Can you read this poker face? Probably.

Who had any idea that there were so many ways to shuffle and deal a standard deck of cards? One tutorial says do it this way, a how-to guide says do it that way, and then that cheeky woman from the E-How.com video turns around and gives you an entirely different way. It seems like a skill that one should have learned around the time of their first whistle or that time they discovered they could snap their fingers. Yeah, well- I learned to snap in sixth grade math class and I still haven't figured out how to whistle. I suppose it makes sense that I'm only just now picking up a deck of cards.

I found the Card Game Company while looking for one of those diamond in the rough opportunities on Craigslist. It was sandwiched between "R U A RAPPER" and "Be my dirty personal assistant." Whereas most Craigslist ads are vague and riddled with poor grammar choices, this ad seemed legitimate enough; it gave a real contact as well as a thorough breakdown of what the company does. Let's say that your son wants to have a Las Vegas themed Bar Mitzvah. Rather than cart him and his lame 12 year old friends to Nevada, you can actually call a company to come build a fake casino and let the kids indulge their complete lack of self control with pretend money.

I googled the company and, after finding they had been in the business of guilt-free gambling for over five years without any lawsuits, sent an e-mail.

"Greetings," it began, "I'm a local actor and recent grad and I'd love to work the casino parties."

"Wonderful," the reply said, "Do you have any experience with blackjack, roulette, craps, or hold 'em?"

I briefly thought of an on-and-off-again relationship I had with a professional poker player and wondered if it might count as a lame excuse for second hand experience.

"Y-" I began. I stopped.

"Ye-" I tried again. I sighed as I hit the delete key.

"No," I replied.

I'm pretty sure the only reason I was called to the training session was because of my headshot. I look very cool and poised in this picture; just the type of person who won't get flustered or crack under the pressure of having to do simple math in microseconds. It doesn't really represent me as a person at all.

On my way to my first training session, I tried to remember what my ex told me about poker while we were dating and and amazed myself with just how much I didn't retain. I have never been drawn to card games and while the other kids at school were learning the basics like go-fish or gin rummy, I was out in the recreation field running around with a makeshift cape made out of brown paper towels from the bathroom.

I went in through the front door and took in the space: an elegant, spacious hall with hardwood floors and exposed brick walls. In the center sat Bill, the owner of the company, and three young hopefuls.

"What? No leather?" cracked Bill. I surveyed the hopefuls. Leather jackets. Leather pants. One had a leather hat. Oh, hell no.

"Sorry. Must have missed the memo," I replied dryly.

"AH, I'm just kiddin'. Come on, take a seat. You missed the history of the company, but we'll go over all that stuff later. I'm going to show you guys how we do blackjack."

From what I gather, the job of being a party casino card dealer is 80% Shmoozing, 10% peer mediation, and 10% legitimate, actual knowledge of the game.

"If you mess up, just crack a joke. Most of the time these people don't know what the hell is going on and, if you're doing your job correctly, you will smooth over any confusion. Even if it's your own."

Shuffle cards, deal cards, explain the rules about the cards while you chat up total strangers by asking them questions about their astrological sign; on their own, they weren't so hard. However, as we all took turns dealing a game of black jack, nearly everyone cracked under the pressure of having to walk and talk at the same time.

"So," began the twenty-five year old who looked seventeen, "This is what this does -"

"What what does?" Bill interrupted. "Remember, these people aren't going to know the rules of the game. Use your words."

"This card is an ace, so that means that it can be a 1 or an 11."

"Good, but what does that mean for the player? If you don't tell them what the added total of their cards is, you're basically telling them to take forever to decide their next move. And remember, small talk. Small talk."

"So where's everyone from?"

"Nope. Should have done that in the beginning, when you took everyone's game tickets."

The next to deal was a big girl in a strong smelling leather jacket. Her hair was dyed black and she had circles under her eyes. She picked up the cards.

"What do you do first?" Bill asked.

"Huh?"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm thinking."

"You have to be able to talk to people. Boring customers is bad for business."

"Yeah, but I learn by doing first and then I get into the swing of it later."

"Yeah, but you really ought to think about doing that now."

"But I'm just practicing."

"Alright."

I saw the mental strike whiz through her name. Someone wasn't going to be coming back. She finished dealing almost as quickly as she started and, suddenly, I was the one dealing the cards.

