Monthly Archives: August 2012

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Actually Working for Parks and Recreation (adventures in living a real-life sitcom).

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I love my job. I really do.

There are days when I want to punch myself in the face, repeatedly, but at the end of the day, somewhere along the line, I started liking my job.

When I first started, my job was literally entering trees into a computer, and I remember thinking to myself “this is going to last two weeks”. A year later, I’m still here.

Granted, at some point, someone noticed that I’m good at design and writing, so I’ve been able to actually use my skills and talents around the office, which has been really nice. It’s a great feeling to know that you’re appreciated, or at least useful. I like being useful. There’s also no such things as an “average day”. One day, I might be designing a poster for an event or program, the next day I might be teaching a group of 7 year olds about my chameleon’s eating habits while he crawls up my hair.

Hands down, though, the best part of my job, though, is interacting with the public. 97% of the time, the people I deal with are kind, considerate and grateful for my assistance. The other 3% of the time, though, that’s where Facebook statuses are born and legends are made.

There have been odd encounters before– the Duck Lady was really my first Great Story, but before and after that, there have been daily (if not twice and three times and four times daily) ridiculous encounters and experiences that have really made this job worth working.

Since the popularity of the NBC show “Parks and Recreation” has taken off, I get asked a lot what it’s like to work for a “real” Parks and Recreation department– and, well…it’s very, very similar to the show. In a good way.

A lot of the strangest things that have happened could be straight out of an episode, but I think that’s kind of the fun part about working here– you just never know when someone is going to kidnap a duck or fall into the river or one of a million other strange complaints and concerns I’ve gotten in the year I’ve been  working here.

While we might be short a real Ron Swanson, everyone I work with is a character– in an awesome way. I  get along with everyone at the office really well—even though I have been dubbed the “Office April”, (which is awesome), and the general “we’re all in this together” feeling means that for the most part, we are all willing to go out of our way to help each other out. Sure, there are some days when covering the phones is really the last thing I’d rather be doing, but, in all honesty, the potential to have an Awesome Story usually gives me the motivation I need when I’d rather be working on a design or something.

There is also just a kind of sense of humor about what we do that I appreciate. I love designing stuff because I just get to have fun with it.

I’ve realized that I might not do this job forever, but I really do love it.  Sure, there are good days and bad days, just like any other job, but the fact that I get to do something I’m good at and I go in every morning with the potential to get a Great Story out of the day is pretty special to me.

In a perfect world, I would be working for a Shakespeare company that rotates between productions of Titus Andronicus and Two Gents, but the fact that I get paid to plan Halloween parties and help people plan weddings is a fair trade off for now.

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I’m Sorry that I’m Sorry That I’m Sorry

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I am a serial apologizer.

I apologize for everything. Mistakes, failures, missteps– and more often, when I absolutely don’t need to.

It’s strange, really. I never noticed how much I actually do it until Jake pointed out that I apologize, all the time, for things that make absolutely no sense to apologize about, to the point of ridiculousness.

It usually goes something like this:

Jake: Hey, want to go out tonight and do something fun?

Catie: I’m sorry, I’m just really tired and I don’t feel like it. I’m sorry.

Jake: It’s okay, you don’t have to apologize.

Catie: Sorry!

Jake:Really, it’s okay, you don’t have to say you’re sorry. We’ll do something else.

Catie: I’m sorry.

Jake: GAHHHHH.

When my back hurts (well, more than it usually does), I apologize. If I need help with something, I apologize. If I feel that I have, in the slightest way put someone out or caused them the smallest inconvenience, I am wracked with the senseless need to apologize.

I don’t get it. Well, I mean, I do. I apologize for things like not wanting to go out or feeling shitty because, in my mind, I am ruining a night’s plans because of my bastard back or something. I feel bad that I have to constantly be aware of  what I’m doing and for how long– yeah, my whole movement disorder thing isn’t usually a big issue, but I hate that it affects my life in any way.

In some ways, I think my apologies are a denial that what I deal with is a “thing”– an apology means that it’s temporary, that it’s something that will clear up in a week and everything will be fine. “I’m sorry we can’t go to the amusement park today, how does next Tuesday sound, because I’ll be fine by then!”…except next Tuesday, I still might start twitching if I ride the wrong roller coaster.

