Adventures in Child Acting

Calling myself a "child actor" would be kind of like calling myself a "young philanthropist" just because I participated in Girl Scouts, and yet, I did take a half-hearted swing at stardom at a very young age.

I grew up in LA with actors for parents, so some of my earliest memories are from my dad's agent's office, where I ate Red Vines and mint-flavored coffee stirrers by the dozen.  I must have looked pretty cute chowing down beneath the coffee table, because my dad's agent started sending the entire family out on auditions.  

My memories from that time are foggy, but I remember that at most auditions, I just had to say my name and age and try to look particularly adorable.  On one occasion, I was told to pretend to be in the backseat of a car, bickering with my sister over a bumblebee hand puppet.  They told me to "act natural," but that didn't mean anything to me, because I was a five-year-old with a bumblebee for a hand.  My only instinct was to attack my sister.

I'd like to tell you that I was a natural born star, charming casting directors and landing major roles, but such was not the case.  The next thing I auditioned for was an electric razor commercial.  My job was to climb onto my dad's lap, feel how smooth his face was, and give him a kiss.  But strangely, for no apparent reason, I thought I had to sit on his lap and SHAVE HIS FACE with the buzzing electronic contraption.  There, in a room full of strangers with a video camera, I became convinced that I would accidentally slit my father's throat.  I started sobbing.  We did not get the job.  

Next up was an audition for a Barbie commercial.  I went in with one other person, a seven-year-old girl named "Charlene."  "Act natural!" the casting people told us.  "Forget the rules, it's Barbie," I read in what I imagined was a conversational, semi-upbeat tone.  Charlene put her hands on her hips and strutted across the room like the world was her runway.  "For-get-the-rules," she chanted, sounding like a cheerleader on uppers, "IT'S BARBIE!!!!" she threw her hands in the air and leapt with joy.  I made gagging noises.  I think she got the job.

No one was very impressed by my abilities, and I was quickly growing older, taller, and seemingly less marketable, so I only went on a few more auditions over the years.  During one, I had to imagine a cardboard box was a dog named "Rover," and train it to roll over.  I flopped down on the ground, threw my legs up in the air, and began rolling around, going, "Roll over, Rover, like this!"  They commended me for my... creativity.

I finally stopped going out on auditions in middle school, when directors started expecting me to have some training or skill.  My sister dragged me to one last cattle call, though, where we read a scene from a movie.  The lady I auditioned for told me I needed to take more acting classes, but that I had "a good look," so I was called back.  The movie was called Catch That Kid.  The role eventually went to a little girl named Kristen Stewart.

It's too bad.  I would've liked to be friends with Corbin Bleu.

And thus, I was not destined for child stardom, I'm not rolling in commercial residuals, and I didn't grow up to play Bella Swan in Twilight.  But Kristen Stewart doesn't have a sweet blog with a huge following in Russia, so we're pretty much even.  Child acting just wasn't my thing.

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Adulthood is Hard. I Assume.

I’m not an adult yet, but I do hand wash my delicate clothing items, which makes me feel like I have some authority to speak on maturity.  But—what even is adulthood?  When will I be considered a “grown-up?”  Will it be when my parents stop paying my cell phone bill?  Or when I stop doing fun things because I don’t want to deal with parking?

I like to think of myself as a highly functioning, responsible human being.  And yet, I am still in college, I primarily subsist on Lean Cuisines, and I always feel oddly proud whenever I complete basic adult activities.  When I go to the bank and talk to the stranger that works there, or ship a package at UPS, I am immediately filled with this elation like, “Look at me, I’m a machine of production!!  Next, I’ll Swiffer the floor and google how to fix my garbage disposal!”  But then, the exhaustion sets in.  The disheartenment.  The knowledge that I’m going to have to complete such tasks for the rest of my life, and no one is going to give me a lollipop, or take me out to ice cream, or pat me on the head and praise me for a job well done.  Knowing how to call Time Warner Cable doesn’t make me special.  

Last weekend, as I was walking along the Venice Beach boardwalk, I saw a small baby pug dog wrapped in a bright red T-shirt.  It was like a tiny, fuzzy little E.T., with a perfect wrinkly face and a permanently forlorn expression.  “I yam selling eet!” announced a woman wearing a babushka, thrusting the miniature creature into my welcoming arms.  I could feel it shivering as it attempted to burrow its face into my hands.  As I kissed the top of its head, it raised its eyes to meet my loving gaze.  And it looked at me like I had just killed its entire family.

The happiest I've ever been

"Life isn't worth it anymore."

At that moment, something inside of me--some dam of crazy, insane-person emotion--spontaneously collapsed.  I yielded the small E.T. into its owner's arms, and whipped out my cell phone to call my mom.

