Listless and the Beast

©Disney

I loved Disney's Beauty and the Beast when I was growing up.  Like Disney's heroine a couple years earlier, Ariel the Little Mermaid, Belle was fiery, passionate, had a mind of her own, and was incredibly ambitious, determined to create the life for herself she wanted beyond the one she was currently living.  And she loved to read, like me.  And some people thought she was odd because her mind was always racing and she was really bubbly about her passions... like me.

So it was with great trepidation that I went to see the new live action Beauty and the Beast film.  It was more something I felt that I should see than something I wanted to see.  From the previews it looked like it was essentially a shot-for-shot remake, and as a fan of classic animation, especially when it suits the story and is the right fit, I failed to see why a remake was necessary or desirable.  But I went in with an open mind, hoping to fall in love with my favorite characters brought to life.

....But what I saw, far from them being brought to life, were characters deadened and flattened into far less dimension than the ones created by ink and paint in 1991.  Most perplexing to me was the opening musical sequence of Belle wandering around her village singing "Little Town."  In the original film, the song is used to show that Belle is so full of excitement for life that she bubbles over and her tiny, quaint village can neither contain nor understand that excitement.  She turns to books to travel outside the confines of her little town -- but despite her interest in discussing her books with people, there's no one who's interested in hearing what she has to say, cutting her off as she tries to express her excitement so they can go about their daily tasks....  So she escapes into her books in a solitary existence, with only the sheep to expound the merits of her favorite book to.  And she is of course judged for this by the villagers, who don't understand her desire for something more and the reason she turns to books.... They just mock her, and she ignores their gossip and rude comments because this woman's got a purpose and books to read and things to do and no way are ignorant people with a lack of curiosity in their world going to get in her way.  It's the ultimate nerd-power sequence.

In the live action film, I was shocked to see this sequence turned into one in which a pouty Belle strolls aimlessly around town rolling her eyes at villagers (some of whom curiously seem to stand in place not doing anything until they become aware the roving camera is on them and then they sing their line and promptly stop acting again like they weren't given any direction beyond to wait for the camera... but that's a whole other issue).  Gone is her warmth towards others.  Gone is her love of life and excitement.  Gone is any attempt to engage other villagers in her passions.  In fact, gone is her passion.  Does she still get a book?  Sure.  From a library that doesn't actually have any books in it (were the set dressers not on set that day?), so I guess that explains why Belle doesn't really have much of a thing for books in this version....  In fact, she doesn't actually READ the book she borrows, wandering around with it closed most of the time and singing in the camera's general direction to no one in particular about a specific passage she's apparently reading through osmosis. ("It's my favorite part because... you'll see."  Who, Belle?  Who will see?  And how will they see it if the book's closed?)

While most of the dialogue in the film is the same as in the animated version, the conversation with the bookseller about the book she's borrowing being her favorite because it's full of "far off places, daring sword fights, magic spells, a prince in disguise" (dialogue she delivers with the unbridled enthusiasm that is the hallmark of a true nerd-in-the-best-way) is cut and replaced by some cool ennui-ridden dialogue about not wanting to return from the Italy of Romeo and Juliet and his library making their small town seem big. (Again -- WHAT LIBRARY?? WHERE ARE ALL THE BOOKS??  And I must admit this is where the film lost me.  Nerds get made fun of for being overly enthusiastic and excited.  That's the whole basis of the teasing.  Nerds don't get made fun of for ennui.  And Belle's infectious excitement is not only endearing but is at the heart of her character.)  Also cut is Belle jumping at the chance to talk to the Baker about her book and its beanstalk and ogre before he brushes her off.  Here, instead, she tosses to a villager the info that "it's about two lovers in fair Verona" while literally walking away from him, clearly uninterested in trying to bring him into her excitement. (He responds "Sounds boring."  I have to admit her description and attitude wouldn't get me interested either.  Did she even like it?  I can't quite tell by the way she gives him the least-exciting description of Romeo And Juliet humanly possible.)  So... explain to me why Belle's an outcast?  Is it just because she's an annoying teenager who's kind of bored by and disinterested in everything?  Yeah, I wouldn't want to spend much time around her either.  (Oh and that book she was returning to the bookseller in this version?  Yeah, it wasn't actually a book.  Romeo and Juliet's a play.  I love Shakespeare too, but we've replaced an adventure book with a romance that wasn't even intended by its author to be read.  Later she reads poetry to the Beast.  So... does Belle actually read books at all?)

