My Right Foot---Day 27: The Procrastinating Perfectionist

There’s an old saying that the one thing in life that’s fair is that everyone gets 24 hours in a day.

Of course, some of us are forced to spend a good hunk of those 24 hours doing things we’d rather not be doing. But everyone has SOME free time. Some might only get an hour while their young child takes a nap. Others might get the whole twenty-four. And you can’t get around sleep---trust me, I’ve tried.

My senior year in high school, I had a paper due. A big paper. I guess I was spending too much time doing plays and music and not enough time working on that stupid paper. I seem to remember this particular term paper being on, “Evelyn Waugh’s Use of Catholicism in Brideshead Revisited”.

Anywho, with little time to spare, I decided to try to pull an all-nighter. I’d never done it before, but had heard of other girls doing it in order to finish a project on time. A friend of mine who’d done it many times suggested LOTS of caffeine. Coffee, tea or soda---she said would do the trick. She also went with me to the drugstore to pick up a box of something called Vivarin.

“It’s what truck drivers use when they have to drive a truck all night.”

The label said it was just caffeine. In pill form. A ton of it. I bought a box of Vivarin, a 2-liter bottle of Coke, and one of those giant chocolate candy bars. Back at home, I covered the kitchen table with note cards on Catholicism and British Prose and set to work.

At 4:30 in the morning, my Mom woke-up and found me in the kitchen. Paper still not done and a jittery mess. She spotted the package of Vivarin and hit the roof.

“Are you doing drugs?!?!”

No matter how much I tried to explain about caffeine and truck drivers, she was determined to believe I was using drugs. “You stop taking that right now and go to bed.”

I only WISHED I could go to bed. The paper was still unfinished and between the Vivarin, soda and chocolate bar, it was unlikely I’d sleep for at least three more days. My stomach was in knots. Sure, I was awake---but I could barely keep my eyes open.

The paper did not get finished that night. In fact, I was so ill from the caffeine and lack of sleep that I stayed home from school that day. I finished my paper the next afternoon and turned it in the following day. A day late. Marked down half a grade.

Oddly, my Mom did not confiscate the “drugs”. The package of Vivarin went into my bedroom drawer. In college, I’d pull out one of the pills every now and then---always with the same effect. Jittery and unable to either sleep or get anything done. Papers were still occasionally late. Once, for a Shakespeare class, I turned in a paper a day late with the following note attached, “Some are born late, others achieve lateness, and others have lateness thrust upon them.”

Strangely, in all his years teaching Shakespeare, none of his students had been clever enough to paraphrase The Bard in this way. He was apparently quite charmed and put a note on my Titus Andronicus paper saying, “Very clever! Just for that, I will count it as being on time.”

I realized then that while we all get the same 24 hours---if you’re clever, you can occasionally buy yourself a little extra.

I’m not the most prompt gal in the world. I try. I really do. But sometimes I just get distracted by a book or something in a shop window or an interesting person along the way. I tend to live my life ten minutes behind the rest of the world. Knowing this, I try little tricks to fool myself like setting my clocks a few minutes ahead. Leaving a few minutes earlier for appointments. And telling people I’ll be there around 5-ish. None of them work. I can't fool myself. If I even get so specific as to say between 5 and 5:30, I certainly won’t get there till at least 5:35.

Even things I am looking forward to---I will somehow manage to find something to distract me to make me at least 10 minutes late. Some might say this is a fear of success. I say it’s more like the Procrastinating Perfectionist that I’ve discovered I am. I put things off not because I don’t want to do them---but because I want to do them perfectly.

My papers were not late because I was lazy, but because I was an over-achiever---I wanted my papers to be the BEST papers anyone had ever seen. And when I realized I wasn’t producing THE BEST paper on Titus Andronicus the world had ever seen---well, I started to panic. Then get depressed. And then I would try to convince myself to just settle for getting it done. But without the initial enthusiasm and the hope to be the best… Well, the task held little interest. Who can get all excited about getting a “C”?

I still occasionally have this problem. I’ve had to learn how to accept a “C” in life for some things; and figure out which other things need an “A+++” to make me happy.

Today I have the film shoot---for this, I need that elusive “A+++”. Consequently, I am late. Partially not my fault. My Metrocard wouldn’t scan and the man lazily shoved it under the Plexiglas window with a pre-paid envelope and muttered in a sing-song voice. “Unable to read. Code 14. Send it in.”

I miss the train. But I was already running 10 minutes late. I give myself a “D”.

Luckily, once I actually GET there, the first day of shooting goes well. I don’t think I deserve an “A+++”; lateness does knock you down at least half a grade. But I come out of there feeling I deserve at least an “A”.

