Ann’s Audition Voyage

I’m living proof that quantum physics exists. I voyaged through a TimeWarpWormHolePortalChute last Monday.

It began with a call from a high school friend of mine. JD is a successful TV actor, and we see each other every couple years when he comes through town. You might know from his recurring role on Two and a Half Men, and definitely from Smart Guy. Anyway, go meet JD. He’s uber-talented, and he has an incredible resume, despite the glaring omission of “Drama Club Co-President with Ann Krinsky, 1992.” You might’ve seen him recently on The Mentalist.

So JD is back in our hometown shooting thirteen episodes of a new original series called Battleground State and I receive a call I’d waited for 15 years ago: “Hey Ann, I’m directing a new series and I think I have a part you could play.”

AHhhhhhhaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh…echo. echo? echo! (me, falling through the wormhole)

Suddenly I’m wearing my Mom’s pink button down blouse (yes, blouse), pearl studs, high-waisted dress slacks (I said slacks), and pumps (pumps!) I had to dust before wearing. The babysitter comes, I teeter into my car, and check to confirm that my hair has maintained “well-groomed conservative senate staffer” instead of reverting back to “John Bon Jovi 1986.” I don’t feel like myself, and yet something’s familiar.

Then it hits me: I’m dressed exactly as I did as an office temp worker fifteen years ago in Chicago, leaving my day job to get to an audition. I’ve got my workstation temporarily covered, too much make-up on, and nothing in my teeth (for the moment). Things feel eerily similar as I’m spiraling through the portal chute, save for the station wagon and my too tight waistband…

I arrive to the production facility for my audition and there is a waiting room and people have headshots, and now I’m living out the anxiety dream portion of my Timewarp voyage. HEADSHOTS. I didn’t forget a headshot, I forgot about the existence of headshots, which is especially bizarre considering that I happen to have a good one right now. It’s just, well, SURPRISE, I’m not an actor so I don’t blow it up to 8×10, staple my resume to it, and hand it out to people anymore. For all I know, no one does that now. The actor probably just nods and a hologram headshot beams into the casting director’s frontal lobe.  I’ve worked steadily in the theater of the absurd for the past eight years, but neglected to update my resume with my recent role of “Minute Monitor” (i.e. YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES TO GET PANTS OR MOMMY WILL GO LUCHA LIBRE), my staring role presiding over “Consequence Tribunal,” and most notably my recurring role in “Sitting and Writing on my Buttress.”

To further this anxiety dream break with reality, JD seemed to have experienced a sudden assistant-coach/your insurance guy pattern baldness. We hugged and chatted about our kids and only after my audition did I see this video that would’ve really been helpful to have seen prior to laying eyes on his fresh scalp yarmulke.

Well, now JD knows my totally cool with your new hairdo/not even noticing the drastic change in your appearance/definitely not going to mention it expression.

Anyway.

I had to slate for the casting director. Is that what they call it? Say my name and where I’m from into the camera and (silently) OH MY GOD I HAVE EXACTLY TWENTY MINUTES TO GET BACK TO THE SWITCHBOARD AT HOPKINS HEALTHCENTER–I MEAN HOPKINS HEALTHCARE–AND IF I MAKE THAT MISTAKE ONE MORE TIME WHEN THE CEO CALLS HE SAID HE’LL FIRE ME.

I audition and it’s over and I try to walk out of the building, but I go the wrong way for a little stroll. I finally find the exit, realize I left my purse in the audition room, then learn that leaving your purse in the audition room is an LA cliché—an excuse to go back in and maybe hear what they said about you with your strategically-placed secret purse recording device. All I have in my purse are some car keys dappled with sugarless gum, two Hotwheels, and 500 bobby pins. Obviously I’m poised to WIN.

I retrieve my purse and head for the door, but first I hold it open for the good looking hip LA industry guy burdened down with packages. It helps to have your pants pulled up as high as possible in this scenario, by the way, and belted at the ribcage. 

I arrive home to release myself from my pants and from the wormhole and just as I think the anxiety dream is over I notice a fluffy wad of cat hair on the cuff of my pants from my not-sufficiently dusted heels. I HAVE TIME TRAVELED AND RETURNED AND THIS WAD OF CAT HAIR IS EVIDENCE OF MY JOURNYING! And my stellar housekeeping! And my confident take-no-prisoners demeanor as I walked the wrong way out of the audition, without my purse, wearing an anklet of cat hair!

I wait for my rejection call for 48 hours, and hear nothing and start to doubt the veracity of my portal voyage entirely. Then while talking to my girlfriend on my landline about how I bombed the audition, the casting director leaves me a message on my cellphone offering me the part. It’s very small and very fun and if I don’t end up on the cutting room floor I will share it. But first I have to shoot it. On set. Memorized. Among professionals. Wish me Bon Voyage. And Bon Lint Brush.

Have you ever fallen through a worm hole? Did you emerge unscathed but looking like a cat hair Clydesdale? Please share!