I was so close to booking a pregnancy test commercial in Prague.

http://www.vice.com/en_uk/read/im-pregnant-and-im-going-to-prague

Last week I had an audition for a pregnancy test commercial. Initially I was about as thrilled as I would have been had I found out that another human being was swimming around in all the beer and anxiety in my gut. But, as I was signing in, a lady asked if I had an up-to-date passport because the shoot was in Prague. Game changer. I was excited, these overseas jobs are very rare and if I have to become the face of vaginal yeast infection in a country to get a free holiday there, so be it. I’m ambitious like that (excluding parts of the Middle East where they might cut my head off).

The audition is simple. I have to sit at a table with my “best friend” and tell her I’m two weeks pregnant, then we both have to scream, sigh, laugh and be happy. Basically the opposite of what would happen if I told my boyfriend.

Two days later I get a callback, which is weird. More times than not I say, “Really?” out loud when I get a callback email. If people still talked to each other on the phone, I’d probably lose 50 percent of the jobs I’d just managed to book. “Hey, Melissa, you got the job!” “Oh sure I did”  – click – “Melissa? Hello?”

Anyway, I want to go to Prague, so I decide I’m going to make it impossible for them not to pick me. I even brush my hair and dress like a normal person, which is a big deal for me. When I get to the audition, I’m paired with an extremely outgoing blonde named Amanda. She is wearing a very revealing dress. In hindsight, it was a pretty savvy choice: you could practically see her lactiferous ducts through it.

“Want to practice our lines?” she gasps. I guess I must have nodded. “Okay, awesome! You be the pregnant friend first!” she squeals. “Yay for me!” I say. Oh wait no, of course I don’t say that.

So I sit next her and start: “I have something to tell you. Umm, well, I’m pregnant! Two weeks!” Amanda stares at me, which makes me really self-conscious, and then screams, “I can’t believe it! I’m so happy for you!” Then she hugs me, which FYI, was not in the script. Why don’t you keep your hands to yourself Amanda? It’s flu season, for fuck’s sake.

After 30 minutes of saying the same lines over and over, it’s finally our turn. We walk into the studio and stand on the blue Xs taped to the floor. A woman is operating the camera and the director is sitting on a couch. “We’re going to slate you first, OK?” I nod. “Hi, what’s your name?” she says, pointing the camera at me. “Hi. I’m Melissa Stetten,” I purr, and then smile like the glorious, fresh-faced pregnant woman that I am. She does the same for Amanda, who thrusts her nipples in a different direction for each syllable of her name. Fuck, I hate Amanda, she’s such a bitch.

The two lines we actually have to say, and that we’ve been saying repeatedly for the last half hour, are written on a board in front of us, in case our brains are the sizes of peas and we can’t remember a simple sentence. I look at the board at least four times.

“Action,” the camera woman calls. “Well, there’s something I should tell you – I’m pregnant! Two weeks!” I say, in my mature mid-twenties woman voice. Amanda squeals again, even louder, “That’s so wonderful! I’m so happy!” and we smile adorably at each other. “Thanks, that was great,” the woman mutters, gesturing towards the exit. Amanda and I get up, grab our purses and leave. “Well that was shit,” I say to myself as I’m walking out the front door. Oh well, no Prague for me.

I’m halfway round the block, considering shoplifting at Whole Foods salad bar, when I hear my name called. “Melissa!” I turn around, the camera woman’s standing outside the studio. “Could you come back? The director wants you to read again with a different girl.” Ha! Suck my eggs Amanda, they want me. I walk back in and I’m paired with another girl. I say the lines about ten more times and feel much more confident about my performance. They both thank me and I leave.

That Friday I get a call from my agent: “Melissa you’re on avail for the pregnancy test commercial. I’ll keep you posted.” Holy shit I could be going to Prague! The last time I was put on avail I booked the job, I pull my suitcase out and begin unpacking the larder foods I’ve started storing in there (my apartment’s tiny, fuck you). Saturday night I get a call from the casting director: I’m on a “very short shortlist” and they’ll let me know for sure Monday morning. The flight leaves Monday evening. You might not believe me, but that’s actually a pretty long time in the fashion industry. That’s like, longer than Rodarte were considered cool this season.

