So it has been a rough week. I don't know if it has much to do with me becoming an actress. Mostly its just life, life as a woman, life in Hollywood, life in 2010.
Recently, my boyfriend and I have had some kind of communication meltdown. Usually after the 2 month honeymoon period, there is an expected change in the relationship. Communication becomes less frequent and things settle down a bit.
In my case, things became A LOT less frequent. After two months of having him out here a few days out of the week, a good 4-6 hours of lovemaking a day and his much appreciated help around the house- he disappeared. We have had conversations about it, but it usually is reduced to how much attention I need, how I am clouded with emotion (being a fucking woman and all), how he has his own life, blah, blah, blah.
As I always do, I analyzed the hell out of everything and took a step back. We reconvened last weekend and had a good 4th of July where I went down to his bachelor pad, spent time with his family, had even better sex than before and then poof . . . he is gone, again.
I try to be one step ahead in most things, simply out of Philophobia (fear of being in love). When it comes to delay in text messages and phone calls, I try to slow down my response time. Even as sparse as it has been (quick unit of measure: 1 phone call every 2 days and maybe 1-2 purely factual text messages a day) I still couldn't help asking . . . WTF?
He said the previous level of communication was unsustainable and if I continued to bother him about this, he would not feel compelled to call me at all. I told him I didn't feel connected to him, even that I wasn't in love with him any more or vice versa. He brushed over the conversation, tried dominating, tried making me feel inadequate then crazy. It's so God Damn formulaic.
He accused me of not enjoying my time away from him and being disturbed. To this, I decided to just live my life as if I never knew him. So I booked jobs for myself for the rest of the week. Had drinks with new and old friends. Watched a lot of Showtime/HBO programming.
Yesterday, there was a screening for a short I did, probably one of the better ones. I am so desperate for cash, that when I got booked on a game show I easily took to the job over the screening. I am over $500 in the red with my checking account since my rent check cashed.
Dickfriend disappeared for another 24 hours, incommunicado.
So I reported to Sunset/Bronson studios. Now . . . here I should tell you, I have been feeling a little funny in the last week. My breasts are sore and things are fitting a little tighter than usual. The logical explanation could be that I am drinking and eating more, from the weekend, the Jewish Grandmother, Meagan's guacamole, etc. etc. The other could be unprotected, rabid sex for 4 days and the "How far inside you can I stick my dick" game.
I entered the studio and they had us waiting out in the sun for about 30-40 minutes. This is standard, and usually I find it annoying. This time I got dizzy. I ate breakfast and had some water before I left, but still swooned.
When we were finally lead under a big white tarp, I found a folding chair next to a dirty table in front of a large fan unit. I started reading but still felt dizzy, so I put my head down. I could feel stomach acid crawling up my throat. This would be the third time this week.
Then, I fell asleep in under 3 minutes. Mind you, I had about 9 hours sleep the night before and had only been up and about for a few hours. My body is not doing well.
Ok, I could be pregnant. It's possible. Whatever.
We were lead into this studio and showered in delicious, icy cold air conditioning. I sat down. The show is called FAMILY GAME NIGHT. It is being put on a new channel owned by Hasbro.
They basically take two milky white families and have them compete against each other in typical board games modified for television broadcast. It was hell.
The only type of trivia was in the first segment and it was idiotically easy. ONE QUESTION! That's all my brain had to draw from this ridiculous game show concept. One trivia question.
They played a large version of 'Boggle' and 'Sorry'. Jesus Christ, it was painfully brutal. Not only are the games the opposite of entertaining, each game board took 40 minutes to an hour to set up. Instead of an audience fluffer, we had this cheese ball guy, in a lime green coat wearing an M&Ms neck tie. There were children in the crowd, so I won't take it too personally that he spoke to us all like we were a 1st grade special education class on a school trip. He just abandoned us during those long set ups, leaving everyone to do nothing but complain.
