Jingle.

I am absolutely incapable of getting a manicure and not messing it up immediately. That's no metaphor, though I suppose it could be. I literally can't not screw it up. I guess that's why I don't get that many manicures, because it's so frustrating. I sit there like a bourgeoisie wench for an hour, paying these sweet, hairless, well kept, Korean ladies to deal with the absolute mess I make of my nails and the wreckage that is my cuticles - particularly my right thumb, which bears the brunt of my emotions and always has.  Then I stand up, slap on those temporary flip flops and go about my business, which, apparently, is exceedingly hard on the surfaces of my nails. 

There's a mystery for you. Someone who's as bad at sports as I am and with my level of party dress obsession should be dainty and patient enough to 1) wait for the damn polish to dry and 2) go easy on the hand swinging, bag slinging, and other dangerous behavior. It's a dastardly combination of absolutely loving the way short, shiny, red nails look holding a flute of champagne and the inability to maintain them. C'est la contradiction. 

So in case anyone was keeping score, this is the difference between delicate-girly and awesome-girly. Because yeah, my hand eye coordination is limited. And I love Titanic. And every December I hear the first bar of a Christmas song and suddenly get an inexplicable, Pavlovian need for patent leather shoes, a new dress (preferably taffeta), and tickets to The Nutcracker. And team sports that aren't the Red Sox bore the hell out of me and the only reason the Red Sox don't is because my Pavlovian reaction to them is a need for Stellas and Boston, and frankly, what's better than that? But at least I'm no delicate fool. 

Delicate fools would probably not have been running around Beverly Hills wearing those paper thin pedicure flip flops on the wrong feet trying to change for an office party in the office bathroom while leaving time to tone down the tranny eye makeup that the dude with braces at Nars proclaimed "fierce". My fault for trusting an adult with braces. I should have known better. 

Even so, there is this lovely service that Barney's in Beverly Hills has where you go in, buy mascara and let one of the desperate-for-a-Hollywood-gig make up artists do your makeup for a party. They actually will pour their heart and soul and yes, a lot of glitter into the job. Which is a lot of fun, once you take the eye sparkle down a couple of pegs afterward because this isn't Halloween and I cannot justify eye-shadow up to my eyebrows, I simply cannot. 

Yes, I get a true kick out of December in the Los Angeles but I am so ready for my Massachusetts reality check. Last I kept thinking about how if I were sprinting around in paper thin flip flops on December 12th in Boston instead of Beverly Hills, I would probably be writing this today as a frostbitten amputee. Weather patters and tangible seasons keep people real and as much as the spot in my heart that thinks this place is pretty okay may or may not be spreading, it is going to be so good to be home. 

Petite.

Once upon a time... from Capucha on Vimeo.

It is a genuine shame that all children aren't this awesome.

Japan.

For those of you who may not have heard, my precious friend Natale is currently in the thick of a stint performing in Gift of the Angels, aka the Universal Studios Osaka Christmas Extravaganza. It's freaking great. Basically he sings Western Christmas songs in his real voice and then lip synchs along with pre-recorded Japanese lines to tell a heartwarming Christmas tale. His experience thus far has only served to fuel a deeply rooted stereotype of mine: Japan is, straight up, the most ridiculous country on Earth. I received the following e-mail this morning at work and was so amused that I decided to spread the wealth a little. So without further ado, below please find... an e-mail from Natale. Yup. An e-mail all the way from Japan. Imagine that. 

Hey Poops!

Just wanted to shoot you a quick e-mail letting you know that I FINALLY got a camera so you can expect some pics POST HASTE. I can't wait to show you the oh so very skewed vision of the French these Japs have! (In case you didn't know, our show is set in Paris, and Rachel and I (Melissa and Andrew) work at the Louvre and fall madly in love whilst singing about Christ (O, Holy Night).

On another note, I have not tried any sushi yet...hopefully I will soon, i must admit that some of it looks tasty. (The "trendy" californians who consume it all the time would have sush-gasms at all of the varieties I have seen so far.) Other than that, earlier tonight, I actually just got myself a FREE flu vaccine due to the fact that I am a Christmas Singer who is exposed to the elements every night and must NEVER get sick! So that's fun.

The shows have been going great so far and I am having a blast doing them! Rachel and I went out to Bubba Gump's the other night at Citywalk and were recognized by a cadre of Japanese school girls who started SCREAMING their heads off in the middle of the restaurant demanding that we take pictures with them. They were like "IT'S ANDREW AND MERISSA!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!" I was laughing so hard and WISHED that you, Ray, and Heather could have seen them...it was an experience let me tell you.

Other than that, I have been exploring the city as much as I can shopping way too much (I need to stop). But I got some AMAZING dick stomping boots and some funky japan clothes that I can't wait to show you! "That is SOOO FUNKY JAPAN!" Speaking of which, it is SO FUNNY walking around the streets and seeing the MOST effeminate men carrying purses and wearing SO MANY ACCESSORIES...and walking right beside them, their Sarah-plain-and-tall girlfriends. It's really hilarious how metro-sexual bordering on trannies the male style is out here.

Anywhoo...that is all for now! I miss you all so much and hope that all is well over there!

MUCH LOVE!!! ARRIVERDIERCHIE!!!!

~Natale~

That's my boy! Voice of an angel.

Judgement.

This is the beginning of what I'm sure will be an ongoing series of absolutely ridiculous yet, sadly, totally serious updates to an assortment of Facebook profiles on my friends list, mostly people who I went to elementary and high school with that have only made the cut on my frequent de-friending sprees because they're too damn entertaining to let go. Really, it's somewhat unnerving to think about how these people and I essentially got the same education. We drank the same tap water, did the same posterboard research projects, took the same standardized tests and yet, somewhere along the line... I don't know, but something clearly went terribly wrong, or else I somehow managed a narrow escape. On second thought, I was decidedly uncool by the standards of the time for a solid twelve years, so maybe I was just ignorant to the after school glue sniffing parties that were going on. Regardless. Voila:

Exhibit A

I actually just really admire Exhibit A's enthusiasm for what appears to be a sad, very sad existence.

