- I choose wine by the cuteness of the label and by how well it matches my kitchen. Boom.
- You can miss a dog as much as you miss a human.
- It takes exactly half an episode of Long Island Medium to become addicted. And, six and a half seconds to become a crying loser.
- America really does have talent.
- The actor's lifestyle is not for the lily-livered.
- LA is very small world. (and yet, I never seem to run into McDreamy...)
- "Loving What Is" (Byron Katie) is just the Serenity Prayer, expanded.
- The Cirque Du Soliel people are VERY bendy.
- You CAN learn to like something you've hated your whole life. Even when it's yogurt.
- Michale Cerra and Jessie Eisenberg are actually the same person.
- My thumb is not black after all. It's gangrene. RIP, plants number 1 thru 7.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Or so I thought.
He pulls his shiny black Porsche in front of me as I walk out. He'd been eying me in the canned foods section and I'd given him a smile as I passed, thinking he was kinda cute.
"You have a fantastic smile," he says. "You have a fantastic car," I say. "Can I take you out for a drink?" he says. "Sure!" I say. We exchange first names and phone numbers and before I finish my five-minute drive home he has texted. "Awww, that's nice," I smile.
Johnny- Very nice meeting you :)
Me: thanks, you too!
Johnny is a writer on a very popular television show and was a writer on a #1 show that ended a few years ago. Johnny is also a writer of text messages. Johnny wants to know everything there is to know about me from birth to present day, via text. I avoid questions, attempting repeatedly to meet him out (at a very public place) to talk instead, but Johnny is having none of it. He wants to text. And text. And text.
The next night...
Johnny- What's your last name. Are you on Facebook?
Hmmm. Weird. We haven't even met in person yet and he wants to Facebook me. Ok, I reason. Everyone's on Facebook; I guess this is normal. I stupidly give him my last name (instantly regretting it and flashing back to a Lifetime movie involving the murder of a girl who stupidly gave her full name to an on-line predator.)
I search for Johnny only to find that he is not actually ON Facebook. Johnny has a Facebook page. But, his page has no picture and absolutely no information (except that he's a television writer, which is how I know it's him), wall posts or activity at all. I am irrationally relieved that there aren't three names on the profile (John Wilkes Boothe, John Wayne Gacey, Lee Harvey Oswald...you get the gist.), but it's a stalker page, nonetheless.
Feeling like the girl in the horror film whose murder you want to assist with because she's THAT stupid, I quickly make my name unsearchable.
Johnny- hey, i can't find you on Facebook. Friend me so I can look at your page. I'm going to google you now.
Hold. The. Phone. Or drop it...which is what I did.
Me: Um.....what? You want to google me??? That's a little creepy.
Johnny: What? Why? That's what people do these days. Why are you freaking out? (oh, I don't know...I guess the kill room in your basement wasn't what I had in mind when we said we'd meet for drinks...)
Crap, I've pissed off Dexter.
I put the phone down and back away slowly...expecting him to actually walk through the screen holding the length of rope and roll of duct tape he purchased earlier today. You know, the evidence the police will later find in his trunk along with my DNA.
Johnny: Where did you go? You haven't answered. Are you on IMDB? Where did you go to college?
I can't block him...and I can't even ignore him. Because, Johnny is a writer on a very popular television show. And, in television, the writer is God. And, God better not have an axe to grind with you (or into you) when you audition in front of him or you'll never been seen again. By anyone. Ever. Much less book his show. You never piss off the writer. Or the psycho.
Thinking of my acting career and the fact that it will be slightly harder to book while in pieces in his freezer, I decide to respond.
Me: Early day tomorrow...gotta run. But, have a good night and pen something brilliant tomorrow.
Cordial. Acknowledges his talent. But, not encouraging. Not engaging. Perfect.
Johnny: Oh...ok. Yeah, you too. I'll try.
And, just like that, the horror film ends. For the night.
Over the next 2 months, Johnny randomly texts the word- hi. I don't know why, but I have always found it eerie when people just text- hi. I wait the appropriate you're-so-weird-but-I-can't-be-rude-to-you-in-case-you-kill-me-or-worse-yet-blackball-me 24 hour period and text back, hi. (hey, he started it!)
A week later...
Goosebumps. Check the locks.
At this point, I know he's either losing interest or plotting my demise. I give up my favorite Beverly Hills grocery store and keep an eye out for shiny black Porsches. There are almost no black Porsches in Beverly Hills. (That, Miss Morrisette, is irony. A fly in your chardonnay, is not.).
Two weeks later...
