Getting Girled

Things that feel good:

• Having that moment when you realize that you love yourself so hard regardless how many setbacks or failures or shit times you've been part of or gone through: that unmistakeable voice from within that's like "you're fucking cool...you just are - and there's no way or need to prove it. Just is." Boom.

• Recognizing your "tribe:" when you reflect on people in your life and the ones who always show up for you, have no excuses, let you down honestly, pick you up enthusiastically, recognize your dharma while seeking to fulfill their own.

• Music appreciation: when you are singing or listening to or referencing a song that is common to none yet heralded by few and finally acknowledged by someone other than yourself as masterful. Like you've just eaten a Mars bar or snorted cocaine kind of feels.

• Art appreciation: see above but replace "music" with any other relevant art. Art as drug.

• That feeling you get when you get Girled: when a person calls another person Girl as a sign of solidarity.

...

I haven't been on this page for a while. It's nice to be back. I think I have a lot to say. Working on that...

Olivia had a pimple today. The same day that one of the boys asked her if she was going through puberty. He got sent to the principals's office and she kept a stiff upper lip until she broke down in tears when she returned home this afternoon. So we talked and I introduced her to cleansers, mud masks and spot creams. She told me she didn't want to grow up. I agreed but also asked what kind of pets she would have when she got older. She said a rhinoceros, a stegosaurus and a llama. I said she could certainly consider the first and the last but there are, unfortunately, limitations to being an adult. In this era. So she replaced the stegosaurus with a bird and added some fish - because cats and dogs are too "high maintenance."We are now best friends...at least until the next "wave" hits - which will probably be tomorrow morning. I am so in love with that girl. Hope she saves some room for me next to the llama because, as everyone knows, rhinos fart too much.

Ms. Universe...

I would like to send a special shout-out to Ms. Universe. And, no I don't mean Miss Universe (a.k.a. the hot pageant chick I never was (eeew, Donald) but cranky, old Ms. Universe who probably insists on using "Ms." because "Miss" is just too diminutive and fussy for her and Ms. has a period which she doesn't want anyone to ever forget she has every month. Much like the Mother Nature character in the Tampax campaign. Lerv her.

But she must be going through menopause or something the way she's gotten all psycho on my life's destiny. The roller coaster I have been on in just the last two months has been unreal. I went from dreams of stuffing my family in an oven during the holiday "snurricanes" to a ridiculous two week diversion from everyday life shooting a commercial at a luxury resort in Florida - missing two entire snow "events" (as they are now called)...and getting paid to do so.

This morning I awoke after a weekend of being play-date-central in an utter stupor - exhausted to the point of depression - and was seriously not able to actually awaken until I belted my way through a song I was preparing for today's callback. I literally belted myself awake. It was embarrassing. But the callback went well and, best of all, as I was scouting out places to park my car, some heavenly saint of a guy actually hailed me to stop so he could offer me his parking space. Unreal.

So, in between and the snow, the resort and today I've broken down in tears in the middle of Home Depot (thanks to some devastating news) only to return home and score a meeting with a high-level producer regarding the show I wrote, had a root canal, a billion auditions, read a million FaceBook posts about everyone else's shiny new job, had a thousand callbacks, had a director not remember what I did in his show (blow me), lost 15 lbs., received an oil bill over $800 and, finally, cashed a ginormous cheque for acting services rendered for aforementioned commercial shoot.

So, I'm thinking Ms. Universe may need some hormone replacement therapy because she just can't seem to decide whether she wants my life to be a living hell or heaven on earth. What's funny, is it's all starting to feel the same - all the highs & all the lows - which is very Buddhist of me. I like that - I think I'll slap that religious monicker on my FaceBook profile which will surely make me universally envied and adored. Take that, Ms. Universe...

Good plan.

Double Dream Hands.

ok - I know some of you have seen this video before - my gay totally doused my fire last night by telling me he'd already had his moment with it weeks ago - but OMFG, words just cannot describe....

what is it about this video that keeps me coming back for more?!? is it the raw, unbridled enthusiasm of John Jacobson? is it his perfect commercial wardrobe? is it his uncanny likeness to Gary Busey? is it because he embodies all that Americans try not to be (but always fail) when they travel to Europe?