In other cases, it’s simply a way to avoid conflict. I hate yelling. I hate angry confrontation and that sickly grey-cloud-over-my-head-knotted-stomach feeling that happens when I know someone is mad at me– so I immediately apologize. Even if the other person is in the wrong. I back down and apologize because it’s easier. But it never is. Because hurt feelings stay hurt if you don’t talk about them, and an instantaneous apology doesn’t help to fix that part of the problem– it just ends the conversation, and, more often than not, that’s the exact opposite to what I want to happen.

I also realized that I have started apologizing for being honest– I do it all the time, and I realized that I had started apologizing for being honest here– on MY blog that I write and control—but still, apologizing nonetheless to a faceless public who– might be offended that I occasionally break from my whackity-shmackity daily antics and open up about the more serious parts of my life?

The biggest realization I had was that for some reason, I still don’t think I deserve the things I’ve been given.

I don’t think it’s a leftover ‘catholic school kid thing”– the guilt I feel isn’t nessessarily connected to some unseen deity, it’s deeply rooted to my sense of self-worth. I’ve gotten a lot better about self-acceptance, but what I didn’t realize is that self-acceptance isn’t nessessarily the same thing as self-worth. I accept myself for who I am, but that doesn’t mean that my definition of who I am isn’t flawed or skewed by my guilt at not being able to meet the expectations I ascribe to myself.

I’ve never been a person to flaunt my successes. (Well, most of the time). Occasionally, I will get fired up about something and pull out my “look at how successful I am” card, but in daily life, I’m far from a braggart.

I know that I should be proud of what I’ve accomplished, and not apologize for being good at something– the thought of offending someone because I mention my success is almost ridiculous when analyzing it, but in daily conversation, I do it all the time. I’m a good writer– I always have been– but I often apologize for it, and downplay my success.

I don’t feel like I deserve the success of this blog, or my amazing boyfriend or really, much of anything. What have I done, really, to earn this? Most of my successes involve writing of some kind– something that has always come to me so easily– I was born this way, with this skill. I haven’t worked at it, or really done anything to develop it–it’s just always been there. So why should these successes be deserving of a celebration? Instead, I apologize for bringing it up, mentioning that I have an awesome talent and skill that I would love to share with people.

I wish I understood why I feel so guilty about enjoying things or asking things of others. Jake has never hesitated to give me a back-rub when I’ve been particularly hurty, but I always feel a twinge of guilt asking him. I know he’s more than willing and that he doesn’t mind, but in my head, I’ve decided that it must be a horrible inconvenience for him and he’s probably counting the days until he can dump me and find someone who doesn’t ask for back-rubs during movies all the time.

Stupid, right?

Duh.

I’m sorry.

^^ I just typed that without thinking. Literally. My instinct for sharing something about my life or the way I feel was automatically followed by an apology. It’s strange, looking at it objectively (well, objectively as I can). Sometimes writing on here kind of lays everything out and gives me some perspective.

I don’t know if this is one that I can nessessarily get a huge amount of perspective on, but I do know that it’s something I want to look in to. The first step, I suppose, is trying NOT to apologize all the time for things.

I don’t have an end for this one. Not yet. I don’t want to make any bold promises about a magical shift in attitude, nor do I want to act like everything is fixed.

Sometimes, I just like to type things out and see what happens.

Sorry.

 

 

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Confessions of a Broke-Ass Actor

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There was a point last month where I had money. Not a lot, not enough to buy a house or a car or really even an expensive pair of shoes, but I had, in my tiny little corner of the bank, a small stockpile of money that made me happy, because it was mine, and I had earned it and saved responsibly and wisely and now, the fruit of my labors rested comfortably in its little cocoon of safety, and all was right with the world.

Then, predictably, one “shit, I need a dress for a wedding” and one minor car- related disaster later, I am once again relatively broke-ass.

Damn it.

I hate that.

Being broke sucks. I hate the feeling of being nervous about the ability to pay bills (whether on time or not) and the constant thought of “what if something ELSE happens”  nagging at me when I’m trying to sleep.

