by Stefania Paparelli

Only in LA could a trailer actually symbolize luxury and success, and that is exactly what I told my actor boss that I longed for as my face scrunched up and tears unwittingly trailed down my cheeks. I quickly wiped the very bottom of my eyes, attempted to catch the droplets before they arrived in his view. Inevitably he noticed as he spun from the mirror and furrowed his brows in sympathy. “Whatchu need? You need some food? Some dessert? You’re officially on break, so…” 

I shook my head and apologized, “I feel like you’ve seen me cry so many times!”

“But it’s for good stuff,” he countered, “You don’t cry over any bullshit. If you did I’d think, this girl’s crazy; it’s cool but she’s damn crazy.” 

I smiled sadly, “I just… I just really thought it was mine. I let myself really imagine it and…I don’t like fantasizing. It’s too painful…not worth feeling like this. Please don’t make me come on set when she’s here.”

“Feel that wrath! Feel that envy!” he joked, “I’ll have you here everyday she’s on set!” 

I shot him a look of mocked horror. “I know the shoot dates. I will call out sick.”

It all began two days prior to this conversation. My agent called me about an audition for a great role on my boss’ show. It sounded perfect for me and the major highlights including being in a shootout with my boss himself! I couldn’t help but endeavor the role was mine; after all, what could be more perfect than making my television debut on a set where I have so much support? I know the entire cast, most of the crew, and my boss “David” is an enormous supporter of my career. 

I dressed my best and drove to the studio with more than a hint of glee about my life. The day had finally come: after 2 years, I was driving onto the studio lot as an actress. I arrived at the casting office with ten minutes to spare and was so determined to remain focused I deflected any of my “competition’s” attempts at conversation. “Thank you, these boots were 5 dollars.” Smile. Eyes immediately back to my lines. 

by Solve Sundsbo

“Brenda?” the assistant called. 

I scooped up my belongings and entered the audition room with a skip in my step. “I’m here!” I kept thinking.

The casting director smiled, gave me the basic direction, and prompted me, “Whenever you’re ready.” I performed the scene with the reader and looked back to the CD when I was finished. “Great! Now more laid back; even sarcastic.”

“Ok. Cool,” I smiled and proceeded to do so.

After this we moved on to the second scene which included a frantic declaration that my best friend had been killed. I went to the corner of the room, chest to the wall, and took a moment to become alive with such a wild emotion. I ran to the reader pronouncing the news. “Again,” said the casting director, then, “Again.” 

The reader smiled and whispered, “Great job” as the casting director held out my picture.

“Give this to the receptionist. See you at 4 for your callback. It was excellent.”

I couldn’t help but jump (one understated jump) and grab my picture. “I will be there!”

The hours between that moment and my callback were one third parts agony and two third parts amazing. I remained focused and even refrained from telling mom and dad what was happening. When I went back to the studio it seemed they narrowed down the actresses to 15 or so. I popped on my headphones, and zoned out on this role. I couldn’t believe how badly I wanted it. Every now and again I glanced to the trailers in the alley, hoping to see David. After all, I wouldn’t be the least bit ashamed if favoritism got me the role: bring on the unfair privilege!

Finally I was called in and found the producer, director, and casting director seated on the other side of a huge conference table. “So, how is it you know [David]?” the casting director inquired.

“I’m his personal assistant.”

“Ah, ok when your picture came in I thought it looked familiar. I finally put that together.” Cool. It seemed I’d gotten in the room with no favoritism at all. 

I read, the producer gave me a new direction and I did the best I could. My one sore regret is that I haven’t studied up on how to replicate being on drugs. His note was “more drugged out” and I’m really not sure I pulled that off the best I could have. Regardless, I held onto quite a bit of faith that the part had to be mine. 

Unfortunately my agent called me the next afternoon to announce some other girl would be living out my fantasy. I really hated her. I wish she had stayed home sick. I wasn’t the least bit into considering she deserved it more than I, or that the timing was simply hers. I actually cried. This isn’t the usual because you gain and lose roles all the time; this opportunity was just closer to my heart due to the circumstances.

