What happens so fast

Something happens after you've worked for a while.

You get used to it. You get used to the lights and the PAs. You don't bat an eye at craft services or feel a need to stuff your purse with extra granola bars (because they're free, and they're good, and they're there). You don't flinch when makeup comes and pats your face with powder, or when the 2nd AD asks you for your special meal request so that someone can go pick it up and have it waiting for you in your trailer. (This, by the way, is not at your prompting, but rather how they are choosing to do lunch for the leads...."What would you like? From anywhere. Just name it.")

Even as awesome as that is. You say thank you and smile, and think that's cool.....but you get used to it.

You even get used to the director actually caring what you think, and wondering if you'd like another take. And the novelty of being able to take a shower in your big old trailer.

Well, I'm still not over that one. That's pretty fancy.

But as I'm sitting here on my lunch hour, what I wish is that I could get back to that feeling at the beginning. The nerves. The stomach in knots. The panic over remembering your lines, and unbridled enthusiasm over being on an actual set. Like a real life set.

I would love to remember that feeling. And this is not to say that I'm not grateful, because my god, do I count my lucky stars every day that this is my job. But that feeling when you're not used to any of it. That look in the eyes.

I saw it today in one of the extras. It was as though she was afraid to talk to me, but I could feel her stare as I was sitting in my set chair (with my name on it, which, strangely, you also get used to) typing on my blackberry. The gaze of "I want that."

I know that look because I used to make that look. Still do when I'm working with A-listers whose trailers are the size of my house. I wonder what that would be like.

But what's so validating is that in as little time as it took me to go from being a costar and longing to move up from the extras holding area, is as little time as it may take to have that massive dressing room.

A couple days ago I saw Melina Kanakaredes of CSI NY fame. I had worked with her years ago. I had looked at her with that longing in my eyes. How people fussed over her, yet how kind she was. I wanted that so badly. Because with my handful of lines, of which I toiled over, she was so smooth. Such a working actress.

When I saw her the other day, and reminded her that we had worked together, not only did she remember vivid details of that day, she remembered what we had talked about. She gave me a hug and said "Of course I remember. Congrats on how far you've come."

And that is when I thought -- "Holy shit, I am an actual working actress too."

It happened just that fast.

And my hope is that the girl doing extra work today (Jenny, originally from Michigan), will remind me of this day on set in a couple of years, and that I'll be able to look at her and say,

"Of course I remember. Congrats on how far you've come." And mean it.

When will it be enough?

I was having brunch with my agent on Saturday, and breaking bread to discuss the project I'm working on. OK, half of that was a lie. There was not a morsel of bread eaten at that meal. A big chunk of baguette does not make my face look very camera friendly.

Or maybe that's just in my head. Correction: it is totally in my head. Because here's the thing -- I'm a foodie. I love to cook, I know the best places to eat, I know all the dive places to find the most amazing cheap eats, and in my mind hot sauce and it's multitude of variations is its own food group. And I do this thing (which is so stupid) where I indulge and enjoy, and always eat sensibly but deliciously, and then panic right before a shoot.

Now mind you, I've been doing fittings, and the wardrobe dept keeps telling me I am "perfect Barbie actress" because clothes fit like a dream, and still...STILL, I go to the crazy actress place of worrying if I'll look good on camera.

Part of it has to do with the fact that I was eating with my agent. One that I don't see too often. So I feel very eager to please and impress, and be the "perfect Barbie actress" who doesn't eat bread before a shoot. And even though my boyfriend reminds me constantly that my agency is lucky to have me (and not the other way around), I am still the girl who remembers just how hard it was to get an agent in the first place. Years ago, when I walked into a dank little office and prepared sides in the hallway, and held my breath hoping this guy (this old tattered jaded agent) would say yes to me. And he did. And I was fucking thrilled. And even with him, who was submitting me for god-awful projects, I would drop off cookies, and send thank you notes, and constantly thank him for getting me appointments (which by the way, is his job). But that didn't occur to me then. I was always in fear of being dropped.

So as I ate my omelette, and a couple bites of those blessed rosemary potatoes, I said to my agent, "I really hope this is the one. That this project changes things, because let's be honest, I've been through the ringer."