I wake up Monday morning with a head full of wine. At 10AM my manager texts me, “Still w8n, wil let u kno!” At 2PM, he calls, but I can’t take it because I’m at another audition pretending to be a slutty girl hitting on a nerd for a beer commercial. Fuck you, timing. After a monstrosity of a performance I listen to my voicemail. “Hey Melissa, it’s Lindsay, they called and decided to go with someone else. But they wanted you to know that they thought you were wonderful and to thank you for being so patient.” Ugh.

Getting those calls is the worst part of being in this business. One minute you think you’re getting a job that would hold you over financially for a few months, the next minute you’re just another slutty girl coming on to a nerd for some beer. I texted my boyfriend to tell him the bad news. He replies: “Oh well, at least we can hang out and have sex this week.”

He’s got a point, you know.

Being lonely on set is very common…

http://www.vice.com/en_uk/read/bored-out-of-my-mind-at-sony-studios

Every time my phone rings and I see it’s my agent or manager, I automatically think they are calling to reprimand me about some kind of un-PC tweet I might have thrown at the world – like the time I tweeted about how I wanted to kill myself after an audition, for instance. Apparently not everyone thinks suicide is funny.

Anyway. It’s that time of my life again, when my agent calls me and I almost screen her because I’ve just tweeted something about Kim Kardashian’s taste in dicks. But I don’t, and so I find out I booked a national commercial. Finally, all those endless weeks of holding hands with guys who look like Orlando Bloom with a head injury and dancing around in bikinis have finally paid off.

The reason these commercial bookings are so sought after is because they pay a shit ton of money. Every time the commercial airs you get a residual, and these add up to thousands of dollars. I am excited because this is my first. My face is about to be on TV.

My call time is 8AM at Sony Studios. That place is huge but somehow, I make my way to wherever my commercial is being shot, where I am greeted by a cute wardrobe girl and asked to help myself to some coffee. As I’m pouring the coffee into a cup someone calls my name. I turn around and spill the scalding hot coffee on my hand, and my hand turns red. That someone wants to drive me to hair and makeup in his golf cart. I’m never one to turn down a ride by a stranger.

The makeup girl slathers my face in foundation and I mentally try to calculate how many zits will have popped on my face by tomorrow. My hair is done to look like that of a 60s floozy and I get squeezed into a dress. I’m all ready to go, but apparently no one else is, so I wait. I fiddle with my phone and take pictures of myself for about an hour. Another hour passes and finally I’m walked to where we’re shooting.

The set is a massive stage, with a super-shiny, white floor, a car at its centre and a roof holding a million lights. I’m told, it’s also the same stage where The Wizard of Oz was shot, which I think is fascinating because I’m easily fascinated by history. The wardrobe chick tells me to stand by the car. I walk up a step, contemplate having a panic attack and overhear the assistant director tell off the wardrobe chick for letting me walk on the floor with my shoes on. “I told her to take them off before she went up there,” she says. Fuck you too, bitch, you never said anything.

There is no dialogue in the script so the job is quite easy. I just have to smile in front of a bunch of cars; it’s not like I have to analyse herpes outbreaks, like some people. Before getting here this morning, I had been slightly worried about all this, but I keep my composure. This job confirmed that I love being the centre of attention.

I spend a few more hours smiling around and then I’m asked to take a break because they have to adjust some lights or something. Everyone seems so fucking busy, so I wander around like a lost puppy. I grab some snacks and smile at people walking by. I go back to wardrobe and put on my hoodie. I sit in there for a while looking around aimlessly and then decide to go for a walk. People zoom past me on golf carts and I pretended to have some kind of purpose.
I find a bench and sit on it for an hour. I text friends and stare at my phone. Eventually I walk back to the studio and to the snack table, grab some cookies and eat them while I sit on a chair and stare into space. Then someone comes to herald me back to the set.

