...and I want my own dressing room!

I think I could do it better than her. Way better.

It’s Friday night and I’m alone surfing the channels trying to find a television show that would somehow psychologically make me forget that it’s Friday night and I’m alone. Good luck, right? Just when I thought that this was an unfeasible task, my pity party slowly began to fade as my attention was drawn to the following scene:

It was very windy at the campground and the family began securing their tent and other camping gear. Suddenly a massive tree falls over and nearly kills them all. The mother runs over to their camper, grabs the doorknob and is electrocuted. Her eyes roll back into her head and she falls backwards and begins convulsing violently. The loyal husband risks being shocked and pulls her away from the camper. The ambulance arrives and everyone lives.

It wasn’t the plot that caught my attention. It wasn’t the fact that this was a true story. What drew me in was that these were incredibly, horribly, embarrassingly bad actors. You know the type: reenactment actors. I don’t know where reenactment actors come from, but you see them all the time. They try really hard to have the same color hair or body type of the person they are reenacting. I wonder if that’s the only criteria. Acting skills not necessary?

I want to be a reenactment actor.

I think I could have done the electrocution scene with a little more pizzazz. Drama. Realness. As I’m typing, I’m rolling my eyes back into my head and I really think I’m doing a good job. I know I don’t have a mirror, but I’m feeling it. I’m feeling the scene. The moment. The pain. I could do this. When this horrible reenactment actor fell backwards, she more like sat down. I think I would have put more umph into it. I wonder if the reenactment director was tired of her at this point and found no sense in shooting scene #240. I would have leaped back away from the door and landed a little less strategically. She also didn’t do a very good job in the convulsing scene. She just looked like she was fake shaking. I would have done some background work to see how someone would truly convulse in that situation. I guess that would make me a “method reenactment actor.”

I wonder if she was a stand-in. Like maybe the real reenactment actor got sick and so her cousin’s girlfriend had to fill in. I don’t know who these reenactment actors are, but I don’t think they’re real actors. You never hear of a celebrity who used to be a reenactment actor. They never pull out old reenactment scenes to embarrass Julia Roberts. I bet Bruce Willis doesn’t have cheesy bank-robber-gas-station reenactment footage secretly stashed in a vault.

How difficult of a job could this be? It’s not like you have to keep a plot going. You don’t even talk much. You’re only on for two minutes max and most of the time you’re either running away from someone or running after someone. Is this a normal stepping stone in an actor’s career? And is this above or below Burger King commercials? It’s a coin toss really. I wonder if there’s an award ceremony for reenactment actors. Do they put their reenactment experiences on their resume?

Elizabeth Hurley
Reenactment Actor, 1984
“America’s Most Wanted”
Has experience in being chased and thrown in trunk. Won the RAA (Reenactment Actor’s Award) for best screams in a reenactment.

I think I’m a good screamer. I can run. I can even do them both at the same time. And since everyone is always saying to me, “You look like someone I know,” I think I could play just about anyone. I’d have reenactment parties and invite all my friends over. We’d huddle around the television with beer and pizza. Then I would humor them with behind the scene stories about the other reenactment actors. I’d sign fake autographs and be the life of the party.

I’m pretty sure I could do a good dying scene. I’ve already practiced rolling my eyes back. I can hold my breath for a while although it’s difficult to do while typing. Maybe tomorrow I’ll practice my “death fall”… do a John-Wayne-swaggered walk and grab onto a piece of furniture as I fall helplessly to the ground.

I wonder if reenactment actors have agents.

If so, I need to find one. Does that mean I have to move to NYC or Hollywood? I’m sure my family and friends will understand when I tell them I’m selling everything and moving to the Big Apple to pursue a career in reenactment acting. Surely they’ll save their giggles until after I’ve ridden off into the cheesy reenacted sunset.

This will be fun. I’m going for it.

She's so dramatic.

Me: I’m going to do something and I’m not sure if I should tell you.

Mom: Oh God. What. What are you going to do. Oh God.

Me: I really don’t think you’re gonna like this.

Mom: Just tell me. Oh God.

Me: I’m going skydiving.

Mom: Oh dear Lord! You are not! You’re going to die!

Me: I doubt I’ll die, but I’ll make sure all my affairs are in order before hand.

Mom: Don’t even kid, Becca. You’re going to break your legs.

Me: It’s a tandem dive, mom. The instructor is in control. Plus, he’s legs will hit first.

