A vegetarian contemplates eating the body of Christ

Traveling was always my favorite part about working as an actor. I went to fascinating places and lived there for several months at a time. I got to immerse myself in the culture and go beyond the tourist things. I got to learn languages and make friends with bellmen. I will always be grateful for the variety of experiences I had because I was an actor.

Some projects were worth doing for the location alone. Vendetta II, which filmed in Rome, was one such example.

It was a mini-series in which I was playing a blind girl. I was not blind throughout the whole film but rather, my character went blind after a mobster threw her off the side of a mountain in an attempt to hurt her mother, a nun, who was played by the supermodel Carol Alt. So, for half of the mini-series, I was blind until a trip through the Italian countryside restored my site. As beautiful views are prone to do.

As I said, it was mostly about the cool location.

Any self-respecting mafia film requires a healthy dose of religious pageantry. Before my character went blind, she was supposed to take Communion, as one assumes all daughters of nuns would do.

In the scene, I wore a white miniature wedding dress with a veil, and walked down the church aisle with all the dark wood and dark music that one would expect of a Catholic church in the Italian countryside. Having been raised without any religious influence whatsoever, I was clueless as to the procedure involved in this rite of passage. So during rehearsal, I just followed the other girls who seemed to know how to kneel and open their mouths for the Communion wafers.

And then I heard the priest murmur something about the body of Christ.

I had been a strict vegetarian since the age of four, so this totally freaked me out. What the hell was he putting in my mouth?? Eating Christ sounded super gross. During the first take, I took the wafer in my mouth and poked at it with my tongue while trying not to gag.

It didn’t feel like flesh but it certainly didn’t feel like food, either.

What was this stuff?

Was it some sort of pressed chicken Jesus-taste-alike?

Was it plastic prop food?

I had made the mistake of trying to eat prop food before, much to the amusement of the rest of the cast and crew, and was not eager to replicate that experience. Admitting my lack of religious knowledge to the real Italian priest who had been hired to play the role of the priest would have been humiliating. The church was full of about 100 extras who didn't speak much English. Since everyone else seemed to know what was going on, I felt too shy to ask the director or anyone else on the crew. My mom was around somewhere, but I wasn't confident that she would know what this thing was anymore than I did.

I was all alone in a crowd.

And my job was to eat the body of a deity.

I decided to shove the wafer to the roof of my mouth without chewing it. The wafer fit snugly within the half circle of my upper teeth. Then we did another take. And another. There was little time in between, so I just kept shoving the body of Jesus onto the roof of my mouth, getting more and more nervous as I started to lose space on my tongue for the next take’s wafer. Whatever this thing was, it was absorbing all the saliva in my mouth, turning into a sticky clump and making the whole experience rather uncomfortable.

Finally, after almost ten takes, we got the shot and I was able to step outside and get enough privacy to peel the layers of the Lord off the roof of my mouth and chuck it into a nearby courtyard full of birds.

They seemingly had no qualms about the nature of the wafer.

When I went back to the hotel that night after work, I crawled into bed and thought about how lucky I was and what an amazing day I had — I actually got to feed some pigeons.

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Money. Part 2.

Much to my surprise, people I've never met have opinions about me. Some are good, some are not so good, and I do my best to take both the positive and the negative with a grain of salt. But some comments I simply find fascinating. I am curious about the larger context and why the commenter might hold that belief. Someone referred to me as "privileged" recently.

I am privileged - I've had wonderful opportunities, I have a good support system and my health.

But judging by the rest of her comment, that's not how she meant it. She meant - She is Rich So She Can't Possibly Relate to My Regular Person Life.

I was kind of shocked by this. It's yet another indication of how much the whole Hollywood facade has fleeced the rest of the world.

Movie stars are rich. They pull in a millions per film and are booked on shoots back-to-back.

I was not a movie star.

I was a working actor.

Big difference.

I guess the assumption is that all actors cruise around in their Porsches without a care in the world. I drove my beloved Toyota for more than a decade and never knew when I was going to work again. For the vast majority of my acting career, I earned less per year than a telemarketer.

I never did it for the money, but I was grateful for it, because there is a significant investment involved in getting a job. Just like in any small business, you have to spend money to make money. There were flights from my home in Canada to Los Angeles and the bills associated with living at the Burbank Holiday Inn with my mother for three months so that I could audition for projects.

There were the rare times when I worked on a big film and for that year I got a financial upgrade. But even then, my dentist still out-earned me. And unlike normal jobs, where you can assume that your pay will be fairly steady, the year after a blockbuster, my income took a sharp downward turn. And if you think the residuals should be making up for that, read this. My residual income these days is below the poverty line, which makes me very grateful that my husband and I have other sources of income.

I'm not complaining, I was thankful that I had a job that paid me at all and it was a job that I enjoyed, for the most part. I have never worried if I could afford my next meal, and that is a significant luxury in this world.