At the same time, it is a blessing.

Not having money is interesting. I’m not about to start living on the street– but things like “oh, crap, dinner” become interesting. (Please note: I also am not starving to death. Read on). I love cooking, so when money is tight, dinner is way more fun for me– instead of defaulting to “let’s eat out”, I get to go through my beloved process of finding recipes and creating something from scratch. Plus, it’s healthier. Usually.

I also get more “me” time, strangely enough. Since I work a specified number of hours a week, I know how much time I have to do other things during the day. More often than I care to admit, my “outside of work” time is filled with the aforementioned eating out or, more guiltily, – shopping.

Shopping is my dirty habit. I’m sort of a clothes whore, which doesn’t really make sense given my standard uniform of “tank top, jeans and a cardigan”, but the never-ending possibilities of my local thrift stores combined with my love of crafts and DIY projects means that I spend a lot of time bargain hunting for possibilities and projects.

Being broke means that I have to shift my priorities– still on creative things, but things that don’t nessessarily cost money. Writing, art, reading, music– things I often neglect when I’m particularly busy become the simple pleasures of my evening hours.

I also walked to work today since my car was in the shop. It’s not a terrible walk– longish but manageable, and I realized that I enjoyed it. I don’t see it happening on particularly crappy days, but I could see myself walking or biking to work more often– and saving a little money on gas wouldn’t be a terrible thing, either.

Reminding myself that it’s OKAY that I’m broke– that things happen, that life goes on and in 20 years when I’m rich and famous I’ll look back on this and laugh—NOT feeling like a complete failure is difficult, especially because I feel like it’s all my fault. If I were more responsible/smarter/more careful with money, I wouldn’t have this problem.

I’m hoping to find a full-time job pretty soon, and it’s an exciting prospect– having a big kid job with big kid money– but if (when) that happens, the same rules will still apply. What I think I’ve figured out through my many, many periods of being broke is that there are always going to be car emergencies/weddings/doctor’s visits and a million little things that I’ll have to spend money on. I can improve my spending habits and try and be more cognizant of “no, I don’t need another grey sweater”, but the biggest thing is not hating myself. The number in my bank account does not define my worth.

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Sword fights, Sexy Dancing and Me.

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This afternoon, I attended the second half of auditions for Prenzie’s latest show, The Rover.

I think they went okay– it’s kind of a weird show–in a good way– one good (and bad) thing is that many of the characters are absolute blank slates, so getting to decide “who” each character is can be fun– and entirely challenging, because I am not so good at that– but being challenged is one of my favorite parts of being an actor.

Speaking of challenging, (SEGUE-WAY!)  this afternoon I was also asked to do something I’ve really never had to do before on stage (or, really, in daily life)– “be sexy”. For my entire life, I have always been the neighbor, or the maid, or the comic relief. I’ve never been asked to be “sexy” before, and even with my role last year, rolling around in stage blood with my hands cut off didn’t facilitate the most sexy of ingenue roles.

Lavinia was an incredibly challenging role because of her vulnerability– something else I’d never had to do before, and here, on the other side of the coin, is a show full of characters with confidence and sexuality– two things I’m also not good at.

It was weird. There was this moment when the choreographer asked us to kind of make up a movement/dance piece. I was terrified. In “real life”, I’m a slightly awkward blue-haired nerd who enjoys crafts and Godzilla movies. Suddenly, I was being asked to be a famous courtesan that –literally– everyone wants to sleep with. I’ve always seen myself as more of a Kristen Wig than a Nicole Kidman, but thanks to the magic of theatre, everything about how I define myself as a person was getting flipped to the exact opposite end of the spectrum.

This......not this.

This……………………………….not this.

I will fully admit that I use sarcasm and jokes as a defense mechanism, and you can bet your ass I was joking my way all the way onto the floor, but as the music started, I thought to myself “alright, Catie, now’s your chance to try this out”…and you know what? I had a great fucking time. It felt…natural. Like, I wasn’t necessarily the best dancing in the world,  but something about embracing the fact that maybe there is something sexy about me was kind of….empowering I guess? I always feel like a tool when I use that word, but it feels appropriate here.

