Sing It Loud, Sing It Proud...

For those of you who don't know, which most of all my 11 followers do, I happen to have a certain 'knack' shall we say for singing. Now, I wouldn't go so far as to say that I am or ever was a singer, however I can carry a pretty catchy tune and make sweet melodies when it comes to karaoke.

That said, with the recent 'boom' of shows like Glee and Smash my once subdued urge to voice my talent was awakened. A few nights when entering in on my roommate watching Glee I would assume the position in front of the TV redirecting them, as well as myself, in a valient effort to better the version of whatever pop song they were rendering their own. Other times, I'd find myself competing for the role of 'Marilyn' along with whatever those two actresses’ names are in Smash. Needless to say, it was becoming apparent that I was truly gifted with song.

After little consideration I realized there was only one thing to do. Go for it. I started looking into voice coaches, for even though I knew I had the talent, I really wanted to fine tune my 'skills' before going pro. So I approach a co-worker that has spent many a year on tour with notable (hit) singers as well as good number of years showing off on Broadway for a vocal coach suggestion. She supported my decision to go for it but also pointed out the fact that the coaches in 'her circle' would cost me roughly $300-500 per hour. Ouch I thought. I mean I was ready, but not for that penny. She then went into a spiral of song conversation asking politely and encouragingly what 'range' and 'key' I sang in. I responded with a clear and confident 'Uh...ya know I'm not really sure. BUT I can say that I can knock The Little Mermaid's, "Part Of Your World" out of the park!' With shocking delight she was floored! "Gosh that is tough song! All those octaves... etc. etc. etc." I continued to sit smiling and confide in her that while I had no clue as to what she spoke of, that song was in my soul and I could sell the hell out of it! (Along with numerous others.)

Fast forward to three weeks later. After deciding not to pinch (made up) pennies for a pro coach and to not trust the lady offering the $19 deal on groupon, I was still vocal coach less and hungry. Then, as the universe would have it, my agent, bless her heart, sent me an email for a casting. Her email read 'see below, if you're into this reply direct'. Upon scrolling down I could hardly believe my eyes when I read that the casting was for a karaoke game show! Was I into this? Um, did Elvis die on a toilet? I mean come on, this was perfect! I would get on the show, sing my heart of gold out, win a nice lump sum of cash and most likely get discovered (and therefore drop said agent...I mean game show castings? Really?) So I replied direct, confirmed my audition slot and started rehearsal my top  karaoke tunes.

Quick rewind. In high school and years both prior and past, it had been brought to my knowledge that I did not in fact have the 'voice of an angel' as I had once thought. In fact, during karaoke sessions my friends would hold the microphone leaving me to have to poke my head through their shoulders trying to get my vocals over the airwaves...while another time I had been threatened by an extremely caring group of male roommates, saying that they would "lock me in the cellar if I started singing". I tested that threat once and later that night was awake with nightmares of the cellar. But, hey, what did they know!?!

Back to game time. Friday afternoon at approximately 2pm I proudly strolled into my (group) audition. I was fully loaded with the lyrics of "Faith" by George Michael, the classic fist pumping Bon Jovi tune "Shot through the heart" and 80's hit '"I think we're alone now" by whatever that redhead's name was that used to open for New Kids On The Block. I was in it to win it!

I took my seat amongst 12 other hopefuls. I sat quietly, sucking on my Halls cough drop, saving my voice while they chattered with their tales from the sound booth. After growing tired of all their chatter and putting up with a few of them 'warming up' finally asked, "What, all you like singers or something? " 99% of them nodded yes and proceeded to share bits about their 'once upon a time' stories. Whatever, I thought, it’s a game show, I'm hilarious, talented and charismatic and soon to be a 'pro' as well. I got this.

We were told to volunteer to 'go next' and so I did. The second slot came around and I jumped up ready to rock (as first is the worse and second is the best). The casting agent asked me what I was going to sing (and a bit about myself) I told her "Faith", she giggled and asked if was going to do the 'jean hip shake' along with it. "Of course" I stated. Duh.

