I love water. I especially crave it at midnight. Waking up from a dead sleep with a dry tongue and reaching for a cold glass of agua is complete euphoria. It feels like the whole thing goes down in one gulp.

When I was little, maybe five, I would constantly awaken from my kindergarten dreams with a mouth as dry as dust. I'd slither out of my sweaty comforter and reach for salvation, courtesy of my pink plastic water cup. However, one dark and scary night, I discovered I was grasping at air. No bedside H2O was to be found by my fat little fingers. There was only one way to fix this:

"Mooooooooooommmmm!"

She appeared instantaneously, ready to slay the monsters and nightmares I was summoning her to save me from. She then concealed her irritation upon discovering I was merely incapable of hydrating myself. My predicament was quickly put right and I listened to her lullaby as I drifted off to sleep.

When I think back on my most cherished memories with Mom, a majority of them materialized at midnight.

For instance, when I was thirteen years old, my mom and I started this tradition -- every holiday we would secretly deliver baskets of  goodies on the doorsteps of our closest friends. Always at midnight.

On Easter, the gift bucket would be chock full of chocolate bunnies, hazelnut coffees and colorful eggs with personalized calligraphy. Halloween consisted of pumpkins, sugar comas and spooky costume jewelry. The baskets became a joke within our band of buddies. Who was this unidentified holiday patron? Mom and I did the whole project anonymously.  

The tradition became more complex as our friends became bent on busting the benefactor. Sprinklers were put on timers, booby-traps were assembled in driveways and my walk from Mom's Benz to the assigned doorstep was increasingly nerve-racking. Every time a dog would bark or a bush would rustle, I would awkwardly scamper back to the car, twisting my ankles and quietly cursing the entire time. Upon my return, Mom would be in hysterics over my incompetent running skills and my hushed demands for her to "stop laughing" only made her giggle harder. Driving down those empty streets with sore stomach muscles, I was in heaven.

As I grew older, midnight became my common curfew. However, despite the hour, I still loved tip toeing into my mom's room and relaying the evening's events to her. I would lay across the edge of her bed and question if boys were this confusing when she was in high school. Even my closest girlfriends would sometimes join us in the late night gossip sessions, asking for motherly advice in whispers...the younger generation laying at the feet of the wiser generation.

In fact, even my grandmas have given me magical witching hours. As a kid, I recall standing on the porch with Nana Sally at her log cabin, looking at the milky way which was crystal clear in the cold mountain air. At age nineteen, I couldn't believe it when Grandma Jo enlisted my help in toilet papering the home of her uptight next door neighbors.

Just last week, my mom went back home to Arizona. On our last California night together she tucked me in, gave me a glass of water and wandered into her bedroom. She played a song on her computer before turning out the light and I listened to her lullaby as I drifted off to sleep...

Goodnight my angel now it's time to dream

And dream how wonderful your life will be

Someday your child will cry and if you sing this lullaby

Then in your heart there will always be a part of me

Someday we'll all be gone 

But lullabies live on and on

They never die that's how you and I will be

...and it was midnight.

Saturday night is the culmination of several years of emotions wrapped up into thirty minutes of high energy entertainment with opening credits.

I've been performing my entire life.  I remember being six, wearing roller-blades and putting on a two and a half hour play for my parents by the pool. I'm amazed they didn't drown me.

Mom and dad spent copious amounts of time in the profession before I was even born, so being the offspring of two people who were both enthusiasts of the arts, it's pretty understandable why I got the bug. 

Mom was once a flamenco dancer and toured the west coast in a car filled with rowdy girls and castanets. As a young man, dad was an art student, turned trapeze artist, before he “broke” into the film business.  Remember that 1975 Discount Tire Commercial where the little old lady hurls a tire through the store front window? That was actually my dad. The frail, hired actress couldn't exactly launch a wheel into the air, so they put my dad in a wig and a dress. It was one of his first crew jobs and the spot has become the longest running commercial in history. It even made the Guinness Book of Records.

