I used to study screen writing, and it seems to me that every one of my dates follows the template of a grade B script.

Like any writer, the date knows he has about 5 minutes to grip (not physically) his audience and leave her begging for more. If he’s successful, she’ll be riveted (not physically) to her seat and for the next couple of hours he’ll get the applause he deserves.  If he’s boring, too talkative, spaced out, or takes himself too seriously, then he’ll lose his audience and any chance to really touch (sometimes-but-rarely physically) me. In short, like any movie-goer, if I paid for a ticket (or even if my date paid for it) and the movie’s lousy I’ll force myself to stay until the end—but you can bet your bottom dollar wild horses (flowers, candy, even an apology) won’t get me back for the sequel. 

But I’m moving ahead of myself. Let’s analyze for a moment the dating script.

Mr. (wannabe) Right starts with his introduction (the story of his life), moving on to the main characters and supporting roles, (his friends and family) who reappear (disjointedly) throughout the plot. Then there is the first turning point, where I will be (sometimes) pleasantly surprised to learn there is more to him than meets the eye (ears, nose and…). If I’m lucky, I find he has personality, maybe even aims, ambitions, goals, and (rarely) a method for reaching his objective. It looks like clear sailing. 

At this point, as with any basic no-brainer movie plot, I let myself relax, realizing that this could be enjoyable. There’s even moments when I think “He’s sweet, a real gentleman (so far) and actually listening to me almost as much as he is to himself.” But then the next sequence begins:

The Revelation, (or second turning point).

In a movie, this is the part where, after following the cop who’s hot on the trail of a serial murderer and seems to be ready to crack the case wide open, we’re suddenly confronted with “the revelation” that the killer is actually his partner, and now the stakes have just gone up, and everyone has a lot more to lose.

Well, on a date “the revelation” itself can often murder any chance you have of finding out if Mr. (wannabe) Right is the “one”.  On a date, those “surprises” that bring you to the edge of your seat in the movies, are rarely exciting and never fun. Because on a first date (even the first couple of dates) who wants to know what “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” you’re date has suffered or if he’s just plain weird?!

Take the really great date I had with this guy who was “a few” years older than me. I’m just coasting along as he glibly checks off the successes he’s had in his life. I’m so enjoying his clever banter that I almost miss “the revelation.”

“I was only twenty-one when my uncle sent me a ticket to the Academy Awards. Don’t ask how he got it, but he knew that Kevin Costner was my favorite actor. He even sent a plane ticket. Do you know how many Oscars his movie won?”

“Seven,” I answered nonchalantly. You can’t be a serious actress and not know the Oscar Winners.

My date was impressed. I was appalled by “the revelation”. Dances With Wolves won the Oscars in 1990. I was no math whiz but if he was twenty-one in 1990 (when I was turning seven) then he was FORTY years old!

Kudos to his plastic surgeon.

Of course, not every revelation is so dramatic. Take my knight in shining armor – great body, full head of hair, piercing blue eyes, and a Jewish background that mirrored my own – who just had to admit that he’s very into me… but that he’s also very into men.

How about cutie who took me to dinner and while ordering the main, informed me that he had an enviable track-record of three failed suicide attempts after being dumped by previous girlfriends (I left before dessert).

Or Mr. nice-guy who “forgot” to mention he has a girlfriend who he’s currently living with and would I mind if he checked in with her – she gets lonely without him.

And my personal favorite – the 30 year old datemeister who suddenly excuses himself as he answers an “emergency” call from his mother. Emergencies are emergencies, but then I actually get to “hear” the revelation as his speaker-phone turns on in the middle of his conversation.

“And sweetheart,” his mother says, with a wonderful Hungarian accent, “don’t be shy. If you need an advance on your allowance, just ask. I know how pricey these restaurants can be. Is she worth it? Oh and did you take the key? Should I wait up? Don’t eat dessert. I baked your favorite cookies. I’ll leave you a few to munch on before you go to sleep.”

As all eyes focused on the both of us, I sheepishly smiled, wanting to shout out “I WAS FIXED UP! THIS IS A BLIND DATE! PLEASE BELIEVE ME!”

Just once I would like “the revelation” to be “Oh, and besides being head over heels in love with you, I’m a millionaire and my plane is even now being warmed up to take us to Paris.”

Or how about, “Yes, Tiferet, I’m bald, but that’s because I donated my long, blond hair to Locks of Life.

So, last Friday, when I met my blind date I was glad I had experienced the above scenarios.  I thought I was prepared for anything.

But Murphy’s Law saw fit to trip me again.

After a lovely dinner, with a wonderful bottle of wine, just as we were having our dessert and I truly believed everything would be at least okay, “the revelation” arrives. 

“And this is my dog, and this is my nephew,” he moves closer to show me the pictures on his cell phone. “And… oh man, I must have forgot it. I was sure I brought a picture of my baby.” He shrugs and places the phone on the table.

Baby?

