The following is an account of the time Madison and I were desperate to get out of Los Angeles, and home to Atlanta in the fall.  Because of our line of work, we have developed an internal algorithm that calculates exactly how long it will take to get to the airport with and without traffic, during rush and non-rush hour, times the rate of security with and without TSA pre check divided by number of travelers and length of stay.   We feel it inside of our bones and we are never wrong.

But this is Los Angeles, which laughs in the face of algorithms.

(SFX:  Law and Order double xylophone hit, then typewriter clicks)

September 20th, 2015:

Madison and I had spent weeks together in LA.  She was shooting season 2 of Bosch, and I was trying to get a job. Which means I was trying to get an audition.  While my street cred is pretty strong in Atlanta, I have trouble getting arrested in Los Angeles, despite the extreme shortage of 45 year old blonde actresses.

(deadpan look to camera)

September 25, 2015

Madi really wants to go home.  The only words she has uttered in 7 days are THE CUMMING FAIR in a perpetual loop.  She has to be there with her friends.   It is dire.  I hesitate for two reasons.  Trying to gain permission to leave town while shooting an episodic television show is akin to gaining high level government clearance.  Also, it’s a well known fact that the moment you book travel to leave LA, you’ll either be scheduled to work, or the audition you’ve been waiting for will come through. It’s science.  But eventually, Madi’s strong suggestion that she must be at the Cumming Fair with her friends or she will expire wins out, and I email production, wheedling and cajoling for clearance with relentless, bad ass, stage mommery.

September 27, 2015

Still no clearance for her.  Still no auditions for me.  This is a recipe that bakes up two perfectly formed whiny females lolling about their rental apartment spewing utterances like HATE PEOPLE and UUUUUUUGH and ERMAGERDDDDDDD.

September 29, 2015  

Finally we receive the words we were waiting for.  We can go home for a week!   Joy! Jubilation!  Pumpkin Spice Latte!   We quickly make our last minute exorbitantly priced travel plans and pack our autumn wardrobe.

October 1, 2015

7:00 a.m.  Prepare to leave for LAX.  Multi colored leaves and The Cumming Fair await.  All is well.  There are feelings.

7:30 a.m. Picked up by cute, helpful, 18 year old Parker who has agreed (spoiler: he never will again) to drive us to the airport.

7:31 a.m.  We enter the apocalypse.  AKA rush hour traffic in LA.  I am taken aback, But it has never taken me longer than an hour and fifteen to get to the airport, so I figure we are ok.

7:56 a.m.   I have figured wrong

8:10 a.m.  We CANNOT move.   Parker suggests getting OFF the 101 onto Sepulveda to miss the TERRIBLE merge onto 405S which is considered the worst intersection in America (google it).   “IT’S MUCH FASTER”, he cheerily assures.  I trust Parker.  We get off at Sepulveda.

8:30 a.m.   Why did I trust Parker!?  He’s 19!!!!!  What does he know!?  Dear God, it is bedlam. There must be a dead person somewhere, lying across the middle of the road causing this stand still.  (Can we not just run over them?  They’re dead….)   Parker senses my discontent and begins to stutter apologies.  I am intimidating on the best of days.  I know this.

9:00 a.m.  Still not back on the 405.  We are trying to do enough good deeds to work our way out of Sepulvatory. It feels oddly like trying to gain clearance from an episodic tv show.  Somewhere, Satan laughs.

9:20 a.m.  Madi begins to weep in the back seat.  I am in for it.   In my head, Marc, who leaves 4 hours before ANY flight to ANYWHERE is sighing at me in extreme disappointment.   I KNOW MARC, I KNOW, OK!?

9:40 a.m.  FINALLY get onto the 405.  Angels may be singing but I cannot hear them over the zinging of hate arrows coming from Madi’s eyes and soul.   She is also texting Parker from the back seat apologizing for my abusive exclamations of hatred for this city.

9:45 a.m.  I make a plan to abandon luggage in Parker’s car and just carry on.  We have clothes at home, right?  I mean….we live there. Madi shrieks that her outfit to go to the Cumming fair is in her suitcase and SHE CANNOT SIMPLY ABANDON IT.   I tell her to go half naked, as that’s what most girls at the Cumming Fair do. It’s perfect!   Madi stares at me with the disgust reserved for parents who make these sorts of asinine suggestions.  This facial expression would also be perfect for the Cumming Fai…..never mind.