After the shoot, I walk down Central Park West for about thirty blocks just to think about my day. And to think about my day tomorrow. And the day after that. The things I need to do. The things I want to do. That huge mental list of our lives that piles up with every year. The list probably started when I was fourteen and has grown steadily since. Sure, I’ve pulled a few things off that Life List for various reasons. Being a spy in Russia had to go. Not only is there no longer an Iron Curtain---but spying isn’t as romantic as it seemed when I was fifteen. Professional ballet dancer is now off the list. To be honest, I don’t think secret agent or ballerina would have worked out for me. I would have had to be the best. Greater than Mata Hari or Anna Pavlova. And instead, I would have wound up being a file clerk in the CIA or a sales rep for Danskin.

I still follow world affairs and take my ballet classes for exercise----and that’s just fine with me. For these things, I gladly accept the "C".

But today, the one thing I wanted to excel at, I somehow managed to do. I remembered a scene we were shooting and how I’d come up with an original way to do it. On the train, I pop open my camera to look at the footage. The scene came out great. I’d gotten my shot---plus some.

Back at home, I decided to treat myself. I made pork ribs for the first time, rented a movie and soaked my Central Park West weary feet in a spa bath. I may have been late---but today I was clever. And I’m not marking myself down for that.

So if I'm late, it's a GOOD thing. It just means that I care.

My Right Foot---Day 26: Creation Is Messy

Nothing is messier than creativity.

Not even a two year-old could ransack my apartment the way I can just getting ready for a staged reading.

Papers. Reference books. Cups of tea. Half-eaten bowls of microwave popcorn. And all of this scattered amidst the usual daily mess of dirty clothes and Duane Reade bags.

In general, I’m a pretty tidy person. A place for everything and everything in its place and all that.

Unless I’m on deadline.

I was once on deadline while staying with a friend who had a maid. That poor maid. I pitched in to help her clean up my mess and even gave her an extra twenty dollars for the trouble.

And, after writing my first screenplay a few years ago, my apartment looked like this:

Happily, a few months later, I ditched the typewriter and FINALLY got a computer. I’m a little slow on technology. Up until a few years ago, I still had a rotary dial phone.

Tonight I get ready for the shoot tomorrow and my apartment is covered in bits of cardboard as I try to create a prop. Elmer’s Glue Stick is all over my floor and my feet stick to the floorboards as I walk back and forth. My desk is completely covered in paperwork. Dishes are piled up in the sink. Laundry scattered all over the place. And, to be honest, I’m lucky I have such an understanding cat---though she’s starting to step dubiously through the cat box.

Despite the mess around me, my head is perfectly clear. Solutions to script problems come easily. I finally see the mistakes I made on page 17. And how to solve them.

Tonight my apartment stays messy for fear of disturbing the mental clarity too soon. It’s not that I don’t have a few minutes to clean---I just don’t want to disturb the lovely mess.

Well…except the cat box. Poor Bessie shouldn’t suffer for art.

I find myself rapidly losing interest in this blog. Twenty-six days ago, the journey seemed to have a purpose. Today, I suddenly feel completely cured. It must be how people feel at a certain point during therapy.

I've never been in therapy. Not very New York of me, I know. And I'm sure I (and probably everyone I know) could use it from time to time. In general, I tend to get thru things the old-fashioned way. By talking with my friends and family. And writing. That helps. I've written my way out of pretty much every problem I've ever had. For me, it works. Helps to clarify the situation. By turning myself and my problems into a character---I can view it from the outside. From a writer's standpoint. How do I get my character out of THIS situation?

And I'm a pretty good writer. My writer's sense is probably more finely tuned than any psychologist out there---after all, don't all psychologists get into the field so they can figure out themselves?

My fear is that I would wind up with a therapist who wasn't as smart as me. Writing and filmmaking are essentially problem-solving mediums. And therapists are always touting that they don't solve your problems---you solve them yourself. So unless the therapist is a better writer than me...I think I can figure out my exit and the transition to the next scene all by myself, thank you.

I don't think there's any therapist out there who thinks outside of the box as much as me. I'm not saying there wouldn't be a point where their services would come in handy---but for a simple matter of Artistic Scurvy, well...I think I've cured myself.

Really. I think I'm done with my therapy. This has been great and it's been really nice knowing you, but I really think I'm cured.

However, like penicillin, I suppose I should complete the full dose.

I said 30 Days and you're going to get 30 Days.

Apparently, it's in the contract. Missed appointment fee, or something like that. So I'll show up. Can't promise you much---being that I'm cured and all. But I'll be there. If that's what I'm supposed to do.

