Candi Milo ... And Another Thing ...

2011-04-13T13:11:00.001-07:00

Life's Too Short...And So Am I

I got a private message from an old agent and dear friend telling me the news that a good man had passed away. Suddenly. He was young. He was my age. Repeat, he was young. It was his heart.

But then again, with Todd it always was about his heart. The enormity of it.

I was completely taken by surprise. I am so sad. Well, you know me, having that not-so-nice side of me continuously gnawing it's way through my system I immediately thought of so many others who could have gone in his stead. Mean, I know. But you do it, too. Admit it. You're thinking of them right now. Go ahead. I'll wait.

Feel better? Right. I always do.

Reading Tim's Facebook message over and over again I couldn't help but drift back to the heady beginning days of my voice over career, well, career such as it is. It's certainly the thing I've done the longest. And next to singing, the job I've enjoyed most. There are amazing actors and craftspeople doing what I do. Wonderful people.

To quote Peter Boyle; I do a wonderful job in a wonderful way with wonderful people for wonderful pay.

And it all began in a closet at the William Morris agency. For many, it ended there - but for me and Todd and a host of others, the reel-to-reel in the back closet of the back office is where the magic was made! hahahahahahahaha....

Todd and I were always reading the scripts for commercials as "Mr. and Mrs. Joe America" and yes, I got a sickly chill thinking of that dumb dame from Alaska trying to co-opt The Every Man for herself, as if Every Man means ignorant.

But I digress.

If there was a young couple needed to read for a spot it was Todd and I. If there were Newlyweds in an ad trying to decide on a sofa or recliner or paint or a baby's name - we were called in to read for it. The same thing with on-camera commercials. We were always auditioning at the same time to be the Mr. & Mrs. for a plethora of TV products. We had the distinct pleasure to say we NEVER worked together on a spot! But for a period of 8 years - one or the other of us got the husband or wife in anything we read on together. They loved us! Just not together.

One day, before Todd was engaged to be married to his beautiful wife he had gone out with her and proclaimed that he thought he had finally found the one. Yes, I bit. I asked what made Miss S so special.

"Matching Underwear."

I know I shouldn't have bit again, but I did. I asked him what he meant by that sexist remark.

Todd completely inflamed the always crowded and highly competitive waiting room at WM by calling out in my direction, "It's underwear for God's sake. What is it with you chicks these days? I mean, is it too much to ask that when you go on a date you women wear matching bra and panties? I mean not you personally, Candi because really, do you even rate a bra?"

I didn't then, but do now (just as my mother said I would if I was patient and didn't rush out to buy them...). As I lunged for him and he artfully dodged me, the waiting room exploded with loud opinions, ranging from feminist takes on the need for bras at ALL, to guys expressing their desire to get a glimpse of any feminine underwear, matching or not.

While the room was on it's ear we would sneak back to the water cooler and then wait outside the recording booth - which by then had made it's way out of the closet and had split into 3 - and go in to record our copy ahead of every else - while they were all out there arguing the merits of underwire...

The thing I loved about Todd was that he loved actors and loved being around them, saw the good in them, how hard we were all trying to make a living and be the best we could be. And then he would take that and twist it a bit for drama and have a good time watching the game...

That was Todd. That was the Todd I will miss. Todd who was taken too soon. Todd had a heart of gold - soft, genuine and pure (other than the whole underwear debacle...) He was a great guy and a GREAT talent and will be as hard to replace as Don L. for what it was that Todd brought to Joe Every Man. Hell, he is irreplaceable.

It was raining cats and dogs the day they celebrated his life in the South Bay and I was in Simi Valley performing in The Drowsy Chaperone and couldn't have made it down to where they were hoisting them up in his name even if curtain HAD gone up on time.

But I did stop, say a little prayer that herever he was he was fine and that his family left behind were all doing ok.

I for one, am a little better for having know the Torok.

Rest in peace.

Oh. And if you can hear me, Todd - 34C, baby - and nothing matches!!!!!

you know you love me - Candi

2011-01-11T10:57:00.000-08:00

Wink, nod, point, wink, smirk...

It's not very hard for me to say this.

Actually, the only thing hard about saying what I am about to say is not screaming it at the top of my lungs so that I appear the picture of mental illness like so many politicians today.

Sarah Palin, go away. All the way away. You're an ignorant dolt and those of us not transfixed by your ridiculous and phony (much like OJ Simpson's demeanor during his murder trial here in LA) "aw shucks" folksy routine, find you tiresome. Yes, I'm a woman...your age, smart, pretty, who doesn't support you. I don't support you because you can't show the work. You got the C+ in the class - just enough to stay on the basketball team - but you can't show your work. So please, gather up your kids and your trashy drama and your stay-at-home-husband and go away.

Have you tried Alaska!? Oh. Wait.

It is people like you, Sarah Palin, with your stupid quotes, your vendetta to be the prettiest whatever at any cost in American politics, that have brought forth vicious and violent people. It is your spewing, with the blessing of your bizarre preacher that have made it dangerous in America to say what one has to say without getting a wink and a smirk from you, a functioning moron, pointing your finger like a gun, inciting those easily tripped by the tides of full moons into committing mayhem.

I tried to get a funny quote from you to title this blog. I searched the Internet high and low - and what I read that has come out of your mouth is simply pathetic. You can't form a sentence, let alone an original thought. You giddily spew - for cash apparently - anything the puppet masters put in front of you. And people follow you. Not because you lead - but because they say to themselves - if that halfwit can be famous, so can I!

And don't you actually have to read a book before you write one? Oh wait. Ghost writer. How's that person sleeping? The little stack of money to make you look like you have a double digit IQ must be very lumpy. Sure, you're successful - but that's because there's always one desperate, ruthless person in the bunch who'll do what no thinking person would. Never confuse ruthlessness with IQ, my dear. You have one, but not the other.

I think my fury stems from the murderous rampage that a 22-year-old shooter inflicted upon a shopping mall, where a Democratic political figure, a beautiful woman, was shot in the head, and I can't help but bring it all home to you and your amping up the hatred of the masses, with just as many missing brain cells as you, to inflict violence, because you can't win with intelligence and thought. How about the little girl who was killed, Miss Hunter Gal?

I remember your rallies - though it's hard for me to find your loathsome quotes - I'm looking for them, Sarah Palin. The only thing I can find to quote you on are ignorant rants, the ethical equivalent to shouting "Fire" in a crowded movie theater, your "Don't Retreat - Reload!" quote. Shame on you, you buffoon. And I mean buffoon with a big smile and a super double wink. Wink. Smirk. Double wink. Nasal laugh resembling a jackass's bray. Wink. Smirk. Nod. Point.

Remember those 22 Democrats you literally targeted with gun sights on your blog? Remember that? Well apparently you set the bar for a poor soul like Jared.

See, I know a bit about the Jared's in the world, those as lost in an evolved society as you and trying to make a mark; the confused and the should-be-seen-and-medicated crowd. Growing up with the mentally retarded and emotionally ill - I know what's it's like to get people who have a thin grasp at best on truth or reality or any combo, stirred up. It's easy. It's also morally reprehensible and unconscionable.

You are comparing yourself to Ronald Reagan I understand. Only people who have forgotten the past put Reagan on a pedestal. Yes. He was charismatic. He was charming. But I remember the AIDS crisis. The Contra scandal. His failing to do what was right over and over again. His special deals. Maybe you think you are like him because you too, believe you're an actor. You kind of are, like the Kardashians are. Only, they are all pretty. You're a nasty diversion. Lindsay Lohan on steroids. Except Lindsay is not dangerous.

I wonder how funny Mark Kelly thinks you are? Let's call him up and ask him.

Oh wait.

He's in space - doing something important, because he actually is a rocket scientist.

Where are you? I bet at some speaking event, making the rounds like the sad and befuddled Richard Nixon made, conned into thinking that anybody of any substance thinks you're super neat, and propped up to look the least insipidly stupid you truly are, spouting ideas whose meaning you haven't the least idea of, whipping up fellow pea-brains, bigots and blamers, comparing yourself to dead men, and all the while leaving your children in the care of whom?

Where are you? You're certainly not in office. By your own choice. Quitter. But your wranglers are right. Now is not the time for America to roll out our idiots.

I have yet to see your face in the media with all the democracy being whipped up in the middle east. Where do you stand on Yemen? Who do you think should follow Qaddafi in Libya? What will happen if Iran falls? What should we do to help the government of Greece with their financial crisis? Why haven't the bankers and mortgage lenders been indicted under the RICO act? Why don't you like the Health Care Plan? What specific elements of it do you object to? Where do you stand with a person's right to unionize? Because you know, it is minorities who benefit most under union protection.

And you're a minority. You're a woman. And as much an embarrassment to my sex as any cast member of The Jersey Shore.

So that's it. I'm participating in the Ignore-You-Till-You-Go-Away campaign to wipe out illiteracy at the government level.

Go away. Thanks for everything. You did the best you could (after copying from the smart kids' notes). It wasn't much - but it was enough. In all the wrong ways. I can't even say what you've done - you have zero to be proud of - or even not so proud of. But thanks, and here's the door.

Oh, wait. Who's that right over your shoulder? Why it's Christine O'Donnell...

Oh, brother...

You know you love me... Candi

2010-12-07T13:05:00.001-08:00

I Don't Know, I Have To Ask My Life Coach...

I have a two word response to that.

Oh. Please.

Life Coach. Didn't that used to be called Mom? And when her advice didn't work, we did the best we could with the information and skill set we had. I made mistakes. A lot of them. And I own them. Don't get me wrong, solicited advice is great - but it's kind of like a butt; everyone has one and they can kinda stink...

(sorry)

These days it is easier to ask someone who didn't bother to take the time to go to school and get a degree in or even somewhat master psychology, finance or any other of the subjects they would need to dispense advice as they do - than to take personal responsibility for results in our life based on our actions and decisions. I have always believed it is what you do or don't do that defines you as a person.

I say teach a person to fish and they will eat for life. Hand them a fish and they'll be back asking you how to clean them, how to cook them, how to bone them, and where they should dispose of the waste...

I can't tell you how many people I know either have a wretched streak of bad luck or fail miserably at a couple of things in life - and rather than stand up and take a sheepish bow - and say to themselves, "I'll get them next time. I'm going to learn from this!", they instead exclaim; "It wasn't my fault! It was the system at large, the man, the economy, my ex! And now, based on my vast experience of getting screwed AND screwing up, I can show you how to never make that same mistake again. You know as long as it is the EXACT same mistake - because I am obviously not seeing the big picture of how sometimes life is nothing personal and I should just pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again!"

Sigh....

I know two people in particular that dispense advise on a regular basis. Both of them would be hard-pressed to take their own advice. I think they should just settle down and be a little...oh say...QUIET...

One does it for money. Professionally.

He began as a professional speaker, though he really had no skill at speaking, nothing really to offer as a life lesson, and so this compelled him into giving life advice one-on-one. This guy has done so many things wrong it's almost silly to think of him as offering advice to anyone - and anyone paying for it! He cheated in his marriage, had a bankruptcy, owes thousands to the IRS and does not support his children. I think Michael Vick had a life coach when he was involved in the affair that sent him to federal prison. Did his life coach go with him?

Good question - What can he really show you how to do? Best question - why would you listen to him for any reason?

The other person I know is a someone who fascinates me. She is a little more tricky to dis. She is a married, young mother who lives close to the edge of poverty and while she has no education and has never been employed she has a lot to say about everybody else's life with a fairly foul mouth. In her family, she is the voice of reason. And they all listen to her...

Yeah, I want to be like you. Except for the part where you dispose of soiled diapers in the trash can in the kitchen. Sign me up. So really, you think I should not make my child go to college because you didn't go and look how your life turned out? Huh. (PS- she despises her life BUT can show you how to get it!)

I know. Not enough vodka on the planet I dare say.

She has a lot of opinions. Pretty much all of it based on soap operas - which seems to work for her value set. She has a million excuses, I mean very good reasons for her situation, and how life unfairly played out, all the while laying claim to the rewards of others' accomplishments. I had to listen to her rant about Sonia Sotomayor being appointed to the Supreme Court because they are both Puerto Rican. I wanted to say that Sonia went to college, studied hard, worked three jobs - as did her mother - and values self-sustaining over the promulgation of poverty. I ended up saying nothing because the fantasy of "me and Sonia are exactly alike except for the fact that life screwed me..." was so strong I just couldn't point out that Sonia is where she because of the choices she made all along the way.

I also had to listen to this woman quote her deceased mother-in-law with absolute authority - as if she had taken the reins of the family. As if poor Rosalie is not turning over in her grave to see her young son bent like his father was, providing for small children and a wife intent on remaining a "traditional stay-at-home mom."

"Candi, let me give you some advice on how to keep a man..."

That's ok. You keep him.

If only I could make this stuff up.

I know that the cycle of poverty will never be broken in that branch of the family as long as the "life coach" is preaching and her congregants listen. I fled.

But these are just two instances I have experienced in my own life. There are also the Suzie Ormans, Dr. Ozs and the Dr.Phils out there - the Oprah anointed - people who once had a few good ideas and then tried to make little empires out of fear and stretching out your need to hear from them.

I guess I'm different. I am humbled by my mistakes. I am embarrassed when they could have been prevented. And I would no more tell someone how to go through a divorce or reinvent their life, then I would tell them what stocks to pick. In case I'm wrong. I know what I know. And one of the most heart-bright people I know once said, "I know what I don't know." I prefer to hug someone through it and say - you can do it. I'll be waiting for you on the other side with cocktails!

I don't know that I could ever trust someone who says to me - don't do as I did - do as I say. I would always be wondering, what ELSE don't you know that I would know if I could get past the feelings of fear and worry about the future.

I started in on this because I am reinventing myself. I figure, it's the perfect time for it. Economy in the toilet. Work dry. Skin, too. So, I put it out there. There are so many wonderful things I think I can be doing with my life - and being an empty-nester on the cusp of living the rest of my life for me - I want to choose wisely. I shared this with a friend who fancies herself a new-age life coach.

My ears were pinned by the barrage of what I should be doing, how I should go about it, and if I ever needed to talk about how to do it, why to do it or when to do it I could make an appointment on her website. You have a website? What happened to coffee and the sharing of ideas? I only shared this with you because your life sucks as hard as mine! When did you become an expert at life? I'm still learning.

So I left her sitting with our cappuccinos and went next door to the liquor store and bought two tiny little bottles of rum. I poured one in her cup and one in mine. We laughed and relaxed. And as the warm glow seeped into our bodies we both remembered we don't know crap about crap. We don't know what tomorrow will bring. We can only do the best we can. We should love each other into health and hope and joy. We will all be gone one day - almost all of us sooner than we'd like. We don't need advice - we need shoulders. We hope that one person will agree with us and come with us while we fill out the paperwork, wait for the results, or pick up the pieces.

We are human after all. And the greatest life coach in the world is experience - and surviving it.

We are our own best life coaches. And though your advice may reign supreme behind your closed doors I wear the tiara in my family, baby.

You know you love me - Candi

2010-11-11T13:02:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday My Little Stanley Tucci...

Coffee? You, me, the kids...???

No worries...I'll stop soon. I'm growing weary...

I can see my ardor tapering off around 2012...just in time for, you know..boom...

You know you love me - Candi

2010-11-09T12:53:00.000-08:00

In Appreciation For Your Contribution...

We'd like to give you...

Blibbity blah blabinski...

I would rather just be appreciated while I'm making the contribution - you know? During the giving of my heart and soul to something I find worthwhile. Rather than waiting till the end to receive a certificate or flowers - the size of which never fails to feel like it correlates to or reflects the efficiency or magnitude of my contribution, or so it seems.

Honestly? I'd rather just have a hug...while I'm hustling, while I'm doing what you'd later like to show me your appreciation for. Sometimes that can save you the cost of the plaque and me the time it takes to trim the bottoms off the flowers.

I'd rather be told "thank you" as I'm in the process of showing up and trying hard. I'd like to have someone show me their appreciation by being wonderful to work with - and offering a smile and a compliment during the ordeal.

That includes relationships of any kind. Mother's Day is amazing and I appreciate it - but it's the phone calls the other 364 days of the year that mean the most. Thank you - my kid knows that. Or even a friendship rekindled...the appreciation is shown and the hope of maintaining a relationship is kept alive by both parties willing to make a phone call, if only to say, thought of you today, rather than awaiting a face-to-face that may never occur. It's why I can't stand the movie, "He's Just Not That Into You" - what a sucky credo to live by. it gives men AND women the tacit permission to treat and be treated poorly and unappreciated because they don't meet the magic, secret minimum requirements that simply being a part of humanity should in fact trump. (Again, one of those sentences that assures that it's just me and the remote tonight in bed...) It is as if a kiss-off should be expected...and you shouldn't feel hurt - as long as you get flowers in the end. You should have seen it coming - if you had seen the movie you'd know this is how it rolls.

My response to that is - Just be nice cuz I have flowers growing in my back yard already.

I believe that every day that passes we have an opportunity to show appreciation for the work in progress - life. All of it. Even the stinky parts. Even if the end result of what you are hoping to be appreciative for doesn't quite jam into the box that you have labeled with that particular effort. If we don't show our appreciation with a tender word, a kiss, a hug or even a fist bump, one day it may be too little too late.

