Recently, a friend and I were talking about my web show plans and she said, “Are you still pursuing that career?”
I was not quite sure how to respond to that question.
“Hell yes, I am. Why would I stop pursuing my passion? I’m just getting started!” I cried.
Yet, truth be told, that question has been rolling around in my brain ever since. Am I too old to pursue my dreams? Is it too late? Has that ship sailed? I thought I was taking a break, not tossing in the towel. I was on TV regularly up until a few months ago, after all. I was flown to LA by a big-three network recently to audition for a seat on a major new show. I have 15 years in live, unscripted TV under my belt and even more years onstage as an actor and vocalist. I just want to host and produce a web show and possibly pitch it to TV. Is that so wrong? Still . . . maybe . . . maybe all of these years of believing I actually can achieve the impossible have worn thin. Maybe from the outside looking in, I am that crazy person who refuses to give up on something that may have given up on her. Maybe I am immature and irresponsible. Maybe I need to grow up and get over it. Or maybe not. I am going with not. So there.
The craft career was a happy accident, the perfect solution for what to do to make a living while raising my daughter. I did it, it was fun, but I am ready to get back to my real passion. I never gave up on the performing career; in fact, I segued it into the craft career as often as possible. As I have never considered not doing what I love, I have no idea what I would do if I did something else. I am not sure if that makes me pathetic or determined. I don’t know if that makes me full of moxie or full of shit. Like all things in life, it’s about perspective. Obviously, I realize that the beauty part of my equation is on the decline. Yes, I can, if I can manifest the money, lift the neck and de-wrinkle the brow, but I also know that too much of that really isn’t a good thing. You can only run from the crone for so long.
As ever, I say a heartfelt prayer to the Patron Saint of Late Bloomers, Mrs. Julia Child. If she could start on TV in her 50s, then, damn it, so can I. If a woman as unconventional and unlikely as Julia could become a television icon, then it is not impossible. Improbable, yes, but not impossible. I may fall flat on my face and look like a fool, but I’d rather fall from grace trying to attempt the impossible than give up on my dreams and crawl off into a cave to sulk. If that makes me crazy, so be it. I can’t worry about what other people think about my choices. All I can do is keep marching bravely or foolishly forward.
The Power of Tenacity
I have lost everything and started over five times as an adult. This is not an exaggeration. I have tried all manner of impossible things. I have failed spectacularly and lived to tell the story. Along the way, I have succeeded at a few of those impossible things. Most people would have given up and gone home long ago. I am not most people, but, then again, neither are you, unless you choose to be.
If there is one trait that has kept me from falling off the cliff of loss into a sea of despair, it is tenacity. The discovery of the power of tenacity came early for me. As a child, our little family lost everything and started over several times. That is not an exaggeration. I have been the “new kid” many, many times, even as an adult.
I am not going to lie—reinventing yourself can be exhausting. It does not get any easier as you get older. It is even more challenging, as a woman over 50, in a world that wants you to disappear. While most people my age have long abandoned their dreams, I am still in the ring. The stubborn refusal to stay down for the count, even when you’re beaten, bloody, and bruised, is a testament to tenacity. The world may have counted you out, but the world does not get to decide your fate. You do.
If I have any wisdom to impart from the other side of the midpoint of my journey, it is this: Losing everything feels like the end of the world, but it is just the beginning of a new world. If you can let go of what you’ve lost, you can open yourself up to what might be gained. It’s a choice. There is a certain comfort in mourning what was lost, and wrapping yourself up in that loss like a blanket. This allows you to avoid the second half of the experience, the journey back from the darkness into the light. It also keeps you from progressing, and it steals your joy.
I find directives like “Be Happy” to be lovely little affirmations that lack a key element. You can be happy, but in order to experience happiness you must take it. To take happiness requires releasing the things that keep you from opening yourself up to joy. You can’t grab it if your hands are filled with sorrow.
The glass is not half empty or half full; it’s a vessel. You dip your cup into the well and you choose what to drink.
You choose whether losing everything is the end of your story or the start of a new chapter.
Madge’s Adventure in La La Land
Three years ago, I was contacted out of the blue by a big-three network that was casting a new talk show. I thought it was a spam email at first. Before hitting the delete button, I decided to do some snooping around the internet to confirm it was real. Once I realized the mail was from an actual network casting agent, I hit reply.
The casting agent liked me on Craft Wars and found me again via the internet. I Skyped with him and the VP of Talent later that week. It went well. She said, “I LOVE YOU” about fifteen times. I was feeling pretty good about things. They offered to fly me in to LA for a shot at the last empty chair on the panel. What I didn’t know was that there were hundreds of other folks, many of them big names that you would recognize, being vetted for this opportunity. These were people with teams of agents, lawyers, and managers, who had book deals, their own radio shows, product lines, and tons of experience appearing on network talk shows and TV commercials. Many of them were hosts of their own shows on cable TV. Two fashion industry icons were leading this panel, along with several other TV-savvy people, who had tons of time on camera and the confidence that comes along with that experience. This was what one calls “The Big Time.”
