Like it's 1999

I came across this awesome photo blog of ballerinas past and present, because what I like to do lots of the time is look at pictures of ballerinas and plan ahead for my next life, when I get to be one. However, I always laugh to myself, because in spite of how utterly gorgeous and graceful and strong ballerinas obviously are, all I can think of when I see pictures of them is how, in eighth grade, which was probably the height of my ballet career, I slid pictures like the one below in the plastic cover sheath of my binders, you know, to personalize them in understatedly grown up, "Lisa Frank binders are SO two years ago" type of way.

And then, much to my chagrin at the time, Natale, the other half of my brain both then and now, who only last year (at the age of 23) declared the sound of echoed farts to be his favorite sound on the planet, was good enough to draw, in a vibrant array of colors thanks to his impressive collection of Gelly Roll (tm) pens, little fart clouds under every single lifted leg. POOF. Ballerina defamation at its best. I was only mad for a few minutes until, as always, his unending gleefulness got the better of me and yeah, I saw the humor. Just imagine it. It's hilarious.

I'm still only tickled.

I rahther feel like expressing myself now.

Obviously, I only love Audrey Hepburn. And obviously, as a result of that I only loved this Gap ad when it came out in 2006, to the point where I asked a Gap employee in Boston if I could have or purchase one of the awesome, five foot tall posters they had hanging in the windows. When they said that wasn't allowed, I tried to pull the ol' Emerson "I Need It For My Production" card, but they wouldn't budge. ANYWAY, point is: sometimes a girl's got to dance. Audrey gets it. Lord knows I do. All the best houses have space to dance in. The von Trapp house, my grandparents' house, my parents' house, my old Beacon Hill apartment, the apartment I live in now. And sometimes you've just got to dance it out and jump around and remember how that's just what you've done all along.

Divas.

Josh says TWIST, Celine says IS MY FRINGE AT A RIGHT ANGLE YET?!

Merciful Heavens.

Being Facebook friends with 13/14/15 year old cousins and former babysittees has made me really grateful that the Internet became mainstream long after I grew some semblance of a social conscience.

Although, they're not entirely to blame. Clearly all of their friends are exactly the same, complaining via status update about how they have to go to "gay ass schoollllllllllllll" the next day or that they're "STILL single even after THIRTEEN WHOLE YEARS ON EARTH". Not their adorable little faults.

I know I'm old now. I'm old because kids whose diapers I would change for 5$ an hour are now somehow old enough to be socially networking and swearing to seem like badasses in front of their friends. I'm old because I recognize and pity the insecurity that prompts some once precious girl to use adjectives like "gay ass" to describe high school. I don't even know what they think they mean by that. To me it sounds like a positive thing I would high five one of my gay friends about. "Oh man Danielle, I scoped out the hottest piece of gay ass West of Santa Monica Boulevard at the Alley last night!" "No way, you did?! UP TOP!"

Give it ten years, little ones. Pucker up. You have no idea. "Gay ass" doesn't even BEGIN to describe. And I doubt any of you have ever even SEEN Dawson's Creek, so imagine what it's like to be me, STILL SINGLE after all these nearly twenty four years of life.* I KNOW, RIGHT?! Let me just settle something for you all right now. I did not spend the summer before my senior year of high school sailing from the Cape to the Florida keys with Joshua Jackson aboard the True Love. I spent it hmm...let's see...oh, I remember. I spent it doing this.

*Given the alternative, which of course for the sake of this argument is an unhappy arranged marriage, it's perfectly great.

Liz Makes a Case.

"When I came into work today the ceiling had fallen in the toilet and roaches were falling from the hole. This is why I can't see 2012. LA is so apocalyptic all the time already." - Liz

Hypocrite is to Hollywood

Now that my car is registered in California and my driver's license says California and my health insurance only works in California...

...All I want is an Upper Crust, half Uncommon, half Charles St. pizza picnic on a chilly esplanade.

I'll know I have arrived when I get my Upper Crust flown in to L.A. OR when I get myself flown to Boston to go pick it up on a whim.