I don't know - but it's caused me to diddle away over an hour despite the fact that I desperately need to pack for a two week commercial shoot in FL. hopefully, I'll have some more time to think about why I love this so - and also fill in all the missing months since I last posted. in the meantime, I'll leave you with this:

and you are so welcome.

Fat Girl Slim

I know how long y'all have been anxiously awaiting my next post - crossing your chubby little fingers that I have not fallen off the no-jazzies-in-my future bandwagon - and I'm happy to report that my fat skirt is back to being a fat skirt again. Didn't take much - just 5 lbs. - but they was hard fought my brothers. I had foot surgery over the Christmas break which sidelined me from working out quite a bit. Instead, I decided to do what everyone else with OCD and a surgical shoe would do - I started a food journal. Wow.

Since the universe is always looking out for me, it decided to send a note in my daughter's backpack one day asking for donations for a big "snack sale" to raise money for Haiti. I immediately ran to my cupboards (surely burning a point without even trying), hoping to find some errant Cheetos or chocolate chip cookies in there, but - alas - the shelves only echoed when I swung the doors open. I think I heard a faint chuckle coming from the box of 20 calorie crisp bread - and that's when I saw them. The skorpor.

It is amazing to learn the calorie content of Zweiback toast (a.k.a. skorpor). First, you have to remember how it's spelled. Then, Google it (to be sure it's the same thing you were eating) because the online journal I'm keeping doesn't list Ikea food, for some reason, and Ikea doesn't think Americans deserve to know the calorie content of their skorpor because who, other than myself, actually buys them? Then, flush red from the realization that a single serving (3 pieces) of Ikea skorpor contains a whopping 140 calories which is, on the pious and spare plan, thoroughly unacceptable! So what to do with this adorable bag of not-even-that-delicious snacks? What anyone else wouldn't do...sell them!

Taking my cue from those good old gals from the days of WWII, I pulled out a bag of Ziplocks, stickers and a sharpie and packaged each one of those sweet little toasts into individual servings for all the kids of PS77 to buy at lunchtime. I labeled them "Cardamom Toasts" so as not to seem too obscure and included "Nut Free" because you have to do that even if it's a fucking bottle of water. Then I was just about to write the calorie content on the labels when my mind turned to Haiti. Then back to the image of over-privileged kids, then to under-privileged kids, then cranky teachers, then grateful teachers, then fat mommies, then...dead mommies. Needless to say I decided it didn't fucking matter how many calories the skorpor were, they just needed to do something more than annoy me and maybe, in the very smallest of ways, maybe help someone else. So, off I sent them in my daughter's backpack - along with a couple of dollars for her to buy some snacks, too. The skinny little minx.

So for that, yes, Virginia, there is a fat skirt. And, like Christmas, may it only ever come out once a year - if ever again.

Where we often may feel we can't do anything, there are actually many things we can do that, funnily enough, even benefit our overly-stuffed lives. My thoughts, dollars and skorpor are all for Haiti. God bless them all....

"soccer mom" thriving under self-imposed house arrest!

I was ruminating, today, (remarkably, for the first time) about the fact that I'm so often called in for "soccer mom" roles.

take, for example, my fine work in that "cheese" audition. (they called me back in, friends, yes they did!) they LIKED my saucy take on grocery shopping, I guess, only this time I was asked to pretend their store had everything I could ever want for my Thanksgiving table. well, yes, if that menu is comprised solely of whey protein, egg whites and filtered water.

then there was the one-liner I went in for yesterday for a show being produced by none other than my most underwaringest, break dancingest, Dirk Diggleriest friend - ok, we're not friends...yet - (cut to mug shot of me after my arrest for breaking into his house dressed as Roller Girl) now producer, Mark Wahlberg. I had a fantastically plot-driven line as I drive up in my Volvo "what the hell are you doing on my property?" nailed it.