And so I sang (a capella mind you). I sang, with emotion. I sang, with fierceness. I sang, I snapped, I clapped, I got the other contestants to clap and snap, I shook my hips covered by jeans all while the fresh menthol sent of my breath filled that conference room of 13 strangers with song. I sang and I nailed it. I mean really, how could I not? That performance along with the hilarious quirky antidote’s about my life that I shared? I was game show GOLD!

I returned to my seat, pleased, and listened to the others perform their 'one day I'll make it tunes'. Most of them were slow, boring ballads and had the annoying quality of thinking they were hilariously interesting, however they were extremely talented. Still my confidence sat high as I knew I had 'it' factor they were looking for.

After the final eight counts, the casting director left the room to discuss with her partner, whom I can only assume was judging us through the glass. She reentered with the phrase 'If I call your name, we would like you to stay, if I don't call your name, please don't take it personally, we know what we are looking for, we are looking for fun, outgoing, healthy, good singers and better, you don’t have to be Christina Aguilera but we still need you to be able to carry a tune. So again, please, don't take it personally.' I looked around the room knocking out the other contestants with my eyes and thankful that I parked in the garage with two hours to spare.

Moments later, I was in the elevator when one of the guys looked at me a said  "Dont take it personally."

Expert Advice

Maybe it's just me, but lately it seems that everyone is suddenly is an expert on well, everything (especially our near and dear reality TV stars). Apparently losing five pounds, serving up some tasty chicken wings or surviving a divorce gives you the right to deem yourself an 'expert' and therefore write your 'tell all' 'advice' book and sell it to the masses.

I don't know, maybe its the economic conditions that we are living in that are pushing people to become authors when they really should just stick to being...annoying. And perhaps that same economic condition is responsible for the mass amounts of people that are spending their piggy bank money on some book about a washed up celebrities 'come back' after their terrible marriage that left them with only two million dollars to survive, or the 'how to' books by the extremely talented reality stars who whined, drank, pulled, cried and faked their way to fame. Whatever the reason for this sudden uprise, I have to say (in my own loudmouth expert blog) that I'm not only sick and tired of it, but I'm pretty strongly offended by it. ESPECIALLY the new to shelves, hopeful top seller book pictured below.

Now...I mean, really? 'I Can Make You Hot!' Ugh. Just ugh. (For those of you who don't know this 'hottie' was/is a hot mess of a 'celebrity' on the outstanding TV show, 'The Real Housewives of New York'). 

The thing is, shouldn't you at least be required to BE hot before you can post your guarantee to make others hot on a hard back? Sure to the naked eye this picture may make her seem decent, but ditch the airbrushing and overworked face and well, you wouldn't be left with hot, at least not in my book, maybe someone that used to be hot, but not so much now.

How about credentials shouldn't they be a factor? I guess not when you can spit out thrilling top secret advice such as: "HOT is cool!...
So how do you get HOT!? By eating well, sleeping well and exercising daily." Wow. I feel hotter already.

In closing, I beg of you, do your research before buying these 'expert advice books' or better yet, save your money and go for a walk instead of laying on your couch or throw some random spices on that chicken wing or even, find the inner hotness in you by just glimpsing in the mirror and giving yourself a little wink and smile (cause you're good enough, smart enough and doggone it, people like you). Do all this until of course, I write my expert advice book, which you should promptly purchase when the time arrives. 'Nobody to expert in 90 days'...huh, has a ring to it.