He quickly stopped me as I was getting into a lament of how much I feel I deserve this and reminded me that it's never about the one project. It's about the length of your career. Because first it's 'I hope this show goes,' or 'I hope this film is a success,' to 'I hope we don't get cancelled,' or 'I hope I won't be recast." And it keeps going: 'I hope we can renegotiate," "I hope we have a second season."

And as I listened and agreed (because it's true), he said "And for some reason actors, ALL actors, when they finally get it, what they've been chasing this entire time, they're never happy."

Which is a frightening thought, and begs the question -- when is it enough? Where your career is, what project you have, how your body looks, what the critics say, what the fans say, the director you're working with, the offer you want...and on and on and on."

I think it depends on the day, because there are some days when I'm having a "Gabourey Sidibe day" -- where I strut and smile, and just exude that I am the hottest most confident, joyful, grateful thing in the world, because I 100% believe that. Like she seems to, and God, do I love that girl.

And other days (which are thankfully few and far between) where I'm either girling out, or succumbing to toxic actor-y thoughts. And I say 'actor', because it's PC, yes, but mostly because the guys do it to. You should see the guys I'm working with ("what did that exec think of me?," "I have to cut out alcohol and run six miles a day before the shoot.") Yep. We're all fucking nuts.

The point is to not let this industry make you crazier than you were when you started out. And it will to a certain extent. It's tough. We're in the business of being rejected most days of the week, so of course your mind is peppered with thoughts of self-doubt, but you have to trust that you are enough.

Everyday doesn't have to be a Gabourey Sidibe day, but you better eat a couple potatoes and enjoy the ride.

Otherwise, what is the point?

Dance Monkey Dance!

This is a running joke I have about our job as actors. What's funny is that it's not a joke.

We had a hair and makeup test last week (where they do your hair in about four different looks, and doll you up four different ways so that you can sashay around in a perfectly lit set and have the DP tape you "modeling" these looks for the execs, studio, director and various others). Dance monkey, dance.

Then, your costar (especially if its your love interest on the project) enters the set and the director tells you to pretend like you're laughing at something funny together, and to not actually talk but to joke around. When you ask, "Wait, just laugh?," he will then say, "Yeah, you know...like what audiences like to see. Just laugh, and maybe fix his tie and move a little." Dance monkey, dance.

And later in the week, when you have a swanky dinner with your hard hitting producers, executives and the rest of your castmates, and the execs feel they have carte blanche to get wasted, but you have one wee drink (because you are conscious of the fact that you can always be recast).....you smile, rub elbows, lay on the charm, and say little quips that make them all clink glasses. Call it what you will, but let's be real....Dance monkey, dance.

Even when an exec tells you that "everytime you wear that skirt an angel gets its wings," just moments before a seminar on sexual harassment and you smile and nod, or you walk a red carpet and they shout at you "Hey!! do something funny!," or when Shia LeBouef asks Michael Bay what his motivation is for a certain scene in Transformers, and the director replies, "Because I said run, so do it."

Dance monkey, dance.

Pre-production

Here's what my week is looking like:

-wardrobe fitting
-hair and makeup test (this is when they establish your character's "look" and take pictures of it on set, like a screen test -- to see what needs tweaking)
-table read with cast, producers, and executives

It feels good to be busy. To be on location. To be living in an apartment, rather than a hotel. Having a kitchen, and space, and a washing machine. The things that make it feel more like home. Not to mention, last summer when I was working on location and staying in a stunning little boutique hotel, I ended up washing my clothes in the bathtub and feeling like a caged gerbil everyday. Housekeepers knocking ever morning, and cleaning around my freshly washed undies and workout clothes hanging all over the bathroom. I took everything out of the minibar and filled it with Sriracha, plain lowfat Kefir, and carrots and hummus. Random, I know. But it's all that would fit. And at least that could supplement room service or having to eat out.

So to be here, with room to breathe makes being away from home much less frustrating. And having a toothbrush for my boyfriend by the sink makes me smile when I wake up. His presence is here, even if he's really at home in LA.

My costar set up his place in a similar way. Mementos and reminders of the things that make it feel cozy and less cookie cutter. His ipad scrolling through pictures of everything from Burning Man to old friends. He and I grabbed dinner last night -- talked about the project, commiserated over how much we miss our significant others, and figured out what we would spend our per diem on. (Per diem is the money they give you "per day" when you are filming away from home -- so that you can survive and get whatever incidentals you need. Think of it as an allowance. But you're not 10). Options we threw out there for our spending: wine, shoes, movie tickets, swanky dinners, saving it all for a vacation, or using it all to fly out our other halves to visit us (this, by the way, will happen with per diem or not).