Anway, back in David’s trailer, moments after I got the news, I embarrassedly wiped tears from my face and stated, “I just want a trailer, ya know? Of my own.”

David leaned forward in his chair, “You think that’s all you want? You think you’d be happy in a trailer? You think I’m happy just because I’m in one?” I nodded with the knowing of what was coming next. “You have to remember to be grateful or you will never be. We always want the next thing. I star on a show but now I wanna be an action star; I want people to know my name. You need to celebrate this as a victory. You kicked ass. You got the callback. You are obviously a great actress. You kicked ass! You did great! You are never satisfied. I know you, I know you well.” He was completely right. 

I still went through the phases of light grief: sadness to envy to bitterness to acceptance. And today I feel really good. I am so blessed that I continually get callbacks, and I need to revel in each victory. If not, one day soon I will be sitting in a trailer with my name on it, pissed off that the brunette on the show has more lines than me. I’d much prefer walking the route of gratitude and peace in every moment of life, for better or worse, in someone else’s trailer or my own.

I have been in the devoted process of self-torture since last night. It takes a lot of will-power, a great ability to self-loath, and an amazing lack of self-esteem. I am really, really beating myself up the best I can, and it’s working. I was even dedicated enough to pop open my eyes at 5AM and only manage a light and angry sleep, making sure to be pissed at myself all the way ’til 9.

A week ago I went on an audition for a feature film and it went spectacularly. The director became so enthusiastic about my performance that he nearly cried when I announced my hour long meter was up and I had to go. He sighed in disappointment but added, “I will see you at the callbacks! Absolutely.” The producer’s eyes popped in surprise. This must not be his usual protocol, I imagined. We all shook happy hands and I left, floating on a cload of my own approval. 

When I received the callback notice I thought, welp, gotta wait ’til Wednesday to claim that role. It was so mine. The other two girls had no idea they were wasting their time. A whole summer on set; I could hardly wait.

The situation at the callback was to be, 3 potential leading men, 3 potential leading women. We would be interchanged to determine who proved the greatest sexual chemistry, as it is an intense film on love between a younger girl and an older man. So, last night I arrived and found myself to be the only chick on time. The 3 men waited and we all chatted until the director pulled me and the first man into the room. I was really not attracted to him and, although I should have pushed that aside, I did feel it hindered my audition. I shrugged it off knowing I had two more chances to make it right. However, when I entered the foyer again there sat a girl I would let ruin my whole night. 

We actually looked and dressed quite similarly. She was much more petite but we essentially wore the same outfit and a nearly identical desire to be the funniest in the room. She purposefully ignored the other girl and I, only making eye contact to ask me to hand over a bottle of water. The rest of the time she spent buttering up the guys and cultivated a flirtatious relationship with the most attractive guy of the three. I got the distinct impression she knew the role was hers and it was just a matter of deciding which guy she preferred.  

For some wretched reason her assurance slowly chipped away at mine. The greatest audition blunder is comparison and this one gave me three entire hours to ruin myself through her. She went second and when she reentered the room she was practically holding the guy’s hand; it was as though they decided it would be them. And unfortunately, I believed it.

From then on, I could not bring myself back to planet earth where I am fun, confident, and talented. My mind made the experience a competition for a role I cared about instead of an exhilarating opportunity to act. My greatest regret is that the director was on my side and I still couldn’t deliver. He kept saying, “Where’s your electricity? The real you I know? Give that to me this time. Action!” And instead I performed a half-assed rendition of, “God, why won’t that girl get sick and go home?” 

The man tried everything to bring me from my shell. At one point I was even straddling an actor on the floor, kissing, and trying to be intimate… but yes “trying.” “Acting,” not being present. I was on planet jealousy…or rather, insecurity.