But I think this is yet another way that the tabloid culture of celebrity separates people. It makes non-actors think that all actors must be on a different playing field, where there are no concerns about when the next paycheck is coming or how the mortgage is going to get paid. Yeah, that's not really a worry for Angelina Jolie, but most actors are not Angelina Jolie. They are working people. There are thousands of actors out there, many of whom you would recognize, who are just scraping by.

I didn't come from a family with money. We did fine, but to use the word "privileged" to describe us would be absurd. I was privileged in that I got a jump on a retirement fund and I had a passport full of international stamps. I suppose I was privileged in that I was invited to fancy parties (that gave me panic attacks) and sometimes got recognized on the street (which also gave me panic attacks.)

But this idea that my income has ever drowned out my ability to relate to "regular people?"

That's about as laughable as the cover of the National Enquirer.

——– Have comments? Please join our conversation over on Facebook

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Why would we want Mrs. Doubtfire 2?

November 24th, 2013 marked the 20th anniversary of the release of Mrs. Doubtfire. It's astounding that people see me, a 34-year-old writer who lives in Virginia, and still recognize Lydia Hillard.

Ever since the movie came out, people have been wanting a sequel. Maybe Mrs. Doubtfire could be working as an undercover cop? Masquerading as an international spy? Blowing the lid off injustices in the beauty pageant industry? There is no end to the possibilities of contrived silliness.

While I'm grateful to have been part of a movie that touched so many people, I can't help but wonder why that isn't enough. It doesn't make any sense that there would be a follow-up to the story, but that doesn't seem to matter. Mrs. Doubtfire 2 doesn't have to be good - sequels almost never compare to the original - but people seem to want more anyway.

As we dive into the holidays and this Season of Wanting, epitomized by commercials suggesting that a Lexus with giant bow would be a great gift, I'm reminded that this is just how we tend to do things. We want more of everything. We are a nation of consumers, ready to trample each other to death for a cheap blender or stab someone over a parking spot at Wal-mart. We make long lists of things we don't need, but we suddenly feel empty without them.

We can easily mistake the endless wanting for ambition, but in reality it looks a lot like self-imposed suffering based on our own fears of not being good enough.

Because for that one flickering moment, we get more of __________ and then we feel like we've accomplished something meaningful. It seems like a tangible indication that we have a place in the world. For one second, we can take a deep breath...until we see that Williams Sonoma is having a sale on simmer sauces and we begin the wanting all over again.

And then you throw in a little nostalgia. I get it - there was something wonderful about the 90s. It was a simpler time. I, too, long for those days when you could walk someone right to the airplane gate and everybody could eat gluten. When "Whoa!" could be a catchphrase. When The Real World presented reality television as a groundbreaking social experiment, instead of a way to get famous for being rich and idle.

But, as countless people discover at this time of year, it's really hard to go home again. The world is a constantly changing place. And sometimes, in trying to recapture the past, you can ruin the memory of what you had. It's kind of like wearing a mini-skirt when that's no longer a good idea.

Maybe Mrs. Doubtfire had its time. In 1993. It seems greedy to try to squeeze more out of it. It's flattering that people want more, but maybe we can just be grateful for what already exists. Maybe we can take that deep breath and just be content with what is.

I don't know if there will be a sequel. Maybe there is a way to do it well. But I come back to the original question: why do we want it? Why do we want more of something that is just fine as it is?

My life has moved on since 1993. After I retired from acting, I spent a long time pretending that movies never happened, because when I talked about my childhood, people looked at me funny or accused me of not getting over it. So, I didn't talk about it for 10 years, and then I was accused of running from my past. I realized that I needed to stop caring about those outside opinions and do what felt right.

There will really never be total dissociation from Doubtfire. When you are part of a movie that is on TV almost every Sunday afternoon - a movie that people quote to you in line at the grocery store, a movie that has become a part of the culture of the 90s - it's just not really possible.

So, I embrace it.

Finally.

And then I let it go.

——– Have comments? Please join our conversation over on Facebook

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The last audition

When I left L.A. and moved to Virginia, I used breakup terms to explain my exit from the film industry. Figure out what I really want.

Find myself.

Get my head together.

It's a break, not a breakup. (Just FYI: it's always a breakup.)

My agent seemed to take it just about as poorly as my ex-boyfriends did.

I wasn't brave enough to make a totally clean break and leap head-first into the unknown Real World. If a script looked really fantastic... if the producers were really interested in me…you know…maybe….

I shoved a tiny wedge in the door and left it open, just a crack. It felt safer that way. Slamming that door shut tight would have left me all alone in the dark.

My agent slithered through that crack. A film was casting and the producers had requested to see me for a role. The project sounded interesting but if I agreed to this, was it just a matter of time before it seemed like a good idea to fly back to L.A. to audition for a guest spot on Everybody Loves Raymond? I really felt like I needed to get out of the film world, but I waffled, scared to leave behind the only moneymaking ability I had. My agent felt her 10% commission slipping away again.

“But, it’s Martin Scorsese!” She squealed.

Well, okay. This was a big deal. He was a big deal. (And still is a big deal.)