Though this early dialogue about Belle's reading is cut, however, added later is some talk with the Beast about her favorite play -- Romeo and Juliet again, of course... and she and the Beast have an exchange about it being a romance.  And when he reads King Arthur, though he insists it's because of the action, Belle again highlights that it's a romance.  What happened to the girl who loved daring sword fights and ogres?  Now she only likes romances?  Perhaps that's why this Belle shows no interest in using the added magic tool of a seemingly wordless book that can literally physically transport you anywhere your imagination can think of when you simply place your hand on it. (So... just to be clear, this "magic book" isn't really a book at all.  It's just a magic sheet of dead tree enclosed by dead animal skin.  Pretty sure that does not a book make.  It's a virtual reality video game.  And I'm not sure how I feel about what this addition seems to be saying about the lack of regular books' ability to transport through imagination, since Belle's interest in escaping into the adventure of books has already been mostly stripped from the film and replaced by the notion that the only kind of escape to be gained from books is a romantic, geographical one.  In an age where people use iPads and iPhones more than they read books, are we ignoring the ability of books to open up worlds to the reader through no magic trick other than their own imagination?  Isn't that the whole purpose of books in the first place?  I get the strong feeling that those responsible for the script's updating are not book readers.)  Though Belle understandably uses the magic book to take her to her first home to learn the story of her mother's death, she then immediately tells the Beast, "Let's go home" and never expresses an interest in any of that "adventure in the great wide somewhere" that she had so dreamily-if-lackadaisically sung about earlier.  Where is Belle's sense of adventure when she actually has the opportunity to indulge it?

I get the impression that this Belle will become a homebody and live forever in her remote castle with her Prince Charming, reading romantic poetry and plays and perhaps the occasional angsty young adult romance novel.  And that's fine.  But that's not the adventure-loving nerdy Belle from the original film that I so admired as a child and thought was a great role model.  What message does someone come away from this Beauty and the Beast with?  Keep an open mind and you won't be turned into a Beast?  If you're nice to talking animals you'll get a castle and a prince?

I'd rather be transported by a good book.  One with adventure in the great wide somewhere.

The problem with catsitting is you fall in love

I've been catsitting my friend's cat for the last three weeks.  Growing up, my cat Gem was my bestie, and I still think of her every day.  But since she passed away about five years ago, aside from spending time with my parents' cats when I go home (if I can find them under their mile-long hair) or some play sessions with my brother's cats, I haven't spent much time with the species I love so much.  Part of that was because I didn't want to get a cat until I could fully open my heart to him or her without comparing them to Gem; part of it was because when my fiancé was still stage managing, neither of us had regular enough schedules to make sure a cat was properly cared for or regular enough income to make sure that he or she had food and litter and vet money; and part of it was because my fiancé is allergic to cats.

The first time he visited my parents' home when Gem was still alive, he got stuffy and broke out in rashes on his neck and cheeks. 

"What's wrong?!" I asked.

"I'm allergic to cats," he replied.

"Oh no!" I said, a look of wide-eyed terror coming into my eyes as I stared at him, frozen, trying to comprehend the horror of having chosen a guy who can't be around my favorite species.

"Don't worry.  I know we're getting a cat one day," he said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. "I get that's not even a question.  I'll deal.  I'm not going to ask you to choose between a cat or me and living your life without a cat."

"Ok good. Glad you got that," I said with a sigh of relief.  "Now take some Benadryl."