and then there is, of course, the reality that I was cast as not only one but two different soccer moms in the hit off-broadway show, Secrets of a Soccer Mom? I'm sure you saw me in it - I went on once.

am I a soccer mom? no. do I look like one? I guess so. I guess so...

so, seeing as I am now more woman than girl - not as in when my dad approached me, arms outstretched, in the garage after I had divulged to my mom that I had begun getting my period saying "oh, honey, you're a woman now."(thanks, mom.) these words to my ears after I had just witnessed my poor dog, Molly, getting molested by the local squire dog of New Cannan, CT ...probably named Tristram or Buckley or something equally irritating...in that very garage!! but in the sense that I look a certain way (like a soccer mom, perhaps?!) and can pretty much be counted on to look that way without too much thought or effort on my part - I am trying to embrace my new role. this is all aided by the decidedly soccer-momish wardrobe that I've amassed for such auditions...added to the fact that I grew up in fucking New Cannan, CT.

really.

there is a disconnect, however, with the "being" that I think I am inside and this new outer veneer. oh barf, I know, like anyone needs to hear about my self-realizations - well, suck it, people, it's my blog and you'll just have to weed through it all to get to things that interest you.

anyway - here's where it gets tricky. you see, inside, I have all of these really contrary thoughts to what I'm now being told I look like and I've found myself doing everything possible over the years to shake up that perception of myself. I had my nose and navel pierced (have since removed both piercings as different doctors kept making fun of my xrays. idiots.), I learned "to Roller Derby", I write blogs with lots of swear words, I enjoy things of an outrageous nature - like the exhibit I'm planning to see this evening of clothes made of marshmallow peeps - check it out: and I'm a frikkin' actress which, certainly, is the complete antithesis of soccer mom. god, this is making my brain hurt.

but I think I may have found the glue that makes the irreverent, slutty person inside adhere to the waxed and polished facade I present to the world. the glue? I am not just any soccer mom, I am now the ultimate soccer mom. I am:

Martha Stewart...in JAIL!

I'm so excited to present for you my proof...

exhibit one: I am eating much like Martha in jail - no processed foods, no dairy and no booze. I am given rations (albeit by myself) and if I want to cheat I have to either hide it under my mattress or in an orifice. I don't cheat much. and I am so much fun to be with these days! come on over! I can eat you, too, if you're less than 3% fat and no sugar!

exhibit two: just like Martha in jail, I lost 3 (THREE!!! weight-watcher's fatspirationalists give me a hell yeah!) pounds so far being incarcerated in my own self-imposed diet jail.

exhibit three: I am (still!) being paid a weekly stipend for being unemployed - just like Martha in jail who, likely, was afforded her own weekly stipend to barter for necessities such as crumpets. or verbena.

exhibit four: the fight club class I'm now taking will, ultimately, teach me how to kick some prosecutor's ass should I decide to sell any stocks. oh, right, I'm an actress I don't own stocks. do I?! (she guilelessly twirls a blonde tendril...) I really like this class and, just like Martha in jail, every time I bend over it hurts!

so, between my self-issued uniform of sweat pants, blonde bob and sensible sneakers coupled with the brain and mouth of Matron Mama Morton - don't even try to set me free!



lock me up, officer Craig, for I have done wrong and I have a lot of time to serve. thanks, Martha, for being such an inspiration and for helping me see just what I've been missing all this time. I'll see you and your brioche on the other side....

the "Mommie Dearest" effect

i've been thinking about the character, Mommie Dearest, lately - because that's just what I do - and contemplating the effect that like-minded mothers indubitably have on their offspring.



had it not been for the stunning work of the incomparable Faye Dunaway, we may never have understood why our mothers did some of the things that they did. and now that my dear mother is comfortable enjoying a Manhattan in the sky while I am still dealing with alternate side of the street parking in Manhattan, I thought I'd reminisce...

