LYSSA GRAHAM VOICEOVER

Pants on Fire VO

Ok, this focus thing is really hey lookit the butterfly

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So, I tried. I really did. I meant to write a post today on the steps I’m taking on my glory filled path to supreme organization and voiceover domination. But I couldn’t. Just couldn’t control the thoughts.

My goal, as much as I ever have one, was to break down all of the things I wanted to achieve into baby steps. I’m thinking that if I take the end results I wish to have and back them out, I’ll be able to plot the steps I need to take in order to achieve them.

And cluster the tasks. I’m big on this idea. If I can stack all of the related tasks into one slightly larger task, then I can turn those stacks/piles/heaps into routines. I need me some routines. Routines are like having an autopilot switch. You can just turn that routine on and off you go until it’s complete.

This, loose as it is, was my plan for today. Collect the data, turn it into routines, get busy.

Then this happened. I started making lists. Which went off the rails fast. In the absence of having anything constructive rattling around in my head, I’ve decided to just share my lists with you so that you can feel some sympathy for my condition.

And here they are, in their unedited glory:

These are the questions I’m grappling with today:

– What do I need to do in studio?
– What do I need to do inside of the house?
– Why won’t Jake eat breakfast?
– How do I get cast as an animated celebrity’s talking va-ja-jay on an Adult Swim cartoon?
– Is it strange that being a talking vagina is my ultimate work ambition?
– Who cares if it’s strange?
– These are not helpful questions.
– Ah, fuck it. Let’s move onto the things that keep me from working:

Things that keep me from working:

– I have a four-year-old
– I’m lazy
– My four-year-old is a boy
– We have two other businesses that require my attention to some degree every day
– Laundry
– Boy children are nut burgers
– Dishes
– Dog hair retrieval
– Legos
– Candy Crush
– Donald FUCKING Trump
– Laundry
– Why is my son inside the washing machine?
– Does listening to Alice in Chains cause me to use physically menacing terms like “wrestling” and “grappling?” Would I write “hugging” and “smoochy-pants” if I were listening to the B52’s?
– I wonder where Denise is these days. You could always tell what music she’d been listening to by her makeup. B52’s meant purple and pink dots, silver eyeliner. Black lipstick was a sign of Bauhaus. I miss Denise.
– Imma re-read that meditation book.
– Meditation is hard. Sitting still is hard. So’s the floor. I need more comfortable flip flops.
– Would it be reasonable to have a cigarette now?
– Fuck reasonable.
– I do need more tea and tea is in the same general vicinity as the smoking porch.
– Sure is hot outside though.
– And if I get near the porch, I will also be near the laundry, which means, oh hell, I still have more laundry to do.
– And I can’t forget to go to the store – gotta get pizza and a movie for tonight.
– Jake wants to see Lego Batman. It’ll be great. Great. Whoop.
– Oh god, another Trump tweet.
– Shit’s like Pavlov’s dogs – Trump tweets, I twitch.
– I wonder if there’s a class action suit against Trump yet for all of the emotional distress he’s causing. I’m in if they file one. I have receipts.
– “Original Sin” is a really great INXS song.
– Yes, definitely going to go smoke.
– I don’t know why Google chose to combine Alice in Chains and INXS greatest hits into one playlist but it’s working.
– Google does know everything.
– Google knows EVERYTHING.
– I should worry a bit more about that stuff.
– Let me just check with Alexa.
– Snort. See what I did?
– Then again, not so funny. I say a lot of inappropriate things. And I sing all the time. If someone is listening I am profoundly embarrassed about the singing.
– Man. Now I’m paranoid.
– Maybe I should just go to the store.
– I’ll do that. Go to the store. Buy things.
– Shouldn’t I be working? This is not working. This is vomiting words.
– Don’t pressure yourself so much. Word vomit was hugely successful for Kerouac.
– Oh fer fucks sake – another Trump tweet? I can’t stand it.
– Crap, Celia said not to get political in these things. But, but, but . . .
– She’s right.
– But.
– Still right.
– Fine. No politics.
– Come on now. Focus. Make one tiny plan out of all of this. Surely we can come up with one tiny baby step toward world domination.
– By the way, when I am in charge of the world, people who don’t put away their shopping carts in the parking lot corrals will have their heads lopped off immediately.
– Yes, I know that Karyn doesn’t always put her cart away but I do love her immensely and so will regret lopping off her head.
– Probably shouldn’t threaten to lop off your best friend’s head.
– True, but she should probably put her cart back and avoid the lopping.
– You know what else is keeping me from working?
– Lists.
– Dammit.