The question hadn't seriously arisen again until a childhood friend of mine who lives in our building needed a catsitter for several weeks during her move out-of-state.  He'd been around the cat at Thanksgiving and broke out in hives.  But because I'm really good at looking at him with big brown innocent eyelash-batting eyes (a technique he tells me that one day when we have children I am forbidden from teaching them), and because I made the point that he's got to get over his allergy sooner or later "because dude, we ARE getting a cat," and this was as good a time as any, he said yes. (Lest you think I'm insensitive, I did ask, "Are you sure?" twice.  I totally gave him a chance to back out.  I might have still been batting my eyelashes when I said it... but I did say it.)

And so Daisy the cat became a temporary part of our family. 

At first he insisted she stay out of the bedroom and off the bed.  No problem.  She slept in her cat bed or on the futon.  He tensed slightly every time she came to head-butt and mark him, but he'd nevertheless patiently let her give him a nose kiss and then he'd go rushing to the sink to wash his face and hands and apply aloe before sitting back down on the futon with a slightly uncomfortable, anxious look on his face. 

"You doin' okay?" I'd ask. 

"Yeah," he'd say unconvincingly.

The fourth night, she woke us up in the middle of the night head-butting the bedroom door and hoarsely meowing.  So I went out and slept with her on the futon.  The fifth day, he let her eat a treat from his hands and barely got any rash.  On the fifth day, Daisy also discovered the joy of shoelaces.  And on the fifth night, she head-butted the bedroom door and meowed again.  So I slept on the futon again. 

The sixth day, when I was working and my fiancé was sitting on the floor listening to music, Daisy crawled into his lap.  And she looked up at him with her big innocent eyes and batted her eyelashes (maybe I said I wouldn't teach this skill to future children, but I didn't say I wouldn't teach it to a cat) and at that moment his heart grew three sizes that day, and then his true love of cats came through, and my fiancé found the strength of 10 Claritins, plus two.*

And so that night the bedroom door stayed open.  And there were no rashes.  No stuffiness.  Just a gigantic spot in our hearts for this tiny little fluffball. 

Since then, Daisy has discovered knee forts, boxes (great for use as cover when stalking prey), lip balm (she pushes my lip balm ball around the apartment -- she doesn't swat it, she pushes it, like she's throwing a basketball), paper bags, and toilet paper rolls; began tucking herself into bed; answers questions and maintains a full conversation with chuffs that she surely knows the meaning of (I get the feeling we've had some very deep philosophy conversations about which I am completely ignorant); plays with her mouse toy like it's her job (this cat actually tosses the mouse with her mouth and then catches it with her paw before tossing it again with her paw and running to fetch it -- I'm pretty sure she has invented a new sport that only she knows the elaborate rules to....  Perhaps our long conversations are her attempts to explain the rules to me....  I must seem so dense to her...); and has discovered the game of chase (she'll give you a nose kiss and then run away, always coming back to make sure you're following, then run away again -- if you switch and start running away from her, she'll chase you.)

And my fiancé has of course completely fallen in love.  As anyone with a heart would do.  "Do we have to give her back?  No one could possibly love her as much as we do!"

"But she's [my friend]'s cat.  And we'll get another cat!  And you'll love that cat too, right?"

"But that cat won't be Daisy! I don't want to love another cat! I want to love THIS cat!"

Me too.  I mean, I want to love all the cats in the world, but I definitely want to love this cat.   And look, she loves us back -- she says so -- just wait for it:

She's curled up in my knee fort right now as I type this, her little paws stretched out against my leg.

I love Daisy.  And she got my fiancé unallergic to cats.  How can I say goodbye?

My friend is planning on taking my fiancé and me for brunch tomorrow before picking Daisy up.  My fiancé told me that I can go to brunch with her and he's going to "take a little road trip with Daisy.  You're welcome to come with us.  I'm not saying I've leaving you.  Just that I'm taking the cat and running away."

Ah, the power of a cat's love.  What a difference three weeks can make.