About Me: I currently work for Target my all time favorite store!!! I am a Cash Office Specialist and also a guest service team leader!!! I Love my job its fun to be back in the customer service field!!! I love music its basically what pulls me threw each day!!! I live to shop!! I wish i could really afford it but I have done my damage!!! I love the color pink and would live around it all the time!!! I am very outgoing very friendly! I appericate everyone that has come into my life no matter how bad the times were!!! I care so much about others and what others think about me that I think tends to get people to think im out of the norm but all i want is for you to like me!!!

Exhibit B

After a long day of organizing, social work and helping others, Exhibit B likes to trade her LONG jeans in for some sweatpants, throw back a dozen Jager bombs and stare at her smiling face in the mirror while she exercises, in hopes of getting a bod worthy of an Italian Stallion.

Interests: *loud music *my smile *perfume* Italians *my mom's cooking *nice people *Central Mass *working hard * sweatpants *sneakers *exercise *hoodies *LONG jeans *afternoon naps *cuddling *typing fast *trashy tv shows *Dunkins *Taco Bell *drinking *Jager and redbull *thugs *cloves *long showers *Amaretto sours *being organized *cleaning *social work *helping people

Exhibit C

Hey oh, Ladies. Exhibit C is a C-A-T-C-H.

Activities:

working construction

Interests:

smoking weed, drinink beer, gambling, chillin

Favorite Music:

rap

Favorite TV Shows:

nip/tuck

Favorite Movies:

scarface

Favorite Books:

don't read

Favorite Quotations:

first you gotta get the money....after you get the money, you get the power...and after you get the power...you get the woman

About Me:

i like to smoke weed, drink beers, and on my spare time play ball with the boys and chill.

Sitter.

Here's a good one.

When I moved back to L.A. after graduating, there was a solid month and a half or so where I was pretty unemployed. After spending a couple of weeks with the self appointed, highly un-lucrative task of unclogging my drains, assembling photo collages and watching assorted movies with commentary, I decided to sign myself up for sittercity.com, a website where people find baby-sitters (shocking, right) and get me some jobs. Which is exactly what I did, and it worked out really great for several weeks, until I got my "real" job, which has a lot in common with baby-sitting, when you get right down to it.

Despite the fact that overall, I had very good luck with sittercity.com and got hooked up with some lovely families, I have to admit I was a little skeptical about basically putting myself up for sale on a website. They even require a picture and a background check, both of which, as a SWF from the east coast, I obviously passed with flying colors. Let's be real. Anyway, I couldn't help but sense the beginnings of a Lifetime Original Movie in which some nice, unassuming girl in a strange city just looking to take care of a few kids ends up getting totally duped by some psychopathic rapist using the ruse of interviewing a baby-sitter to lure said unassuming girl into his rape lair. Fortunately that was a non issue in my case, as the gentlemen who hired me were a delightful pair of gays with a delightful pair of gorgeous former crack babies.

Now that I have absolutely zip time to take care of anyone except myself and my boss, it seems that my baby-sitting days are over. However, I never deactivated my Sitter City profile so as a SWF with a degree and a very wholesome user picture, I get a steady stream of offers from desperate families in need of a nanny to dump their cherubs on. For the most part they're very legit, and I feel a little bit bad about ignoring them but then this one popped into my inbox and I couldn't let it go unreported because, you see, my rapist theory has been proven.

Behold, Jeff Williams: Baby-Sitter Slayer. The following e-mail is exactly how I received it. Typos are left untouched, they definitely add a certain je ne sais quois.

Hello ,
My name is Jeff Williams . Am a retired military personnel but presently running my own company .I work on mechanical production and repairs . I saw your ad on www.sittercity.com as a good caregiver for infants and am very interested in leaving my kids in your care .I had someone in care of them the last time i came for the project in your area but she moved to Canada to take care of her father .Am urgently in need for a caregiver from 20th October to 17th November. I have to continue a project in your area and i will like to put my 2 kids with you every Monday - Friday from 9am to 4pm when i will be coming to pick them up to the hotel where i will lodge . My twins are just 3 years old . lovers of computer games, not allergic and free to people . I will be sending there pictures in my next email if required .kindly reply me via my private email below if you are sure to care for them Monday - Friday and let me know how much it would cost me .

Best Regar ds,
Jeff Williams .

Yikes. Jeff Williams. Let's break this down, shall we? First and foremost, you're coming to L.A. with your twins to do a temporary mechanical production and repairs job? Really? And your last baby-sitter mysteriously "moved to Canada"? Really? Interesting. I'm pretty sure Scott Peterson tried to convince his in-laws that Laci "moved to Canada", too. Oh, and you are under the impression that "baby-sitting" means that parents drop their children off at someone's house for the day and pick them up later? No no, Jeff Williams. That's daycare. Any parent would know that. Only a semi-retarded rapist who did a half assed job of researching his cover story would make that mistake. And your three-year-old twins like computer games? Really? Computer games. Like what? What computer games do three year olds play? Flight Sim? And will you be bringing your twins' game-stocked laptops to my house when you drop them off from 9-4 every day, or is this just a fun tidbit of information you'd like to share so that when they get to my apartment and learn that I don't let most adults near my computer, never mind children, they'll be bored to tears.

