I’m Not Married & I’m 24: The Story of a Southern Faux Pas

So I have these two old, crazy, Italian Great Aunts.  For some reason, they have my cell number in their phone book as my parent’s house in Maryland…  and no matter how many times I have asked them to change it (approximately 57 million), they always seem to immediately forget, and then a month later they wake me up on a Saturday at 7am (10am EST) loudly yelling for my mother into the receiver.  It always turns into a shout off until they stop talking and I can fully convince them that I’m not actually the one they want…  I am three hours in the past and would really appreciate sleeping during my time travels to MY OWN 10am.

A new development occurred this past week though, I got a call asking for my mom from a second cousin I didn’t even know I had – she had gotten ahold of the crazy Italian’s phone book and was calling everyone in it – It’s coming up on  the SUPER AWESOME FUN 5 YEAR FAMILY REUNION!  WOO!

…I guess now should be where I tell you, I don’t really associate with that side of the family, I’ve always identified much stronger with my Dad’s…  maybe it’s my Mom’s uber conservative, southern Catholic upbringing that just rubs me the wrong way, but I’ve never felt comfortable around them, and for me, constantly censoring myself gets exhausting.  So you can imagine a family reunion is EXACTLY what I’m looking forward to.

After I explain the mix-up, there is an awkward moment where I obviously want to get off the phone, but my second cousin pressed on, wanting to know just where the heck I could possibly be, if I wasn’t living at home, or at least within hollerin’ distance of my momma.  I will call her Sally Jean, as her southern twang would lead you to believe would be an appropriate moniker…  don’t forget, I’m from Maryland.

“So.  Are you married yet?  Any kids?”

…I almost laughed out loud, but settled for smacking my head against the wall instead.  Good Lord, like I have enough time out here for myself, let alone someone else…  not to mention that I’m more of a dude than most guys in Hollywood.  (Come on fellas, you know its true.  I have never seen more manly mani-pedi’s in all my life).  Married…  but I AM getting older… after all, I AM 24.  24?!  Lands sakes alive, child!  In some parts of the South, you’re a filthy old nag, put out to pasture, waiting for the glue factory.  That’s all you’re good for anymore – lonely glue.  At least then you can hold two pieces of paper together, unlike any relationship in your more formidable years.

“No, Sally Jean, I’m not married.  I live in Hollywood.  I work for the film industry, on TV shows and movies.  I work 14 hour days, I don’t really have time for a relationship right now because I’m trying to do things that won’t hurt me or waste my time, like getting a manager or selling a script.”

“Oh mercy me!  My sons do that!  They make army videos in the backyard!”

Much like Sly Stallone in Demolition Man, I tried to “enhance my calm, John Spartan”.

“Well its good you let them play with a camera like that.”

“Yeah, I suppose.  But it doesn’t pay well does it?  Are you one of those ‘starving artist’ types?”

If this were a cartoon, I would have reached through the phone, dropped an anvil on her head, then a piano, then a safe.

“Actually Sally Jean, it pays pretty well, I’m making more than most of my friends who got business degrees.  Plus I hang out with movie stars”

“Huh.  Well if you say so.”

I’ll just stop here, the rest isn’t pretty, basically it turned into me giving the best pitch of my life – for her children to go to film school, study, create art, to follow their dreams, fulfill their DESTINIES, damnit!

We got off the phone twenty minutes later and she told me she knew there was a reason my crazy Aunts gave her my number.  I like to think that reason is so I could convince her kids to someday move to California, to NOT get married and never, EVER make her a grandmother, thus ending her specific contribution to the human gene pool.

PA Lesson of the week:  You’re one of the bottom rungs out here, the people at home barely know what “Director” means, let alone “Production Assistant”.  Get used to it.  Don’t expect them to get it.

I may not have time to pop out a few babies right now, but I sure as hell will ALWAYS make time for stealthily crushing the dreams of ignorant hicks.