Doing It All

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Clearly, there’s a problem in Lyssa Land. More than one, in fact. But the most pressing one seems to be figuring out how to manage all of the things that need to get done while at the same time promote and grow my business.

On my plate for just this week: I’ve got to do a side gig appearance that will take me out of the house for an entire day. It includes driving to goddamned, freaking Houston in a car with no A/C during June. It’s 51 miles from my door to the door of the side gig. It takes 2 hours minimum each way. Because fucking Houston.

I’m going to Vegas for a voiceover conference on Friday so I’ve got to get ready for that. And I’ve got a second round of the side gig to do the day after I get back from the conference. So I’ll have to prepare for that too.

My husband has, in his typical moment of panic, invited my in-laws down to visit so that he will have back up for the days when I’m not here. This is very helpful for him. Not so much for me. Because now, I have to have the house presentable for in-law visit in addition to gigging, packing and growing my business.

And, of course, there’s the housework. I can give some of the housework things to my husband to do although that comes with a time price too as I have to explain many of the housework details to him. He has a learning disability that prevents him from folding towels correctly. It’s very sad and there does not appear to be any successful treatment available. Trust me, I’ve tried everything.

Don’t think he can take over laundry. He hasn’t been allowed to laundry unsupervised since the Sweater Incident of 1996. So I’m probably still stuck with that. For the record, I do laundry every single fucking day. In fact, this morning I started my first load of laundry at 6 am. Why do I do so much laundry? Because I have a husband and a son and they both change clothes roughly 14 times a day. And use a lot of towels. Towels that no one else can fold properly.

My husband can help with the feeding the family part if I give him very specific instructions. I can give him a list of things to buy. I’ll still be doing the cooking unless the list features sausage. My husband is a specialty chef. His culinary strengths lie in the “sausage and things with sausage in them” arena. He can also cook the hell out of a frozen pizza. It’s a gift.

I’m going to have to risk him feeding the entire family while I’m in Vegas. The last time I was away, I called home to check and asked my son what he had for dinner. My son – who is four – said, “Pickles.” My husband piped up with, “And olives!” so I would know that it was a balanced meal. It is a good thing that my in-laws will be here because they know how to eat.

But no worries, I’ll be in Vegas. With my bestie. And we will eat dinners that include much, much more than pickles and olives. Since it’s a voice actor conference, I’ll be able to do auditions and smaller voice jobs while I’m there. Three cheers for World Voices and WoVoCon for having booth space on site.

Might even be able to do a little marketing while I’m at the conference. Should be able to record a new imaging demo as well. So that’s going to be a productive weekend. With drinking. And when I get back, it will be the beginning of a whole new ballgame around here in terms of organization.

Right after I finish refolding the towels.

The Plan Goes Awry

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So I had this great idea. Not going to lie, I was drinking. But you can’t just dismiss a great idea because the source is hazy, now can you? I mean, you have to give it a chance right?

Here goes then. The idea is/was/might have been sorta like this; how about I blog my way through this re-evaluation of my business plan, child rearing craziness, career growing, keeping our heads above water, time management thing. I have to have some sort of purpose with these blogs. Maybe others on this same kind of trip would benefit from my struggles to be that world beating monster of organization and efficiency I’ve always dreamed of being. And there’s no getting out of doing them.

It’s not my fault. I promised my manager that I would blog weekly and put out short video content as a marketing effort to help people get to know me. The real me.

“It’ll be fun,” she said.

“It’ll be a crap-ton of work,” I heard.

“Once they get to know you, they’ll love you so much!” she said.

“Meaning right now, they just think you’re bat-crap insane and we need to do something about this,” I heard.

“I’ll be your accountability-buddy and keep you on track,” she said.

“I will stand on top of you and shriek about your lack of focus and determination while reminding you that you pay me a bunch of money for just this sort of thing. Whining will disappoint me (oh ACK!) and you will no longer be my little funny bunny super star. So get typing bee-yatch!,” I heard.

There was some other stuff about finding a topic that interests my target market – I don’t know, like advertising trends or something – that I blocked out because researching that shit is definitely way too much work.

So here I am, blogging. Don’t feel too sorry for me. I did time as a reporter so I can bang out three stories before lunch. While drinking. I was a crime reporter for a daily in the US Virgin Islands. Drinking was appropriate.