This is how it works.

Driving with my dad when I was little, a song he liked would pop up on the radio and he'd tell me exactly how old he was when he bought the album that it was on. I used to think this was just part of his genius and while I still maintain that he's by far the most smartest, the same thing happens to me. And if it happens to both of us, then it must happen to everyone, at least once they get to be old enough to actually have some sense of value and reverence for the passage of time.

What's funny is how random it is, and how you can't make a conscious effort to associate music with any one particular thing. It just happens. Par example, I can't hear 'Toxic' without immediately thinking of pastel jellybeans in 2004, and that Regina Spektor song about the radio reminds me of Halloween last year and what I now recognize to be an uncomplicated, naive sense of possibility, and I usually don't even know about cool bands but Liz made me a CD that had some Modest Mouse song about a dashboard melting and that only reminds me of driving to work through Beverly Hills last year while wondering how the hell I wound up there.

All still apply.

I'll be right here.

The original 1982 version of E.T. featured the NASA agents bearing these huge guns, ready to shoot the kids or something if need be. I know, it seems a little extreme. Gunning down a 10 year old to prevent him from sending his alien friend home just doesn't really feel like the answer to me. Furthermore, since they did have guns, what the heck was stopping them from just shooting the air out of the kids' bike tires? That would have slowed them down for sure.

Anyway, the point is, when the movie was rereleased in 2002 for its 20th anniversary, the guns were digitally removed and replaced with walkie talkies, which, while being a hell of a lot less threatening, also make more sense in terms of the content of the movie. Sure, by all means, communicate with the base unit about the locale of the fugitive children. No need for any children to die here.

It must be nice to have options like that. Now if technology could provide me with a similar opportunity to to turn a few past guns into presently harmless walkie talkies, that would be stellar.

All that aside: this is a movie that makes people care, genuinely, I might add, about a mess of rubber and wires in the turd-y shape of an alien. Say what you will about emotional manipulation, but really? Job well done. I love this movie. Which most people already know, considering the mass influx of messages I got a couple of weeks ago when the E.T. house became threatened by the path of the fires in the Valley. Thanks for the alerts, everyone. I'm doing alright.

Nanny For Hire

"I would really love it if my $2.00 wine had a nice twist top."

"I just want to babysit these strapping young men...teens."

"Infant CPR?! How many parents know infant CPR? I swallowed a nickel when I was little and my mom called the hospital."

- Liz, while searching for nanny jobs online.

Send in the Crow

Oh, Sunday.

Imagine the most peaceful morning scenario there ever was. Sun streaming in through the window, mourning doves cooing gently, a light breeze wafting through the lemon tree and me, miraculously still asleep at 8 AM.

I open my eyes and roll over to face the window, squinting in preparation for the sunlight, which, through my failing eyes, I see is obstructed by a dark shape perched on my windowsill. I throw on my glasses to fully diagnose the situation, but before I can, the shape makes a sound that I have never heard outside of JURASSIC PARK.

My mind and lens prescription come together in time to recognize that this is a crow, a massive crow in my window, barking at me through the screen like a damn pterodactyl. Unsure as to what would happen next, I literally stood up and begged, "Please do not bust through the screen." The crow gave me the stinkeye and yelled again before flapping off to assuredly go terrorize someone else.

I don't THINK I dreamed this, but it's hard to tell.

Watching Harry Potter with a Plebian

INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT

One Saturday evening, LIZ (23) comes home from work to find a lethargic, sunstroked DANIELLE (23) watching the end of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Liz, having virtually no interest or knowledge in the Harry Potter series, makes a feeble attempt to engage and participate.

DANIELLE

...So now they're trying to suck out

his soul. It's a fate worse than death,

because then you're just existing

without a soul.

LIZ

It's not THAT bad. I see it all the

time in the Valley, and those people

manage.

On the screen, we see Harry's shimmering, silver stag Patronus glowing as he casts it to fend off the soul sucking Dementors.

