tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17398930323668791602024-03-05T02:56:15.947-08:00A Spot In The Corner"The silly little things I do/the honest words I say"
Taken from a song by Steve Carlson, this blog will document all the strange and interesting and totally geeky things that go through my head. May be some adult content ahead, you've been warned.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-57280954257502324832015-05-04T17:57:00.000-07:002015-05-04T17:57:29.805-07:00Such StoriesOkay, I just needed a place to post this that I can link back to.<br />
<br />
SUCH STORIES<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Who are you?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The woman smiled at the wall of her
cottage. The voice was young and female, but it didn't quaver in
fear. Yet. “Who have they told you I am?” She asked the child
behind her.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The sound of shifting cotton told her
the girl had shuffled in place, probably nervous, regretting her
rashness in coming so far into the forest without friends or a plan.
“They told me you are a very bad lady who likes to steal children
and kill their parents. That you live in a cottage deep in the woods
and lure children there in order to turn them into slaves and demons
that you make do your mali... malic-” the child stopped and tried
again, “malicious bidding.” A pause. “They also told me that
you don't exist.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yet here I am,” the woman turned
at last and reveled in the child's gasp of fear. “Oh now, did they
forget to tell you about my appearance? Rather careless of them, I
should think. Quite honestly, I thought how I look would be very
useful as a way to keep the easily disgusted away from here.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They said,” the little girl
swallowed before beginning again. “They said you had no eyes.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The woman smiled without mirth, more a
snarl than a grin. “And so I haven't. But answer me, child: did
they tell you they themselves burned them out? Your village's
grandparents and their hot pokers made of iron.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
No response.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well, child? Did they tell you that
I saved three children and destroyed their parents to keep them safe?
Were you told of how your people came the next night, held me down as
they burned away my eyes after they beat the children to death? They
claimed they'd been tainted by my evil influence: become demons, no
longer fit to live? Did they tell you the eldest was but nine and the
youngest barely three years of age?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The child inhaled sharp as a knife
flint. “No,” was all she said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>She'd been the local healer then.
The villagers had wondered at her insistence on washing wounds and
using fire to sterilize her needles before she stitched their torn
flesh back together, but as long as she took away fevers and kept
infection at bay, they let her and her cottage full of plants be.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>By all rights, living as deep in the
woods as she did, she should never have known the children.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>One night, the eldest knocked on the
door of her cottage, his sister's arm hung at a grotesque angle and
the youngest had a bruise on its leg. All three looked as if they ate
but once a week. “Please,” he'd begged.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>She set the girl's arm and fashioned
a sling. As she slathered vinegar on the smallest one's leg, the
older boy asked, “Will that help?”</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<i>It fades the bruises faster than
letting it alone,” she'd explained.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>The boy nodded, “Could you help
mine?” and took off his sweater to reveal a torso covered in so
many bruises it seemed as if he'd been painted in angry reds and
purples, sickly greens and yellows.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Swallowing her nausea, the woman
tended the abused flesh with her gentlest touch, begging for an
explanation she already knew.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>After much hemming and hawing, the
sister answered in her brother's stead. “Mommy broke my arm and
kicked the baby. Daddy beats him.”</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Now it was rage that had to be
swallowed. “Stay,” the woman choked out through a throat tight
with tears and anger. “Stay here. Don't go back; it's not safe.”
She turned to the eldest, “You're brave and strong and I doubt
you're yet ten. You take the blows meant for all of you. Yet you can
see it's not enough anymore,” she gestured to the others' injuries.
“Stay here. We'll keep them safe together.”</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>He was swayed by her promises and
sincerity.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>She didn't know then her promises
would be ash within a week.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>The parents came first, of course.
The woman hid the children in the cottage, playing dumb at knowing
where they were. When the father raised his ax as if he meant to turn
the whole building to kindling with the children inside, a shrill
series of whistles brought the nearby wolf pack. It had been a hard
winter and the wolves were glad of such a nice meal as the two stout,
screaming people provided.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>The woman went inside to make sure
the children didn't see what was to happen to their parents. They
were never to experience violence again, she swore.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>It took only three days before the
villagers came. The day had dawned bright and clear. She'd been
making a pie crust as the children washed berries when shouts shocked
the birds from their trees.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>If they'd had any mercy, they'd have
taken her eyes first. Instead they held her back and made her watch
until the little dears she already loved were nothing but a mess of
blood and hair. By the time the irons were in her eyes, she had no
screams left.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>She begged for death, to be allowed
to join her children. The villagers laughed and left her there,
bleeding into the ground, unable to even cry for the bones being
picked clean by crows.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>When her grief didn't kill her, it
twisted her into anger. The first villager who came complaining of a
headache was given nightshade to put in her tea. The man who sawed
off a finger lost his entire arm to the infection she helped
cultivate in the wound. Soon enough the visits stopped, the way they
spoke about her changed.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Instead of Healer, they called her
Witch.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So, these people, your people,”
the woman waved a hand, “they lie to you and try to scare obedience
out of you with stories of the cruel Witch of the Woods. Is that
right?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I suppose,” the child said after a
thoughtful pause.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The woman put a finger to her lips and
tapped them. “So, if I am to be feared, if I do not, in fact,
exist, what brings you so deep into the unforgiving woods?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The little girl shifted again, her
shoes squeaking as she took two steps forward into the cottage, the
door creaking shut behind her. “What color were your eyes? When you
had them?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Startled at such a question, the woman
lost her smile. Her first thought was to lie, invent all manner of
horrors, but the girl had been lied to all her life. No reason to add
to the score of misinformation already a part of the Woods Witch and
her myth. “Green. A rather fetching pale green, if I do say so
myself. Though it's been thirty years since I last saw them in a
mirrored glass; I may just be romanticizing.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“My eyes are blue. Just a dull blue,”
the girl said. A small hand touched the woman's. Wet, likely from the
river that led to the hidden house. “I'm sorry that happened to you
and the kids you saved. The people who did that to you were very bad.
Far worse than anything they said... made up about you.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There were no clever words that came to
mind and the woman had been alone long enough to think of all the
clever things she could ever say should something like this happen.
Although nothing about this encounter went the way she had ever
imagined it might go. The girl didn't scream in fright and run away,
ready to lead the villagers to the cottage. She hadn't started crying
or whimpering, nor had she called the woman a witch, despite the fact
that could be the only title she had known before stepping in the
cottage. In fact, the little girl was thoughtful, even... kind.