They were looking for a mom who was a recognized expert in design, had on-camera experience, and who could also “keep it real.” It became evident rather quickly that a regular mom, who was a few pounds overweight, a few notches too sparkly, and showing signs of her actual age was perhaps a little too real.
This is sort of crazy and perhaps I should have rethought this decision, but I showed up, on the first day, right from the airport with my hair in pigtails, wearing a giant quirky plastic necklace and a red gingham blouse that made me look more like an older Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island than a celebrity panelist. Lest you think me entirely daft, let me assure you that I had brought a far less kooky outfit to wear that day, but the flight arrived at LAX so close to the call time that I didn’t have an extra minute to change. The casting agent had told me not to dress up or worry about being TV ready. So, I didn’t. Derp. I should have remembered that the audition starts from the moment you walk in the door.
I arrived from the airport and dragged my suitcase up to the offices. I met the casting agent, who was delightful, and several other people on the team. I waited quietly on a bench until it was time for our group session. Our practice group included a ruggedly handsome young chef from NYC, who hosts a show on FYI now, but at that time was trying to break into the business; a southern woman who had a very popular movie written about her; a cable TV design expert from New Jersey (whose name escapes me, so she shall heretofore be known as Designing Woman); and a woman we shall call 53, who arrived just in time for our practice session, breathless and resplendent in an off-white leather jacket and designer heels.
Defying gravity and all logic, 53 looked amazing for her age (she was two years older than me at the time). Had she been 43, she still would have looked amazing for her age. She had the considerable benefit of many years of Botox, lasers, facials, and fillers. Her hair was swept up in an I Dream of Jeannie-style ponytail, and her neck and jawline were flawless. She told us that she practiced yoga, which was clear from the exquisite fit of her skinny-leg, dark-rinse blue jeans that
just met the top of her crimson-soled designer stilettos. During rehearsal, she told a series of “sincere, heartfelt, touching” personal stories in a sultry Southern drawl, and with the perfect combination of smiling, pathos, and a smattering of teardrops. She laughed. She cried. She feigned sincerity. It was an impressive performance.
You can imagine how I felt, in my slightly wrinkled Mary Ann getup, next to the spectacular ageless beauty of 53.
The only note I made that day was to tone down my accessories.
The next morning, I woke up and got myself TV ready. This normally requires a small village, but lacking the budget for a beauty squad, I settled for a small village of one. Flagrantly ignoring the tone down directive, I wore an oversized necklace featuring clusters of giant cream faux pearls and sparkling crystals with matching earrings. I made the necklace, because I can DIY like that. I told myself that the host would appreciate my take-no-prisoners couture aesthetic. Once we arrived, we were escorted to the audition waiting room. It was packed with quasi-famous beautiful people, all buzzing with excitement over this opportunity. People in LA are not like the rest of us, they’re all thinner, taller, and prettier. As I surveyed the room, recognizing many of the faces from network and cable TV, I started to think there must have been some mistake. What was I doing here? I was in way over my head. Sure, I was talented, but my resume consisted of 13 years on home shopping networks, one episode of Craft Wars, and two years appearing on a local TV station as a DIY expert. In short, it was a little thin, unlike my posterior. Still, I remained resolute. If they invited me to the table, I belonged there. As God was my witness, I was going to nail this audition.
Then they called our group: Me; a TV chef from the Bay Area, whom we’ll call The San Francisco Treat; Designing Woman; and 53. Dammit. Impossibly, 53 looked even more flawless and confident than she had the day before.
We were escorted into a room with a panel of network execs sitting in front of a bank of cameras and lights. Standing in front of a long table was the host. She was tall. She was magnificent. She was even more gorgeous in real life than she looks in photographs. We will call her Fashionista. Fashionista was not fucking around. She sized us up quickly, gave us all big showbiz hugs and air kisses, as we duly marched to our assigned seats.
Fashionista spoke with the producers while we bantered with a male fashion stylist co-host, whom we’ll call Mr. Style, and who “LOVE, LOVE, LOVED” 53’s “high pony!” He did not, however, love anything about me. This was made evident by his complete disinterest. I conversed with the San Francisco Treat and let that shit go. I was going to nail this audition, bitches.
Lights. Camera. Action.
It was swift and mostly painless. Playing the “would have could have” game, I realize that I probably should have focused a little more on my area of expertise, in my responses. I also realized that my candid answers were so “everyday people”-focused that the other folks on the panel simply didn’t understand what the hell I was talking about. When asked about my pet peeve, I bemoaned the drudgery of grocery shopping.
“Nobody likes grocery shopping, am I right?
“Don’t you just hate it when you are waiting to grab a jar of peanut butter and the entire aisle is blocked for ten minutes while someone ponders their selection, as if the fate of mankind depended on it? It makes you want to start humming the theme from Jeopardy. And when did everyone start driving through the grocery store parking lot like it’s the Indy 500? It’s madness!”
The silence was deafening. I later realized that Mr. Style, The San Francisco Treat, 53, and Fashionista don’t go grocery shopping in grocery stores. Designing Woman was no help at all, even though I’m certain she knew what I was throwing down. These people inhabit a totally different reality. Awkward.