9:50 a.m.  We are getting off the exit for LAX.  Can we make it??? Emphatic no. Our flight is at 10:05……our trip has been Sepulvorized.

10:15 a.m. Montage:  A rapidly wearying Parker drops us off at different terminals while we wait in line and try to get another flight on a different airline and he circles around in case we do not succeed and need to go elsewhere.   Sharply increase the level of panicked speaking with each terminal.  Also insert random phone calls from Marc who is trying to help us from Atlanta. Nothing is ever accomplished on these phone calls.  They simply exist to drive the tension of this narrative to a higher and higher level.

10:45  a.m. There are no other flights available.  Our only hope is to go stand by.  Madi hastily stuffs Cumming Fair outfit into her backpack.  (It’s so small it fits in side pocket. Perfect for the Cumming Fair.)

11:00 a.m.    We are 4 and 5 on the stand by list.  Five people must cancel or die for us to have our way.  Maybe the dead body on Sepulveda was supposed to be on this flight!  Madi begins to spew venom.  I spew back something like hey, I’m killing myself here and I know I’m an idiot but did I even say a single WORD when you rear ended someone FIVE DAYS after you got your license? No!  I FORGAVE YOU and how dare you be so selfish ITS JUST A STUPID FAIR people don’t even have teeth there and I’m pulling you out of the business because I cannot even stand the sight of you so how will the world, etc.   She says she has nothing to say to me until the end of time.  I concur.

11:05 a.m. While re-shoeing in the security line,  I spit out “GATE 64” with as much derision as possible and stomp off, leaving her there by herself, struggling into her high heeled Nike’s.  Do I care if I she finds her way to Gate 64? I don’t. Let the Russian sex traffickers have her and then maybe she will appreciate how amazing of a mother I am.

11:10 a.m. I go sit down by myself to charge my phone and my computer.


11:30 a.m. I have RIPPED SECURITY A NEW ONE for the last 19 minutes.  They don’t have it. It’s gone.  COUNTLESS MILLENNIUMS of information lost.  I plan my death.

11:45 a.m. Mackenzie, my other daughter, texts “HowRu?”  I text back HOW DO YOU THINK I AM I CANNOT FIND MY COMPUTER!  She texts back.   “Madison has it. You left it at security.”


Still 11:45 a.m. I’m sorry……..MADISON HAS IT!!!!!!!????????   Madison has decided NOT to text me that she has my computer.  She wanted me to experience extreme emotions. I would like to her to experience extreme pain.  I have watched Game of Thrones and could Ramsay Bolton her like a BOSS.

11:50 a.m. Computer retrieved.  Mutual insults hurled.  She decides to sue for emancipation (there’s a kiosk) and when the paper work is signed, we sit on opposite sides of the terminal.

NOON The sun is high.  All is quiet.  I sip my Starbucks.

12:50 p.m. The heavens part slightly and consider us.……Madi and I are called for the last two spaces on a flight to Phoenix which will connect to Atlanta.

1:30 p.m. We board the flight, and I relax for exactly 8 seconds.  The flight is delayed, which will keep us from landing until 3.  The time of our connection?  3:10.  Clearly, God is busy with others.  Perhaps in the Congo.

2:59 p.m. As we descend, the captain politely asks the cabin to let people with tight connections get off the plane first.  Do people comply?  They do not.  Everyone gets off the flight in  exactly the order they would anyway.  Everyone’s suitcase seems especially lodged in their overhead bins.  I wish White Walkers upon them all.

3:08 p.m. Like a tight turn on a bobsled track, we shoot OUT of the door from A29, make a quick U-turn and hurl ourselves through the doors of Gate  A 30 JUST AS THEY ARE CLOSING.  “Can you believe we made it!?”, I joyously shout to Madison from the front of our bobsled, forgetting that we have refused to speak to each other until the end of time.  She snivels that she has to pee and hasn’t eaten.  I renew my oath not to speak to her until the end of time.