"So," I joked, serving up eye contact to the other trainees, "Whodoya like?"

Whodoya Like was an inside joke and a popular ice-breaker within my former classmates. Notice that I said former classmates and not the rest of Earth. I promised myself that I'd stop using topics that could not be explained in under fifteen seconds when I read that most people subconsciously decide whether or not to continue listening to you after twelve seconds. My problem? I tend to assume that if I find something funny, then everyone else should and will find it funny, regardless of the fact I beat it into their heads for five minutes. Luckily, someone didn't even give me the opportunity to fail with Whodoya Like.

"Johnny Depp!" squealed the leatheress.

Bingo.

"Ah, I bet you love Pirates of the Caribbean," I said as I laid her cards. The conversation took off from there and while the players talked about which was better, Pirates of the Caribbean or its Skinamax counterpart, I finished setting up the table. I still didn't know what the hell a "double down" or a "split" was, but as we were getting ready to go home, Bill pulled me aside.

"Hey, just wanted to let you know that you did really well. As well as could be expected from someone with no knowledge of the game. Anyway, I want you to come back for another training session. We can probably get you started on the blackjack tables for some upcoming parties. Nothing too crazy. You game?"

"Sure," I replied.

"Do you own a black cocktail dress?"

"No, but I can make that happen."

"Alright, make it happen. Good answer. Our guy dealers wear suits and the lady dealers wear what I think most women refer to as the little black dress. We used to have dealer uniforms for everyone, but the girls just looked frumpy and giant. You understand."

"Totally."

"Of course, we still have alternate options for ladies who may not feel at their best in a cocktail dress. You understand."

"Totally."

"Not that I have anything against a big girl, but you understand."

"Totally."

As I drove myself back to my apartment, I mentally celebrated my growing status as the odd job queen. Gay friendly babysitting? Check. Promo Model? Got it. Pretend-Gambling Card Lady? Yes'm. I checked my mail while I was waiting for the elevator and saw that my check from the TV Show promotion had come in. $250 dollars for 15 hours of work over two days.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

If you're a paid actor and you're complaining about anything, shut up.

While cruising through Facebook the other morning, I noticed that one of my actor acquaintances had posted a complaint about having to show up to a rehearsal for a paid gig at 8:00am.

Whenever I hear an actor complain about an early call time, I want to slap them - no, more than slap them. I want to unzip them, crawl inside, and take over their life just long enough to collect their paychecks, credits, and experience because it's much easier to appreciate an early call time when you're not working.

That's really all I have to say about that.

Jas the Babysitter

Since my work now falls into the 'odd job' category, I'm quickly finding that being a female makes you an ideal candidate for semi-lucrative-ish odd jobs that men normally aren't privy to. It seems that the people who post care-wanted ads of any sort, be it for houses, pets, or old people, just go ahead and assume that the majority of responses are going to be from women.

Babysitting for extra income was something I hadn't given a single thought to. I figured that I would have more luck trying to book my dream project with Adam Brody than finding a new family to start fresh with. I assumed that if someone wanted to hire a new nanny or a sitter for their kids, they typically want someone they know, or at the very least, someone with golden list references that prove they haven't killed anyone, know CPR, and possess a pristine driving record. References? I fell out of touch long ago with the last family I regularly sat for, and even then: that was high school. I used to teach and work with children at a natural history museum, but in addition to that being over two years ago, it suffices to say that I worked for them during a rough patch and I doubt they'd be enthusiastic about giving me a great reference. The request would go something like this:

Ring, ring.

"Natural History Museum, do you have your party's extension number?"

"Yeah, hi. This is Jas and I used to work at the natural history museum. Do you know if So-and-so is still in charge of the family programming division?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Like, is So-and-so still the head of child and parent programming?"

"Who is this?"

"Jas? I used to work there."

"Jazz?"

"You know, maybe I'm filed away under my birth name."

"You worked under a birth name?"

You see where this is going? In case you don't, it's nowhere. I feared that it would continue to go nowhere because I have no real references except for my sister and a former camp counselor/co-worker from the summer of 2009. Yes, from that camp. It was the best I could come up with: someone related to me via the bonds of blood and a guy who saw me splattered with waste from a shit flinging child-beast.