It's also good to know that they aren't "allergic and free to people". More kids should have those characteristics, that's for damn sure. And of course, yes, I will be sure to e-mail you back privately so that you can send me photos of your twins before I make my final decision to bring them into my home for seven hours a day for a month. Because that's what parents do. Send strangers pictures of their children so that they get some shallow baby-sitter who only takes care of adorable children. (He actually may have a point with that one. Parents should be more open about the overall attractiveness of their kids. It's a lot easier to take an aesthetically pleasing misbehaved child than a homely one.) No but really Jeff Williams, I will definitely send you e-mails at your private address and I will definitely give you my home address. That sounds like an amazing plan. Thank you for giving me this opportunity. Finally, you want me to let you know how much it will cost you? Does that mean I get to name my price? Let's see. Hm. Yeah, it's going to be somewhere in the ballpark of, I don't know, millions of dollars. I'm taking into consideration what it will cost me to relocate, install high tech security devices and hire a bodyguard to protect me from your further attempts to rape and slaughter me, the presumably unassuming wholesome East Coast baby sitter.

I'm totally on to your tricks, Jeff Williams. I'm no fool.

On the real, though...part of me really wants to see what he'd send for pictures of his "kids". My guess is it'd probably be something along the lines of this:

Those are the Jolie-Pitts, Jeff! Circa 2006!

Run.

I am not an athlete. This is nothing new, I've never been one. It's not like I was at one point, and then lost it. I'm just naturally the opposite of Sporty Spice. There's this video of me when I was about four, I'm wearing a pink dress and my poor dad is trying to teach me how to play wiffle ball. First he tried pitching on for size. "Over your shoulder, behind your head, pitch it!" I sucked at pitching. I still suck at pitching. I don't risk throwing anything at anyone, ever, because I'm fully aware that, odds are, whatever I'm throwing won't end up anywhere near where I want it to. So then he moved on to hitting, you know, with that skinny yellow bat, and obviously that didn't work out too well either, so he finally just comes up behind me, places his hands over mine on the bat, tosses up the wiffle ball and together we swing and connect and it's a home run and blah blah blah.

Instead of being excited about it, I just dropped the bat in alarm, exclaimed "OUCH!" and ran away. And that set the tone for the rest of my life. Later on, at the age of twelve, I would convince myself, my parents, and a team of pediatricians that I had "exercise induced asthma" based on my vivid descriptions of how difficult it was to breathe after gym class. Looking back, I'm pretty sure I was just unfamiliar with what happens to people when they run, but at least it gave me an excuse to walk a ten minute mile with the rest of the asthmatics for the remainder of middle school.

I hate gyms too and I'd prefer to let my metabolism do the running, but I'm also aware that I live in L.A. now and a sad fact of living in L.A. is that :

1) Everyone else loves gyms more than cupcakes

2) There's nowhere to walk/jog anywhere in my general vicinity that isn't a gym.

I'm not in Boston anymore. I can't fall back on the unavoidable vertical trek up Revere Street to get me home while simultaneously making up for my hatred of gyms. So occasionally I will get all crazy and go for a run around the track of this decrepit park in North Hollywood where prostitutes sleep in the grass and groups of hippies show up for their Tai-Chi silent, slow motion karate chop sessions. I did this once while I was unemployed and made it all the way around the park without stopping and was really proud of myself until I experienced an exercise-induced asthma relapse and had to sit down, trying not to pass out in the grass like a prostitute before making my way back home.

Now that I am employed, I'm a lot less antsy about getting requisite time out of the house, mostly because I get so little time IN the house. At the same time, I now sit at a desk for about twelve hours a day, which makes me concerned about blood clots and/or bed sores due to lack of motion a la paralyzed Hillary Swank in Million Dollar Baby as well as getting even fewer opportunities for happenstance cardio. The funny thing is, now that I'm aware of how little exercise I get, I'm a lot more health-conscious in terms of what I eat. Exercising always had kind of a weird effect on me where I'd feel like since I ran that one time three weeks ago, I could totally eat that pizza. Today I did a couple rounds of the godforsaken Santa Monica Stairs and was completely justified in investing in a pretzel in an attempt to make my poor quads stop shaking. Considering this particular delusion, it's probably better for me to just eat my peanut butter and celery and call it a day.

My whole existence is pretty much just one head game after another.

Milk.

This just in:

If you happen to like your beverages so cold that it kind of hurts to drink them, there's a good chance that they will freeze if you let them get pushed too far into the back of  the fridge. If this happens and you wake up to a half gallon of partially frozen milk, do NOT assume that the still liquid portion of the milkcicle is the same milk you've come to know and enjoy with the occasional/frequent cupcake. 

It is definitely, definitely not. There is a reason it didn't freeze and while I'm not sure what that scientific reason is yet, what I can say with absolute certainty is that there are some crucial elements in milk that freeze quicker than the other elements, and when you drink some without the others, it is Just. Not. Right.

Roads.

A couple of weeks ago the people across the hall got evicted from the building. Okay, so I'm actually not 100% sure that it was definitely eviction but at any rate, they moved out quickly and angrily. They were probably evicted. 

Anyway, so they're gone and the new people have moved in and one of them has a DeLorean. A real one. I assumed it was, of course, because whenever I see a car that looks remotely like it could have been born in the 80s I automatically jump to the conclusion that it's a DeLorean, but this one actually is. I really like it. The only problem is that it's a Los Angeles Smog colored DeLorean so the first day that it was parked there, I went to back out of my parking spot and since I had gotten used to the spots behind me being empty (as their previous occupants were evicted/moved quickly and angrily) and  since this DeLorean is basically invisible, I backed into it.

The cool thing is that it totally didn't matter. 0% harm done. For once, I caught a break in a parking garage. I just feel a little guilty for hitting someone's time machine. I hope I didn't mess up their flux capacitor because I doubt my insurance would cover that.

Wolf.

On the way back from Tucson over Labor Day weekend, I found myself at what must have been the ultimate Mecca in terms of truck stops. I'm talking a bona fide truck stop, not a New Jersey rest stop with a Cinnabon and a half hearted Burger King, a Truck Stop. One fully stocked with survival gear such as this truck alarm horn thing that can be heard from something like a fifty mile radius, basically the trucker equivalent of a rape whistle, which is kind of ironic, because I always operated under the stereotype-fueled assumption that the truckers were the ones doing the raping, but anyway.  This place had Trucker Trouble alarms, it had over the counter Viagra, caffeine pills, showers, a "TV Theater", an A&W/Taco Bell, Danielle Steel books on tape... I'd say you name it, they had it, but there were things there that the average person would never even think to name, so trust me when I say it was something special.