Long story short, what hurts the most is that I thought I was so past being such an idiot. I keep thinking I know who I am and what I have to offer. I was so sure I knew better than to stoop down so low. I can’t even believe how badly the director wanted me to succeed… and I didn’t. 

All I can say to the benefit of myself, is that it was a great awakening to my heart. I am so grateful to become aware of this monstrous problem now, because I’ll be damned if I let myself be that way again. I need to work on this issue, starting this instant, to be sure my brain takes a 180 on this. Three cheers to that being the last time insecurity ruins me. Here’s to confidence! Hip. Hip. Hooray.

I had the strangest dreams last night & I knew I should have journaled them earlier, lest I forgot. Which, mostly I did. Each dream took place in high school era for me, which for some reason most of my dreams do.

I understand this because, you see, every day I would come home from school, eat dinner, and go to my room to fantasize. I would either stare out the window at all my popular neighbor’s houses or dream of Hollywood…

My pretend high school experience for www.wildfoxcouture.com :)

Please bear with the pathetic nature of the former fact, but this was my street: I always felt I was the only “unpopular” person on the entire block. There were the Reinas’ (Andrea, Eva, and George). Andrea was graduated but I was well aware of the other 2 because they were easily popular due to their extreme attractiveness (among other things, loves!). Eva was as tall as I with poker straight long dyed blonde hair, olive skin, and an amazing body with perfect c-cup boobs. George played football and was over 6 feet tall with Eva’s identical skin, his natural black hair, with a perfect mesh of exotic and all-American features. (I would later become best friends with both, but I’d have to wait a bit for that one.) George was close friends with his next-door neighbor, so they were in the same crowd. On the opposite side sat the home of two beautiful girls. The older one dated a guy I died over; he somehow was my George Clooney of freshman year and the younger one was just wildly outgoing and probably lots of fun to be around. On my side of the street was my beautiful best friend Tara and a couple houses down was “Tyler,” who proved to be freakin’ hilarious in classes and then next to him was- you know what, forget it. The more one travels down “Paloma” Road- from at least 1998 to 2001- all those kids were popular…

Really in highschool! Kelly, Me, Maria, Tara, Stacy, Kelley

Anyway, dream. In this dream I was in high school and all these faceless people that I seemed to recognize within the world, were letting me know that Tyler wanted to make out with me. I was excited but also so nervous; I never kissed anyone before. Would I have to tell him I wasn’t ready for sex? Then, in the midst of all the excitement Katie Holmes got on a nearby stage and started dancing and singing. No one paid attention to her, actually they thought she was incredibly lame, but no one audibly made fun of her or anything. Some girl was shaking my arm and talking about Tyler but I was spellbound by Katie on the stage. I was so worried that maybe I was supposed to be up there with her instead of down here caring about boys.

Please excuse the Katie Cruise- I also know where she came from. Yesterday, I had been thinking about how Katie was doing theater in high school and flew out to Hollywood and happily booked Dawson’s Creek immediately. Katie quite represents how I thought my “Hollywood” fantasy would play out when I used to dream awake in my white single bed. Instant success.

So it seems nowadays, not surprisingly, my literal dreams are flooded with unfulfilled desires and I think that’s why they replay these things over and over and over and over. I mean seriously, do I care about high school? No. I never even once think about it in my waking life let alone ponder how it could have been different. I am so thankful that it was so difficult and humiliating because it kept me grounded, gave me plenty of reason to be humble, built my resolve, and above all, to an embarrassing degree, kept me out of trouble.

It’s not always easy to say, but I feel the same for my career. It has generally been incredibly hard, demanded every ounce of faith in my heart, stolen tons of money, torn me from my east coast roots, and kicked my butt until I couldn’t sit down. However, I can’t help but fully believe it will be exactly like high school. That once I look back I’ll see how the timing of my blooming was impeccable, ordained, ideal, and divine.