So after their chance meeting at an Academy Awards party (see what I mean?)… I was born seven years later.

I grew up around a camera. My house was constantly filled with storyboards and equipment. My dad became a commercial director known for his command over wild animals. He shot and directed campaigns for companies like Sea World and The San Diego Zoo. Visiting him on set was a thrill. It smelled like sawdust and there was always some cool critter on the sound stage. Once, a baby orangutan sat on my lap and helped himself to my entire "Snapple."

During my adolescence, mom and dad seasoned the ups and downs of the film business. Being a servant to the craft is like dating the hottest guy in school. One day you love him and he loves you right back. He buys you beautiful gifts and brings you flowers… you feel popular and loved by everyone… and then....BAM!  He dumps you without explanation or afterthought.  Yes, this career is like being the girlfriend of a bipolar maniac.  Which I've also experienced... and survived.

On my golden fifteenth birthday, much to the dismay of mom and dad, I told them I really wanted to be an actress. A professional actress.  Who would need to live in Los Angeles. I had spent the last nine years doing community theater, school plays, radio voice-overs, local tv commercials and even a Broadway tour… but it wasn’t enough.  They questioned the dream. What about Sarah Lawrence College?  After endless hours of bargaining, we reached an agreement: one week of meetings and auditions in Hollywood during my fall break, and if it didn't go well, I would cut the begging and finish high school. 

Come to find out, the "seven day plan" was their way of letting me navigate the treacherous waters of casting before making a life altering decision. They figured I would discover the difficulty of breaking into such a competitive field on my own and therefore change my mind free from their influence. A brilliant plan, had it not backfired with me booking my second audition… which completely caught me off guard, too.

My mom and I had to move to LA almost immediately.  I spent my last day in high school reading "Seventeen" magazine through my entire Geometry Honors class just to spite my evil math teacher.  I left right before finals, the best timing I've ever had.

Five years later, I've been a gunner in the same crusade… the tug of war between booking and not booking.  I've gone on hundreds of auditions and spent countless hours in acting classes and coaching sessions. I've broken down sobbing during emotional monologues, which is embarrassing enough in itself without having to do it in a room filled with hot, young male actors.

I've made it to the "final callback" dozens of times... only to find I “wasn’t right for the part.”  I lost roles to friends and watched a number of them advance into big movies and big careers.

In the acting realm, a final callback is usually referred to as "testing." How is it I can't escape that terrifying word four hundred miles away from my school?  A test here is like a final that your entire career is riding on -- and I thought a two page essay on "Great Expectations" was daunting!  Instead of a teacher in a bad cat sweater, you're being graded by twenty producers and executives armed with suits and cell phones, and all of them have to give you an A. Plus, out of the four or five girls taking this intense final exam, only one can pass.

I'd mostly failed all my tests thus far. It wasn't pretty. They're incredibly nerve-racking and they become more so as you get attached to the role.  I received an audition for “Stella Malone, a feisty teenage girl who's best friends with a rock band.”  Since "Almost Famous" is my favorite movie, I was intrigued by this role from the start.  So imagine the extra pressure I experienced when, after making it through several callbacks, I was suddenly sharing the room with three undeniably charming and attractive boys in Nike sneakers. And the two girls I was testing against? Demi Lovato and Nicole Anderson.

I want you guys to know that playing the role of "Stella" holds so much more meaning to me than just "getting to work with the Jonas Brothers." Not that I don't have the utmost respect and love for my incredible co-stars, but this show means a lot to me personally.

This show is the denouement of a bittersweet series of events. Memories of saying good-bye to my dad, my childhood bedroom and my childhood dog who I couldn't bring with me. Memories of missing my prom and my football team winning state, not to mention a graduation ceremony with my class of life long friends. Saturday night will make me recall a time when I was "Dancer #5" in our school's production of "Fiddler on the Roof" while my crush slept in the front row and the deadbeat sophomores threw pennies at us.  And an age when I wanted a speaking role in "Peter Pan" so badly that I was willing to buzz my hair to look like a boy, which resulted in relentless teasing from the other fifth graders.

