Your dream is stupid

I recently read an article in Thought Catalog that highlighted a problem I've been thinking about for a while now. It was called The Difference Between Boring People And People Who Actually Want To Live. The article says there are basically two kinds of people, drones and dreamers. Drones have 401ks and work in offices. Dreamers are creatives who feed their souls with artistic endeavors. Although the writer says she doesn't think one is better than the other...the title kind of gives her away.

I'm all for supporting people in their dreams of living a fulfilling life. What I don't like is the judgement of what their dreams are.

I've read a lot about how it's okay, for example, to leave your job at the insurance company so that you can be a painter of landscapes. But, I rarely hear that it's okay to go the other way.

The article says that "Dreamers think bigger than most people, are unwilling to settle for zombie office culture..."

My husband works in an office. He loves his work. He loves PowerPoint and analytics and button up shirts that need collar-stays. He loves the people he works with. His "zombie office culture" makes him feel purposeful. Should I roll my eyes at him and assume that deep down he is actually a boring and unfulfilled drone? The dude sings very loudly in the shower - he's pretty damn happy.

As someone who was a working actor in Los Angeles - a supposed "dream job" - I had dreams of working at a "normal" job with deadlines and sweater-sets. So, I'm a little sensitive to people placing judgement on what is a worthy dream and what is not. I fantasized about the routine and structure of regular life. My dream was to get away from premieres and paparazzi and limos. I never wanted to be famous and I don't think that makes my dream less valid than someone who does want those things.

Why are we not celebrating the fact that people have different dreams? Our society would fall apart if we all wanted to be artists or if we all wanted to be accountants. One friend of mine left fashion to work at a financial firm, another wants to stop the endless grad school cycle and become a midwife. Both finance and midwifery activate my gag reflex - I'm grateful that they can do those jobs, so that I don't have to. Plus, they also get to contribute to society and be happy. Big wins, all around.

So, go ahead and dream of being a potter or goat farmer or a 9-to-5-er or whatever. A dream doesn't have to include professional athletes and movie stars to be valid. I promise. "Normal" can be beautiful, too.

Here's the advice from the article that I liked:

Fuck other people. Fuck their opinions, their two cents, their idea on what is “right” and “normal” and “healthy” and what you “should be doing.”

Amen to that.

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You might also like:

• Words in other places: HelloGiggles
• Hello, my name is Lisa Jakub and I used to be an actor
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Independence Day 2

So, Roland Emmerich recently announced that Independence Day 2 is in the works. Even though I was only in the movie for, like, 5 minutes, I've been inundated with questions about this. But honestly, I found out when everyone else did.

The real answer is - No, no one has called me about it and I'm really not sure what I would say if they did.

But that is such a boring response.

So, I've come up with some alternatives.

• I'm not sure if I can do the movie because I can't find my high-wasted short-shorts.
• Didn't I die in Independence Day? A lot of people died, wasn't I one of them? I really have to watch it again.
• Can I play an alien?
• I'm not sure I remember how to act anymore. Is it still just pretending?
• Why? Is Zooey Deschanel not available?
• I'll do it if it's specified in my contract that I get to make out with Andrew Keegan again and/or I can keep the winnebago.

I think I'll stick to being a writer.

You might also like:

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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 Post-Huff Po post post

Life got a little strange last week. I received an email from a reader informing me that the Huffington Post wrote this. I'm grateful for the Huff Po piece because it connected me to all of you new readers. You have told me your stories and said unbelievably nice things and seem like a thoroughly lovely bunch people. I'm happy to know you.

But, it seemed ridiculous to me that they titled it "Lisa Jakub's Post-'Mrs. Doubtfire' Life: Former Child Star Blogs To Inform Us Of Her Whereabouts"

They made it sound like I was playing Hide-and-seek for the past 12 years. Like I've been crouching in the hall closet under a pile of shoes and I just jumped out and yelled "I WIN!"

I don't really think you have been sitting around wondering where I am and what I've been doing with myself. That is not the impetus of my writing. So, that brings me to an important question: what is my intent?

I'm a writer and I have to write. It's a compulsion. I want to write about all kinds of things. I want to write about how I love Mara and about how movie money works. But I also want to write about how it's okay to change your mind. It's okay to choose a life that is not what everyone else expected of you. It's okay to decide that being happy is worth more than money or a law degree or marrying your high school sweetheart just because they were nice enough.

Me "revealing" my early life in film was only done by way of introduction. That is part of who I am and I need to be honest about myself if I'm going to tell you a good story about anything. You'd never believe me, otherwise.

But that is not a very riveting headline, I suppose, so they make it sound like I am graciously giving you the answer to a riddle that's been keeping you up nights.