Luckily, there are parents out there who feel that experience and references are outdated and unnecessary. Case in point: I registered with a babysitting website. No lie: my user picture is a photo of my niece clubbing me in the head with a stick while she hangs like a monkey on my back. My experience says that I sat for a family for a year in high school. The website wisely refrains from giving you the option to elaborate on said babysitting experience, thus letting potential employers believe that your alleged year of experience included a steady schedule sitting as opposed to three separate occasions - twelve if you include pet sitting. I was on the website for week when I saw a Sitter-Wanted post from a single mom with two kids.

"I need a sitter tonight!" said the ad. I looked over her profile. She had been with the site for a while and I didn't get that fake, Craigslist-y vibe, so I sent her a message and gave her my number to call for a phone interview. Maybe two minutes passed before I got a text message asking if I could be at her house a 7:45 pm that evening.

It seemed a little weird to me that she didn't want to at least talk with me on the phone before letting me have sole reign over her children for a few hours. Before letting you anywhere near their children, most parents want to have an in depth interview where they dissect your childhood and familial influences while they shine your American Red Cross card under a laser detector to make sure that they are 100% authentic. To this mom, however, those were trivial details. I called her, anyway. My logic: if I'm going to sit your kids, then I definitely want to talk to you - if anything, then to be certain that you're an actual human being.

The conversation went smoothly enough.

"So you're an actress? That's so cool. My kids will love that. You know, they love nothing more than putting on little shows and plays - but they'll probably be in bed by nine or ten."

I got to the house and found that while she was technically a single mom (a divorcee, probably), she wasn't actually a single mom. When I rang the doorbell I was greeted by her masculine, female partner. It hit me like a ray of sunshine: I was sitting for lesbians, and suddenly I felt more comfortable. I listened to the short list of instructions: make sure that the boy didn't play his music too loud and make sure that the girl took her medicine before going to bed. After the moms left, the boy immediately ran to the stereo system and started blasting Lil' Wayne.

"Hey, hey now," I said, "Play your music- that's cool with me. But turn it down."

He bumped it down exactly one notch.

"Keep going."

One more.

"Keep going."

He turned it all the way down.

"Aw, you can listen to your music. You just can't have a bloc party in here."

"It's ok," he said, "I think I'm going to go watch TV in my room."

Conflict: resolved. The rest of the night was easy. I watched episodes of Glee with the girl until she fell asleep. I watched Kathy Griffin until 3:00 AM until the moms got home and gave me eighty bucks. It was pretty sweet.

--

A few days later, I interviewed for a nanny-ing position with another family; a family that required me to come and interview with them while they asked me about how I planned to balance the possibilities of an acting career with watching their children. They made it sound like they could work with me, but I never heard back from them. It's probably just as well. I think the sporadic babysitting gigs will work out better over time.

I auditioned for a low budget SAG film yesterday. I got bumped up from an extra to a small, one-liner part on another. It's not much, but it is a credit that I can add to the old resume.

Fingers crossed. A Lo-bo SAG feature would bring in a nice little chunk of change - and I'd like to be able to get my parents more than thank you cards this year.

Jas the (kick-ass) promo-girl.

Previously on Smile Big and Pretty:

Jas lost her job at Disoda-Soda and filled out seventeen job applications in three days. Out of those seventeen applications, she only got calls from three; all of which were coffee shops. The next three interviews made up some of the most ridiculous, promising, and frightening interviews of her life. Forced to re-evaluate her situation and acknowledge that a standard day job might not happen for a while, she turned her sights elsewhere.

Did you know that the people who hand out free stuff at festivals and concerts earn more money per hour than most middle class Americans in the 18-25 age bracket? Yeah, I had no idea, either. A while back, I applied to some companies that specialize in staffing for promotional teams, hoping that I could be passing out samples of razor blades or free shots of scotch within a week or two. After that didn't happen, I figured that the agencies were a scam and that the only way you could be hooked up with a promotional gig was through fairy magic or Jesus or some other higher power.

After three or so interviews for regular, part-time jobs that led to nothing, I received an e-mail from a promotional company based out of Tennessee. We'll call it The Tennessee Company. Apparently there is a television show called *ESP that is popular with the 18-30 demographic. The fact that it just got picked up for a sixth season and the only reason I'm aware of its existence is because of a promotional gig that fairy magic hooked me up with should tell you how well-versed I am with today's television culture, but I digress. *The Network had planned a nationwide tour of college screenings to promote the new episodes. To generate some campus buzz, The Network hired the Tennessee Company to wrangle up a team of promoters to go on campus and pass out door-hangers, tickets, and talk up the sheer magnitude of joy that ESP could bring to their lives if they decided to show up to the screening.