It's why I like calendars so much - especially the calendars sent by specific charities soliciting you for donations. I get about two dozen a year. And each charity always marks up the pages with days that they believe represent things we should remember and be thankful for. Things you never think of. I got the USO calendar and am looking forward to appreciating Battle of the Bulge day. Although in my house, isn't that every day?! One day I'm going to combine them all and just be thankful and appreciative every day of the year - for really weird stuff. The calendar I'm really searching for is the pagan calendar. I bet they have some doozies on their calendar. Happy Vodka Day!!! Happy Butt Grabbing Day!!!

But I notice it is so hard for lots of folks. They don't appreciate off the top of their heads. A lot of that comes from guilt. Although I have seen people appreciate because of guilt. Guilt Appreciation arises from I know I haven't been treating you well all along, so I hope you will accept this bouquet as a token of my I'm-So-Sorry-You-Caught-Me-Ragging-You-Out-Behind-Your-Back. Fear also has a lot to do with tokens of appreciation - I hope you will accept this token of my I'm-So-Sorry-You-Caught-Me-Being-A-Classless-Ass-And-You-Don't-Blog-Me-By-Name... I do have that mouth, you know. And these quick little fingers.

I've decided that I'm coming up with a list of my own things to appreciate. Today - I shall appreciate flaws. I am going to find the tragic beauty in imperfection in all things. Maybe I'll start with my mother??

No! Wait!!! I got it. I'll start with me!!

And then I'll move on to Stanley Tucci. He is not imperfect. Except that he has not called. I'm not going to hold it against him. I'm going to hold something else against him. Soon as he calls.

You know you love me - Candi

2010-10-21T14:46:00.000-07:00

There's A Country Song In My Life

Sometimes I secretly believe I have ESP. Not really true. (Notice the addition of the word really? Kind of gives me some wiggle room. Cause sometimes I scare myself with how right I am about stuff! haha) The secret is I just have been through so much, experienced so much that I can usually detect the scent of been there done that and react to countermand it or lay back, pick up my flapping oars and glide my little dinghy through it the mess.

I think that's one of the gifts of growing up in a halfway house. By no initial choice of my own I've seen a lot in my life. I've been through a lot. I can tell you there is no magic in making it through. There is only looking for signs that something is happening again. Reoccurring. Seeing those signs, recognizing familiarity and making the most of what life hands you - with grace and dignity.

But I knew one day I'd get a chance to make something right. I knew it. I knew it. I knew it. I only hoped that it would be done nicely.

I got the chance this morning to re-open an old, deep terrible wound in order to clean it out and allow it to heal properly (and this is totally an analogy) and I leapt at it. I'm not so good living in the gray area of life. Gee...really Candi?!?! And whenever I get the chance to wrap it up, put a bow on it and file it under DONE, FINISHED, OVER AND OUT I go for it.

At the end of the hour and forty minute conversation this morning it felt like I had done a tour of Afghanistan. I was worn out, dehydrated and shaking from having my opportunity to make a big hurt go away. About halfway through this conversation though, I became aware that the amount of pain I was putting myself through in order to hear what I thought I needed to hear might not have been worth pulling off the scab and probing around with a sharp toothpick (again, analogy).

It was frightening how every single mistreatment, every slight, every painful memory came flooding back. I not only remembered, but felt as if I had relived the entire saga. One year in one hour and some change. In that hour I heard everything I needed to hear. The problem was - with every apology was the memory of why it needed to be said. It got hard to listen and I began to feel so tired. That November to Remember kind of tired, that both deeply saddens and frightens me.

I listened a lot - because this person talks a lot. And so I heard a lot. And I knew certain things would happen to them and that certain ends were inevitable for them. I got to kiddingly say, I knew that would happen because you know I'm never wrong and hear laughter on the other end. Because - uh hello - I AM never wrong. (Reason #152 on why I live alone...)

But I'm rarely wrong not because of ESP, but because I have seen and heard and experienced a lot -living with "housemates who took anti-hallucinogenics." It's nice to know it was all good for something! Hee hee. They honed something in me. Yes, something besides my mouth. My heart. My pathos. In my life I haven't seen it all, but pretty damn close to a whole hell of a lot!

S when the laundry list started in on how this went wrong and this relationship didn't work out... (Gee really...I'm so sad for you...world's smallest violin playing in background...) I just smiled inside and thought, My God, you couldn't see that coming? I mean their patterns are so deep and loud their stage name could be Glen Plaid.

Something I didn't like began to happen. I immediately started to imagine and tally up my own laundry list of Woe Is Whut You Done To Me. Picture me mentally bobbing my head consistent with trying to enter a serious game of Double Dutch jumprope, while I listened politely waiting for a break, so I could chime in. But on like bob number 56 I started to think to myself, wait! Why do I want to play this? My life is amazing. Everything is going really well. I'm very happy. And this whole rigamarole was a lot of pain to go through for closure.

(Closure. A word I now understand to be highly over-rated as being a necessary evil. It is evil and maybe not so necessary. Hmm...maybe I'm growing up and looking a little better in shades of gray!) And so I took a breath to stop it, or at the very least hop in, but the tears kept getting in the way of my talking.

In my forced silence I suddenly happened upon the perfect accessory for gray - it's the words "I forgive you."

I know. Imagine.

I forgive you. I have forgiven you. No need to go any further. Because I have forgiven everything. Likely months earlier. Forgiven. (Not forgotten. But why remember if the hard work is done?) That was today's lesson. I was finished with it all and hadn't realized until the wound was reopened and I felt it was better to leave it alone than to dig around anymore. It was DONE, FINISHED, OVER AND OUT.

I forgive you. For everything.

So amazingly freeing. Saying it out loud loosened my tongue in the best way possible. I could enter the conversation with gusto! Only all my sentences began with, "I'm sorry, too..." Because if I forgive you I forgive me.

Yes. I caught the forgiveness bug and it caused me to smile and accept my own part in my humanity and fallibility. And instead of feeling sad - I felt great. Light. Happy. Free. Once I said I was sorry and ergo forgiven myself a fabulous, warm and almost spiritual lightness began to seep into my gray. And in the midst of this most humble of humanity it dawned on me. My life is one big country song...

It could be called..."If You Give It A Minute It'll Happen To Me Again" or "I'm Just A Black and White Girl Living In A World Of Gray"...

But I think the Country Music Award for best description of where I am today is: "Don't Bother Serving That Up Again Cuz' I'm DONE, FINISHED, OVER AND OUT"

You know you love me - Candi

2010-10-05T18:06:00.000-07:00

“All young people, regardless of sexual orientation or identity, deserve a safe and supportive environment in which to achieve their full potential.” - Harvey Milk

How do you go on as if nothing wrong has happened? How do you, as a parent, not hold your hand over your heart in tears when you see the picture of this beautiful young man, filled with hope and talent and dreams? How do you not think of your own children?

You don't. You stop and you cry and then try and make sense of it.

Tyler Clementi is gone now. His death ruled a suicide. It is thought, but not proven that it was because his roommate and another student taped a private gay sexual encounter and streamed it live over the Internet. Twice.

What is a gag to some (not most - certainly not most) is unspeakable horror to another (well, to the rest of us, that is). Beyond what the lawyers tell us about the invasion of the inference of privacy that Tyler was entitled to, by closing his door and keeping his love life to himself - the question begs, "Who the fuck thought this was funny enough to broadcast?"

I am sure we'll be bombarded by psychological pundits with the idea of implied emotional fragility that Tyler suffered from (which is biased in and of itself) - to lessen the impact that this intense pain caused by a 'prank' inflicted upon him. I'm sure we'll also hear that none of this would even be discussed had the sex being taped and streamed over the Internet been heterosexual. That's how far gay rights has come, dontcha' know! Spread the news!!!!

But even if either of these scenarios are true - it doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter because it mattered to Tyler.

The truth is gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered people do not have the same rights as others in this country. Period. Don't ask, don't tell. Sodomy laws. I hear people speak of events unfolding this weekend and say, come on, it is no big deal, a little kissing, a little fondling, I mean it is laughable enough, right? Sure. Laughable enough that there was interest in taping it and urging others to watch, too. Laughable enough a situation that Tyler, who had not come out, knew to keep this intimate encounter private.

You know, methinks the operable word in the above paragraph is ENOUGH!

There is another label being layered on this hate crime - bullying. Bullying exists. And I agree bullying and bashing is a major part of this, yes. But to me, as a mother, this is more than bullying. More than bashing. It is torture.

"Every person who, with the intent to cause cruel or extreme pain and suffering for the purpose of revenge, extortion, persuasion, or for any sadistic purpose, inflicts great bodily injury as defined in California Penal Code Section 12022.7 upon the person of another, is guilty of torture."

For it to be torture certain 'elements' must be present: you inflicted 'great bodily injury' on another person WITH the specific intent to cause cruel or extreme pain and suffering, FOR revenge, persuasion or for any sadistic purpose.

Supporters of the alleged perpetrators are saying that they are good kids that made a mistake. I say they did not mistake a green light for red and cause a bumper thumper. Nope. They participated knowingly in cruelty and it may have led to a death. Aaaand scene!

I think it hurts me most and makes me angriest that these are not the typical alleged perpetrators. They are not Deliverance extras. They appear to be bright young people. Young people who may have even been subjected themselves to the same tortuous biases because of their race, gender, talent or high IQ. Listen, I know I sound tremulous. I feel it so I am doing all I can to access my higher power to pray for the two young people and hold good thoughts for their parents - who love these children that made such 'cruel and unusual' choices in their lives.

In the wake of all this I see that five more young people have killed themselves because of gay bashing. This takes me to a place where my heart feels in need of masking tape and Elmer's glue. How can we as a society allow this type of insane ignorance to harm our children? How many more must feel helpless before we stand and say enough!

I look at Tyler's sweet face and ask myself this question over and over and over again: Where did your hope go?

"And the young people in Jackson Mississippi, in Minnesota, in the Richmond, in Woodmere New York, who are hearing her on television, hearing Anita Bryant on television tell them that they are sick, they are wrong, there is no place in this great country for them, no place in this world. They are looking to us for something tonight. And I say, we have got to give them hope!" - Harvey Milk

Candi

2010-09-20T16:16:00.001-07:00

I Am Woman Hear Me Roar...

My mom is on the far right. Her sister is on the left and their best friend Gloria stands between them. This was taken in 1947.

Cut to September 2010.

"Did you ever think you would see me walk this slowly, Cand?"

I wonder why she asked. I mean, was it truly all over my face? Was it that obvious that I was dismayed to see my mother, who was never really active even when young, but now inching herself through the parking lot on our way to breakfast, an 85-year-old in lavender orthopedic shoes? I had to think quickly. Unfortunately, I had a serious night of around-the-pool-cocktails the evening before and I think I left my brain, poker face and my editor in the car.

"Well, yeah, Ma. I thought I'd see it - but not for a few years. It's just too soon. You know, I always thought well, you'd lose it eventually."

She shot me such a look. Thank God at 5'2" I tower over her.

"Yeah, well me too. The only thing that makes it semi-ok about this whole dang getting old stuff is that I get the blue thing."

"What do you mean, getting old?! You've arrived, Ma! Ha ha ha....um...heh...heh...ahem...?"

And what blue thing? Wait just a second. I mean, I am fine WITHOUT a whole lot of information about what's gonna happen to me about the time when I can't remember where I put my car keys but I guarantee you I do not want to even KNOW what the hell turns blue. And then I remember. She means the handicap parking placard. Whew.

We have a great brunch with a few of my friends, all of us in sunglasses while indoors holding our heads listening to the hostess sing "The Trolley Song" so we all don't riot as we wait endlessly for our late arriving food. Does she have to sing so loudly, I wonder out loud, but not too, cuz my head hurts.

I look over at my legally-a-midget-in-30-states mother to see if she's having a good time and she whispers to me, "She has a great voice, but why is she wearing those Phil Silvers glasses. They do nothing for her." I glance down at her shoes and she raises an eyebrow...

When brunch is finished I take Mom to her sister's house. My aunt is recuperating from a hip replacement, something my Mom breezed through last year - standing and walking 30 minutes after she woke from surgery. Mom prepares me that my aunt is having a lot of trouble and is in some pain and she is going over to keep her company. When we arrive I see my other aunt's car in the driveway. The Three Widows of Eastwick. I steel myself. Mom looks over at me and says, "you don't have to stay."

"Thank you, Ma."

"I was being rhetorical."

"Wrong word."

She shoots me another look. If she weren't such a pacifist I'm sure I'd have some pretty bruised shins by now. But I get her drift. I'm required to stay and answer questions. I get to the front door and Mom orders me to just open it and walk on in. Having been bitten by a large Saint Bernard in my aunt's house when I was seven I get a little nervous until I remember that he'd be in Guinness Book Of World Records if he were still alive. Do you think they got another beast locked up in there somewhere?

"Cujo?"

"Who's Cujo, Cand? Stop it! Go in. Go in."

I'm thinking my aunt must be in pretty bad shape if my Mom is so anxious and I open the door. I hear my aunt Teresa call out cheerily and as always, LOUDLY - "who the heck is at my door!?" And I see a figure in an open-front wheel chair scooting herself with her heels across the room in soft foam curlers and a muu muu to see who darkened her doorstep. This 90-year-old-breast-cancer-survivor is all smiles and in the picture of health. She looks great and is so peppy. I look at my Mom like what were you talking about and Mom nods at me and whispers, "See?"

I think, my God, am I gonna be this nuts at 85, too?

At the kitchen counter is my Aunt Geri, their sister-in-law, also an octogenarian who calls out her welcome. I hug and kiss them all and the questions start at such a pace that I instinctively take a step forward to find my light. I have not seen my aunts in over 5 years but I'm shocked at how much they know about me. Their questions are all out of concern and incredulity rather than nosiness.

"How did you survive that?" "Do you pray?" "Is there anyone to help you?" "How are you managing to do it all?" "Are you ever afraid?" "Lonely?"

Then my aunt Geri says, "Candi I am so proud of you and your independence and your self-reliance. I know it hasn't been easy, and you are a credit to being a woman. You are doing it all with such grace." To which my Aunt Teresa adds, "Honey, it's a man's world and any bit of success that you have - we ALL know you earned." And finally my mother added, "Look how you've shown your daughter what it means to do it on your own..."

And I can't speak. And for an uncomfortable heartbeat there is silence. Blood is thicker than water and history is glue that binds you together. I think of each of these women - each burying young husbands, one burying a child, another bankrupt, another surviving breast cancer twice, never remarrying, matriarchal warriors raising families through poverty, instilling pride and a deep sense of responsibility in me, my siblings and all my cousins. I don't believe in coincidences and so it was no surprise to me that this moment occurred on this day, the 26th anniversary of my father's death.

Thousands and thousands of women before us have fought for their rights, their families, the right to vote, wages and everything else that you and I take for granted. And so did these three women before me and I never thought about it until that moment.

The lives we women lead begin with our mothers and mother figures. And I thought about what was going on in my life - and the issues I was facing that seemed so insurmountable in the car a few moments before. Then looked out at my audience, consisting of wrinkles interrupted by grins passing nods and winks between them, as if I had just entered the club, and I knew that they understood. Really got it. I will never forget this moment, having the three of them together, supporting me and praising me and I secretly rejoiced and took it all in.

Then my heart stopped.

"Oh God, does this mean I am going to have to wear faux plastic lavender Birkenstocks????!!!

Oh yes I am wise, But it's wisdom born of pain
Yes, I've paid the price, But look how much I gained
If I have to, I can do anything, I am strong, I am invincible
I am woman

You know you love me - Candi

2010-09-04T09:58:00.000-07:00

FOR SALE

I came home late last night tired after a long day of errands in the heat. California heat is not that bad, you know because it's a dry heat.

OK! Would you please shoot me in the head...I got news for you, heat is heat. And yesterday was hot and it was the beginning of Labor Day weekend and traffic was a bear. No matter how low I turned the AC in the car it's still black and I still felt like I was in a terrarium. Remember those? And Chia Pets? And Sea Monkeys? And suction cups to make your boobs grow? Did I lose you there?

On my very last nerve I pulled into my driveway that leads up to my beautiful home and there it was.

FOR SALE.

A huge sign was planted in my lawn, announcing to the whole world that I am moving. Eventually. (see earlier post) I was furious. Who would do such a thing? Who gave the sign person permission to do this? Who said I wanted to sell my house? Oh wait, I did. And again, if I looked at my immediate reaction of anger it thinly veiled my real emotions. Sadness and fear.

I always knew this day was coming. I had planned for my exit even as I was making my entrance into our little neighborhood. I had a plan. I moved here because of the fantastic schools. Bambi went to these fantastic schools - and got into amazing universities because of her education (and talent and drive!). But she is done and it is time for me to move on. That was also part of the plan - to return to the care and feeding of me. It is time I stepped up. Forward. Soaring. Leaping. Into the unknown. No net. Just wits.

But the sign affected me in a way I wasn't prepared for. I had a full on night terror. The kind that have you moving in slow motion as the 'thing' chases you. I was trying to scream like Nicole Kidman in "The Others" - this is my house! Get out! Get out! - but no sound would come out. And then the 'thing' caught me - and it was me.

