My Date ... With DESTINY!

Please excuse the cheesy title, but once it got in my head I couldn't get it out.

When I was thirteen, my friends and I were talking about what we wanted to be when we grew up. I admitted that I wanted to be an actress. And then they proceeded to tease me about it, saying that the only work I'd ever be able to get would be facial hair bleach and maxipad commercials. They cracked themselves up about it for the rest of the afternoon.

Since then, I've been very careful about what I tell people when they ask me what I'm doing in Los Angeles. I say "I'm a writer." Which I am. I get paid to write, which was the other thing I wanted to do when I grew up. But there was still that other thing, and no matter how hard I tried to ignore it, it wouldn't go away.

Being an actress is a terrifying prospect. You're basically choosing to go into a career field that ninety-nine percent of people have no success in. I didn't want to make that kind of committment to failure, but eventually I got to the point where I was more miserable not going for the acting thing than I would have been if I had gone for it and failed. So I went for it. At the beginning of this month, I sent out a bunch of headshots to various agencies. This is what is called a "mailing" in the biz. I apologize for my use of the word "biz."

I sent out the headshots at the beginning of this month fully expecting nothing to come of it. If I was lucky, one or two of the many agents I sent my stuff to would call me in for a meeting. If I was really really really lucky, one of them would take me. Since I am never, ever lucky except when I play three card poker in Vegas, I figured I'd spend a lot of money on stamps and good resume paper and get nothing in return except knowing that I went for it and actually did something instead of sitting around being afraid to do anything. Which was worth the money to me, so, no problem there.

Imagine my surprise when I got a call from an agent a week after I sent out the headshots! Her name was Jennifer Chandler with Q Management, and she wanted to meet me!

So we met on Valentine's Day, which, historically, has never been very good to me. It was a nice meeting: we chatted for a while, I liked her and the agency but didn't want to like them too much because I didn't think anything would come of this and I didn't want to be too disappointed, and then she told me to call her in a few days for her decision.

I spent ten minutes before the call rehearsing what I'd say when she rejected me. I told everyone that I was thrilled to get a meeting but didn't think she'd actually take me. I'm really good at setting myself up for failure. I'm so good that a lot of times, I don't even try something because I'm so sure it won't work out. But this time, I was ready for the rejection, and for the long road of rejections that would follow it. Finally, I was READY!

And then something very unexpected happened: she said she wanted to be my agent.

And it turned out that I had done such a good job preparing for her to say no that I had no idea what to do when she said yes. I think it went something like this:

Agent: I'd like to work with you.
Me: *gasp!* Are ... are you sure?

She was sure! We agreed to meet two days later to go over all the logistics and stuff and I spent those two days waiting for the inevitable phone call where she told me that she made a mistake. But that didn't happen, so I went in to see her and now ...


I managed to score an agent in one month, and it's the shortest month of the year! ACCOMPLISHMENT! I spent an hour or so basking in this, forty-five minutes of which was spent trying to figure out how to bask. I settled on just smiling a lot.

And you know what? I'd be thrilled to be in a commercial for facial hair bleach or maxipads. Perferably, a commercial about tampons where I'm in a store changing room next to my friend and she's all upset because she ran out of pads and I inform her ridiculously ignorant ass that there's this thing called a tampon she can use. Then I give her one of mine and we go ride bikes or swim or some other activity you can't do with a pad.


Sunday Morning

Lately and for no good reason, I've developed the habit of waking up really early in the morning. This is very unusual indeed for someone who used to sleep until three in the afternoon if left to her own devices. A whole new world of early-morning risers has opened up to me now, and they are weird.

On my way to 7-11 this morning to buy some milk for my cereal (Cheerios with raisins and bananas), I encountered three of them in quick succession:

1. A woman who yelled at me when I stepped aside to let her and her shopping cart by (there wasn't room on the sidewalk for both of us. I was trying to be polite. I feel the need to clarify this since there are people out there who think I hate homeless people based on one freaking comment I made in a recap. You know, I once wrote about how Jewish temple services included a buffet line to eat a Christian baby and no one had a problem with that. It's amazing how political correctness works these days).

2. A man holding a small shopping bag who also yelled at me: "all she cares about is her Kotex and her pets!" I thought he was yelling into a cell phone ear piece, but further inspection revealed no such device. I don't know why he thought I would be interested in his wife's menstrual cycle and love of pets over her husband, but jealousy is not attractive, Mister.

3. Some old guy who gently offered me a pamphlet about how God loves me. Actually, it was more like a questionnaire about whether God loves me or not, but I'm just going to assume that the answer is "yes, as long as you open your heart to Jesus" and not actually read it. I took it from him because he asked so nicely and it seemed important to him.

I finally made it to 7-11 only to see that they are now selling Taco Chili Cheese Hot Dogs! I love tacos and I love chili cheese hot dogs, so this has the potential to be the best food ever. Common sense, however, tells me that it will end up being the worst. Lunchtime is coming up soon ...


Catching Up With Old Friends

Police: Woman Helped Robber

I believe in you, Kate! Not guilty! Not guilty!



Sarah Morrison From The Internet

Imagine my surprise to discover that there's some girl out there calling herself "Sarah Morrison from the Internet" and making weekly youtube vlogs where she talks about stuff like living in Los Angeles. What the hell. Who does she think she is? I AM SARA MORRISON FROM THE INTERNET. THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE. And it is me. The fact that we spell our first names differently means nothing because they sound the same and people are coming to my blog because they think I'm some 27-year-old who works at cinespace and likes to tell the world about my life while sitting in what appears to be a closet. Well, I'm not. I'M BETTER.

Sarah Morrison from the Internet, I challenge thee! You and I both know you google your own name, so I'm sure you'll come across this eventually. And when you do, know this: the spelling of your first name is wasteful. That H is totally unecessary. The spelling of my name is practical and efficient. Therefore, I am better. I am the ONE and the ONLY Sara Morrison from the Internet. I'm so awesome that I don't even need to give myself a title like that. I have nothing to prove. Another thing I don't have is a video camera, so I guess I won't be entering the youtube vlog world any time soon. I do, however, respect your views on Punky Brewster.