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Posts Tagged ‘thanks’

  1. Other People’s Problems

    January 31, 2013 by kim

    This morning I’m waiting for my exercise class to get started when my instructor comes flying in. She is cute on legs and I adore her, but the instructor waiting for her to relieve him was not amused. I could tell why. She made a mistake I have never made, but only because I have seen others make it and said to myself, “Self, don’t do that.” I’ll tell you what it was in a moment, but this incident pointed out a larger need – a need for you, dear reader, to learn from others’ mistakes.

    I have been pretty forthcoming with my own penchant for idiocy. I do so happily with humor and some self-love to go with my utter shame, but I haven’t been as free with some really awesome lessons I’ve learned in my life at the expense of someone else. I mean, with the exception of my Dad. (Don’t get drunk, give all your shit to a meth addict, and blow your brains out on the nice rug. For fuck’s sake, put plastic down!) I would like to present a little list of things that you can learn from those who went before you in my life. It might teach you something. And just maybe it will instill some gratitude so that the next time you see some imbecilic action go down in front of you, instead of looking for the nearest blunt object, you can say, “Thanks for doing that! Self, don’t do that.”

    My first bit of advice, so I don’t pull that asshole writer move and make you wait until the end of my piece to find out what happened this morning, buy a travel mug. This is so, when you are running late, you don’t fly into work gasping for breath, sincerely thanking those who covered for you, and be met with chilly glares when they see the cardboard cup of Starbuck’s coffee in your hand. Lateness can be forgiven. Lateness avec a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf Ice Blended Mocha will earn you lifelong hatred from the assistant director. However, if you have a travel mug in your hand, immediately the message you’re sending goes from, “I know I’m late but my caffeine fix was more important than your pre-op appointment,” to, “I was so desperate to get here on time I didn’t even swig down a single mouthful of my morning heroin, I brought it with me!” If you can’t be thoughtful enough to be on time, at least be thoughtful enough to not make it obvious you stopped on the way in.

    Next up: Don’t ever do something once you’re not prepared to keep doing. This applies to everything from eating fudge to fucking someone to shooting heroin. (Wow. Two heroin references in as many paragraphs. Think somebody might be coming off all of her pain pills? Maaaaaaaybe. But that’s another blog post.) My grandpa, a man I utterly adored, died slowly and painfully of complications from smoking. He was a war hero who always could find a quarter behind my ear. We shared a secret language and have the same eyes. He rescued me from more tears than I will ever remember. And in my late twenties, I trimmed his nails and washed his hair because he didn’t want the hospice women touching him more than they had to. I remember the blanket falling off of him and there was Superman, naked and frail, unable to cover his body. I looked away, ashamed for him, but he barked, “Oh, I don’t give a damn, just pick it up.” As I draped him again he muttered with an even, emotionless voice, “They put dogs down, why can’t they do the same for me?” Then he looked at me and said, “I wish I’d never had that first cigarette.” YOU CAN NEVER GUARANTEE YOU WILL STOP. You will fuck him or her again. Maybe. You will eat that again. Maybe. You will drive after one too many again. Maybe. If you live through it once, you assume you will again. Here’s the deal…. if you know it’s a stupid fucking thing to do and you don’t want to do it forever, there’s no point in doing it once. It’s not worth it. “To see what it was like,” is a pussy excuse. Use your imagination and google.

    Well, that went dark. So, to keep in the same hue: Don’t cheat. This is kinda included in the above, but I’d like to be specific about it. If you are in a relationship and you cheat, one of two things will happen. You will either stay in the relationship, or you won’t. If you do stay in the relationship, presumably it makes you happy on some level. But if you have cheated, it will never make you as happy as it could. You will always have a hum of guilt singing harmony with your bliss. You will always know you don’t deserve full joy. You will always have a secret or an apology. Even if you confess and you’re forgiven, you will know you are unworthy.

    OR…. you won’t stay in the relationship. So why waste everybody’s time fucking around? “I don’t want to hurt her/him,” is complete bullshit. You’re not the only person who knows you cheated. The other person knows. Probably a friend or two knows. And sooner or later, the person you cheated on will know. That WILL hurt and you will feel like an asshole and no matter how much you think you don’t care, that shit builds up until you’re sad and alone and think you don’t deserve affection no matter who thinks otherwise and your dog runs away and you lose your mom’s recipe for dumplings and with it the last whiff of unconditional love you might ever have. Think I’m exaggerating? I ain’t. Trust me. I’ve seen it. Don’t cheat. Find what you want in your relationship, live without it, or leave.

