Well, hello dark and anonymous cyber space.
This is my first entry of my blog. Let's address the title first, shall we?
For the last four years or so, I have been working as an assistant in various facets of "Hollywood." I graduated film school with a Master's degree, finished a feature length documentary even my friends don't want to see . . . got a job as a production coordinator on a cable broadcast program and slowly experienced the python of power hungry, chauvinistic and privileged . . . executives? filmmakers? Help me out here. I don't know what exactly they are since they needed me to draw a map in order to wipe their own ass.
How about men? Power hungry, chauvinistic and privileged men I worked for in order to learn about the industry, gain experience and attempt to work my way up some kind of imaginary ladder of professional respect. (HAHAHAHAHA, ok, sorry) Turns out that ladder doesn't exist.
I know there are people out there that make it. They have the temperaments to take verbal abuse 344 days out of the year, sacrifice all self respect and slither their way into a higher position.
I hated it.
I tolerated a lot because I thought I was paying dues of some sort, that would later come back to me in the form of a raise (no matter how slight) or more professional responsibility as opposed to putting together a grocery list for their Mexican nanny.
It seemed like the more I cared, the more effort I put into a job . . . the tighter there hold around my soul. They were more possessive, more moody, more condescending and more temperamental. I taught them (these men) how to control me, and allowed it for 3 1/2 years as a not-so-glorified secretary.
My bitterness grew more and more apparent. I started standing up for myself. Drawing boundaries. And eventually . . . I was fired. YAY!
For months, I was having fantasies of getting fired, sleeping in to make up for the last 4 years of constant work and then becoming an actress. Why an actress, you may wonder? Hmm, there is the obvious appeal of people seeing you, noticing you. Sure. That's why my parents think I do it.
I knew I would be good at it. It was instinctive and as my 30s found me- I knew I was running out of time.
Then it happened. I tried to quit the month before and the men talked me out of it. Being the power obsessed bitches they were, they spun it around into firing me the next month. My performance didn't change . . . too much. They knew it was just a matter of time before I started psychically willing cancer on their prostates.
So they let me go. I slept in. I saw the sunlight. I watched a ton of Dr. Drew's Celebrity Rehab. I ate food and spent time with my dogs. I went to the movies. Each day was a day of freedom, the chance to have a life of my own and abort that lifestyle; the 50-60 hours a week, the no raise ever, the ignoring, the dirty looks, the general antagonizing for being a woman who can bring life to this planet with beauty and grace rather than a quarter of a million dollars and a sperm cocktail.
Yes, I was alive and I wasn't going to allow myself to miss out on any fantasy (under $25).
So I got myself an account on a website called www.lacasting.com. I had my friend take headshots and I went to one audition, then another and another. Before I knew it . . . I was getting parts in student films. Then on The Bible Channel. So on so forth, my career was starting.
That was 6 months ago.
Now, I am here in my living room . . . broke, not famous, with fake blood on my leg and a glass of $2 Chuck in hand, writing this blog. And I am happy.