Wah-Wahhhh

(That’s the “you lose!” sound, not the sound of me crying.)

No callback.

I know, I know, I’m going to have to get used to rejection, take my medicine, it’s good for me blah blah but it still BLOWS THE BIG ONE.  It’s possible that I may have been a little high on my horse – riding high on all my good feedback, my Zoni nomination – so high that I forgot I only have two credits on my resume.  That’s not terribly impressive to a director.  And maybe I just didn’t audition very well, I don’t know.  I’m sure I could use a lot more practice.

I just hope this rejection doesn’t portend a coming trend.

Getting in the car right after I got the “sorry, sucka” email, I decided to tell Moo the news, because I think it’s good for her to see that we all have to deal with disappointments and frustrations:

Mama:  “I’m a little sad, Moo.  I found out I’m not going to be in that doggie show.”

Moo:  “Your audition, Mommy?”

Mama:  “Yep, everybody auditioned, and they decided they didn’t want me to be in the show.”

Moo:  “Ohhhh, Mommy.”

Mama:  “It’s okay!  I’ll be in another show.  It’s somebody else’s turn this time.”

Moo:  “Maybe a real doggy, Mommy!”

Damn.  I should have gone full-dog.

I’m Not Really a Farmer, I’m a Freshman

Back in 1988, I started high school at a private girls’ Catholic school, a magical land of short plaid skirts and cheesy pretzels for lunch.  Hoping for a fresh start from my more nerdy days in grade school, I carefully scanned all the girls during those first few days.  I spotted them quickly – my ideal group of friends.

They were perched on a picnic table during break, talking and giggling.  They looked pretty but not intimidating.  I had World Cultures with one of them and she seemed really smart.  One of them had really pretty hair.  Pretty hair is always the kicker for me.

So I scoped them out and tried to determine how to make my way in.  I realized the window was quickly closing, and soon, everybody would be firmly settled in cliques for keeps.  My mom and I had discussions over dinner – maybe I should compliment the girl with the pretty hair… maybe I should ask the smart girl a question in World Cultures… maybe I should just go up and introduce myself.  That’s such a mommish thing to suggest, and unfortunately it’s the one I chose.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, I just remember finding an open spot in their circle one day and laughing at somebody’s joke.  They didn’t shout, “Ignore!” and push me to the ground, or mark a big black X on my forehead.  They just refused to make eye contact with me, and slowly closed the circle until I was pushed out.  Boom. Rejected.

I didn’t hold it against them – my attempt at clique entry was lame at best.  By sophomore year I found a wonderful group of friends, in which I attained entry after interviewing with the queen bee and making her laugh with a joke about Mountain Dew making guys impotent – that is true, isn’t it?  But I always admired the other girls from afar.

Flash-forward almost 20 years, and here I am, best friends with Rosalind, who just happens to be dear friends with most of those girls from my most-desired clique.  She deviously hid this fact from me when we became friends at the end of high school.  Now, every Christmas when they all come back into town, they get together.  Rosalind always mentions it and I think, ooh, maybe this year I’ll get invited too!  But, alas, no invite.  Finally, when Rosalind mentioned it this year (and after I’d had two Bailey’s-on-the-rocks), I blurted out, “I wanna go!”  And instead of the circle quietly closing and pushing me out, this time I was allowed into the circle.  They even made eye contact with me!

The smart girl is still really smart.  The girl with pretty hair still has really pretty hair, and she says “shit” a lot, which makes me like her even more.  And though I would never want to go back in time and trade in my own treasured group of high school friends, I still glowed from finally being allowed into the clique of my dreams, for one glorious night of pear martinis and coconut gelato.  I made it!  For one night, I was cool.   Yes, all my dreams from freshman year in high school have finally come true.  Maybe I’m on a roll – I should call up the hot guy from “Sixteen Candles” and see if he’s finally ready to admit his love for me.

Boing the Octopus Says Go To Sleep

I really, desperately need Moo to nap.  She hasn’t napped in two days (20 minutes does not count), and we are beginning to suffer, as a Mommy/Moo unit.  Every reminder, delay, suggestion or bonk makes her wail, and every wail makes me bark things like, “Well, Moo, I was going to wash the dishes while you napped, but you didn’t nap did you? So now I have to do the dishes, and you should think about that the next time it’s time for you to snooze.  Got it?” Um, no.  She does not get it.  She’s 17 months old, and she just wants you to make Boing the octopus fall off the big ball and go, “Whooaa! I fell down!”  