I’m asked to do the same thing as before, but now I’m supposed to look sexy and flirty. I also spend a few minutes opening and closing a car door. Then I’m thanked and asked to hang around. A few more groundhog hours and I am finally told I can leave.

I’m not going to complain; I’m ecstatic I booked this job. It’s just that the whole experience was quite lonely and made me feel like a model. I was actually treated like a model. Which is strange, right? Next time I’ll remember to bring a book.

My Audition for Guardians of the Galaxy

Bikini Auditions, ugh…

Click pic for column on VICE website

I had an audition for a beer commercial yesterday. I only really showed up on the off-chance they might have been filming it in a palace in Tobago made out of diamonds and filled with innumerable birds of paradise, but it turned out to be the regular kind where a racially diverse group of attractive college kids are partying like they just discovered cocaine. My role was “Hot Bikini Girl At Pool Party”, which I guess beats the role of “Maniacal Lactating Young Mom” I had last week, but is still a little outside my comfort zone. I hate parties and can’t help but think of swimming pools as massive troughs full of other people’s sweat, piss and spit. I feel uncomfortable in scant clothing and have small boobs and – as everyone knows – small boobs are so boring.

The casting studio was on the second floor of a building above a pet store, and a chalkboard from the 19th century (who the fuck uses a chalkboard any more?) was scrawled with all other auditions that were going on in the building besides mine. I took a seat next to a guy dressed in goth, and worked out that he was auditioning for what must have been the world’s worst cellphone commercial. Behind me sat three Malibu Barbies in tiny, tight tank tops. I had given some thought about dressing like an ancient Spring-breaker, but decided that the audition would be adequate humiliation, so I wore my (very sexy) Depeche Mode shirt and jeans instead. After about 30 minutes of staring at my phone to avoid eye contact with anyone else, we were called in.

Inside, I was faced with a panel of four pushing-40 bros, in frat boy collared shirts and designer jeans. “You girls can go ahead and get into your bikinis now,” said Frat Bro #1, who looked like a “Brad” to me. So, as model’s law dictates, I immediately stripped down nearly nude in front of a row of smiling perverts. The other girls evaporated out of their little tops to expose their hot bikini bods – I, of course, was the palest and most flat-chested. But it’s cool, by now I’ve realised that I’ll always have the insecurities of a 13-year-old girl.

After taking our photos and names, Frat Bro #2 explained the commercial:

“You’re having fun at a party, drinking and laughing, and then all of a sudden you spot a super hot guy!”

Like we didn’t see that coming.

“You look at each other and then look to the guy. He comes walking over to you but you’re still not sure which girl he’s looking at. You all try to shove in front of each other to catch his attention. He walks past all of you to the bar, grabs his beer and smiles.”

Just wow. Body issues I can just about deal with, but living out the disgusting, misogynist fantasy of some brainless, bottle-service losers? And all self-respect issues aside (why do I find myself so frequently saying that?), not in a million years would I ever be standing around in a bikini checking out hot guys. Like anyone sane, I stalk them on the internet and then “accidentally” run into them at Starbucks. Because I’m not a freak.

The camera guy gave us the cue to start, and suddenly I couldn’t stand silently fuming any more. We grabbed our bottles of beer and started to mingle. The three other girls were frighteningly good at being flirty, chatty and bubbly, automatically deeming me the “weird shy girl” and acting like I didn’t exist. I put on my best fake smile and said “Hey guys, what’s up?” The busty blonde said, “Oh, your bikini is so cute! Where’d you get it?” I stared at her and mumbled “Ummm, ugh, I don’t remember. Fuck.”