...She just readjusted.  Now she's helping me write this post:

*If you don't know this reference, allow me to make a book recommendation: https://www.amazon.com/Grinch-Stole-Christmas-Classic-Seuss/dp/0394800796/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1492976650&sr=1-1&keywords=grinch+who+stole+christmas

Observations from a temporary couch potato

So after putting off seeing a doctor for three weeks because I was working insane hours and too busy, I have been paying for it the last week by being on antibiotics, anti-inflammatory steroids, and an inhaler and staying on the futon most of the day while wheezing, feeling my rib cage vibrate, and coughing.  But this doesn't mean that I've been completely unproductive.  No, to the contrary -- in addition to making my over-packed bookcase look like a tornado hit it and making me feel like I'm going from dancer-body to flab-body, with the help of the sweetest cat alive who I have been catsitting, I've also made some all-important observations the last week while being a sick couch potato.  As I emerge from couch-potatodom, I would like to share some of these observations:

1. Even cats love Hugh Jackman.

Men love him because he's Wolverine, women love him because he's Leopold, Duke of Albany... but perhaps no one finds Hugh Jackman dreamier than this cat.  I had already noticed she had a fondness for romantic comedies, but nothing compared to her enjoyment of Jackman's Someone Like You, which she watched in its entirety with me, mesmerized by Mr. Jackman:

As soon as the credits started to roll, she hopped down.  Then as soon as I started playing the behind-the-scenes interview with him, she hopped back up and started actually purring and snuggling the speaker.  Kitty has a crush.  But the question remains: Is this a species-wide affinity for the man with the adamantium claws, or do I happen to have met a cat with particularly refined taste?  She also tucks herself into bed, is a great goalie in a game of ball-and-box, and will answer questions by looking you in the eye and making a cross between a tiger chuff and a meow, so I'm not entirely sure she's not just a human in a cat body....  Further testing in regard to cat-love for Hugh Jackman might be in order.

2.  Cats also love fort tents.

One of my favorite play-time activities as a child was making forts out of the big flat pillows we had that as I remember it were just for that purpose.  Apparently cats feel the same way... but their lack of opposing thumbs necessitates that they settle for knee forts:

 3.  Coloring books used to be SO much better than today.

When I was little, my mom would give my brother and me "rainy-day toys" when we were stuck inside all day.  Cleaning out the cupboard above the fridge recently, she discovered a couple that we had never received.  And because I'm actually a five-year-old masquerading as an adult, she knew I would enjoy my long-lost rainy-day toy just as much now and so sent it off to me.  And let me tell you, this is a totally rad coloring book.  What coloring book today would look like this?  I mean, we've got a fairy riding a flamingo.  You can't beat a fairy riding a flamingo. (Also, I am now upset that Crayola is discontinuing "Dandelion."  This giraffe would not have been possible without "Dandelion."  Really, Crayola, how about not discriminating against giraffes?)

4.  Speaking of colors, let's talk TV shows' colors.

...Specifically, the colors of the ones I like watching when I don't need to exert brain power.  Golden Girls is all pastels and whites and sunlight; Reba, which makes me feel happy and warm and fuzzy, is all yellows and warm tones; and Murder She Wrote is both warm and pastels, counteracting the fact that the show's about death and horrible people and that Jessica Fletcher must be the most prolific serial killer in history.  Also, though Reba takes place in Texas, the wardrobe would indicate it's always Midwest Fall, with sweaters and scarves in deep reds and golds and purples. In Golden Girls, the wardrobe never quite matches with its Florida setting either -- the women consistently wear light jackets and long sleeves -- nothing like the short-sleeved polo shirts my Grandma living there wore.  Meanwhile, Jessica Fletcher never wears a coat, despite living in Maine, which makes no sense.  And it's never winter on any show.

.......Maybe you were hoping this post had a big point or was about something topical or relevant or interesting….  Well, I’m thinking I’ve found one…. Don’t put off seeing the doc when you’re sick or you might wind up stuck at home analyzing the color design of old TV shows....  Also, coloring and forts are good at any age and for any species.  And Someone Like You is a great example of when to re-shoot an ending, because man is that alternate ending bad.  But the new ending's good.  You should watch it.  With a cat.

