OK. The top of January I was in Seattle for an audition that was casting the role of "Barista: piercings a plus!" So I trekked on down to Claire's, that jewelry shop where teenagers adorn themselves in Hello Kitty earings and Hanna Montana hair falls. It was rather surreal asking the sales girl I was looking for "anything that can be pierced, without actually piercing it." So I was corralled toward THE CASE. It was a lock down, this piercing aisle. And she looped her keys around in a finger-hula-hoop, weilding them as a high-security prison guard would at San Quentin. I found magnetic piercings galore. After stocking up on some faux hoops for the nose and lip, I promenaded down to 1st Ave. where the bead store was, still searching for that ever-evasive eyebrow ring. I found facets that I later cut with pliers and forceably pinched my skin, maneuvering what one would hope would portray my look: A Human Tackle Box. I smeared red eyeshadow on and did my best Suicide Girl impression and plotted on. The other day I had the big bi-annual "Generals" theatre auditions in PDX, a scary ordeal in which one crams two contrasting monologues: a contemporary piece and a classic one timed in 3 minutes (oh, and they'll call "time" on your ass). Since my pieces where hand-heavy, I decided to dawn fake nails for the gig (see above). Right as I'm going on, one popped off and I had to think of that lone missing nail all throughout an early Scorsese piece and a Shakespearean Cleopatra. I felt like my right hand looked like a 3-legged dog. I have 4 other auditions this week and lord knows who I'll have to become for them. Are you there god? It's me, Gigi. Why was I blessed with this gift of theatricality? I mean, it's a gift AND a curse...
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