So, I think I need to let my adolescent self know, baby, we are letting these fantasies go. I used to fall asleep every night with headphones on and dream up scenarios to please my soul; Oscar acceptances, or figure skating championships, or Jordan Catalano being in love with me, or what it would be to move to LA. Nothing, and I mean nothing I ever fantasized about came true.

One has to be far more openhearted than that. To dream of success or love is beautiful! Pray about it day and night. But to be oh-so-specific, doesn’t seem to serve one well.

How interesting though that they would constantly replay themselves at night? I wake up and laugh thinking, “I don’t want that anymore. Where the heck did that even come from?” I think I just trained my brain wrong and it’s time to consciously let it all go.

My ship has sailed on being popular in high school, I don’t want to make out with anyone new, and I will never be a teen-early 20s movie star. That window of opportunity is gone! And best of all, I’m sure it’s best of all.

Me, pretending to be cool for www.wildfoxcouture.com

 

Leo Dicaprio

My tiny frame settled on the floor to indulge in what followed Sesame Street. Back then I understood lovemaking to be a couple rolling back and forth on their bed and soap operas to be meticulously drawn cartoons, knowing not that “actors” existed. I hated these shows bate the view of the women. What intrigued me the most was their beautiful legs- how every grown-up girl had such bewitching curves and lines to walk upon. Therefore, I noticed a Marilyn Monroe-like birthmark on my upper left thigh and, as early as seven, was sure that boys would love this and find me pretty for it. I would intentionally let my skirts or shorts rise up over it in hopes that someone would notice and I even called it “sexy”. Until my boyfriend’s recent public mention of it, I wasn’t sure that anyone ever had noticed.  

 

 If it was legs I spent hours praying for in my youth, it would appear God granted my wish by the miles. Unfortunately, with my blossomed calves also came the doubt that they were what would make me “pretty”, after all.

Much, much later I found out those loving couples did more than roll back and forth in bed and, sadly, didn’t even have to be loving to do so. Further, I recognized that my Marilyn-esqe mark wouldn’t be sexy on its own, but sexy because it led the eye upwards to the real treasure.  

 So, life resumed with a pencil body, mosquito bite boobs (thanks Alison), braces, headgear, frizzy hair, an eventual potbelly, unpopularity, and the glories of rejection. My friends’ moms called me “so pretty” and creepy fathers in restaurants seemed to agree. Very rarely the occasional boy from a different high school eyed me, but that was it. I certainly didn’t feel “so pretty.” Ever.

Fast forward to this week, and what seems to be a hundred years, and I share an iced coffee with my boyfriend at an attractive cafe in the lower eastside of New York City. We spent a few happy days together during his tour stop through NY with the band he documents for a record company, and there we sat.

I childishly hand Drew a shovel and ask him to dig my self-confidence a grave with a simple question: Would you date her if we weren’t together?

 Too enthusiastically, “You’re asking me if I’d date a supermodel?”

“Ha! She’s not ’super’! She’s not Jessica Stam or something. She’s just a model.”

He laughs and I do too, “She’s not ’super,” I insist. My mind flushed with care as I considered how she’s a hell of a lot closer to model, super or not, than I am.

That evening at the show I took great joy in any second glances I received in my short, short, short shorts and- to my dismay, hers were just as short, in black. I whined and complained a great deal to my victim of a friend, Tracy and even more so in my own mind. “Maybe I wouldn’t be this upset he found her pretty if she were similar looking to me but she’s like ten pounds lighter with dark chestnut hair and exotic features. I mean, c’mon!” Sweet Tracy sympathetically offered to fight her…

I watched the guys perform and listened to the girls scream like Elvis was in the building whenever they received a glance or a touch from the singer and considered how “pretty” a girl must feel when a celebrity gives her attention. I sorrowfully bobbed to the music with the daunting realization of the life I have chosen. I live in the town of Botox and travel to the land of famous models for vacation, all the while attempting to maintain some sort of self-assurance and “prettiness.”