 

Behind closed doors

My fiancé and I are usually on pretty different schedules.  When not working on a show or film (during which I usually come home around midnight or later), I leave several hours earlier than he does in the morning, when it's still dark, and usually come home in the early afternoon, while he's on a more normal office schedule, leaving during morning rush hour and coming home in the evening when most people do.  This means that since moving into our apartment a little more than a year ago, we've each seen and become familiar with different sets of neighbors.  I know the big burly Irishman who's a stay-at-home dad during the day, and he knows the woman who babysits her niece in the evenings; I know the man who takes his toddler granddaughter into the fitness room for play time (yeah, weights as a toy for a toddler seems like a brilliant idea), and he knows the man who likes to assume there's no one in the fitness room and turn off all the lights without looking, in a misguided attempt to save energy; I know the guy at the end of the hall who likes to compliment my shoes, and he knows the family next to them who likes to order takeout.  But a week after moving here, one set of neighbors neither of us had yet seen were the ones next door.  We heard the dogs running around inside, and we heard the excited dog barks when we came home and walked by their door, but we had yet to meet them.  And both being animal lovers, we both hoped a chance encounter could result in us being friends (by "us," I mean my fiancé and me and the neighbors' dogs -- under the guise of being friends with the human neighbors, of course). 

 

So it was with disappointment the day I finally met the woman next door as I came home one mid-afternoon and saw she was most definitely not interested in a neighborly friendship.  As I approached my door and the tall, blonde, pretty, mid-thirties woman emerged from hers, I gave her a smile and said hi, but she met my greeting with pursed lips and cold, averted eyes.

 

"Bizarre," I thought.  "Ah well, guess we won't get to be friends with the dogs next door...."

 

When my fiancé came home, I told him, "So I finally saw the woman next door.  I don't know if she was in her own little world or in a bad mood or what, but she pretty much completely ignored me when I said hi."

 

"I've heard a guy talking in there too," he replied.  "Maybe he's friendlier."

 

And sure enough, it wasn't long before I encountered the man of the apartment as he took out some trash one afternoon.  Also in his 30s, looking a bit like Antonio Banderas, he was quick with a warm smile and a "Hi, how are you?"

  

"Curious that he's so much friendlier than his wife," I thought.
 

Eventually my fiancé encountered him too and was also met with a smile and a greeting.  Several times over the ensuing months, I'd see him and his wife out for hand-holding walks with their dogs during the day, and if I ever encountered them together, he would say a hello while she ignored me.  And when I encountered her as she entered or exited her apartment, I never got more than a pursed smile and quickly averted eyes.
 

One day my fiancé came home from work and said, "I just rode the elevator up with the wife.  She was perfectly pleasant.  Said hello and smiled, and when she went in to her apartment she said, 'Have a nice day.' " 

 

"Huh. Maybe she likes men more than women." 

 

"She looks like she might be pregnant, so maybe that's making her in a better mood."
 

"Yeah, maybe.  I didn't notice she was pregnant last time I saw her."

 

And so it was that one day not long after Christmas, there appeared a baby carriage in the hallway and a "Shhh, baby sleeping inside" sign on the door.

 

"Ha. Do they know that their dogs bark more than any person on this floor? I don't think it's humans they have to worry about waking their baby," I said to my fiancé with a smile.

 

And like many growing families do, they decided to move.  The door would be ajar many days when I'd come home and I'd see packing boxes outside.  A realtor started showing their apartment.  I didn't see the wife anymore, and I never saw the baby -- who, judging from the lack of cries during the day despite the paper-thin walls was clearly spending daytimes elsewhere -- but I'd still sometimes see the man walking their dogs by himself.  And my fiancé saw the wife with her baby every once in a while as he got home from work.

 

And then last Saturday there was a moving truck outside the apartment building, and while my fiancé and I spent all day being as lazy as possible inside our apartment, we listened to all the hubbub next door as the couple, their two dogs, and their baby moved out. 

 

"Well I guess we've officially failed at becoming friends with our neighbors -- human or canine," I commented to my fiancé from the comfort of our couch, curled up with the cat we're catsitting.

 

But then the next day, we came back from a walk and heard voices speaking in Spanish as we approached and saw their door ajar, with a short, pretty, brunette woman standing in the doorway, who peeked out and smiled and said hello in a thick accent.  As we entered our own door, I said, "Huh," to my fiancé. 

