Here's What You Missed

Dear Diary,

It's been a while since my last entry. I missed you. Did you miss me? I totes went MIA for a sec b/c some totally stupid casting directors stood me the f up at the altar. For two months, they strung me along, telling me how awesome I was, how much they loved my confidence, that all I had to do was just be myself, and then, at the last minute, they left me for another woman. I don't even know who she is or what she looks like, and I don't care. I don't care if she's prettier than me or can sing better or whatever. I hope they enjoy their off-Broadway run together and those casting directors can just think about what could have been.

So, there was a hiatus before the big let down when I slept, focused on my voice, and did a lot of positiv visualization. There were the two days after the audition when I went away to the country to cry on the beach, which, if you are going to cry, is a fantastic place to do it. Then came The Big News that I didn't get the part, followed by an immediate realization tht my life has gotten completely out of control and I am in desperate need of a new game plan, which pretty much brings us up to date.

A year ago I came fantastically close to an entirely different role, hosting a soft cable news show --think Lindsay Lohan jokes et al. Though I had no previous hosting expense, it made total sense that I would be perfect for this. And I was! All the way through contract negotiations, months and months of callbacks, until it went down to the final four, and I didn't book it. Bam. All kinds of gering up for ready for my life to go topsy turvey, upside-down, and in the anti-climax to end all anti-climaxes, everything stayed the same. Except that now, I was suddenly on a hosting track. I went up for all kinds of shows, worked on a hosting reel, did all kinds of mental and physical prep for this entirely new direction in which my career appeared to be heading.

And now that I came so very close to a life in musical theatre, I'm getting notes about the creative team's concern with the level of my dance training. For the record, I have no dance training. My level would be none. It all feels very "United States of Tara."

Which leads me to my next point, I've been a little off the ball these days for two reasons: one, I have no idea what the ball is anymore. And because of a skin cancer scare on the part of my manager, (she's fine) I haven't had a chance to meet with anyone to give me any inkling of clarity until tomorrow. Two, I'm depressed. Not spend all day crying in bed, crossing the street recklessly, fingers crossed that a taxi will smash into me and end it all depressed. More like the bartenders at my regular shows are worried about me because I haven't been drinking lately depressed. More like my girlfriend texts me, "I love you," and I text her back "xo" depressed.

The world keeps turning, and I am still on board for the ride. I just feel like sleeping a lot and watching "Dead Like Me" and "Pirates of the Caribbean" as opposed to whittling away hours at open mics.

Someday, my prince will come.

The "Cry" in "Crisis" -- (phonetic wordplay scores again)

The whole intention of this blog was to streamline. To focus. To work smart not hard. To say, "voila, stand-up. J'arrive!" And yet... and yet...

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury (lovers of Nabakov and Jeremy Irons get my drift) I am lost. I am hopelessly lost. I am a stand-up comic who continues to make her living as a burlesquer one, sweaty wad of bills at a time, and somehow found her way on track to be in a musical off-Broadway, on top of the regular acting work to which my body is accustimed and must, like a dancer at the bar, continue to do for fear of losing my training and, more importantly, my mind.

Every time I bump into a certain friend of mine who is a comic, I go through this cycle of crisis. My friend has made it as a comic. Pays the bills as a comic. Has a cool, not totally out of the realm of possibility for what I could do with my life, life. Every time I bump into him, I tailspin. I google people who are slightly more successful than I am and wonder what I am doing wrong. I hold onto years like a meiser holds on to gold: I may be twenty seven, but at least I'm not twenty eight. What, ho! She is twenty-nine. By the time I am twenty nine I'll be somebody, for sure!

And I am somebody. Nine out of ten days of the week, I love my life, my small piles of cash and dirt cheap apartment that comes fully equipped with a maddeningly long subway ride into the city  between two and a million times a day, depending on how much crap I can shove into one suitcase and how many numbers I have to do that night.

Today was a one in ten day. A not-so-sure-I-have-any-idea-what-I'm-doing-with-my-life day. I ran into the comic friend. We chatted. Life for both of us is going extremely well. He's gigging all the time, doing well, making TV appearances. I'm knocking on the door of the biggest role I've been offered to date. He's happy. I'm happy. He's slightly older than I am, so I don't do that weird jealousy thing with the twenty-nine! Ba-ha! (I'm not proud of that, by the way, but I still do it.)

And then WHAM! I get jealous. Not of his success, but of his ability to be one thing at one time, and for that to work so well for him. He doesn't wake up and spend thirty minutes making weird tarydactly noises to warm up his voice, then take Valarian root (herbal anti-anxiety reccomended to me by the head of ABC primetime casting due to nerves) go to a weird audition for something that he won't book, then to a rando photoshoot with some fella who is "super interested in burlesque and wants to shoot some downtown performers" then sit through two hours and a flat diet coke at an open mic, then to a Starbucks to blog, (thanks for the giftcard, Mom) only to end the night with one too many vodka on the rocks with olives "on the house" and false eyelashes half glued to his face at a burlesque show, only to wake up and do it all again. His life isn't perfect, but he at least gets to wear the same outfit for the entire day. I'm lucky if I make it in three or fewer.