Since there weren’t a lot of people (most people came last night), Aaron (the fight choreographer) and I started messing around with swords. I’d never been coached by Aaron before in this context, and it was….well, I had more fun this afternoon than I have in a long, long time.

Driving home afterwards, I couldn’t figure out what it was about the events of the afternoon that left me feeling both so elated and also, so entirely confused.

What I realized was that I felt sexy today. I genuinely, absolutely, for maybe the third time in my entire life, felt sexy and powerful. Yeah, I was doing some of the most basic fighting stuff there is to do, and yes, my “sexy dancing” involved a lot of hair-flipping and duck-face, but I was doing it—not perfectly, not with great panache, but I was happy. I was excited and powerful and sexy.

And my mind turned off. During both the dance portion and our hour of fighting, my brain shut off and I wasn’t thinking about what I have to do tonight or what to make for dinner or what email I forgot to send. I was focused on what I was doing and how I was connected with it, and nothing else.

I also stopped caring about how I look. And that– well, if sword fighting and sexy dancing can do that, I need to do both more often. I came to auditions dressed to dance, so I was just wearing like a black tank top and leggings, but they were both form fitting. I’m not the sveltest of women, I know this, but both times– during the dancing AND while I was fighting with Aaron, I realized that I didn’t really give a shit what I looked like, goddamn it, I was having fun and I was doing something I’d never done before. It didn’t matter that I was sweaty and smelly and my hips were showing– I learned a pretty decent grand lunge today, and I’m proud of that.

Sure, I might not have been perfect, and yes, I was frustrated with how long it took me to pick up basic things when I was fighting, but it was a frustration built on the desire to get better– not because I wanted to be the best or because I wanted to show off,  but just like the dance portion, I was doing it for me.

There is a connect, I think, between fighting and dance– a very subtle one, but for me, that awareness of my body and what it  was doing allowed me to stop thinking about how awkward I must look or how stank I was getting and it made me want to get better– both at dancing and at fighting.

Regardless of whether or not I get cast (or whether or not I get the part I’d like), this, for some reason, kind of feels like a bit of a game changer. I’m not pretending that this has shattered my world or anything, but today I realized that maybe I am capable of more than I think– maybe I shouldn’t be afraid of the physical side of myself.

Maybe, underneath my silly hair and awkward comic timing and general dorkyness, there is some sort of a sexy woman underneath.

And maybe I should get myself a sword.

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England (And Blue Jeans)

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The other day, Abby pointed out that it had been four years since we’d been in England, and something about that just threw me.

To me, it seems like a couple months ago that I was hanging out in Liverpool and experiencing a fascinating look at a culture so similar– and completely different– than my own.

I also can’t believe how much has changed. When I started writing this, this was more of a “wow, my life is sure different now” thing, but it turned into something a little more serious. Sorry. You can stop reading now, it won’t hurt my feelings.

Basically, it comes down to two things. I miss England and I miss my jeans, and I’m disappointed in myself for which one I miss more.

I miss England so much. I miss the weather (because it’s like fall….all the time) and the rainy days and nights and my horribly hot little apartment in the Milton House with the strange refrigerator full of cages. I miss being confused every time I went to the grocery store and the feeling of adventure I got whenever I would take the train.

This was a ten minute walk from my house.

I miss being fascinated by how fast the tea water maker thing would boil the water and why people like tea in the first place.

I miss being able to take off at the drop of a hat and skip class to see a play, or, at that point in my life, more than likely go shopping. I miss late nights in Katherine Fletcher drinking horrible amounts of booze and trying to figure out what my new friends were saying, especially the Irish ones. I miss our secret party room, obtained by breaking down the door to the attic (which also gained us a second bathroom) and having this fantastic, unlimited opportunity to go see anything I wanted, at any point.

I have no idea who this guy is. I thought he looked like the guy from the Princess Bride at the time.

 

There is such a duality to that time in my life. It was an amazing, wonderful experience, but at the same time, I was in the deepest part of my eating disorder and throwing up more times a day then I care to admit, or not eating at all. I remember, very vividly, one night when we decided we were going to “dress up” and have a soiree at our house– I didn’t have anything to wear, and when I told Abby that I had no idea what size I was, she grabbed a pair of my jeans and checked. They were a size two.