Please don't take it personally. You've been a great therapist and I'll recommend you to all my friends.

Just send me the bill. I'll try not to lose it in the mess on my desk.

But a mess is a good thing, right?

My Right Foot---Day 25: Props and Costumes

There comes a time during every production where the subject of props and costumes can no longer be pushed aside. In independent productions, most actors supply their own costumes. And everyone pitches in on props. Garages are scoured. Basements looted. Emails are sent out to friends, family and acquaintances begging the question, “Does anyone out there happen to have an old wheelchair or know anyone who might have one?”

Due to just this scenario—I now own a wheelchair. I have no need for a wheelchair. But I made the mistake of writing one into a sketch. We needed it, and we got it. And now I have it. A wheelchair. Taking up much-needed closet space in my Manhattan studio apartment. But it’s hard to throw out a wheelchair. You never know when you’ll want to write one into a sketch again.

As a director, you tend to think that these little things “up your production value”. But really, they’re just a pain in the ass to lug around. No one’s looking at my YouTube sketch and thinking, “Wow. She got her hands on a wheelchair. She must be good!”

But actors LOVE props and costumes. Some even build intimate relationships with them. Ask if they can keep them after the run or the shoot. Even directors like to hang onto a few little bits.

These bits of props and costumes are buried all over my apartment. Under my bed, three whole suitcases are filled with various costume pieces. A pair of clown shoes. A Native American dress with feathers designed for Siamese Twins. A giant banana costume. And a full-length dress I wore in a high school production of Camelot.

Props are all over the place. A set of fake vintage radio microphones. A rubber chicken. A prop gun. Two white-tipped black vaudeville canes. And more silly hats than you could shake a prop stick at.

All of it absolutely worthless.

Sure, sometimes you come up with an idea and then you thank GOD you didn’t throw out that rubber chicken.

But mostly, it just takes up space.

All these things are now a part of what I like to call “My Shit”.

My Shit that I haul around with me from place to place. City to city. Apartment to apartment.

Don’t get me wrong. My apartment is FAR from junky. I tend to prefer clean lines mixed with a Bloomsbury touch. But none of this shit is going anywhere. Not anytime soon. It’s a curse.

Today I begin my VERY last-minute prop hunt. Luckily, I’ve been in New York long enough that I know where to go. And I’ve built enough disposable crap that I can problem-solve with the best of them.

On my way to work, I stop by a Midtown costume shop.

Nothing will jump-start the sketch-writing part of my brain as quickly as a visit to a theatrical shop. This one’s small, but I come out of there just crawling with ideas for the shows I’ll be writing this summer. For me, it’s like Red Bull for the Right Brain.

This afternoon, I collect empty liquor and wine bottle from work to fill with colored water and tea. I come up with a workable plan to redecorate a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket to get rid of the logo. I gather a silver platter, ice bucket, funnel, and make a list of the prop food I’ll have to buy the morning of the shoot. I also stop at the liquor store to pick up three bottles of cheap prop wine. I decide on red wine with a twist top---not as easy as you would think to find at a decent price.

I make notes, design a slapdash tablescape, view more test footage, and try to figure out how I’m going to get it all from here to there.

It’s frenetic, and crazy. Lightening bolt energy. The kind that could give you a heart attack or make a monster come alive. Only when the props and costumes come out does it truly become real.

The irony of illusion.

That moment just before the beginning. When anything can happen on the first day of shooting or opening night. When fake, fantasy, and delusion all come together for one last time.

Today, I remember a night a few years ago. The night before an opening. I was sitting up till the wee hours sewing the back half of a horse’s costume by hand. At 5:30 in the morning, I thought I was going to die.

And I still had the front half to go.

What kept me going was the fantasy that this little show was going to be THE show. The one that would get me out of waiting tables and transport me to another world. It’s what kept my fingers stitching till the sun came up and I was practically blind searching for the eye in the needle.

Artists have more than enough reality to deal with. You’ll excuse us if we tend to get a little silly playing with our props. Our toys. Surely you can remember what it was like to fantasize over a Tonka truck or a Barbie doll. Or even a plastic animal farm in the dirt.

We’re fantasizing, too. Fantasizing of how, one day, that animal farm just might become real.

All we’re really saying to our audience is, “Wanna come outside and play?”

My Right Foot---Day 24: Too Sexy For My Foot

Too sexy for this blog. Too sexy for my shoes. No longer need this muse.

Too sexy.

Right Said Foot is pretty darned busy these days.

And busy doing what you love to do is definitely sexy. During these past few weeks, despite all my complaining and moaning and introspection and haberdashery---okay, no haberdashery, I just like that word and never get the chance to use it---but somehow, I accidentally laid the groundwork for about six different projects. All of them exciting. All of them highly promising. And all of them need to be done yesterday.

