Cinder Ella - A Proper Ghost Story!

 

Having toiled for approximately eleven hours with a clinically diagnosed sociopath named Kevin behind the scenes on a television reality show, I ponied in line behind the crew to Craft Services to load up a plate of free food and attempt to rejuvenate my soul.  “So, is this a documentary that we’re filming?” I asked one of my fellow Stand-Ins.  “What channel will this be airing on?” I continued to pry.  “Is that Actor a real Psychologist or Psychiatrist?” I wanted to know.  “I’ve never worked on a one-hour drama before!” I smiled stupidly, hoping to gain some sense of insight.  “That kid Kevin is one seriously scary child...” I prattled on, completely oblivious to my actual surroundings.

“You’re only here for this evening.  Try to keep up.  Let us deal with the government.  You have enough to worry about” a co-worker tipped his cowboy hat amiably.

Bolting awake at a few seconds later (Whew!  It was just a dream!), I shook off the effects of working all night in a state of hard core REM sleep (to the point of exhaustion!) and one drooling puddle of Craft Services imaginary free food slash real live toothpaste spittle.

Granted, my own stupidity was at fault for choosing to drift off to the dulcet lullabies of a marathon of Criminal Minds on TV.  And yes, I was also to blame for the ensuing endless strain of commercials which morphed in and out of my endogenous circadian rhythms as my pea-brain incorporated 30 second televised ads from the law offices of “Binder and Binder”; but the fact that I was truly haunted could not be denied...

As my High Holy Holiday of Halloween grows nigh (my favorite day of the year, when the world finally makes sense!), this little ghoul, despite all of the “zeitgebers” (I just learned that word from Wikipedia, which is basically an environmental cue that screws up your light/dark cycles), this little ghoul battled against the closed blinds in the luxury of my darkened boudoir sanctuary to run a couple of mundane errands in the harsh and most unforgiving glare of the sun.

Sure, I was delighted to trail behind a white Lexus on Santa Monica Blvd. with a fake bloody hand and foot protruding from its trunk.  (Those are my kind of people!)  And yes, I still have oodles of yellow “crime scene” tape should I wish to barricade my car or front door with eerie rubber claws dripping red slime down the windows. 

But to tell the truth, my heart just wasn’t in it.

Heck, even my zombie-like-absolutely-un-killable Philodendron “Boo!” was looking pathetically forlorn with only three leaves sprouting in the darkness where he generally thrives all sprawled out aggressively.  (Yes, I tend to get rather “Edward Scissorhands” on his foliage, but that’s for his own safety prior to eerily climbing the wall.)

 

But by all available accounts, my yearly High Holy Holiday of Halloween was teetering on the brink of being totally sucky.  Could nothing scare me anymore?  Had the Universe sucked all the joy out of my beloved celebratory day, leaving me holding an empty orange plastic pumpkin with no candy inside?  Would I never again let loose with a blood-curdling “EEK!”?

Bah-humbug. 

Until...

Slashing open an envelope from Sacramento, I was invited once again to the Senior Prom, the official Dance of The Dead, i.e. the dreaded hours attempting to connect with the few remaining decaying corpses at the Unemployment Department - during which I would need to justify my reported income to whomever is decidedly NOT answering the phone from 8am ‘til noon – i.e. the meager window of time when they are supposedly out of their caskets and open for business.

“YOUR ORIGINAL CLAIM FORM FOR THE WEEK(S) ENDING 09-14-13 WAS INCOMPLETE OR INCORRECT.  THE DUPLICATE FORM WAS ALSO INCOMPLETE OR INCORRECT.  PLEASE CAL 1-800-***-**** IMMEDIATELY BUT NO LATER THAN 10-23-13 BEFORE PAYMENTS CAN CONTINUE.”

Say it with me:  EEK!!!

Apparently, my whopping $6.34 for the weeks during their head-hunting Inquisition hadn’t satisfied their Fiscal Unemployment ledgers, and once again, I was somehow to blame as an out-of-work Actor with absolutely no control over the payroll companies who write residual checks to the SAG/AFTRA Union. 

(Yeesh...  Even Charlie Brown at least gets a rock at Halloween...)

But I digress!