LIZ

Oh, that's the soul reindeer?

DANIELLE

No. I wish you could hear how ridiculous

you sound right now. That is Harry's

STAG PATRONUS. He's casting it from

THE FUTURE.

On the screen, we see Hermione perform the "Bombarda" spell, where she busts open the door of a jail cell with magic.

LIZ

I don't understand why they even

bother locking the doors in magic land

if they can just bust them open like

that. Why didn't he [Sirius Black]

do that to begin with?

DANIELLE

Well I'm sure they would

have confiscated his wand.

ACK.

I don't know how, of all the Audrey Hepburn movies one's life can resemble, mine seems to be My Fair Lady. Go figure. But Eliza Doolittle says that there can't be any feeling between the likes of me and the likes of you. She says it in proper English and je pense que she is right.

Last weekend was Nantucket Independence Day and for the love of Pete, it is so beautiful there. It's like, shut down

your Blackberry and read books instead of scripts good. I never thought I'd be the sort to be tempted by reclusive, year round isolation living on a tiny island, but that was all before I lived here for a year and realized, immediately upon [finally] landing on that precious little island, how simple things can be. Effortless, even. You literally breathe easier. If and when I'm done with L.A., I will need at least a year of reclusive isolation out there to recover from whatever it is that is killing me here. Perhaps I will write a book there, or raise some sheep and tend to them. Or waitress and make a billion dollars.

The following is a conversation I had with Adrienne:

Me: I bought some white Converse.

Adrienne: WHITE? Why would you buy white and not black?

Me: Because white makes me feel like a baseball player.

Adrienne: I don't know. Once you go black, you can't go...

Me: ADRIENNE!

Adrienne: What?! I will ONLY buy black Converse.

Belgians.

Really now. I know I've mentioned this before, but on the list of Things I Truly Love, after, you know, my friends and family etc. etc., The Sound of Music could very well take third.

Apparently this is the Belgian equivalent to being Punk'd. 

Ambush beautiful musical numbers in public places.

Allons y!

Most people would rather be certain they're miserable than risk being happy.

Happy is dangerous. Happy raises the bar. Happy sets a person up for disappointment and loss. Happy causes them to live in complete fear of the day when happy disappears, leaving them with nothing but the knowledge that what used to be was so much better than what is. No, it's much easier to be contentedly miserable because, hey, at least it can't get any worse!

I'd rather be dangerously happy than certainly miserable. I don't see why anyone would disagree, but you'd be surprised how in the minority I seem to be on this one.

I wonder where my blog stamina went. I'm going to work my way back to where I used to be. Sort of like running. My apartment is two blocks away from one end of the street and about eight away from the other; and in two separate conversations with two people who have come to know me fairly well, when I mentioned I was able to make it to the end of the street without breaking my stride, each of them asked which end of the street I was referring to.

The far away end, for crying out loud. The far away end. 

I'm supposed to be Swiffering my room right now. Supposed to be. I bought new Swiffer things and everything, because earlier this week I murdered a sizable insect who scurried across the floor as if from nowhere and caused me to panic, because with my luck, it was assuredly the most fertile and prosperous bug on earth.

There is also a chance I could have caught a tapeworm from Maurice le chien, on the off chance he had a flea that somehow made its way into my mouth. I really hope that didn't happen.

Type Stereo.

I used to wonder why everyone in L.A. was in therapy. "Buck up, dudes," I used to think. "Just go buy a dress/DVD/series of pharmacy phancy hair care products to make yourselves feel better."

Because that's what's I do. I've heard of wives whose husbands gave them a piece of jewelry to try and redeem themselves every time they were unfaithful , and how, as a result, each bijoux had a name. I have quite a few named dresses hanging in my closet, which, I will admit, is a little weird. It's easier to wrap your mind around a ring named Deborah than a fun little swingy dress named I Hate You So Much, but whatever. The point is, it helps. And I used to think that I had all the answers and that I was so smart for finding a way to avoid uncomfortable couch time with a random stranger who's paid to care.