Frat Bro #2 (he looked like a “Brad” too, let’s face it, they all look like Brads) then told us to stop talking and stare at the hot guy across the pool. We all shut up and put on super sexy faces, like Ryan fucking Gosling had just walked by, when in reality we were each staring at a respective bald patch. One girl then shoved me back (bitch, please) and so we began “fighting” over balding, smirking RyGo. I kept getting shoved back kind of hard, and started to feel very panicky and awkward. My insecurities about my body and acting skills all hit me at once. I hid in the back and wanted nothing to do with this audition any more, and the frat guys didn’t even notice, they were too busy staring at the giant cleavages wobbling around on the super tan girls in front. I stood with my arms awkwardly in front of my chest holding my hands together praying for them to yell “Cut!” Then Frat Bro #1, obviously enjoying his power-trip, brayed: “Okay, now just jump around and have a great time!” Noooo. The girls starting bouncing around and I slid further and further away from them. I was kind of in awe of the others; we all needed the money, and they were fucking great at repressing their inner disgust.

When the audition was over I put my clothes back with a cold, heavy feeling as if I’d been assaulted, avoided eye contact with anyone and manoeuvred myself the fuck out of there. Goth guy was still waiting for his audition, checking his eyeliner using the reverse camera on his iPhone and shielding his face from the rest of the room. ‘God,’ I thought to myself, ‘this fucking sucks.’

Fuck Ever Getting Old – Young Mom Auditions

Click pic for column on VICE

I always imagined it would be during a life-changing relationship that I’d have the epiphany I was ready to be a mother. Apparently last week my booker decided to go ahead and make that decision for me. Thanks to him, instead of the usual “Attractive Model-Type” or even “Thin Late-Teens-Looking Tall Girl” parts I usually try out for, I’m now the “Smug, Pregnant, Yoghurt Lover”. No kidding, the last three castings I’ve shown up to have been all “Smile and look wholesome, honey!” This is very unsettling. Wholesome? I can barely take care of myself, let alone something that is a lot smaller and more delicate than me but produces the same amount of puke and tears. How did I suddenly graduate from kid to responsible baby-mama – maybe my new denim jacket doesn’t have enough holes in it? Or my hairdresser screwed me over? Unless… Am I old?! I can’t be old! The minute I become “old”, I’m automatically unemployed. Fuck.

This might surprise you, because I know no one else ever does this, but it isn’t the first time I’ve freaked out about age. When I was living with my much older boyfriend in his mini-mansion in suburban New York, I was basically 100 years old. The neighbourhood was full of successful Jewish accountants who I had to ride a train into NYC with every day, and they all smelled of wrinkles and cash. I breathed the same stale air as them. My life was soundtracked by the sound of their dry mouths clasping together and their spines slowly disintegrating. Slowly but surely, I absorbed their decrepitude.

One evening back in suburbia, I had to make a run to the pharmacy for my copious amounts of anti-everything pills, and my boyfriend texts me: “Hey, can u pick up my propecia and blood pressure pills too?” Propecia is what balding men take to re-grow their hair. Men who are usually over 50 (which my “boy”friend was). I proceeded to have one of those “so this is what I’m doing with my life” moments, as I queued behind an elderly woman who was asking the pharmacist all sorts of quite important but very frustrating questions about insurance and dosage, wasting more and more of the precious, fleeting time I have before I curl up and die alone in a dark corner of Whole Foods. Hurry the fuck up, oldie! For some reason, “Lost in the Supermarket” by The Clash is playing. How fitting.