“MOMMY I MET A PUPPY AND IT IS SO LITTLE AND SAD CAN I SAVE IT?” I stammered into the receiver, without greeting or introduction.  To be clear, I don’t live with my parents anymore.  I’m not sure why I wanted my mom’s permission, when my roommates, or my 112-year-old landlord named “Bill,” might have had more to say on the subject.  But as someone who receives an allowance and often only feeds herself with a continually replenished supply of Torero Dining Dollars, I felt I needed her blessing, or at least her cold, objective reason to appeal to my irrational mind.  I needed her to remind me how to exercise restraint.  But it was too late—and in the middle of the crowded boardwalk, I began to convulsively cry.  “It looked at me!  And it didn’t know I loved it!  It didn’t know that anybody loved it!  I just want it to know that I care!” I breathlessly blubbered.  I imagined adopting “E.T.” and bringing him home to dress him in a cute little hoodie.  I envisioned myself attaching a basket to my bike and carting him around.  And then, I imagined “E.T.” and I traveling the world, on a mission to give one million tiny pugs one million tiny hugs.  On the other end of the phone, my mother was speechless.  I think we both realized that I was not yet an adult.

In my imagination, I am a strong, confident, intimidating boss-lady who knows how to command respect.  In reality, I am a person who cries in public when she sees a baby pug.  But does that mean that I’m immature?  Or does it just mean that I have a tender heart, and perhaps some deeply seeded emotional issues I’ve never dealt with?  

I don’t know.  I’m not sure I want to be an adult.  A reliable career, economic independence, putting posters in frames and keeping potted plants alive… these are things I look forward to.  But please: grant me these four months until graduation to cry about pug dogs.  I was always so eager to grow up—to have long hair, to read chapter books, to wear deodorant.  But sometimes it’s all too much, and I find myself wishing life would just slow down.  I want to go to my parents’ house and order Netflix and indulge in their fully stocked pantry.  I want to eat home-cooked dinners and be continually reminded to get a haircut.  And at night, I want to lie in my old bedroom, the shrine to my 14-year-old self, and google image after image of baby pugs.

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The 7 Things I Would Do if I Were Really Famous

Once when I was in high school, a gawky theatre kid in a cape told me that when she became famous, her imaginary Star Trek-themed home would be featured on “Cribs.”  I was already a hardened and cynical youth who didn’t hold stock in dreams, so I judged her pretty harshly.  I believed—and I still believe—that no one’s goal in life should simply be to become a star.  People should aspire to be the best in their field, and then maybe, with hard work and good luck, they will become famous.

But here’s the thing: I am never going to be a star, despite all my skills, like being able to eat a basket of tortilla chips in under 35 seconds.  Fame is not something I’m actively pursuing.  But why not fantasize about it?  What if Brangelina adopted me?  What if I was scouted to be a not-quite-plus-sized model?  So here they are,

THE 7 THINGS I WOULD DO IF I WERE REALLY FAMOUS:

1.  Change my name

I’ve always loved my name, but recently, as I was checking my email on my phone, “ahalligan” autocorrected to “phallic.”  It was deeply disturbing, and I now plan on changing my last name to “O’Brien,” so that people will mistake me for Conan’s younger, significantly tanner sister.  (I then plan on exploiting the heck out of that connection.)

2.  Date a famous person

…who used to date Taylor Swift.  Then maybe she would write a song about me!

“I thought that we would marry someday

But some dirty bloggin’ annamal just swept you away…”

It would be super catchy, and I could bop to it while driving.

3.  Endorse a product

Something useful, like recyclable plastic cutlery.  In the commercials I would be wearing all white, laughing, and spinning around in slow motion, to show just how much fun recyclable plastic cutlery can be.

4.  Release a clothing line

…inspired by manatees.  It would be called “Hugh Manatee,” and a portion of the proceeds would go to saving the cows of the sea.

5.  Appear in a fashion magazine

This one is absolutely vital.  I want to either A) Look super badass holding a guitar that I don’t know how to play, or B) Sit in an English garden surrounded by fuzzy animals.  The final decision is up to my publicist.

6.  Make a cameo in a movie

This would be done only as a personal favor for my good friend Will Ferrell.  I’d be visiting him on set, and he’d be like, “Pleeeease play my ex-wife’s younger lesbian girlfriend spotted at the bowling alley?”  And I’d be like, “Okayyyy.”

7.   Create a perfume

It would be called “Midnight Binge,” in honor of my late night trips to the pantry, and it would smell like Ryan Gosling on a spring morning.  The ad would show me seductively eating a pudding cup while using my own belly as a plate.  “Midnight Binge” would be particularly popular with crazy cat ladies and ironic teens.

I know it says "Face in Hole.com," but this picture is actually totally real.

At the end of all of this, I would write an epic autobiography that would be mostly true, but perhaps a bit too personally flattering.  In it, I would say things like, “My greatest flaw is that I care too much,” and reviews would call it “Quirky… yet condescending.”  I would feel pretty bad about it, but it wouldn’t matter, because Taylor Swift’s ex-boyfriend would love me anyway.  Then, we would buy a Star Trek-themed home together and have it featured on “Cribs.”

PS:  Congratulations to Fannamal Anna Territo, the lucky WINNER of the Annamal Crackers Annaversary Giveaway!!  She will be receiving her $25 gift card and personalized box of animal crackers in the mail.  Thank you to everyone else who participated!

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