Johnny- Where have you been? I haven't heard from you. Wanna meet me for a drink?
Annnnd, there it is.
So, i do what any strong, capable, woman of the new millennium would do. I make up a fake boyfriend. A big one. One whose bodybuilding competition has kept me away from my phone for a while.
Johnny wishes me luck with Arnold Fakezenegger and disappears. Just like that.
If I do ever audition for him, I won't know it. I can't even remember what he looks like anymore, but I no longer think he's kinda cute. He, however, will definitely know me, as he sits with a panel of producers, my name in block letters on the headshot in his hand.
At least he won't be holding my actual head.
Friday, May 13, 2011
The top ones...would suffice. They didn't spread like black spiders approaching the lid-ville county line, as they did when i was twenty, but they were decent, adequate. The bottom ones were another story. Sparse, unless onyx-drenched, and even then there were gaps, empty foxholes where now fallen tress once lay. Wounded, i assume, in a past assault with a deadly curler.
Then came Josie.
Waving a wand of enchantment and argan oil across the battlefield, restoring life where once there was none. And, now, life. sprouts. hope.
Hope's full name is Josie Maran Instant Natural Volume Argan Mascara. You can find her, this angel of eyes, atop a shelf at your local Sephora. And when you do, never let her go.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
2. Everybody is on Facebook. Or, as the film industry likes to call it, "Cha-Ching!"
3. Twitter is the new Facebook. Or, as the film industry likes to call it, "2011's Cha-Ching!"
4. P90X was actually designed by Kim Jong-Il as a means to torture Americans. And, who owns a chin-up bar anyway.
5. The Secret can suck it. I've been "secreting" snow in LA for 3 years and have yet to see a flake. Not a snow flake, anyway. Perhaps, I should have been more specific.
6. Not having a roommate is Heaven. Having a roommate is the place below hell where the people who fail hell go.
7. Comedy is hard.
8. I may not be a good redhead.
9. Parking garage columns are strategically placed in your car's blind spots...by Geico.
10. "Dogs don't say goodbye."
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson.
So, today, I pay tribute to each.
One battled fearlessly against an insufferable cancer and
the other died suddenly, much, much too young.
Both are loved by many, both will be remembered...always.
Feb 2, 1947- June 25, 2009
Aug. 29, 1958- June 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
This explains a lot.
As a kid, I was a tomboy. Of course, I played with barbies and stuffed animals and used Play Dough to make pretend hot dogs, which I served at my pretend restaurant... and I adored my Easy Bake oven (I ingested a LOT of raw ingredients. It is simply not reasonable to expect an 8 year old to wait for a light bulb to bake brownies.). But, I also played in the mud, built forts, climbed trees, jumped fences, rode bikes, played softball, skateboarded, ice skated and roller skated. Along with such activities came sprained wrists, crutches, stitches and...concussions.
Four, to be exact.
One occurred while ice skating (I naturally suck at all winter sports), one while roller skating with a cup of Kool Aid in my hand, one while skateboarding down an insanely steep hill in an attempt to impress the cute boy who lived at the top...and who didn't know I existed and probably wasn't even home at the time, and one while playing "run and slide on the ice patch" during 8th grade recess. We were 13, what do you want?
The ice patch fall was a doozie which caused temporary blindness (No, Mr. Thomas, God rest your mean old soul, I wasn't faking it to get out of math class that day. But, I'm not sorry I missed it.) and, I now believe, a whole host of other issues including, but not limited to, the following:
-Last week it took me 4 full minutes to figure out how to get a travel toothbrush back into its case. yep.
-My math center doesn't work. I'm not even sure it exists. I don't know exactly where it is located in the brain, but I'm pretty sure I fell on it during the skateboarding incident. Stupid cute boy.
-I utterly adore brand new jars of peanut butter. Specifically, Skippy. If i get to be the first one to break the unnaturally smooth surface, my life feels complete. Tell me that's not brain damage.
-I once forgot my dog's name. The vet tech said, "Who do we have here?" and I said, "um..." followed by a blank stare and head tilt. uh huh.
-I have watched all three seasons of Rock of Love. And, I'm hoping Brett breaks up with Taya so there can be a Rock of Love 4. God help me.
-All these years I thought Michale Jackson was saying, "keep on, do the bus stop, don't stop 'til you get enough." Figured the "bus stop" was a kind of dance. Astonished I had that wrong.
-I continue to throw myself into the horror that is the LA dating pool. I think the use of the word horror is explanation enough here.
The list goes on...and on. But, I'll stop now for fear of scaring off...everyone single one of my readers.
