Oh, to be rich & famous...

Clearly, I watched too many cartoons as a kid.  Wanna know how I know this?  It's because, as an adult, as I spray my tub with Scrubbing Bubbles Shower Cleaner, I truly expect to see an army of cartoon bubbles whirling over the rings of soap scum, bringing a blinding gleam to the surface below.  And no matter how many times over the years I have sprayed my tub, no matter how many times I have seen, not happy cartoon grime-busters dancing and singing my tub to a shine, but a plain white film sitting & awaiting my scrub-brush and biceps, still I am disappointed.  Still, I expect the Cartoon Clean Team to come flying from the can, armed and ready to attack the filth, with their bristley bottoms and militant might.  Alas, it is up to me and my elbow grease to keep my bathtub clean.  (And what's "elbow grease" all about?  Where did that phrase come from?  My elbows, no matter how hard they may be working, tend to be dry and ashy, requiring a decent dose of Vaseline to keep them in good order.)

Remember those dreams you had as a kid, the dreams of fame and fortune that seemed infinitely impossible yet decidedly deserved?  I used to think that I would know I was famous when one of two things happened:  1)  A rest area (now known as a "service plaza") on the New Jersey Turnpike would bear my name (who is Molly Pitcher anyway?); or 2)  A pinball machine would bear my image (oh, the fun I would be!).   I used to think I would know I was rich when I could afford a driver to take me anywhere at anytime.  (I never expected to find myself sober enough to drive myself to 7-11 at 3am.  Who'da thunk...) Now, I'm not sure how I would measure fame.  But I'd know I was rich if I had someone else's elbow grease scrubbing my soap scum.  And, if I was rich AND famous, maybe someone would create a shower cleaner in my honor, with actual cartoon bubbles doing the work for me.  Meg's Mighty Minions.  That'd be flippin' sweet.

Life Happens

"Life is what happens when you're busy making plans."

It has officially been 6 months since I moved to Vegas.  6 months.  That was the time-frame given to this adventure.  Alex and I signed a 6-month lease, which ended 2 days ago.  The plan was to re-evaluate our living situation after the Superbowl, then decide if we would be Staying in Sin City or Leaving Las Vegas (hopefully with more grace than Nic Cage).  Well, the decision was made long before the Superbowl.  The decision was made somewhere on the Caribbean, sometime around the New Year.  And the decision was made to get outta here.  Nothing was happening for me, and Alex is relatively unwelcome at the majority of casinos in town, so why stay?  The decision was made to return to New York, mainly so I could give the Big City another go, see if this time I might have the balls and the determination to get my career on track.  We figured we'd give ourselves 3 years, each of us fighting it out to succeed in our chosen non-traditional professions, and then see where we were at.  This decision was not an easy one.  After all, New York is insanely expensive, which is largely why I am not there.  And, well, it's freaking HARD to live and work in that city!  Especially as a wannabe actor with the beginnings of age spots.  But when I balanced out all the wants and needs and could-be regrets of my 33 years, New York seemed like the place to go.  Done.  Plans made.  

Then we got back to Vegas.  And life blew up.  Now we had legal conundrums to consider, now we had court dates and lawyer fees to work around.  How could we go back to New York at the end of our lease, knowing there was a hearing in Vegas on April 7th, not knowing whether that date would be an end or just another middle?  Yet, how could we stay in Vegas, a city that has kicked Alex in the teeth repeatedly and ignored me entirely?  This place felt like Purgatory; we could do nothing but wait, for who knows how long, for who knows what outcome.  And so, we made plans.  Again.  This time, we decided to head to Seattle.  Not for the long haul, but for a period of, say, 3-6 months.  Alex could work up there, and I could audition and hopefully do a show or two.  Plus, I've got lots of theatre-friends in Seattle, so this horrid isolation I've felt since leaving New York would disappear.  I'd have people I could talk to who would understand me, the Artist Me, not the Housewife Me that I've reduced myself to.  Seattle is certainly not close to Vegas, but we could fly back for the hearing in April, and if this case goes to trial, we'd at least be on the same coast.  So, Seattle.  Done.  Plans made.  We would leave Vegas at the end of our lease, find a sublet in Seattle, and take it from there.  And, man oh man, did that plan make me happy!  I've been wanting to spend time in Seattle for awhile now, but couldn't really figure out how to make it happen.  See, I'm not ready to LIVE there.  Seattle is my other hometown, but it's the place I think of when I think of settling down.  You know, staying put for more than a few years, maybe getting a house and a dog.  It's the place I imagine going to in, say, my 50's.  But to spend a few months there now, with all my friends and the mountains and the water and the theatre scene, well, that seems like bliss.  I giddily called my best Seattle girlfriends to let them know they could expect me in mid-March, I sent emails asking friends if they knew of any sublets or auditions, I scouted the Theatre Puget Sound website for summer shows that would be casting in the spring.  My plans were made, I was ready to go, and man, was I thrilled to be leaving.