For now, I am trying to pocket most of it. Tuck it under my mattress (like I'm in "The Godfather"), or in the bank (like I'm a responsible adult), and be smart about how I spend it.

Today's expenses: a bag of baby brussel sprouts, acorn squash (both are currently being roasted in my oven), fresh rosemary (that's in the oven too), some prosciutto, a bottle of delicious wine, multivitamins, Maldon seasalt, and Dr. Bronners castille soap. Oh and olive oil. Good good extra virgin olive oil. Not too shabby.

Off to tuck myself into bed at a shamefully early hour with a glass of wine and the revised script.

More to come....

This had to be done

...and I wasn't even hungry.

It was in the first class lounge at the airport.

I'm traveling for a job I'm working on, and when it's a big studio production they want to make sure you get there comfortably (with all the bells and whistles). So at 9am, after already having had a normal breakfast of kombucha and toast at home, I literally could not help but to eat from this first class spread.

It's not the working actress in me. It's the working class in me.

The part of me that didn't grow up with drivers, mimosas, or first class anything. The part of me that relishes the good life -- because on my own dime, there's no way in hell (even to this day) that I can rationalize spending the money for a first class ticket. It's the part of me that saves my miles for travel, waits for things to go on sale, and will take a sweater back to J Crew for the adjustment if I bought it for $90 and it got marked down the next week to $60. That's just how I am.

A couple years ago, when my jalopy of a car was on it's last leg (puttering every morning like a steamboat engine, and dying multiple times a day), I knew it was time to get a new car. And I was working. Consistently. I could afford it. And I felt like I deserved it.

For several months my shit kicker of a car had the license plate literally holding on by a thread - actually, it was duct tape and a bungee cord helping it cling to what little life it had left. One morning I went outside, and the license plate was gone. It had fallen off as I hustled from one audition to the next.

Or so I thought.

I bought a new car -- a European one, that literally took me days to accept as my own...because let's be honest, it was quiet and comfortable and plush, and everything that I wasn't accustomed to having -- and I came home to find a gift waiting for me from my beau.

It was my old license plate. Dented and dirty. Framed.

And beneath it there was a note inscribed: "So that you never forget the way up. I love you."

I never do.

The thing they know, but don't tell you

I love this magazine. It's from the Producers Guild, and every season it has some fantastic interviews and insight into the mind of a producer.

Here's the one thing they rarely tell you though (even in this magazine): they know the moment you walk in the door.

They know it's your part when they see you, the way you say hi, the way you sit, the way you remind them of what they've been imagining after endless sessions with so many actresses. They just know.

I've been told this before, but it was solidified when I had breakfast this morning at King's Road with the creator of a project I'm working on.

We were sitting down to talk about my character, and where she comes from -- all of those actory questions that could err on the side of annoying, but I didn't say to the guy, "What's my motivation?" (Because sorry, but that's just lame).

I wanted to pick his brain a bit about how he sees her. Thankfully, he loved that I was so excited, and invited all of my questions over omelettes and coffee that had me bouncing off the walls.

As I was rattling on about God knows what he said, "But you gotta know -- we all knew it was you when you walked in."

All I could think was "Stop time." (a la Evie of 80s awesomeness "Out of This World" -- and if you don't know that reference then I am currently feeling very old).

He went on to explain that some girls read the material and made her bitchy, but that I made her seem sweeter. To which I said, "Well yeah -- I don't see her as bitchy, so that didn't feel like the right choice to me."

He stopped me. "Well no, because that's not you. Some people just couldn't make those lines sound like-able; not from an acting standpoint, just by their nature. You just made us like her, because we liked you. Just the essence of what you brought to the role. It made sense." And then he continued eating his toast like this was as ordinary and matter of fact a thing to say as "the sky is blue." Meanwhile, I am beaming inside.

This was as humbling, as it was ironic considering this was the only audition that I felt I bombed. I wanted another shot at it. I was convinced that I sucked. (So perhaps my character is filled with worry and self-doubt. Who knows? Whatever it was, they liked it.)