 

"Yeah, I guess it's a two-part move.  Or they're back to clean."
 

"Well -- but doesn't that have to be the people that just moved in?  Can you move in the day after someone moves out? Because they were speaking in Spanish. That wasn't the same people."
 

"What???" he said like I was speaking gobbledygook.  "Our neighbors speak Spanish."
 

"What do you mean?  Maybe he's Hispanic, but the wife sure isn't.  She's like of Eastern European or Scandinavian heritage or something. They definitely speak English to each other."
 

"What are you talking about?" he replied like I was crazy.  "She's not Eastern European. She's Hispanic."
 

"She's a tall, pale blonde. She's not Hispanic. And they don't speak Spanish to each other."
 

"Jessica, the wife is a short brunette Hispanic woman.  That was her standing in the doorway."
 

".....Nuh-unh.  That's not the wife."
 

"Yes. That's the wife."
 

".....That's not the wife I'VE seen him with. That is definitely not the woman I see going in and out of the apartment and going for walks with him."
 

"That's the wife with the baby.  That's the wife that lives there and comes home from work every evening."
 

"...................OH..... Well that's... interesting" 

 

So..... do we have a farce situation here like the play Boeing Boeing or a Patricia Highsmith suspense thriller?  ..... You never know what goes on behind closed doors.

Life's a mishmash

Yesterday I got a care package from my mom with a note that said, "This box is a mishmash of stuff, but hey -- life's a mishmash sometimes, right?"

I agree.  The night before last, I was working on my last day on the set of a huge film, shooting that night on a public street.  It was only my second time I'd been with them when shooting outside of the private interior and exterior sets built for the film, which are inaccessible by the public.  And after an hour of hair and makeup (I like to pretend this sounds glamorous, but in reality, sitting in a hair chair for an hour makes me feel nauseous and anxious and slightly like I'm going to pass out -- it's not the best part of the job....), as I stood with another core background actor who, along with me, had been working on the film since January and had fallen in love with this set, we looked across the street at the crowd of pedestrians who had gathered, taking pics of the set and crew, and we realized that since the stars weren't yet on set, the assembled onlookers had no idea yet whom they should be watching -- and she and I happened to have been placed in a prime area for the crowd to watch.  As a wardrobe crew member fixed my skirt and asked me to do a twirl for her, and as a hair crew member fixed the hair of the other lady, a group of pre-teen girls across the street pointed at us and squealed and snapped pics.  We giggled to each other, feeling like a delightfully giddy cross between seven-year-olds playing dress-up and the glamorous movie stars the girls seemed to momentarily take us for.

Later on in the night, as one of the world's biggest movie stars stood a few feet from us, engrossed in conversation with the director, my background partner and I exchanged a silent glance and a "can you believe this job?!" smile at each other.  The director walked away and the star looked at us, smiled, and said, "Hi, how are you?"  We responded as normal people do to someone they see every day at work, but as he walked away, the other lady shook her head with a smile and said, "Ah, this job."

As the night went on, the paparazzi (not earlier fooled by our twirls and hair styling) moved in despite the best efforts of the security guards -- and we realized our positioning gave us the ability to do something the guards couldn't easily do on a public street: block the paparazzi. Perhaps it was the stars' plan all along -- hang between shots near a couple girls whom no gossip mag would pay for pictures with -- but hey, I still haven't seen a single between-shots pic from that night, and there were many taken, so I'll say we did a pretty fantastic job of subtle paparazzi-blocking. (Of course, one day some paparazzo will realize what a hidden treasure he has on his hands and sell those pics for a fortune, but I guess there's some time yet before that happens....)

With the cool, clear night and the gentle breeze, enveloped in our beautiful costumes and surrounded by glowing lights and camera cranes and a glistening, watered-down set, the conditions were perfect to be a bit drunk on the magic of the movies and this dream of a job we knew would finally come to a close at dawn like Cinderella's carriage turning back into a pumpkin....