I refused to let my spirit be broken!  After all, this Penny is mightier than the Sword of Injustice!  And despite my 7:30am alarm clock two days in a row; despite my inability to get past the automated zombie telephone recordings of the EDD; and despite feeling like a total zero outcast from the working force, I was going to defend my $6.34 TV residual from a rerun of “Saved by the Bell”, even if the zombie apocalypse sent me to my grave!

And with a seriously unheard of ridiculous amount of self-restraint provided by the Unknown Forces of The Universe who tempered my typing and metaphorically whispered in my ear (“this is the Government, Pen.  They won’t appreciate either your biting wit or political sarcasm regarding fiscal budgeting with a smiley-face emoticon...”), I do believe I successfully submitted a properly completely emotionless email defending the claim in question.  En guard!  (She types here privately, cowering in her Fortress of Solitude.)   

But as to my High Holy Holiday spirits?  I do believe The Universe and I are finally back in sync.

Perhaps it was the Halloween card from my friends RJ and Richard that not only made me laugh, but also included a crisp ten dollar bill for treats at my local 7/11.  (I’m not gonna lie – I squealed like a five-year-old!)  And perhaps it was the comfort of my parents sending a very thoughtful gift card to Target to allow me the freedom of purchasing Kleenex WITH LOTION (again, not gonna lie – I have allergies, and generic tissues are just plain cruel unless you’re only cleaning your glasses.)

But I tend to think that there were even more Universal Forces in the works...

Without any forewarning whatsoever, the envelope from my Mom and Dad happened to include not only the Target gift card; but four completely haunting photographs, as my parents are currently sorting through our family antiquities while they continue to compile massive albums of photos, documents and gazillions of related historical items for proper preservation of our heritage.

May I please introduce you to my Grandma’s high school graduation picture?

 

And here is my absolutely DASHING Grandpa at roughly the same age:

 

But what probably freaked me out the most was not only this photo of my Great Grandma Ella – whom I never met, and whose turn of the century diamond from her wedding ring (married in 1907!) – I now possess book-ended on a necklace with two of my Grandma’s small diamonds:

 

But also Ella’s unbelievably soulful looking husband, Hiram:

 

And whilst I found myself almost unable to stop staring at the photos, the most wonderfully inexplicable happening occurred...

I actually fell effortlessly into a deep sleep - sans the noise of the television for comfort for the first time in many unemployed weeks - in lieu of the hovering ghosts from the past; collectively, protectively surrounding me.

With you all (in spirit!), and wishing you a properly eerie Halloween,

~P (Woooo!)


Author’s Addendum:  Having made peace with my familial haunters, I was startled to arrive home yesterday after some errands to find myself face to face with a brunette lady calling my name from the street.  “Do you remember me, Penny?  I’m Daniela!” she air-kissed both sides of my face.  “I used to live in this building years ago!” she beamed.  “I just flew in from Italy this week, and I saw your car.  It’s so good to see you again, bella!” she raised her palms upward jubilantly. 
 
Talk about ghosts...

Backstory:  I couldn’t quite remember if she and the handsome man Mattia lived together or not, but for all of about a few months in 2006 (?), my apartment building had housed four delightfully artistic Italians including Mattia and Daniela; all of whom I officially met late one night on the back patio as Mattia was finishing up his final pieces for a local gallery exhibition.

With my Bachelor’s degree in Art History, two and a half years of working in Art Galleries on Rodeo Drive (thankfully a lifetime ago), and having spent a summer abroad studying Art and Literature in Italy (again, a lifetime ago), suffice it to say I was immediately welcomed into the fold, offered a hearty glass of vino and introduced to Mattia’s vision of the “The House in Tar” as he literally dipped various pieces into a boiling cauldron of black bubbly goo.  (I’ll say it again, my kind of people!)

Present Day:  Whilst I had the most awkwardly unpleasant conversation about why Daniela would be unable to say hello to our (deceased) landlord, we air-kissed again as we parted ways while I strode silently into my bat-cave for a wee bit of spelunking.

Granted, I’ll probably always live with the ghost of Mr. Yang (my previous landlord) hovering about the property (making sure that I don’t become a hoarder!); but I can live with that.