I agreed to audition and promptly started freaking out about the idea of going back to work. There was no offer yet, but it suddenly seemed that life needed to change. I needed to lose 4 pounds, get some color on my legs and not dye my hair “Mahogany 51” from a six-dollar bottle from the Rite-Aid. There were so many things to be done and they all sounded horrible.

But sometimes it’s hard to tell if a pounding heart indicates excitement or terror.

When an actor cannot get to the city where the audition sessions are being held, they can do an audition tape where they record themselves reading the lines at home and send it to the producers. They inevitably look like the most horrid home movies.

My boyfriend, Jeremy, was cautiously supportive of this audition. If he had been too supportive he would have been accused of thinking that me leaving L.A. was a mistake. Not supportive enough, and I would have said that he never truly loved or respected me. The poor guy was pretty much relegated to smiling and nodding.

My audition tape set up involved a bed-sheet duct taped to hang over a closet door, providing a neutral background. It always looked exactly like a duct-taped sheet. A complicated system of IKEA floor lamps and vertical blind manipulation created a lighting situation that made me look about 57 years old.

My dogs, having just moved across the country and into my boyfriend's flimsy, bare, grad-student apartment, were feeling a little needy and would bark and whine whenever they felt excluded. So, for the sake of the sound, one dog remained seated on my lap with the other curled up at my feet. We framed the shot close enough that the animals were cut out.

Finally we began. I had a lengthy speech before Jeremy had his first line. He said it and it was loud.

And it was British.

For some reason, he was using his from-the-diaphragm theater-training voice, although the microphone was mere inches from his face. He also had some sort of odd, Cockney accent. This character is not British. Jeremy is not British. There is absolutely no reason for this behavior. Ah! He is trying to make me laugh so I am more comfortable. He is probably not even filming.

“Stop, stop, stop.” I laughed and waved my hands in front of my face. Jeremy turned the camera off. Damn, he was filming.

“You were doing great. What’s wrong?” He asked.

“Yeah, I was fine, but what were you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Were you trying to be funny?”

“Did I say it funny?”

I explained to Jeremy that the mic is right near him and maybe he should be quieter so that our sound levels match. I assumed he knew the accent needed to go.

We started again, and again he was loud and even more heavily accented. I tried to get through the scene with the ridiculousness of the emotionally unsettled dog on my lap and the loud British man reading with me. It wasn't good. I wasn't good.

It was all just uncomfortable. I felt like a grown-up woman trying fit into the jeans she wore in middle-school. I was half-heartedly trying to recreate a moment whose time had past. 

When we finished, we watched the video back to see exactly how much of a train wreck the thing was.

“Wow,” Jeremy says  “I was really loud. And do I have some sort of accent? Oh, you did great, though.”

I did not get the job. I tried to imagine Mr. Scorsese watching this thing, squinting in confusion at the drooping sheet background, the dog ears that occasionally popped in to view and my loud friend from the British Isles. I could blame it on any of those things, but whatever the reason, there was no offer.

And that's how it goes. You usually don’t know the reason you don’t get a job. When it was released, we went to see The Aviator in theaters. Gwen Stefani played the role I read for.

It was at that moment, in the darkened theater, that I realized I didn't want to be Gwen Stefani. I wasn't longing to be up there, taking direction from even the great Martin Scorsese. I wanted to be right where I was. Living in a flimsy grad-student apartment, with a couple of neurotic dogs and a boyfriend who inexplicably broke into foreign accents. That was where I was truly happy. I didn't want the complication of trying to impress Hollywood with duct taped sheets and IKEA floor lamps. I wanted to have pasty legs and hair the color of Mahogany 51.

I had no clue what was next in my life, what might happen after those credits rolled, but I knew I was done with acting. I had done it already. It was that simple.

So, that was the last project I auditioned for.

That audition had been the breakup sex. It was the one more time that you go back and give the relationship that last chance...only to find it was as awkward and unfulfilling as you remembered. But we all need that one last fling, that experience that lets you finally walk away with a few good stories, but absolutely no remorse.

——– Have comments? Please join our conversation over on Facebook

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Learning how to run

When I was 18, I was living in Los Angles, doing that thing that actors do - wait around for other people to tell them they are wonderful.  A friend of mine had just gotten that stamp of approval and was joining a hugely popular television show as a regular cast member. On her first day of work, she pulled up to the studio lot in her cute little Volkswagen Rabbit. One of the stars of the show saw her parking and said to her,

“Oh, honey, you're on a big TV series now. Get yourself a nice car.”

My friend felt flustered and embarrassed. She needed to fit in with her new co-workers. After they wrapped for the day, she picked me up and we went to the BMW dealership.

It didn’t take her long to pick the car that was suitable for her new job and new life. The pretty white convertible was sitting in the showroom, looking for all the world like the car a newly minted television star should be driving. It was sparkly and it smelled like leather and triumph. We collected the old scripts and discarded caramel macchiatos from the backseat of her Rabbit and she wrote a check. We sped off in the little white Beemer to test out the handling on the hills of the Laurel Canyon.

Being impulsive and a little extravagant was common in that world. I was never able to embody that fun breeziness with money -  yet another way that I failed at the whole Young Actor thing. I didn't come from money and was always unnerved by the large amounts of cash that would come and go in my industry.