And then there was this morning.  With no trace of the pumpkin carriage and gown in sight, this morning before I'd had time for breakfast (What? No free catered breakfast on this job?), back at my job auditioning children in NYC public schools for a ballet program, I found myself in a crowded elevator with a bunch of kids, some of whom had obviously not had the opportunity to shower recently.  And then a bit later as I tried to talk to a class of second graders, I was ever so ungracefully choking back the congestion from a respiratory infection while trying to give my little speech and a little girl came up to me after she coughed and tried to hug me in the middle of my speech and I had to politely tell her no hugging (while coughing myself and trying not to cough on her) and the teacher had to literally drag her off me, and then I had to help figure out what to do about a boy who couldn't change into our audition callback uniform because his parents hadn't done laundry recently so he had no clean underwear... so he had NO underwear....  And then there were all the boys who were squealing and screaming in the bathroom instead of changing.  And there were the two boys who got in a fight because they both wanted to sit in the same seat.  And then there was the wave of kids who wouldn't participate in the audition because they think dancing is girly and uncool so they laughed at the students who WERE participating....  An hour later, back in Manhattan, when my fiancé met me for lunch and asked how my morning back at "normal work" was, I hesitated before saying with a smile and a small shrug, "It was fine... but... well... it's not a movie set."

But then, as I walked away on my way to my doctor to finally take care of that nasty respiratory infection I'd been in denial about for the last three weeks, I was reminded that even the most unglamorous job can have its magic moments.  As if a bit of movie-star sparkle powder was still floating around me -- just like Cinderella's one slipper magically staying intact (Sidenote: Why does the slipper she's not wearing stay glass instead of turning back to rags like everything else?  Is that ever explained?  'Cause I don't think so.  Is it just because a man is holding it instead of Cinderella? This is bothering me now...) -- as I trudged along Broadway with my backpack, I saw a child in a group of kids on a field-trip do a double-take and then wave at me.  And then I heard, "That's Miss Jessica!"  And another child said, "She was at our audition!"  And then there were ten children turning around and grinning and waving at me as their class walked down the street -- not because they thought I was some movie star they couldn't place and not because they wanted some cellphone pic they could later post on Facebook to show all their friends once they figured out why they wanted the pic... but just because I'm me.

Life is a mishmash, indeed.

The Return of Anti-Hypotenuse Woman

Last night I had a conversation (if it can be called a conversation when 90% of the dialogue was delivered in a manic manner by the other person and my presence was barely necessary) that struck me as highly humorous, and I was having difficulty not laughing in the moment.  The woman was an absurd, ridiculous caricature of a snob.  After writing it down, however, I felt an intense pity for the woman and realized the line between pathos and comedy can sometimes be indiscernibly thin and the two qualities can feed each other.  This woman goes about life every day -- presumably functioning with other people well enough to make a decent living -- hiding her crazy just enough to get along.  But as much as she expresses her belief that she's better than everyone else, I can't help thinking she must be one of the most insecure and sad characters I've met.

If you don't already know the story of Anti-Hypotenuse Woman (or even if you do), read this first to acquaint yourself with this incredible megalomaniacal narcissist: http://www.behindtheseen.me/2014/12/yes-these-words-actually-were-spoken.html.

So when I recognized her on set last night (background actors on this film exist in class systems, and her class, fittingly, is a couple levels above mine and had never been on set at the same time before -- something that many of us noticed produced a bizarre attitude of superiority in the background actors of the highest class, as if they forgot the class system wasn't real... but that's a different story), I tried to avoid her, placing my back to her when she approached the group I was standing talking with.  I knew it was unlikely I could avoid her for long, because I'd previously seen her enough to know that A. she would never remember me from our prior interactions and B. she would approach me sooner or later because she had a strict system in selecting women she spoke to -- I seemed to fit into that narrow category that she considered pretty enough to be acceptable for her to be seen talking to but not so pretty that she would feel remotely threatened in her assurance that she was the most beautiful woman in her vicinity. 

And so coming up behind me despite my best efforts at hiding from her, she said, "I just find [leading man] terribly attractive. Is that weird? Do you find him attractive?"