And yes, there will always be remnants of my own existence that may not come to anyone else’s mind (my parents found boxes and boxes of photographs with no way to identify the people), but I can live with that too.

However...!

As I delved into the far reaches of the back of a file cabinet, I happily “EEK-squealed” once more as I unearthed the following.  Please meet a yet another “ghost” (still alive, I hope!) from my past; the now internationally known Artist Mattia Biagi and some of his work:

...along with my one and only affordable piece purchased from his collection which still dangles proudly on my wall:

 

Rock on, my tiny, eerie, non-sticky, tar-drippy Pink Panther!  Tis the season to be creepy!

 

 

My "Should've", Ought to", "Have-to-do" Ado

 

“So where the hell is Sherman Oaks...?” I wondered, hunching over my poot and sparring with the internet for the precise location of the café where I was to brunch on a Sunday at noon (oh for the love of God, NOON?!) with two dear Birthday gals and three other Industry professional women.  “OK, so Laurel Canyon over the hill (I know that route!), hang a left on Ventura Blvd., and then go how far?”

Yes, kind readers who are familiar with Southern California, for the sake of two of my cherished friends, I agreed to lunch in The Valley.  (For those of you unfamiliar with the territory, just crank the summer heat up by a minimum of ten degrees and attempt to breathe normally as if facially shrouded by a woolen blanket.)

But piling into Cecilia (my 1997 Toyota) with festively wrapped Birthday presents, Cecilia positively purred over the canyon as we were committed to accomplishing good deeds.  And despite a few panicky premature attempted left turn jabs before we crossed the Canadian border (seriously – how much farther North could we possibly travel without a passport?), we successfully wheeled (after a U-turn into an abandoned lot a city block away) into the proper valet attendant for the café.

“Oh, I should’ve left ten minutes earlier if I wanted to arrive early” I fretted to myself.  “Oh, I ought to have stopped at the store and bought individual birthday cards with gift bags and tissue paper” I continued to mentally beat myself up.  “Uck; and I really should’ve had the presence of mind to dress more appropriately” I punched myself for stepping out of my safety corner (clad entirely in black) in the swelter-weight heat.

But handing Cecilia’s keys to the parking attendant at the charming restaurant that (according to my online research the night before) prides itself on celebrity sightings, Tuscan white bean and kale soup with kabocha squash (if I can’t pronounce it, I’m not gonna eat it); various salads with organic mixed field greens (what am I, a goat?), and filet mignon omelets (Seriously?  Oh, my Indiana-born heart wept for the utter disrespect to the cow...); I, the ever-so-adaptable/resilient Actress, with humble gifts in hand, was prepared to enter the arena!

“Um... excuse me sir”, I caught the valet before he could whisk Cecilia away and tend to the impatient couple in the expensive luxury convertible behind us.  “Um... where do I go to actually enter the restaurant?” I whispered somewhat embarrassed.

“No problem!” he beamed, happy to step out of the role of car-fetching-guy and into the heroic position of helping a damsel in distress who was obviously uncomfortably out of her league. 

Breezing through the throngs of people waiting to be seated at the popular restaurant, I was immediately cock-blocked (if you will) by a protective Hostess who upon witnessing my wrapped Birthday presents, decided that I was deemed worthy to be seated at one of only two Birthday parties.  And confirming that I was indeed with the latter, I held my chin up high as she led me to the table.

(Ahem...  Wee adjustment to the story...  Having woken up early enough to properly groom myself in order to be presentable, I lithely hopped into the bathroom for a shower, and attempting to dislodge the fluffy, light-as-air loofah off of the wall, I inadvertently clocked myself in the face with the rubber suction cup.  (OW!)  Yes, that would make for pleasant conversation:  “Hi ladies.  I would’ve been here earlier, but I lost a boxing match with a dangerous suction- cup-wielding puffball.”)

But with make-up properly applied on said chin, I thanked the Hostess for directing me to the party as I settled in with three Script Supervisors (two of whom I‘ve been blessed to call friends for decades), a Post Production Editor (who I only met a year ago at the previous Birthday lunch), and one well-respected Director (who I worked with maybe 18 years ago). 

And as a gathering of feasting ladies are wont to do, we initially made only as much pleasant talk as necessary before burying our heads into the massive multitude of menus highlighting breakfast, brunch, lunch and café specials.

