Look at this man. See how he gazes at me adoringly? How we stand lovingly entwined, amidst the Arizona cotton fields?
Not a second or third story window. But like a first story window. So that he is startled and inconvenienced but in no way harmed? I’m being needlessly specific now.
So the fight. We had a fight. And we don’t fight often really, for people who live together, work together and share every single thought that goes through our respective heads. I worked with a wonderful director a few years ago who asked me for an audition video for a project out of state. They provided me with a picture of the kind of outfit they wanted for my callback video. Super.
My husband came home, took Jack to his Improv class at the studio and said “Go buy an outfit. You have an hour.”
UM. IS THIS REAL LIFE?
We live in west-paradise-valley. Which is a fancy way of saying not paradise valley at all. But near the Paradise Valley mall.
The Paradise Valley mall is where dreams go to die. It’s a tragic mix of transient holiday stores, strange wig emporiums and perfumania. It’s one big retail dry-heave and I try never to go if I can help it.
All I had was one hour to make this outfit thing happen. So I rolled the dice and strolled into the PV Dillards. When I’m speed shopping, you should know that I am scary. I am a force. I’m see the whole field, and Lord above help you if you’re in the way. I scan the suits and find the only slouchy jacket. On sale. In white. It’s a little fancier than the picture, but good enough. I pat myself on the back. I grab a dark, classic jegging, and some over-priced gold tank top for underneath. I text a picture to my husband, to show him how super I did. And I’m out of there in time to grab an iced toddy at 32 Shea. EFFICIENCY.
I come home after teaching a double header Improv class. I’m tired, but I muster up the energy to try on the outfit for my husband before crashing into bed. And he says…
“Do you want me to respond as a husband or as an acting coach?”
UM. Alright. Acting coach?
“The outfit is wrong. It’s too old.”
I may have handled it less than graciously.
After a long, venomous string of “How Dare Yous” And “Who Do You Think You Ares”, he said something that got through.
“Sweetheart, as your husband I always think you look great. As a coach, I can tell you that this is not really what the client wanted. You took a short cut.”
And that sweet man sent me back out the next day to take another stab at it.
As usual, he was right. Don’t tell him I said that. The call back went beautifully. I felt fantastic.
(Oh, and next time we talk, I’ll tell you how he made me work the script. Torturous, but effective.)
Until then…act with passion!