“Who’s your baby?” I ask warily. “A sports car? Harley Davidson?”

He looks at me, confused.

“My son.”

I cringe, choking on my ice-cream dessert. He gets up to gives me the Heimlich Maneuver. I cringe again. “No thanks,” I say under my breath, “I’d rather die.”

“Pardon?” he says.

“I’m sorry, I thought I heard you say you have a kid,” I answer out-loud.

“I do,” he looks at me, as though I had said something strange. “Didn’t Liza tell you that when she set us up?”

“No. She told me that she had a great guy for me… who was everything I was looking for – and more…” I smirk. “I don’t suppose More is the name of your son?”

“Well, didn’t you catch my hints along the way?”

“If by hints you mean when I told you I babysit in my spare time, and you said that was good to know – No. I didn’t realize I was being interviewed for an actual position.”

“What about when I said that I was sure you could teach me a few things?” The image of me teaching him how to use Wipe n’ Dipes honestly never crossed my mind.

“Sorry to catch you off-guard,” he tells me as I desperately try to catch the waiter’s attention for the check. “This must have come as a total shock to you.”

“Oh no, me?” I reply a little too quickly, in a shrill voice that projects anything but calm. “Nah, I’m used to this sort of stuff…. Guys I date have kids, kids I watch have dates…and then there are those kids who eat dates and the dates who eat kids….” I suddenly stop when I realize he isn’t blinking. “But I digress. Enough about me, let’s talk more about your dynasty. Is it one boy or a gaggle of guys? ”

“I’m sorry,” he says gently. “This must have come as a total surprise.”

“Don’t worry,” I reply in a far-away voice I don’t recognize. “I live for surprises… In fact, nothing would make me happier than to learn that you haven’t even finalized the divorce yet.”

Where is that waiter?

“No divorce.”

I hold back the tears and the screaming person inside me. “See, I love this stuff. Is your son in the car?”

“No, I mean. I never got married. It was… um…. Unexpected.”

“Do you mean you didn’t know whether it would be a boy or girl?” I ask naively.

“No…uhh….. we just went on a few dates…. We didn’t mean to make a kid. It was uh…. An accident.”

There is a strange silence as I finally understand what he’s saying. “Well… I’m sure you learned your lesson….” I say, waving my finger at him. “You’re a naughty boy,” I add, wondering if I could make him sit in the corner (until I make my getaway).

He collects the pieces of cloth napkin that I have apparently torn apart, into his outstretched palms. But in my mind I see him holding a bottle and squirting drops of milk onto his wrist. Then, looking up at me, I think I hear him say,

“Uh…I’m not sure, let’s test it on you” as he squeezes milk onto my wrist.

“Too hot!” I cry suddenly.

“What?”

“I mean… too much.” Then I quietly add, “I think this is too much for me.” I get up and leave.

But dates, like movies, sometimes have unexpected endings. Later that night, he sends me an email with pictures of his baby. I grab my microwave popcorn, and sit down to read his email. What could he possibly have to write? I thought I had made it pretty clear we were over.

But again, endings have a funny way about them.  Sometimes the movie finishes an hour after it should have. And sometimes you find the credits are rolling up the screen way before you were ready for them.

I scroll down the pictures to the text, and read:

“At least let me tell you what I WOULD have wanted to hear—I promise it’s not yours!  

You aren’t gonna’ let a small thing – 7 pounds, 2 ounces—stop us, are you?”

But if you ask me, the most similar thing about these two cities is the weather.

This morning, Tel Aviv received the first major rain of the year.  Before I had the chance to wake up to the soft pitter-patter of rain drops, I was rudely awakened by honking and screaming.

Coming from Jerusalem, the windy city, what’s a little rain? A little cold? To me, anything short of frostbite is a walk in the park. So I find it fascinating when, at the first drop of water, chaos breaks loose. Pedestrians scramble frantically for cover, cars honk and drivers yell obscenities as they skid along the Ayalon Freeway trying desperately to go from 0 to 60 and brake at the same time. Like L.A., Tel Aviv traffic jams are legendary.  I remember my first rain in L.A.  The twenty minute drive to work turned into a two hour ordeal and I had that sinking feeling that perhaps I had taken the wrong entrance and was now idling in the middle of a parking lot.  But to be fair, there is a difference between Tel Aviv and L.A. In Tel Aviv, when workers come in late because of the rain they claim they had just survived “The Flood” and dare anyone to contradict them. In L.A., on a rainy day, I actually don’t remember anyone else showing up to work….

I stuck my head out the window and inhaled deeply, preparing to smell the fresh fragrance of lilies and roses which always seemed to envelop me in Jerusalem (Okay, so I had lilies and roses growing under my window. Still…) But in a city of half a million people and a million cars, the wet smell of exhaust fumes did more than engulf me, it made me gag.