Missed Opportunities

Monday night I took a wrong turn while heading to a big time gig...at a bar...in the burbs. While ceased at a stop light I glanced over to my right to notice a young Hispanic gentlemen. My brain immediately sirened, 'Ask him for directions!' but quickly dissolved the thought when he turned his head to the left, catching my eye in an awkward stare. Really awkward. I gave his tattooed arm and pierced face a friendly neighbor nod and turned my gaze back to the traffic light.
Moments later, my peripheral vision noticed a gesture coming from his car, it was a gesture to roll down my window (little did he know I have automatic windows and therefore only had to hit a button, fancy). I hesitated but somehow my brain screamed 'Maybe he knows you need directions!' So I hit the button and my passenger side window slid down.

The second the window caught wind, he began. "YO! You wanna sell your car?!?"

Shocked I responded with a well thought out "Huh?"

"You're car, you wanna sell it?"

"What? I don't know, it's my car..."

"Oh come on, how much you want, how much you want?"

"Uh, uh, I don't know...why?"

"My brother needs a car for college. Come on!"

"Well, I ...I...need a car too, to get around...and stuff"

"Come on, how much?"

Still in disbelief "Uh...I don't know, how much you offering?"

Glances the car hood to trunk "$2,200"

"Uh...um..." Cue green light and I take off.

Two blocks later it all hits me, 'someone was trying to buy Grandpa the Shark from me!!!! HOW DARE they!.....Wait, someone was...trying to BUY Grandpa!?? And I passed? F*ck!"  (*please refer to the link below for the inside scoop of my car)  I quickly jerked my head to look in my rear view mirror in hopes that I would spot him and flag him down and seal the deal. Much to my dismay, I didn't. A once in a lifetime opportunity gone, out the window, literally.

I share this story in hopes that one of my (ten) readers happens to be my potential buyer and will contact me, please, so we can make a deal. Till then, Grandpa and I will be cruising with eyes wide open. 

For more information on Grandpa the Shark, please visit:
http://j9gypsyeyes.blogspot.com/2012/03/living-dream-pt-2-its-all-about-ride.html

Know Your Type

On Sunday mornings, I get up rather early and go to work at a small gym. I enjoy my job as usually the clients and trainers are very friendly, fun, caring and non-judging...especially on the mornings I roll out of bed and directly in the door due to a late outing the night prior. However, this past Sunday, things were slightly different.

One of the regular trainers who knows everything there is to know about everything and has been around since oh, I don't know, the ice age, was hanging out in the lobby talking or telling rather, a new client all about the magicalness of her methods. I was peacefully perched at the desk minding my own business counting the cash for all the bottles of water I just sold, when out of mid air, I was addressed.

"You know what you look like???" Said, said trainer with new client hovering over her.

Me "Um, I'm sorry, what?"

"DO you KNOW what you look like?" She repeated with force.

Me "Eh, no, no I don't know..." said with frightened hesitation.

"You look like an imp! .... Doesn't she look like an imp? I mean really, she really does..." She babbled on to the new client, whom was now tilting her head on the verge of agreement.

"Oh! Uh, an imp???" I interrupted.

"Yeah, an IMP! You know, like an imp, like an elf. Like you belong in a forest or something. You know what it is, its those eyes and ESPECIALLY those big EARS! I mean, look at how they just poke out!" She exclaimed.

New Client chiming in, "OH YEAH! Yeah, ...yeah... she DOES look like she could belong in a forest, an imp! I see it!".

                            Time out for a FLASHBACK: All my life I was made fun of for my ears as they were apparently on a different 'growth' chart than the rest of my body and well, protruded ever so slightly from my thin layer of poker straight hair (and were prone to pop out of hats). At one point I recall my ears being pulled at by loved ones (I won't name names, but you know who you are) and years later after I decided to bedazzle my lobes with earrings, I received the comment 'They are already big enough, you don't have to call attention to them!' by a neighborhood friend. Therefore, I didn't indulge in the infamous ponytail till I was in college (a fresh start) and even now and then find myself trying to tuck them away as the memories still haunt me.
Now back to your regularly schedule program.

"Huh, well uh, ok then, thanks, thanks I guess?!" I pleaded softly in an attempt to get them to move on to another topic.