“Thank you.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The little girl wrapped her fingers
with the woman's. “May I ask you something, ma'am?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A true smile curled the woman's lips
slightly upward at the honorific. “You may, little one.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“After you saved those kids, what
were you going to do with them? If the people from the village hadn't
done what they'd done. I don't think you would've turned 'em into
demons anymore, but what would you have done?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The woman sighed, her heart heavy with
the weight of a future she didn't have, a past of love taken from her
too soon. “Teach them to make medicine from the plants and how to
befriend the forest animals. They were to live in this cottage with
me and I would raise them as my own. I would have passed on my old
twig and leaf dolls to the middle child, a girl of seven. About your
age, I suppose. Once the eldest boy was a bit older, I'd have taught
him to hunt. How to respect the animals and bless them for their
sacrifice to keep us fed. The sweet, babbling baby was going to grow
up remembering little of the previous injuries suffered at the hands
of those both blessed and unworthy to be their parents.” The
woman's lips quivered, though her broken tear ducts could no longer
cry. “I had such marvelous stories I wanted to tell them.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Tell me. Please,” the girl said,
part question and part statement.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Your parents will consider you
tainted. I don't want you to come to any harm, little one.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The girl took the hand she still held
and placed it on her own face. “That's not a problem.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Wet,” the woman said, “with
tears? No,” she said before the child could answer. She lifted her
hand, rubbing the liquid between her fingers. A metallic tang
drifted in the air. “Blood. Yours? Are you injured?” Already the
woman's mind raced as to what poultices she'd make to stem the
bleeding, what herbs would numb any pain the child might be in.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Daddy killed Mommy and my new baby
sister still in her tummy, beat Mommy like the children's parents
did. Until Mommy and the baby squirming in her stopped moving. I used
the kitchen knife on him.” The child sighed. “It took a long time
because I couldn't reach his heart or throat, so I had to keep
stabbing him in the leg until he fell down and I could kill him like
the butcher kills sheep for dinner. It was very messy. I wanted to
clean my hands so I wouldn't get blood on your door though.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Didn't he yell for help?” The
woman asked, shocked at the child's matter-of-fact telling.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A small giggle rose from the girl. “No
one cared. He always yells when he's drunk. He always swears people
are out to get him, to murder him in his sleep 'cause he had a lot of
gold. They ignored him like usual.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The woman took in this new information
and nodded. “And you came here?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The girl was quiet, then said, “I'm
sorry, I was nodding. I forgot you couldn't see me. Yes, I put down
the knife, kissed Mommy and my baby sister goodbye and followed the
path into the woods.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“But why? Why did you come here?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I wanted you to be real,” the
child said. “I wanted you to steal me. I took care of the other
part for you.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A laugh came from deep within the woman
and rang through the small cottage. “Child, what is your name?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Ramona.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Come Ramona,” the woman walked to
the pitcher of water she used to bathe. “Clean your face like you
washed your hands in the river. Then I will make us some dinner and
tell you my stories before I put you to bed.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The child's voice was smiling. “Yes,
Mother.”</div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-54637539581925392922014-03-02T16:13:00.000-08:002014-03-02T16:13:38.059-08:00Running AMOKSo, I've been in L.A. about a month. I know very few people and spend a lot of time being scared and lonely.<br />
<br />
Then Misha Collins (of Supernatural) announced a flash mob for his Annual Melee of Kindness (AMOK) with his charity, Random Acts. In downtown L.A. Not far from where I live. He asked people to bring bags to hand out to the homeless in that area.<br />
<br />
So I went to the dollar store and the Target, bought a lot of hygeine stuff (bandaids, tissues, anti-bacterial sanitizer, etc) and filled little plastic bags with it all. Must have been about thirty or so in all. I felt like it was such a small contribution, but being newly arrived and unemployed, it was all I could do.<br />
<br />
I started smiling the second I saw a large crowd of people on the corner we were all to meet on. I knew exactly none of those people, but I felt like I was walking towards my dear friends. Supernatural fans never got it more right than when we called ourselves a Family.<br />
<br />
So, I arrived and stood around waiting for instructions. My t-shirt was well-admired and I started talking to people. Eventually I met Mia and Leigh. Noting we'd all come alone, we decided to glom together. We talked about our love for the show and Misha. Time ticked on, past the appointed meeting time. People came over and we started handing things out to them. We were just saying it would be funny if everyone had passed out everything before Misha even got there, when I looked over Mia's shoulder.<br />
<br />
"Um, turn around, ladies," I said, beaming and waving at the camera Misha was holding. Turns out we were all hanging out under a No Loitering sign as we waited. Misha (and his beautiful family) crossed the street and I felt a fluttering in my heart. There was Misha Collins, the man behind GISHWHES (and my gefilte fish aversion), one third of the main cast of Supernatural, standing close enough to touch (I refrained, but man was I tempted).<br />
<br />
With a direction chosen, we all followed Misha, handing out our bags to people who were grateful to get them. We answered what organization we were with (Random Acts) and if someone wanted something specific, we played Telephone to find someone who had it (socks and jackets were the most popular). I eventually ended up near Vickie, Misha's wife, who is an amazing writer. I fangirled all over her and cooed at her daughter as Maison waved a flower in my face. West spent most of the time on his father's shoulder, looking confused at the large group of people his dad had assembled like Random Acts Avengers.<br />
<br />
I'd been separated from Mia and Leigh by this time, but I found them and followed the grouping they were with. I'd learned two names already, I wasn't about to shy away from social interaction now. I caught up with them and stuck preety close to one or the other of them for the rest of the time.<br />
<br />
When I ran out of things to give, I felt...restless. I wanted to give more, help more. Mia, Leigh and I started talking about what we could do with ourselves now. Mostly we all followed Misha and watched him interacting with the people we met. I knew Misha was crazy, I knew he was silly, I knew he was talented. But I got to see how damn genuinely kind he is. If he hadn't organized this, I'd never have made friends or stopped feeling alone or stopped thinking of myself over the course of a morning. I will always be grateful to him because of this. For all the lives he enriched today through organizing this, mine stands low among them.<br />
<br />