And there’s another difference: In L.A. I always liked to splash in the rain (a holdover from my not too distant youth) but in Tel Aviv, rain is for avoiding, and splashing in the puddles will result in someone siccing their dog on you.

I really like the rain, the wind and the storm. Why? Because that’s the kind of person I am – romantic, stormy, forceful (I’m assuming none of you have met me) – and it’s this very set of qualities that sometimes creates more waves and ripples than I bargain for.

Take last year. There was a show on television. The kind of show you look at and say, “Why on earth aren’t I starring in that?” and then you realize, it’s because they’ve never heard of you! And why haven’t they heard of you? Because you’re new in town and you don’t yet have an agent. And without an agent you can’t get an audition.

Then I asked myself, in true Talmudic fashion, does the howling wind stop the pouring rain? Of course not. The rain beats down despite the winds. If I don’t have an agent to get me an audition will that stop me? Never! I’ll get my own audition.

I am rain (woman).

So I did the only logical thing I could think of. I tracked down the director of the show, took off a day from my busy schedule of watching television, found his mailbox and gently stuffed an overfull envelope which had a cover letter, pictures, and a self-addressed postcard in it, into his mailbox. Of course, I had to empty out all his other mail first. 

Certain that I had impressed him with my earlier material, I returned two days later and placed my showreel and resume into his mailbox – again carefully eliminating all his other (probably junk) mail.
My plan worked. This acclaimed director wrote me a letter saying that he had spoken to the casting director and I was being presented with an opportunity to audition for a smallish part in the show. Strange, but after signing off, the director wrote:

P.S. Can I have my mail back now?

This was my lucky break. I knew it. I was perfect for this series. Within two days I knew every nuance,  and had reworked every angle of the 10 lines that would catapult me to fame.

The rain poured by the time my audition came around. I took this as a sign (although it was winter) and told myself I would be the beating rain that takes the Tel Aviv acting industry by storm.  It was now or never. The director had opened the doors for me (Yes, I returned most of his mail) and the casting director was giving me her valuable time—blowing this was not an option.

For those thespians among you, as well as for those who have nothing to do with my industry, allow me to introduce you to what I feel is the most important rule in acting: Flexibility. Obviously, an actor must have a clear understanding of her character. But in an audition, or on set, you must become a chameleon, instantly adjusting to the fine nuances in your environment, reacting to your co-star’s energy, and adapting to the director’s instructions.  And I knew this instinctively.

The rain beats mercilessly.

And I was great.

At least in my mind.

My knees began to shake and somehow I became deaf, not hearing any stage direction, just watching the director’s lips move as she became more and more agitated. “What’s she saying” I kept thinking to myself? “Can’t she see I’m already doing everything she wants me to do?”

I nodded blankly at her instructions, but repeated the exact acting pattern take after take.

I was the rain.

And I became a drizzle.

I blew the audition.

My first time up in front of a major name, and I couldn’t hold it together. I could barely lift my head up after that. And I silently promised myself to spend more time looking for an agent.

Acting is all about making mistakes:  A role you should’ve gotten but you froze up at the audition; a connection you should’ve followed-up on, but you never got around to; a VIP who could have helped you, but who knew you were expected to send her flowers after your meeting?; and sometimes even acting in a role that will only hurt your career in the long term.

A production called “The Pilots’ Wives” (loose translation) has been having trouble casting for about a year. It’s something of a joke among agents and actors: “Yes, they’re still casting.”

The roles on the series are coveted by every actor in the business. It‘s a major, star-studded production.

Last year, I had an opportunity to go on an audition to this show, but I was still too traumatized from the last one, and talked myself out of it.

Now, three days into filming, there are all sorts of rumors coming from the set. One newspaper reported that the actors were complaining that they’re doing 70-80 takes a day. That they’re exhausted and by the time the end scenes roll in, they can no longer muster the energy and focus to act.

Agents are upset, saying they wouldn’t have allowed their actors to participate in the series had they known how inept everyone is. How this will only hurt their clients’ reputation as professional actors. Bridges are being burned all over the place as everyone accuses each other of a lack of professionalism.

Maybe it was good that I talked myself out of competing with all these “names”. 

Go figure. That’s acting. It’s not a science. It’s mazal. And making sure the wind doesn’t blow you away.

Sylvester Stallone once said about his pre-stardom days, “I had mastered the art of rejection”. The real art, however lies not in your ability to accept rejection, nor in your willingness to “walk out of an audition forgetting you ever entered it, and leave the experience behind you.” The real art is to take those mistakes and admit, aloud, that you made them. That’s life. That’s acting.

Yes, leaving your mistakes behind you – that takes more skill than most people can muster. But remembering how you went from a torrent to a drizzle, and still somehow reinventing your stormy self again, now that’s the real challenge.

Not to beat a metaphor to death—The rains return even after they let up.

I’m zipping up my raincoat, prepared to begin my day. I’m going to leave the hood off, because I intend to get as wet as possible. I’m even considering sneaking up on that director again….