(No more vodka before beddy-bye time for Ms. Milo.)

My little inner child shouted, I can't have a sign up before I know exactly what is going to happen to me next! I need, I thrive on directions. Clear lines. Black and white. No grey. And my ties to this home that I painstakingly rebuilt from the foundation up - are strong. I love my house. I love being here. I love what it feels like. I know where everything is. But honestly it is not the same without Bambi. There are many rooms I don't even go into - and not just because they look like a thrift shop exploded in them - it's that I have no need to. The realization that I was maintaining a home for a lifestyle I no longer have, made me feel incredibly sad but also pointed out that the original plan (the one I came up with while on my knees talking with God, during the initial stages of my divorce 13 years ago...) is the right one: when she graduates, sell.

I listed my house. I'd say that is pretty damn concrete. I came up with a price and signed the papers. We just never discussed the sign. So, while my agent was showing and showing and people were tramping in and clopping out - and I was eating frozen yogurt down the street killing time - and chanting my mantra; "Run Forrest Run, Sell Susan Sell, Buy People Buy" it didn't really sink in. I actually thought, "hey, maybe we're not going to do a sign..." Then I saw the sign. My reality check just bounced. Bambi is gone and I am selling my house.

I cried.

What do I do now? Where do I go? A year ago around this time, before the November To Remember it was to New York. I was dating someone exclusively (I was dating exclusively... him, not so much...) who lived in New York and I was in love. Bambi had gotten into Boston U, Emerson, New York University and Syracuse. So it was a natural that we should move ahead with our plans to be one big happy East Coast/NYC family.

Today? Well, still Tucci-less I don't know if NY is the place for me. But I gotta tell you, it beckons me. It is my heartbeat. It has always felt like home. It is where I feel alive and talented and beautiful and never in a hurry because everyone is moving as fast as I and talking as fast as I... Just typing this makes me pause. If this is the place for me, where I can most be me again and yet I cannot pull the trigger, it must be that I am afraid. And if you know anything about me by now, you know that I am now pulling on my HAZMAT suit because I am walking directly into this fire! And getting over this fear!

Even Liza and Frank challenge me; "...if I can make it there I'll make it anywhere..." Oh you didn't know that song was written especially for me? Huh. Sure, I giggle but my logical mind freezes. Do I know enough people? Can I make a living doing what I love? Who will kill the spiders?

And then I realized that I am coping with these same things now - I live alone. Work is tough here, too. And I kill the damn spiders. Only I do this in a giant house with a lot of doors that have a lot of stuff I don't need behind them...

I wavered about selling when Bambi decided on a college in California. I know, I know. Could you die? After all that. She is here. I thought to myself...Do I stay here and be...ok, be what Candi? What are you gonna be? What can I be to someone who is well on her way and living her life? That's silly. I need to do the same. I need to jump. Bambi and I had a conversation about my downsizing and moving. And the night before I moved her into her dorm - and on the hottest day on record for that day in 110 years I kid you not - we walked through the house thanking it for all that it had done for us. Blessing it for keeping us safe and warm and cool and close to her friends and great schools. And then she said good-bye. To us both.

I did, too. And then I thought...hmm maybe I'll stay so that when she comes home she'll see I've kept a shrine to her... and then the nice doctor puts the crazy Candi on little pink pills to help her get a life...the SIGN, damn it! There it sits reminding me to keep my word. Eyes on the prize.

Here I am doing all this training and hard work to get myself back into shape for the next phase wherever life and my God with his wicked sense of humor takes me next. Musical Theater workshops. Private acting coaching. Performing in "Cabaret" with Kris Kardashian-Jenner. Memorizing monologues. Learning songs and putting them in a book. Putting my butt on the line every single day - being as brave as any person I know and suddenly I waffle about the one thing that has the power to set me free...

I think I was in my "oh this is gonna happen eventually" mode if truth be told. And never really thought I would have to box everything up and find a new place to live. But the sign tells me every time I see it, that I have to do just that.

I decided today when I went out to get the paper that I would look at this as my own sign that things are going according to plan. And that I have never been let down. That things happen for a reason, for the best. That I should expect the best. I have pared down my life to include only the things and people that make my heart sing. And I will gladly hand over the keys to my home to someone else to love and cherish.

I am replacing my sadness and fear with excitement for all that life is going to bring. And I have decided to concentrate on that hope, that expectant joy, that grey. That Tucci. I know it is out there. I have never known anyone to find all that they were seeking inside their home, alone. Unless they were wearing a nun's habit - and then usually the bar was set fairly low...

So look out...wherever...cause I'm coming. And wherever I go, there I freaking am. Do I think it'll be New York? Funny you should ask that. Today my neighbor asked me where I was going to move - and I said I wasn't sure. She looked at me and said..."Maybe you'll move back to New York. You're from New York, right?"

I take that as a sign.

You know you love me, Candi

2010-07-27T16:59:00.000-07:00

Photo Used Without Permission

Without permission.

That was the catch phrase that could have been used all week at San Diego's Comic Con, or what I prefer to call, Woodstock for Geeks. A love-in of a different sort. People dressed in costumes they bought, rented, created, stole, dug up, refurbished and all sorts of cobbled together sans permission.

And you know, that's what made this Comic Con rock! This is a festival for geeks and fans and people who share like interests, and come in all shapes and sizes and colors and tastes, merging under one gigantic ginormous tent top to out-geek one another. And the thing about Comic Con geeks? They give it UP! I must have heard nine million - "Yo, great Boba Fett, dude!" And those were just from Jamie Kennedy, who insisted on getting his photo taken with every single costumed character who passed by. He is going to have one HELL of a Facebook Con album. My phone died. So, I have four pictures. Sad, really. All out of focus. One of my fabulous hotel room. Pathetic.

I arrived in San Diego and the weather was gorgeous. Sweater-weather that would soon burst forth into a I-gotta-move-here kinda day. I had risen early to drive down. I didn't want to commit too much time to the Con this year. This would be my fifth one - and I didn't have the greatest experiences at them before. In fact the last one, where I was signing at the Cartoon Network Booth for Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends, I forayed out into the crowd in search of a snack and a girl dropped in front of me having a seizure. It was a full ten minutes before paramedics reached her and I was traumatized by the time Sunday rolled around. Crowds were out of control and fans were upset that by 3pm each day, giveaways had been given away. Someone stole my wallet, my favorite pen AND my lip gloss. So I wanted to get in, do my panels and go home the next day.

I could not have been more pleasantly surprised! I am a geek. And this was geek heaven!

I arrived at the Omni - right on the water, across from the Convention Center. I keyed in the elevator with my DC Comics Comic Con key - YAY!!!! and rode the elevator up to the penthouse floor. An elevator completely decked out in True Blood posters and Eclipse walls!

"Heaven, I'm in heaven - and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak..."

My room overlooked the Convention and the train and the bay. I only wish I had my Stanley to share the whole experience with - but alas- we haven't met yet. Damn reality!

I did hair and makeup and slid out of my driving clothes and into Geek Chic. White top, mini-skirt, fishnets and motorcycle boots. Serious fan - but still - professional. (I know. Professional on WHAT planet, Miss Milo? Humor me.) I walked over and got my badge. As I reached for it from a woman named Nell who had the same split between her teeth that I had before I had it fixed and now wish I hadn't, looked at me and asked if I'd like a tote bag. I said sure. My friend Lauren Tom and I grabbed our bags and looked at each other and busted out laughing. They were life-sized! We could have lived in them they were so big. It just made me more excited to get In The Hall!!!!

My first panel was called Cartoon Voices and I was held at the door as someone dressed as a toaster with bread popping out (and whose face was somewhere INSIDE his costume) was led to a seat. I took the dais and proceeded to answer questions given by the moderator and then read a script cold. It was the truncated story of Cinderella. I got to play Cinderella. Right before my line I decided she should be a Puerto Rican with a bad attitude - and it brought the house down. Next to me, Jason Marsden did Stepsister #1 as a high pitched girl that woke me in the middle of the night laughing, it was that good! Tom Kane played the narrator and every time he said a line it was in a different voice. Chuck McCann played the Fairy GodMother and he was pure genius. April Winchell played the Evil Stepmother - and it was suddenly apparent why she was also Cruella DeVille and all other matters of womanly evil. Besides her imeccable timing, she has the best chops for that operatic diva voice EVER.

2900 people packed the room. Bill Farmer, the voice of Goofy, joined us from the audience and said hello. Fans completely went crazy as he and Jason did a father and son Goofy and Max. It was over too fast and I left the dais early to head to the Fanboy & Chum Chum panel. Before I left the hall I connected with lots of my Facebook friends! That was so cool to do!

We also did a reading at the Fanboy panel - and displayed pencil tests to read to. That was very cool. Eric narrated for us (the creator). I play a ton of characters on that show - and sat on that dais with him AND Jamie Kennedy and David Hornsby - who make me laaauuugghh. My favorite part of that was the Q&A at the end. Six kids in a row came up with the exact same question. Exact. Same. Question. And our fabulous show creator was able to interpret what they "really" meant and answered them to the delight of the audience - and the kids - who were like, "That dude is a genius! He gets me!"

I was surprised to be part of Nick's press tour and was secretly sliiiightly bummed that I couldn't cross back over the street and have a drink at the bar with the guy I met who looked muuuuuch better with his Batman mask off. I was whisked down to the main hall to Nick's booth. I could smell a Dexter moment (NOT a Nickelodeon show - oopsie!) and sure enough, a DJ wanting a station identification ("This is Lupe from Fanboy and you're listening to blabbity-blabbity-boo on your dial...") for a San Diego local Radio Station looked at me and asked, "So I understand that you are the woman who does Dexter?" So listen up San Diego - you'll hear Maya, Tito, Dexter, Cheese, Coco, Madame Foster, Mrs. Wakeman, Teacher from Cow & Chicken, Jacobo all calling out for his show! hahahahahaha Did them all. Cause I'm me.

Then we signed autographs and sat up on a large dais as fans lined up AND filed past us. We meant little or nothing to them. THEY were on display. This was their Con. We were visitors from planet TV show. They were there to strut and meet comic book artists and animators. Sergio Aragones, the MAD Magazine illustrator was part of a quick draw panel and was brilliant. I laughed so hard. We must have signed 500 autographs for Fanboy & Chum Chum - a great new show from Nick by Eric Robles And Steve Thompkins. It was kind of fun to see that the Fairly Odd Parents and Penguins cast had signed the table we were all seated at. I drew a Kilroy - and signed my name.

I was only there Saturday and yet I managed to have lunch and connect with old friends; producers, animators, casting people, and get all caught up. "Yes, Bambi's going to college! No, I haven't moved to NY yet, but I'm doing Actorfest in October. Yes, I'd love to come and be on your show and make millions and millions and millions of pennies!" Lots of hugs and promises and reconnects. This recession/depression has been hard on all of us. To a (wo)man we all pledged that we just have to hang in there and rely on each other to see us through. Creative people are simply the greatest. Art is forever!

I grabbed a nibble of bar mix at the hotel bar and I will tell you that a glass of Pinot Noir makes the Con a little more palatable. I scooted back over to Hall H and over to the Ugly Dolls booth and tried to meet the creators. I own all of the dolls - and wanted to give them my take on voices. You know, in case there was a gig coming up?!?!? :) The line was about 200 people long and since my name and face wouldn't buy me a cup of coffee and doing voices in line is something that would, even at The Con, get you thrown out - I left.

I had a drink with a couple I met after my first panel, whose boys are big fans of my work. Sigh. Under ten and under four feet - those are the men that love me...

I said goodbye and we promised to keep in touch and I rode the elevator back up to my room. I kissed my hand and touched it to all the evil vampires on display there and dragged myself to my room and flopped on my bed. Then the fireworks began and I snuggled down with room service - a cheeseburger and fries and all my free goodies. I watched "Hairspray" cause I know all the words...until it was time to sleep.

Sunday came too soon. I got up - ready for the 2 1/2 hour drive back home and thought about what fun I had in less than 24 hours. I smiled inside. I was tired and knew I had to get back to the grind of doing voices.

HAHAHAHAHA

I know. World's greatest gig! I highly recommend it.

You know you love me - Candi

PS - Yes, I got stuff signed. I am one of them.

2010-07-17T11:45:00.000-07:00

Oh Mel, You Sweet Talker You...

I hope her answer was, "I'll pass but, thanks honey! Do you want me to put our baby on the phone so you can say hi?"

I really wanted to be funny about Mel. I had it in mind to write about this since the first of the voice messages was made public. I was laughing to myself, picturing Mel ranting while dressed in James Caviezel's crucifixion costume.

But first I wanted to listen to them. The messages are online. I also could have listened to Tiger Woods' panicked message to his mistress saying his wife had found his phone and read the text messages from Jesse James to his mistress if I had wanted to. Just so you know. They are all out there. I didn't. Mel was enough, thankyouveddymuch.

His message, conversation, whatever it was made me sick. They are all sick messages. Twisted logically. Misogynistic. This to the mother of his daughter.

I have put it behind me, but Mel immediately brought to mind several similar ranting messages I received last December - also in front of my kid. A complete stranger called me repeatedly and screamed at me on my home voicemail - a lame attempt at bravado and threat - and sounded just as deranged, delusional and blame-laden as Mel.

Because I was consumed by all the other things going on in my life I thought, "ok fine. You got my unlisted number. You dialed it. You swore. You threatened. You keep forgetting to turn off your caller-ID. Yay for you. I'll take it from here." The content was nonsensical, nonlinear and delivered like a bipolar poodle who missed a Lithium dose. My girlfriends and I laughed about them and waited anxiously for the next one. They didn't scare me, clearly the intent of most raging lunatics, but they did make me sad, because they were a betrayal, an unforgivable betrayal because it meant I had to get a new phone number. And a new number meant I had to order new checks! Someone owes me $26.44. Hee hee...

I believe Karma is amazing and so never felt the need to retaliate, other than writing my blog. I knew the calls were the brainchild of someone who was caught not playing for team Candi, while still in team uniform. But hey, sticks and stones... (I know - 7th grade was longer ago for most of us - some people are still there and with cell phones.) I hope I get an invitation to their wedding. Better than that I want front row seats at the break-up! Ringside at The Garden!

Truly, my serial caller never reached the disgust level that the Gibson Gabs do. I remember thinking the messages, accusing me of everything under the sun and promising to make sure I paid, sounded so impotent...on many levels. wink wink That's also how I felt listening to Mel rant. The whiny bellowing over Oksana's obviously unnatural body parts ("No, really?!?!? Why don't you check out her lips!!!", his ex-wife is screaming on line 2.) and his insistence that she appear more modest - is hysterical in its "but this is likely exactly WHY you slept with her in the first place MEL!!!" double standard.

If you put a French accent on Mel - it would be like listening to Napoleon Bonaparte. "I am incredibly short. I have an incredibly teeny wee-wee. Everything I do is incredibly pure and just. And if you do not do as I say I will have an incredibly teeny tantrum! Or as I call it a teeny diatribe - a word STOLEN from the French!!!!!...wheeze...gasp wheeze...wheeze gasp..."

Life's too short and apparently so is Mel - for anyone to be be subjected to crap like this. I don't care HOW much money is involved. It is time for someone to lead Mel away in a lovely jacket with buckles in the back. And take away his damn Verizon calling card for crissakes...

Mel, from me to you. You left your wife for this woman. She turned out not to be what you wanted. Not her fault. It's ok. You made life choices, well you and Johnnie Walker, so your life is right where you led it. Handle the fallout over what you have done. If you don't, the guilt and confusion can cause this affliction known today as Robo-Ranting. Not a good thing where kids are involved. Not a good thing, period. I know, leaving a nasty voicemail for your ex about her boobs is kind of like drunk texting; wince-inducing but semi-forgivable. But when you talk about setting a house on fire? Go away, my friend.

As hard as jail time is going to be for Lindsay Lohan - it may end up saving her life and her career. Ask Robert Downey Jr. So, as career-destroying as it is being outed as a Napoleonic racist-sexist-lunaticist and being dumped by your agent - Mel you CAN rise again on the third day in a new career. Hopefully nothing that involves having to look at or listen to you. But only if you go away first. Far away.

And Oksana, for the sake of the kids, do what I did, change your number! And if you are concerned for the sake of your daughter - stop releasing these voicemails to the public. It doesn't do her any good.

Unless you have one of Mel playing Napoleon...how can that not be good?!?!?!?!?

You know you love me, Candi

2010-07-12T12:15:00.000-07:00

The Imaginary Conversation...

Imaginary Boyfriend: When will you stop calling me that? I'm not your sweet boy.

Imaginary Candi: Wow. I wish someone would call me their sweet girl, although Candi might be sugary enough. It would make me feel loved and treasured and protected. Ok, it would make me feel young. hee hee heeeee.....

IBF: I'm serious.

Candi: Ok, I'll stop next Tuesday. Seriously? I'll call you my man when you start acting like it.

IBF: What does that even mean?

Candi: To be a man? Honestly, you should know by now. Not my job to raise you. Just my job to reap the benefits of all those mistakes you said you learned from.