But, lo and behold, at this rate it's probably cheaper to just shrink it up. Disappointment in L.A. flies fast and loose and is, as a result, plus cher. 

It starts off well enough. I'm all, "I'm so angry I could punch a wall, so I'm just going to go inflict the equivalent amount of physical pain on myself: running." So I put on my stretch pants , which make me feel like a total athlete ballerina when I wear them, and set off like a CHAMP, fueled by rage. 

The problem is, now I live in an area chock full o' retail, as opposed to my previous locale, which was chock full o' wig shops that were less wig shop, more front for a drug/prostitution ring. So I run for 5 minutes, land at the mall. Oh, well.

It's my own fault.

Pas de Shabby

Oh look at that, it's Sunday morning and I've already had my cereal but would you look at that, I'm still hungry. Whatever shall I eat...

...Maybe a few of my own words?

C'est vrais. With a full week of Non-Valley Los Angeles life under my belt, I can safely say that I understand the Valley prejudice. I GET IT NOW. That shit's far away and there's nothing you can get there that you can't get on this side of the mountain. I GET IT NOW. Also, being ten minutes away from work gives me so much more time that I can even feel my fists unclenching a little bit. WHO KNEW? I realized this yesterday while I was traversing Laurel Canyon to return my old garage door opener. Enough.

The fact that this apartment was practically built with [my roombirds and] me in mind definitely doesn't hurt. I mean, yes, there are the obvious things like three perfect bedrooms that accommodate each of our individual needs, but for me it's in the details. Like, par example, our kitchen hot and cold water spouts are on backwards so C stands for hot and H stands for cold, or, as we like to say, C is for "Chaud" and H is for "How cold!". You know. Things like that. 

Victim.

Okay so riddle me this:

1. Last night I went to sleep and I forgot to take my earrings out. So I wake up just now missing one earring and I'm disappointed, in that "Well. C'est la vie" kind of way I've come to accept since my GPS was robbed from my car by a valet three weeks ago. *

(P.S., The more I think about that, the angrier I get. Sons of bitches, I gave you a tip because I had no ones and this is how you repay me? By stealing the Lewis to my Clark? The moss on the treetrunk to my Sacagewea? Poor Daniel, I hope he's alright and I hope the cholo thief who stole it is having a good time driving to all of my saved locations, including but not limited to Yummy Cupcakes, work, and various friends' homes. Oh, and my home. Fantastic. I cannot wait to move. I choose to believe thief who stole it did it with the best intentions. Maybe he has a sick family of babies that he needed to hock some GPSs to feed. That's probably it.)

ANYWAY so I was bummed about this earring thing just because, as Natalie once pointed out so eloquently, when you lose jewelry, you are a victim. You almost never deserve it. So I'm starting to cope with my first disappointment of the day when all of a sudden I realize that there's a pain in my thigh. Literally. I reach down and LO AND BEHOLD!

Earring. But not just any earring. The earring was fully intact, backing and all, as if, at some point in the night, I sleep-removed it, replaced the backing, and jabbed into my thigh for safekeeping. I mean, earrings do not just fall out of your ears with the backings intact. It's physically impossible unless 

A. There's been serious damage done to the earlobe.

or

B. Earring faeries exist. And since I do not wear capes as part of my dress code and/or cover my car with pictures of unicorns, I really don't think they do. 

I also lost my car keys somewhere between the front door to my apartment and my bedroom this week. I think that goblin from Beacon Hill who burned down my wall and stole my remote is back with a vengeance.

* Edit: Yeah, I definitely found my keys. And my very much unstolen GPS. So...how about that. 

I'm legitimately losing my marbles. 

Deja Tu.

Today I reordered personal checks for what seems like the first time in my life, though I'm not sure it actually is. The amount of time I spent perusing check designs (wolves, Confederate flag and Boycott the Circus themes being top contenders before I finally settled on Impressionist Artists) being the top really speaks to how intent I am on avoiding my "Kleopatra" coverage, due next week.