What made it extra super special to me was the clothing department, fully stocked with frayed denim vests, wannabe Harley Davidson paraphernalia, and, most importantly, majestic wolf sweatshirts, 2 for $10.00. Two. For. Ten. Dollars. Now, while I admit that one of the items on my 276 item Hate List is articles of clothing featuring endangered animals i.e. wolves, whales, dolphins, etc., I have to admit that it's less a hate and more a fascination with the desire to wear such a shirt. The people that march through life decked out in sweatshirts with majestic wolves screened on them over coordinating turtlenecks are such a specific race of human that you can instantly peg them the minute you catch a glimpse of them, proudly displaying their favorite animal as the focal point of their wardrobe.  Kind of like the Amish, or people who really like the Medieval times, 0r people who think they're wizards, or Civil War re-enactors. 

When we stopped in Santa Fe on the road trip, Liz kicked off the Normal People Owning Wolf Shirts Movement and invested in a really special tie-dyed green t-shirt with a stoic Indian princess cuddling a wolf on it. Sheer majesty, to say the least. It would be hard to follow up such a find, but that is exactly what I did at this, the truck stop to end all truck stops in the middle of the desert. I threw down my $5.00 and walked out with a large, white sweatshirt featuring a howling wolf and a pine tree that may or may not have been painted by Bob Ross. It's kind of hilarious, when you think about it. It's even more hilarious because I have to confess, this happened about two weeks ago and since then there has not been a night that I haven't used it as sleep wear. Sexy, right? I can't explain it, but there is just something about a freshly laundered, enormous, white, Bob Ross-ed wolf shirt that makes sleeping that much more enjoyable. 

I don't know what this new habit says about me or if I'm, God forbid, being a Hate List hypocrite, but I have decided that it is worth mentioning now, at 1:30 AM, God knows how many "Absolut Angels" in the bag. Apparently, according to Absolut, the flavor of Los Angeles is acai berries (what the hell are they, anyway?) and pomegranate. 

That's full of crap. I hope if they ever do Absolut Boston that it just tastes like Pabst Blue Ribbon, aka the Bathtubtini. Keep it real.

Amusement.

Earlier this week, my boss' mother called. After I put her on hold, this happened:

Boss: Who's on [line] B?

Me: Your mom.

I thought it was funny.

Every once in awhile, after a particularly unbelievable - either the figurative, simile for "good" or the literal, "I can't believe that happened" - day at work, I'll be driving away from the office at the PM version of the AM time I drove there and really see my life for what it is and I have to laugh, because I never saw it coming.

One of my favorite parts of the day happens right after I park my car in the garage, when this little garage attendant that has been dubbed "Juan Carlo" greets me from afar with either a wave, a bow, or just soft applause. Once I get within earshot, the following conversation takes place:

Juan Carlo: Good morning, Miss.

Me: Good morning!

Juan Carlo: Have a nice day!

Me: You too!

On Fridays he gives a resounding, "Happy Friday!" instead of the usual "Have a nice day." Initially I tried to strike up more of a conversation with him, but I quickly learned that his consistency has everything to do with the fact that he only seems to have a few catch phrases in English repertoire. Since I have even less in my Spanish one, I stick with the basics.

I've been contemplating some Rosetta Stone-type self-educating Spanish cds for my car, so that my traffic ridden trek over Coldwater Canyon every morning can be used to learn instead of to listen to Ryan Seacrest catch some local cheating scoundrel boyfriends on the radio while continuing to insist that he is, in fact, a hetero male.

Anyway. It's fall. School's staring, the air is crisp, the leaves are beginning to change color, the apples are ripe for the picking and soon it'll be Barbour weather.

Or so I hear. I don't go to school anymore and I live in L.A., where apparently fall is a lot like winter, which is not much different than summer, give or take a few degrees.

It's pretty good.

Cats.

Based on the impressive amount of critter footprints that are left on my filthy car each morning, it's obvious that my car has become the feral cat equivalent to whatever really awesome club everyone who's anyone in Los Angeles goes to. I'm pretty sure that if I were to check up on my parking spot at 3AM I'd see about fifty cats and maybe a raccoon or two just chilling on my Civic.

I wish I had either the time to actually do this or the ability to set up a sweet surveillance system so that I could get the hilarious picture that I'm assuming I'd find without actually having to go outside at 3 AM.

Youtube.

Here's something that baffles me: when people dedicate what must surely be hours to creating the perfect unnecessary sentimental montage to throw up on youtube. Why? Why do this? Maybe I'm just dispassionate or something, but I cannot for the life of me understand why videos like this exist: 

Exhibit A: The Public Figure Montage. This is a montage of my now famous former neighbor Snooks that is four minutes long and comprised of maybe six pictures, max, and assembled by some concerned citizen with a lot of time and what appears to be some sad little Dell editing program that they had on their hands. Apparently people occasionally feel it is their civic duty to honor current events of which they have no part with a primitive, sappy montage. I also found about 300 JonBenet Ramsey montages that are way too disturbing/creepy to include here, but don't worry..."Dreaming of You" and "Wind Beneath My Wings" are the common musical accompaniments of choice. 

Exhibit B: The Reader's Digest Movie Montage where, basically, someone shaves a three hour movie down into the most crucial 3-5 minutes. Hello, Copyright Infringement. The creator of this masterpiece speaks for himself with the following description of this video:

The film Braveheart had a huge impact on me when I first saw it, and still does. I felt compelled to make a video for it showing my appreciation for such a powerful film. I used the score composed by James Horner and basically put alot of what made it memorable for me into this video. Wow, really? Well done. 