But in truth, this confidently reckless behavior was kind of awe-inspiring. Personally, I was always convinced that Hollywood was done with me and I would never work again, so whatever was in the bank account had to last me until my actor’s union pension kicked in. I wasn't gutsy enough to be impulsive...except for this one time.

I had a call-back audition in Beverly Hills and stopped by the mall to get lunch at the Panda Express beforehand. At the Beverly Center, they had a very fancy pet store. (As a side note - I'm not advocating pet stores, it's all about the rescue dogs for me now.)

As I browsed, I locked eyes with this little dog. She was tiny, gray and shiny like a wet seal pup. She was an Italian Greyhound, which I had never heard of, but they are the dogs you always see at the heels of the Egyptian pharaohs in paintings. They are light, delicate little wisps of a dog who think that they can take down a Great Dane and they probably could, out of sheer determination. I needed her. She needed me. I held her in my palm and slapped down my credit card.

I called my agent and told her I was sick and couldn’t make the call-back. She said they would try to reschedule and I said something like “Whatever” as I signed the paperwork and they tried to cram my little ball of gray love into a cardboard box with holes punched in the side.

I hadn't really paid attention to how much she cost, I'm sure it was printed somewhere but I was too busy falling in love to really comprehend. How much could a dog be? $50? As they handed me her pure-bred lineage chart, which included names like "Chipwil’s Little Drummer Boy" and "Sandcastle Ginger D’Laviere,"  I started to wonder what I had just done.

A glance at the credit card slip stapled to her vaccination form confirmed that I had just bought a $1,800 dog.

At a mall.

In Beverly Hills.

My momentary freak out was followed by overwhelming joy. It seemed a small price for unconditional love. Support. Friendship.

In homage to her historic roots, I named the pup Cleopatra, as in Queen of the Nile. She was a balls-to-the-wall firecracker in a leggy, 11-pound package. Macho dudes who hated little dogs thought she was cool. She seemed to own every tiny little step and made no apologies for herself.

Cleo could run like the wind but very rarely cared to do so. Michael Richards (who played Kramer on Seinfeld) once approached us at a café and asked to see her run. Cleo refused, stood stock-still and glared at him until he awkwardly apologized and went away. It didn’t even matter to her that Seinfeld was at the height of popularity; she didn't feel like running. Fuck him.

I envied Cleo's self-assuredness. I was the passive one of the pack, the one who so desperately wanted to be liked. I would tuck my tail and roll over for anyone. But Cleo was someone, regardless of her size, who didn't care what others thought and she knew she had something to offer, simply because she existed. Her sense of self-worth was profound.

I had paid $1,800 and I had found my idol.

Cleo passed away 3 years ago and I still miss her terribly. She remains my example of what it looks like to be brave in the world. When I'm doubting myself and feel it's safer to just let the Alphas tell me how to live and what kind of car I should drive -  I try to embody my little greyhound, informing Michael Richards that she had no intention of running for him, or anybody else.

We run on our own terms.

——– Have comments? Please join our conversation over on Facebook

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Autographs

Recently, I've had a bunch of requests for autographs - which is very kind and sweet and I'm flattered. However...

I've been tip-toeing around this and trying to figure out how to not hurt anyone's feelings (and how not to sound like a jackass) -- but I've decided to come clean.

Here's the deal:

Signing autographs makes me wildly uncomfortable.

Because when I sign an autograph, it puts me back into this little actor box that just doesn't fit me anymore. It makes me the "celebrity" and the other person is the "fan" and that just feels icky. I think we are both much more than those narrow parameters.

And really, what is the point? Does anyone actually know what my signature looks like? If my husband/friend/mailman scribbled "Best Wishes, Lisa Jakub" on an index card, would anybody know the difference? As long as they got the spelling right, probably not.

Even if I did sign it, so what?

It makes me feel creepy that someone would value something just because, what, I wrote on it? We haven't established any kind of connection or relationship. I don't get to know anything about you, like where you grew up, or if you are a dog person or a cat person. And you don't know anything more about me, except that my Ls are very loopy.

So, I'm not going to do autographs. But if you want to email me or communicate through Facebook or Twitter, I always do my very best to respond. (It just might take me a little while.) Instead of doing the autograph thing, let's have a conversation about something like two normal people.

Now, when my book comes out, I might be convinced to sign that....but that's a whole different deal. (ETA: the book is out. And I do sign and personalize it. Click here.)

I hope that's cool with you guys.

——– Have comments? Please join our conversation over on Facebook

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Beyond the Bed, Bath and Beyond

I went to the Bed, Bath and Beyond a few days ago. I had to run in to get a new cartridge for my SodaStream machine because mine ran out and I have a serious addiction to bubbly water with a slice of lemon. I live in a college town and the kids are just getting back to school, so the place was packed. There were freshman and parents standing in the aisles, looking overwhelmed and dazed about what was about to happen to them.