Mom: You’re going to break your legs and possibly your arms, too.

Me: Oh mother.

Mom: Do NOT tell your grandmother about this. It’ll do her in. Oh dear Lord.

Me: I’ll tell her the day after so she’ll know I’m alive and safe.

Mom: Oh God. Are you really going to do this?

Me: Yes.

Mom: I hope it scares you so bad that you pee, shit and throw up all the way down to the ground so you’ll never want to do it again.

Me: Thank you for your support.

It's not over until the fat lady sings. Sings badly.

It was while I was contemplating what to eat for dinner when it hit me.

Trying to decide between a Healthy Choice pizza and a bowl of cereal, my mind changed topics. Food became a secondary need. I suddenly became sad. Lost. And there was nothing I could do to fulfill this overwhelming desire.

American Idol isn’t on tonight.

Call me a junkie, but I really get off watching the stupid people audition. The past two nights I have sat on my couch, knees pulled up, and biting my nails as I watched these wishful thinkers stand there and give it their all. It’s quite sad really. Well, it’s sad in an uncontrollable laughter kind of way. I think to myself, “Why did his mother and friends LIE to him?” Why would they encourage him to embarrass himself on national television? Who hates him this much?

Of course every child is told “you can do anything you want in life” or “if you can dream it, you can be it.” Although I understand the message behind these cheerleader phrases, they are simply not true. A child cannot be anything they want. American Idol proves it.

What is your passion? What are you good at?

And how confident are you that you are actually that good? If you had to present your talent to three highly paid professionals in your field, how confident are you that you would meet their approval?

If I had to gather up some of my best graphic designing work and present them… I’d probably be a no-show. There are way too many designing tips and tricks that I’d like to learn before I put myself through that turmoil.

I agree that confidence is a good thing. It makes you appear strong, attractive and helps during job interviews and dates. But these auditioning idiots walk into that room with a kind of confidence I don’t understand. Is false-confidence still confidence? Basically, no matter how confident you are, there’s always that chance that you’re not as good at your hobby/job as you think.

On last night’s show, a girl completely bombed in her audition even after building herself up as having star quality. Totally shocked by the judges’ truthful remarks, she refused to believe that she was anything less than perfect. She was horrible! Everyone in the United States knows this. Well, everyone except for her and her dedicated mother. After being humiliated and rejected, her mother comforted her by telling her that she must have just been nervous because she was a really good singer. WHAT? Did I miss something?

“If you can dream it, you can be it.” No, you can’t.

My mother teaches multi-handicapped kindergarteners. And, yes, the family joke is that she was inspired after raising me.

The majority of kindergarteners have difficult home lives in addition to being blind, deaf and/or in a wheelchair. Mom is a natural nurturer and gives those kids more love and attention than they probably do anywhere else. She struggles when a little girl in a wheelchair says she wants to be a ballerina. Or when a boy who is blind can’t wait until he’s old enough to drive a race car.

Aren’t we supposed to tell every five year old that they can accomplish anything? How do you look into that little girl’s eyes and say “No, you can’t be a ballerina.” Simply: you don’t. You just pray that as she gets older she realizes what dreams are realistic and what aren’t.

These American Idol wanna be’s never figured this part out.

The “you can do anything” gave them a false sense of self. They will continue to believe they can sing while there’s proof on tape that they can’t. They’re doing nothing more than wasting their life chasing a hopeless dream while ignoring the fact that they have other untapped talents.

I will have to wait until Tuesday to see another addicting episode of American Idol. I will be predictably sitting on my couch, knees pulled up and biting my nails. I find utter joy in these idiots’ false sense of confidence.

Their mothers and friends should be shot, but because of my selfish need for entertainment, I want to tell them “thank you.”

You're not that good-looking, but in the dark I won't notice.

I’m not a fan of pressure.

Those who personally know me have heard me say this a million times. It’s usually brought up during an interrogation conversation about how I’m not dating anyone. About how I don’t make myself available. About how I’m “too this” or “too that.” About how I need to be more aggressive when it comes to meeting people. Everyone has their opinions on how to help the poor single gal out.

I realize that I’m desperate, but the question is how desperate.

Sometimes being a 36 year old single female makes me feel like I’m viewed as a science project. I’m examined, studied, poked, prodded and turned upside down and inside out. My “no man” status is deliberated. My flaws are dissected, placed in a petri dish and presented to an open forum.