I returned home with my paper bag of prescription bottles, sat on the couch next to my old-ass manfriend, tried to think of something “young” to talk about, gave up and started glugging chardonnay in front of the TV. ‘I was born in the motherfucking 80s,’ I think to myself. ‘I’m not old… Yes, I went on a cruise once, OK, maybe two, but those giant lawless death-traps are more fun than you think. Especially when you get shitfaced and make-out with the Portuguese butler while your crazy boyfriend’s in the depths of the casino doubling down on seven hands of Blackjack. Plus, I swear I never wore a visor…’

Gradually I spent more and more time lost in these meandering fugue states, and I realised I had to dump that prehistoric loser. Which I did, but somehow I’m back here again, at the first of my “young mother” auditions, pretending to be at a bachelorette party, pretending to be embarrassed by male strippers. Why do you have to be a mother to be embarrassed by that? Like all women are libidinous, fucktard penis hounds until they squeeze out a baby and suddenly they develop common sense and basic decency? Still, I put on my best “Oh goodness, someone shield my eyes from that tempting monstrosity of a human” look and not to blow my own horn. It was really convincing, guys. You should’ve seen it.

The second audition was a commercial for diapers. I’d rather my cat shit in my mouth while I’m sleeping than have to clean gross baby poop off one of those alien-looking newborns, but I did it anyway. This is my job, remember? So I got there and surveyed the waiting room and saw the dreaded Future Me: women with short hair and red lipstick wearing dark blue blazers and Banana Republic trendy jeans with high-heeled brown boots and turquoise earrings. The brief said officewear, but I had an audition before and after this one, so I wore Levi’s and a white shirt, which probably makes less “young mum” and more “despised aunt”.

I got callbacks for every single one of those castings. So unless I die in a botch-job face-lift accident before filming, I can’t wait for you guys to see me in “mom” ads knowing that I keep Plan B tucked under my mattress and have my first abortion doctor all picked out already.

Everyone in My Hometown Thinks I’m a Superstar

Click pic for column on VICE website.

As much as every smug fuck with a blow out in Whole Foods likes to pretend they’re a native New Yorker, no one really comes from Manhattan or downtown LA. Sorry to everyone out there who thinks the skyscrapers are where they put all the Goodfellas and Wanderers when they escape their lives of street crime and make it big, but these places are actually just inhabited by the most rich and attractive people from the small, shitty nowhere towns littered across North America. Not in a bad way; I’m from one of those shitty nowhere towns myself – Kalamazoo, Michigan, to be precise. And, if I’m essentially a sort of sexy ambassador, I think I’m doing a pretty good job of representing my hometown. It’s between me and that baseball player Derek Jeter who fucked Mariah Carey, so it would be kind of awful if I was doing it any worse than he was.

I’m not like, famous famous, but last year I got some press attention after I tweeted about this married actor’s awful attempt to flirt with me on a plane. Plus, I’ve been in two seconds of a car commercial (approx). Unfortunately, being from such a small town, the people I grew up with don’t understand quite how wide the spectrum of success is. After you’ve become a bit of a celebrity (and I mean “celebrity” in the loosest – LOOSEST – possible sense) everyone assumes you’re living the dream, and are about to star in your own reality TV show. What they don’t understand is how hard it really is.

No, I’m not whining about paparazzi: I’m fucking broke. The last time I checked my account balance I felt like I’d just seen Michael Jackson’s face develop from child to adult in a series of high-speed flashes. I.e, fucking terrified.

When I occasionally swap my very fancy apartment in Koreatown (our neighbours have an indoor chicken and cook meth in their bathroom) for my working class hometown, I’m constantly asked about how awesome my life is. People genuinely think that because I’ve been on television for less than 30 seconds I must be a millionaire. It’s true that working actors and models make a decent living, but in a good month I’ll book about four jobs. This summer I went two months without working a single day. Being a full-time model means I’m part-time unemployed, so I have to save money like I’ll never make any more ever again. Basically what I’m trying to say is, no, I’m not buying that beer for you.

Going home also means having to play along with how great and exciting my life is, all the time. My mom’s house is filled with pictures of me in magazines, which I have to stare at while I’m trying to enjoy eating more calories in one sitting than I’m usually allowed in a week. It’s really depressing actually, my mom thinks they represent my success, but when I see them I just think, ‘Hey Melissa, remember that shitty job where the photographer was a dick and you made $150 for ten hours of work?’ Oh wait, you didn’t know that editorials don’t pay the models a cent? Yeah, apparently the exposure is tantamount to a fee. Which is great, because in New York, city of dreams, landlords have been accepting “exposure” as rent money ever since Edie Sedgwick kicked the smack habit and bought a penthouse suite in the Empire State Building.