I grabbed what I needed and got in line to pay when I noticed a girl and her father who were shopping together. The daughter was wearing a university sweatshirt and her father kept pushing up his glasses, clearly stressed out about choosing a desk lamp for her dorm. They looked ready to come to blows over color preference. He was showing her the features of the lamp he liked and she was having none of it. She liked the purple one.

I tried not to stare, but I love watching the kids come back to school. I tend to be enamored with normalcy. Since I started acting as a pre-schooler and worked consistently until I retired, I never got to be a full-time student until I attended college at age 28. By then, I was living in a four-bedroom house with my husband - so the experience was not at all traditional. I never got to fight with my dad about dorm furniture. I certainly had other exciting opportunities in my childhood, but there were many normal kid things that I missed out on. So, when I see others participating in these kinds of traditional life moments, I can't help but find them intriguingly beautiful.

When the lamp battle was over, the father and daughter got in line behind me, both fuming slightly. When I stepped up to pay, the woman at the checkout stared at me. I started chit-chatting, which is what I tend to do, in the hopes that comments about the weather might divert attention from what I know is the real issue. She would not be deterred.

Had I seen Mrs. Doubtfire? I looked a lot like that girl. No, I looked JUST like that girl.

I responded by saying "I get that a lot" which is my go-to phrase because it is true.

She kept staring at me while I fumbled with my wallet. The dad behind me was tapping his credit card on the handle of the overflowing cart. I glanced back at the tower of shower caddies and plastic drawer sets and the purple, THAT'S RIGHT, DAD, PURPLE desk lamp in the cart. As I was signing the slip, I heard the dad telling his daughter that he really thought she needed just one more set of towels. Her sharp sigh indicated that she felt her current towel situation was sufficient.

I quickly grabbed my bag and left before the cashier could ask any more specific questions.

If I had been totally truthful, I would have admitted to the checkout woman that yes, when I was 14, for a few months I had filmed a movie. And now I'm in my thirties and I live in Virginia and although I'm thrilled that the movie was important to people, it's strange to still be asked about it.

But if I had confessed, there would have been the calling over of other employees and selfies and questions holding up of the line and trapping everyone behind me in a movie-worshipping vortex. Because that's what happens.

What I really wanted was for that dad and daughter to get out of the Bed, Bath and Beyond. I wanted them to set up her crappy dorm room with the purple desk lamp and the not-quite-enough towels. I wanted them to eat take-out burritos and chips out of a greasy bag.

Because then they would sit on the floor and the dad would realize it's not just the towels he's worried about. Maybe he gets up the guts to say he's proud of her, or maybe he just says something about her needing to work hard and get good grades because she's a smart girl.

And then the daughter would be embarrassed but secretly thrilled the way we all are when our dads say something dorky but sweet. And maybe she admits to being nervous about starting college and maybe she doesn't - but either way, she feels strengthened by the fact that at this moment, all she has to do is eat a burrito with her dad who let her get the purple lamp anyway.

I wanted their night to be about her brave venture into the terrifying, thrilling world of college. I did not want it to be about the fact that a retired actor was in front of them in line at the Bed, Bath and Beyond. I didn't want the focus of their conversation to be what I did more than two decades ago.

I know I romanticize the normal and that my adoration for the mundane could be a "grass is greener" situation. But I love those traditional social milestones and so I want them for others. I truly believe there is something inherently wonderful about the simple things in life - the connections, the transitions, the moments of silence. I love being able to acknowledge and enjoy them.

Maybe the none of it went down the way it went in my head, maybe there was not a single special moment or take-out burrito.

But I really hope there was.

---

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The actor's vice that almost killed me

Actors can get pretty much anything. Just for doing their jobs, they have easy access to drugs, sex and millions of dollars in loaner jewelry. It can get addictive. The attention, the affection, the free stuff.

I really believe in being truthful about your past, so I feel the need to come clean. There was one perk that I got totally hooked on:

The access to animals.

I got to meet all kinds of cool animals. Trained monkeys and dogs. Dolphins and killer whales. Walruses and baby cows. This tends to happen at places like Sea World, where you get your ticket comped because you do some publicity shots. You hold/hug/feed a cute animal and they put the photo in a glamorous publication like the Orlando Sentinel or the Sea World Annual Report.

I must admit...holding a penguin is a crazy high.

Here is a photo of me indulging in my most dangerous actor perk:

Eventually, as is the case with many overindulgences of Hollywood -- all that petting got dangerous.

I was working in Florida when I was about 16 and couldn’t stand the thought of spending another weekend in Orlando, dodging tourists and that omnipresent fucking mouse. So, a few friends and I went to this river that was a hot spot for manatees and one of the few places where you could swim alongside of them.

Since I had bottle-fed one of them for a photo-op, I considered myself a manatee expert. I educated the others on the pertinent details of their size and demeanor. They are about 10 feet long and 1,000 pounds which can be intimidating but I wasn't concerned. They are essentially very sleepy underwater cows. I knew what I was doing. I'd been an animal junkie for years.