It will summon up a few periods of time when self-doubt was unbearable and I questioned if I had made a mistake.  Some old feelings of embarrassment when I wasn’t booking enough work and my Nana mailed me rent money in a card saying she still believed in me.  And in return it will also call to mind the delight I felt when I was finally able to pay that loan back.  I remember the day that California finally felt like home to me, I ditched the hotel I had been living in and signed a lease for an apartment.  The first thing I went out and bought was a lime green floral toaster.

It has been an adventure, but as they say, “life's all about the journey, not the destination.” In no way is Saturday night a haven for me. It's just a really nice layover, a resting place that I'll be sharing on my comfy couch with my Mom, Dad, and Nana. 

And possibly over a million other people.  Oh crap. Here comes a new set of nerves.

I really enjoyed my morning at KTLA, starting with a greeting from a bohemian male model who could have passed for Josh Duhamel’s long lost twin. However, there is one thing I realized today: I have a curse when it comes to the morning news. Every time I am scheduled to appear, some major moment in American history is breaking that same hour.

For example, seventh grade.  I’m preparing to do my segment.  The date?  9/11. Obviously, my interview was postponed indefinitely.

One year later.  I’m preparing to do my segment and fifteen minutes before I went live, President Bush held a press conference and declared war. At the time, I was participating in a musical called "School House Rock" and was excited to perform during my allotted slot. Sitting in my pink tutu, I figured the viewing public was not in the mood for a song about "Nouns" right now.

Fast forward… today.  Once again, I’m preparing to do my segment and “Breaking News” flashes across the tv monitor. Obama takes over the screen and announces Chrysler's bankruptcy. I sat in the green room listening to more disheartening news and came to this conclusion:

I should not be on the Morning News anymore. The fate of America depends on it.

Michael Jackson.

I never in my wildest dreams thought I would write a blog about you.

I know practically ‘zero’ about Michael Jackson, besides what I've seen on Headline News in the past five years. I've danced to his songs at awkward wedding parties and watched the Jen Garner chick flicks where an entire office in cocktail attire breaks into synchronized "Thriller" choreography. Just last month I was rocking out to "Man in the Mirror" in the JONAS makeup room as the cast and our crew of rambunctious make-up ladies serenaded our reflections with “microphone” curling irons and hair brushes.

My first encounter with Michael Jackson was at Disneyland when I was about 5.  There used to be this fantastic 3-D attraction where the updated "Honey I Shrunk the Audience" movie now hunkers down in Tomorrowland.  It starred the King of Pop and a cool small-winged chihuahua named "Fuzzball" and the movie was called "Captain EO." It was directed by Francis Ford Coppola (The Godfather) and produced by George Lucas (Star Wars), plus Anjelica Huston played the Evil Ruler... so there was pretty much no way it could suck. It was a loud and exhilarating space opera that made me forget about my churro-induced stomach ache for a little while.

This week The Collection of Michael Jackson was on display for auction... and being a product of the 80's and a fan of Captain EO, I decided to check it out.

Soon after walking through the gothic Neverland gates, I was surrounded by statues of kids playing leap frog and ring around the rosy. Images from the 1999 film "The Haunting" were running through my head and it made me really anxious. However, I kept going because Peter Gallagher was right in front of me and I loved "While You Were Sleeping."

Once inside, it was like being in the best Smithsonian museum of all time. I was mesmerized by old concert footage of teenagers bawling his name and clawing at his legs to get a piece of him. He had so much emotion onstage and I was transfixed; an indication of why he became so renowned.  He could dance.  He could sing.  He could write.  He was brilliant.  And his original rhinestoned glove was right next to me.

People’s Choice Awards, Platinum cassette tapes and portraits that looked like they were taken straight from the Getty were everywhere. It was overwhelming. How was this all in someone's house at one point?  Seeing a framed personalized letter from Ronald Reagan made me hate the wall art in my apartment.