Somehow, getting things done never seemed easier.

It’s like waiting tables. As any waitress will tell you, you actually give better service when you’re busy. On a slow day, you can actually forget that you HAVE tables.

Like today.

More than once today, I actually forgot I had tables. When nothing’s going on, your mind starts to wander. I was in the kitchen, happily whipping up some homemade pickles when I suddenly remembered, “Oh, I have a table out there. Table 16. I wonder if they need anything.”

It’s not that I was ignoring them or lazily chatting away on my cell phone. I was just so bored, I forgot there was something actually going on out there.

But give me ten tables on a busy Saturday night and watch we work it, baby.

It's like they say, "If you need something done, give it to a busy person."

It's the same way with artists. Particularly actors. If they’re not working in their field, they don’t know what to do with themselves. They get depressed and start to wonder what they're doing with their lives. They become Table 16. They forget about themselves.

Most people with 9-to-5 jobs don’t understand this. Most of them LOVE to get away from their jobs. Their daily grind. I’ve done those jobs. Answering phones till you wanted to slit your wrist in a warm bath. Sitting there typing boring letters just trying to keep yourself awake till your next coffee break. Looking forward to Tuesdays because that’s the day the distributer brings in free donuts. Mmmm---donuts.

How do you people do those jobs? Day in and day out? With nothing to look forward to except donuts on Tuesdays? Sure, I hate my job---but I hate your job even more.

Nine-to-five types often think of artists types as lazy. Too lazy to get a REAL job. But frankly, most artist-types are the least lazy people I know. Not only do they work full-time meaningless waitress, retail and temp jobs---but they spend a huge portion of their free time working on an entirely separate career. It's like having TWO full-time jobs. They even juggle relationships, friends and family into the mix. Not to mention laundry.

When struggling writers go home after an eight-hour shift, they don’t curl up on the sofa and watch prime-time TV for three hours. They write. And if you think writing isn’t physically exhausting, I suggest you try sitting down in front of a computer for five hours and begin a novel. You’ll see what I mean.

I can’t think of many artist-types who started out immediately getting paid for their work. There was Mozart. Shirley Temple. And a handful of other child performers. But that's about it.

Artists go thru a long (sometimes VERY long) period where they have to learn and grow. In addition to the studies every other kid is subjected to---they’re studying to become the best at whatever it is that they do. When other kids are out playing, they’re sitting in front of the piano. When their college friends are going to parties, they’re rehearsing a play. When their pals from work are all going down to the corner bar for Happy Hour and darts---they’re back home working on their screenplay.

And then, we have to try to get someone to notice what we do. That's almost a THIRD job.

It’s not that we don’t want to be out with friends---we’d just rather be cutting our shitty job to do it and not our REAL job---our art.

Well, maybe it’s not art. Maybe it’s just polka dancing. Or quilting. Or singing in a Top Forty Band. But it’s what we really want to do.

For years, we love it so much, we do it for free. How many of you 9-to-5ers would go in and do taxes for free on your off-day?

Nine-to-fivers can be cruel to waitstaff, retail people and the temp in their office. At best, they pity them. At worst, they take out their frustrations on the poor lowly, unskilled worker.

But, as one of those lowly, unskilled workers, I’m here to tell you a few things---we DO have skills. Skills you only wish you had. And we work WAY harder than you. You wish you had our work ethic. And most of us are WAY more intelligent than you. And FAR nicer---that’s why we don’t bother to correct you when you order a glass of Merlot and pronounce the “T”. We also tend to have more friends, better relationships, more happiness, and WAY more fun!

We also have more hope for the future than you will ever have. Unlike you, we haven’t given up.

Most of you just dream of winning the lottery.

Good luck with that.

We pity you.

And if you leave us a shitty tip, we belittle you behind your back, as well.

Tonight, people were all pretty darned nice. That is, the few that we had.

But tonight, I waited on a couple of guys who sat around discussing the goings-on back at the office. I don’t know what they did for a living. But it sounded pretty boring. If I had to take a guess, I’d say Car Insurance.

Yawn.

How do you wind up in car insurance? My god.

None of them seemed happy. None of them even smiled. And all of them looked waxy and dead.

But despite the fact that they were only the second table I’d had in two hours---I was happy.

“How do you say ‘happy’ in Bangla?” I asked one of the busboys.

“Shu-ki,” he replied.

At my job, I was learning Bengali. I was making homemade pickles. I was discussing the latest exhibit at The Armory with the bartender. I was tap dancing with my manager.