OK then, bang out one on Time Management 101 and the beginning of this journey. Not bad, ready for posting. One down, a zillion more to go. Just lock myself in the studio and get busy. I got this. In fact, at least three more cute, fun and clever topics are already rolling around in my head. Just have to take the 4-year-old super menace, The Purple Avenger, to school and I’ll get busy. Spend the morning writing and cranking out the funny. It’ll be nice.

Fifteen minutes later, although it seemed like many hours, I’m home, having dropped the PA at school, disentangled him from my leg and climbed back into the Kid Tank with the tantrum over his new ‘inja Turtle shoes still resonating in the car. I am a very, very, bad, bad, bad mommy because I didn’t let him wear his new ‘inja shoes to school. Never mind the fact that they are way too big (thanks Daddy) for him and he can’t take more than two steps without tripping over his light-up ‘inja clown shoes and falling on his face. Bad mommy.

Never mind. I’m home. I’ll just slip out back for a quick cigarette and then I’m on the job. Fingers ready. Let’s go!

Ten minutes later, I walk into the living room to find the ‘inja shoes destroyed on the floor. Along with the morning paper, one of my husband’s flip flops and something that may have been the PA’s breakfast last week.

Fucking LARRRRRRRYYYYYYYYYY! Larry’s my son’s dog. She’s a cute pibble mix with a heart of gold, a sunny disposition and an insatiable need to eat things that aren’t hers. She is trying to kill me. And yes, she’s a girl named Larry. We had the name before we had the dog and we also have a 4-year-old. These things happen.

Because I’m a strong, liberated, feminist woman, I only wept for about 10 minutes.

Then I dusted myself off and called my husband.

“Where did you get the ‘inja shoes,” I blubbered. In my head, praying (odd for an atheist but this is my foxhole) PLEASE DON’T SAY WAL MART. PLEASE DON’T SAY WAL MART. PLEASE DON’T SAY WAL MART.

“Wal Mart,” he says.

“Oh fer fucks sake, really? Goddammit. Auggghhhhhh!”

“Something happen?” says husband.

“YES. That fucking dog. Now I have to get a new pair of ‘inja shoes before school is out. He’s only had those shoes for one day and he cried all the way to school because he couldn’t wear them. I can’t take it. Wal Mart? Really?”

“Sorry,” says husband, “did you forget to lock Larry up?”

“Never again. She’s going to live in that doggie condo of hers like veal on the hoof from now on. I have to go to fucking Wal Mart.”

Wal Mart is (obviously) not my favorite place to go. Unfortunately, because I live in/near Texas, Wal Mart is unavoidable. At least I live in a cool part of Texas. Perhaps the only cool part of Texas but it’s still Texas. And Wal Mart in Texas is not like other Wal Marts. It’s a new level of hell. But here I go, 8:30 in the morning on the start of a holiday weekend on a tourist destination island near Texas. Good times.

Now I’m in Wal Mart, rage shopping on a holiday weekend. Just blindly walking around filling my cart with candy, Legos (for me and me only) and booze. And the fucking shoes, of course. Still way too big for him because, apparently, size 10 is a very popular size. So I have to get size 11 clown shoes in the same light up ‘inja design, along with another pair that will actually fit in another light up design. Making $60 total in kid shoes in a day and a half.

The Wal Mart cashier doesn’t laugh at my jokes. This only makes me try harder which would have been very amusing for her if she had only acknowledged my existence. Fuck, I’m bombing at register 10 in Wal Mart. That’s sad. Career epitaph right there. She bombed in Wal Mart.

Now I’m walking around the parking lot in circles for ten minutes. Just pushing my cart around and around while I look for my car. Never find it. Likely because I didn’t drive my car to Wal Mart. I drove the Kid Tank. Which you think I would have snapped to in my vain circles of the parking lot. Especially since I noticed a white Tahoe and thought to myself, “self, that looks like the Kid Tank,” without realizing that it was, indeed the Kid Tank.

Goddammit. Ok, fine. Back in the Kid Tank, Prince’s “Indigo Nights” blaring because funk makes everything better. Seriously, you should get that album. Hard to find, but awesome!

Feeling better. Feeling funky. Run next door to our rental to get it ready for guests. Housekeeping! Whee. Not too terrible although it is clear that my husband lied when he said he already cleaned the bathroom. No problem, I got this.

Go back home, walk into the house, spot the Purple Avenger’s nap accoutrement on the couch. The dynamic duo of Pop and Nunny (pacifier and giraffe headed blanket thing). They’re here. PA is at school where it is now, OH DEAR GOD, an hour and half from nap time.