After a sweet speech thanking us for our work, Misha headed back to his car with his family. We'd all been in 'follow Misha' mode up to this point, so we followed until we got to the same intersection we'd first gathered at. I suggested lunch because I didn't want to stop hanging out with the two awesome girls I'd met, so Mia, Leigh and I went to Chipotle.<br />
<br />
The funny thing is, while we were eating lunch, Mia, Leigh and myself all mentioned having second thoughts before we showed up. We were nervous, we were tired, we didn't have to show up. I am so glad they did and I did. It was the kind of thing that doesn't leave you, but instead settles deep into you.<br />
<br />
Thank you, Misha. Thank you, Random Acts.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-13263181045042246652014-01-01T13:36:00.003-08:002014-01-01T13:36:55.737-08:00I Am Gonna Make It Through This Year if it Kills MeFirst of all, find the song "This Year" by The Mountain Goats and listen to it. Better yet, crank it up full blast and dance around to it, then return to this post. I'll wait.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Now if you know me, you know this year is going to be a helluva ride. I'm moving to Los Angeles within the next few weeks to really give acting a job as a profession. Truth be told, I'm not sure I could hold any job other than actress. It's just so deep in my blood.<br />
<br />
So this is the year: the year of taking risks, the year of no longer being afraid to look stupid or do something silly, the year that I am going to make it through if it kills me.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-36729698200524403772013-06-12T10:19:00.001-07:002013-06-12T10:19:04.226-07:00Supernatural FamilyPosted as part of a Supernatural Family lovefest:<br />
<br />
Supernatural came into my life when I was nineteen, through a friend who kept suggesting I watch the show. She showed me part of the Pilot and I thought it seemed a good show: Dean was funny and cute, Sam adorable and earnest. Then she plopped down her computer and showed me the last few minutes of the most recent episode "Yellow Fever" (mid-season 4).<br /><br />Jensen Ackles. Dancing on a car. Lip-synching "Eye of the Tiger".<br /><br />
I was in love. Then came the gag reels and I was in LOVE.<br /><br />I started watching Supernatural because I was so in love with the fun the cast and crew were having. And when I finally sat down and watched the show proper, it was... amazing. Scary and funny and the boys are so damn sexy and goofy at the same time.<br /><br />I watch and like a lot of shows, but I only really LOVE a few.<br />My love was cemented when, about a month after my first foray into the lives of the Winchesters, Kim Manners died. For the first time, I wandered into other fans' messages of farewell and found that they LOVE the show the same way I do, all the way down to the cast and crew, they mourned as hard as I (harder because they'd loved longer). Every year when the crew does the Cancer Ride in his honor, I donate what I can.<br /><br />Supernatural could have a cutesy name for our fandom, but we are Family. Because of how deep we love and respect this show and every person who helps make it and all of us who enjoy it. We bicker sometimes, we snub, we take things too seriously, but at the end of the day no matter where we come from, how old we are, what we look like or which season we started watching in: we're all Winchesters at heart. Disparate though we are, we're the Supernatural Family because as Eric Kripke so eloquently put it through the mouth of Bobby Singer: "Family don't end in blood, boy."<br />
<br />
(P.S. A proper post about ATX TV Festival is coming as soon as I stop petting the picture I have of myself with Scott Porter)Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-51252419040493859012013-06-02T07:42:00.000-07:002013-06-02T07:42:18.351-07:00A Thank You Letter To Ben EdlundThis is my contributition to the Open Letter of Appreciation to Ben Edlund located at the Winchester Family Business website here: http://www.thewinchesterfamilybusiness.com/articles/9-misc/17912-an-open-letter-of-appreciation-to-ben-edlund.html<br />
<br />
If you are a Supernatural fan and would like to add your gratitude to the thread, I fully suggest you do so. Mr. Edlund wrote some of the best episodes of the show and he is leaving to work on Revolution (I suspect Eric Kripke tempted him with either blackmail, buckets of money, or...whatever you tempt writers with...coffee and a new Mac I expect).<br />
<br />
Dear Ben Edlund,<br />
<br />
Thank you. Thank you for your brilliant writing.
Thank you for making us laugh in the middle of a tense and
heartbreaking series of heavy, emotional episodes. Thank you for
breaking our hearts in the best ways. Thank you for knowing these
characters so well that the words you put in their mouths are natural
(because Dean would so ask Sam to be his Valentine with a real human
heart because he's a dork at heart). Thank you for having Sam lose his
shoe, for Dean becoming a PA on a film set, for helping gay love pierce
the veil of death, for putting Dean in lederhosen, for showing us how
dark Dean got in Hell, for the boys naming a baby Bobby John, for Jo and
Ellen going out fighting with a 'kick it in the ass', for The French
Mistake...just that entire episode, matter of fact the entirety of
Everybody Hates Hitler as well, for giving us Castiel's point of view.
Thank you for these moments and so many more over the years of the show.<br />
<br />
Thank you, sir.<br />
<br />
Love and Best Wishes, Beth<br />
<br />
P.S. Really, thank you for putting Dean in lederhosen. Thank. You.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-25307859593388188592013-05-13T09:51:00.002-07:002013-05-17T13:52:26.375-07:00Nerves of Steel and the Gaining of ThemThere was a time when I wasn't tough.<br />
<br />
There was actually a very long time when I wasn't tough, but let's not turn this into a commencement address, shall we?<br />
<br />
I grew up in a middle class family, my father had (still has) a very good job and when I was twelve, mom went to work as well: I got (most of) what I wanted for Christmas and my birthday, my glorious mother had a policy that if my brother and I could behave in a store we could have one treat (needless to say we were very well-behaved), when the Scholastic Book Fair came to school (and mom wasn't working it), we were given a blank check and told we could buy one computer game, but as many books as we fancied.<br />
<br />
I could be accused of being spoiled. If I hadn't had the mother I had, who recognized how easily her kids could turn spoiled and always kept us a couple steps from that line or pulled us back when we did wander over it, I would have been. I'll tell ya'll the American Girl story sometime, promise. I didn't need to be tough. Until I did.<br />
<br />
I'm lucky in that when my Trigeminal Neuralgia arrived, I was already being toughened up. I left home and lived on my own, learning to budget what money I had, make my own decisions about what to eat and when, be responsible to get to all my classes on time and pay bills. I felt in control and learned I'm smart to live on my own and not rely on other people to make sure I do what I need to. This intensified in Portland, living across the country from basically everyone I knew. Suddenly, I needed to sell old clothes if I wanted to buy a new dress. I had to schlep two totes bags full of books a dozen blocks to Powell's if I wanted to buy one new book. This made me very critical about buying only what I knew would see plenty of use, instead of whatever I wanted at first glance. I picked up odd jobs as I could get them, never able to stay at them long. I cried when I told my mother I had applied for food stamps and then refused her offer of help (she doesn't have much to give). If I was going to fail here, I was failing on my own. Suddenly, I felt strong, strong enough to let my pride go and admit I could get help I needed.<br />
<br />
I was told time and time again that I was brave to move all the way to Portland, where I knew practically nobody. This came mostly from people after my savings dwindled far enough that I had to move home. I sure didn't feel brave, I was scared as hell.<br />