    Meh. Now let’s indulge in a bit more schadenfreude, shall we? It’s okay to giggle behind our hands at others’ lessons as long as it’s tempered with a bit of sympathy. You are unlikely to make these next couple of mistakes, but just in case you get drunk and take a bet, let me warn you on behalf of some unfortunates.

    Don’t get a bad tattoo. Yes, I am a tattoo snob, and I think I earned that right. But I have an appreciation for a sweet set of hearts on the ankle or a mantra on the inside of your wrist. Predictable doesn’t automatically equal bad, especially if it means something to you. I’m talking about the shit that makes sense when you’re sixteen and have had too many wine coolers, (three). A band name. A Warner Brothers cartoon. Or Japanese characters if you don’t speak the language. Because, true story, I met a woman whose father carried the Japanese words for “crisis” and “opportunity” on a card in his wallet. The family was Mexican. When Dad died, this woman and her sister had the symbols tattooed on their necks. Fast forward to a few years later and she was working with a Japanese woman. It was hot and she put her hair up in a ponytail. The Japanese woman stared and then asked bluntly, “Why you have ‘dangerous door’ tattooed on your neck?” It may be too much to ask that you find an artist and spend months creating a personal and original work of art that will be tanned and framed after your death, but for God’s sake, don’t get a permanent work put on your body because you thought it would be hilarious when you were high. (I’m talking to you, idiot who had “R” and “L” put on your feet. I would have forgiven you if they’d even been on the wrong feet. Points for irony. But as it was, you weren’t funny, you were an ass.)

    For those of you who might be wealthier and older, your version of this advice is don’t get liposuction if you never exercise and don’t get boob implants if you’re anorexic. The body needs muscles and no amount of slicing and dicing will make up for their aesthetic effect. I could go on, but I don’t think I need to. If you need visual reinforcement, just turn on any television show that has the word “housewives” in the title.

    The same dude who had the feet tattoos taught me another lesson. Don’t tell people how much your clothes cost. Just don’t. Anybody who would be impressed already knows and everybody else just wants to punch you in the neck.

    Finally, I’m going to give you a TO do tidbit. I have learned it numerous times from many people I think are awesome and it makes me love them more every time. Be free with your gratitude. Say thank you. Wave when someone lets you into a lane of traffic. Compliment a barista’s foam creation. If you’re feeling saucy, drop a quick curtsy when someone holds a door open for you. It costs you nothing and it feels great. I mean, for you AND the person you thank. It’s easy, it’s free, and it rocks. It can even be hilarious. I derive a lot of amusement from calling companies and telling them about someone who did a good job. The conversation usually runs as follows:

    Them: ThankyouforcallingSearthisisAhmudhowcanIhelpyou?
    Me: Hi, Ahmud! My name is Kim Rhodes.
    Them: Thank you Mrs.Rodess, howcanIhelpyou?
    Me: Well, I just had my refrigerator installed. Do you need the purchase number?
    Them: No thank you. Do you have the purchase number?
    Me: Yes! I have it right here.
    (reads off number)
    Them: Okay, Mrs.Rohad, IhaveitrightherehowcanIhelpyou?
    Me: Well I just wanted to thank you. Larry was really brilliant. He went above and beyond the call of duty and I wanted to let you know.
    Them: Okay, what was the problem?
    Me: There wasn’t one. He was awesome. On time, incredibly tidy, nice to my dogs, and explained something really confusing about my garbage disposal while he was here.
    (long pause)
    Them: I’m sorry, I’m not understanding what the problem is.
    Me: There isn’t one. This line is just for feedback, right?
    Them: Uh…. yes?
    Me: So I wanted to give some good feedback. I imagine you don’t get much.
    Them: I… I don’t actually think I have ever had this happen.
    Me: Well now ya have, Ahmud. Thank you for your time and make sure his manager knows, would you?
    Them: Yes, absolutely. Is that all, Ms.Rhodes?
    Me: Yep. Have a great day.
    Them: I will. And… thank you.

    Thanks for indulging me. I appreciate it. I really do. And thank you to those who learned their lessons the hard way so I didn’t have to.