Sweet Jesus, those were amazing jeans.

In one look, I knew exactly what she was thinking and she was exactly right. Abby had, at this point, known me for three years, and the closest I had ever been to a size two was walking by the rack on the way to the “plus size” section.

But I kept up the ridiculous pretense of “no, I just…run…a lot!” for as long as I could.

Looking back, obviously, I regret it. I regret having to cover my ass about what I was doing in the bathroom and wasting money and time on food– but more than that, I want to know what it would have been like being in England without the constant obsession over calories and was anyone going to find out.

But I can’t change the past.

Looking at the photos of me then, now, is hard– one on hand, I look and say “holy shit, I looked so good”, but deep down, I know what I was doing to myself and how bad that was for me, and how miserable I was.

Since then, I am obviously not a size 2 anymore.

Look at how miserable I am!

There are days when I miss it. There are days when I miss being able to fit anything in the store, but at the same time, I don’ t have to lie to myself every morning and say “just one more time,you can stop tomorrow”. I’m proud of that, and proud of how far I’ve come, but sometimes it’s difficult to remember that I’m worth more than a number on a scale.

But I was happy. At the same time, I was absolutely happy. I have these incredible memories of the experiences I had, the people I met, the friends I made, the crazy nights and late night parties, I miss the bustle of the big cities and the chill, small-town atmosphere of Ormskirk. I fell in love with that city. I really did. I would give anything to be able to live there again.

I don’t know.

I think part of me has just got the itch to travel again. Part of me just misses what I had. I know that’s the point of life, that you live as much as you can, move on and cherish the memories, but I feel like I got short-changed.

I did that myself, and I know it, but it’s just kind of weird still. It’s weird seeing pictures of me, seeing how happy I was in those moments, genuinely happy, and wanting to know what it was that made me go home at night, look in the mirror and think that I didn’t deserve those things unless I weighed 100 pounds.

But I still have those jeans.

You know.

Just in case.

PS: Sorry for the overshare.

 

 

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Needs and Wants

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I think too much.

I know this about myself, and knowing this, while making life easier to live, does not always serve to quiet the late-night thoughts and conversations I have with myself at 2AM to remind myself that I need to finish designing that thing or write that email or whatever.

I’ve also never been a planner.

I’ve never had a “life plan” or, really, any sort of idea about what I wanted to be when I grew up. For a brief time what plan I did have revolved around me becoming a world-famous archaeologist who would be interviewed on the History Channel, but then I read a disparaging essay about how you have to learn several different languages, and my guidance councilor told me I’d never make it since our school didn’t have a good languages program. So I decided to do theatre, the secret, backup desire I’d had since I was a kid. I wasn’t going to learn Egyptian, fine, but I could still be on Broadway. Seven years of voice lessons later, I realized that sometimes, you just aren’t good enough for what you wanted to do. I’m just not a good singer. I can carry a tune, but I’m not anything to write home about.

So I just kind of…wandered. By the time I figured out my Broadway dreams were never going to be anything but, I’d decided on a theatre major, and it was fun, and I was good at it, but I didn’t have a plan for after college. I figured it would work itself out.

And it kind of has. I have a job I like and I’m lucky that I get to do creative things (including crafts!) and I get to work for a theatre company with a mission I support and do plays I’m passionate about.

But I just keep thinking.

There are things I want in my life. There are things I expected to have by now, things I expected to achieve. I thought I would be a size 3 and on Broadway, and instead I am the exact opposite of those things.

My mom has been going through the process of cleaning out my room and occasionally I will stop by to grab things. Last week, I grabbed a bunch of old notebooks and papers to sort through, and I found an old junior high notebook in which I’d created a number of lists, one of which hilariously lists the absolute most important qualities that my future boyfriend must have, number one being “really nice hair”.  How far I’ve come. The other one was a sort of junior-high bucket list of embarrassing things I wanted to happen and what age was the appropriate time for all of those to be achieved, with stern notes to “future Catie” about the consequences of not achieving these goals in the allotted time frame.