<br />
Then came the Trigeminal Neuralgia: The Revenge (I'd had a bad spell in Portland, but nothing like my current pain level. 7 as compared to 12). It is well-accepted to be the most painful condition to have. Which I can attest to wholeheartedly. I'm a rare case having had no trauma to set it off beside being decades too young. A nerve (possibly two) in the right side of my jaw have been compressed by something and so it sends pain signals to my brain whenever the lightest touch (even a breeze) triggers the affected area of my face. And oh what pain signals it sends. At its worst, my TN has literally driven me to the floor, made me draw blood from my arms as I dig my fingers in trying to send off other pain signals (this doesn't work), makes me cry and scream my voice away. It is the only thing that has ever made me completely serious about ending my life.<br />
<br />
Trigeminal Neuralgia is called 'the suicide disease' because the pain is so excruciating, many sufferers offed themselves to get away from it. I have TN and let me tell you, my lieblings, its nickname is well-earned. I had to ask a couple of my People (Mark, who knew what to do and Mimi, who knew where everything was) to take away all my sharp pointies and long cords. Fare thee well, jump rope and house keys. But I got past it. I got past being admitted to the hospital because I couldn't eat and could barely drink anything. It's still there and my two best bets right now is brain surgery (though a very small one) that should keep it away from decades, possibly for the rest of my life. I'm scared to death, but I know I can do what it takes. I'm tough now.<br />
<br />
I attribute all the strength I've cobbled together to my friends, real and fictional. The real ones (this includes my amazing mom and perfect grandma) showed me by example how to be tough even while being generous with what little they had. They were always there for a late night call when I was in my Dark Room to reach out a hand and pull me back over the threshold, even if they didn't know they were doing it. The fictional ones, the ones on my TV and in my favourite films, songs and books, did much the same. They made me a Torchwood agent, an honorary Winchester, a Mockingjay, a Companion (this applies to two fandoms), a Nerdfighter, a Newsie. By making me believe I could be like them...I was. I could say 'yes' to things that scared me, I could talk my way into and out of bad situations, I learned princesses can fight and witches can be good, I could face the worse pain I'd ever felt.<br />
<br />
Breathe through it and ride it out, I've gotten through it before and will again.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-27603907447290219702013-01-04T16:02:00.001-08:002013-01-04T16:02:43.166-08:00On Non-Homemade Cookies
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am not Danish.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This is remarkable because between my
mother's and father's families, I can claim relatives from nearly
every corner of Europe. This melting pot attitude contributes to the
mishmash of holiday traditions we indulge in every year. German
Stollen for breakfast in the week leading up to Christmas, sour cream
takes the place of cream of mushroom soup in the green bean
casserole, Christmas crackers and paper crowns, we talk to animals on
Epiphany (I still do anyway), an almond is stashed into porridge and
there's more food than even thirty odd family members can devour at
once. We make Christmas cookies starting a few days before Christmas,
all homemade, no exceptions.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Save one. Danish butter cookies. This
tasty little morsels arrive in a tin (that will next year be used to
pack pecan fingers), nestled in white paper. They last long into
January. One a night is the hard and fast rule. Gorge on brownies and
spice cookies covered in buttercream frosting, but the Danish butter
cookies are to be savoured. Cherished.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Maybe because we're not Danish and thus
do not have a yellowing recipe card that divulges the secrets of
these perfect treats are they so loved. The cuteness of the pretzel
one, the crunch of the sugar-encrusted rectangle, the ridged one's
sweetness, the fun of looking through the rough circle's hole at the
others seated around the table, and lastly my favourite, the one with
just the subtlest hint of cocoa.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Glædelig jul!</div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-18598226614988395982012-12-22T09:25:00.001-08:002013-01-04T16:06:04.029-08:00We Provided... LeverageIf it hadn't been for Leverage, the last two years of my life would have been vastly different. Leverage allowed me to move to Portland and gave me the dear friends I made there (including Kat, without whom my moving to Portland would have been impossible and to whom I will be forever grateful). Leverage was the catalyst that made me focus on what I love (acting) and helped me make contacts that enabled me to do amazing things. The two Leverage conventions helped me make even more friends and learn amazing things about what fans can do when they really love something.<br />
<br />
Christian's concerts taught me that letting myself really let go is the best feeling in the world and listening to a CD (while awesome) isn't the same thing. Aldis Hodge taught me to be effortlessly hilarious and appreciate a man's biceps (because dayum!). Beth Riesgraf taught me that enthusiasm is contagious. Gina Bellman taught me it's a helluva lot of work to be able to master accents and make it look easy. Tim Hutton taught me that even a big, fancy award doesn't mean you're a big, serious actor who doesn't know how to have fun. And Drew Powell (who was the guest star on the episode I loved working on the most: The Boy's Night Out Job) taught me how awesome he truly is (which is very very awesome indeed). The PAs and Extra Wranglers taught me that some people really do have infinite patience.<br />
<br />
Leverage also taught me how TV works behind the scenes: how many people actually work so hard to make one hour-long episode; how things can go wrong a hundred times, but the one time they work it's magic; how watching actors on TV isn't nearly as fun as watching them play Segueway Football or make everyone fall about laughing; how producers are not money-grubbers who care about nothing but ratings, but hilarious, warm people who care about the show and the fans.<br />
<br />
On the surface, the show is about Robin Hoods, about making things
right. But it's also about making family out of friends and my fellow
Grifters became a family for me when I was far away from my own.<br />
<br />
Leverage made me not only a Grifter but part Hacker, Hitter, Thief, and Mastermind as well. I will always be a Leverage fan. Always.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-36123755021628536762012-11-21T13:16:00.001-08:002013-01-23T19:31:55.976-08:00How To Suceed While Sucking At What You Love<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You have to admire Florence Foster
Jenkins. She was an opera singer from way back when who sang professionally
for forty years or so and played a sold-out show at Carnegie Hall,
the prestigious and beautiful venue in New York City.<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here's the thing: she was a horrible
singer. Like terrible. Like the yowling of cats in heat in an echo
chamber was preferable to her singing.<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Long story short, she sucked.<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But she didn't seem to care. She
believed in herself and her ability so goddamned much that she still
played Carnegie frickin' Hall!<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This gives me pause as I consider my
own totally terrible singing abilities. I cannot sing any better than
Florence Foster Jenkins and I am well aware of this fact. I love to
sing and if I go a day without singing, even if in my own head, I...