(Ahem... Wee adjustment to the story...  The lovely ladies who earn anywhere from five to a gazillion times my general pay scale, cooed at the selection of options as I “Scroogely” scanned the prices vis-à-vis my previous two weeks consisting of mostly peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at home.)

And that’s when my own pea-brain punched some sense into me.

Hey, this little fighter didn’t have anything to prove!  Our mutual work in Show Business by no means defined our friendships!  I was there for the sole purpose of celebrating two cherished Birthdays!

And with the “should just get a salad”, “ought to have gotten gift bags and cards” and the “have-to make sure I order a cheap item off the menu” nonsensical noise defiantly rejected from my inner chatter, I decided to splurge on a smokey B-B-Q bacon cheeseburger with fries, as my lovely friend Ellie laughed out loud and shouted across the table, “you’re my hero!” 

>>><<< 

Unfortunately, as the hefty menus were whisked away, the light-hearted conversation inevitably ensued as “Hollywood” infiltrated The Valley...

“I know you from somewhere, Penny.  Are you a Writer?  Are you a Producer?  Were you my Boss?” the Director wondered honestly, searching her mental archives as to where our paths might have crossed.

(And, here we go...  Round One:  *Ding*)

“I know you too!” the lady to my left beamed with a hug, equally baffled at just where on earth we might have met.

(And the hits kept coming...  Round Two:  *Ding*)

Yes, there it was:  Show Business in a nutshell:  Festive birthday celebrations TKO’d by Hollywood and a polite pissing match of who worked on what with whom.

>>><<< 

Had my druthers, I would have preferred to spend more time actually catching up with my Birthday friends.  “I should’ve pulled up a chair there” I mentally re-blocked the setting as my inner Director attempted to make better sense of the day.  “And I ought to have raised my hand in utter defiance at the possibility of attending a “Sound of Music” sing-a-long  group event (let me double check Dante’s “Inferno” for just what level of Hell that would be); but as for the “Have-to-do” list, I was pleased that I’d chosen to throw in the towel.

Sure, I’d taken a few more sucker punches as I attempted to bond with the Director who casually mentioned that she had done an episode of one of my favorite “dramadies” (I was sooo ready to Ethel-Mertz her!); until she abruptly ended the conversation with the information that the lead actor is still “a dear, dear friend who drops by the house for dinner all the time”, and immediately changed the subject before I could ask any hard-hitting questions.

And yes, my fragile ego had also been bruised by the lady to my left who had recently inherited an apparently fabulous villa in the south of Spain and was looking to rent the property for blah-blah euros a week if anyone was interested (Hmm...  Where DID I misplace that helpful “euros to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches” conversion chart?).

So, not surprisingly, I was quite ready to feign major head trauma and hit the mat sacrificially as the time to open gifts had arrived.

*Ding*

“I love this card!” my friend squealed joyfully to the Spanish villa-owning heiress.

“Oh my gosh!  I KNOW the lady who designs that artwork!” the Director chimed in.

“Of course you do” I sighed internally, slurping the last of my water.  (Seriously, could someone just whack me on the skull with a bat?  They could always pin the murder on my loofah!)

>>><<< 

Awaiting the arrival of Cecilia in the outdoor oppressive heat, my ears were still ringing from the heavy-hitting beat-down.  “The valet cost is three dollars and seventy-five cents.  I’ve got some change if you need it, Penny!” the Director politely informed me, generously plopping three quarters into my hand to accommodate the fee.

WOW. 

But hopping into Cecilia and handing the valet attendant a five dollar bill, he nodded subtly, as clearly he had chosen to park my car into a pleasantly cool and shady spot.  (Again, my hero!)

>>><<< 

Perhaps I’ve become a bit more sensitive to the underdogs of the world this year.  I’ve not worked nearly as much as I would like to; and whilst I trust The Universe that I’ll find my next niche in the Hollywood ring - whatever arena I’m tossed into - I’m looking forward to approaching  that chapter with my feet on the ground.  (Chin up!)

>>><<< 

As for what I “should’ve” done? 