Me [involuntarily guffawing at the ridiculousness of the question]: Well... yeah.  But don't you think anything with a pulse finds him attractive?

Her [ignoring me]: I mean I just need a man.  You know, I only attract 25-year-olds because I look 25 [she looks 45], and I'm always looking back at men I dated and thinking I'm so out of their league, you know?

Me: Well, I-- 

Her: -- I mean, I think I'm out of a lot of men's leagues.  I really am.  I'm out of most men's leagues. I mean, I was a prima ballerina, toured the world at 26, you know? I mean I'm just not going to be with an ordinary guy, you know? I'm going to be with a producer or someone like that, really important. That's just what's in my league.

Me: Mm-hmm, totally. 

Her: And I don't really believe people are supposed to be together for like 20-25 years, right?

Me: Well I do think people change and evolve, so I don't think that just because a couple is totally right for each other at one point that means they'll necessarily still be right for each other years later, but-- 

Her: Exactly.  Especially men.  Because men always want [makes lewd gesture] with something new, right? That's just biology.  I mean, I'll tell you, I was on [the show that I actually know her from] and you know [a male star of that show] was just really open to me. Like I was on all the time, regularly, stood in for his love interest [I watched the show, the woman she stood in for was not his love interest, nor was she a regular -- she was a recurring role, and the woman had completed her time standing in for her by the time I met her, and she had been on set little enough that none of the crew knew her, and for what it's worth, the star she's talking about showed zero sign of recognition of her on set], and we became really really close, like [makes suggestive face], but just talking, and I mean, he's only with his wife because of the kids, right?  I think a lot of men are like that. Only with the wife because of the kids.  I mean, he basically told me as much.  He basically said as much as that they're just not right for each other. She, the wife, just isn't [shrugs shoulders], right? I give them nine years.  And I'm pretty sure we'll be going out on a date then.  I mean, I would never wish ill for a marriage, but you know, if he's going to be single anyway.

Me: Sure [grinning in an attempt not to laugh, which she thankfully took as encouragement to continue].

Her: And then you know, Woody Allen picked me for this role where they needed a real leggy woman, legs for days, but then casting switched it out on me. I hate that, right? I mean Woody Allen picked me. So frustrating.

Me: Yeah, that's the worst.

Her: And so then there was this other producer -- I can't tell you who he is, but I mean [makes top level gesture], he was really high up. Like he's a really really important person. You would know him if I told you. But I can't. But anyway, he was hitting on me a lot, like I could tell he wanted my number.  And I'm thinking of going out with him. He's older, like 70, but I need someone older, I think. I mean, he's really important. Like he's a really big deal.

Me: Uh-huh. Yeah, I think you should go for it.

Her: It's been seven years since I was with anyone, so I think I might.  He's a producer, you know? Real big. You'd know him.

Me: Right. Yeah. 

Her: And then there's this actor [names someone I've never heard of], he's this really big actor, been on all the shows, all the TV shows, and he's coming over to my apartment tomorrow for dinner.

Me: Oh yeah? [full-on uncontrollably laughing now, but fortunately she was somehow totally misinterpreting it]

Her: Yeah, and he's bringing his girlfriend. I introduced them, you know?

Me: Oh, that's great.

Her: Yeah, I introduced them, and I guess she's a vegetarian, yeah, a vegetarian, so I'm making them dinner, and I guess we're all having this fantastic vegetarian dinner.  Yeah, I'm really looking forward to it.  He's this really big actor. It'll be great. I'm making them dinner.

Me: Yeah. Good for you.  

The conversation/monologue ended rather abruptly when a friend of mine came over to me and we started chatting... and I felt my first twinge of pity for Anti-Hypotenuse Prima Ballerina as I realized she was probably used to being the one to decide when her crazy conversations ended... rather than being left to talk to herself about her rich imaginary life (or her probably-too-empty real life).  I didn't speak with her again for the rest of the night, and that was just fine with me....  But I still think of her with a complex assortment of feelings… amusement and amazement, sympathy and confusion, curiosity and pity…. She is an incredible part of New York’s remarkable urban panoply.