IBF: Well, give me an example of what you consider a real man.

Candi: Hello! You have brothers, uncles and a father - they didn't immediately spring to mind?

IBF: Well, of course, but I want to do what it takes to be your man.

Candi: Am I supposed to be flattered? Cause frankly, I'm just nervous now. Listen, a tender sobriquet is just my way of being sweet. It's what you evoke. But as far as you fitting what I have in mind? There is no pre-requisite - no slot you have to fit into. You already were a man - I picked you. I picked the you that you were yesterday. You know, this shape-shifting that you do, posing and pretending to be something you're not or feel something you don't, it makes me put my guard up. The thing about being a sentient, hell, even semi-comatose woman is that once you're past 40 - you see things. You see through things. The first thing I see is that you do not want to be my man. I think you'd settle for being Ferris, with frenefits.

IBF: That's not true. I'm doing everything I can. I'm trying to figure out what makes you tick and how I can be that.

Candi: Just be you, ok?

IBF: You just don't understand me. You don't understand what it's like to do real work. It all comes too easy to you.

(Imaginary Candi turns slowly to look at the man with a whole new set of eyes, wondering what this has to do with the price of tea in China. She's trying to figure out if real work is like real acting - only performed by others in a secret club you're not invited to. Then she remembers a childhood as one of five kids of a traveling nightclub stand-up, when the only medium that paid any real money was television. She remembers Poverty - with a capital "no you can't have that.." She recalls her first job at 14, her second at 15, her third at 16, moving to LA at 18 and cleaning the studios after recording sessions at Sunset Sound Recording to survive. Her big splurge - Dodger Blue, the bus that would take her to Dodger Stadium for $1 to see Fernando Valenzuela. Calling out for a single ticket...)

Candi: OK, for the sake of argument. A man is someone who honors his commitments. His word is his bond. He says nothing he does not mean. And means everything he says. No excuses. No omissions. He lets others know exactly where his loyalties lie. He actually has loyalties. He is present and any complaints about his life, love and his relationships are never uttered without first a HARD look at himself. Oh, and he does for others without being asked. I think that covers it. That's a man. A man in my world. That is all any man needs to be.

IBF: Oh. Ok.

Candi: So. We good?

IBF: Yup. I'm your boy.

Candi: Exactly. And when you and Super Mario are finished with your relationship maybe we can go grab a drink.

IBF: Sounds good. Five more minutes. Two more levels...

Candi: Again. Exactly.

you know you imagine you love me...Candi

2010-07-02T12:17:00.000-07:00

Move Through The Ball...

Have you heard that expression...move through the ball?

I've heard it but never understood it in the context of sports. I was not a team sports player in high school or in college, for that matter - too small. Too tired. Didn't want to get hit in the face. Too busy, doing a show. Student government. Working. Chasing boys.

But I understand it in the context of life. If you use "move through the ball" as a metaphor for dealing with life's obstacles it's kind of cool. If you can move through them they don't really exist - ok they do - but they are permeable - so move through them. Jello. Water. I like that. They are not insurmountable. You just have to think of them in the right way. The air bender way. Wax on. Wax off. Move through them. I like not having to move around them. Avoidance is cowardly. Unless it's a large dog. Then, it's smart.

Rocky Balboa's landlord had a big dog. It didn't know how big it was and I think that made it cranky. He hated me. Not the dog. Rocky Balboa. But that's an earlier post. Back to ball playing...

Every time a ball player (and let's take a baseball analogy - because I loooooooove baseball players) steps up to the plate he has put himself in that position. He wants to be there. He may not like the circumstances surrounding his chance at bat - but honestly, he didn't have to get on the team bus. He could have taken computer sciences. But he chose to be there, and every decision he has made has led him up to the plate at that moment. He can avoid the ball - but that is not going to keep him in LA or Tampa or NY or San Francisco. No, he has to confront the ball and eventually hit it - hard and clean. The best way to do that is to picture moving through it. Keeping your swing, your arc fluid. Think about coming all the way around. Strong. Graceful.

But before he thinks about moving through the ball he thinks about what it is he'll swing at and what he will let pass by him. Not only which pitch. But the one pitch. One obstacle at a time. He can't really have a list about which pitches he likes and how he is going to handle it when the time comes. He couldn't read it. He's got the bat in his hand. A wad of gum in his mouth. Tight pants.

Sorry.

He has to make a snap decision when presented with what's coming over the plate. Because he's practiced he can kind of tell when the ball leaves the pitcher's hands whether or not to take a crack at it. Whether it will serve his goal of taking a victory lap around the bases as the ball goes over the fence.

He either takes a swing or not. He either connects or not. And if he does - and moves through the ball - it will likely go as he hoped or planned. Or maybe not. Here's the thing, though. A forward motion has been started and a new set of circumstances lines up and he is impelled to act upon them.

Let's use my life as the "life's obstacles" example. Because this is my blog and I said so. And yes, I'm wagging my finger.

Late last year, by my choice, by my life's set of decisions and choices - I was where I was - and as it turns out exactly where I needed to be - and presented with a set of obstacles. Didn't matter who was pitching. I was at bat. For a moment (ok, 4 months) I focused on the fences, forgetting everything I knew about how to handle life's curve, knuckle and sliders.

Yes. Soon I'll run out of baseball terms. Bear with me.

You see, like Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle (I have a few left, but just a few...) in competition to break Babe Ruth's record - I forgot about the game and focused instead on hitting it out of the park. Now, my God has that wicked sense of humor, remember? Wicked. And while I was up at home spinning like a demented top - it dawned on me. No matter how hard I swung, as long as I focused on the fences and not on moving through the ball coming over the plate - I was hitting air. I was an air bender in the wrong way.

(Just so you know, that made me laugh... Want to know what else makes me laugh? I remember I HAD to take tennis in high school. As a PE. I had to be on the PE team. I dressed for tennis every day and walked out to the courts and stood on the courts with my racquet in front of my face saying to anyone who would listen, "I'm going to be famous one day, and I can't be hit in the face. Sorry." True. hee hee heeeeeeeeeeeee...)

It's isn't about hitting a home run. The home run comes from the perfect swing. It is about connecting and moving through life one pitch at a time. One obstacle at a time. I had forgotten. I was watching TV one afternoon thinking Steve Buscemi was so dang cute and it hit me like a lightning bolt. I'm at bat.

Yellow pad.

I needed a list. See, I am not really at bat, with a wad of gum in my mouth or wearing tights pants. (Well, the tight pants - I am actually in tight pants.) But my hands were free and I could break down my obstacles into single pitches. Still have the goal of the fences in mind - but move through each pitch fluidly and with grace - connecting and swinging all the way around.

I switched my goal from the fences of immediately moving lock, stock and barrel to NYC - to finding joy - knowing full well that moving back east would give me that happiness. I broke it down into what needed to happen to make sure I was on the way to happiness. And guess what happened. I was connecting with pitches and each one went right over the center field fence. And then I was impelled to act upon this new set of circumstances.

I am officially out of MLB quips. You're welcome.

In less than one month I have dug in at the plate and homered the following:

1. I did a short film - called "Last At Bat" (I just realized that is a baseball term...hahaha!) - it is racy and hysterical. Look for it on Funny or Die soon.

2. I finished a professional musical theater workshop and from it put together 8 audition songs. 4 monologues. (That photo is of me and Bambi after my performance. I am sooooo relieved!!!!!)

3. Shot new photos.

4. Got a new VO agent with offices in LA and NY - and signed with them in both cities.

5. Got a new legit (theater - musical theater) agent in Los Angeles. And hello! - I was actually singled out of the workshop show.

6. Got a new legit agent in NY. They said it was impossible!!!!

7. Got parts in two LA-based musicals that begin rehearsals next week.

8. Contacted a Manhattan realtor - just for look sees when I go back there next week...Turns out she is a huge cartoon fan...

That's quite a season. These are HUGE accomplishments. And all for the love of the game!

To play my best game I must always remember that nothing is bigger than a single pitch, remember to focus my eyes on the prize and remember to swing through the ball with grace, fluidity and determination.

But in tackling my life's obstacles - and no, I am not on to football references - I learned that I really am a team player.

I play for me.

You know you love me - Candi

2010-06-29T17:29:00.000-07:00

RIP

My dear sweet Aunt Terry Benon passed away. She is one of the last links I have to my father's family. One of thirteen Bronx-born Migliaccio kids - the original Dead End Kids - that called Leo Gorsey and Huntz Hall friends. One of my father's favorite sisters - ok - they all were...

My heart is so broken.

And then there were two...

Much love,

Candi

2010-06-22T12:17:00.001-07:00

Eventually...

...is a word that gives great comfort to those of us in denial. I will use it in a sentence to define further: Eventually certain things are gonna happen.

I believe we move towards any eventuality with either distinct apprehension or excited expectation. (Yup, that's me, Ms. Black and White, with a splash of Ms. Extreme thrown in for good measure.) But that pretty much is the way my life seems to go. It's been one heck of a ride. And I like it!

Oh. I forgot to mention. Another thing about eventually, is that it usually catches up and occurs, hence the term - eventually. And like a boy scout, you best be prepared. And with any expectation, eventuality or expectation; whatever adjectives or attitudes you bring, the outcome is always defined by what you bring to the table.

The old adage goes, there are only two certainties in life - death and taxes. And I hate to split hairs (not really) but I think there are other semi-certain inevitabilities. One certainty for me: A child grows up and moves on, leaving you with what you wished for. You and your life

Yikes.

The Next Phase in Candi Milo's Life was much ballyhooed in the press (ok, in my house) last year. I was absolutely certain I would do certain things once my daughter graduated. You know, that graduation... it was happening in about eight years and in no way in the next few months? We weren't there yet. We couldn't be there yet. How could she be eighteen when I'm only seventeen?!?!? The whole graduation was still referred to, in my mind as: eventually, when my daughter graduates I will...

Knowing that when they called her name it was going to be my turn with 'eventually', I anxiously watched from the viewing stands as she and the Senior Choir sang, Michael Jackson's I'll Be There (No dance, but I did wave my iPhone with my Zippo lighter app blazing!). In an effort to further keep my eventually at bay rather than ponder, "now what, big mouth?, I marveled at how fitting it was that she should sing a song from my childhood to end hers. There were speeches upon speeches, but it was a glorious day in sunny California. We all listened politely, really dying to hear our graduate's names called, and I daydreamed about how fast it went. And how my Bambi always seemed to bring positivity and light into any situation.I mean...

Yesterday she had a pacifier and needed a hat to go with every dress. Eventually she would enter kindergarten.

Yesterday she started a brand new school when we moved out to what we liked to refer to as our country estate. Eventually she would go to the junior high being built.

Yesterday she started that newly completed junior high as I dropped her off in the carpool line, with the other parents frantically waving for their kids to come back and get the lunches they left on the front seat. Eventually she would enter high school.

Yesterday she was Freshman class president, on the Volleyball team, and in her first play. Eventually she would drive.

Yesterday I was the DMV offering the driving evaluator a cool $20 to flunk her so I didn't have agita until I heard the car pull into the garage. Eventually she would do college applications.

Yesterday we were filling out applications, supplemental applications, scheduling auditions, picking material for those auditions, and waiting to hear the news. Eventually she would find the perfect school.

Yesterday she found the perfect school. Eventually (in about 8 years!!!!!) she will graduate.

Yesterday my beautiful, sweet, talented, crazy Bambi graduated. In 8 weeks she will attend college.

8 weeks!!! That's it. In eight weeks - I will be free to do as I please and ponder my own eventualities. Yup, dreaming of and making plans for the life I had put on hold, in order to raise my child - who hopefully will need very little psycho-therapy because of it... hee hee hee

I am taking the steps. They are baby steps - but there is forward motion. And I will bring all the positivity and light and joy and hope I own into my new stage. I may have to shake some of it out of mothballs, but believe me, I still got it. I will eagerly listen to my intuition and trust my instincts and they will take me exactly where I need to be. (Ready, Stan?)

As far as I go...

Yesterday I sang professionally at an agent's showcase - first time in 10 years. It went really well. Eventually I will...

Don't bug me just yet about that... I'll get to it... eventually. Right now I am sipping away at a large glass of "I will gladly pay you on Tuesday for a hamburger today"...

Trust me, you'll know when I know.

Until then, you know you love me...

2010-06-14T15:45:00.000-07:00

I Just Haven't Met You Yet...

I haven't met you yet Stanley, but it's not for lack of thinking really hard about trying, or for lack of the sudden spate of people I just found out we know in common. (Say what? Is that even a sentence? Don't judge me, I'm just smitten... Name one girl who isn't hot for a guy in a tux. Dare you.) But alas, here I sit making funny voices and even a funny short movie, alone. Sans Tucci.

Tonight I am going to the dress rehearsal for this musical theater workshop I'm taking. It's tough on the ego but so much better than actually having to swallow Rust-o-leum to get the kinks out. And the looseness helps my funny bone. It helps me edit my funny bone. It makes hitting that DELETE key easier. hee hee hee...

See, I am putting the pieces together on the teeny tiny musical "Stalking Stanley" and one of the things I like to do is build my bits around songs and lyrics that get to the heart of the subject matter. In this case, love - and why I am so horribly bad at finding it. And since this matter involves the heart - they all seem to be songs about some sort of love; lost, found, reborn, forbidden and in the case below (Michael Buble's I Haven't Met You Yet.) seemingly pre-determined. I think I'd like to open with this tune - it really seems to fit my personality, my luck, my je ne sais quoi...

I'd like everyone reading this to learn the lyrics so you can sing along when you come see me. The group sing may help to quell my nerves. Don't worry, there are plenty of numbers I'll do solo, including one set to the tune of Eye Of The Tiger - where the lyrics will be from the letters my fans send from Russia requesting photos and autographs. I shall read/sing verbatim, in complete and utter Russian/English dictionary syntax.

"I am for having of the pleasure of you making of my acquaintance."

Yup. I am HUGE in the Ukraine...

What that has to do with love, you will have to find out...(me, too...meeeee, too...)

Wouldn't it be kind of dreamy to get a kiss from Mr. Tuccissimo on stage? Perfect ending. Very Sex In The City - which I can assure you is a given should that happen...

Until such time Stanley, I write away...

Until such time class, you have your homework. Please have Mr. Buble memorized and ready to be performed en masse:

Haven't Met You Yet

I'm not surprised, not everything lasts.
I've broken my heart so many times, I stopped keeping track.

Talk myself in, I talk myself out.
I get all worked up, then I let myself down.
I tried so very hard not to lose it. I came up with a million excuses.
I thought, I thought of every possibility.

And I know someday that it'll all turn out. You'll make me work, so we can work to work it out.
And I promise you, kid, that I give so much more than I get. I just haven't met you yet.

I might have to wait, I'll never give up.
I guess it's half timing, and the other half's luck.

Wherever you are, whenever it's right.
You'll come out of nowhere and into my life.
And I know that we can be so amazing.
And, baby, your love is gonna change me.
And now I can see every possibility.

And somehow I know that it'll all turn out.
You'll make me work, so we can work to work it out.
And I promise you, kid, I give so much more than I get.
I just haven't met you yet.

They say all's fair, In love and war.
But I won't need to fight it.
We'll get it right and we'll be united.

(Michael Jackson dance break)

And I know that we can be so amazing.
And being in your life is gonna change me.
And now I can see every single possibility.

And someday I know it'll all turn out.
And I'll work to work it out.
Promise you, kid, I'll give more than I get.
Than I get, than I get, than I get.

Oh, you know it'll all turn out.
And you'll make me work so we can work to work it out
And I promise you kid to give so much more than I get.
Yeah, I just haven't met you yet.

I just haven't met you yet.
Oh, promise you, kid.
To give so much more than I get.

I said love, love, love, love.
Love, love, love, love (I just haven't met you yet)
Love, love, love, love.
Love, love. I just haven't met you yet...

Even though you haven't met me yet...You know you love me... Candi

2010-06-07T14:39:00.000-07:00

I Want To Go To The Tony Awards

I'm just saying.

I'm shooting a short film all day on Saturday - but I could probably get there on Sunday afternoon. Early flight.

I could crash it - but I really don't want to...I mean...I'm not sure of the type of people who crash The Tony's...you follow me?

I imagine there's a lot of spray tan, Chanel No. 5, possibly some fabulous wigs, and a lot of Botox...and that's just the guys...

I have a dress. It' a simple number. Black. Velvet.

I have shoes and a bag. And I can get a cab to the theater from JFK.

I don't have a show recording that Monday morning - and graduation isn't until Wednesday, so I could stay overnight in Manhattan.

I have everything!

Except a date.

Oh.

Or an invitation.

Guess I'll be watching it from the comfort of my home...but I'm wearing my dress and shoes and bag...

It might be better. More fun this way. Because...if I see anyone cute in the audience I can freeze on their face and squint my eyes, and pretend that's me standing next to them. Congratulating them on their win. Or accepting my award.

Hey! Never say never!

Or delusional fantasy.