I had a book. A good one. THE RED TENT. I tell inquiring men its about a group of women menstruating under a red tent. That's true- but they never appreciate the true synopsis. Their eyes glaze over and they dismiss it as "woman's fiction" to which I say- IT'S THE OLD TESTAMENT, MOTHER FUCKER.
I was able to tune out the restless children, the dimwit conversation next to me involving rehab and condoms, and the unfortunate plump couple directly in front of me who bought tickets to this fiasco and dragged their kids 3 hours south to Los Angeles to suffer with us. They said, "When we went to ELLEN, it went a lot faster."
Twice, M&Ms Necktie performed some lounge music. Ok, that was entertaining because it was so surreal. First of all, a third of the audience is under 10 yrs of age. Second of all, um . . . you are singing Frank Sinatra next to large 'SORRY' game pieces. That got me to look up from my book for a few seconds.
Unfortunately, I finished my book about an hour before we wrapped the show. I still have it's dust in my hair. The book follows the life of a midwife and the fabric of womanhood among the wives and daughter of Jacob; blood, marriage, sex, hardship, children, blood. When I started it a few weeks ago, I could feel the dirt kick up in the soil of my uterus. If any book can make you fertile, this is the one. I had no idea, or I would have gone on the pill.
I haven't been on the pill for a long time, years. I was in a 5 year on-again, off-again love affair and only got pregnant once. I was madly in love with the guy, so I was excited. He was not. Anyway, I miscarried a week after deciding to keep the child. Probably for the best. He saw me through it.
For those of you who have not had a miscarriage (70% of women do, the only one that tells you that is Google and your Gyno post factum) there is a procedure called the D&C. The doctors clean out your uterus so whatever was left behind from the pregnancy doesn't cause infection. It speeds up your body's recovery.
My D&C, which was so fucking painful, I don't even have words to describe it... Ok, its like having your insides ripped out with a coat hanger while a male doctor uses his elbow to push your legs further apart. Wow, see that? I can find the words for it.
As much as this love affair was a crazy, abusive, unstable situation, I will always remember this moment. I was crying with my eyes closed throughout the procedure. I don't remember much more but the feeling of his hand cover mine, then his voice repeat, "I'm here." I opened my eyes. He was there. Nothing was left of our baby but a few drops of bright red blood on the counter next to two small, abandoned utensils. Everyone else was gone. Everything was gone. He was there, though.
We tried to be a normal couple after that. It didn't last. We just exploded slowly over time.
So, that story aside, the pull out method had good odds with me over the course of 5 years. I wanted to be fertile some day and not add further complication to my already rotting eggs with too many hormones.
My new un-boyfriend never wanted me on the pill, either. He is very paranoid of cancer. He doesn't eat food cooked or stored in plastic. He only cooks out of stainless steel. No microwave. No dye. Everyone thinks its eccentric, but it kind of makes sense to me.
Later, when I met his childhood friend at a party, I heard the story of their mutual friend in high school die of cancer at the age of 22. The boy fought and suffered, even after they amputated his foot. The diet makes sense.
Where am I going with this? Ah yes, so we decided I wouldn't take the pill. When we discussed this, he demonstrated his ability for control by moving his ear back and forth. Sadly, the ability to move one's ear independent of their head doesn't apply to orgasm and he let one slip a couple weeks ago. I went on the morning after pill and then had a 7-day period. Merry Christmas!
So I made it through, but since, there is also risk of pre-ejaculate. MMMMMMMMM.
So, needless to say, the last place on the fucking earth I want to be right now is in a cold studio audience, watching fat children dive for fake money while a car salesman sings lounge music.
I kept thinking, if I was pregnant, what would I do? I am too old for abortions and already played that hand once before. If it was un-boyfriend's, I would definitely keep it. Then what, move back home. HELL NO, so my mother could drive me crazy? I love her, but she . . . drives me crazy.
Obviously, I would have to give up acting. Maybe I could take early childhood education classes at Orange Coast College (one of the best in the country) and live closer to un-boyfriend and his family. Then try being a pre-school teacher again, that was a long time ago, but really nice.