Because they are nearly extinct due to boat propellers, there were specific park rules for manatee interaction: you could only use one finger to pet them. So, there I was with my mask and snorkel, swimming in this murky river and petting the manatee with my one finger. His body was warm in the cold river, with coarse, bristly hairs that sprung from his thick skin. The mixture of muscle and blubber beneath was surprisingly solid, I had expected his flesh to give way, like an aquatic Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

The manatee in question sweetly cuddled up to me and grabbed my arm in his little flippers. “Little flippers” is true, proportionally speaking, but they were still shockingly strong and bony and large enough to envelope my entire arm. His long eyelashes batted at me as we bobbed along the surface of the river.

All this inter-species snuggling looked super cute at first through my mask and snorkel, mostly because I could still breathe. But then the manatee, while still hugging me, went into a maneuver that, if done by a crocodile, would be termed a "Death Roll." He sank down to the bottom of the river while still holding my arm tightly in his flippers. He rolled around and hugged me in what seemed to be merriment on his part, but was absolute terror on mine.

I didn’t know what to do.

Could I maintain the parks rules and just poke him with one finger until he lets me go? I wondered if my film insurance covered drowning by manatee. Would my death be reported in Daily Variety? Would they use my 8x10 headshot? My current headshot wasn’t that great. Certainly not for my obituary.

I tried to remember if the Sea World employee had said anything about manatees during the photo-op that might be useful, but it had mostly been about trying to get the animal turn his face more towards camera and for me to keep my hair out of the way.

I tried to pry my arm loose. It’s surprisingly hard to pry things underwater. The ranger didn't say anything about not using our feet on the manatee, so maybe I could just gently...kick...him. But do I really want to be the girl who kicked an endangered species? Would it say "animal abuser" in my obit alongside the bad headshot?

This was becoming ridiculous, I was starting to get really dizzy from lack of oxygen. Finally,  my thrashing must have indicated to this sea monster that I was not enjoying the cuddle as much as he was, and he released his paddle arms and let me go.

I gasped to the surface like I was in Jaws and climbed back into the boat. My friends hadn’t noticed my lengthy submerged absence.

“Aren’t they cute?” Everyone squealed.

I decided that my quasi-celebrity creature-petting should be conducted with an animal handler and several photographers around. It's best to have witnesses.

I'm not gonna lie. I'm glad I quit the game - but sometimes I miss that penguin rush.

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• What I’ve been up to (according to the internet)
• What are you?
• Privacy

What are you?

I can't believe I'm writing this, mostly because I can't believe that you guys actually care. But judging by the number of times I get this question, I'm going to answer it. The question is, essentially, "what ARE you?" People ask in all kinds of ways, some more eloquent than others, but regardless of how it's phrased, my heritage seems to be of interest. This is funny to me, because when I was in the film industry, no one cared what my background really was.  Producers and casting directors took a quick look and placed me in two distinct categories:

"Ethnic"

This means "not blond." No matter how many highlights they put in (and you know they tried) I was never going to be blond. And I occasionally needed a good waxing.  Apparently, Americans are all blond-haired, blue-eyed and devoid of body hair.

"Athletic"

This means that I am short and possess smallish (real) breasts. This is a stark contrast to "waifish" which means tall, boobless and emaciated from never ever ingesting carbohydrates. This is also not "curvy" which means T&A all day but still managing to weigh under 120 lbs.

So, when producers were looking for an actor to play the tomboy, the friend or Joan of Arc, I was in. They wanted the feisty/moody/smart brunette? I had it covered. But, later in my career there seemed to be more and more calls for the "Britney Spears-type."

That is something I would never be.

I just couldn't act that well.

But as for my actual background: I am a Canadian mutt.

My mother's side is Scottish and Welsh. My father's side is Slovak. I know for certain that I mostly look like people from Dad's part of the world, because when my husband and I went to Prague last Christmas, he often lost me in a sea of pale, petite, dark-haired women.

Contrary to popular belief, and my own personal wishes, I am not Jewish. This comes as a surprise to me, too, especially since one of the only places I've ever seen my last name is a long line of Jakubs listed in Holocaust museums. But my father's side is Catholic, my mother's side is Presbyterian but I wasn't raised with any religious beliefs at all. I am now married to a Lutheran and I am...I guess...Buddhist-y.

Oh, and I'm also a massively introverted, right-brained Capricorn.

It's messy and not that interesting, but it's the truth and that's what I love about life. The nuance and complications are what makes it fun...otherwise, everyone just gets some sort of arbitrary label like Athletic Ethnic Girl.

Everyone is deserving of more complexity than that.

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• The Doubtfire girls
• The Happy Birthday person
• Spinning out of control

Spinning out of control

I suck at being recognized. Some actors are really good at it. Sally Field is masterful. She is sweet, calm and gracious.

I am not masterful.

I panic.

It's not that I'm annoyed by people - it's just that I get really nervous because I want to be what they expect of me. I want, for one mere moment of my life, to be cool. Instead, my neck turns bright red and I knock over a water-glass and say something inappropriate because that's what happens when I'm uncomfortable. And when the attention is on me, I'm inevitably uncomfortable.