These repeated conversations only result in me getting defensive. I wouldn’t mind it if I was offered new answers. New solutions. New view point. Somehow pointing out my insecurities for the thousandth time only makes them magnify. Making me retreat even further behind my brick wall with a big bucket of mortar for damage control purposes and an ungodly amount of chocolate that would last most people a year.

I’ve been given several solutions to my singleness.

Everywhere from solo bar hopping to online dating to the produce section of the grocery store. Can’t it be easier than this? Have my dating options dwindled down to a bag of seedless grapes? Is leaning alone against a bar trying to look sexy – when the truth is I’m incredibly self conscious – my only resort? Is uploading my photo, coming up with a clever profile as if I’m selling a product, and meeting men for 15 minute intervals at Starbucks the only way to find someone?

Meeting people was easier in my 20’s. We were all single back then. Groups of single people knew other groups of single people. Now that I’m reaching my (cough cough) late 30’s, I find it more difficult to meet men. I can’t help to think that for centuries people have managed to meet each other through less desperate measures. Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy. It’s all so complicated now.

Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m attracted to emotionally unavailable men.

I’m sure a psychotherapist would have a field day with that. I continually find myself going down a dead end road. I see the signs. They’re there. Right in my face. I even read the signs, but then I say, “Becca, you’re wrong. You need to be more optimistic.”

But I find that optimism can be another word for just being blind.

Maybe because it’s the beginning of a new year, but I’ve found myself having multiple conversations lately about dating. The last one being just this afternoon with a friend who has found himself single in his mid 40’s. He has succumbed to the social pressures and has headed down that road of online dating in full force. He’s met several lovely ladies, but no one who he would consider a good enough catch. We discussed the pro’s and con’s of this seemingly desperate act for companionship and we came to the conclusion that you must go into it with little or no expectations.

After our 1.5 hour conversation, I had an “ah ha” moment. Maybe it was more like my desperation and my analytical mind clashing together into what most people would call an epiphany. Not sure if it was something he said, but I decided that I would join him. Dive into the scary cold waters of this thing called online dating.

The truth is…. I’ve done it before.

It’s been several years, and it wasn’t through the “respectable” services which are now available. I met three or four guys and they were… well… freaky. These pathetic experiences aided in my anxiety for meeting people through the computer.

But no matter how unnatural or uneasy it feels, I decided that my desperation was high enough to give one of the popular dating sites a trial run. Put all my inhibitions aside. Look past my experiences and pretend that I never met those freaky people. I answered all the appropriate questions. I offered my personal stats. I said what I was looking for in a man. I was completely realistic and honest. I even wrote up a witty profile description. Then I hit “submit” and crossed my fingers. And do you know what it said?

“Sorry! We have not identified any matches for your review. Consider expanding your preferences to include a wider range of potential matches.”

What??? No WAY am I going to expand my preferences! You have GOT to be kidding me. Wondering if I somehow messed up, I reviewed my preferences. Nope. They’re all good. Everything I want in a man. Submit. Same crappy response.

What’s so sad is I feel like I wasn’t being picky. I was being realistic. I thought I was pretty liberal in my choices. Apparently not. I’m sure if it had asked, “Does your match need to be emotionally unavailable?” then I would have hit the dating jackpot.

As I sit here eating my comfort food of choice – chocolate – I’ve continually hit the “refresh” button, but it still says no. Notta. In fact, I could swear it said,

“You will never find a man. You are hopeless. There is no one in central Arkansas that meets your requirements. You are better off settling for freaky people in chat rooms.”

Great. Maybe I’ll go hit the produce section. I hear there’s a sale on seedless grapes.

Not even if you were the last man on earth and I was out of batteries.

He was being subtlety obvious.

I’ve now seen him three times in the chiropractor’s office. It seems our similar work schedule allows us to both have only 5pm appointments… on the same day. He’s a talkative guy. I know all about his job, children, and the car accident he had in December. He is also very open telling me how he’s looking for a woman. He has no problem blinding my eyes with his lit up vacancy sign.

“I’m tired of seasonal women. You know the kind that’s only around for a while? I’m looking for someone who will stay for the long run.”

He’s told me this three time now.

I assume by my lack of response he feels I haven’t heard him. That I haven’t picked up on his underlining meaning. But the truth is I’ve picked up on it and I’m not interested.

“Oh look, you showed up for our date,” he says every time I walk in. Although he thinks he’s being cute, I find it annoying. I pleasantly smile back with a polite “Oh yes, here I am.”