You know you love me - Candi

2010-06-04T16:56:00.000-07:00

Post Harlem

The photo to the right is of me at The Palm restaurant in the Theater District in New York after seeing 'Hair' with friends from American Idol. (I know. I have no idea why I make that face in photos lately. Maybe I'm nervous that I might look a little too appealing to Stanley and have to queer it somehow before I actually have to think of something clever to say on a first date... Hee hee hee)

We met up with even more friends outside the Hirschfeld after hugging new friends backstage who performed in the show. Then we all walked up the Avenue to have late snacks and cocktails - me skipping alongside in my sexy Dolce & Gabana pumps. So fabulous and yet so... ow ow ow my feeeeet.

We were all gabbing and having a ball in the bar, crowing and cooing about the incredible talent and hard work in the "Hair' cast. Eating wings and bad bar food...with absolute relish! No slouch cooing going on with my friends - the likes of a successful NY writer/film-maker, a brilliant Broadway actress, one of the stars of 'Hair', in my opinion the hottest musical director and musical arranger and vocal coach from Idol, the hottest vocal coach in Los Angeles AND the hottest vocal coach in New York at our table doing the cooing. Oh, and of course there was me - the chick who does boys - voices that is, and who also just wanted to wrap the 'Hair' star in my arms and take her back home as my own.

"Look what followed me home! Can I keep her, pleeeeeeaaaassseeee?!"

In my five days in the city I saw a ton of amazing talent. From a rock band in Union Square on Sunday evening, to my friend Maile and her friends French Stewart and Laurie Metcalf - who were beyond hysterical, BEYOND hysterical in "Voice Lessons" on Theater Row that same night. To street dancers in Chelsea and then Debbie Gravitte who tore up Feinstein's Monday evening in a benefit performance for the Actor's Fund. To a fine Reggae band in Harlem I heard outside my restaurant on FDB on Tuesday morning having Cokes and dogs with my friend Geneva, who was showing me around, to finally the entire cast of "Hair."

I was feeling so good about possibly relocating there. Is it going to be Chelsea or the West Village or is it Harlem? Manhattan's a place filled with creative and talented people and I was going to be among them!!! Yay!!!!

And then Wednesday morning happened. Martha Stewart to be precise. Martha Freaking Stewart and her bridal show.

I wasn't sure I heard it right. I mean, I only caught it from the reflection of the TV in the hotel bathroom mirror. But I thought I heard Martha announce that coming up next was a woman who was a master crafter. I was confused. Master crafter, as in you had to be a journeyman crafter first? I'd have to wait until after the commercials - none of which I was on - so yeah, an eternity in actress years... Then this woman came on, looking cute, but nervous and a little like she lost a bet and had to do this segment.

This woman was going to show us all how to make the pipe cleaner rings that Martha and all the guests were wearing (all couples about to be married...so yeah...a lot of little Martha wanna bes with their very confused and embarrassed men clapping and shrieking for a chance to win something likely incredibly insignificant for their upcoming wedding.) My first thought was, since when do first graders get married, cause those are the only people I can think of who would wear crap like this. My second thought was...what did I just hear Martha ask her?!

Martha: Now, you're completely self-taught at pipe cleaner twisting, correct?

I would have sent the Master Crafter a case of Scotch, which she looked like she badly needed, if she had only answered: No, I had to go to fucking pipe cleaner college to learn this!!!!!!!

Instead she said: I am completely self-taught. I am self-taught at all my crafting. And I use only the finest of pipe cleaners, that I get from martha-stewart-dot-com. I wish I were joking. Can you get any more delusional? Completely bereft of any sense of what true talent and craft is? And then....THEN...we were treated to the craft of pipe cleaner ring making. And Martha couldn't do it. It was a shame really. Think how she could have kept herself so occupied and maybe put on a wedding or two while in prison. I know. Mean. But funny.

Crafting is not something to be mastered. That's like mastering bouncing. Although I will say that the bouncer at the Mercer seemed very talented and very crafty.

"Look what followed me home! Can I keep him, pleeeeeeaaaassseeee?!" No Candi! No more bouncers!

Talent is what was on stage at the Hirschfeld. Talent was in the streets. Talent was in a small theater on Theater Row. Talent is in our hospitals. In our classrooms. On our battlefields. Talent is in the home - where every parent is a star - whether making a bed, dinner or those stupid pipe cleaner rings for their kids to play wedding with.

Craft is what actors practice to make a living entertaining us with their personal illumination of the human condition. Craft is a singer reaching for a note and bringing us up there with her. Talent is the likes of Judy and Bette and Liza and Lena. Craft is Meryl and Marlee and Denzel and De Niro. Talent and craft go hand in hand. And neither should be confused with anything that is used to ream out a pipe.

You know you love me - Candi

2010-05-18T16:14:00.000-07:00

I Knew It Was You

I did.

When I was a little girl my dad had a point to make. He did it his way. You know, the kind of way that eventually lands you in group. He took us to see The Godfather, starring Al Pacino. Well, he didn't exactly take us, he gave my sister and me money to go to the movies to see something else, knowing full well we would sneak in to see it.

He hoped the lesson we would take away was that Al Pacino's character, who I happened to be in crazy love with, was not to be admired. The thought of my loving a man who did things so vile, made my Dad bananas and made me have to hide my make-him-an-offer-he-can't-refuse poster under my bed. Hard to kiss Al 'night that way - but better than watching my Dad tear it down from my well-organized bulletin board that hung above my bed. No Mafia personae were to be held in esteem. There were other people who contributed to world society who could be admired and celebrated as a link to a big part of our heritage.

That wasn't the lesson I got. And you so knew that was coming.

After seeing The Godfather I fell out of love with Al Pacino (though the scenes with him in braces were like catnip to me, with the overbite). I fell headgear over heels in love with John Cazale. I know. Kooky.

Whenever he was on screen I was mesmerized by him, by Fredo. Fredo made my heart race. I watched every single thing he did in every scene he was in, from the way he held his hands to the way he stood, to the way he leveled his gaze just off center enough to be supplicant to whoever else was in the scene. I watched his eyes mostly, yes, his sad and soulful eyes. My heart was torn by the way he stared when he was afraid of or abased by those he loved, with that mixture of searing loss, yesterdays and a glimmer of hope. When we left the movie theater I could quote all of Fredo's lines. John Cazale won and then broke my heart. Not even the receding hairline got to me. I loved it because then I could really see those eyes.

I came home, slammed the front door, loudly announced I wanted a dog and was going to name it Fredo, blowing our cover story about what movie we watched. Dad, not looking up front the paper asked me if I had a job yet and if not go get one right after I took a hike. I wanted to dance and shout out that I wanted to marry Fredo Corleone - but like wanting to marry Mickey Dolenz of The Monkees, it's not what you wanted your younger sister to throw in your face in the middle of a knock-down-drag-out. If you were sane you wanted to marry James Caan or Al Pacino or Davy Jones from The Monkees. The cute ones. So I kept it to myself. But because of John Cazale, I wanted to be an actor.

Years later I went to go see Dog Day Afternoon. I remember Al Pacino asking John what country he wanted to go to - and his character Sal answered, after a long pause, Wyoming. Everyone in the movie theater laughed. Not me. In that one-word answer I knew everything there was to know about Sal and his world. When Sal said Wyoming I immediately looked to Al Pacino who looked stunned and then softened as it dawned on him that he too, knew everything about Sal right then.

In 1978 came The Deer Hunter where Cazale played "Stosh." The scene of him I remember best is when he is with DeNiro hunting deer with a pistol, waving it around clumsily. Beware of one who has nothing to lose, goes the Italian proverb. That was what I saw in John's eyes - nothing to lose. How in the HELL does he do that?!?!? There he was, holding his own weirdness despite a cast of strong male leads.

And then he was gone, from bone cancer. (I JUST WATCHED THE SHORT DOCUMENTARY AND I'M SUCH A SCHLUB - JOHN CAZALE DIED FROM LUNG CANCER AND NOT BONE CANCER. SORRY EVERYONE.) John Cazale had slipped my conscious mind. I knew that could happen, does happen every day in Hollywood. I was so fortunate to have studied acting and directing with the late Daniel Mann. Through him I was introduced to the same power in actors Anna Magniani, Burt Lancaster, Shirley Booth, Ernest Borgnine, Dina Merrill, Susan Oliver, Paul Muni, Machiko Kyo, Susan Hayward, and Eddie Albert. And our class was admonished to commit their gifts to memory.

Through Daniel Mann I learned the essence of fearless listening, the actor's relationship to all things, people and time, the condensing and current of movement, intent and pre-breath. I learned to act with my pelvis not my head; Lead with what has the most power!!!!, Daniel would shout, throwing something at somebody. Right. At me. Through studying John Cazale I learned to take everything that came my way and use it to illuminate the human condition.

It's how I live my life. When people ask me how I have survived in show business so long, and raised a child fairly alone, I say I'm an actor/director, I've been trained to. And I learned from the best, beginning with John Cazale and Fredo. And ending with Daniel Mann.

There is a Sundance documentary called I Knew It Was You: Rediscovering John Cazale that HBO will be airing. I watched bits from the making of...and was glued to that face, those eyes, that vulnerable soul. It's many years later and still I see in John Cazale's performances what few actors, men or women, have been able to deliver, powerful innocence fused with brutal truth.

The clips from his movies - and I realized I was still holding my dinner plate, standing before the TV - don't reveal any acting seams. You don't catch his arcs. You don't see his transitions. You see character and it is him. John is the vessel, the reactor, the mirror of another actor's projected, present intent. The PERFECT scene partner.

Sometimes (yup...every day) I miss the opportunity to act. I have a wonderful craft. I do voices. Even then I always try to do the work. Sometimes I am rewarded because I bring something unexpected to a character, but often times I am cast because I fit the Johnny Bravo jacket (Brady Bunch reference...sorry) - and sound like the voice the animator had in his head when he drew the character.

No tears. No regrets.

It's the nature of the craft of my beast. If you're lucky as you get older, you respect the craft and it becomes a skill. After twenty years the truth is I can only be as present as being in a room alone allows. Acting alone is a monologue, no matter what anybody tells you. Even at a full cast session there is only delivery. Cartoons are animated sit-coms and sitcoms are about paced timing. Your intent is straight Neil Simon; Boy meets girl, gets stuck up a tree, girl gets boy down, boy gets girl. Fast and in hilarious voices. (Once the rhythm and voice is set, we cross our fingers that a Rosie Perez or Cameron Diaz has no interest in taking over our gig. After years of heartbreak it's hard to commit yourself to discovery and process.) There are no scene partners - especially if you are playing both parts in the scene. Haha - but true.

There are certainly no John Cazales.

But I still have his lessons. My Dad also taught me a lesson all those years ago, through The Godfather. It just turned out to be an acting lesson.

I too, knew it was you way back in 1972, John Cazale.

Candi

2010-05-11T14:59:00.000-07:00

"I Learn From My Mistakes"

Of all the annoying things I read on people's 'about me' pages; whether it's Facebook or Match.Com or Linked In or any other number of social networking sites..."I learn from my mistakes"...THAT statement has to be my number one pet peeve.

Of COURSE you learn from your mistakes - you're supposed to! That's what being somewhat intelligent and sentient is about! You make a mistake. You know, like, ouch...fire burns...and you don't do it again. You get caught cheating... again ouch...spouse burns...and you don't do it again. You are allowed to make other mistakes - but not the same mistake over and over again. Except that is, on reality TV. There it is a plot point.

Sometimes I watch reality TV. I know. I can't help it, the programming is like a bad car wreck, you know you're not supposed to watch, so you squint your eyes and pretend to give them privacy, but you just gotta take a good, looooong look see, wow what happened here, kind of gander. And then you smugly sit back and go, what a bunch of maroons, and you say it exactly like Bugs Bunny.

A week or so ago, yes it took me this long to heal the searing of my brain, I was watching a combo of reality programming - in horror. We "Keep Up" (wink wink) with one show in our house because I have a teenage daughter who happens to be madly in love with all five of the girls on the show! Now this hugely successful show begat all these other wannabe shows - and they can't hold a candle to it. Trust me! They don't have the matriarch that the original has - a fearless woman who has been through hell and back and parents her girls with no bull! All the other shows try to copy their format - to extremely limited or zero success. But that doesn't seem to stop them, damn it!! No! The studios just clone away - using the shallow end of a lot of different gene pools...

There were multiple episodes of Pretty Wild (shoot me in the head), Jersey Shore (hey, I know these people...and I just got rid of a whole passel of them!!) Jerseylicious, The Real Housewives of Some Stupid City That I Don't Care About, and this other idiotic show I caught called Giuliana and Bill about a news reporter called Giuliana Rancic and her shell shocked husband Bill who were buying pirated handbags in China. (Did anyone else catch what Giuliana does for a living - I believe she is a reporter? And haven't there been a number of reports on pirated goods? Sigh...) This is why my business has GOT to pick up - because I cannot be trusted to be home during the day and not turn on the TV.

From A to Z or as I prefer to think of it - A to DD - Reality TV people are the biggest collection of idiots on the planet. Go away, Kate! Go away! Take Snookie with you! If you could slip them into those little plastic sleeves you could probably sell the whole set for a fortune on EBay! Idiots - not only for the lifestyle choices and the biggest faux pas, to have their choices filmed - but for making the same mistakes over and over again. And not learning!!!

Here's an idea! Hello!!! Jersey Shore cast? Want to know what not to do? Watch Pretty Wild on E! These are your Dopplegangers only without any morals - oh wait - never mind on that one - and in skimpy clothing and bad California accents. What is a California accent you ask? I'm glad you did. A bad California accent is where every sentence begins with the word shopping and ends with the word whatever. They are also not aspiring actresses - like you're not Italian - so you'd be perfect. Maybe you can share a manager. I hear Joe Simpson is available these days.

Real Housewives of Whatever City I Don't Give Two Figs About? Grab a mirror from IKEA. They're on sale. Take a hard look in it. Ask yourself this question before you leave the house every day: Are You Sure? The answer is NO!!!!!!! if you are wearing anything sparkly in the middle of the day....or...check the label for this next one...anything with more than 10% Spandex, Lycra or Orlon...or...anything that shows us anything on your body that not even your husbands want to see - you must immediately return to your closets and change clothes. I bet that if they wore normal clothes we would listen to what they had to say. And we'd realize it was nothing. And we'd turn it off.

Because even when we are as young as kindergardeners - we see what they can't seem to figure out. A five-year-old can see it. Fire! Don't touch it! It burns! I imagine toddlers everywhere hurling their bottles at their HDTV's and screaming, "Situation! Get a real name, a shirt, a job and a life."

You know you love me. Candi

p.s. To the woman in Greensboro, North Carolina - shame on you. Go away. Karma Chameleon, sister.

2010-05-01T14:48:00.000-07:00

Friends are God's way of apologizing to us for our families...

Right?

Take a good look at your relatives. Uh-huh. Yes, you have that Uncle. We all have that Uncle. In my family you could usually find him face down on the sofa after Thanksgiving dinner claiming it's the L-Tryptophan...BUT with an empty six-pack next to him. I like to think he was born in the shallow end of my gene pool. And so having these things called relatives we all grow up looking for our real family.

What we find are called friends. I have had some amazing friends in my life. Still do. I've actually never dropped anyone I've believed in - and I've never dropped anyone who's believed in me. I've never turned down anyone's love or support - unless they betray me.

This is why I love Facebook. I have 562 friends. Yes, I do. Yes, I know they all exist in cyberspace. Nonetheless I love FB even knowing as I do all the ways people can hurt you with it. It has connected me with old boyfriends, first boyfriends, old girlfriends, current girlfriends, past co-workers, creative friends, and entertainers I've both worked with and admired. And my love, Stanley Tucci. Well, I'm connected to him. He isn't connected to me...just yet. hee hee hee... (And yes, I realize that most of my friends are virtual - but there IS some peace in knowing that I could call them up if I wanted to. They are not Farmville animals...)

You know what? I am a loyal friend. I am a good friend. I am there for you. I appreciate my friends because I know that true friendship; which I define as a mutual attachment, bond, that link in understanding, that is hard to come by. I am usually really careful when I choose my friends and let someone into my life because of my little penchant for being there for them no matter what. Remember? I'm the girl who's reeeeaalllly bad at ending things? I am the consummate second-chance-giver. I throw no one away. I tend to seek out friends as soul-mates, intimates, alter egos, defenders, champions. And I mirror their esteem back to them.

I remember a friend wanted to set me up on a date recently with Frankie Valli. I said, OMG I CAN'T!!!!!! If I date him and like him I'll never get rid of him - and eventually, ok very soon, he is gonna die - and if I have trouble killing a spider how am I gonna do waking up with a body?!?!?!?!?... Yes. Me. Straight to hell.

Hollywood is a tough town to have friends in. It's the place, according to Marilyn Monroe, where they'll pay you a thousand bucks for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul. Although I believe any big city is like that. A city is the place where people gather from all over to let their hometowns and all that they were in them and any friends that came with them disappear. I too fled a house full of mentally and emotionally challenged adults and watched them disappear when I came rip-roaring out of the Northern California Bay Area - but I believe I retained my ability to bond my heart with and form an alliance with affection and trust and hope. And you know what, that hopey changey thing works out great for me. I let people in my life be who they are and only move away from them when they hurt me enough.