well... I can't actually remember going a full day without at least
singing to myself or safe in my own head where it doesn't matter how
I sound. (which for the record, is perfect and awesome without my inferior vocal chords getting in the way)<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But when it's just me, when no one else
has to hear and I get just the right song (don't let this phrasing
fool you into thinking there's only a handful of songs in that
category, there are actually legions. And I really mean legions as in
the range of 3000 to 6000), I will belt it out like I'm at Carnegie
Hall. Or, in my country music loving heart, on the boards of the
Grand Ole Opry. Depends on whether it's a country song or a Broadway
musical number.<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So when I get down on thinking that
I'll never make it as an actress, there stands the shade of Florence
Foster Jenkins telling me to be glad I have talent at at least one
thing I love to do and if I can get my self motivated I will get to
the place I want to be, the place I'm supposed to be and I just hope
I know it when I get there.</div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-71616375602530491682012-09-22T15:17:00.001-07:002013-01-23T19:33:02.867-08:00SurvivalI love Television shows. Seriously. I'm that person who becomes over-invested in wanting couples to get together or who is jittery for a week after a beloved character's life hangs in the balance from a cliffhanger until the inevitable miraculous survival (or not). I mourn the lost of great characters like they were my friends because to me, somehow they are.<br />
<br />
Two shows have changed my life. In a lot of the same ways Torchwood and Supernatural taught me how to be brave, how to fight and how to lean on the people there to help you just a little less than they lean on you.<br />
<br />
Because no matter how dark and painful or how long it takes, Hell is always gotten out of. Sometimes, you just need an angel and someone to believe you can. There's someone there who will take your hand and make your travels less lonely.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-19154181681400427102012-09-18T10:40:00.001-07:002012-09-18T10:40:27.371-07:00Why Pegasus Are Better Transport Than DragonsDragons could be used as a weapon, where a Pegasus could be a better transportation system because it'd be like Victorian times, riding your horse everywhere, except your horse is<br />
In.<br />
The.<br />
Air.<br />
<br />
Plus, they can be used as weapons. Unless they hoove each other and other people to death, I suppose.<br />
<br />
I really wanted unicorns, but I wouldn't be able to interact with them anymore. Unless they work on technicalities. We're going to need you to define 'virgin' a little better, Unicorns.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-69266150579947714622012-07-19T11:52:00.001-07:002012-07-19T11:52:11.642-07:00Top 11 Things I've Learned From Video Games<br />
<ol>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Just when you think you're going
to die, you'll find enough heart to keep going.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
No matter how many times your
loved ones are taken in by bad things, you should still try to
rescue them.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Explore everything, because the
best treasures are never out in the open.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That little voice over your
shoulder may be shrill and annoying, but you need to listen to it if
you want to do things right.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Every party requires dancing.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Even chubby guys can be heroes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Don't eat red and white mushrooms.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Just because it's in a treasure
chest doesn't mean it's good.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The bosses get harder as you
travel, but that's okay because you're getting stronger.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Talk to everyone; you never know
who has information that will help you on your journey.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Good doesn't always triumph over
evil, but sometimes that's for the best.</div>
</li>
</ol>Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-86420635196981124122012-06-18T12:03:00.000-07:002012-06-18T12:03:37.162-07:00SpontaneousSo, The Girl texted me during the show last night and wanted to know if I wanted to do something spontaneous and fun for Pride. Since I've done little else for Pride this year (shame upon my GLBT head), I said yes and so arranged to meet up with her later at Hamburger Mary's (actually the block party across the street).<br />
I got there and she kissed me hello and we watched a hysterical guy called Prince Poppycock perform. The songs had good beats and I bounced alongside The Girl, who held my hand basically all night. To my utter joy and contentment. We danced and sang along to "Bohemian Rhapsody? and took a picture with the performer (who had awesome gold glittery boots).<br />
Afterwards. The Girl, her friend and I went walking, quickly deciding to go to Voodoo Doughnuts. I learned earlier that day that you can buy three hour old doughnuts in a bucket for $5 and this is what we decided to do. The doughnuts on the top were fine, but they got slimier and grosser the further down we moved. They were basically sludge at the bottom. So we ate our fill and wandered around Portland offering the remains to strangers. A meth addict took the whole bucket and we walked back to their car.<br />
We made out a little and then they drove me home, because who wants to walk the streets when there are sugar-high meth addicts? Not me, my lieblings. After another long goodbye kiss and promises of noodles and gelato for our next date, The Girl left and I pulled a Charlie in my building. I got into the elevator and danced to Walking On Sunshine, playing in my head.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-38702894727790784062012-06-07T12:15:00.001-07:002012-06-07T12:15:05.996-07:00A Day in the Life of an ExtraWe begin in holding, filling out paperwork so we can be paid for the unknown number of hours we are about to spent doing unknown amounts of scenes. This particular day it meant over twelve hours spent at the sound stage and one change of clothes that those of us dressed in our pajamas didn't have. Cut to wardrobe fittings, which when you are just an extra are kinda slapdash. The first pair of pants were too small to fit up my thighs and hips, while the second pair kept threatening to slide down them. But since I'm human furniture, there was no just right. Well, until Monday when I get to work again and bring my own clothes.<br />
<br />
The work this day involved pretending an empty, awkward cardboard carried a giant TV and that I went in and out of a store about twelve different ways in different configurations. But the joy of being an extra is not in the work you do, which is often sporadic, ever-changing, tiring, and boring.<br />
The best things about being an extra are working with other people and making new friends by the end of the day.<br />
<br />
Because even if you know nobody there (and in this day's case, even if you do have a friend already), you will start talking to people you are near to. While you wait for shots to be set up, while you wait in holding, eventually you will start talking to someone, anybody. Most of the time it begins as comments on how tired you are or something about the set or location, but talk will come.<br />
<br />