Then again, I am rather fond of my trail of glitter.

Ugh! This is exactly what I'm talking about!

Today is a day where I wish I were more streamlined. Today is a day I wish I was a comic. Or an actor. Or a singer. Or on tour opening for Eddie Izzard across Europe and Austraila. Not... whatever it is that I am.

For 365 days I swore to be a comic. No option period. No way out. One year of mics every day. Now I'm not even sure if that's what it takes to be a comic, at all. There's a club. A club of people for whom this is their lives.They graduate to headlining at Caroline's. They book spots on Jimmy Fallon. They tour colleges and book the Chuckle Shack somewhere in the midwest and bitch about their day rate. I am not one of those people.

This week I had an acting intensive with my mentor who, because she is a filmmaker and single mom, only teaches about twice a year and does it out of a small town an hour upstate on the Metro North. She usually gives you about a week's notice, maybe two, which, for moi, means super early mornings on top of super late nights of shows for a week. This week it got so bad that I contracted a Urinary Tract Infection (my lady friend is out of town, so I can't even high five myself for getting sick from too much sexytime. Where were you on that one, ladyfriend?). A fucking horrible Urinary Tract Infection. A damage a muscle in my back because my kidneys are freaking out Urinary Tract Infection. A leaning across the counter at the pharmacy at Rite Aid telling the lady behind the desk that if, as she says, it will take about an hour to fill my $213 perscription, I will die, kind of Urinary Tract Infection. I cancelled a show for the second time ever since I've lived in NYC. It sucked.

It was my body's way of saying, "ENOUGH!" And I get it. It's too much.

I stayed in tonight. No mics. I shall focus on a writing project that I was supposed to finish two months ago. I will google people slightly more famous than I and wonder what I'm doing wrong.

Final callbacks for the off-Broadway show are this week. I have to sing better than I ever have before. I have to rid my body of infection. I have to sleep. Oh, god, I have to sleep. (Sleep is the biggest x-factor in one's vocal ability. You can cheat a lot of things, but when you are tired, your voice sounds tired and you damage it.)

Friday I slept for 13 hours straight when I laid down for a nap.

Oh, universe. Show me the path. Any path. Help me to shine and be shined upon. I am flinging so very much pasta being at the wall. Oh, please, help some of it stick.

On the upside, I get to perform in a Van Halen tribute burlesque show this Saturday at Joe's Pub. So I've got that going for me. Which is nice.


Sigh. Wanting things is the hardest part.

It was the best of times, it was the...

Show thirty one brought me back to The Ritz, my Monday haunt, which I host and adore. I count it as stand up, even thought it is technically pretty far away from The Boys Club of stand up because though I am committed to thinking like, acting like, joking like a true stand up for 365 days, the truth of it is, I am always going to be a little bit squarely. Should I stumble into an HBO special now or ever, lord knows most of it will be bedazzled. Sure, it's no tight twenty minute set at The Chuckle Hut in Walla Walla, Washington, and I have semi-permanent damage in my knee from abusing my right to wear stripper heels, but this is also my life. One of my dearest friends in the universe (she has been my best friend for 20 years, which is a pretty cool thing to be able to say at 27, if you ask me) was over at my house knitting as I finished bedazzling a bra.

"I can't believe you figured out a way to make this your life," she said, as she finished a knit and transitioned to pearl.

"Honestly, I can't either. Yet here we are," I replied.

Yes, here we are. Dollar bills shoved down my pants and in my bra in a $600/mo apartment off a train that shuttles when it's feelin frisky, no idea what tomorrow will bring, no idea what tomorrow will bedazzle, meltdowns on Mondays, tantrums on Tuesdays, what the fuck am i doing with my life Wednesdays, and rent due on the first of every month, whether I like it or not. But I do have low income health insurance, which is nice. Someday I dream of making enou money on the books to be eligible for low income housing, but as it stands, I'm only 66% of the way there. Why they set the poverty line so high, I have no idea. What do they think this is, the 90's?

Diving down, down, far far away from midtown and "Don't Tell Mamas" came show thirty-two at Eastville, a nightly mic where some of the big boys will come to lob a joke or two. It is also in a windowless basement, so the odd 5:30 on a sunny Wednesday when you know the sun is out, but you're trapped in a room that appears to have a Deatheaters touch in it's ability to suck the soul out of young, hopeful comics--sometimes visibly, I swear--is enough to make even the most optimistic grape in the bunch feel more vinaiger than wine.

And yet, we soldier on. I shall admit, at this point I very badly want to quit. But I won't. At least I haven't yet. Honestly, I don't think I will. I'm too much of an asshole to be a quitter.