The hardest part about loving friends is that there is the risk you might be betrayed by them. What I remember keenest about being divorced is losing my best friend. I always felt that my marriage was a true friendship that had crossed the line with a kiss. I truly believed that the last place I'd get screwed was at home. There are different kinds of betrayal, but I define it as the abuse of your faith in someone. It is the ultimate act of faithlessness. It can be called duplicity, selling someone out, falseness, double-dealing. Hard to say which is most painful. Easy to remember having experienced them all. None fun.

My friendship betrayal has a bizarre pattern. I meet a person who makes my heart smile. I let him or her - NEVER an it - into my life. We become friends. They like me. They want to be like me. They want to be me. (I make being me look easy.) They try to figure out what makes me me. Then they try to be me. (It's a little harder than it looks. There is some serious pathology there! hee heeeeeee) When they can't be me, they blame me for being me. Then they simply want to kill me and someone ends up crying. Usually it's me. For being me.

When they stalk out of my life they are usually furious at me for being me. To show me who's boss, they crustily go back to being themselves - as if I had tried to make them drink the me Kool-Aid. Listen, not that it's any great shakes to be me. I think the big allure in it - is that I like me. Warts and all. Just as I had liked them. Warts and all.

I think it's vital to have more to your relationship than just the loving the warts though. Many a friendship has been based on a mutual hatred of a third party. This is why they call your next relationship the rebound relationship - without a lot of serious introspection chances are your strongest attraction to each other is a hatred/jealousy of the last person one of you loved.

There is also the wart-like common enemy friendship. I recently rid myself of a common enemy relationship. Talented guy. Huge hater. As embarrassed as I am to admit it, his friendship filled a niche for me. I could let him hate and revile everyone and everything and I could live vicariously through it. He had enough bile in his veins for the both of us. The friendship fell apart according to plan; loves me, wants to be me, can't be me, hates me and then wants to kill me. I got out of there at Stage Four - the hates me part. But when hatred of that kind is couched in friendship it's hard to tell when you are at that stage. You need the trigger. The betrayal. It happened.

Despite the love I felt for this friend - the deep affection for, total acceptance of, the fondness, warmth and familial intimacy - I cut him loose. His profound insecurity and his inability to be loyal had caught him up. There are things friendship makes me turn a blind eye to, but I'm a lot like Tyra Banks, and with the requisite chin wagging - do not play with my money, honey. Do not play with my money. My favorite tic about this particular relationship was that he thought his meanness was evened out by a spiritual veil. He was stunned to think he would lose a friend when he had the power to pull someone's arm down and tell them what vitamins they needed. I love LA.

"But I'm a homeopath! Trust me!"

People can suck at times - I mean we all suck at times. But I'll tell you - when you are at the bottom, it is your friends who will be there raising your face into the sun, hugging you into health and reminding you that your are the princess of the planet. They are friends who ooze candor, honesty, authenticity, sincerity and arrive with vodka.

I had a true good girlfriend love me through the lowest point of my life. A period when I had forgotten that everything eventually passes and that the only constant in life is change. She and I were out power-shopping for jeans that didn't make us look our age when asked me something. Fifty paragraphs later we get to the point of this blog. (Stanley, you will learn to love this about me, trust me.)

I am on this teetering path to remember to "expect the best" from everyone and everything. Sometimes I forget - and my sharp little tongue takes over my body - as I assume the worst. She asked if I have been hurt too badly to ever trust again. I didn't know offhand - and that so bugs me. Every question is a quiz I must ace. I took a fearless inventory.

I looked back and found myself grateful for every person who walked in and out of my life. I don't feel the need to belittle anyone (in order to justify the hurt) simply because I am clear about who in my life matters, who never did, who won't anymore, and who always will. I answered her that I think we ALL have been hurt - especially if we are sentient beings over the age of seven - and I think that defines all of the dozen or so of you who read this - but I truly truly truly hope I can trust again. Trust off the bat. Expect the best. It's definitely my goal.

But to be completely truthful, because I was the kind of kid who read the directions and did NOT need to place her hand in the flames to figure out that "fire burns" I think the next person to get in will probably have to earn that right. I am careful now, though I do try to go through life with joy in my heart and tenacity of spirit and a picture of Stanley under my pillow. It keeps the dark circles from under my eyes. Sure, I have been hurt and I'm even gimp. It's only a flesh wound.

I eagerly await friendship. I eagerly anticipate love and will know him the second I meet him. I will accept nothing less and as Oscar Wilde said, "if you are not too long, I will wait for you all my life." But I also know, like I know the sun will rise tomorrow, that when the love is there I will accept it and embrace it - and then take it shopping at Tiffany's.

Kidding.

Kinda.

Until then, I have my family - warts and all. My daughter - 18 and all. (In the picture above. You have NO IDEA how hard it was for me not to sound like my mother..."If you do that with your eyes they'll stay like that!!!!) And my friends - all that vodka. Lots of what I learned about love and friendship comes from AA Milne. Here's a favorite quote of mine. I like to pretend it is spoken directly to me:

promise me you'll always remember:

you're braver than you believe,

and stronger than you seem,

and smarter than you think.

- Christopher Robin to Pooh

You know you love me. Candi

does anyone read this......................

2010-04-19T11:35:00.001-07:00

Hi Everyone -

This is just a quickie post (a real one about my adventures at Wizard World is coming). I added this as a comment to my "PERFECT STORM" post, but felt strongly enough about this article that I wanted to post it for you all to read.

I just read the most fascinating article in the New York Times Magazine - from Sunday, April 18, 2010. It is called "The Estrogen Dilemma" - and it talks about what it feels like to be a woman whose hormones are unbalanced. The feelings of depression, of rage, of sadness, and confusion combined with the way our bodies respond trying to get back to homeostasis with sweating and night terrors and insomnia - that only add to the feelings of heart-stopping sadness and anxiety swirling about - were not mine alone.

I too, went to my doctor feeling all the things I was feeling and was told it was empty nest syndrome, stress, and myriad other causes. I tried to explain what was going on inside me. How I felt utterly alone and needed support. My brain had stopped working. I was crying and sad and unable to move. I was anxious. My body was in flux.

I wish I had this article to bring in that was so succinctly and brilliantly put into words by the author Cynthia Gorney.

How do you say, 'I'm coming unglued,' so that someone hears just that and steps in to help? I think I did it wrong. :) I always do, don't I?

This is one time that it breaks my heart to say: I was right. It was not the looming empty nest, or the cheating boyfriend or all those other things, by themselves - it was the combination of all of these things - an attack in one day or so it seemed - capped by the betrayal and subsequent non-existent support of my then lover. I mean, if we weren't talking about how he was not being seen for his true potential - than there were only texts about his not being seen for his true potential. hee hee

I did get through the worst of it all or so it seems, and feel more balanced (certainly happier and thinner!), though I sometimes still feel a deep sadness.

The article brought tears to my eyes as I read it. It does now recalling it. Somebody out there gets it. The mere fact that it exists takes away the 'crazy' label I was awarded by someone whose love and support I needed at the time, as I teetered on the edge of the abyss of self-destruction, crying out in my own way (to thin air apparently)..."Uh, hi, it's me. I'm in here somewhere. Can you help me out here?"

The article's existence relieves me but also adds to my pain. I feel relief in knowing myself so well, that I know when I am not happy - and want that state of being back! The pain is knowing that I had been alone in my relationship all along. There really was no one there for me. Thank goodness for my friends...

Read the article. Pass it on. Step in to maybe help a girl you know out, would ya'?

2010-04-13T12:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I Forget...

...but luckily I have this photo on my handy iPhone to remind me that life is, in fact, whatever you make it. Planning a trip back east to visit prospective colleges, I was losing my smile and spark after five days of whatever-could-go-wrong-going-so-wrong. I was so upset by what was going wrong that I forgot to remember what was going right.

The college options I had meditated and prayed for were materializing. At that moment I thought that was a burden, until my phone buzzed, and I saw the 'expect the best' photo and listened as my daughter told me which of her brilliant, beautiful and talented friends did not get in to their dream schools that day.

I couldn't make flights following a visit at NYU work out so I had to book our visit to Boston early, at a great cost for flights, hotel and transportation to and from the airport. I was adding it all up, and then my phone buzzed and there was the photo you see above flashing at me again. My gigs were moved to this week - and I would make up in one day what it cost me to move our travel. Matthew arrived on time to grab our bags and whisk us to LAX. The traffic was thick but we got there, walked in, put our bags on a conveyor belt, walked straight thru to screening and to our gate and onto the plane. It was waiting because the previous flight had been delayed by 3 hours. Expect the best...

We arrived at our hotel after a harrowing cab ride, taking us all over the place, past road closures and orange cones and up and around the bend. As I was going to complain about the route I checked to see the time on my phone and there it was again - 'expect the best.' I took a deep breath and imagined the rest of our stay as being perfect.

For the remainder of our time in Boston I walked my talk and expected the best. And it was. Including finding out my kid's best friend was staying in our same hotel and would be taking the train into New York with us. Not knowing any better we accidentally got into the quiet car - and were shushing our girls for three and a half hours all the way into NYC - laughing our butts off. Be vewy vewy qwiet...

Penn Station was a zoo - and my happiness began to unravel. I seemed to have so many mixed emotions about NYC these days. It had always felt like my town - its heartbeat matching mine and the pulse of the people walking and talking synced. But I had let myself believe that a large part of why I loved the city so much is that I once loved a man who lived there. False. False premise. We've been over this. I knew it to be false, but still I had uneasiness as I struggled to get my bearings coming up out the ground like a mole rat - thinking ok...which way is east?

The four of us travelers split up for a few hours and were reuniting in Times Square for dinner. I don't like Times Square. I never have. It reminds me of the cruise ships I sang on when I was young and just starting out. It's a place for civilians and amateurs. It is crowded and smells wrong. It is bright and noisy and people are stopping in the middle of the street and sidewalk and photographing billboards. Billboards that in their own community they'd launch a FaceBook page to remove. I'm so small I'm afraid that one day I will be swept up in the tide of humanity, never to be found again.

My uneasiness was growing. We were serendipitously meeting up with my daughter's high school group at a play that night, the Stanley Tucci directed "Lend Me A Tenor." While I was looking forward to taking that little Stanley man in my arms and letting him dip me back for the big kiss - I couldn't shake a strong sense of sadness. I was checking my watch for the time all day and so I had not been reminded to expect the best. "Lend Me A Tenor" was so brilliant I wanted to jump out of my seat and run up to the stage, knock Jan Maxwell on her butt and assume the role of Maria Morelli. We waited in the ubiquitous autograph line outside the stage door but apparently Stanley leaves first thing - lickety split - and so no kiss would be happening that night. I turned on my phone to see how much of a charge I had left and up came 'expect the best.' Right then, a very drunk young man made a ceremonious bow in front of me and handed me a rose. Then he and his friend then staggered into traffic - in front of an NYPD cop on horseback! I wanted to shout RUN to the boys - but instead I just slipped the rose into my purse and pretended it came from Stanley.

Saturday was spent at NY University - and I found it hard to focus on the positive. Know what I mean? I found myself looking for the flaw, the crack, the negative. I didn't know where any of this was coming from! Then my phone buzzed and there was a text from my friend Jill in California that made me laugh and the 'expect the best' sign that made me smile inside. My daughter and I walked the whole day all over NY - from Union Square to NYU and then all over looking at dorms and eating halls. We went to a cafe called S'mac and I treated the kids to a meal at a place that would have my butt the size of Florida if I ever lived in NY.

If I ever lived in NY. Hmm. When did if come into play? Why couldn't I shake this ennui? Is this where the anxiety was coming from? Was I chickening out on my plan?

I came back to the hotel before she did to change and met the most charming Texan ever. We made a date to have a drink on Sunday afternoon and I invited him to accompany me to meet my girlfriends for dinner. When my daughter got back we walked all the way down to the 500's on Broadway to shop - then over to Little Italy to eat - then back up to Union Square to sleep. I swear it was five miles we walked. Sunday we were up early to get my daughter back on a plane to LA. She was in a foul mood and we left without a kiss goodbye. Something I do not recommend allowing to happen. I grabbed a paper and sat in the lobby lounge reading the NY Times, doing the crossword puzzle, and having coffee. My phone buzzed - yes "E.T.B." came up - and it was my daughter telling me she was safely at JFK - and loved me.

I decided to go for a run. The day was glorious. There was a street fair on and I weaved in and out of the vendors stopping only at the guy selling albums - LPs - just looking. Out on my run I saw the real New York and the real New Yorkers. People just like me, doing what I would be doing, in a section of the city without neon or cabs or tourists or jet hotels. I grabbed a coffee from Dunkin' Donuts and sat in the square listening to some incredibly bad music and eating organic grapes. I heard the accent all around me that I love so much - that reminds me of my family. I unwound from the pressure of the college road trip as performed by a single mother who makes her living as an actress and therefore has no steady income and is not in her 30s.

Just then, because apparently it is my fate - a truly crazy man in a beard and mustache and white leotard and tutu and tiara and carrying a wand passed by and screamed in my face - "EXPECT MIRACLES!!!!!!" So right then, right there - ok, after I stopped laughing - I found I just didn't care. I gave it up. I let it go, just as I had all the other things in my life, both recent and not so. It was like a deep yoga cleansing breath. I expect miracles. And voila - New York got me back.

My mood and anxiety was over wondering how I could do it. I had to be reminded that I am Candi Freaking Milo - I can do anything! I laugh in the face of danger. I run from strangers. The rules do not apply to me and never have. Moving to NYC was never about a guy. Moving there was about following my heart. So I put my hands on my chest and listened to my heart and found that the rhythm of it matched the city's. I promised to remind myself that in New York I am beautiful and funny and happy and free. To remind myself that the money for college will find it's way to me. That every curse of this trip was truly a blessing. That Stanley should have waited.

Up walked the Texan with a rose for me. He and his insurance group were out enjoying the day. We did end up going for a drink but the date ended there. I couldn't listen to a man in a bolo tie talk about the 'freaks he saw on the streets. Bunch of liberals.' Oops. These are my peeps he was talking about. So I walked away. Three blocks uptown to be exact and met my girlfriends at Giorgio's - and we closed the place giggling and being girly about where I was going to live WHEN I moved to New York...

A bit tipsy I wobbled the three blocks back to my hotel and flopped onto the huge king bed. My phone went off and EXPECT THE BEST flashed before my eyes. The text was from my daughter telling me I was the best mommy in the whole world and that she loved me.

I drifted off to sleep thinking to myself - wow, imagine what would happen if I expected miracles...

Candi

2010-04-05T23:42:00.000-07:00

Have You Got 72 hours To Spare?

About 5 years ago I started to work with the USO of Metropolitan Washington DC. That's when I went on my first 'tour' with them. The word tour is in quotation marks because I live in the unsung world of animation voice over. So my tour was not to Iraq. My first tour was stateside. Yes, I am the type of celebrity that is able to eat in restaurants almost every day and am NEVER bothered for my autograph. Now I will admit that if I want to play around with kids I simply whip out a little "Maya" or "Dexter" or "Mrs. Wakeman" or "Cheese" or "Coco" behind their backs and let them wonder who it came out of...

Anonymity serves me. I act because I love to - and not for any fame it may provide. OK. That, and the check. My lack of TV recognition for anything other than the plethora of on-camera commercials I have done has never caused me a moment's concern - until my first USO tour.

I arrived at Washington Dulles airport and was met by a woman holding a USO sign with my name below the logo. I have not ever felt so unworthy of a sign and a free ride. I murmured while on the way to Walter Reed Medical Hospital that I didn't think any of our soldiers would know my voices, let alone who I was. I was assured by my driver Dick that they would. And that, in the big picture it really didn't matter. I wouldn't understand that last sentiment until I got there.

When we arrived at Walter Reed a young man took my ID and then asked our driver to pull to the side. He was heavily armed and I was a little worried. Do you think my moving violations preceded me? When we pulled over he asked me to exit the vehicle. I was nervous. I got out of the car and the soldier grasped me in the biggest bear hug and told me that he proposed to his wife while watching an episode of Dexter's Lab. And then he took his picture with me and waved us in. We pulled up to the USO spot reserved in the front of the hospital and a staff of three people awaited my arrival. When I got out they shook my hand and hugged me, grinning from ear to ear. This one's 5-year-old loved me in Maya & Miguel. This other one loved The Flea from Mucha Lucha. I was feeling less insecure.

We entered the building and my ID was processed, my phone confiscated and we grabbed the first elevator up to the admitting ward. I was handed off to a sergeant who led me around for the rest of the day and held my hands when I couldn't enter another room. The drill was that I was robed and gloved before entering any returning warrior's room. First permission was asked of their family - and then we were asked to come in. I was prompted not to ask how they were doing - but to thank them for their service, welcome them home, give them a photo, any goodies I had brought with me, and then take a Polaroid snapshot with them if they wanted.

The first room I entered was a boy's. It had to be a boy. His chest was torn apart and had been stitched together. He was missing an eye and his head was swathed in bandages. He wanted to meet me. I walked in and saw him and the first words out of my mouth were, "How are you?" And he told me. It had been less than 48 hours since his surgery and less time than that since his airlift from Iraq. He had come in contact with an IED - and it had torn the holes in him. All I remember besides his sweet, sexy smile was that he couldn't wait to get back to his unit. We took a photo - I gave him an autographed one of me, left a message in one of my voices for his cell phone and climbed into his bed for our Polaroid. He was loving it. He wanted to make his wife jealous. She had apparently stepped out to grab a bite to eat. He was 19.