Another wonderful thing is watching the behind-the-scenes of (in this case) a national TV show. Some people find it ruins the magic, the mystique behind television, but I love it. I love watching the people running and sitting around and trying to figure out what they do. Or watching people who are highly paid actors, who may even have prestigious awards play around like they are a group of friends who just happen to be surrounded by crew and cameras. Sometimes, Segue Football is invented, sometimes footballs are thrown and missed and you get to toss a pigskin to an Academy-Award winning actor. Do you get to do that being IT or a receptionist? No my friend, you do not.<br />
<br />
It's poorly paid and tiring and invisible and throwaway work most people will never see or notice. Nevertheless, I wouldn't give up the days like this where, for a moment, you are part of television magic.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-70999194734236505332012-05-13T11:14:00.001-07:002012-05-13T12:18:20.358-07:00The Origin of My AwesomeSo, my Mom rocks. She rocks so much, my <i>friends</i> send her Mother's Day greetings. Quite simply, my Momma is the coolest. She has the magic ability to let me dream in the clouds without letting my feet leave the ground. Sure, she taught my what most moms teach their children: walking, talking, reading, writing. However, my Mom taught me so much more.<br />
<br />
From her I learned strength, generosity, strategy (many a board game played), that country music is the best life soundtrack, how to make the perfect mac'n'cheese and potato salad, how to crochet, how to sew (rudimentary student that I am), that cranberry sauce tastes best from a can, that crazy isn't always a bad thing, how to dress for my body type even as it changed (sorry, women's magazines, she got there first), Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan movies are perfect for any occasion, to appreciate British comedy and English literature, that good grammar and spelling are important, to be attracted to shiny things (magpie runs in the family), that Terry Prattchet, Merecedes Lackey, and Anne McCaffery books make life better, actually that books in general make life better, that sometimes life sucks and you need to have a good cry, that no matter where you live being a Southern woman isn't something that fades, make-up is for special occasions, but face washing is for every day, being a trekkie is a good thing to be, and lastly (for this list because the truth is she taught me everything) that it's better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it. This last statement is exemplified by our large purses that carry everything we (or anyone around us) could possibly need from pain relievers to travel sewing kits, bits of string, and whole families of pens.<br />
<br />
The best part is, I know she learned all and/or most of this from her mom, so I'm just getting the latest in a line of matrilineal wisdom.<br />
<br />
But I know I've taught Mom some things too: The chorus to "Popular", that I will not be the subject of her mockery (Oh, she thinks I shall), that just because your child hears voices doesn't make her crazy, the difference between crying she needs to come soothe and crying she knows I need to learn to soothe by myself, the names of the eight main characters from Rent plus the two actors on Supernatural and the Torchwood Team, that Saint Augustine is a beautiful town, no matter how old I am, a handmade dress from Momma is far better than anything in a mall.<br />
<br />
So on Mother's Day, from clear across the country I say: I LOVE YOU, MOM!Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-40247216964578341542012-03-20T10:30:00.002-07:002012-03-20T10:47:28.370-07:00I Say It's LoveI’ve always found the definition of love a tricky thing. And by this I’m referring to the romantic sort of love. Familial, platonic or (gods forbid) religious love are so not my forte at all. If the kind of love found in bearing and raising a child or inspired by a man on a cross or making a pilgrimage to a holy land is in need of classification, I’m not qualified to give it. Of course, I’m not really much more qualified to offer anything authoritative in the vein of love between people who cannot explain why they feel how they feel for whomever they feel it for. Of course, maybe that’s the point. Like how some words (for example the disused ‘unrepentant’, or the overused ‘natural’) lose their power the more they’re used, maybe love loses its allure the more data you collect on it.<br /><br />Each new paramour brought me a new way of feeling love that I hadn’t previously thought of. And despite my many former lovers stroke unrequited crushes, I still have absolutely no idea what exactly love means or is even supposed to mean. For all I know, I may have never yet been in love.<br /><br />But something makes me doubt that rather cynical view of myself. Now, I know I’m a romantic (whatever that means), always have been. When I was younger, I wanted to be a rescued princess. Now I accept that (depending who I fall for), I may have to do the heroics myself and I’m prepared for that. I'm also prepared for there to be no heroics necessary. I was never too passive in the pursuit of what (or who) I wanted. I had a pretty spotless record in telling someone when I had feelings for them (generally at the very last moment in some grand setting up for him or her to run off with me into the sunset. What? I’ve always had a flair for histrionics). I even had a girlfriend for a few months in my sophomore year of high school.<br /><br />Yeah, one girlfriend in all my twenty-three years and yes, here I am waxing poetic about love. But we were in love: that all-consuming, making plans for the future, completely uncynical “we are going to be together forever” type of love. Whether that love is even real (or in its innocence, the most real) is a question I’ve not yet answered.<br /><br />There was a boy I knew, still know technically. This boy is beautiful (seriously, that's the best adjective to describe him) and talented as they come. He's funny and caring. He can also be petty and manipulative and a host of other things that prove to me perfect is not an adjective I want to describe him. I've been in love with him since I was nineteen years old. Since a September night when I was nineteen years old, I can pinpoint it no further than that. I had minutes of being unable to pull a full breath or calm my racing heart. I'd known this boy for a few years by this point, we're friends and yeah, I have a crush, have since before we were actually introduced. In this moment, however, I realize those friendly and affectionate feelings have somehow chosen this moment to change him from a friend I'd totally date if he asked me out to the most amazing, flawed person I have ever met in the whole of my life. I've been carrying this around in me for a while. It's just there. It's a fact about me. I admit a selfishness in keeping my feelings secret; if I tell him and am let down, I will have to cauterize those feelings away in the interest of continuing on as his friend (a position I'd like to hold until my last breath, thank you). I want to know that I always have this love inside me, the depth of feeling for this boy. It gets me through the times I feel numb.<br /><br />I think we, as living beings, have an inherent need for love. Lock a man in a solitary room and he will make friends with the dust bunnies. And, I think, we all desire the same basic things from a partner. Here’s mine anyway:<br /><br />Someone who makes me laugh and lets me cry. Whoever came before or will come after will never be comparable, like comparing apples and ostriches. There will be a list up on the bedroom door. In it, we’ll have our solemn promises: nothing like “I will have sex with no one but you” or “I will always take out the garbage”. No, that’s all shit. Nobody can ever (or should ever) make such broad, forever vows like that. Things like “I will not pester you about your music if you don’t pester me about mine first” and “If we go to bed angry, the one who got the last word in has to sacrifice the covers to the other for that night.”Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-85448505661548507252012-03-06T10:41:00.001-08:002012-03-06T10:45:19.142-08:00Unrepentant(This was originally something I wrote to supplement my word count for 2008's NaNo. It's interesting looking back on something three and a half years old and finding I still believe every line. It is here in its entirety)<br /><br /><br />Unrepentant: a powerful adjective that doesn’t get used nearly often enough. Have to suppose that’s what makes it so powerful, though.<br /><br />She sings too loud when a song she likes comes on the radio. She composes letters to Juliet Capulet when she’s feeling lovelorn. She paints each nail a different colour of the rainbow and paints her toenails green or sometimes purple. Even if she hasn’t any magical powers herself, she follows the subtle rules for witches as set down by Terry Pratchett. She thinks she’s a much better dancer than she is. She spells her words the British way, despite having never left America. She may be an angel most of the time, but when she takes off her wings for a bit, she isn’t half-hearted about it. She grew up amongst faeries and may even be a little fey herself. She wears a leather wristband when she wants to feel especially butch. She never lets anyone but her closest friends see her cry. She is unapologetic about her beliefs or lack thereof. She lists all her favourite words: those she likes just because of they way they sound on her tongue. She is a science fiction geek, whose fondest wish is be beamed onto the Enterprise with Wesley Crusher; or to be picked up by the Doctor and his TARDIS or delivered by the Rift into the Torchwood Hub in Cardiff. She loves what she loves, whether her friend, her books, or her TV shows, whole-heartedly, loyally and apologetically.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-74431529212385237802012-02-21T16:42:00.004-08:002012-02-21T17:05:15.466-08:00I Got Me a '67 Chevy, She's Low and Sleek and BlackI am not what anyone would label a 'car person'. I don't drive and don't understand how cars work and really could care less about what kind of car someone has. I don't know what a carburetor does (nor as I type it out, do I know how to properly spell it apparently), how to fix a flat tire (though I have a vague idea from TV and film) or what exactly Jiffy Lube does (though it makes me giggle like a twelve year old boy).<br /><br />But there's one thing that, in the unlikely event I start driving, any car of mine will have and that is...that car will be a Chevrolet. All my life, my mom drove Chevy's. My Grandma has a Chevy. Actually they both have Impalas, which is my favourite kind of Chevy, because I know them so well. I have known Impalas to be reliable, with enough room for my long legs and a sense of safety.<br /><br />Of course, that all changed when I met Baby, also known as Metallicar, the '67 Chevy Impala driven by the Winchester Brothers in the TV show Supernatural. Oh my Collins, is that a sexy car! Even without its pretty humans standing near it, it's just an attractive looking car, all fluid lines.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5bbFKLDe9_ECH4g2Oo_pzMsU88uPoHFPurJCD9BMJjNQc95dssJKXNcxp2Jrtg5jIpKMyKoW8clx_mRowlpYnONtKP27mr4nMV8V6RLaQyeIw2_afJqqAqUsYiqk9CEZan54m2RW8rds/s1600/Ak1o3amCMAAYuFM.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5bbFKLDe9_ECH4g2Oo_pzMsU88uPoHFPurJCD9BMJjNQc95dssJKXNcxp2Jrtg5jIpKMyKoW8clx_mRowlpYnONtKP27mr4nMV8V6RLaQyeIw2_afJqqAqUsYiqk9CEZan54m2RW8rds/s320/Ak1o3amCMAAYuFM.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711757889425680242" /></a><br /><br />It's been said, you know it's love when the songs make sense. When I saw this car that old Steve Earle song made sense, "A '67 Chevy, she's low and sleek and black, someday I'll put her on the interstate and never look back." I would learn to drive if I could drive this pretty Baby.<br /><br />So though I do not drive and have no real knowledge of cars, I do know that I am and always will be a Chevy girl.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-90386650126551483672012-02-10T10:56:00.000-08:002012-02-10T11:36:57.605-08:00Move Me or Make Me MoveI don't play the guitar. Or the bass. Or piano. Or anything. Can't even read music worth a darn. I faked my way through the group recorder performance in fifth grade (I moved my fingers and pretended to blow). I am also a lousy singer.<br /><br />Which is a great injustice because I love music more than anything in the world. Hell, I got into acting because it's music adjacent (music videos). I'm a good actor because I can shuffle my emotions by shuffling my playlist. Music affects me like nothing else can. Even when the song has nothing to do with me, when it deals with situations and emotions I've never had to deal with, I still find something inside myself responding to it.<br /><br />I can feel music with every piece of me, but I can't make it. There's a story of my life somewhere in there.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-21657703381475190112012-01-24T11:24:00.000-08:002012-01-24T12:02:26.666-08:00Opposing Politics Does NOT Equal Dead Cat, PeopleMaybe I've been hardened from a childhood of finding roadkill of Florida streets or it doesn't get to me because I've never had a pet cat, but I did not find the picture of the cat killed with 'Liberal' written into its side visually graphic. Horrible and heart-breaking, oh yes, but not graphic. What made me nauseous (this is not hyperbole, I was physically nauseous) was the violence. Not the photo of it (though it was extreme), but the idea of it. That someone would not only kill, but mark an animal incapable of political leanings as a message to the cat's owner makes me so ill and so angry I could scream. This someone is the lowest of the low. Hasn't there been enough goddamn violence in politics already, like Gabby Gifford's shooting for instance?<br /><br />While I would like to think about all the horrible physical pain I want this criminal to go through, I would prefer his (if the criminal turns out to be a woman, I will come back and edit this) punishment to be psychological (because he is a psychopath clearly). Don't get me wrong, I want his ass hunted down and put behind bars for the next forever or so ASAFuckingP. But what I really want is his face shown on every major news show from here to the BBC (who will get it everywhere because they are cool like that). I want his visage to become so well-known that his picture shows up on bar dartboards and in every animal rights brochure, prompting people to give a ton of cash to shelters and animal rights organizations.<br /><br />But most of all? I want this to be the wake-up call. I want this act of heinous violence against an innocent creature to make politicians see that their rhetoric of hate and anger is doing far more to fuck with people's heads than anything they vilify. Isn't there enough violence in the world and our country over money, religion, bigotry, etc. without politics coming into the ring? I hope to every god there is or isn't that this will be the turning point and political rhetoric will tone it the fuck down before this violence escalates any farther than it has.<br /><br />Please.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-38039192727304612422012-01-20T10:59:00.000-08:002012-01-24T12:15:53.113-08:00In a Storm, in My Best Dress: FearlessWil Wheaton, on his blog and in his book Just A Geek, talks about one of the voices in his head whom he deems Prove to Everyone. I have a voice too (as separate from my People), I call her 'Don't Look Like An Idiot'. I spent a good portion of my childhood being mocked for my appearance and this has left a mark on my psyche. Not for sympathy do I say this, but for exposition. She is the voice in my head who wants me to always be composed, whenever around other people. She demands dignity and grace. She has her place. At fancy restaurants, in most work situations, she is welcome. Not so at auditions or while acting AT ALL.