Well, I “should’ve” known better than to order a burger at a place that’s oblivious to the utter aberrant behavior of serving a spectacular cut of filet mignon mixed with eggy stuff and miscellaneous accoutrements.  (Oh, the HORROR!)

As for what I “ought to” have done?

I seriously “ought to” have sent the burger back to the kitchen immediately, as three bites into what “should’ve” been a culinary delight, made itself quite known as not only particularly distasteful, but also a most unpleasant burgeoning, churning-belly case of food poisoning.  (I’ll spare you the details.)

Finally, as to my “have-to-do” ado, Cecilia and I beamed all the way home over the canyon as I reflected on my chosen presents for my friends.  Granted, mine weren’t the most expensive gifts, but they were thoughtful and meaningful to my friends which is all that truly mattered.

(Ahem...  Wee adjustment to the story...  As altruistic as I would like this tale to be, my competitive pea-brain was absolutely delighted that my gifts ROCKED!  Take THAT, little miss scented-soap-giving heiress and equally-wealthy orchid-bearing lady!!!)

Working on rising above,

~Underdog P

 

But Can We Put the Poodle in a Tutu?

Standing-in for an eleven-year old Asian “Justin Bieber” type boy on my last week as a temporary employee on our Sit-Com, double checking my notes as to choreography (and popping three Advil in anticipation of the combination of both my age and the rigorous dance moves), my Second Teamers and I (young at heart!) subtly helped each other onto the elevated “stage” before the cameras had rolled into place. 

Now of course the Director and the crew weren’t expecting us to perform anywhere NEAR what the highly-trained (seriously terrific!) Hip-Hop Dancers were going to present, but at least a modicum of movement from us was necessary from a technical point of view as to just where to position our four regular cameras, the expensive jib, as well as the special lighting effects and timing according to our Director’s vision.

And with the usual friendly chiding from the crew whenever “Second Team Theatre” is prompted to “perform” in such awkward scenarios, my pea-brain immediately searched its dusty archives for a dancer who might inspire me in the moment.  (My gimpy left leg be damned, we were gonna BRING IT!)

“Five, six, seven, eight!” a ghost voice from the past whispered in my head.

With a ‘stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp; (double-time) elbow-hammer, elbow-hammer; form a line; creepy wriggle; arms up; look back, look back, look back; gangsta spin and slide and pose’, I DO believe we humble Stand-Ins NAILED that scene!!!

(Well, OK, maybe not necessarily “nailed” it; as whilst my young “Bieber-Boy” seemed remarkably comfortable at occasionally throwing one hand between his legs for whatever reason, this old dog doesn’t dance like that.)

Nevertheless!

With a couple of practice rehearsals for cameras under everyone’s belts, I masked my “disappointment” to hear our beloved AD announce that she had some unfortunate news for the Second Team:  “Sorry guys, you were FABULOUS, but the Actors are ready, so let’s begin our pre-shoots.  Thank you all!” she smiled graciously as my “Bieber-Boy” leapt acrobatically onstage to reclaim his spot in the lime light.

And slinking off into the darkness as Stand-Ins are expected to do, I paused for a solitary moment to gather my thoughts.

Clearly the “five, six, seven, eight” voice in my head came from my dear friend Maria (who not only choreographed my very first dance on Network television), but who also co-starred in the original feature film West Side Story.  And obviously, as this was my final week on a show that has excellent prospects for a third season of yet another 22 episodes; I wanted to leave a decent and lasting impression of my versatile abilities in hopes of being invited back! 

But hmm... what was the thing on the tip of my tongue that felt like it should never be spoken out loud... (???)

“Oh dear Lord in Heaven, THANK GOD!!!” I inadvertently erupted in the audience housing with my fellow Second Teamers as I propped up my gimpy leg, dabbed sweat off my brow, panted like a snub-nosed, thick-in-the-middle Pug and lapped thirstily from a bottle of water.

“Yes, thank GOD we don’t have to do all of that!” my cherished friend Kathila whole-heartedly agreed as we sat back together and watched the dancers perform their magic over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and (well, you get the idea.)

In our defense, if I remember correctly, there were SIX separate vignettes in the same scene, all with different dancing or stretching or blocking, most of which seemed to change every single time we watched as the Choreographer professionally tweaked their performances.  And whilst I’m golden (kind of) at “nailing” a few standard moves, I was clearly out of my purview...