(here's where I cue my mother's award-winning but sad star turn in her later years as the crazy drunk lady slipping off the couch claiming "I am the madwoman of Chaillot...and you are too!!!") ok, so while I'm not skidding down any armrests with the bottle of gin I'd hidden in the birdseed, I am only too aware of how close lady apples can fall from their trees. (is it wrong to think that it's cute that my daughter says "show-veen-yown-blon" when the waiter asks what I'd like to order?) one eye open, Luvy, one eye open...

so back to Mommie Dearest - take, for instance, the wire hangers scene. I recall thinking, after one of the dozen times watching it, "if that had been me, Mommie Dearest, I would NEVER have let wire hangers anywhere near my closet. they would have been where they belong...under Christopher's bed where Carol Ann would find them." just like my brother, Peter's CLUB magazine which I discovered and promptly hid under his pillow the morning of his Eagle Scout coronation. TIMING, baby, I gots it!!

poor Mommies, though. being compulsively clean and orderly is draining when you don't have $2 million bucks to spend on cleaning ladies. and being a mother and actress can be utterly brain-splitting work at times. it's pretty weird to drop off your kid at school with all the other parents likely thinking that you're going to return home to do the laundry, (because you look just like them - see my Soccer Mom post - http://luvyhowl.blogspot.com/2009/10/why-staying-in-jail-can-be-fun.html) but you actually go the other direction and drive an hour into the city to audition for the role of a sexy single cosmopolitan lady trying to pick between two stuffed animals for her niece in a mall. and then there's of course, the vibrator audition...ahhh, I do live the glamorous life, don't I? I'm still trying to figure out whether I looked like I used a vibrator too much or too little...?!? please advise. actually don't bother, I broke mine a few years ago so that probably answers that.

speaking of vibrators and auditions, I was in the city just the other day for a callback for an interstitial I really hope I get because the writing was GENIOUS (if you're reading, Nick at Nite - I'll do it naked if you cast me. ok, I'll wear extra clothes.) and now I'm going to get a little raunchy so cover one eye and keep reading if you're feeling randy, otherwise hold the apple key and "w" and the window will instantly close until you're in the mood again. so I was early, which is something that almost never happens with me, but the trains all forgot their galoshes or something that morning and were threatening delays, so I took an earlier one. I had two hours to kill which got me thinking...I never have two hours to kill but when I do one of my favorite pastimes is to...well, you know "take care of business." not for two hours - that would just be indulgent and annoying but the idea of two hours free is quite the turn-on these days. and, of course, once I even thought of it, it's all I could think about. now, I might not be like most women, but I know you men out there are used to being friskier than a box of catfood. and society recognizes that - they built you dirty playhouses, sectioned off parts of video stores, published scores of naughty magazines, but what about the ladies? what do we get, Playgirl?!?? bwah ha ha ha! even the gays don't read that anymore! I get more titillated by the Pottery Barn catalog. where is OUR pretty playhouse? where is our "special section" at the video store - and don't insult me anymore Cinemax - your porn is about as stimulating as a Yani video.



oh, my God - I actually just watched that. if you can bear to listen until the end, can you please tell me why the Dukes of Hazard music kicks in around 3:04??? WTF, Yani???

anyway, wouldn't it be nice, if there was a pretty, pretty place with soft lighting, Yani-free music, candles that smell like desserts and an expertly tailored chaise lounge for all the poor lady folk out there who need to kill a few hours?

well, there isn't. so what did I end up doing? visiting my enviable friend, Julie, to see her perfect duplex, perfect baby, perfect husband and perfect body. nothing like an unhealthy dose of comparison to shake all those lewd thoughts out of my head. how could I possibly imagine pleasuring myself, when I don't have an integrated fucking dishwasher?!? or custom cabinets. that were labeled, y'all - as in, "winter clothes" "summer clothes" "clothes I look so amazing in I don't even bother to wear because I think I'll just get laid all day since my husband works from home?" I quickly told Julie that I had to go and skulked into Ivy Nails where I imagined that the Korean girl massaging my hands was actually me and that my fingers were really little penises. and then I was all better.

now that I think about it? I'm not at all like my mother. and I think she was ok with that. and if looking like I use a vibrator too much means I don't book commercials like this:



I'm reeeeally ok with that.