<br /><br />My friend Katherine and I used to joke that we got into acting to 'be paid to look stupid'. But I've heard time and time again from directors that I need to go further, to let myself go. And I try, I honestly do. But Don't Look Like An Idiot holds me back. "If you make a stupid face, they won't think you're pretty enough to hire', 'don't look dumb, then everyone will laugh at you, 'better not let yourself completely go, remember to keep in control at all times'.<br /><br />I suppose that's what this leads back to. Control. I'm scared to be out of control, so I don't drink (one of many reasons anyway) and I don't tell ANYONE the whole truth and I hide parts of me because they're messy and gross and stupid. But acting is about using ALL of me to make a character, the messy bits too.<br /><br />So I have a theme for this year, not a resolution. My theme is 'Fearless'. That's what I need to be. Fearless to look stupid or make silly sounds or make ugly faces at an audition if that's what's called for or fucking go dancing in the rain in the middle of the street on my own. When did I stop doing that? That was super fun. Hey look, it's raining now... *smiles*Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-35364065965606477262012-01-14T17:12:00.000-08:002012-01-14T17:40:12.568-08:00Zero is Not a SizeI am terrified of Hollywood.<br /><br />Wait, that's probably not true. I am terrified by the concept of Hollywood. Namely, their obsession with thinness as beauty. I am relatively thin (compared to my relatives) and can fit into size 8 or 10. Considering I spent most of my teenage years being a size 14/16/18, I see myself as quite trimmed down and a good deal healthier (I can eat carrots without ranch dressing and celery without cheese whiz!)<br /><br />But I am not and will never be a size 2. And as the title (taken from One Tree Hill) states, zero is not even a size as far as I'm concerned. It's impossible for me; and I don't mean that in a 'I will never' sense, I mean that in a I physically could never' sense. Big-boned isn't just an excuse, my skeletal frame would not fit into size 2 clothing.<br /><br />Where Hollywood scares me is this: it's not all about talent. I'm talented (am I Meryl Strep? Hell no, but I can carry my own on a stage or a screen), but that may not matter. And coming from a background of theatre, that terrifies me. In theatre, if you can sing that high note no one else can, you get the part. If you have the right energy and can retain lines, grab a script! But this Wood of Holly that I'm desperate to work in focuses on 'The Look'. I'm an average-sized brunette with hazel eyes. This makes me just like about ten thousand other girls who want to work onscreen.<br /><br />Now it's a numbers game. How many of those girls are going out for this part? How many can remember the lines and not screw up the audition? (here's hoping I'm in that category as well) How many will say yes if the part is offered to them? And on and on, ad nauseaum.<br /><br />If you'll excuse me, I think I have to listen to "A Chorus Line" now. Ad nauseaum.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-45950569915823919832011-11-29T11:05:00.001-08:002011-11-29T11:06:20.199-08:00Country Music Singers Have Always Been a Real Close FamilyThere's something that country music awards shows have that all other award shows do not: a sense of family.<br /><br />Sure, there's generally plenty of love at awards shows: the losers love their fellow nominees (and if they don't they keep that private most of the time) and are happy for them (most of the time), the presenters love the performers, and the winners love everybody. But it doesn't feel like one giant family, like country music award shows do. The people who spend the year listening to the songs and watching the music videos may have their favourites, but they still love every one who steps unto that stage to collect an award. As someone once said about fan conventions (a whole 'nother post) and I paraphrase now: it's not an awards show, it's a goddamn family reunion.<br /><br />First off, it's a little less formal than your average award show (at least any that aren't run by MTV). The men wear vests and ties, yes, but they're also wearing blue jeans. The ladies may wear full length gowns, but they're also just as likely to walk the red carpet in a cocktail dress. And look fabulous doing so I may add.<br />When the winner's name is announced and they make their way to the stage, there's few handshakes or those manly slaps on the back, no it's full-on hugs for everyone. And so often those acceptance speeches include their fellow nominees, not in the 'honor to be nominated alongside sense' (though there's that too), but thanking them for the duet they sang together which won earlier that night, or for believing in them when their career was just beginning.<br /><br />Maybe it's just a Southern thing, but I could care less who takes home the shiny award since I'm a fan of everyone in country music (I've even come around to the Zac Brown Band again).Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-82314406833233340882011-11-16T11:56:00.000-08:002011-11-16T12:01:31.413-08:00Quick UpdateSorry, lovelies, but I have been NaNoing my head off (it's in the corner reading a book). The upside of that is that my word count (and strangely my novel) are coming along well. Downside is I've been neglecting this blog. Come December that wil change, but I thought I'd do a quick update anyway.<br /><br />Job situation: Did an extras gig on Grimm, but nothing seasonal and/or part time yet. Still sending out applications and hoping.<br />Love life: Haha, you're funny if you think I have one.<br /><br />There's a Kane concert in a week, so I'll see my friends then. I believe that is all. In case I don't see you, have a lovely Thanksgiving or as the British call it Thursday!Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1739893032366879160.post-51408586709355404562011-11-07T12:44:00.000-08:002011-11-07T13:05:53.637-08:00Why I Wish I Was a Graffiti ArtistWell, to be honest, I'm jealous and impressed by all who can take the pictures in their heads and make it a reality. More power to them, seriously. Now, here I mean those who (for whatever reason) use the walls of industrial downtowns to express themselves and let the world know they were here. I do not mean those who leave gang signs. It is the former category that I wish I was a part of. I want a can of paint of a spray can to be my way of telling people about my world.<br /><br />I want to do silly things, like add a B to the front of the Roadway trucks because I'm a theatre nerd. Or make references to country songs like writing 'Billy Bob loves Charlene' in John Deere Green letters three foot high on a water tower. But I also want to do meaningful things (at least to me) like inscribing the names of all the friends I've lost (count is up to nine at this point) somewhere people will see it and know the names of people who did such wonderful things and meant so much to me and mine.<br /><br />Also, as a graffiti artist you can make lasting art on your own terms. You don't need to wait for a gallery showing or craft fair (or in my case being cast in something) to have a piece of you that is seen by hundreds (maybe thousands depending on where you are) of people or just a few that wander by, that's power. There's a magic in that.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09310006241045901478noreply@blogger.com0