The pay: $16.00 US dollars an hour.

I noticed that the initial the e-mail said, "Meet at The University" at 12:00 pm. The college campus they were talking about spans the entire city that the promotion was based in. Confused, I called the number of the shift manager and we worked out a meeting spot for everyone. I show up at the location, completely void of any idea as to what to expect. I still didn't even really know if this was real. Fairies are tricky creatures. I was coming downstairs from my second lap around the student center when I spotted someone wearing a white t-shit that said "ESP" in big, green letters.

"HEY! Are you with The Tennessee Company?" I said, enthusiastically. Too enthusiastically.
"Yeah, I'm Tess," she said. "Are you Jas?"
I nodded.
"Awesome. Let's go get you a t-shirt and some shoes. The others are already out there by the truck. We're still waiting on two more people, assuming they are still going to show up."
"Do you get no-shows often? I mean, this is my first time doing something like this. I have never done this before."
"Aw, this is your first one? Well, you picked a good one to start with. It's not every time that the client will give you free shoes."
"Free shoes?"
"Yeah, nice ones," she said, handing me a t-shirt and a pair of white Converse sneakers. "These people aren't messing around."

I had no problems with introducing myself to the team until I got to a reserved girl with slightly angry disposition. She looked familiar. I spent a few seconds trying to remember her face when I suddenly experienced something akin to one of those lightning montages in a film when someone's memories rush back to them. About three years ago, during what I call the Initial Post-Ubel phase, I made several serious lapses in judgment. One of them was hanging out with a young, alcoholic sociopath named *Tiffany. One evening, Tiffany had this bright idea to go to On the Border because she heard they had a bottomless margarita. While we were waiting on our food, I got my period early. Freaking out because I was totally unprepared, Tiffany and I pooled our thoughts and concluded that the only reasonable thing to do was to ask one of the servers for a tampon. Tiffany stopped a waiter, who happened to be a guy I went to high school with, and told him to get us a female server because I was having "girly problems."

Back then, I was missing that thing in most people that tells them, "Hey: this may not be such a great idea," and did not understand that I should have been mortified until a year or so later. Now, three years down the road, one of the female servers who got me a tampon on that crazy night at On the Border was now one of my team members and I assumed by her stoic demeanor that she remembered exactly who I was and wasn't exactly stoked to be working together.

Lucky for me, the aforementioned scenario was never brought up and we started promoting without any real problems.

The job was easy. We basically handed out doorhangers with fun slogans from the show to anyone and everyone who remotely resembled a student we could find. The University Campus Strikeforce - or whatever the hell you call the individuals who crusade for campus purity - stopped us on a couple of occasions to tell us that we weren't allowed to pass out anything. Our solution? We moved out of eyesight and kept going.

We hit a snag when the manager locked the keys in the back of the truck. Realizing that we couldn't pick the Brinks lock and that we still had to get back into the truck, I started calling around to different locksmiths. Everyone wanted at least $70 dollars to come and snap the lock for us until I got the number of an old man who said he'd do it for $60.
"Call him," the manager said, "Now."
Within a minute or two, he was on his way. Also within a minute or two, one of the girls from the next shift showed up: a country woman with a thick accent and an ever present aroma of Camel Lights.
"What'chall doin?" she asked.
"I locked the keys in the truck," replied the manager. "We're waiting on a locksmith."
"Well, if you guys don't want to have him charge you a ton of money, I can call my boy and he can come do it."
"You think he'd really do that? How close is he?"
"Shoot yeah. For me, he'd better. He works for the refrigeration thing-a-ma-jigger on campus. Lemme call him."
She dials him.
"Hey, baby! What'chyou up to? Oh nothin - hey, why you sayin' that? I don't call you whenever I need somethin'. But I do need somethin' this time. We need someone to break a lock. Can you do that? You've got a hack saw? Well, shoot, git over here! They just called a guy to come and we don't want to have to give him $60 dollars!"