Exhibit C: The Music Video Montage. These are just...indescribably stupid. The only thing worse than a montage of scenes from a movie set to that movie's theme is scenes from a movie set to a completely separate, sort-of-but-not-really-relevant song. Behold: Titanic featuring Enrique Iglesias' "Hero", Pearl Harbor featuring Johnny Cash's version of "Hurt", and Jurassic Park, featuring Skillet's hit, "The Last Night". The only thing better than all of the above is when the song is Nickelback and it's being played under Pride and Prejudice. AMAZING.

These people should be punished.

Splash.

I really miss rain more than I thought I would. The good part about having to leave for work so early in the morning is that it's the time of day when the mysterious smog/mist clouds have yet to be burned off by the inevitable sunshine, so it leaves room for the possibility of rain for about an hour. 

The other night I woke up to the sound of water rushing and got excited...rain? Could it be? Too curious to not see for myself, I looked out the window to find my charming, lanky, 7 foot landlord splashing around in the hot tub.

I was totally singing a different tune last summer, especially  when, after a week of hauling around a full sized Degas umbrella -- Lizzy and I invested in Impressionist umbrellas at Filene's Basement-- because it seemed like it might rain but never did, I woke up on a gray morning and decided that I wasn't going to let nature force me into calling my own bluff by toting an unnecessary umbrella on what would be, as the pattern had led me to believe, a perfectly glorious, sunny Boston day. 

So I left it at home and proceeded to march through the Public Garden towards Barbour. I barely reached the banks of the Swan Pond when, obviously, it started to drizzle. No big deal, I thought to myself. I can dry off once I get to work. Immediately after I finished this thought in my inner monologue, it started to pour. Torrentially. I was halfway to work by now, and illogically figured that being on time for work but soaked was better than being thirty minutes late. I can run for it, I reasoned. No sweat. 

Yeah, sure. Me. Run. Through the rain in a white dress and flip flops. . So I started to run, subtly, you know, ballerina running. The running caused me to promptly break a flip flop, which sealed the deal. I was going to be late for work. Hindsight is 20/20, but looking back, it was probably best that the damn shoe broke, otherwise i would have shown up at Barbour, waterlogged and essentially naked. Classy.

Anyway, I trudged back through the Garden, up Charles Street and Revere Street and down Garden Street, back home, all barefoot, of course, changed, grabbed the damn umbrella and headed back on my way. Except now, of course, the rain was over and my umbrella was useless. 

This is just one of many stories I've got as proof that I am, in fact, That Girl.

Half.

Something I've always enjoyed doing is finding some sense of organization in my life. Not like, trapper keeper, wall unit, filing cabinet organization, but the tidy little details that give me a sense that there's some much bigger plan for everything and that maybe everything that's meant to happen actually does happen, but only when it's supposed to, in accordance with the Bigger Plan.

I'll give you an idea what I mean here. My first day of work: I'm driving along, wondering if I made the right decision, thinking my brain into a puddle of brain mush, when SUDDENLY I stop at a red light, directly behind a car whose license plate reads DLR15378. Okay, I made the numbers up, but the letters are what's important because they're my initials, and had I not been on my way to that exact job at that exact moment, I would have never have seen that and honestly, when was the last time you saw a random car with your initials on it? Exactly. Coincidence? Obviously, but still.

Exhibit B: So today is my half birthday, and what do I get? An earthquake. A real one. A bonafide, not-pre lunch low blood sugar vertigo, not arbitrary agency-wide step dancing competition, not Hobsey the Prince of Movers juggling hide-a-bed couches on the upper floors, genuine seismic disruption. This would be a revelation on its own, but is actually even more significant because what did I learn exactly six months ago? That things people brush off as not happening in real life actually do happen, they just happen in Los Angeles. Apparently Los Angeles and I are on a bi-yearly reminder that, rare though they may be, what is written in fiction always stems from what happens in reality. Now I have high hopes for something really cool to happen on my birthday, you know, to make up for the stupid reality checks. Maybe Jurassic Park will become real. That'd rock.

Going back to my earthquake, I was surprised at what a non-issue it was, especially since I was in the bowels of a building (which, incidentally, is built on some sort of wheel apparatus that makes for a very flowy, sea-swellesque experience that makes the victims feel as though they're on a lovely, involuntary boat ride) and was, in the event of a serious emergency, set up to be in a third class, locked behind the gates and left to drown type situation, to go with a Titanic metaphor. Now we're all supposed to start prepping for The Big One, which could occur at any moment. Fantastic. This must be why California is so focused on hybrid cars, recycling,cups made out of corn and other feeble attempts at environmental salvage. People here feel like they need to do something because they know that if those glaciers melt and cause the plates to shift, guess which state is the first to go? Right. Adios, California. Sunk. 

Hopefully by the time that happens I will either have already died an old, old lady warm in her bed or if it has to happen before then, hopefully I'll be shacked up somewhere on Beacon Hill, reaping the benefits of my brilliant Hollywood career. 

I wonder what Nostradamus would have to say about this. I wonder if he does individualized consultations, or if he reserves his clairvoyency for disaster for the human race as a whole. I also wonder if the psychic's name is Nosferatu and not Nostradamus. One is a vampire, one is obsessed with the world's demise and I always get their names mixed up.

Hooker.

The expensive hooker who lives in my building and I are officially on opposite schedules. Every night when I come home from work (not actually EVERY night, it's actually a few sporadic nights here and there, but for the sake of the story, you know...anyway) her limo - I'm not sure if it's the client or her pimp or what - is waiting outside. We cross paths, acknowledge each other, etc. etc. and then I go home, watch Wipeout, and go to sleep only to...

...Wake up the next morning and leave by 7:20, by which time she is trudging through the door in the process of grabbing the Red Bull by the horns and looking, let's face it, way better than I would if the tables were turned. I can't even think about what the difference in our paychecks is.