    Category general musings | Tags: ,,,,,,, | 8 Comments

  2. Little Kindnesses

    July 13, 2012 by kim

    Okay. Let’s admit it. The chances of me getting an Oscar are slim. They are! Oh don’t be silly, I won’t. No, I won’t. No, come on, stop with the flattery… no, really… LOOK I’M NOT GONNA WIN AN OSCAR! Thank you for your feeble, if imaginary, attempts to argue that fact. However, and I am being totally truthful here, the only reason I want to get an Oscar is because I want to give a thank you speech. The Oscar itself is a political dildo and it doesn’t even take batteries. Meh. But to have a few moments when I can publicly say “thank you” before they shut my mic off and play orchestral medleys would be priceless.

    Today I saw a news article about a man who celebrated his sixty-fifth birthday with sixty five acts of kindness. He stood on the corner and gave out five-dollar bills. That inspired me and made me think of two people in my life that gave me spiritual five-dollar bills and never even knew it. They did it when five dollars was the exact amount I needed to buy my soul back from the devil. Those are the people I would thank in my Oscar speech, so right now, I’m gonna thank them in my blog. Which is a TOTAL close second to an Oscar speech, I know, but the mutha fuckas can’t start flashing signs telling me to “WRAP IT UP” after twenty seconds. So there’s my silver lining.

    My very first “big” show I booked when I got to Hollywood was “Star Trek: Voyager”. I played an alien. Big shocker there. But I was given an amazing through-line and emotional arc that I thought I understood really well. So I was preparing with the director for my first scene with Kate Mulgrew. I’m sorry, make that THE Kate Mulgrew. She’s fucking royalty and I was scared pant-less. She was not yet on set, but the director mentioned something I disagreed with about my character’s thought process. It just didn’t make sense and I said so. He tried to explain his point, I tried to explain mine, and a great deal of time was wasted. More would have been waisted except a door slammed and I suddenly heard a husky and enraged voice yelling, “My child has the chicken pox, I was supposed to be out of here half an hour ago, what’s the holdup?”

    Kate honed in on us. The director wasted no time pointing at me and saying, “She has a problem with the scene.”

    Thank God I was pant-less, so my piss went directly into my shoes. Kate Mulgrew is terrifying. That man sold me up the river. But it was his first time directing this particular show and Kate Mulgrew was HIGH QUEEN ALPHA. I could sympathize. I probably would have faked an epileptic seizure on the spot if I had thought it would keep her from being mad at me.

    The director explained his synopsis of the problem and then Ms.Mulgrew turned to me and said, “Well? What do you think?”

    I stammered what I had assumed to be my character’s point of view and motivation for the scene. She looked at me, looked at the director, and said, “Well she’s obviously right. We’ll shoot it both ways so you can see that she’s right and good for you, girl. You’re good.”

    No, I did not cry. But I wanted to. She apparently actually called the producers of the series as my time there progressed and suggested they find a way to use me on a more regular basis. She didn’t have to do that. She didn’t have to side with me. She didn’t have to go on to teach me about not setting props down on your lines but rather in the pauses so the sound department doesn’t want to throttle you. She didn’t have to stop taping during a moment I was so overwhelmed and couldn’t remember my lines I just needed a hug. She didn’t have to do anything but be the brilliant lead of a show I truly adored. But she did. She probably wouldn’t remember me if I sat down in her lap, but I wish I could thank her for her kindness.

    My other moment was much faster. Much simpler. But no less life-changing.

    I had finished a week on a show called “Becker” and was back to auditioning. It was brutal. I had come down to the final two actors on fourteen different projects. This didn’t make me feel happy I’d been close, this made me feel dismal I’d had my heart broken fourteen times. I was too fat. I was too young. I was too old. I was too quirky. I was too boring. And I still was so new to this town that I didn’t have a thick enough skin to let this shit slide off. So when I walked into a room for an audition on this particular day and there was no place to sit down because all the skinnier, prettier, better dressed other actresses wouldn’t move over, I was pretty damn near done.

    I went outside, sat down on the fucking ground, and looked at my material. While I was there, taking up as little space as possible on the Paramount lot, a woman who was on ‘Becker” walked past. “Becker”. The show I had worked on the week before. Yeah. I smiled and said hi. She stopped, stared at me and, with the expression on her face that perfectly suits this inquiry, she asked…

    “Do I know you?”

    I blushed furiously as she walked away. Then I started to cry. Fuck this job. Fuck this town. Fuck these people. Fuck it all.