But with a few camera-blocking scenes left to coordinate after lunch, I still had a fighting chance to leave my mark and rightfully earn my supper!

>>><<< 

As my OTHER particular Actor (we’ll call him “Kevin”) had been written to only occasionally pop up randomly for one or two lines here and there, I professionally kept my script in hand for notes although I was already off-book. 

And eagerly waiting to burst through to the kitchen to deliver both of my lines in the first scene on cue, the On-Set Dresser casually wrenched the doorknob from my overly-zealous clenched paw as he Windexed the panes of the glass.  “Are these your wet-nosed smears?” he smirked as I hung my head low, all quiet stupid and guilty.  “You can come in soon enough” he chided me like a puppy as I cocked my head to the side, patiently listening for my Master’s voice to cue me in.

Unfortunately, upon hearing said cue, I most inelegantly thrust open the door like a German shepherd on police duty barreling out of a K9 cop car in hopes of doing my job and collecting a treat.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, Pen” our Director laughed, “but I’m going to change his entrance for cameras and have him enter from upstage left.”

“Copy that!” I scampered away, upstage left.

“Let’s go from Kevin’s entrance; and ACTION” my Master’s voice called out as I tethered my energy and brought it down a notch.  “Let’s have Kevin be closer to Scott (I moved over), we’ll make it a two-shot, and then Kevin walks out of frame (as I did obediently).  Great!  Let’s move on!”

*whew!*

>>><<< 

“OK, for this scene, I want to change Kevin’s entrance again” our Director mulled over his script as I poodled faithfully behind his heels.  “Let’s try him from upstage left again” he mused, as I reiterated “copy that!” scuttling dutifully to my spot.  (I was wearing sneakers, but I could almost swear I heard pink polished Chihuahua toenails scurrying across the faux wooden floor.)

“Wait, that’s the other scene I want to change” he contemplated, adjusting his thinking cap.

“Understood!  Both are quite similar!” I yipped agreeably, scampering off to the other possible entrance.

“Don’t mock me in front of the Crew, Penny!” the Director postured good-naturedly, wagging a parental “no-no” finger at me.

“No sir!  Never sir!” I yipped again politely, shutting the door behind me; pleased that my inner puppy didn’t accidentally piddle on the outdoor welcome mat.

>>><<< 

As the next scene had been rewritten overnight, I had neither any idea of how my Actor might enter the set, nor how he would choose to deliver his dialogue whilst singing and dancing ala a singular conga line...

But as a veteran Actor myself, I know that when you’re working on a Sit-Com, you take your performance to your comfort level of “extreme” and let the Director pull you back as necessary.

And anticipating my next entrance cue, musing over the words that struck so close to home after all of my summer months of unemployment, I made the singular artistic choice to go “full-on Marmaduke”:

“CUE!”

“We’re going back to wor-ERK!  We’re going back to wor-ERK!  We’re going back to wor-ERK!” I entered singing, kicking out a leg on each “erk” beat.  (Again, gimpy hip be damned, I was going to BRING IT!!)

“Bigger!  Louder!” our Boom Operator Matt laughed.  “I didn’t hear a “CUT” yet, Penny!”

>>><<< 

As with any show, there’s rarely any guarantee that it (or I) shall be welcomed back.  In fact, I recently received an email from my favorite UPM who let me know that our previous Sit-Com where-in I stood-in for my “Gorgeous Actress”, was officially NOT returning due to budgetary funding; however he does have a Pilot in October and wished to know my availability.  (Woof, woof, woof!  Here’s your Lassie if you need me!)

All I know for now is that my AD for the last four weeks would like me to let her know if I’m approached with an offer for another show.  She wants dibs!  (That’s all I could ever ask for, and nothing would make me happier!)

Thanks to all of my Second Team who made me feel so welcome.  And thanks to whichever department saw fit to graciously include me with a crew t-shirt!  I get that I wasn’t officially part of “the family”, but here’s a joyful tail wag, a happy-happy dance and a slobbery kiss to you all for temporarily rescuing this stray pup!

Feeling the love,

~"Snoop P"