Yes, of course, I know he’s too old for that nonsense. You tell him that. As far as I’m concerned, peer pressure will take care of that problem by high school at the latest. Bigger fish to fry around here.

Back in the Kid Tank, race to the school in the hopes that I can sneak in and stuff that crap in his pack-pack without him seeing me. Squeal to a stop in front of the school where I see a note on the door that they won’t be back until 11:15. It’s 10:48. No one is there. Now what? Can’t wait here for them because he’ll see me and that can’t happen. Dammit. Dammit.

Go home, fold today’s mountain of laundry. Get back in the Kid Tank, back to the school, dodge kids coming back from Splash Day festivities, find the afternoon zookeeper and thrust Pop and Nunny into her hands. She’s a nice lady. She doesn’t deserve a non Pop and Nunny day. No one does.

Get back in tank, phone bings. It’s the PA’s best friend’s mom. “Want to get together over the weekend? Thinking pool and maybe tourist attraction.”

I’m not going anywhere near a tourist attraction on a holiday weekend, thank you very much. And we have a pool. So I invite them over tomorrow morning. Put down my phone, realize that I’ve just invited people to my house! The one with the chewed doggy couches and the funky smell. That I will now have to clean today in order to allow outsiders inside.

Oh and it’s 12:30 and I haven’t eaten. Or written a single word. Much less recorded any words. Not even any sounds.
Because time management. Fuck me. Welcome to the journey. Hope you enjoy the ride.

Time Management 101

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Drop off child, go to the grocery store, take the dog to the vet, get drugs for the other dog, where the fuck is the cat, laundry, what color are the floors really supposed to be anyway, laundry, hit the post office, don’t forget the bank – oh hell, or to pick up the prescriptions from the pharmacy, laundry, husband needs my feedback about his business, tell husband my feedback is the same as it always is – fire the asshole and manage your time better, laundry, dishes, pick up the child, make dinner, clean up after dinner, make sure the child is clean, settle for making sure the child smells clean, put child to bed, put child back to bed, get child more milk, beat self up for disobeying the dentist and allowing child to have milk before bed, put child back to bed with sugar from milk pooling around his teeth, fret about future dentist bills, sit down, watch news, freak out about news, play games on phone to distract from the news, go to bed, read, fall asleep.

Repeat as necessary.

Oh yeah, somewhere in there I should also be doing 20 auditions a day, working on that audiobook that I accepted in a moment of weakness and haven’t started despite the fact that the deadline is already behind me, marketing, working with my acting coach, schmoozing my agents, blogging, shooting short funny videos, sparkling on social media and reveling in the joy of being my own boss.

Easy, right?

Yeah, I know, I’m tired just looking at it. And living it. Here’s the ironic part – I actually get paid money to teach people how to manage their busy lives and businesses. I know exactly how to manage all of this stuff. I’ve got tons of tricks and tips that really, really work.

For you. For me, not so much.

So what to do? Well, for starters, time to take a breath or two. Maybe three. Probably not four – who has time for that? But at least two. Let’s do that.

Better? A smidge? I hear you. It takes practice. But it does get a little easier if you just breathe.

Now that our brains are bit more oxygenated, what are we going to do about the craziness in our lives that’s preventing us from doing what we need or want to do? How do we manage all of this? And how did I drag you into all of this? Who says you have a problem with time management?

You did, you’re reading this helpfully titled post about basic time management. Sucker. So what are you going to do about the slightly controlled chaos that is your life?

Keep breathing. This is not the freakout point.

This is the freakout point.

We’re going to stop doing the things that someone else can do better or easier or faster and start doing the things that only we can do. And we – by this I really mean me, I don’t know what you’re going to do – are going to start walking our talk, practicing what we preach, living our own examples. (Insert additional cliches here if you need them. Personally, I think three is plenty but it’s your game too. Do what you gotta do.)

Are you ready? Here it is. I quit.

Quit what? My acting career? My family? My dentist?

Nope. I’m going to quit the main thread of that overly long first sentence/paragraph. I’m done freaking out. No more worrying. No more stress over baby teeth which, let’s be honest, are a practice set anyway. No more angst over the news and politics and the world. Instead, I’m just going to breathe. Then I’ll breathe some more and then, and only then, I’m going to do the things that only I can do.

And Imma do the shit out of them.

I’ll let you know how it goes.