So I decided to get an agent and audition for commercials.  Long ago, I thought I wanted to be an actress.  I love theater. I loved the art form.  Oh, yeah, and I liked to be the center of attention.  And I’m pretty good.  But not great.

The thing was…acting was really, really hard.  So I figured, if it was hard and painful and didn’t come naturally, of course I was meant to do it.  Which is how I spent years running away from what I was really meant to do…write.  But those weren’t wasted years.

Now, all these years later, I am in the Hollyhood and we are broke.  I mean, almost evicted broke.  So I decide to try commercials.  I mean, shit, it isn’t even acting.  Just smile and hold up (insert product) and say Isn’t this great?  Don’tcha want (insert product) bad?

Because, rumor has it, you can make thirty thou off one National Commercial.  I met this old guy who is still living off Cambells Soup residuals from the ’70s.  Not to be greedy, but I got a chipped front tooth and can’t afford a dentist (and to all of those out there who thought a published book means you are instantly rich – well, I wish.  You gotta sell books first.  (High Before Homeroom, Simon & Schuster, July 2010)

So I get headshots.  I know my type.  I tell the headshot guy (Donald Norris, a truly amazing person and artist) “make it quirky.  I want to sell stuff.  Not pretty.  Not serious actress.  Quirky, funny chick next door from whom you would buy a (insert product)”

Hence:

Yup.

Had my first commerical audition today.  Progresso Soup.  Here is the casting call:

VETERAN WORKERS IN A PROGRESSO KITCHEN, SLIGHT BLUE COLLAR, GOOD COMEDIC ACTORS, PROBABLY NOT COLLEGE EDUCATED

Um, can you say white trash?  I mean, I’m perfect.  I am from Oklahoma, after all.

So I go to the studio.  The room is packed with middle-aged women and preteen boys.  The women gossip together in the corner like the cool kids who never gave you the time of day in high school.  They glare at each other from across the room, or make what are probably super important texts on their cell phone.  Then there are the boys, slumped in chairs, looking bored, smacking gum, playing handheld Nintendo.

Okay, obviously they are casting a mother and son.  Only, most of these ladies seem to be in their fifties.  Can I really play that old?  Next to me, a little boy in a bowler hat with huge dimples goes over copy (that’s what you read during a audition.)  He says lines to himself and looks inspired/thrilled/adoring of (insert product).  He catches me staring and gives me a sharp look:  don’t fuck with me, lady.  I’m a professional.

Yeah, it was the wrong room.  I kid you not.  Progresso was down the hall.  The middle-aged women were actually stage moms.  And they were scary.  I’ve seen a lot of actresses at professional auditions try to psych each other out, but they ain’t got nuthin’ on these stage mamas.

Progresso Room:

Cans of soup hand down from the ceiling by strings.  Me and two others.

Casting director: Slate your names.

Me: Maya Sloan.

CD: You aren’t on my list.

Me: Yeah, I couldn’t figure out the whole computer thing.

CD: Oh, gooooood.

He rolls his eyes and walks me back into the lobby and shows me how to put my info into the Actors’ Access account, then strides back into the audition.  I still can’t figure out the computer.  Through the wall, I hear a stage mama angrily tell her son (who is having his photo taken):  No.  You’re doing it wrong!  Give them your REAL smile!  I mean it.  The real smile!

Then I go in and read this scene about workers in a Progresso Soup factory who talk on cans with strings attached.  Cute, right?  And I do the whole scene.

CD: (coming up to me)  ’Kay.  That was pretty good, but kinda over the top.  Really, y’know, improvy.  Can you, like, tone it down?  And give me a big solid ending?

Me: (eyes wide, nodding as though he is reading me Crime and Punishment or something equally profound)  Yes, got, it, no problem, please give me money, I love (insert product) more than my own husband!

CD: And get the cans right, ‘kay?  Talk in the can, then put it up to your ear to listen.  Easy.  Talk into it.  With your mouth.  Then put it up to your ear.  And listen.  Then back to mouth.

(he turns on video camera.  I am over the top, stumble over my words, and don’t know where to put the can.  So I guess I thought it’d be easier.  Sorry, commercial actors.  I was completely and utterly wrong.  Don’t worry.  I got mine.  The casting director gave me a look that said it all:  if I am not mistaken, you must be mentally challenged.)

FUCK (PROGRESSO).

But I’m still gonna go on auditions.  I’ll  update you on my future embarrassing episodes.

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