The way it goes, I learned from him and others that day, is when you are injured you are assessed in the field. They decide right there if you can make it through the airlift to Germany. If you can, you are immediately taken from the field to Germany. There they make another assessment and get you immediately to the USA - and into Walter Reed or Bethesda Hospital. You are then worked on - and either 24 or 48 hours later some woman who does cartoon voices is climbing into bed with you. There is one image seared into my mind - the wounded able to walk arriving through the front doors of Walter Reed Hospital with their gear still in their hands.

Next room. Traumatic head injury. This man was a firefighter from Massachusetts with four young children when a device exploded and a balcony collapsed on him. He communicated by blinking and small movements of his index finger. After leaving him with a million bits of swag and a hug - and stuff for all of his children surrounding him I walked out grinning and collapsed myself into the arms of the sergeant. Twelve more rooms to go. Twelve more brave young people who had given all for us. The others on the ward too sick or exhausted or traumatized to see the likes of me.

Each person I visited was grateful to be alive and excited, willing and as soon as they were able - wanting to get back to their unit and support their efforts. The cart following me from room to room with the goodies sent by Cartoon Network was slowly emptying. But we weren't done.

I was whisked in the van from Walter Reed to Bethesda where the same thing happened. I was greeted by hospital brass, de-phoned and sent room to room. More amazing strong and brave warriors.

From there I went to a children's ward and sat and colored with the children too young to really understand the concept of a grown woman making funny voices for a living. I want you to know I colored a little bit better than the 4-year-olds. Thank you.

I was then taken back to my room and allowed to rest. The next day I visited Ft. Meade and Indian Head - to visit and sign autographs for children. It was July and the weather was stifling but these children, hundreds and hundreds of them, lined up quietly and patiently to get their autograph, a hug from me and some goodies. I spoke with the spouses of deployed personnel and asked them how they coped. It was as hard as you imagine.

I then had a quick bite of a sandwich, some popcorn and a bit of spun cotton candy and moved on to Quantico - where I met with many many many fans of The Flea. I signed autographs and made jokes and then I was done.

I had a bite alone at the Old Ebbitt Grill in downtown Washington DC - which is now my favorite restaurant in Washington. and just the act of being silent and alone allowed all the feelings, the signals, the emotions, the events of the past 48 hours to wash over me. Just so you know, THIS is where I first learned to say I was crying because my dog died...

The last day I was taken to one last base filled with kids anxious to meet me before I was whisked back to Dulles to fly home. I don't recall the base - but I recall noticing the tireless and fearless work the men and women of the USO were doing. They had arranged all the goodies that the kids were allowed to pick from, were manning the tables, had prepared and were serving the lunch the kids were eating, were supervising the cartoons being shown prior to my arrival and were cleaning up after the close to 300 children who had passed through the door.

I ran out of photos to sign and ended up signing my name to toys and t-shirts and napkins. I was thanked for not forgetting them, for thinking enough of them to fly myself out, for considering returning and finally for the work I do.

I thought back to the first day that I arrived and saw the USO sign with my name below. I had felt unworthy of the attention. But I now got what Dick meant about fame not mattering in this case. It didn't. What mattered was that I cared enough to come and say thank you. In 72 hours I had met people with true courage, true grace and true humility, and they were thanking me. Wow.

I committed right then to serving the USO of Metropolitan Washington DC - and have been back 7 more times to visit with our troops. I brought others with me - both voice over and TV stars - and I called us the "Toons on Tour." I even got an award for most miles traveled (their cute way of thanking me for my dedication) at a dinner with Jon Stewart.

I haven't been back for a bit because the economy made it impossible to rustle up a team of 'toon' travelers or to wrangle the studio goodies that once came so easily. But recently I reconnected with my friends there and am putting together another trip. I've put out the calls - but so far only 1 person has said a definitive yes.

Here is my challenge to you: If you have all of your limbs, a beautiful family, your health, a job and a life you look forward to every single day - I think you need to ask yourself - do you have 72 hours to spare?

Mr. Tucci - want to come with me this May?

You know you love me - Candi

2010-03-29T09:09:00.000-07:00

Do The Right Thing...

I have been accused of being naive. I am not naive. I am a rule follower. The problem with that is I believe that most rules don't apply to me. That said, I do follow societal rules - you know, the ones like it's better for everyone if I don't run this red light. So in my naivete of trying to do the right thing and follow the rules, behave, pretend God is watching or my mother or Mother Teresa, I took a Facebook gag and tried to make it right.

I have the crappiest luck when it comes to dating. I think that's because I assume that everyone out there is a rule follower like I am. And like me, believes in the best in themselves. I am the type of person to look past the trappings in everyone and get to the person within. Sometimes, though, not even the person I'm looking into sees what I see - and they end up disappointing me.

If you look back through my earlier blogs you know what I'm saying. Others would have run from the men I have dated - but not me. Sane people call it care-taking, insane people (oh say, like me) call it putting out your heart and taking a chance by helping someone through... After the last schmo I obviously need to have more sane people surrounding me.

In fact, quite a few sane men in my life have rallied around me in an attempt to stop my madness. One of them in fact even decided I should have a date with my dream man. Stanley Tucci. I was blathering away about how I was going to take a recent upset and turn it into art - come back doing stand-up and singing in this teeny tiny musical I'm writing called Stalking Stanley.

I have admired Stanley Tucci's work since his Levi's commercial in the 1980s - ok and truthfully? In that ad? Just his arms. I lost track of him until one night I was sitting with my brother and his wife watching the movie Big Night. It ranks right up there with my other faves Rocky and Fatso. It was a rental. So when everyone went to bed I took it out and watched it again. OK, watched Stanley.

I had a crush. A big one. He is adorable. So talented on so many levels. Funny. And in my heart I think I have always looked for the Stanley Tucci type. The last guy I thought might have been, he was kinda sorta (not really) pointing in that direction. OK truthfully? Just his arms.

hahahahahahahahahahaha...

My friend then asked why I didn't just date Stanley Tucci. And I pointed out to him that while I am hugely famous with the under-5-feet-tall-crowd, I don't actually know Stanley. And at this point I am so burned that, if I could get past the whole kissing thing I would just get me a wife. And he said, whatever you do, do not print that. And well, here you go I just did - and he KNEW he had to step in.

He crafted a petition calling on Stanley Tucci to ask me out on a date and then posted a link on my Facebook page. When I first read it I laughed so hard my stomach ached. I didn't take it too seriously because I have ZERO degrees of separation happening with my man the Stan. I don't know anyone who knows him. I don't think he has ever watched an episode of Dexter's Laboratory or would recognize my voice as Cheese in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. It was harmless.

Then people started to sign it. And when I read it thoroughly I smiled because my friend got right to the heart of my matter - I would love to have a date with Stanley Tucci. Not someone like him.

So on the petition went. And after a few days I forgot about it. Then I got an email from a fan disparaging me for wanting to date someone I didn't know and saying that he was not a nice man. I asked her if she knew him. She admitted she didn't. And I said, well neither do I - and the last guy I DID know turned out to not be a nice man, so I'm going to take a chance that Stanley is out there hunting for a woman who does cartoon voices and commercials and is writing a musical about trying to date him - and if that happens, damn it!, I am going out on a date with him!!!!

The petition was getting a little heat. And I got a few more missives talking about my choice in a man. I tried to explain that the petition was an act of love and humor from a dear friend and his circle of friends and then I thought...oh hell. The best way to put this in perspective for everyone is to put my money where my mouth is.

I went online to the Food Bank For New York City - and posted this challenge; for every signature that I get on my petition I will donate ten cents ($00.10) up to one thousand dollars ($1000.00) to the Food Bank For New York City. I have already honored the existing signatures by donating $100.00 right off the bat. I have faith that there are a thousand, and hopefully ten thousand people out there who love both of our work and would like to see these two crazy kids get together... :)

We should be together. Or at least have a meal. And a make-out session.

Use your super powers for good. Do the right thing. Go online to http://www.petol.org/Tucci. Sign the petition. Sign it in your stage name. Sign it as one of the people who live in your head. Sign it again. I don't care. I don't think that the gremlins living in online petition world care either. Let's get as many signatures as we can so that the Food Bank For New York City can put out as many meals as they can.

You know you love me - Candi

2010-03-26T15:06:00.000-07:00

Jesse James...

Wow. And sitting there with the big crocodile tears. Again, there is no gloating. No joy in anyone's pain. No, see what happens?!

There is only America's sweetheart...an Academy Award winner...who suffered the same as millions of other America's sweethearts (who don't have Academy Awards - but trust and love just the same) suffer.

Lied to. Betrayed. Embarrassed.

So, what did Sandra do when she discovered the infidelity?

She kicked his ass to the curb. And this is why I love her.

And what did poor Jesse do? I bet he dropped to his knees and thanked God she was not holding a nine iron.

Good, successful, brilliant and talented women require in a man - strength, courage and honesty above all. And I believe that if any guy is texting or emailing or "facebook-ing" women, especially those who look like they need a flea dip - while in a relationship with the real "prize," a good girl that many men dream of being worthy of? Well, hell boys, that automatically makes you a tool.

Now. My tools are kept in the shed.

After of course, their ass is kicked to the curb.

Miss S - showing America's Sweethearts - all of us, each and every one - how it's done!

You know you love me - Candi

2010-03-09T19:19:00.000-08:00

Is This The Party To Whom I Am Speaking...

I am emboldened by opportunity. I am one of a gazillion American homeowners trying to stay on top of my mortgage and all it's shenanigans as it changes shape faster than Kirstie Alley on reality TV.

I read everything. Directions. Ingedients. The trades. The Times in NY and LA. Fine print. Side effects on pharmaceutical ads. So, when reading how we Americans bailed out the banking industry and how our government is on top of them to do right I decide to call my bank and get a little slice of the pie I baked, paid for and sliced.

So I call my bank...let's just call them...Bank of Airheads...or BofA for short. I have a weird, monstrous loan, that I didn't understand when I got into it, but I understand much better now that I have received the 932,000 items in the mail explaining my loan to me. Now I get it completely, if only Russian were my native tongue - cause that's what it looks like to me folks. Cyrillic writing. As far as I can tell, and this is ALL I can tell, the punctuation is brilliant.

I ring the bank up and get the cheery announcement - happy that some voice over person is working and then immediately wondering why I didn't go up for it - to hold on because my business is very important to them. I never believe that. Because if my business were important to them, I would have gotten a birthday card. Nonetheless, I am willing to let that pass (for the time being) as I hold for a loan servicer. The word servicer leaves a little guck taste in my mouth. Servicer. I don't even want to go there. I'm hyped up on coffee, good carbs and desperation - and if I get side-tracked I will never reach my goal. So I brush that thought aside...after I write it down.

Click. Click. Clack. Music interrupted. I wonder if The Red Hot Chili Peppers know that someone re-recorded "Snow" while high and quite possibly dead, but most certainly slightly talented.

"Hello. Is this the party to whom I am speaking?"

I don't know what to say. I truly don't. Well. I do. But I know I'm being recorded. But I'm so dumbfounded to hear Ernestine the Operator from Laugn-In I say,

"I don't know, is it?"

This stumps her. She regroups and asks,

"For security purposes, can I have your name and last four of your social?"

"Can I have yours?"

"Why do you need mine?"

"Why do you need mine?"

"Because Miss. Because I need to access your file."

"But how do you know you need to access my file, you don't even know why I am calling? There isn't a stitch in there about any prior arrest for any disorderly conduct, and if he had only listened to me explain why I was speeding I would never have gotten out of my car. And you haven't introduced yourself. You know, you're supposed to give your stage name to those of us calling about our loans. Unless, you know, because you've written so many bad ones, including those that are no longer legal in the state of California (only I say it in my Arnold Schwarzenegger voice, Gall-ee-vor-neeya), you get a little afraid that someone might come and look you up..."

"How can I help you, ma'am?"

"By going back to Miss for starters. And I hope you can. I've called about my loan. Do you need the loan number so you can access my file?"

Silence.

"Can you hold a second please?"

"As a matter of fact, I would prefer not...hello?..."

Tall and tan and long and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking. And each time she walks all blah blah the men go blaaaahhh.... Right now, he's probably standing up behind her showing her how to shoot a combo, but he don't know... If ever I would leave you, it wouldn't be in blah blah... Come to believe I better not leave before I blah blah to ride... 'Scuse me while I kiss the sky... I just haven't met you yet...Stanley Tucci...

"Hi this is Thomas. How can I help you?"

"Thomas, what happened to the nice nameless lady I was speaking to?"

"You were turned over to me. Now is there something I can help you with?

"Why, do you know Stanley Tucci? Kidding. As a matter of fact I've been kidding all along, but I am about to get quite serious. Have you seen the new collection at Saks - who is buying for them?!"

"Miss..."

"Miss Milo. Thank you for going back to Miss, by the way. I do look fabulous and I like when that is reflected in my personal address. It makes me really happy."

"Well we are all here to make you happy, Miss Milo."

"Glad to hear that. Glad that is on tape. Because here is exactly how you can make me happy. I want my margin spread to come down from 2.5 points to 1. I want my interest rate to reflect the current market rate - dropping a solid 2 points. And I want a refund of the usurious interest charged to my loan over a loan I did not understand and is no longer viable for the property it was written for. How's that? Can you make me happy, Thomas? Think we can wrap this up today, or do I need to listen to some Hot 100 tunes?"

Peg I will come back to you... Ever since I met 'ya, seems I can't forget 'ya... Reunited and it feels so good, reunited cause we understood... Baby we can talk all night, but that ain't getting us nowhere, I told you everything I possibly can...

"Miss Milo, we are going to need your income tax returns for the last three years, plus all W2s, a profit and loss statement and copies of your last three paychecks to go any further on this today."

"All without knowing my loan number?"

Silence. Then click. Click. Clack.

"Is someone joining us on the line, Thomas? And remember, you have to answer honestly because this is being taped - and you don't want an 'i' un-dotted in case you really have to help me here. You know, God forbid you guys should simply not make as MUCH on my loan as you can and I can end up keeping both arms and both legs AND my house. Wouldn't that be great? Wouldn't that be helping me? Wouldn't that be what my people would have wanted when we gave you all the taxpayer money to stay in business?"

"This is Mrs. Simmons, I'm a supervisor here. How can I help you?"

"Is this a rhetorical question? I mean, can't you just replay the tape you've made over the last...oh...55 minutes?"

"Miss Milo, under the federal program for loan modification we need the items requested before we can go further. How long do you think it will take you to compile these documents and send them to us?"

"Do you have a fax? I have everything right here. Because this is the fifth time I have called and been asked for the same documents - only this time, without being asked for my account number. So I'm thinking either you guys have a picture of me under the word STALL - or this is a huge run-around. I bet you if you ask me my account number, you will see you have everything you need to make a determination. All I need Mrs. Simmons is a yes."

"I'm sorry to do this to you. Would you please hold."

It wasn't a question. Click. Click. Clack.

"Thank you for calling Bank of Airheads Home Loan Processing Center. Your call is very important to us. Please listen to the following menu. Para asistencia en espanol, oprima numero dos."

I press numero dos. I am nothing if not emboldened by the opportunity to be hung up on again.

You know you love me...Candi

2010-02-28T16:39:00.000-08:00

The Perfect Storm

That's a nautical expression. The perfect storm. It means a particularly violent storm arising from a rare and unprecedented combination of dangerous factors.

Yup. That was my life beginning August 2009.

You have to forgive me if I sound like I am rehashing earlier posts. It's just that I can look back on it and laugh now because I have the beauty of perspective, something sorely lacking about the time that the first tide came ashore.

I picked my daughter up from Yale in early August and spent the longest 36 hours on the planet in New York with my boyfriend at the time - who decided then to reveal that he wondered whether he had missed the boat by not moving in with a woman he had met at a wedding a year or so earlier, that he had 4 dates with, and on the last one she asked him to move in with her. I was torn between thoughts of murder and wondering myself if he was special needs. I told him that if he felt he missed out - he should contact her. Turns out he already had. Nice.

Then, in September I rolled the dice one more time. I felt I deserved to give my passion, show business, an heroic effort and changed agencies. For those of you who don't know what that means, it means explaining to people who work for you that you want to break up. It is emotional and yet, for those involved, so not personal.

The winds of my perfect storm are whipping up.

Early October comes and I visit New York to celebrate the same boyfriend's birthday and I am bitten by an infected mosquito and I start having these unbelievable episodes of "sweats." I mean I look like Albert Brooks in 'Broadcast News'! I wonder if I have malaria from the bite!?!? I get back to LA and a couple of weeks later it is time for my annual checkup. I am as healthy as can be. Yay! But my blood work is a little funny. My doctor suggests I try these things called HRT pills. I ask what HRT means and he says hormone replacement therapy. And I think...oh...ok.

WHAT?!? WAIT!!!