To my luck they did, after of course, another minute of gawking at me, the mysterious creature that crawled out of the depths of the mystical forest and somehow landed a job in society. While I was a bit shocked and disturbed and wanted nothing else but to erase the conversation from my morning, curiosity got the best of me, just as it did that darn cat. So I turned to my trusty pal, Google search. I typed in 'IMP' and hit enter and waited anxiously for the results...while slowly stroking and pressing my ears against my head in an effort to get them to stay there...as all the 'DUMBO' memories came rushing back.

More horrifying than I could have imagined, this is the first image that popped up when searching the term 'Imp'.

With the caption:
"An imp is a mythological being similar to a fairy or demon, frequently described in folklore and superstition. The word may perhaps derive from the term ympe, used to denote a young grafted tree."

These are the second and third images that came up.

How lovely. If that doesn't make a gal feel good, then I don't know what does.

I later had my roommate do a search on her computer just to see if she got the same immediate imaging that I had, hoping that it was just a 'gliche in my system'. However due to the shrilling followed by breathless laughter that came from her room, I can tell you she did.

So, after finding my so-called 'twin' online I decided that I would take a photo of myself to compare. And while I know I don't look my best and I'm not trying to be, cocky, I must admit I just don't see it, but I'll leave that open for your judgement. Jeanine the Imp OR Jeanine the non-imp. You tell me. After all, one of the keys to success in this world, especially this industry, is knowing how and where you fit in and what your 'type' is.

One last thing. An hour after the above conversation or judgement as I like to think of it, took place my father arrived in town and we met up for lunch. He walked up to me, hugged me, then told me "You look pale and tired!".

Lesson learned, I should have stayed in bed last Sunday.

Blast from the Past - My Arrival In Mexico

Due to my gypsy nature, I tend to take risk, risk that involved accepting random jobs in random places. Therefore, to ease the mind(s) of my loved ones at home, during my randomness I would send email updates to let them know about life in, wherever I was. This is an email from my arrival to  host beach activities in Los Cabo, Mexico. ..

Well, where do i begin...customs I suppose?  Let's just say I was sweating a bit, partly due to the 87 degree weather, but mainly due to the fact that I knew here, I had to straight face lie. So I did, when asked how long I would be in Mexico I replied for a few weeks, shockingly he replied why  - to travel - he then questioned my being alone, a young senorita like myself, no family, no boyfriend..no? "No, senor, I am here alone, so I can find a lover and if that fails I will search for tequila, and if I do find either then I will have run out of money and return home." With this he smiled, granted me 30 days and thanked me for choosing Mexico. Bags in hand, I searched for my ride...after denying countless offers and being steered in the wrong direction for my pick-up point, I found him. ...I suppose I stood out a little compared to all the other honeymooners. 

David - my boss, tells me there is an emergency and instead of going right to my apartment we must stop along the way and get food for the turtles; they haven't eating in tres Dias! So we drive, in the third lane of a two way highway to San Jose, yes, I now know my way to San Jose, where amongst many 'adobe shack's (Epcot just doesn't do Mexico justice) the dust clears and a Walmart type shopping center awaits - turtle food, check. We are on our way again.

Twenty minutes later, after some authentic road side tacos, we arrive at my apartment, which according to David is just 'a few blocks' from Everything. In the dark it resembles....well that of a dark mysterious stucco building. Yep, that pretty much sums it up five four story stucco buildings  aside a sand/dirt road. Inside, lovely, all white stucco walls with random cut outs in the walls and white tile. It is all so warming and welcoming. Especially the bathroom where it seem the white tile has taken over everything...and eaten the shower curtain. That's always a fun game to play - where and how do I bath.

Luckily, two of my three roommate's are there and offer to take me out. Jet lagged and in sensory overloaded,  I agree to go out for a Margarita. A three block walk and Lynn (Wisconsin) Lalos and I hit the beach. Billygians, not to be mistaken with Gillians Island...or is it. We walk through the entrance onto the sand to see the perfect Cabo San Luca welcoming. Three forty-something couples on a makeshift beach stage doing congo-ing along to the sounds of a three piece Mexican band...all wasted and remain in their one size to small bikini beach attire. Nice!