There was a room with all of his furniture, which to my surprise was very uncomplicated. Rocking chairs, antiques and wooden dresser drawers that I imagined bedazzled socks being shoved into. It was just like being at Grandma's house. Okay, a really wealthy grandma with a $20,000 chess set, but none the less... homey. Keeping with the "Into the Woods" theme, he possessed several wax figures... all made in the likeness of white, elderly men and women.  There were butlers with funny expressions holding wine bottles and a little old lady with pin curls and a bathrobe. It made me wonder if he either had: A) No grandma, or B) One that made him feel very safe.

You know that song that plays in FAO Schwartz over and over again... where little children laugh and welcome you to their wonderful world of toys? It should be playing in this next room. There were thousands of toys!  Michael Jackson is like a modern day Willie Wonka. Yes, the computerized arcade games were all there, as if he bought out every Fiddlesticks in the country, but looking at his collection... it was obvious he has been hoarding away toys his entire life. Walking through these rooms was like walking through time... starting with original movie posters from "The Sound of Music" to Star Wars costumes worn by the cast... even a California Raisins collection! You know the glass window displays on Disneyland's Main Street?  Where animatronic characters move and tell the story of different Disney movie scenes? He had them ALL recreated: Peter Pan, Cinderella, and at the end of the Pinocchio display... it is Michael who turns into the "real boy."

He became a superstar at eleven years old, so I guess this was the stuff he missed out on. If at 20, I had already been under the intense pressure of this business for the past decade, missing out on bike rides and state fairs, who knows what kind of mood I'd be in. I believe when you miss an important part of life, you spend the rest of your time trying to recreate it. You're stuck.

At the end of the visit, I was moved and kind of... sad. Here is a man who gave his entire life to being an entertainer...for me...for you.... and now, his personal, most intimate belongings... stuff that is HIS... I am PAYING to see. It seems so unfair to him. Fortunately, the auction has been called off and he is getting his stuff back.  And you know what? I'm glad. His memories... the things that make him comfortable, even if it is a life size play castle... deserve to be back where they belong.  With him.

So this image I've had in my head of a pale, skinny man in a surgical mask enveloped by flashbulbs as he rushes out of a building isn’t the image I want to define him for me anymore. I'm going back to Captain EO. I'm going to say it’s none of my business, because at the end of the day, the only thing that affects me is when "Black or White" comes on the radio while I'm driving with the windows down. And I really like that song.

Chicago is a very cold place. At one point I had hail sticking to my eyelashes, but when you're with people you love -- you don't even notice.

I bought a plane ticket to meet some friends in the windy city. On Saturday night, I closed my eyes, pulled out my credit card and typed in the faded silver numbers until I had a Sunday morning boarding pass with my name on it.

I packed three days worth of clothes and toiletries in my beat up Anthro backpack. All my girly essentials in one small bag....? Huge accomplishment.

After four hours on a plane listening to the girls in front of me talk in detail about the Jonas Brothers, (which was very entertaining) I landed at Midway airport. I hopped in a cab and 40 minutes and 40 bucks later, I was standing in front of a dilapidated bar/music venue called the Beat Kitchen.

Dashing inside to stay dry, I was greeted first by a Bitter Bald Bouncer (BBB) that refused to make my life easy. I promise you, not every young adult under the age of 21 has a life goal of illegal bar hopping.  I just want to hear some music. After a significant search of my backpack...

BBB: "Why do you have an aerosol hairspray bottle?"

ME: "Cuz I just got off a plane?!"

...my hands were eventually decorated with two black "Xs" and I was received by the wonderful Brian Dales.

I watched soundcheck and caught up with some of my favorite "Guys, Guys, Guys." "Sing It Loud" came armed with smiles and hugs and "The Summer Set" never disappoints on the fun factor. These talented young musicians are touring the country in 15 passenger vans away from families and any sense of normality. Standing under the blue twinkle lights of the venue with them made me hope they achieve every ounce of success they could ever dream of. 