The juicy part of our “date” occurs when we are conveniently sitting next to each other in the massage room. While we are both hooked up to the electro muscle massager thing-a-ma-jigs, he fills me in on his lonely life and gives me updates on his aches and pains. I humor him by injecting a “yes” or “no” or “oh, I’m sorry” into the one sided conversation.

Today he told me how big his house is. I guess I looked like I cared. Maybe he thought if I knew this tidbit of real estate information, I would realize what a great guy he is. That somehow I would see him differently. That I would feel that having a big house would over-rule the fact that I’m totally physically uninterested.

“I have this huge two story house that is just too big for me. Since it’s just me, most of the house is unused. It sure would be nice to have someone to share it with.”

Not me, mister.

I remained hooked up to the mechanical back massager thingy while he gathered his belongings. Standing there in the doorway, he continued a loooong story about one of his friends. Since I wasn’t paying attention, I can’t even remember what the story was. Thankfully my new lover soon said his goodbyes and headed off to that big lonesome house on the hill.

I’m flattered by my new Casanova’s complimentary comments.

It’s sad that I have absolutely no interest in him. Not even his big two story house is enough to convert my feelings. I have no doubt that he would be a good provider and cook me breakfast in bed, but there’s something about physical attraction that I cannot avoid. It’s a shame really. I think I’ll break up with him when I see him on our next date.

What can I say… I’m a seasonal woman.

Bringing Crack Back

I accidentally wore my “standing up” jeans last night.

I went out with friends to a fancy cigar bar last night. Running errands before hand, this gave me an hour to get ready. Only an hour. Normally this would be sufficient, but as I was deciding what to wear, I realized that I hate all my clothes.

Typically I’m a jeans-and-tshirt kind of gal. I don’t wear puffy sleeves, flower prints and the color pink. I avoid sweater sets, ponchos and things with bows. However, last night I felt the need to bring out my more feminine side. I perused through my closet and laundry room for something that would bring out the girl in me. Something that would allow me to bring sexy back.

Sadly, I found very little.

I’m sure getting tired of one's clothes is a normal thing. We all go through cycles. I now find myself at the end of one cycle and not sure how to begin the next. Maybe I need a personal shopper that will tell me when I look like crap. I would welcome this criticism if it came from the right person. The wrong person would end up being the target of a bunch of colorful words and rude insults.

Now utterly depressed in my lack of style, I decided to give my chest of drawers a shot. This chest is usually reserved for those clothes that I lie to myself about. The “one day” clothes. The ones I pathetically hang onto in case I ever decide to take the gym seriously. I dug through each drawer in hopes to find a hidden treasure. An article of clothing that I could somehow pass off as decent.

And there they were…

Jeans. I discovered a pair of jeans that I had forgotten. I remember liking these jeans. They had the appropriately placed manufactured worn in spots that made them look as if I wear them everyday while doing manual labor. As I put them on, I hoped for the best. I was surprised that they were a perfect fit. I twirled in the mirror like a teenager checking out every angle. Not too tight, not too loose. Perfect length for the new high heeled black leather boots I bought a couple of weeks ago. Paired up with a girly shirt I found, I was looking hot. The choir was singing. The angels were dancing. I even had great hair. This was going to be a good night.

And then I got into my car.

Finally happy with my ensemble and with one last look in the mirror, I grabbed my keys and headed to the car. Opened the door and sat down.

“Crap.”

There are “standing up” jeans and “sitting down” jeans.

Unless you wear sweats all the time, you must know what I’m talking about. You don’t sit down in standing up jeans. You either flash your crack or reveal that bulge that indicates you’ve been through the Taco Bell drive-thru way too many times. It all depends on where the top of the jeans hit ya or how tight they are. In my haste, I forgot that these were my standing up jeans.

Standing up jeans are reserved for parties or clubs where you don’t plan to sit. You gracefully stand with a martini in one hand while the other hand is free for flirting with that cute guy. That casual touch of his hand or picking off that imaginary lint off his shoulder. You don’t sit down in standing up jeans. This is a fashion no-no.

In too much of a hurry, I thought “screw it” and drove to the bar where my friends were waiting. Saying “no” to crack, I conveniently kept my back towards the wall while sitting at the table. Whenever I stood up, I tried to cleverly pull my pants up with as much grace as possible. I enjoyed going to the cigar bar and I look forward to going back.

But until the plumber look is in style, I’m wearing my sitting down jeans.