Two minutes later, two scruffy young men in camouflage work pants and University Refrigeration shirts walked up, sawed off the pad lock with a hack saw, and left. Note to self: carry a hacksaw.
"Ok," the manager said to me, "call your guy and tell him that we don't need him anymore."
It was that moment that the locksmith showed up.
"What are we going to do?" I asked. Normally, when an on-call service person arrives to a destination and finds that they are no longer needed, they still expect payment.
"I'm not paying him," the manager said, "He didn't do anything."
I kept my mouth shut and quietly left the scene to go hand out more flyers. When I returned, he was gone.

The day of the screening, we passed out the actual tickets to the screening and made sure that people knew that the stars of the show were going to be there. You'd be amazed at the sheer number of individuals who probably pissed themselves with glee over the news that they might be in the same room as these guys.

"Hey, have a free ticket to the ESP tour! You get to meet the stars of the show and there's a free drawing for an e-reader!"
"WHAT? I FUCKING LOVE THIS SHOW! They're going to be there? Like, less than one hundred feet from be actually going to be there? This is so awesome!"

A couple of hours away from the screening, a representative from The Network came and took over the majority of set-up. There was already a line of faithful ESP lovers forming outside the theater. Some of them brought lawn chairs and coolers.

Part of the set up was carting a lime green, suede couch and recliner set into the theater.
"Oh my gosh, ya'll," said the southern girl, "Look at this! Do they cart this around to each state?"
"Nope," The Network rep said, "It's probably going to be trashed."
"Well, shoot. Can I have it?"
"Sure. It's yours."
And just like that, one of us got a brand new couch and recliner set - free.

As the event drew closer, we were joined by *Kylie, another staff member from The Network as well as a person who was probably paid more than most middle class Americans to Tweet and Facebook for them. Kylie was, in one word, hardcore. She was a short, well postured woman in her late 30's who wore stiletto heels and used jargon like, "Swag," "Merch," and "Fetch." She's basically what Regina George would have been like had she grown up without an intervention from a school bus.
"You girls. I want someone here to make sure that the fans don't screw up this sign-in process. You there. Protect the merch. You there. Get the swag out of the boxes and down the the front. No, behind the table. Not in front of it. You," she said, pointing at me, "Carry this tripod and come with me."
I followed her through a long maze of back corridors and hallways until we got to a white door that said, "Green Room."
"Hello?" she said. I turned to face her, only to find that she was on her cell phone. "Yeah, oh hi, guys! Oh my god, you're drunk already? Shit, I wish I was. Oh," she whispered, turning to me, "Set the food on the table. Arrange it according to color. OH my god, you guys are too much!" she laughed, returning to her conversation.

With half an hour left to go until the theater opened, the line had grown to about 650 people. Some had brought signs saying, "I <3 style="font-style: italic;">Yo, yo, yo to you, too, mister," the southern girl muttered under her breath. "Mm. So fine."

The Q&A consisted mostly of pre-screened questions along the lines of:
1. Guys: How many different kinds of awesome are you?
2. How does it feel to kiss tons of mad hot actresses?
3. Out of the aforementioned actresses, who was the best?
4. Will you both marry me and my four friends?

When someone's card was drawn and the actors said they would record a voice message for that fan, five other fans ran down to the floor to try and get voice messages, too. It didn't matter that they weren't the ones who had been drawn. They had to be escorted back to their seats. Whenever the southern girl and I ventured into the fiery masses to hand out the swag, people would go nuts and crowd over us, too. I almost got trampled in the name of a foam hand glove. When we were finally down to the bobble heads, I saw the reality of what Kylie had warned us about: people were willing to die for them.

When the event came to a close and the actors had managed to fight their way out of the theater, the crying girl in the homemade t-shirt came down to the booth to talk to the writer and finagle a picture with the stars.
"I understand what you're -"
"No, you don't understand," she cut in, "I drove eight hours from the top of North Carolina to be here. I love this show. I am single-handedly responsible for an online campaign with thirty thousand signatures to get the actors on Saturday Night Live! I have to meet them and get a picture with their autograph!" She was on the verge of tears. Finally, someone came and took down her address, promising an autograph picture within three weeks. The writer signed the last couple of autographs, looked both ways, and bolted from the theater.

Silence. My first promotional event was complete.

I turned to the southern girl.
"Bout time they left," she said, popping in a breath mint. "I was about to tell these people to get the hell off my couch."