It’s weird, looking back 10 years and seeing how far I’ve come– and in some cases, how far I haven’t. I would love to travel back in time to that painfully awkward girl and tell her that “you know what? everything works out okay”, and have that same nerdy kid look me over and say “Wow, you need to grow up”.

Because I  have… I just didn’t plan on it happening like this.

There are still things I want to achieve, things I want to experience and do and see, but I think I need to accept that the plan has changed– I’m not 14 anymore, and I don’t think # 34: Play Maria in the Sound of Music before you’re 30 is going to be happening any time soon– –but what I realized when I found that list is how many of those I still desperately want to come true, no matter how impractical.

In my mind, this is making sense, but I think it’s reading like “hey kids! give up on your dreams!” I don’t think that’s what I mean. I’m almost 100% sure I don’t believe in that.

I think what I believe in is that I’m never going to be an Olympic Gymnast ( #12)  and also a ballerina in New York  (#28) with a night job as a children’s book writer (#4). Maybe it would be just fine if I just wrote children’s books about kids who become gymnasts and ballerinas and archaeologists and are Broadway stars.

Maybe I don’t need a plan so much as I need to realize that it’s okay to want the same things as 14-year-old me, but 24-year-old me knows herself a little better, and as much as I hate my limitations and failings, working towards new goals and better dreams can happen easily– and a way more amazing plan might just come out of the process.

 

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The Best Question I’ve Ever Been Asked

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Today I spoke to a group of students at Palmer and I feel like I did pretty well. People laughed, as they tend to do when you let me ramble in front of a crowd, and I also managed to wake up at 6:50AM which is an accomplishment in itself.

After my brilliant performance (best moments include “Hold on, I forget what happens to me next” and “Crap, my phone is doing something weird, hold on”), I opened the floor to questions.

There were a lot of good ones, and it was a GREAT audience, but one question blew me away.

Someone asked me “You’ve talked a lot about what you lost because of your condition, but what have you gained?”

Whoa.

My initial response was “About 40 pounds”. (I’M HILARIOUS).

But then, I started thinking.

What have I gained?

Weight, yes, but as I started considering, I was–and still am– blow away by what *good* this has brought me in my life.

With the weight came a begrudging acceptance that I won’t always look how I want, but who I am and what I believe in is not nessessarily related to my jeans size– and that was one of the biggest things I think I needed in my life.

I gained a support system, a group of friends willing to go out of their way to carry things or take breaks and do their best to accommodate me.

I gained the ability to discern a true friend from someone just along for the ride, and while it was difficult for me to come to terms with the fact that not everyone around me was actually my friend, I gained a desire to show the people who were genuinely concerned my appreciation.

I gained the ability to balance a schedule made even more busy with doctors appointments and lengthy tests.

I gained the ability to drive in big city traffic without (much) trepidation.

I gained a relationship built on compassion and emotional support and a boyfriend who is beyond incredible. I started twitching literally 4 days after we officially started dating. Most people would bail on that, but he made it his prerogative to be there for me, even when I was shitty and angry and pissy or doped up out of my mind. He stayed. And that means the world to me.

I gained the ability to relish the small moments of victory—from being able to ride the rides at the Shady Carnival by the mall to finally being able to eat soup again without spilling– inconsequential for most, awesome for me.

I gained a talent for getting people to immediately see who I am based on my words and actions, not my physical appearance.

I gained the knowledge that not everyone has a medical problem you can see (or even happens 24/7) and became less judgmental because of it.

I gained the ability to put on eyeliner regardless of how shaky my hand may be that day.

I gained the willpower to ask for help and to admit that I’ve taken on too much.

I gained patience– for not being able to do things I wanted, for not being able to carry things or help people when I wanted to, for having to plan around my stupid twitch instead of just jumping in. Maybe waiting a day might be frustrating, but it is better than twitching for a week because of it.

I gained a sense of time– maybe I can’t do something right now, but that doesn’t mean that in 20 minutes or 20 seconds I still won’t be able to.

I gained the confidence to take things at my own pace. I used to be able to pull myself up a set of Silks and flip around like a crazy person and then go and run 6 miles. I think right now I can do like…4 push ups.  I miss that strength and that stamina, but I know that I have to take things slowly and rebuild myself little by little, not all in one massive swoop.