***This post is dedicated to my childhood partner-in-crime, Charlotte, who bore witness to many of my mishaps and who got side-swiped by a speeding car while biking to DQ with me via a highway we were NOT supposed to be on...something we manged to hide from her parents despite cuts, bruises and limping. Hopefully, her mother is not one of my followers... ;)***
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Don't be jealous.
Today, I have decided to post said random crap. Lucky you.
Going Commando and Mini Skirts- Now, young Hollywood Starlets, I am hardly a prude. but, it's just bad manners to show your lady-business to the paparazzi. Keep it under wraps, yeah?
My dog and Rain- Dog About Town resides in the perfect climate because she despises rain and it hardly ever rains in Southern California. Her distaste runs so deep, she actually refuses to even cross the threshold onto the porch if the sprinkler system is on. She can't hear me calling her name from 2 feet away but she can hear the lawn being lightly watered one-story below. I think I'm being bamboozled.
Spam and me- I do not now, nor will I ever, desire to enlarge my penis. I like my penis the way it is. So, email@example.com, know your audience..and know when to quit.
Children and Electronics- I find it interesting that my mom-friends find themselves missing calls, placing involuntary calls and even replacing entire cell phones because of their children. "My son gave my Blackberry a bath...in the toilet," "My 3 year old must have dialed your number," "My 4-year-old turned the ringer off," "Little Lauren covered it in play dough." K, I don't have a child...or a blackberry...but when I do, I'm thinkin' never the twain shall meet.
Ectomorphs and Running- for details, see prior post (yes, that was a shameless plug).
Blind Dates and Men Who Don't Speak English- for details, stay tuned for future post (hey, I just installed Ad Sense and a girl's gotta eat).
And my personal favorite...
Cottage Cheese and Human Consumption: It's curdled milk, people!! curdled. milk. I rest my case.
Last Minute Addition:
Blogging and Blogspot- There is a ghost in the machine. Hence, the crazy font sizes and styles it chooses against my will. Trebuchet, damn blogspot, Trebuchet!!!!!
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
But...there exists for me, a kind of kryptonite that is able to out-maneuver most carrots and kick the asses of virtually all brussel sprouts(except those really really big ones). Thus, occasionally, I slip (swan dive) off the health wagon and land squarely in the middle of a puddle (Lake...one of the Great ones) of butter.
Short pause while I undergo a bypass.
Shoveled onto mashed potatoes, applied the-opposite-of-sparingly to a warm ear of corn, tempting lobster chunks to bathe in it, suffocating unsuspecting pierogies...one taste and all I can think is, "you, complete me." And, I have come to realize that I even prefer the taste of butter to that of chocolate.
Dear Friends and Family Members who have, throughout the years, talked me down from the ledge of many a Whitman's Sampler as I stood clinging to the last dark-chocolate caramel, I sincerely apologize for the concussion you each just incurred upon falling off your respective chairs'.
To combat the ill-effects of all things churned, I work-out at the local gym- lifting weights, doing sit-ups and walking uphill on the treadmill. But, upon hearing from several friends that running is the fastest and easiest way to stay in shape...I decided to try it out. I have never been a runner, except for that time in high school when I joined the cross-country team and then quit (was asked to leave) after the first day (1/2 hour) because I got yelled at for bending over to tie my shoe in the middle of a run (fell over from a side stitch before reaching the end of the school campus), but my brother was an accomplished cross-country runner back-in-the-day, so i figure it’s in the genes. I'm gonna be great at this.
My Jogging Diary:
Day 1: Left apartment at 3:40 pm and set about on jog through lovely Beverly Hills. Returned to apartment at 4:03 pm and set about lying on lovely floor trying not to cough up lovely blood.
Day 2 (technically day 4-took 3 days to convince self to run again): Left apartment with positive attitude. Made it four blocks and was about to stop when spotted Michael Madsen in car at stop sign. Ran enthusiastically 'til car out of sight. Crawled home with visions of oxygen tanks dancing in head.
Day 3: Ran to corner. Pre-run baked potato possible bad idea. Abort.
Day 4: Shins hurt. Who needs in shape shins. Abort.
Day 5: American Idol on. Abort.
Day 6: Abort.
Even though I was only a runner for 6...5...okay 2 days, I do not consider this endeavor a failure because I gained some very valuable information in the process. For one, ectomorphs don't run. Secondly, if we do run, we will be back home before the red "pause line" on the tivo moves 1/4 inch. And, finally, trying new things gives me something to blog about.
Update: since the commencement of my jogging experiment I have also discovered that ectomorphs don't do yoga, jump rope or use stair climbers.