Child Stars All Over the Place!

Because we are huge ballers and love collaborating, my brother, Eli, and I are entering the Dorito’s Crash the Super Bowl Contest. The Crash the Super Bowl Contest is a competition for the average Joe, giving he/she (in our case literally he/she) the chance to shoot a Dorito’s commercial, send it in to Dorito’s executives (I’m assuming there is a division of Dorito’s dedicated to this contest) If they think it’s good enough, his/hers commercial moves on to the public voting stage, if it wins the voting, it is shown during the Super Bowl. THEN if it is ranked high enough among all the Super Bowl commercials, including the pros, then you can win anywhere from 400,000 to 1 million dollars. Any participant can enter up to ten commercials*, we came up with ten pretty fantastic ideas but after some realistic budgeting of money and time we decided to just do two.

Both of these commercials star children, meaning we had to hold the most difficult auditions of all time. We had to audition toddlers, kids and teenagers. I knew that instructing kids would be difficult, but because I’m not the director and because I wanted some extra entertainment, I let Eli take the reigns for the first few rounds just to see how he would handle kids.

Eli talks to children like someone talks to the person holding them at gunpoint: with a very polite, yet terrified, high-pitched voice. His interactions were an odd mix of a business agreement and a psychologist trying to explain to a child why their parents’ divorce isn’t their fault. I can’t really blame him, auditions are awkward to begin with but are even more so when you are trying to establish a calm and fun yet slightly authoritative relationship with a toddler in just a few minutes. I still can’t really wrap my mind around the idea that kids that age even totally understand what acting is. How are they not weirded out or uninterested? Why would a three-year-old do or say something for no reason? Why would a three year-old push over a 6’5” guy who is wobbling towards them in a squatted position, pretending to be a child? The answer is they might not. Kids are stubborn. A three year old will poop his pants to prove a point. I know, I’ve witnessed it.

But like I’ve said a million times: all you need to survive a day with a toddler is a really high high-five. Actors over the age of five but under the age of 18 are a different story. The hardest part of auditioning non-toddler aged kids is finding the appropriate language to use. Especially when you have six-year-olds coming in right after sixteen-year-olds and vice versa. Can you say, “jerk” to a third grader or do you still use “meanie”? Can you tell a child to act “pissed off” or is that like telling an adult to act “fucking pissed off”? Words that are G-rated to Eli and I are obscene to children but G-rated words to us are like PG words to teenagers, super lame and not nearly edgy enough. I knew Eli was having a hard time with the language barrier when he used the word “crap” when talking to a teenager. I have not heard my brother use “crap” in probably ten years. But it was a great choice because “crap” is like the training wheels for swearing and therefore perfect for a fifteen-year-old.

Aside from the kids, I was publicly dreading, but privately hoping for, encounters with stage moms. I wanted the kind of moms that would jump in and audition themselves for the part, but there were none! We had a real mix of parents throughout the day. A lot were clearly supporting their child’s dream, not their own. These kids were outgoing, talkative and truly entertaining. I saw how some people are born to perform.

We saw one parent who could not have been more bored with his son’s amazing audition. He looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the world than chained to this, what I can only predict will be, child star. Well guess what, pops? That’s what you get for naming your son (no joke, only first name has been changed) “Brady Rock Starr.” The kid has two options: child star or porn star. Rock star is out because that’s just repetitive. And there is nothing the music industry hates more than repetition.

A few kids were really shy, wouldn’t talk and clearly didn’t want anything to do with us. This was when I had a hard time believing these kids were begging their parents for auditions. One woman came in with her father (roughly 70 years old) to audition her young son (two years old.) She told us her son was a natural, could repeat anything we wanted and was great with direction, but he would not come out from behind his mother’s legs.