My hooker neighbor, expensive or not, paired with my morning commute down Coldwater Canyon and Beverly Drive have made me realize that I am living in the wrong part of Los Angeles. And not even in the figurative "wrong side of the tracks" way, because my neighborhood's fine, if not the teeniest bit geographically inconvenient, but in the way that the people who live in Beverly Hills live in houses plopped in the middle of yards that look like they were landscaped by whatever artists Disney World gets to do their landscaping. I nearly get into a daily car accident just scoping out real estate.

Based on the limo and what I've learned about powerful dudes in Hollywood, I think the odds are pretty good that my expensive hooker neighbor and I have very similar work commutes.

Sniff.

It's somewhat of a mind freak how all Linens N Things smell exactly the same, regardless of where they're located. It's a Linens N Things specific smell of, I'm assuming, linens and things and candles that hits you as soon as the automated doors swoop open.  It's like some kind of welcome wagon to trick most people into believing that they need a new duvet/Ultimate Chopper/toothbrush holder that coordinates with their shower curtain.

I say most people because I know that current and former employees of Linens N Things associate the smell with their job. I know I do. That smell hits me and for a split second I'm reminding myself to clock in ASAP so as to maximize the number of pennies I earn from the company while simultaneously wondering if anyone will return a giant container of Jelly Bellies so that I can damage them out and eat them all day long. Then I remember that I don't work there anymore, but I'm still wise to all the employee tricks. I know they don't care whether I find shelves or not. I know they just want to leave and get on with their lives. I know they're stealing Altoids and sniffing candles while pretending to be straightening them. I get it. 

Shopping is a solo act. You are in it alone, save for the person who got stuck at the register, the only place in the store where avoiding customers isn't an option. They're bored out of their mind and they know full well that their job can be and often is done by a robot so it's always nice to be as interesting as possible, just to break up the monotony for them. Chances are, if you're weird enough, they'll write you down in a notebook or on the back of a damage slip just in case they ever find themselves in need of a character for, I don't know, a story somewhere along the line because they know they could never make half of what they experience at the register up on their own. I'm just guessing. This is purely hypothetical. 

My career history is shaping up to be almost as interesting as my educational history. I've traded babies for linens for waxed cotton jackets back to babies and soon I will trade understandably needy babies for ridiculously needy adults.

My dues are going to be very expensive, it's time to start making some payments.

Retainer.

Today I was filling out paperwork and I wrote down the date, and it struck a cord. July 10th. This date is significant, I thought to myself. July 10th...The tenth of July...7/10/08...What is it?

And then it hit me. Today is a special day. Today...is...

THE EIGHTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE REMOVAL OF MY BRACES.

No, really. That's what it is. I must have been even more jazzed to get those suckers removed than I thought. 

Anyway, this might not be the best segue in the world, but This Just In: Los Angeles is populated by lunatics. Some of you might be saying, "But Danielle, you're kind of nuts too..." NO. Not L.A. nuts. L.A. nuts is a whole 'nother ballgame. As if everyone here weren't whacked out enough before, now, with the advent of a law forbidding one to talk on their cell phone while driving, they're all running around with bluetooth headsets strapped to their ears looking like cyborgs and talking to no one.

I had a little scare today, because I've always maintained that as long as I can recognize that these people are insane, then that means I've still retained (hah, retained. Like retainer. Like the retainers that I still wear, to this day, 8 years after I got my braces removed. Anyway) a shred of Eastern sanity. The scare happened while I was running errands. I was in and out of my car, turning the douchetooth earpiece on and off so that if I was in the store, I could answer my phone like a normal person. I contemplated for a second, one second, wearing the douchetooth outside of my car, just for the sake of convenience.

I was horrified with myself. Absolutely horrified. Bluetooths are toolish enough inside of a car where they belong, to think that I would even consider joining the ranks of those who march around town with them was terrifying. It was a moment of weakness and it passed. Thank God, because that would probably be the beginning of a huge downward spiral. I had a flash forward of myself, really tan and wearing sunglasses, a Laker's jersey and a Kabbalah string as I waited in line at Starbucks, talking on my bluetooth while texting on my Blackberry and carrying around some little mouse dog. Christ.

Anyhow. The point is, don't worry. 

Here's to 8 years with a fully aligned bite!

Hammered.

I wonder what came first. Alcoholism or unemployment. As far as I can tell, it's a tough call. Alcoholism could result in unemployment, sure, but I am also here to tell you all that unemployment can definitely lead to alcoholism.

I came to this realization during yesterday's LA Independence Day (not to be confused with East Coast Independence Day, which, though they technically share the same day and meaning, is a completely different experience) which basically involved everything that I do on a daily basis, except with more snacks and Sam Adams. It added a delightful new facet to my day to day life out here and for the life of me, I don't know why I'm not hammered at 1:00 PM every day. 

The fact that I love drinking in the daylight is nothing new. I am a morning person. I only love going to bed at a reasonable hour, but when I wake up, I go from unconscious to full throttle in maybe 2 seconds. Daytime is prime time, and  shortly following the Great 50 Garden St. Fire that resulted in a half decimated apartment and the loss of our ability to turn on the television due to an unfortunate series of events involving wall builders and warlocks, Liz and I discovered Happy Hour on Beacon Hill. Depending on your views of such things, it has been all uphill or downhill from there. 

I digress. I've been coming to a lot of fascinating conclusions as of late, and watching a lot of Heroes. In fact, I may or may not have come into a few superpowers. I don't want to jump the gun or anything, in case it's just a phase, but I have a couple ideas as to what my powers might be. I might write about them once I decide if they're permanent or not, or I'll just keep them to myself and continue to blow people's collective minds. We'll see.

Fumigate.

Natale: OH my God! What is that?!

Danielle: It's termites.

Natale: What?

Danielle: It's how they fix a termite infestation.

Natale: Oh, man. I thought it was a Quidditch match.