It does not help that I’m tired, too, staying up late being bloggy, and it also does not help that I’m still checking my phone repeatedly, thinking maybe I misheard the director and he said he’d call today, or maybe he doesn’t need me to do callbacks because he just knows that they’re going to use me as a dancer, and will call soon to tell me.  And then I hit myself in the head repeatedly and turn off my phone, and then turn it on again and see that STILL no one has called, and then just put it on silent, but then change my mind and turn the volume up, when all the while I should just be making Boing fall off the big purple ball, because that is my Duty as a mother!  Snap to it, woman!

At this point I would just like SOMEONE to call me.  Anyone.  And this is from a woman who hates talking on the phone almost more than I hate cleaning the toilet.  But seriously, I will buy a cupcake for the first person who calls me.  With sprinkles!  I would just like to hear the damn thing ring.

Oh no, I hear snuffling from Moo’s bedroom.  Must make a dive for the couch while I can.

 

Strike 1

It’s 1999 all over again!

No callback.  And I don’t know why I would have expected anything different, since the only thing I’ve done since the last time I auditioned for Tempe Little Theatre is get older.  (I mean, besides graduate from collge, get married and have a baby.)

I know I should not feel as crushed as I do.  I know it was just the first audition.  But I’m having a bit o’ trouble getting the following thought out of my head: Apparently, I suck so badly that I’m not even good enough to VOLUNTEER my services in the chorus of a show at a VOLUNTEER community theatre.  I mean, that’s bad.

That’s really bad.

I guess this is when I’m supposed to shout “I’ll show ‘em!” and charge out and get better and better until suddenly I’m the next Fred Astaire (except, you know, a girl).  If you haven’t heard the story, after his first screen test, Fred Astaire’s evaluation read, ”Can’t act. Can’t sing. Balding. Can dance a little.”  So maybe mine said, “Can’t act. Can’t sing.  Getting kinda fat.  Can dance a little.”

Problem is, I seem to lack the i’ll-show-em gene.  It’s much more in my nature to politely agree that I suck (Herbie really wishes I would stop saying that) and back slowly out of the room.  It always seems like people who possess that attitude had very troubled childhoods, so damn you! Mom and Dad for my lovely, sunny childhood.

I thought I was oh-so-very-grown up about this whole project, with all these years of self-analysis.  I was so very ironic and sardonic about the whole thing.  And sure, I wrote the words “rejection” and “humiliation” with ease, but when those feelings really settled in around 5 o’clock, MAN this whole quest seemed like the stupidest idea ever.  So I sat there on a bench at Desert Ridge mall with Moo and cried like a big ol’ wuss.

“Mommy crying?” said Moo, touching my arm.  “Mommy sad?”

“Yes, Mommy’s sad,” I said, thinking that my Moo was the sweetest baby in the whole entire world.

Until she recognized my weepy sadness as the perfect opportunity to steal my keys without my noticing.  Little rascal.  Maybe I can borrow some of her moxie for my next audition.

You Have No New Messages

As time ticks on, I feel more and more certain I won’t get a call.  Dance didn’t matter to them before, so why would it now?  And now I know that it was a mistake to try singing in my higher register, which I’ve never done in public before - why the hell did I choose my first audition to challenge myself like that??  I should have belted in my lower register, where I’m more confident.  For those of you who aren’t terribly familiar with singing parlance, higher register basically means, “tra la la lalalalaa!”  And belting means, “DA DA DA DA DAAA!”  I’m sure you’re totally clear on that now.

But anyway, as my imminent rejection draws closer, I’m realizing that I had forgotten just how crappy rejection feels.  It feels, like, really crappy.  Maybe even shitty.  And I hate how I traipse around the house keeping the phone right by my side, even though deep down I don’t think it’s going to ring.

I guess maybe there was a little part of me that hoped my deeply prejudiced loved ones, Herbie and Rosalind, were right and I’d get cast right away.  Maybe even a lead role!  So silly.  It’s funny how even in the midst of great self-doubt, you can imagine yourself as the next stage superstar.

Shoot.  Guess I’m going to need to learn to handle rejection better – I mean, I’ve only been rejected at auditions like three times – professional actors face rejection every day!  Jeez, get a spine, woman!

At least Moo is napping, or pretending to nap, which is the best excuse I can think of to go grab a nap myself.  And hope to be awakened by a ringing phone.