Aside from sleeping in my old bedroom, which was once covered in Radiohead posters and rave flyers and has now become my mom’s second closet, the main thing I do when I’m back home is eat deep-fried everything and drink beer with the consistency of milkshake. No wonder Middle America is fat; everything here is delicious. There’s also the constant soundbite of family members exclaiming ,“Oh my gosh, you are too skinny! You need to eat!” which goes down easier than the first sip of milkshake beer. After months of being prodded in the hips with the end of a coat-hanger in New York, the first time I hear it often brings a tear to my eye.

There’s not much to do here except eat and cuddle my family for hours: the pubs in my hometown are packed full of drunk college kids singing karaoke and playing darts, which isn’t all that much fun. As an ambassador of Kalamazoo, I guess I should really be trying to sell this shit to the New York crowd, but the schism is just too wide: most of the people I know who actually stayed here got married and had kids before the people in New York had settled upon their first-choice drug habit. I envy my friends from school. They already live in cute little houses, watch shitty TV every night like The X-Factor and Whitney, take their kids to school every morning, eat fattening food and have sex as often as they like. Now does that sound awful? Or completely amazing?

It’s also great to go home and see the people who made fun of me for having giant teeth and a face full of zits when we were at school. It makes me smile to see them now, overweight dishwashers working in shitty restaurants because they lost their football scholarship from drinking too much. Not that I’m obnoxious to them, everyone was an asshole in school and we’ve all had shitty upbringings. All of of my friends from school were troublemakers. When I was 16, I would sneak out of this very bedroom window to go get wasted, and then lie to my parents about it and feel all angsty and important. It fucking bewilders me how I never got raped or turned into an MDMA slutbag rave girl with wrists covered in slimy leather bracelets, wearing giant pants.

This Year Was Fucking Nuts

I wanted to post my favorite photos from this year, but upon reminiscing over the past 12 months I realized a lot of weird and fun shit happened. So I’m posting my favorite moments from this year.

Went to the Caribbean and zip lined in Jamaica. I also let a monkey jump on my shoulder.

Worked for a few of my favorite designers: Karl Lagerfeld, Diane Von Furstenberg, Balenciaga, & Peter Pilotto

Saw myself on the side of a building.

Saw Bruce Springsteen at Apollo Theater and met some nice dudes.

Watched too much Twilight Zone.

Went to Napa for my sister’s bachelorette party.

Won the lottery.

Coldest Coachella ever.

Too many airplanes.

Sister’s wedding!

Enjoyed the fuck outta NYC.

Bought some awesome records.

Someone loved me I guess.

Visited Yosemite.

Ruined Brian Presley’s life. Oops.

Went to Big Sur!

Reunited with Kitler.

Said goodbye to NYC.

Said hello to LA… and a new manager, agent, and traffic.

Saw some fireworks from my bedroom window.

Rode on my first studio lot golf cart.

Wrote a lot.

Met this guy who taught me how to smoke cigars…and then became my boyfriend.

Did some podcasts.

Saw James freak out when he got Guardians of the Galaxy.

Went to the Santa Barbara Zoo

Picked my friend up from rehab.

Went to Yosemite again and met my sister’s kitten Bagel and went zip lining.

Saw Ellen!

Went to the Walking Dead premiere and almost got eaten by Zombies.

Booked my first movie!

Started writing for VICE.

Booked my first national commercial!

Had an awesome Halloween costume. Howard and Beth!

Had some adult-like meetings.

Ate about 100 popsicles from Suck It Sweets

Had a couple amazing meals from Wolvesmouth.

Got a haircut and sweater.

Got my boot massaged by Michael Rooker.

Went to St. Louis for the first time with James and saw snow and the St. Louis arch!