Independence.

This morning I woke up to an article that Liz e-mailed to me from Boston.com about some slightly off-kilter 50-something MIT-educated chemist lady terrorizing the Suffolk students in her Beacon Hill apartment building by pouring chemicals everywhere before barricading herself in the apartment, resulting an an evacuation of the building a la The Great 50 Garden Street Fire of 2007 and I thought to myself, for the billionth time: Man, I wish I were in Boston right now.

Further adding to my Boston ache is the fact that, when one is in Massachusetts for Independence Day, it's awesome, whereas Los Angeles sort of, well, LA-ifies the holiday. Dumbs it down a little while increasing the d-bag level tenfold. In case anyone thinks that this is just me being closed minded and pessimistic, behold the proof: 

Fourth of July activities as listed on Boston.com: New England is filled with historic locales, from revolutionary battlegrounds to a famous baseball park.What better time to explore these national treasures than on a national holiday? So drop that hot dog and do some something a bit more patriotic this Fourth of July. You may be surprised at what you find — and learn.

• Boston's Freedom Trail is the country's first historic walking tour. Discover 16 important sites and two-and-a-half centuries of America's past. Stops along the trail include Paul Revere's home - the oldest building in downtown Boston - and the Old North Church - the city's oldest church.

• Explore the oldest commissioned ship afloat in the world, the USS Constitution. Nicknamed, "Old Ironsides," the ship has been around since 1797 and played an important role in the War of 1812.

• Take a guided tour of Fenway Park and experience New England's rich baseball history. From the press box to the Green Monster, visitors get a peek behind the scenes of "America's Most Beloved Ballpark."

• The Baseball as America exhibit at the Museum of Science in Boston depicts how the country's favorite pastime has affected history. Featuring a special section highlighting baseball in Boston, the exhibit runs through Sept. 1.

And then of course there's the obvious choice of a brilliant, free Boston Pops concert on the Esplanade. Seriously, thinking about it hurts my heart. And because I apparently only love masochism...

Fourth of July Activities as listed in LA.com's article, When Fireworks Aren't Enough: 

Halfway through the four-day work week and we're sure that, like us, you are still weighing out your Independence Day options.  Which sounds more appealing: flocking to LA beaches, stadiums, or coliseums with the thousands of fireworks-seeking families or indulging in the BBQ & illegal fireworks display at the house party of your choice?  There is, of course, a third option (the one we're leaning towards) — drink in the name of democracy and pledge your allegiance to one of the parties below.  

• The Super Naughty Pool Party
  When: Friday, July 4th 1-8pm
  Where: The Standard Downtown Rooftop
  Why: Local DJ faves Mike B (LAX Banana Spilt Sundaes), Blu Jemz, and Jonny Boy will be joined by NYC's Unemployed Lloyd.  Oh, and that wet t-shirt contest might be all kinds of awesome, too. 

• Soft-Opening of Kress Hollywood
  When: Friday, July 4th 9:30pm-2am
  Where: 6608 Hollywood Blvd., Hollywood (across from Geisha House)
  Why:  This sure-to-be A-list haven will open its doors to the public (read: the uber-gorgeous and connected) for a soft-opening this Friday.  The four-story nightlife masterpiece will have its grand opening next weekend, when LA partyers are back from vacay and can create the opening night clusterf**k that a venue like Kress deserves.

•  Gridlock at The Queen Mary
  When: Friday, July 4th 10am-12am
  Where: The Queen Mary, Long Beach
  Why: Enjoy carnival rides and A-list performances from Ray J, Colby O'Donis, Girlicious and a surprise platinum artist after the 9pm spectacular fireworks show. 
  Tickets: General Admission Adults: $44.95, Children: $21.95 (ages 5-12), children under 5 years old are free.  VIP Admission: $94.95 (includes line-cutting privileges for carnival rides and a dinner buffet)
  
  
• Independence Day at The Backyard
  When: Friday, July 4th 10pm-4am
  Where: The Backyard at the W Hotel, Westwood
  Why: Not your typical 4th of July backyard BBQ, in a good way.  A hip pool party on the westside with sounds provided by DJ Marshal Barnes and DJ Politik.
  

So there you have it. I don't think I need to say much more, except for that I know one thing. Once I've done whatever it is that I came here to do, I will sprint back to Boston so fast and never give it a second thought.

Analgesic.

My temporary job, I have decided, is to watch all the movies that I have here in L.A. with commentary and add to my growing stock of useless movie trivia. It's going really well.

In addition to this, I have also gotten very passionate about developing a schedule of things to do in order to make each day [of unemployment] count, a la Jack Dawson. I bake things. I write things like cover letters and short stories and blog entries (HEY OH). I have completed Veronica Mars in its entirety, which was pretty great and am now moving on to Heroes. I clean things. I sign up for catalogues. I make lists. I make repeated, unsuccessful attempts at turning Los Angeles into a walking city. I purge my hard drive. I attempt to cure things like the inexplicable leg rash that I have been combatting for a few days now (my list of possible causes: an allergy to either North Hollywood air, unemployment, or the fact that my family is currently in Nantucket and I am not) with various "analgesics". I wonder about things like why topical hydrocortisone cream has to be called an analgesic and why I couldn't have just gone to college for something delightfully normal with tons of job security, like medicine or education. I read. I snack. I attempt to get Wii Fit to balance out all the snacking. I correspond via snail mail. I color and on Wednesdays I go to Jamba Juice for a fix.

It's a busy life, I'll tell you. Hopefully one day soon I'll be griping about how exhausted I am and how I'd kill for a day off of my grueling career and blah blah blah.

Sexy.

According to the oh-so-eloquent Sexy vs. Skanky list in the July issue of Cosmopolitan, it is considered "sexy" to post your resume on a job finding website. 