    I wiped away my tears and looked up in time to make eye contact with David Hyde Pierce. Goddammit! I love David Hyde Pierce! I think he’s a genius! And here I am, sitting in the dirt, pathetically looking at a script I was never going to get to do. I was truly muck beneath his feet. It was too late to look away, so I readied myself for the barb that I knew was about to come. How could he NOT mock me?

    He winked at me and said, “Good luck.”

    I am still an actor today because of that wink. I wish I could win an Oscar so I could stand on stage and thank my agent and my manager and the producers and my husband and all the people who had faith in me, but then I would like to close with, “And David Hyde Pierce, who was kind to me when I was ready to quit.”

    Go be nice to someone. It might help make them who they want to be.

    Or be an asshole. And hope you don’t read about yourself on a blog someday when nobody remembers your name any more.

    Category general musings | Tags: ,,,,,,,,, | 11 Comments

  3. A Love Letter

    May 29, 2012 by kim

    I’m stuck at Heathrow, George Clooney is nowhere in sight. I’m watching Mommies with babies trying to quiet them and find a fifth hour of amusement on the linoleum floor. I’m watching sweet little old ladies snarkily say, “Oh hush it!” to people they don’t know. I’m watching some tall dude in a suit pick his nose while he speaks loudly on his cell. I’m really regretting not being more liberal with the pain medication I packed. I’m coming home from a SUPERNATURAL convention.

    People paid money to meet me. Real money. Like, you-could-totally-do-other-shit-with-this money. This is astounding to me, but more astounding is the reaction that people have when they do, in fact come face to face with me. I had more than one person burst into tears. Some stumbled on the well-rehearsed lines they had practiced. People wouldn’t look at me or wouldn’t stop looking at me. They were silent or effusive. They stammered compliments and mumbled thanks or assertively asked for a hug, being betrayed by hearts I could feel slamming through their chests.

    They were all kinds of people. Sweet-faced young children, saucy grandmothers, burly bears of men, normal girls, girls with blue hair, BOYS with blue hair, mothers, aunts, fathers, loners, a hen party and a couple of gorgeous Irish lads who woke up some latent predatory instincts in me when I found out they could dance. (WEAK SPOT! WEAK SPOT!)

    I never told them I loved them. And I should have. I think they loved me.

    My mother loved me. She was an elegant lady with a capacity for love that was inhuman. She was so beautifully damaged that her love came out in spasms interspersed with fear. She was terrified of what the neighbors would think of her parenting skills, but still sewed a cape for me to pretend I was Wonder Woman. She sat through the circuses I would choreograph in the back yard and applauded with what seemed to be genuine pride. She supported me unconditionally which seemed normal at the time, but now I know how much terror she had to face to do it. She had the Weird Kid and she loved me anyway. (When I shaved my head she did request that I not appear in public with her until it grew out a bit, but fortunately that was the day before I left for church camp so it was an easy request to fulfill.)

    Her fear of conflict frequently overrode her parental instincts, however. My sister was molested by a neighbor and when my father was told, he shot the man’s window’s out. Consequently, when I came to Mom with my own concerns of that nature, she begged me, “Just don’t let your father know.” Bad that a child got a Bad Touch. Worse that a gun was discharged and people stared. Still…. she redeemed herself. Seven years ago, weak with cancer, she stood between me and my father and said, “Frank, your child is frightened of you. I will not allow you to hit her.” That act meant more to me because I know what it cost her to express it. And how beautiful is it that ultimately love overcame every other emotion my mother felt?

    I didn’t deserve her love. Yet she gave it in a way that she became my definition of what it was. When she died, I truly believed I would never be loved again. Slowly I am realizing that love’s capacity to be expressed is infinite, just as there are infinite kinds of love. At this convention, I felt one.

    At first I responded with suspicion, thinking it’s not True Love, they don’t even know me. But it was so clear that something in me had legitimately connected with something in them and it was enough to make them bring offerings of chocolate and books for my child, or simply overcome their fear and look me in the eye. How is it possible that it’s ME who earned that love, though? Could have been anybody. But it wasn’t, was it? It was me, and I did what I could, but I didn’t do enough. Every person I made eye contact with was giving me a piece of their heart and I cherished that.

    So, after letting this marinade for a while, I think I would like to say from my broken, imperfect, undeserving heart that was loved anyway… thank you. I love you.

    Category a bit more serious | Tags: ,,,,,,,, | 57 Comments