Then came the moment when I knew it was over for me. In a flurry of dramatics and excess, 53 brought out her reading glasses to read a card that the host was holding. I have no idea where she was hiding those glasses, but my guess is in her bra because there were definitely no pockets in her pencil skirt and skintight sweater.
“Sorry, I can’t see as well as I used to, it happens when you get older.”
Fashionista asked, “How old are you?”
“Oh,” she purred, pausing for full effect, “I’m 53.”
Ta da.
Fashionista jumped up, raised her hand, and reached over the table so that she could high-five 53.
“YOU LOOK AMAZING!”
“I’m 51,” I said mostly to myself.
Shrugs all around.
She really did look amazing for a woman with enough money to maintain the appearance of youth. The host was right. However, for the record, I looked pretty damn good for a woman who does not have the money to maintain the appearance of youth and has had to rely instead on copious amounts of sunscreen, generous dollops of drugstore moisturizer, and a lot of creative visualization.
We were squired back to the waiting room. Five minutes later a woman came in and called off the names of the people who would be moving forward. 53 and The San Francisco Treat made it to the next round. Designing Woman and I had been cut. “Please collect your things and you’ll be escorted to the lobby.”
I proceeded along the walk of shame through the halls of the network, flanked on both sides by huge black-and-white photographs from some of my favorite TV shows through the years. I held back the tears and held my head high. I had been invited to the table, and that was something. A woman I shall call Tex Mex, who was known for her TV spots promoting a Mexican food–focused fast-food chain, and Designing Woman and I waited for the limo for what felt like an eternity. There is nothing worse than being rejected and not being able to make a clean getaway. Hey, Tex Mex got cut too. I was in good company. After what felt like an eternity, the limo arrived and whisked us back to our regularly scheduled programming.
When the show finally aired, it turned out they’d hired a twenty-something YouTuber, who was not a mom until mid-season. She made it to the second round, but 53 didn’t make it all the way and neither did hundreds of well-qualified applicants. Fashionista quit the show two months into production. It ended up being cancelled after the first season. I had dodged a bullet, which was a comfort, considering that I’d already relocated for a TV job that went awry, and the pay for the first year on the show was dismal.
That, folks, is show business.
Will Work for Glitter
Countless times, over the years, I have been contacted by big companies asking me to do work for them. It usually starts out with an exploratory email in which they blow a lot of hot air up my skirt to elicit a response. I get these requests from all kinds of companies, most of them with plenty of money. They ask me to blog, make videos, create craft projects with step-by-step photos, make jewelry, appear on TV shows, consult, review, or write. You name it, I’ve been asked to do it. Some offer to pay me a pittance, some offer to pay me in glitter, some have offered to pay me and then forgotten that promise after the work was completed, and some offer to pay me with the elusive, intangible thing called publicity or exposure.
The pittance is at least an offer, if an insulting one. I will graciously thank them and respond with my fee schedule. On rare occasions, they will respond positively and we’ll move forward. The glitter people really think that giving me free stuff is payment enough, and sometimes if the glitter is really fucking awesome, it is, but mostly it’s just glitter. It piles up in the studio and no one will accept it as payment.
The thing that burns my biscuits is the incredibly insulting offer of free publicity. It goes something like this:
Dear Margot:
We think you are amazing! We love your [insert talent here] and would be honored to have you partner with us on our new initiative. Please contact us as soon as possible to discuss! We’re excited to speak further.
Sincerely,
Possibly Delusional Person
Lately I am hitting the DELETE button more often, but occasionally I will bi
te.
Dear Possibly Delusional Person:
Sounds intriguing. Tell me more.
Cheers,
Madge
I keep my expectations low here; it keeps me from screaming and throwing things at my computer later.
Dear Madge:
We’re thrilled that you’re interested in working with us! We’re huge fans! We are looking to partner with some of the biggest talents in [insert industry here] and we think you’d be a perfect fit. As you know, we have a huge following through our online platforms, subscriber lists, media outreach, yadda, yadda, yadda. We’re looking for people like you to jump through hoops, work like dogs, give us your best and in exchange . . . wait for it . . . this is exciting . . . no, really . . . we will promote you to our considerable audience. Awesome, right?
Best,
Delusional Person
Dear Delusional Person:
It is not awesome. It is the opposite of awesome.
No.
Madge
I have worked for “publicity” for several big companies over the years. They made it clear that working for them for free (you know, for publicity) was a privilege and an honor and was going to be HUGE for my brand. I can count on no fingers the number of times that was actually true. None of it was huge for my brand. Every time I accepted that offer, I got nothing tangible in return. Oftentimes, it ended up costing me a pretty penny.
Working for publicity is like trading your cow for magic beans. Those magic beans sound good. I mean, gosh, they’re magic, after all. Still, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that magic beans are just beans and that free publicity is almost always a false promise. I have had people expect me to pay for my airfare, hotel rooms, products to make things, and time away from my studio and family, and then react with incredulity when I suggested they should at the very least cover my travel expenses, if they really want me that badly. Not only did they expect me to provide work for “publicity,” they also expected me to pay for the privilege of working for nothing.
Fifty and Other F-Words Page 5