Then I thought about un-boyfriend. He wouldn't be able to get a job. He is unemployed and has the luxury of giving up his job search out of general frustration. He is on the parental support payment plan. I also do not feel like he would know how to cope with all the responsibility, people depending on him, the pressure. He might get a job and then resent me for the rest of his life. He can be very grouchy.
That would not be ideal. I would want to continue living on my own then, but with three pit bulls and two cats in my 1 bedroom, AM I INSANE!?
I sat there and watched these two families duke it out on this godforsaken game show. Both mothers were fake blonds. You could tell they went to some local hair shop every few weeks to streak chemicals in their hair. Both were slightly overweight. I could see their puffy flesh billowing out of the top of their tight pants. One was also very bitchy to her son during a game of Cranium. The children were playing a form of charades, and the mothers had to guess the answer. Bitch Mom kept saying, 'This isn't helping me." "I need something else." "I am a stupid bitch"
Hey Lady, LET UP, he is fucking 10 yrs old, alright. And if you guessed "opening a book" and "closing a book" you should fucking guess "READING a book" cause' that was the obvious answer. Moron.
I thought about their lives. The husbands were equally puffy, starting to lose hair, and both looked very sedate like they stuffed their faces with turkey before going on. Probably middle management types, addicted to their television sets. Played Wii with their kids on the weekends and called it "Family Time." Masturbated to internet porn and then cleared the cache before their wives indulged in some on-line shopping.
The kids still looked kind of healthy, except for one little girl with ridiculously curly hair, she was becoming obese. I wondered if she was picked on in school. I wondered if she thought being on TV would reward her with acceptance among her peers.
I know that life. The life of settling down in suburbia and insisting that an SUV is safer for the kids. The cleaning, the soccer games, the food which (as best as I can tell) has substituted all other physical stimulus. The identity washed away as you teach your kids that life is about entertainment. You work so you can amuse yourself with TV shows, and movies, and video games after school, after work, over the weekend.
I could feel the air pressed out of my lungs, like one of the two house fraus was sitting on my rib cage telling me this was the only other way. THIS is how you raise a family. You allow time to beat up against you until you are too tired to do anything but watch reality TV and eat deep fried snickers bars.
There is another way. Luckily, I live in a carriage house behind a small French family. The Mom has wild hair, doesn't shave her arm pits, and is always so kind. She composts, she built her 3-yr old son a TeePee in the front yard, she wears sun dresses and walks around barefoot. It's nice.
Her husband is building a climbing wall. And their son is probably my best friend at this point, since he is the one constant in my life. He rides his tricycle up to my porch and rings his bell just to say hello. He holds longer conversations with me than most actors. And, for him, clothing is always optional.
The difference between me and my French neighbors and the House Fraus is the man factor. I have no stability. The mother fucker can't even find the time to text me back, how could he possibly make me feel secure with a fetus pressing up against my folded bladder? I can just see fetus #3 in me now, mouthing the words "Daddy" as embryonic fluid bubbles out of his mouth. Sorry, little guy, we are in a responsibility-optional plane of living out here. And Mommy has bad taste in men.
Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I have been eating a little more this week. And drinking. I am sure the weight is from the decadence.
The night ended with a huge Monopoly ATM machine dragged out the center of the cage. The cards won after each board game challenge were cashed in for unknown amounts of money. When the value of the card was shoved in the ATM machine, the dollar amount appeared on a big screen behind them. Then the machine vomits out buckets of paper money. I watched the children drop to the floor, grabbing armfuls of fake money. Fucking repulsive.
At the end, the family with the most money wins a trip to Jamaica. Hey, I would love a trip to Jamaica, but I don't think I would start showering myself in fake money and shouting, "OH MY GOD!!!!" like Hasbro suddenly decided to sponsor my children's college education. Am I saying I am better than them? Better than this cookie cutter family cast on this bullshit game show, writhing around like its some kind of Church revival?
I don't know. I don't know what I will become. Please don't let it be that.