Noooooo! I'm not ready! Come on God, can you just give me a break, here!?!? I'm too young and adorable. I go on these pills and a patch and within five days I absolutely and utterly lose my collective, ever-loving mind. I am Mario Andretti on the freeway. I am arguing with squirrels, in Italian. I am sleepy, weepy, and all the other five dwarfs. I can't think clearly. I am crying easily. I am blowing up weight-wise. I am blowing up temper-wise. Let me add that at this point I have not slept in two and a half months. Insomnia. Unrelenting. Exhausting.

Now my winds are blowing at about 150 miles per hour.

And during this, I begin the process of college applications with my daughter and a bottle of whatever I had handy. This mean and nasty, time-consuming feat included filling out a 25 page application - for each school, uploading essays and questions, and making sure my girl stayed on doing this herself. Meanwhile I am wondering how to pay for it all.

Gale force winds.

By now I am starting to think about my January birthday. I am dreading turning this particular age - dreading it. It does not have an 0 in it. Not yet, thank you! But I suddenly feel very single - something that has never bothered me before.

The first large waves hit my shore.

One bright sunny morning I open my email to see two special ones from my bank and the woman attempting to help me refinance my home loan. Isn't going to happen. They are only refinancing loans that fall under President Obama's assistance plan. I make too much money. Hello! I should have bought those damn shoes, then! Oh my God - I thought - like everyone else in America, I could lose my house. According to this woman I have 60 days before my mortgage payment resets to be about a billion dollars a month. OK - not that much but hello, I can't pay it either way.

The day after this happens I find a new mole. It doesn't look right.

So let's have a recap shall we? In three months, I change agents, I begin the process for college that I'm not sure I can pay for, bringing me to terms with my daughter leaving me. I am trying to work with this weird medication I finally end up throwing out. I have had insomnia for months. I discover yet another pre-cancerous looking mole. I am going to have a birthday. I may have to move.

Oh.

The night before he was to come out to see me I get a "drop all the way dead" text from the cheating BF. I took it positively, I think he might have meant Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and Happy Dreadful Birthday - because all of these were coming right up.

And like a bolt out of the deep blue sea...my perfect storm hits. The November To Remember.

I hope to God I never see this type of culmination of crap again in my life. Ever. The floodgate of insane tears started and I found I couldn't move from the floor of my closet. The only good news was that while down there I found the back to my earring. So yay...

That was the lowest point of my life. The absolute bottom. I felt like America before Obama - out of hope. I tried to make myself smile but all I could come up with were knock-knock jokes - and then only the one that involved the word orange. I couldn't find one ray of sunshine to make this better. I knew I had to function eventually but for now I would stay where I was, in the dark, for 11 hours. The snap of me had been undone and I was nothing but a puddle. Me! Imagine that. I was not Hercules. I was human. And everything about me stung.

Later that night, of course wide awake, I sat on the floor of my bedroom looking out my glass door at the sky - I caught my reflection. Wow. I had asked the Universe this once before and loved how it all turned out, so I asked again, "God, can I get a minute of your time?"

The next morning the levees broke. The answer was, hey Candi guess what? The day before was NOT the bottom. And we all know you have to hit the real bottom and affirm to make deep changes before you can see the help that already surrounds you. Wait. Here's the bottom...

I was leaving an audition and I fell. Of course I am Candi Milo - so I didn't stumble and right myself. Nope. I fell out of my damn shoes!! If it weren't the icing on the proverbial perfect storm cake I would have stood up and taken a bow. hee hee hee It was hysterical!...if only it had happened to someone else...

I twisted my ankle and fell out of clogs and into Santa Monica Blvd. And oncoming traffic. My purse was open because I was looking for my car keys and the entire contents of it spilled into the street. I hit my neck and shoulder on a parking meter before I flipped over and skidded on my hands and knees into the middle of the street. I tore my knee open through the hole I tore open in my new jeans. A man selling helados frutas ran up to me and helped me to my feet. The man who almost hit me collected the contents of my purse from the street while the helados man came over and offered me a strawberry one as an ice pack for me knee. I gave the smiling queen across the street, who was doing the football referee goal posts as a sign of my perfect ten flop, a thumb's up.

This was November 14 and my knee is still black from the scar. But I will say nothing else remains of that experience. Other than the lesson. How badly it could have gone. And a gift. Perspective.

My solace has been this silly blog. Writing down my truth for the five or six who read this to see.

It all eventually worked out. It always does. Know that. I do.

The new agents are beyond fabulous. The college applications are finished, as are the auditions and both done brilliantly. The empty nest syndrome, well I'll deal with that when the time comes. Meanwhile visions of NYC dance in my head. The horrible sweats and insomnia and all that is over. My sense of humor is back where it belongs and there is no remnant of knock knock jokes. The mole was nothing and I have sworn to myself that there will be no more. The ex? Buh-freakin'-bye! My birthday was phenomenal! The best is yet to come.

But the sweetest bit of serendipity was my mortgage. Turns out there are two more years until the rate resets. So I not only have perspective - but I have time.

The payoff for not drowning in the blistering depression that was my November 2009 is that my show Stalking Stanley is being shaped by all I experienced and with the help of old and new friends; brilliant writers and composers that I would have never met had I not been right where I was. It looks bigger and better than I had hoped.

So I guess the real lesson learned from my Perfect Storm is that instead of giving up and crashing into the shore - you gotta put up your sails and ride your life right into the wind!

You know you love me - Candi

2010-02-16T19:41:00.000-08:00

At First I Was Afraid I Was Petrified...

Until I realized I had been dealing with losers all my life

I had spent my very last night thinking how you done me wrong

And I grew strong...I learned how to play mah-jongg

Why is it that in every movie where someone has had love gone wrong Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" blares? Like that's the anthem for every single person. Not every love ending is about surviving. Sometimes it's about walking away. About saying, that's not ok. It's not good enough. You are fine...but over there...I am fine...but over here.

I had a Valentine's Day. We all did. Yes, I had a break up, but it only made the day easier to get through - because believe you me, Valentine's Day was created for the person I broke up with - someone who is in love with being in love and only feels loved if it is expressed in front of everyone - thereby validating his experience.

Actually I was happy not to feel anything but happy that I don't look good in pink. I actually forgot it was a made-up holiday halfway through it! I survived the day. I actually did more than that. I had a great day! I vowed to myself to be alone - if in fact - the only option available to me is a relationship that makes me feel more alone than being alone actually does. And yes. Those are the kind of sentences that precede the question...table for one? But I don't care. And you knew that.

Yesterday I read the most horrible blurb about the most horrible book I had ever seen. The book is called Marry Him: The Case For Settling for Mr. Good Enough.

Why?!?!?

What on Earth would make you think that living with someone that does not meet your standards is better than being alone and living a full life outside of Hallmark prescribed holidays? The author jokingly talks about looking on social dating services and answering winks sent by "Sheldon2", the men she would have dismissed before turning 40.

Why?!?!?

Boy is she going to sell a lot of books to frightened women my age. I have been there.

Actually, I have been everywhere. Single. Loved. Engaged. Married. Divorced. In lust. And back again. And I can honestly say that the lowest time of my life was lying next to someone and feeling completely alone. In all my states of entanglement I have felt that at one time or another. It is when the loneliness overrides the feelings of togetherness that that state of being entangled unravels. I find if one can live amid the raveling and spools and messiness they provide - another chance for entwining happens.

I would rather wait. I would rather be alone than settle. Of course, the author was talking about kind of bizarre and artificial hoops she hoped some schmo would jump through for her - but I think that makes her an ass rather than a newly enlightened being. So maybe all the rest of the women with height requirements or job requirements that take precedence over intelligence, chemistry, humor and heart need her book. She apparently needed to write it. I don't know if I need to read it. But I won't.

For I would rather be alone than unloved. I would rather be alone than disregarded. I would rather be alone than be forced to acquiesce, pretend or search for the polite way to put things.

When I was a little girl I took a Cosmo magazine test called, "Would You Rather Be Right or Loved?" Guess.

I find that, when you feel right, there is someone you love helping you to feel that way. I have never felt the two sensations were mutually exclusive. And I am never wrong. Which makes me very happy.

I had a great shrink that once said, "anyone can get married, if they set their sights low enough." This always made me laugh. I wish they had that bubble to fill in on my Cosmo quiz, because I knew it even then. I could have had my pick of booger-picking boys growing up if only I could just play along. I never could. I went to dances alone a lot. But you know what, I learned to love to dance alone. I still do. And I am still looking for someone who can dance beside me.

I went out with great friends on Valentine's Day night and watched the movie Valentine's Day - in which every Valentine's Day scenario I have ever lived through was reenacted on the big screen. My friends and I gagged over the schmaltz and poor under five casting which included Garry Marshall himself.

I left the theater saying that the best February 14 I have ever spent was at Walter Reed Hospital with our returning warriors doing stupid voices and putting a smile on their and their children's brave faces.

Here's my life's anthem...

I get knocked down but I get up again, you're never gonna keep me down - Chumba Wumba

You know you love me - Candi

2010-02-09T19:49:00.000-08:00

College Auditions and Deafness Linked

Have you heard of this phenomenon, this college unified auditions thing? No, well where in the hell have you been, folks? It's the latest craze! Dozens of colleges and universities from all over the United States gather in three cities; Los Angeles, New York and Chicago to audition thousands upon thousands upon thousands of theater major hopefuls.

I cannot hear out of my right ear.

My daughter was one of these hopefuls and I can honestly tell you that I was not one of these hopefuls. I knew what was in store. I remember cattle calls. I remember auditioning for a Dick Clark/NBC movie of the week called, "Reaching For The Stars" along with 8000 other women in Los Angeles, hoping to be one of the new Monkees. What I forgot is how loud theater geeks (and I say that with the greatest affection - having been one) can be.

The first day was last week with one college audition. We arrived in the late afternoon - after a horrific hour and a half trek in the rain. And waited with 40 other hopefuls and their mothers. And their mothers. And their mothahs at a hotel near LAX, that could best be described as a time warp of 1976 decor and recirculated air. To start, the dean of theater for this particular school was 45 minutes late, and they had insisted that we all arrive 45 minutes early - so already I am out 3 hours of my life. And there is no bar open in this hotel for me to get a little something to tide me over the moms who are listing their daughters' and sons' resumes at rapid fire rates. In my own little mind I could hear the theme from "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly" playing.

When they asked me if I had a son or daughter, I replied neither, and added, "as a matter of fact, I'm supposed to stay away from all events involving minors...but I won't tell if you won't tell." No one got it. I felt alone. I was happy.

Then we go in the room and hear what we get for our $47,000 from a person who is both rude and charming, disinterested and charismatic - all at the same time. Then he shoos us parents out of the room. And I again head downstairs to see if they've opened the lounge. Who knows, maybe George Clooney is in there, waiting to catch a plane. Right? No such luck. And so I head back upstairs, where I am greeted by Bambi (funny, she looks exactly like me, only bendable and has the longest eye lashes on the planet) who hugs me and tells me she is so excited. I go sit near the other stage parents pretending to like them. I figure we'll be out of there in no time and I will never see these people again.

Wrong. And then wrong again.

Five and a half hours later. You heard me. Five and a half hours later, we are done. And I take Bambi down to the car hopping and skipping (like she found the open bar), prattling and giggling about how cool the guy was and how well it went.

While she was auditioning I listen to the audition horror stories from the other schools earlier in the day that we somehow missed out on, and I'm glad Bambi didn't hear I somehow blew it so I didn't have to get the look. You know the look? I am about the cutest, coolest mom in the world with the best damn job and round about three years ago I began to not know anything about anything. And I get the look. And it is only the beauty of pharmaceuticals that keep me from acting on my natural impulses when I get those looks.

"They cut my daughter in mid-song. They asked my son if he had anything else. They told my daughter to back up 3 feet and start over."

Imagine.

Are you joking me? If you think this is bad, wait until you get them in the real show business where you are not paying them to take your kid, but they are supposed to pay your kid for work in the arts, I wanted to shout. Well, I wanted to shout a little softer than I did.

And while the parents are jabbering on about where their kid spent the summer (mine went to Yale, but when asked I said "juvey") I am watching these kids deliver monologues to the wall, fists raised, chests heaving. I am watching the splits happen simultaneously in three different corners of the room. I am listening to really bad show tunes belted out as if they are alone in their showers...like me. I decide I will escape to the restroom before Mom Cindy can make her way to me to tell me all about her daughter's accomplishments, you know, cause I don't have my own kid.

As I walk into the restroom, I see a young girl crying on one of the tufts, handily leftover from the 70s. She looks up at me and I smile and ask if it was rough. She laughs and says, "they timed me." I asked how old she was. 17. Dude, you are from a major university. You have set a time limit. You have rules of engagement. You are a freaking grown-up. If you cannot get control over an audition or tell a child no thank you - without resorting to passive aggressive childish maneuvers - then go into teaching damn it. Oh. Wait.

Fuming I leave the restroom. Bambi hops over to me and my fury dissipates like a Bronx promise, and she says, "I'm number 24". Choking slightly I ask what number they're on. Five. Kill me.

We finally get out of there and drive home in the pouring rain. Next morning is day two and we are up at six am and off to LAX. Another hotel. This time the 80s were well represented. This time there are thousands and thousands of kids and parents sporting large anoraks, sensible shoes and SuperCuts@.

This day we are auditioning for two schools of about 35 presented and there are hundreds of kids at each audition. Each session is four hours long. Uh - huh. For each school they ask us parents to come in for an information session, sell us on their school, tell us what their curricula is, and then shoo us out and so they can destroy our kids' self-esteem individually. Kidding. Each college and university was doing the best they could to preserve what we parents work so hard to tear down each time a report card comes. Each school was well represented by caring and deliberate people. It's just, what do you tell little Johnny or little Mary who have traveled from Colorado, Arizona, Utah and Texas - when each school is offering only 4 spots? Or 8 spots? Or 28 total - including boys who sing and dance?

What I was really struck by that day was Bambi's and all the other kids' tenacity and belief in themselves. It was unshakeable. They knew their stuff. They were warm and gracious to one another and they genuinely cared if someone felt slighted, or hurt or their talent disrespected. I remember a group of actresses like that from my "category" days. This was when every thirty-something-petite-brunette-comedic actress went in on the same auditions. I admired that in all these kids.

Day three. Oops. Same parents and same kids from day one. And I am trying to remember what I said to whom and who I will have to make nice with...when they suddenly make it easy for me, by spying me, smiling tautly and leaving me a wide berth. Hee hee heeeeeee!!! Two more school this day. Lots more show tunes. Lots more bad audition dresses. Lots more parents spraying Entertainer's Secret into little Timmy's mouth. and yet, the bar is still not open. OK, I realize it's nine a.m. - but it is probably five p.m. SOMEWHERE in the world!!!! I'm getting a headache when I decided I need to take an aspirin. I refuse to pay four dollars in the gift shop for an Evian and shake out my last two Tylenol and head into the bathroom to cup my hand under the faucet.

When I open the door my hair blows back, pinning my ears and popping the cochlea in the right one. The girls are changing into dance attire, re-applying bad make-up and doing a sing-off. These daughters of who I will refer to as simply the Bad Intimidating Tiresome Caustic Hag moms (or BITCH moms for short) are trying to one-up each other in warming up for Carnegie Mellon tryouts. Carnegie Mellon, who is taking a total of four kids from all of the United State of America and who are seeing a total eleven of that rare delicacy known as boys who dance, act and are still singing show tunes at 17. Girls! You're all pretty and none of you have a shot in hell, I hate to tell ya'. But they can't hear me because, and this is the honest to God truth, one is singing Tonight from West Side Story while another is singing something from Rent and another is doing vocal exercises - doing the scale starting high up where only dogs can hear and sliding entire span of an entire keyboard on the word HAY.

SHUT UP!!!! YOU ARE FREAKS!!!! THERE ARE NORMAL PEOPLE TRYING TO VISIT THIS HOTEL!!!!

I couldn't hear a thing, but I could hear well enough to tell that that did not come out of me. It was Bambi who was standing in the center of the bathroom covering her ears with both hands and shouting at the top of her lungs. They stopped. For a second and then...

"Ha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-y!!!!"

We ran for our lives.

Day four was more of the same and then Day five more of the same and finally today - day six. After each school I got the lowdown. I needed to hear exactly how it went. Exactly. So OK you walked into the room annndd??? Poor thing. She gave me the blow by blow, forced to relive it all so that I could feel better about hiding that nasty mom's audition schedule under her jacket and enjoying her frantic search all the while her little Veruca Salt was screaming into her face, "you are so stupid! You are so stupid! I hate you! It's not like you even have a job! Find that damn schedule!"

Today, on the last day, we bolted out of the hotel and ran down the up escalators, gasping for breath as we raced to be the first to tag our car, apparently happy it is no longer a Toyota Prius.

All in all? It was an amazing experience. We had a lot of victories. We are hoping that we have a lot of academic choices. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me, to have given my Bambi something that was not available to me - the chance. The chance to be able to stand and deliver. The chance to perhaps fail. The chance to succeed. The chance to dream. The shot at a quality education in a profession I love. It was worth it.

My hearing is returning. I survived the stage moms, and didn't even get a lousy t-shirt. Oh! And I finally found the open bar! It was at my house all along! Cheers! (clink clink wink wink).

Candi