Then, I end up feeling like I've failed yet again. People walk away and I imagine them saying "Well, that was...awkward."

Sometimes, my awkwardness is only enhanced by the situation.

I used to take these spin classes. If you have ever been in a spin class, you know it is not an attractive time. You sweat, grimace and curse the apparently genital-free person who invented bicycle seats. It’s downright masochistic that they put mirrors in there.

One day, I was working really hard and climbing the imaginary hill. The spin instructor was looking at me, so much that I checked my sports bra just to make sure everything was still in its proper place. She squinted at me with her head cocked to the side. I hoped that maybe she just had sweat in her eyes.

Then, she hoped off her bike, mid-spin and ran to the stereo. She proceeded to shuffle through her songs. She came up with what she wanted, and blasted it. It was Jump Around, the song to which I danced ineptly in Mrs. Doubtfire.

She stared at me, searching for some spark of acknowledgement. I kept my head down and attempted to pedal fast enough that my bike could fly off its stationary bar and slam through the wall and into the parking lot where I could make my getaway.

She yelled to me over the music “HEY! DO YOU LIKE THIS SONG? DOES IT MAKE YOU WANT TO DANCE?” I smiled. Because when I don’t know what to say, I smile. It's like a reflex. Whereas other people wittily retort, I smile and freeze like a wax museum version of myself.

When that song ended, she hopped off again and played another song, Gettin’ Jiggy wit It.

Because it was sung by Will Smith.

Who I worked with on Independence Day.

Yeah, it was something of a stretch, but apparently she begged to differ. She looked to me, raised her eyebrows and nodded, pointing at me with both index fingers all while getting jiggy herself.

“YEAH! RIGHT?” she yelled at me.

"Oh." I said. "Ha."

Which was all I could think of to say.

She seemed to be some sort of musical stalker. I glanced around the room. Did any of the other 30 spinners see what was going on? Thankfully, everyone else seemed more concerned about how much their own asses were burning to notice that I had my own personal soundtrack playing.

There was nothing else to do but keep my head down and cycle faster. And hope she didn't have a cell phone camera. After class, I got my foot stuck in the pedal and fell off my bike because I was trying rush out without being noticed. Guess how that turned out?

So, if we run into each other out in the world, just be forewarned: I am no Sally Field. I will likely trip over something and swear in front of your children.

And I am probably going to be sweating.

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• Independence Day 2
• Money
• Watching car commercials gets awkward

Privacy

Everyone is up in arms about the NSA scandal - and I get it. I really do. I understand why people feel violated. But I have a really hard time getting upset about it. I was wondering why this was - I usually have no problem getting behind a cause and waving around a sign about it. Maybe it's because I have a different take on privacy.

When I was 10 years old, I had my first lead role in a Canadian TV movie called Trick Or Treasure. I had done lots of commercials and guest starring roles but this was the first time a show was based around my character. It was a kid's movie about ghost pirates that all took place on Halloween night. It was a little cheesy but I learned how to sword fight and got to stay up until 5 AM, so I thought it was pretty much the coolest thing ever.

When the movie aired, there was a lot of press about it. Opening up the TV Guide one day, I found a two-page article about the TV show. That was when I realized that they had talked to my castmates about me. There, in print, were stories of my behavior on set. Tidbits about what I was like and how I was to work with. They were all positive, complimentary things, but it was the first time that I realized I was being watched all the time. It was unnerving, but I quickly realized that was what I had signed up for. That was what it meant to be an actor.

Here we are, more than 20 years later and I still get stared at in restaurants sometimes. I can tell that people are listening in on my conversations, as if I might suddenly say to my husband, "You know, honey, when I played the oldest daughter in Mrs. Doubtfire, the funniest thing happened...."

So, I never feel any sense of  privacy out in public.

And for my internet usage? Cell phones? I guess I always assume that someone has access to that stuff. Isn't that just a side effect of our high-tech world? Everything is traceable? Besides, I pretty much don't do anything interesting that anyone would care about. ("Oh, look, she is reading DogShaming again.")

I understand that I am in the minority here, with my lack of concern. But just when I was thinking that I might be the only person who felt this way, I saw Seth Rogen on The Daily Show. When John Oliver asked him if the privacy scandal unnerved him, he said, "not really, I assume they read all that shit." (Around time marker 4:15 if you want to play along at home.)

Exactly. I guess I just assume they read all that shit, too.

Maybe this is just how it works for actors - or former actors. By doing our jobs, we willingly gave up our right to keep things to ourselves, so we tend to be surprised that anyone expects privacy at all. Suddenly, privacy seems overrated.

Or maybe that's just what we tell ourselves.

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The Doubtfire girls

 

When I first met Mara Wilson, I was 14 and she was 5 and I decided she was mine.

We met at the screen test for Mrs. Doubtfire and for some reason, she, Matt Lawrence and I bonded instantly. Even though there were other kids auditioning, we felt like we were the pre-pubescent trio that were going to be Robin and Sally's kids. We were right.