After the show, the VIP was cleared out entirely with the exception of my friend and me. I approached the dressing room bouncer and asked to go in. “Who do you know?” he inquired.

“The band’s filmer. He’s my boyfriend.”

The bouncer shook his head and tightened his lips, “I’m sorry, he’d have to bring you in.”

My blood approached a boil, “But he didn’t bring me in. He left me out here.” Drew laughs within. “And I can hear him laughing.”

The bouncer smiled sympathetically at my pathetic misery and opened the door. I thanked him through gritted teeth when my eyes landed first on my love receiving a flirty butt-bump from another gorgeous model, both smiling ear to ear. I knew her affections rested solely on a band member, but I still felt an envy stronger than I ever have before, accompanied by a new hopelessness courtesy of her enticing beauty. My mouth became dry and I forced back any sign of tears as I pulled the dumbest line from the worst of soap operas, “Remember me? Your girlfriend?”…

by Miles Aldridge

The night continued on, resuming at a local bar, and I felt like an insecure disease hoping Drew would be my infected host. Ironically enough, I am quite assured that I was less pretty than ever before. I was having trouble socializing, I wasn’t loving to Drew or his friends, and I was stolen away by my own thoughts. 

I prayed silently: What could make me pretty forever? I got those legs I begged for, my hair curls in lieu of frizzing, and my little boobs seem en vogue nowadays. What do I want now- to be someone entirely different?

I remembered then that the evening before we danced at a nightclub and were asked to move so Leonardo DiCaprio and his entourage could have our seats. We walked the entire 7 feet to the other side and sat down across from them. It was Leo, and a bunch of pretty girls, in plain view. Drew and I were having the best time with our friends and as I danced Leo smiled at me and tipped his hat flirtatiously. “Of course he did, babe,” Drew sung in my ear, “You’re one of the prettiest girls here!” In that moment, it felt so true.

Suddenly it occurred to me that I plead for Drew’s reassurance every moment, and he always gives it to me in the sincerest of ways. The next moment, I beg for more. Even a tip of Leo’s hat can’t keep me satisfied for an entire 24 hours. More desperately, could a groupie’s sexual exploit of a singer or movie star or local divorcee grocer keep her confident for over a day? Clearly, mine, and arguably many other girls’ insistence on “pretty” really needs to change.

I hitched a ride on the tour bus that was scheduled for an early Philly arrival. I lied down beside Drew in his coffin-sized bunk, holding onto him and listened to his steady breathing and the hum of the bus. He is a wonderful man and my absolute love, but even in him I cannot place my value- it is far too much for one person to bear.

My mom picked me up and drove us back to South Jersey where life seems, oh so beautifully sound and ordinary. But, I will not be as fortunate as my newly wed best friend Tara with a single home and security. I will be in LA, allowing God to teach me that beauty’s not in the Botox.

Last night I did the strangest thing; so strange, in fact that I’ve struggled to wrap my brain around it all day long.

My hand shook as text-messaged the least likely of candidates.

I’ve mentioned this beauty in my former writing and bitterly named her “Bertha”; an ugly name for a gorgeous girl. This tale begins so pettily if I admit that I stole her number from my boyfriend’s phone as he popped the hood of his car. “Bertha” had called him, once again. Although we never met, I was acquainted with her pictures on Drew’s Mac.

With my sincere appreciation for beauty, Drew proudly showed pictures, at my request, of the lovelies he had dated. Doll after doll displayed on the screen and I giggled in awe until suddenly, a sparkling blonde, svelte, wide-eyed, giant-smiled girl appeared. I frowned, “You were with her?” She struck me as absolute aesthetic perfection. When Drew went on to describe her fortunate breeding and her keys to a brand new Bentley I found the envy I worked for years to shed off my being rearing its vile head. I asked her name and rejected it immediately. “Ew, she even has a pretty name! We’ll call her Bertha,” I pronounced and started crying. Drew begged what was wrong, as this is so out of my usual character, but I had no answer but that she was perfect (and that I was PMSing). I described her to my mom as “Me. Only way better.”

