One
of the great rules of theatre is never work with kids or animals. In real life, this portion of my experience
included both.
Immediately
after my appointment with Dr. Radio, I went to babysit on the Upper East Side
(as indicated in this vlog), and I called five of my closest friends (including
my sister), to discuss the appointment.
After
cleaning this incredible uptown apartment—washing dishes, making beds, stuffing
Barbies back into their dream houses—I had to complete my final task before
after-school pick-up: walking Sparkle. Sparkle, the dog.
 |
| This is not the real Sparkle, but I promise, they are equally adorable. |
Sparkle
is the whitest creature I’ve ever seen. She looks like a pom-pom with gorgeous
sparkly black eyes. She is a bitch in
the truest sense of the word.
Every
time I walked Sparkle, she would exit the lobby of her building prancing like a
princess, then dug her heels into the pavement, making me look like moron as I
tugged against two pounds of fluff. My
whole body weight was thrown into yanking on a pink glitter leash in the middle
of 59th street, and Sparkle the chipmunk-sized glamour dog didn’t
move an inch.
People
would point and stare and laugh. The
doormen would come outside just to watch the battle ensue. No joke.
Now,
on this day, I hadn’t been thinking about Sparkle. I’d been thinking about cancer, and talking
to Sam (an expert in the field). When we
hung up the phone, I realized there was no one else to call. I was alone with
my thoughts and broke down into fits of sobs—heaving, hysterical fits of
crying. I braced myself against the
wall, because I was crying so hard, and when I looked down at my feet, guess
who was looking up at me with her big black eyes?
Animals
can be so intuitive in such moments, and the look on Sparkle’s face had such a
clear message. And that message was
this, “Bitch. Stop crying and take me
for my walk.”
So, I
pulled my shit together and did exactly that.
And you know what? Sparkle
behaved just as she always did. She
rammed her fucking paws into the sidewalk and refused to budge and I cursed the
people of the Upper East Side for creating a world where even the dogs are
spoiled brats.
Note:
Two days later, I was let go from this job.
They wanted someone who could commit to five days a week, and I only had
two open. So, Sparkle and I parted ways.
Why
do I tell you this?
Because
even when you have cancer, you still have to walk the dog. You still have to make money, and do the
dishes, and that’s actually a good thing. Sparkle didn’t feel sorry for
me. She didn’t tell me I should slow down,
or ask how I was feeling, or tell me how strong I was or expect anything less
from me than she had come to expect.
At the time, I would have
appreciated a little more compassion; but now, after months of pointed
questions…
"How
ARE you?”
“How
are you feeling?”
and
stunning revelations
“You’re
looking like your old self!"
"I’m
starting to see that Jacey sparkle again."
I've
come to realize that normal--laundry and taking out the trash--normal is a gift.
.