Mara was tiny and spunky and had impossibly small fingernails. I was very shy, introverted and a little lonely. I lived a pretty transient life as a young actor. I was an only child and worked more often than I went to school. Most of my time was spent with adults and I was much more comfortable with them than I was with other kids.  But somehow, soon after we met, I decided Mara was mine.

It's the most maternal I've ever been to anyone who is not a dog.

After the film wrapped, we stayed close. There were five kids in her family and her house was this constantly churning, fun, adventurous mess. I became an honorary member of the household. When I was 15, her older brother and I held hands at the Travel Town theme park. It was the most action I'd ever gotten, aside from an on-screen kiss in Matinee a couple of years earlier, so I decided that it would be a good idea to marry Mara's brother. He was a nice guy and I could keep my pseudo-siblings forever.

Then stuff happened. Life happened. Work happened. Mara and I both traveled a lot for shoots and we lost touch.

When I went to New York recently, I contacted her. We hadn't seen each other in 15 years. Mara met me in the lobby of my hotel, we leapt into each others arms and didn't let go. The doorman stared at us. We didn't care.

I still think she's mine and I have to take care of her - even though she is a completely grown up, lovely woman. Even though she wears stylish shoes with heels and makes me feel like a teenage boy because all I ever wear are Chuck Taylor's. Even though she was the one who protected us from the crazy guy who approached us in the park, because I've never figured out the difference between being assertive and rude. Even though she is a phenomenal storyteller who she gets up on stage and owns it in a way that make me break into a flop sweat just thinking about.

You don't always stay in touch with the people you work with, even though you create these intense relationships with them. I adored Matt Lawrence, who played my brother in Doubtfire. During filming, he and I had a ridiculously good time playing fetch with his Golden Retriever in the ballroom of the fancy hotel where we lived. We just didn't manage to stay in touch.

And that's how it usually goes. The end of the movie is often the end of that momentary connection. Everyone moves on to the next show, the next location, the next hotel room.

But there are these rare times on film shoots when you think you are there to do a job and really you are there to meet your family. And with family, you can lose track of them for a while, but they are never really gone.

Mara will always be my little sister.

Even if I didn't marry Danny.

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Money: how film residuals work

It's surprising to me that people actually ask me how much money I make. I guess they have heard about "residuals" and are just curious to know how that works, but it seems like a ridiculous thing to ask. I feel like they should follow-up by asking for my weight and the date of my last period.

But people wonder about these things so I need to come up with some sort of answer.

I heard that somebody who had worked on Jurassic Park went to their mailbox one day to find a check for $100,000. I'm not sure if that is really true, or just one of those urban legends that was intended to increase morale amongst us working actors in a sometimes brutal industry.

Just to be clear, I have never stumbled across such a residual check.

Here's how it works - when my movies or TV shows are rented or shown on television, I get a fraction of a penny. Those pennies get bundled together and the checks arrive randomly, sometimes a couple of them show up one week, other times there is nothing for months.

The amount has diminished over time, these days, the average check is about $4.71. Occasionally they are more and my husband and I get to have a nice dinner out. But then there are times when the check wouldn't cover the price of the stamp and it can be a little embarrassing to take a 23 cent check to the bank.

Foreign residuals are always fun; it's neat to get a check for $17 because one of my disease-of-the-week TV movies was on cable in Denmark.

It's nothing life-altering and it's certainly nothing that you can depend on. At some point, the term "residual" started to be reminiscent something that gets stuck to the bottom of your shoe rather than a legitimate source of income.

But regardless of the amount, it's appreciated, because what kind of asshole doesn't appreciate random money showing up for something that they did 20 years ago?

Even if it is less than they would get from babysitting.

Check back next week when I will be posting about my weight and the date of my last period.

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Watching car commercials gets awkward

Sometimes, I'll be watching TV with my husband and an innocuous little car commercial comes on and he has to hear me yell - "Hey! I made out with that guy!"

My poor husband.

It's true that people tend to hook up on film sets. Shoots tend to be intense situations and people get very close, very fast. But to me, it never felt like a hook up. It always felt like LOVE.

This version of love only lasts for the duration of the project, yet has all the attributes of actual love. I think I fell in love with someone from the cast or crew on almost every project I was in. If the shoot was long, I might have fallen in love with two someones.

As an actor, throwing yourself into an on-set relationship is a way to feel like yourself when you spend 15 hours a day becoming someone else. It is the most basic way to keep a handle on your humanity. To give and receive love reminds you that even though you are doing something that seems so strange and fascinating to the rest of the world — you love just like everyone else. Your heart leaps when they walk in the room and you cry when they don’t call.

It’s simple. It’s normal. And sometimes, normal is the thing you need most.

Then, inevitably, when a show wrap is called and the set is broken down, the love flies into the stage lights like a moth and dies in a puff of smoke. Quickly and cleanly.

But it gets awkward, decades later, when you see that guy on a car commercial and you realize that you can only remember the name of his character, not his real name.

Let me say again: my poor husband. Most men don't have to see their wives' ex-boyfriends parade through the living room during commercial breaks while watching the NCAA championships.

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