My mom did the only thing a good mom would do and attempted the cliché, “That is impossible; no one is better than you!” My mom’s voice was no comfort the first time “Bertha” got in touch with Drew. And the third and forth time. She requested his friendship, but I suspected she longed for more. I begged him to never see her again.

I’d never encountered a girl who made me so insecure despite my absolute trust in my boyfriend. So much so that the last time she called I did the unthinkable, silly girl thing and stole her number from his phone. You know, I thought I’d be brave, throw down the “Back off, hoe!” threat. Of course, this I was totally incapable of. The last time she texted him a simple, “Brenda?” and only explained that she never knew my name.

On Friday, Drew and I hopped around Knott’s Berry Farm (a CA amusement park) and waited jumpily in line for the newest roller coaster. He looked down for a bit and in sorrow said, “Hey. I talked to [her] sister on aim last night. She has Leukemia.” Knowing her age, her beauty I must daydream this is a joke, or at least an exaggeration.

It was over the edge. It was undeniably intrusive. It was possibly selfish. My hands shook as I picked up my pink phone as TV on the Radio resounded in my beat-up car headed back to LA. I had her number. What could I possibly say? What if she hates me? What if my boyfriend becomes furious? What words could I write that would mean a lick to an incredibly sick girl?

I settled upon something lame: Peace and love, beautiful.

Moments later: Who’s this?

My stomach dropped. Why did I think it was OK to contact her? Drew’s gonna kill me! Or I’ll die of embarrassment first. Where did I get the nerve to drop into someone’s world without anyone’s permission? What am I doing?

I considered a “never mind” or “wrong number” but this strange exploit felt OK, although entirely inappropriate.

After an eternity, I finally responded, “Brenda. I stole your number a while back in a moment of insecurity. I feel like a huge weirdo texting you but Drew told me your situation and now I feel so intrusive but you’re so gorgeous and I pray all the best for you through this.” *SEND*

“Ah! I just sent that!” I yelled aloud. I felt like such an idiot.

Moments later my phone beeped. It was she. Stunningly: Wow u r special. It doesn’t look good 4 me tho. They said I only have 2 plus weeks. It’s scary but its life. Thank u 4 this. It actually means a lot…”

I read “2 plus weeks” and didn’t hesitate. “Hello,” a breathy, weak voice greeted.

Tears filled my eyes. “Um. I am being so inappropriate, I’m so sorry. I, well, I stole your number like I was tough…you’re just so beautiful and intimidating it made me nervous, but I was never gonna use it…but I still had it…and now I’m using it…I, um…”

Looking back, I regret stealing her number. My actions made my emotional feat a covert and underhanded one, even though I did have the best intentions. Honestly, I didn’t have any motives at all besides an incredible fear that she may be scared. I didn’t think I could cure it or pray her though her final moments, but I do sincerely believe in an afterlife with Jesus. I would never shove it down anyone’s throat, but I couldn’t know a girl was out there dying afraid. I wanted to at least let her know there’s total strangers loving and praying for her, no matter how irrational my actions seemed.

We spoke for a long while and exchanged things that belong to her heart alone, and therefore need not be typed. She sounded afraid, and above all, exhausted. I told her that I believe in miracles and am more than willing to believe in one for her.

I cannot pretend to be all high and mighty or that I had the honor of knowing this stunning girl. She invited me to spend time with her in these potentially final, cherished moments.

Last night, as I called her “beautiful” she laughed again. “Not anymore. I was beautiful; not anymore.” At that moment, the terrible nickname”Bertha” died and I was so appalled that I’d envied her enough to wish her ugly. I was so appalled.

Her name is Sophie and it means wisdom.

Let’s pray she walks, runs, and dances again. Yet, if not, that she departs void of pain or guilt and is full of the wisdom that God is ready to take her in His mighty arms for an eternity.