After work, I was going to a theatre/writers group. And when I got home that night, I was going to gather my props for a film shoot on Friday. I was going to email the producer for my sketch show next month. I was going to look over some footage I’d shot. I was going to write my blog.

And I was waiting to hear about some interesting things going on that just might get me out of the restaurant business for good.

I actually have a decent shot at winning my lottery.

I wonder what the car insurance guys did after they left?

Actually, I don’t.

It was probably pretty boring.

And I’m too sexy. I'm busy working.

My Right Foot---Day 23: Creative Cures on a Lovely Day

I’m a Googler.

Sometimes I sit around pondering things and wondering why. So I Google. Just type in the question to get an answer. Though no matter how much I Google, I don’t think I will ever know exactly why banks feel the responsibility to give everyone the time and temperature. Why do banks all have brightly-lit, jumbo digital clocks adorning their façade? Why? I don’t know. I’ve even asked. The tellers think I’m crazy. But they don’t know either. Not even Google knows.

It’s one of the great mysteries of the world.

Sure, I could have gone to a doctor for my allergies. The post-nasal drip that was keeping me awake coughing all thru the night.

But doctors just want to give you a pill. A pill that takes care of the symptoms but doesn’t treat the cause. And a pill that often causes more problems than it solves.

Before I went crying to the doctor for a pill (or became one of those Inhaler People---egads!), I decided to visit Dr. Google.

Well, decide isn’t exactly the word. It was 6:00 am Saturday morning and I’d been up coughing all night. I HAD to get some sleep. I crawled out of bed, went to the computer and typed in, “How do I stop coughing?”

Unlike the bank thing, there were TONS of suggestions on how to stop coughing. I spent about an hour pouring thru various home remedies, medical sites, and reading the usual tips like drink hot water with honey.

As if I hadn’t already tried that one! If I drank any more honey, I was going to start attracting bees.

In any case, I looked at people’s responses to these suggestions and picked three that seemed promising.

First, what I discovered is that coughing is good. It means that your body is trying to get something it’s rejecting out of your system. All good.

But if you’re coughing and coughing and can’t stop---well, that dry cough means that your body is not producing enough mucus to clear that stuff outta there. And, an inability to produce mucus could mean that you’re deficient in Vitamin B.

The second tip that seemed to work was drinking a shot of apple cider vinegar in a glass of water. An apple cider tonic. Apparently, a healthful thing to do everyday.

The third tip was kind of strange, but got glowing reviews: Put Vick’s Vapor Rub on the bottom of your feet---yes, your feet! And then put a pair of socks over that right before you go to bed. Sounds weird, but people swore by it.

Luckily, I had all three “medicines” in my house. Within an hour, I took two Vitamin B tablets, drank two Apple Cider Vinegar Tonics, and socked up my feet in a Vick’s Vapor Rub wrap.

Within half an hour, I was sound asleep. I didn’t wake up coughing once. And I woke up feeling an amazing calm sensation in my chest and throat.

That day, I only had two coughing fits (as opposed to about a dozen the previous day).

The next day, I had none.

A creative cure.

I love creative cures. They’re so much more interesting than just taking an aspirin. In a way, I suppose this 30 day thing is an attempt at a creative cure. And as much as I complain about all this blogging and thinking and taking pictures of my stupid foot---well, something seems to be working.

Finally. On Day 23.

Today I woke up energized. Ran all my otherwise detested errands. Happily paid some bills I’d been putting off. And had a smile on my face as I cleaned up the hairball the cat left on the floor this afternoon. I eagerly pulled out my writing (a new sketch idea I came up with just yesterday for the show next month) and got down to business on the train. I went to the bank to make a deposit (at exactly 3:55 pm, thank you Chase Manhattan) and instead of moaning at the long line at the bank, happily hummed along to the Perry Como song playing on the Muzak, “It’s A Lovely Day Today”.

I wasn’t exactly looking forward to a long night at work---but I came up with a creative cure for that, too…

New Work Shoes!

There’s nothing like a new pair of shoes to put a spring in my step. Even at work. I was bouncing---literally, bouncing and tapping and jumping on my toes to show off my spiffy new shoes.

I also bought a second pair in a different color---oh, you’ll be seeing those babies! Don’t you worry your pretty little head. They’re very jazzy, indeed.

I didn’t even mind writing this blog.

What gives?

I don’t know why Vick’s Vapor Rub on the soles of your feet cures a cough. I don’t know why banks insist on giving you the time. And I don’t know why this blog has reversed my artistic lobotomy.

I wish I could Google it and find out why. But some things, no one really knows.

It’s a Lovely Day Today.