Some of the Huffington Post comments were mean - mostly of the "I don't care about her" variety - but the vast majority were kind and supportive and I'm thankful for that. I must admit that the mean ones did make me laugh. They made me want to go to a website about fishing and click on the article, read it, log in and tell them they should stop writing it because I don't happen to care about fishing.

But reading that you are irrelevant is not that fun, so I have a new rule: NEVER read Huff Po comments.

What I will do is write about movies and that crazy world of pop culture. But I'm also going to write about making the hard decisions and what happens when you're 34 and still don't have all the answers.

Oh, and I'm probably going to make a lot of spelling mistakes.

I hope you'll stick around for all of it.

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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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Remembering how to smile pretty

It has been gently mentioned to me that perhaps a photo with an alpaca is not quite appropriate for a professional writer. So, I'm getting my headshot taken this week.

Photo shoots used to be a common part of my life when I was an actor. It was never something I thought twice about. It was simply an aspect of my job and I did it as readily as someone else might attend the Wednesday morning staff meeting.

But now that I'm retired from that line of work and it's been a solid decade since I've been in front of a camera that wasn't also a cell phone - I'm nervous.

When I left L.A, I stopped thinking about if my body was camera-ready. I wonder if I've lost my photo shoot skills. Now, I smile too big, making deep wrinkles around my eyes and showing too much of my teeth. I can't remember which is my "good" side. I stand funny and allow my severely duck-footed feet to point at their absurd angles. I forget to pluck my eyebrows and can never shave my knees properly.

I loved those "unflattering" photos of Beyoncé at the Super Bowl. Since we have all untagged ourselves and our double chins on Facebook, doesn't it make us all feel better that even Beyoncé can take a bad photo?

I don't want a perfectly idealized photo of myself. I don't want to be airbrushed to look 10 years younger than my real age. I'm a 34-year-old writer. I have really dry skin and my hair is unruly. And all that is okay.

I guess I just want a photo that looks like me. And that doesn't have an alpaca in it.

Let's see if I remember how to do this.

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The Happy Birthday person

The anonymity of the internet can be a dangerous thing. It gives people the chance to voice their most nasty thoughts without having any accountability. Comment sections can be brutal, heartless and shockingly cruel. They tend to look like something you'd see in the Roman Colosseum circa 80 AD. They even have a handy little "thumbs down" button. But that is just half the story. The internet also allows for connection on a level that is broader than ever before. Some might say that it's a superficial connection, but since Facebook is the only reasonable way for me to stay in touch with my friends in Zimbabwe, it doesn't feel superficial to me. It offers access to people you couldn't reach before and there can be a true sense of community. It might feel a little different from a community that is created by a cul-de-sac but it's a community, none the less.

There is someone on the IMDB  message boards who wishes me a happy birthday every year.

On my actual birthday.

That's pretty awesome.

It's so easy to become infuriated with the media. It just takes one story about Anne Hathaway ducking into the car of a total stranger so that she can ditch TMZ, and I'm ready to go on an obscenity-filled rampage. But then, I am reminded that most people are not like that. Most people who are interested in movies simply love film and love actors and want to connect. I've met many of you via Facebook, Twitter and email over the past several weeks since I've started this blog. And you know what?  You're cool.

Since I've been completely hiding from my old life for the past decade, I've not had the proper venue for acknowledging the kind act of that dedicated birthday well-wisher. I always felt too shy to say it before. But I've been getting braver lately.

So, thanks, No-one2 for all your thoughtful messages. They have meant a lot to me.

And thank you to everyone who has written and welcomed me with open arms. I've loved hearing your stories of how you took the path less traveled and made difficult choices to pursue your own happiness.

I'll quote someone who emailed me and say that it's been wonderful to connect with you, "one normal person to another."

Isn't that what it's all about, anyway?

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"Stars are just like us!"

I hate getting my hair cut. I always have. That's why I had that down-to-my-waist hair until I was 15.

My hair is a little shorter now, but I still only get it cut twice a year.

I was at the hair salon waiting for my semi-annual appointment and the receptionist offered me some magazines while I waited. I expected her to bring O Magazine or something where I could compare the 14 different types of asymmetrical bob cuts I was never going to get.

She brought me People Magazine and Us Weekly.

I reacted as if she had handed me a dead fish.

It's been decades since I've touched those kinds of magazines. As an actor that used to dodge reporters and photographers, I know what it's like to be on the other side of that lens. I know how it feels to be a hunted animal. In fact, it's one of the main reasons that I left my career; I couldn't handle the fact that the better I was at my job, the less right I had to a normal life.

But since my cell battery had died and my hairdresser was up to his elbows in hair dye goop that he was still putting on his previous client, I set aside my moral compass and flipped through Us Weekly.

This page stood out to me.