We did what had come to be our “toddler ice breakers” but the boy refused to look at us. It wasn’t long before the mother started talking briskly to her son in Russian, trying to peel him off her leg and turning to her father for some extra help. The grandfather then joined in on directing the child in Russian. I cannot say for sure what happened in the next five minutes, mostly because Eli and I had lost control of the room and Russian was the only language used for the duration of the audition. Eli and I sat silently as the boy turned away each time the mother moved him to face us. At some point we all ended up squatting on the floor where the mom would occasionally push me down to show her son what he needed to do. And because I don’t speak Russian, these shoves came without warning.

After a few more hits from the mom, we decided it was time to shut it down. In order to cut off the audition we had to first establish the language change. Then we had to excuse them based on the fact that the boy only understands, but still doesn’t respond to, Russian. After the mother backhandedly blamed us for her son’s performance (or lack there of) they left.

Two days of long auditions, fake smiles and tons of high-fives later, we have our actors and they are all the cream of the crop. We shoot in a couple of weeks and I’ll keep everyone posted.

In other news, I got another nannying job. AW, YEAH! So when I said that chapter in my life was over. I was lying. But this chapter is much more interesting and financially supportive than the unemployment chapter. I have been in Colorado since Friday for CU’s Homecoming weekend and will be here through Halloween and my m’fin’ Bday y’all. I will hopefully/probably/most definitely have something to blog about in the next few weeks. Hold on tight!

*Do not quote me on any logistics of this contest because there is a decently sized chance I could have mixed up some regulations.

Long Time, No Post. MY BAD.

It has recently been revealed to me that I have bigger feet than my male roommate. I wish I could say this is the first time this has happened, but that would make a liar. And I am many things; a riveting writer, a fantastic driver, friend to all, but I am NOT a liar. It is no surprise to me that I have big feet. It’s a reality I have been living with for years. And unlike most disproportional body parts that children grow into through the years, my feet have been large at every stage. My hands are also large, I can palm a basketball (if you don’t understand this then you should be even more impressed than if you do understand) God, if I was a guy I would have a biiiiiiig… selection of shoes because I have a normal sized foot for a male.

The worst thing about having big feet is the fact (okay, maybe not so much a fact but the belief I cant seem to shake) that it is weird and not at all cute to have the same sized feet as a boy. Especially a boy that you are interested in. I have had to rule out a lot of great date ideas because of my feet. Anything that involves me voluntarily revealing my shoe size is out. See ya, ice-skating, skiing, snowboarding, and his and her pedicures.

I will go to great lengths to keep my foot size a mystery. In college, my sorority had a roller skating date dash and I had to meticulously plan out a casual way to get away from my date and order both of our skates alone, a plan I was especially thankful for when it turned out we were the same size. While he never found out, unless he reads this blog, embarrassment in that situation was not totally avoided. I did have to tell the roller rink employee my shoe size. He reacted normally and emotionless but I can’t be sure that he did not burst into hysterics in the roller rink employee break room later. Trying to explain the freak-show-like shoe size that accompanied an otherwise very normal looking girl between heaves of laughter.

With careful planning I can make some foot-related activities work. But bowling is just out of the question. Having a foolproof way of getting my shoes alone means nothing when the size is telegraphed on the back of each shoe for the world to see. And of course bowling just haaassss to be the only sport where spectators watch from behind.

Someone needs to step up and represent women like me. I’m going to establish a community called WWBAF: Women With Big Ass Feet. And as the spokesperson, I will be a supporter and advocate for shoes that can be passed off as unisex (a special shout out to TOMS for making progress in this field) and stricter security systems at Nordstrom Rack to ensure that shoes are in the correct area. If I have to lunge at another cute wedge shoe only to find it’s 3 sizes too small, and in the wrong section, WWBAF (I) will start a riot.

Good thing I never actually revealed my shoe size in this post and left it to your imagination. Now you all probably think I have size 14. Or is it 12? OR IS IT BOTH? I can tell you accurately it is not both. But like many women in Hollywood who lie about their age, I will always, always lie about my shoe size. Except to the employees at roller rinks, because there is nothing worse than skating in discomfort.