I gained a better ability to sit still. (Well, you know). Sometimes all I can do is sit and read or watch tv– but Jake taught me to identify birds and I started writing again, so the stillness became a relaxing thing instead of something I dreaded.

I learned about myself– what I am capable of, what I am afraid of and how that affects me. I learned to be strong when I needed to be and I learned to let myself cry if I needed to.

I could go on and on– but I don’t think I need to. I just feel so…empowered after thinking about it and really examining things. I also feel lucky.

Lucky to have the chances I’ve had, to have friends like I do, to have someone like Jake for my adventuring partner– it’s a good feeling.

Today was a good day.

 

 

 

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Opportunity Knocks

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If you know me personally, and even if you don’t, I think it’s fairly obvious that I am a person that stumbles into various opportunities and experiences on a fairly routine basis. I love it, not only because it gives me a cool story to tell (usually), but more often than not, I find myself meeting wonderful people and being offered yet another cool experience.

I believe, especially as an actor, that it is super easy to make personal connections (and, I guess in a pretentious-actor sort of way, “network”) backstage and on-set because all it takes is a smile and the willingness to introduce myself to strangers and trust that I’ll be able to find something in common with them.

Today was no different– I got a call awhile ago from a gentleman who runs a production company that was planning on filming in the Quad Cities. He’d heard about me through another director I’d worked with in the past and wanted to know if I would be willing to come in and act in a training video they were shooting for a private security firm. Of course, I said yes.

One strange bonus about my hair is that it’s gotten me a lot of acting work. I’ve worked for five or six different video companies, mostly playing some variation on an angry teenage hooligan/angry teenage punk– although with the benefit of my “spaceship computer voice” and a wig, I’ve been able to play a few more normal parts— I did a pretty fun video for John Deere awhile ago that involved a complicated script about manufacturing– I think I understood maybe 20% of what I was talking about, but it led to a small radio commercial as well, so I wasn’t complaining.

Anyway, so I showed up ready to get my hooligan on, and sure enough, I was harassing a security guard within the hour. (Not for fun, that’s what I was supposed to be doing).

I love doing training videos because most of the time, they aren’t scripted, so you just start talking and let whatever happens happen. It’s a fun acting exercise as well, because most of the time, the security guards or employees are ACTUAL security guards and employees, so it becomes my responsibility to make sure they succeed in the scene, not the other way around– which is kind of a fun challenge, especially when the person is shy or doesn’t know what to say. I think this work has also improved my ability to be able to make conversation with damn near anyone, no matter how little they might seem like they have to offer at first. There’s a life lesson in there somewhere, I think.

Afterwards, I got to taking with a couple of the other actors and this woman from Palmer (where we were shooting) came out to talk to us and started telling us how much she would like to have some actors come in and talk to the students about dealing with diversity and patient communication. One thing led to another (as it usually does) and 10 minutes later, I found myself in her office discussing the best topic to speak on this Friday morning.

I don’t know why these things happen to me, but I feel so lucky that they do. Maybe it’s because I’ve made a conscientious  effort to be as open as possible to opportunity, but I don’t think I’ve ever said “yes” to something like this without having something come of it.

What’s the most awesome for me isn’t the experience or my track record in “and now something even more random has happened”– it’s what’s coming out of it. On Friday, I’m going to be speaking to Palmer students about my experiences with my movement disorder and the good (and bad) experiences I had being an “undiagnosable” patient.

I’ve talked before about my experiences and what it was like going through all of that, so I won’t go into it again, but something about being able to open up and share that experience with a roomful of future doctors is very cathartic to me. I’m not going to approach it with negativity– that would be too easy. Instead, I’m going to tell them how to prevent that experience from happening to their patients. I’m going to talk about their opportunity to affect lives and how powerful something as simple as a handshake and a smile can be when you’re scared and alone in the hospital.

I don’t have any big ideas that I’m going to shatter someone’s perception of reality or inspire the next Patch Adams, but I feel like maybe, in some small way, I’m might be able to positively impact some future patient’s experience, and that, to me, is the biggest pay off yet– and all because I smiled and introduced myself.