Here's my point: as you toil over what outfit to wear, and how your hair looks, and what your motivation is, and all that other shit that you pay a fortune for each month, and stress over before each audition -- just know that what you bring to the role is something no acting coach could ever give you. It's 100% you. And you bring it with you when you walk in the door.

ROSH

The Jewish New Year is here, and whether you're Jewish or not, if you live in LA (and certainly if you are in the industry), you will probably be invited to some great Rosh Hashanah dinner.

I went to a Rosh dinner last night. A potluck. It was at a friend's home, and there were twenty people (all industry) breaking challah together. It was so much fun, and I didn't know the majority of the people there, so I felt the pressure to impress with a great dish.

I spent most of yesterday toiling over matzo balls. Whipping the egg whites by hand for forty minutes to garner some light and fluffy balls. Making stock from scratch, and lightly rolling these little clumps of matzo into forty small balls of goodness. It was my first attempt, and I gotta say, in my humble opinion, they were pretty damn good.

But the opinions that mattered more: my beau (of course), who would have been proud even if it tasted like sludge (because he's good like that), and these new friends that I made (who incidentally, asked me for my recipe, and praised how the soup was -- brace yourself --better than their mothers'!)

I mean....I can't help but think that one day when I'm testing for a role, and it's between me and one other girl, that some executive will say to the room, "I remember her. She makes a mean matzo ball soup. I like that girl. Let's go with her."

Is this a ridiculous thought? Yes. But is there a chance (even a small one) that it could happen? Yes. Because that is just how absurd this industry is. If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, the way to an executive's is not any different.

Moral of the story, if invited to an industry Rosh Dinner, make this soup:

Working Actress Matzo Ball Soup

Ingredients

4 large eggs, separated
1 tsp salt
Dash cayenne papper
2 tsp white onion, grated
2 Tbsp unsalted butter, melted (this is not kosher, so you can sub veg oil if you want)
3/4 C matzo meal
7 cups chicken stock (make your own or use Better than Bouillon, my personal short cut fav)


Preparation

In a medium bowl, beat the egg whites until they hold stiff peaks, set
aside. In a large bowl, whisk together the egg yolks, salt, cayenne
pepper, onion, and butter. Fold the egg whites into the egg yolk
mixture until just combined. Gently fold in the matzo meal in several
additions. Cover bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate one hour.
In a large pot, bring the chicken stock to a boil. Moisten hands
with cold water and roll the matzo mixture into 3/4 inch balls. After
all the balls are formed, reduce stock to a simmer, and drop matzo balls into the pot. Cover and simmer for 30 minutes. Do not even peek at them; let them sit there, untouched for 30 minutes. Then, remove with
a slotted spoon. Add some sliced carrots, chopped celery, and shredded roasted chicken to the broth until veggies are tender.
Add the matzo balls back in the pot, and finish with fresh dill.

Serve immediately, and be prepared to blow everyone's mind.

Note: Makes 20 medium-sized matzo balls

*Courtesy of Epicurious, April 2003 + many tweaks by Chef W.A.*

Week in review

1. In lieu of Emmy parties, I sat in bed feasting on wine, green tea ice cream, and a side of chips. Because I'm often times anti social, and enjoy little one woman parties of indulgence before I start shooting something.

2. Had an amazing lunch with my agent at Boa on Sunset Boulevard, because we like to think that we're fancy sometimes and enjoy foodie chat, people watching, and catching up. And because who else will read my mind and comment on how "oxidized" the tuna looks, because we both heard that term mentioned on Top Chef.

3. Spent the day with my mom on the island of Catalina, where we kayaked, biked around, and spent the day frolicking about having mommy and me time. Pretty awesome.

4. Had an appointment with my acupuncturist and a holistic chiropractor. Because it's LA.

5. Had lunch with my Beau and my dad, who handed him a stack of my baby pictures (cute) and my awkward phase pictures circa ages 10-12 (not so cute at all). Thank you mom, for letting me get the horrific haircut in the early 90s that will continue to haunt me for life. And thank you daddy for the sparkling reminder of said haircut today.

6. Indulged in some wine that literally blew my mind.

7. Went to see my grandma and brought her three $1 lottery scratchers, of which she won $20.

8. Helped my friend run lines.

9. Said to myself over and over again....."happy, thank you, more please."