"Life is what happens when you're busy making plans."

A week ago, I got an email.  "Hey Meg, just got your card from your Mom.  I'm a pianist/singer, just ending a contract on a cruise ship, coming back to Vegas, and I'm looking to start a jazz duo with a girl singer.  You interested?"  What.  The.  Fuck.  See, all my life, or at least since I started listening to Billie Holiday as a teenager, I've dreamed of being a lounge singer.  I've dreamed of wearing beautiful gowns and singing jazz standards while sitting atop a grand piano.  When I came to Vegas, I was hoping to find some such opportunity.  Nada.  Old-time Vegas was all about lounges and big-band sophistication.  Today's Vegas is all about party bands and DJ's, it's all about background music and high-energy noise.  Which is fine, but not what I was hoping for.  I've met plenty of musicians here, really cool and friendly, but no one in need of a girl singer.  So, I made my plans to get outta town, and then BLAMMO, Life happens.  Well, nothing has really happened.  Nothing more than a possibility.  But that's the closest I've come to Opportunity in a mighty long time.  On Friday, I met with Jimmy the Piano Man, we sang some songs together, and I had to consider my options.  I mean, I am DONE with Vegas, but how can I walk away from the possibility of getting to be a singer?  Meg McLynn, The Singer!!! And so, once again, Alex and I had to make some decisions.  And we decided that we're staying in Vegas.  At least through his hearing.  Mid-April.  We'll re-evaluate then.  And maybe head to Seattle (and I SOOOOO want to go to Seattle).  Or maybe stay in Vegas.  Clearly, it's too early to make plans, as Life changes on a dime.  

So, on Friday, the day before Alex and I had planned to put our belongings and our cat into the Buick, the day before our lease officially ended, Alex called our landlord and asked if we could stay awhile longer.  (No problem:  the owner has lost tons of money with his investment properties here, our apartment is on a short-sell with the bank, so what does it matter when we leave?)  I sang songs with Jimmy the piano player, then went to my voice lesson with Jess.  And Friday night, I went with Jess to the Stratosphere, a big needle-like casino where she had hired a band for a private party.  She wanted to introduce me to the band, plus there was another band playing upstairs, old friends of hers, that she wanted to check out.  I put on some makeup and a pretty dress, and I had one of those nights that I'd been wishing to have since I showed up in this town.  For one thing, I met some really cool musicians.  For another thing, I had quite a few men flirting with me (it doesn't happen often, but it sure feels good when it does).  But the best part:  I got to sing.  I got to sing onstage.  I got to sing with a 3-piece in front of a small but enthusiastic audience.  I sang "Don't Get Around Much Anymore", which I've never sung onstage before, but I don't know what key I sing any songs in, so I made Jess rattle off tunes until she named one that I knew the lyrics to and she could give me the key (G).  I forgot the lyrics as soon as I began, but I played it off well enough.  I was nervous, so I didn't cue the band at all, but they were fine without me.  And I definitely was a change of pace from the sultry, smoky-voiced girl singer working with the band.  I was high energy and loud and...whatever, I  had SO MUCH FUN!!  And, someone gave me a hundred dollar tip, so I couldn't have been that bad.  Screw that, I was good!!  I was me, I was the most ME that I've been in many, many months.  I sang in my style, and I looked straight into the eyes of the crowd, and they were with me.  And that's where I'm supposed to be.

I'm not Leaving Las Vegas.  Yet.  Life seems to be happening, on some level anyway.  Perhaps I'll spend another 6 weeks here and nothing will come of it.  But it's worth a shot.  And having one night of feeling like Me, well, it was worth the 6 months it took to get there.