The best part of my night was meeting a Chicago native named Kristen. I first became "friends" with Kristen on MySpace. She emailed me after seeing "Minutemen" and her sense of humor caught my attention. We became cyber pen pals as she updated me on her school, her crushes and the ludicrous situations she would get herself into. She started sending me funny videos and even an awesome Notre Dame T-shirt that I  wore in my website photo shoot. Anyway, she came down to the show and we finally met in person! She's sweet and adorable and I truly consider her a friend now. Meeting fans is always flattering and surreal. It's a nice reminder as to why I love this business. Acting is my ecstasy, but it would kind of suck if people hated it. So, to anyone that said "hi" in Illinois...thanks. It meant a lot to me.

After a night of pop rock and a hilarious "A Milli" cover from the bass player of "The Morning Light,"  we were off to a much anticipated night of zzzzz's.

Noon, next day. Awoke to a breakfast of Gino's East deep dish pizza. The perfection of the cheese and the pound of dough I was consuming literally brought tears to my eyes. Or maybe it just tasted better because it took 45 minutes to prepare. It was completely over priced and completely worth it. You can also draw on the walls there, so if you ever sit upstairs in the second to last booth on the right, look for me.

Brian refused to wear a jacket and I loved saying "I told you so" when we had to walk back to the hotel an hour later because he was shaking.

We saw a freeway under another freeway. Woah. It made me want to watch Batman. We saw the Wrigley Building and Wrigley Square, which was cool because back in Arizona, William Wrigley's great granddaughter used to be my babysitter.

We wandered down to Millennium Park and imagined what the Jay Pritzker Pavilion must be like in the summer. The green lawn, that seats thousands for free concerts, was empty and inviting. I tried to do a cartwheel, but it was roped off and I was afraid that the BBB from the night before would somehow catch me. 

The Crown Fountain became a quick obsession. The fountain is made up of two glass towers projecting close up video images of faces. Researching it, I learned it was designed by an artist named Jaume Plensa. The faces are a throw back to "olden days" when gargoyles and mythological creatures were sculpted with open mouths allowing water to flow out of them. The water is a symbol of life. Now these 50 foot faces are spewing water onto cement in the middle of a city. Totally rad. Wouldn't it be weird to walk to work and see a picture of yourself spitting on people?

My favorite piece -- The Cloud Gate Sculpture. A giant stainless steel coffee bean that reflects, well, the clouds. And everything else. It's random and sleek, like liquid mercury, and it makes me happy. Due to its undeniable shape, it's only fitting that we headed for a cup of java.

While waiting for the light to change, we got caught in a pounding hail storm. It was completely unexpected and attacked without warning. We ran in circles for about thirty seconds looking for sanctuary and with no refuge in sight, we busted out laughing and held each other. Hail, yes.

With wet boots and bangs, we finished our day with soup and Sponge Bob. Looking out the 23rd floor window, I could see Lake Michigan. Okay, at first I thought it was the ocean and I will never live that down. It was a great 48 hours. I can't wait to go back.

I love to hear from you!  Here are a couple of places where you can write me:

Chelsea Staub
c/o Management 360
9111 Wilshire Blvd.
Beverly Hills, CA 90210

Chelsea Staub
c/o Disney Channel
3800 W. Alameda Avenue
Burbank, CA 91505

I handle all photograph and autograph requests by myself and it's getting to be a little more than I can keep up with.  Sorry... but from now on, I will only be able to return a photo and/or autograph to those that send along a SELF-ADDRESSED, STAMPED ENVELOPE (9X12) to me in care of:

Chelsea Staub
c/o Management 360
9111 Wilshire Blvd.
Beverly Hills, CA 90210

If you live in the U.S., postage is $1.00, if your request is international, please add $2.00 in postage to the envelope.  Thanks so much!!

xoxo