3:10 p.m. We begin to taxi.  In a moment of remorse, I hand Madi a bag of trail mix and some water.  She smiles weakly and says thanks.  Our eyes meet.  Silent forgiveness possibly exchanged.  We still detest one another, but it’s a start.   We nibble a nut. A seed or two.  I sit back.  Relax.  All is well.

3:11p.m. I check my phone.

3:12 p.m. (Silent screaming)

3:13 p.m. I have an audition.  Tomorrow.  In LA.

3:14 p.m. We sail through the skies,  irrevocably east bound.  My head hangs in defeat.  Madi crunches trail mix.

Jesus be a Stylist

There are two types of people in Hollywood. The people who other people want to know what they are wearing so designers give them free stuff to wear. And the people who no one cares about what they are wearing, so when they ask designers to give them free stuff to wear, the designers just stare at them blankly, then get back to dressing Lupita N’yongo.

We fall into the latter.

However, its not like we are sitting around doing NOTHING worthwhile in the entertainment business. We do have STUFF TO ATTEND. But to ATTEND STUFF, you have to WEAR STUFF. So what that looks like is us trudging wearily all over downtown Atlanta (where the cool people shop) searching for the perfect outfit for whatever premiere/screening/event we have to go to, trying to find something that makes us LOOK LIKE we are the type of people that people care what we are wearing when really we have found it, styled it, and put it on our own selves.

We are the Arya Stark of fashion. The family wears no one.

I am forever indebted to Catt Sadler of E! News. Mackenzie was 14 and walking on the biggest carpet I have ever seen for her tiny role in Hunger Games, in which she played the tribute from District 8. The dumb one who lit the fire and was killed by the careers? Anyway, when Catt called Mackenzie over, I was simultaneously thrilled that she ranked high enough to be noticed by E! News, and terrified that Catt would embarrass Mackenzie by asking who she was wearing, which was no one.


Kenz, ya looked gorgeous, but this was no Dolce and Gabbana. I saw Catt assess the dress in a quick glance and then simply say ,“Mackenzie, you look absolutely beautiful tonight! Did you enjoy working on this movie?” And that’s how I know that Catt is a kind person and I would like to send her a box of all her favorite things.

By the way that dress was never worn again. Why? Because once you are photographed at an event of any kind, the pictures will be all over the internet so when you say to your teen daughters, “Hey, I know, how about you wear one of THOSE dresses to your prom and save some money?”, they are all like, “Dad, you need to take mom to rehab because she is clearly addicted to crack. We do not repeat outfits. Like EVER.”

We are the Kaucasian Kardashians and I was not informed.

So when Matt was invited to the premiere of his next movie, Free State of Jones, I inwardly groaned. I was going to have to shop.  And I would rather hang from a cliff by my eyelids than shop. I actually sent my daughters out by themselves to find their prom dresses, which is arguably one of the most important mom/daughter rites of passage there is, aside from shopping for their wedding dress. Oh God… they want me to go with them to shop for their wedding dress?

I am not a good mom.

Anyway, back to the Free State of Jones premiere which would not be FREE at all. We begin by entering a literal apocalypse of traffic to head down town ON A WEEKDAY.  An hour and a half later, Matt is snarling at me for making him physically BE with me on this mission of doom rather than bringing him home choices to try on. He wants choices to try on, ya’ll. And then I can just return all the things that don’t meet with his approval, he says, because he is a millennial and doesn’t actually DO THINGS.

I need a sweet tea from Chick Fil A just to write about this. I’m feeling warm.

We follow our hour and a half of travel with two solid hours of walking into stores, staring listlessly around, and walking out. Too stupid. Too babyish.  Matt is a fashion impossibility right now. He is 15 and ready to venture out into making more of a statement with his clothes, but his body is betraying him by being too small to make that happen. He’s sort of like Fashion Simba who is trying to roar like Fashion Mufasa, and Top Shop is Fashion Mufasa who just chuckles, pats him on the head, and says in a James Earl Jones voice, “Son. Journey to the nearest department store. There you’ll find what you seek. In the children’s section.” Then Fashion Simba snarls irritably and swipes his paws at the nearest family member.