We chuckle and choose a low key place next door, for Lalo knows the manager. Tres margaritas, beach side with a full moon setting against the black night, gently lighting the 'Arch' ( famous rock formation in Cabo)...not too shabby. Oh, and I forgot - fireworks approximately 1 mile down the beach, in honor of my first night said the manger (I tell ya these Mexican's have a way with words.) Enticed by the idea of Salsa dancing I continue on the the next bar. Man these Mexican folk can really move those hips. Many stare at me, the new Gringo in town, (although VERY touristy, we had entered local territory) but only one ask me to dance. Politely I try to refuse, but no is not acceptable. So I salsa, I salsa with a 5'2" Mexican man who loves to salsa spin, and spin and spin. A 5'7" pale American girl, being spun by a 5'2" Mexican in a sea of salsa dancers....you do the math.  After stepping on many toes and nearly being knocked out by my own forearm in mid-spin, I retired to my quarters.

Not bad for a first night in Cabo San Luca.

Needless to say it has been an...experience, interesting is far to subtle a word to describe the people I've met.  Wow.

Tomorrow, I will lead my first day of work, a 10am walk on the beach in Los Cabos.

With that, I must go...I'm out of peso's,

I hope this finds you all well!

La nueva gringa

Living the Dream (pt 2): It's All About The Ride

Well here I am again, on my own, going down the only road I've only known, with my trusty pal and partner in crime, Grandpa 'The Shark' Ford Taurus. Otherwise known as 'Ooh Grandpa....fine, ok I'll drive' to friends and family.

Why devote an entire blog post to one Ford Taurus? Simply because the importance of having a dependable, good looking, well running car in LA is just as important, if not more, than lying about your age and sleeping your way to the top...and well, I was at a lack of other things to talk about. Right, so moving on, my car.

As I previously stated, a car in LA is a life or death situation and I don't mean because of the horrid drivers that hog the road throwing all basic driving 'rules' out the window (Did you know turn signals are no longer a must?); but rather a life or death of 'social status.' I remember my first year out here, watching as BMWs' and Mercedes Benz lined the drive ways of run down one bedroom apartments. Clearly, what you're arriving in is much more important that what you're sleeping in (unless of course you're one of those die hard actors that deem sleeping in their car will give them that extra advantage since they have 'struggled and therefore will prevail'). 

Time after time I receive looks of disgust and unruly comments regarding my 'representation on wheels', I however, just never really gave a shit. Even when a former boss (or two) called me into their office to tell that 'maybe it was time I thought about upgrading my car' or when a friend gasped in shock when I replied 'No, I wouldn't buy a new car if I won the lottery'.  Judge me all you want but where I come from, if its runs, it works. And while it may not run as well as it used to, 'The Shark' is still holding strong-ish. Emphasis on the 'ish'.

Which brings me to exhibit A-C. As you can imagine the interior of your car is just as important as the exterior, for you never know who may be hoping in for a ride. And while I try to keep it so fresh and so clean on the inside (only because I'm good enough, smart enough and doggone it, people like me), it is slowly becoming harder and harder to do so. For certain parts of Grandpa 'The Shark' Ford Taurus, are breaking down...and while this gives snot nosed passengers even more leverage to suggest a new car purchase, I rebut with 'What ever happened to appreciating art? To an item being original? Having character?' ...because Grandpa has it all.

Exhibit A: The Pliers: The pliers play an important role in assisting the 'turning on and off' of the A/C, Vent, Heat, Defrost, for as you'll see in exhibit B, the knob is no longer present.