My instant reaction to this addition to the list (it fell just under the equally sexy activity of "looking for baby bumps on stars like Amy Poehler", which I'm not even going to touch right now) was confusion. There is no way that posting your resume on a job finding website is remotely sexy. It's desperate, sure. But sexy? No way. Then I remembered that this is Cosmopolitan we're talking about, a publication that relies on desperate women for survival. It hurts me to imagine the person that reads Cosmopolitan's Sexy vs. Skanky list and thinks, "YES. You know what? YES. Oh my God, David Beckham's sporty pants ARE sexy, whereas Joey Fatone's workout ensemble is pure skank" or "What? It's sexy to post my resume on Monster.com? SIGN ME UP." Especially because, in my experience with job finding websites, you rarely get responses from them. I'm not sure what Cosmo's stance on unemployment is.

All that aside, I would like to point out that in the past month I have ONLY posted my updated resume on online job finding websites. I'm just saying.

Dirty.

Until yesterday, my car had not been cleaned since Liz and Eleanor decided to throw a couple quarters in a self-serve car wash and cleanse its exterior of about 2,000 miles worth of American soil before rolling into Las Vegas. That was in January. Until yesterday, my poor Civic had about five months worth of Los Angeles filth caked on it. 

At the car wash, I learned another new thing about L.A. In Massachusetts, drive through car washes involve robots. Here, there are Mexicans instead. Everything else is the same - car in neutral, little assembly line of water and soap and sponges - except at every station a team of little men attack the car. That was a surprise. Bottom line, they do a phenomenal job and my reason for hesitating to have my car washed for all these months is coming into play: I don't want it to get dirty again. I really hate those stupid car covers that jerks who only love their vehicles tuck them under every night, but I'm sorry to say that I'm starting to see the logistics behind them. 

It is very hot here. I'm starting to get over that Don't Waste A Beautiful Day Guilt that  I acquired over 22 years in New England. It's perfectly fine and necessary to stay inside and watch TV on DVD when the alternative is dying of heatstroke and having your shoes melt to the pavement.

Busy.

Tonight, while baby-sitting - if it can still be considered baby-sitting when the "baby" in question is actually a ten year old with a maturity level and vocabulary that surpasses a fair amount of my peers - we watched The Fresh Prince of Bel Air and Home Improvement on Nick at Nite and Olivia was thoroughly impressed when I told her that I watched both of those shows when they were actually new episodes. It's weird that kids today are watching The Fresh Prince of Bel Air like I used to watch The Cosby Show or Gilligan's Island. 

Since I'm still unemployed, I find myself spacing out the things that I need to get done so that every day I have something that needs to be done. Par example, today I accompanied Ray and Natale to the impound lot so that Ray could assess the damage of his car, which got totaled a week ago when an uninsured drunk man slammed into it while it was parked on the street. Yesterday Natale and I walked to the grocery store and made soup videos, and on Sunday I Drain-Oed my drains. Tomorrow I have big plans to deposit some checks and celebrate Day 8 of the Seven Day Soup Regimen (aka, eat brownies and cereal) and at some point, I really need to speak to someone about the fact that my toilet is running. Really. All pranks aside, it's running. Not over, it just sounds like someone with the world's largest, fullest bladder is constantly peeing, which cannot be good for the water situation in these parts.

I. Need. A. Career. Immediately.

Wagon.

Fact.

There is a reason why the biggest part of the original food pyramid is constituted of bread, grains, and cereals. It's because they are the best and most delicious foods and as such, are needed in order to happily survive.

I'm sorry, does that seem irritable? It's to be expected. Allow me to explain. I am currently wrapping up Day 5 in a seven day vegetable soup weight loss experiment and I haven't eaten bread or cereal or cupcakes since Day 1, when I dove off the wagon after 8 hours and went to Carl's Jr. with Alison, my enabler. 

Before I continue my analysis, I would like to clarify that this is not a cry for attention or reassurance. I know I'm not obese. I realize how lucky I am to have a metabolism that, thankfully, runs faster than I do so that I don't have to. I also know what a sad day it will be for me if/when it gives out, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. 

Anyway. My reasons for accepting the Leahy Clinic "Diet" Challenge are threefold

1. I am currently unemployed, therefore I welcome anything that brings some sort of structure into my life.

2. I am currently unemployed, therefore by only eating vegetable soup and the rotating schedule of random fruits and vegetables per day, I save money by not buying impulse snacks or going out to eat.

3. Overall curiosity. I'm horrible at commitment and I only love the bottom layer of the food pyramid. Plus, metabolism or no, who wouldn't want to lose a few pounds? This is pretty much the only way, given my disdain for running and aforementioned lack of funds with which to take up ballet again, the only form of exercise that I have ever enjoyed.

So since it's Day 5, I've passed the point of no return. I can't let myself quit now, two days away from completion with only one wagon tumble. But really, diets like this are ridiculous, mainly because what do you think I will do on Day 8? Obviously I will eat macaroni and cheese and peanut butter and brownies and Frosted Mini Wheats with unreasonable fervor because I've been dreaming about those things for the past five days. And where will that get me? Right back to square one. Fulfilling my need for the brownies that I only want right now will probably undo and then some whatever I manage to accomplish during this week of vegetables and soup and fruit and bananas.

I just find stuff like this amusing. When you think you're doing something great for yourself, it really just causes a huge backfire that would never have happened if you hadn't done the great thing in the first place. I'm not sure if this rule applies to everyone or just people like me, stereotypical heads of the pecking order who have no one older than them to learn from or compare their lives to, aside from their parents. Yeah. I used to compare what I had accomplished at a given age to what my mother accomplished by that same age, until it occurred to me that she got married on her 22nd birthday while I got dumped on mine. That's when I realized it was probably time to reevaluate. (Truth be told, at this particular juncture I'd rather be dumped than married, but that's beside the point. It's all about the irony.)

At the very least, it's good to know that the universe isn't 

ignoring me. I will continue to be irritable until I can start my days with cereal instead of noodle-less minestrone soup.