In desperation, I begin texting my fellow stage mom friends like Shari Drucker, mom to Jason Drucker (newly minted star of Diary of a Wimpy Kid), and I say, “Hey! That looks cool! Where did you find THAT!?”


And she names all these great stores, not one of which is within the confines of Lennox Mall in Buckhead.   Thanks Shari, that’s great.  You’ve been such a help.  So then I try my friend Beryt, mom of Joshua Rush (Andi Mack, Parental Guidance) and say, “HEY, where did you find THIS?  This looks amazing!”


And she says really unhelpful words like, “Oh my husband handles all of his styling.  I don’t know where they got that.”  Thank you so much, Beryt. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to end our friendship now.

On to Christi Spink, who’s son Brandon was in Miracles from Heaven with me and looked ADORBS at the premiere.   I facebook messaged her from my phone outside of Jamba Juice: WHERE DID YOU FIND THIS??  I NEED THIS RIGHT NOW???????  (I was shouting.)Brandon

Her reply.  “Oh!  We had some help with that one.  A stylist sent it over!”


I took a moment to question my existence, and then:


Meanwhile, Fashion Simba has not hunted all day.  He is famished because I “forgot to remind him to eat” (srsly?), which brings on the following exchange:

Me: You see!? This is what happens when you don’t eat. You cannot shop for an outfit that you absolutely HAVE TO FIND on THIS PARTICULAR DAY without fortifying yourself ahead of time.

Matt: Mom if you tell me I need to eat one more time I am going to turn into one of those ungrateful child actors who are entitled and treat their moms with utter derision.

Me: Happened an hour ago.

(5 minutes later)

Matt: Let’s go, I think I just need to eat.

I stare straight ahead and wish for Jesus’s return, because aside from the rapture occuring, we CAN’T GO.  We have to walk out of this mall with a hang up bag over our arm.  You cannot walk a red carpet entirely nude, Matt.  You are not Shia LeBoeuf.

Finally, FINALLY thank you Jesus and all of his angels who did not defect, we find something that could work.  From where?   You guessed it. Macy’s.  Which is also right at the nice little mall in my nice little suburb of Atlanta and would have saved us A LARGE QUANTITY OF TIME AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS.

But I don’t even care because I love Macy’s right now!  I watch its parade every Thanksgiving with avid attention and now Macy’s is returning the favor by providing me with a nice steel blue suit by Ralph Lauren who IS a designer after all, and it FITS!  I am joyous, happy and free!

So Matt flies out to LA with Marc, because I just do all the work around here and don’t get to actually have the fun, and the night of I’m trying to dress him via text message and when I demand photos they do guy things like send me photos from the neck up.  But from the neck up he looks good!  I ensure that the second button of his shirt is movie star UN-buttoned, that he’s tucked in, and we are CARPET READY.

The Getty Images start pouring in.  Fruit of labor realized.   Matt looks put together.  Handsome.  And dressed.  By someone.  No one need know by who.   If Catt were there, Matt could proudly say, “I’m wearing Ralph Lauren, of course.”  Then Catt would smile indulgently.   “Of course you are Matt, why wouldn’t Ralph want to dress you!”  Back in Atlanta, Jesus and I look at one another, wink, and fold our arms across our chest in satisfaction.   Somewhere in the distance, a lion roars.



Am I on?


Hello?  Yes!  Hi!  Check 1…..(throat clear)….Ok……….

Hi!!!!!   I finally DID this.  Were you losing faith?

Let me explain.  I started this blog in the air on the way from Atlanta to Los Angeles.  I was Facebook messaging my friend, Jeff Cole, a fellow actor and he said “Hey!  Start a blog!”  So I said “OK!”  And I did.  In fifteen minutes.   I had no idea it was that easy.  You can actually go online RIGHT NOW and click a few buttons and BOOM you’re a blogger.  I sat there with a big grin on my impulsive blogging face and then thought oh dang, I guess I have to blog something now because I am an official blogger person.  Perhaps I should have thought of that before naming my domain.  It took a little time for my logistics to catch up with my artistry.   I’m an actor, this is common. MORE…