It caught my eye because this is clearly not something that they believe. These magazines are not really saying that famous people are just like everyone else. The entire magazine is based around the fact that they are inherently different from regular people.

If your dental hygienist went out to buy kale, would that be photo worthy? Would there be an article about how the teller from the bank likes a certain brand of lip gloss? Would that sell magazines?

Of course not. But why do we really care about those mundane details, just because those people happen to work in film? Actors are not better or smarter or more talented or even prettier (thank you, Photoshop) than anyone else in the world.

Tigerbeat used to want to know about my favorite foods and what music I liked. These days, that information is no longer of general public interest - and I'm quite grateful for that. But I'm not fundamentally any different than I was in the 90s, I just changed my job.

So, honestly. Why does this stuff matter?

I never figured out the answer to that question because I had to get my hair shampooed.

But it's still worth asking.

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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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The zit

I have a zit right now. It's on the very tip of my nose. It's big. It's what my friend Heather would call "angry." It has three dimensions and it laughs at any concealer that dares come its way. Here's one of the fantastic things about my non-famous life.

This zit doesn't matter.

This was not the case in my old life.

When I was 16, I filmed a terrible TV movie in the South of France called Reckoning. I played a girl who got kidnapped by bad guys that wanted to sell her as a sex slave.

During shooting, puberty hit (shut up - I was a late bloomer) and I broke out terribly. My acne was so bad that even the heavy-duty film make up couldn't cover up my horrible pimples.  And no one wants a zitty sex slave.

The production company decided to "shuffle around the shooting schedule" and film scenes that didn't involve me and my terrible skin until it cleared up a little. There were production meetings and location changes. It was discussed widely throughout the cast and crew. Doctors were consulted.

But now, no one cares about this thing on my face. No one cares at my yoga studio or at the Whole Foods or when I picked up our tax paperwork from the accountant. The dog didn't care when my zit and I took her for a walk.

To the best of my knowledge, there has not been a single meeting held to discuss the state of this current zit.

I guess some girls like having the loaner jewelry from Van Cleef and Arpels and all the other trappings that come with celebrity, but for me, nothing is more valuable than the freedom to get a really big zit.

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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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Fan mail

Recently, some of Taylor Swift’s fan mail was found in a dumpster, apparently it accidently ended up with some other papers that were headed to the recycling center. First – Is anyone else surprised that people still send fan mail? Not fan tweets? Fan Facebook? Fan texts? Since our entire lives are now online, fan snail-mail just seems so quaint. It's like sending away to get a Little Orphan Annie decoder ring.

Second – I used to get fan mail. Granted, a lot of mine came from gentlemen who were incarcerated but some of it was from non-convicts, as well. When I was a kid, becoming pen-pals with fans was a great way to get a stalker, so I was never allowed to write back. While it’s really lovely to have people tell you that they like you, it’s also a little awkward, because you can’t reciprocate their appreciation. To me, fan mail always felt like that uncomfortable moment when someone comes up to you and starts a conversation and asks about your dog by name but for the life of you -  you can’t remember who they are. I stopped reading the letters. My fan mail all got piled up behind the china cabinet with the dust bunnies.

Third – Be honest. What do you do with your mail? You know, that birthday card from Grandma that had $10 tucked inside, or that Christmas card from the very blond family down the street. You read it. You think, “that’s so nice” and then you throw it out, shoving it underneath the coffee grinds so that you don’t have to look at it and feel guilty.

I’m just saying, maybe we don’t need to refer to this as a “shocking discovery.” I can think of a lot more shocking things we could find in a dumpster in Tennessee.

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Compassion

During this year's Oscars, The Onion tweeted about Quvenzhané Wallis, the nine-year-old actress in Beasts of the Southern Wild. They jokingly called her a nasty name. A really nasty name. They then apologized and took it back and I have great respect for that. I love it when someone can admit that they made a mistake. (Maybe that’s because I feel like I need to do that so often.) But a surprising number of people thought that was not necessary. They felt that it was just a joke and that people were too sensitive about it.

I so strongly disagree with them that it makes my hands shake.

I started acting when I was four years old, and I remember feeling that because I was in movies, anything in my life was fair game. Since I got to be part of this revered world, things like compassion and general human decency went out the window.

When I was a few years older than Quvenzhané, I was in a pool at a hotel and got recognized. The man asked me to get out of the pool so that we could take a photo together. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of posing with a stranger in my bathing suit, but when I asked him to wait until I got dressed he got mad. He yelled at me and said, “You’re an actor. You owe it to me.”

It’s sad to me that some people feel that actors are rented humans, here for mere entertainment.

I get that The Onion tweet was a joke and it was supposed to be funny. I love funny. But all I can think about is Quvenzhané's family sitting around the dinner table, trying to explain to her what the "c-word" means.