Exhibit B: The Knob: Or shall I say, the extremely sharp worn down to a point from over grabbing nub formerly know as the Knob. What once was an easy to reach and twist plastic knob has now turned into a MacGyver manoeuvring experience, with formerly mentioned pliers. Also note the 'Hi-Lo Knob' control has also been added to the 'character' list as someone thought they would improve my situation by replacing 'The Knob' with the 'Hi-Lo Knob'...they were wrong.

Exhibit C: The Tape Deck: Honestly, I just threw this one in for good measure, I mean who doesn't love a good old 'miss you mix' tape in midday traffic. Sooths my soul every time.


So folks, that's the tale of my ride. It's not pimped out nor is it considered special to anyone else but me, well maybe it is, but most likely in the 'short bus' special sense. But again, I don't give a rats ass, this 1996 family sedan has been all over the country with me and honestly between you and I, (I believe) gave me the edge on a production job when I held the task of driving an Executive to set and he was forced to talk to me when Grandpa blew hot dust on him after I MacGyvered the air on (unfortunately for him the passengers side window was also out of order at the time). Nothing strikes up a conversation about needed more work like a old car spewing its history at you. Ooh Grandpa.

Side note - To all of you that have had the PRIVELEDGE of riding in my one and only Grandpa 'The Shark' Ford Taurus, I would like to take this time to say, YOU ARE MOST WELCOME. I mean, in many ways he is my claim fame.

Camouflaging Clumsy

Ever since birth I was, what 'they' call, a clumsy child. On most occasions, walking, not just running, lead to catastrophe. Whether it tripping over the side walk and scraping on my knees, over my two feet and allowing the scoring run to rush by or just blindly walking into a parking meter, I was always one small step away from wearing a helmet. Hell, I wasn't even safe at home, as I used to walk into our dinning room wall, which according to the four other family members that lived their, never moved (I still beg to differ). 

As if that wasn't embarrassing enough, my clumsiness didn't stop at tripping. It 'spilled' over into dropping fragile items...and have them shatter in my knee (therefore needing stitches), knocking over freshly poured bowls of cereal (the dog always loved that one) wasting my breakfast and of course ruining every light colored shirt that graced by boddess...especially the time I looked up to the sky while holding a (without a top) cup of coca-cola in my mouth (apparently my brain didn't process long enough to think of removing the cup I was biting onto before lifting my chin to chase the glimpse of a balloon) ...my white shirt quickly transformed into tan and I walked around the rest of the day sporting a sticky go tee. The bees loved it.

But that was years ago! Surely my childhood clumsiness would be outgrown by now...at the ripe age of 30. Sadly that's not the case. Just ask my former roommate why she started with a delightfully expensive set of 12 wine glasses and ended up with a mere 3 of them. (Apparently washing dishes also equals crushing dishes in my book.) Oops. And take a look at my hands on any given day and you'll be sure to find a random, scrap, cut, scratch, bump, bruise or burn upon them. Or sometimes even my face for that matter, as just last month I walked the earth with a black eye I gave myself while doing laundry. Impossible....one would think.

In a New Years resolution effort to mask my clumsiness, since clearly I can't control it, I have been focusing on properly caring for my injuries in attempt to hide and rapidly heal them (and to avoid too many 'what happen now?!).  So when I received a slice to my thumb while at work today (handing out samples of free food...not sure how that happen...the job or the cut...) I quickly removed myself from the scene and looked for a band-aid. Of course, as my luck would have it, the only band-aids available were 'camouflage' color; and not a 'skin tone camouflage' color, but rather 'I'm fighting a war in the middle of a damp jungle camouflage'. So to add insult to injury, I spent the rest of my shift providing information about how I sliced the side of my thumb open while opening a thin cardboard box of plastic gloves (safe for children ages 3+), rather than pulling focus to my the task at hand, the free food. Pretty sure my boss was pleased.

Needless to say, yes, I am still clumsy. However, in a effort to continue on my new positive thinking path (another New Years resolution), its nice to know some things never change. Ever.