she supposed to do??

JOB 5, THE DIET
Yeah, see job 4. This is a simple job for many people, but not me. And since job 4 is such a hassle, job 5 has to have its reins tightened now and then. Now, especially. Since I'm at Job 1 and boss #4 has just placed a big tray of pastries on my desk. And man alive do I want to eat them all.

JOB 6, THE RELATIONSHIP
Like job 5, this is not necessarily a time-consuming job, but it is certainly a mind-consuming one. Especially when your other half (like mine) is across the country.

JOB 7, THE SELF
This is an ongoing job and intertwines itself with all the other jobs. When job 7 sucks, you can bet your ass that job 5 will do poorly. And vice versa. This one can take up as much or as little time and mind energy as you let it, but rest assured this is the one job you really can't quit. But lord would I like to sometimes.

JOB 8, THE SOCIAL LIFE
At some point, I stopped organizing these jobs and just put them in a random order. This job hogs up a lot of time (if you want it to) and planning for this job hogs up even more, I'd argue. But this, like job 6, is a totally rewarding job once you get the hang of it.

JOB 9, THE FAMILY
A job that becomes much more time and mind-consuming as any holiday approaches. For me, this is a pretty mini-job, assuming we keep away from hot topics (i.e., jobs 3, 5 and 6)

JOB 10, THE FINANCES
Much of this falls under job 1, unless you have no job 1. It only factors in now because I haven't done my taxes.

JOB 11, EVERYTHING ELSE
This includes dating, drugs/alcohol (see job 8), video games, masturbation, sports, politics, travel, blogging -- whatever else you do that takes up your time and focus.

So, ok, who has time for 11 jobs? Nobody. And here's my point. When any one job gets out of control, the other ones are bound to slip. If you're having a hard time with your friends, chances are pretty good you'll overeat, or skip the gym (or conversely, undereat and over-gym) (except if you're me). So for everyone out there who is stressed because they're not getting EVERYTHING done, quit one job this week. And then next week, quit another one. Just don't quit the same job two weeks in a row.

p.s. I'm not actually qualified to give advice, so please don't hold me responsible if you actually choose to quit job 1 (which is the one job I actually recommend not quitting)