Oh, has it really been six weeks already? Has it really? Because honestly, I would have no idea. C'est la vie in the Los Angeles Space and Time Continuum. Six weeks, no, six months of identical conversations with the same people in the same places about the same things with the same results, rotating the same clothes and four pairs of black tights, week in, week out, month in, month out, the same frustrations, the same unsolvables, the same meeting, the same excuses, the same mistakes, the same apologies, the same scripts, the same notes, the same complaints, the same sunshine, the same lunches, the same schedules.


And all of a sudden it's March and my lease is up and I'm out of face sunscreen and no, toothpaste does not last forever, and my bangs fit into my ponytail, which is a lot longer now and my plug in air freshener's all shriveled and there's more mold on the ceiling than I remember because I hate having the fan on while I shower and oh wow, where'd all this dust come from and have I really written twenty five checks already?


If it weren't for all for the fact that so many of the things that I had once are now all used up, I'd have a hard time believing that it wasn't still October.

Tnemilpmoc.

Juan Carlo*, the delighftul third floor parking attendant in my work building's parking garage is the first person I actually encounter every morning, which is lucky because he's such a prince. Usually  he just tells me I'm the best, but last week he decided to switch it up a little and that's when this happened:

INT. PARKING GARAGE THIRD LEVEL - CRACK OF DAWN

DANIELLE (23) shuffles toward the elevators, ready to face the day. On the other side of the garage, perky, jobless LA ladies in their 7:30 AM gym makeup stride purposefully toward the same elevator, where they will proceed to comment on Danielle's lack of gymwear and subsequently exclaim "You're going to work now?!" 

When she gets to be about six feet away from JUAN CARLO (55), who sits by the key cabinet reading his newspaper and drinking his coffee, Danielle makes eye contact as Juan Carlo begins to silently applaud, as he does every day.

DANIELLE

Good morning!

JUAN CARLO

Good morning miss! Haveaniceday!

DANIELLE

You too!

Juan Carlo pauses and indicates the side of the garage that he supervises ; the one Danielle parks in every single goddamn day.

JUAN CARLO

You know. My side of the garage is the side for pretty girls!

DANIELLE

Oh stop it, you make my whole day.

Juan Carlo's not done yet. He indicates the other side of the garage, reserved for members of the fitness center.

JUAN CARLO

And that side of the garage is for the sexy girls!

Which is why I can't park there...thank you?**

Whatever, I love him.

*I don't know his real name.

**One of the better stnemilpmoc I've received as of late.

It's just.

One of the most significant things I've learned out here is how important it is to believe in the people I care about and whatever it is that they aspire to; to be as supportive as possible when possible.

I learned this as a result of realizing how much I depend on others' belief in me. Not in the sense that I'm completely filled with self doubt but because I know how positively affirmations from people I respect affect my point of view, and if there's anything to believe in out here, it's the people who make your otherwise numbing days bearable. 

I can't tell whether the fact that I've noticed myself seeing things minus the rosy glow of optimism is a problem or not. 

_Asst

In case you were wondering exactly why I'm unreachable by cell phone for 12 hours a day, below please find a comprehensive internet video designed to explain things a bit. Just a bit though, because I actually do a lot less socializing than this video implies. 

That being said, between moving out of one and into another apartment, moving off of one and onto another work desk...if I make it through the next month without getting Bell's Palsy, I will consider it an overall success.

Hollywood ASST from Back of the Class on Vimeo.

Riz.

Why It Is Nice To Have Girl Bros

Liz gets ready to leave for work while I remain on the couch wearing glasses and my wolf sweatshirt, celebrating the fact that it's 11:30 AM on Monday and I'm not at work. She indicates the tea dregs, half-eaten walnut cinnamon roll and stack of DVDs on the coffee table.

Liz

What are you doing today? A lot of this?

Me

Most likely. I might shower or do laundry. 

I feel like I'm starting to smell like this

wolf sweatshirt, or vice versa.

Liz

Yeah. You don't look good. 

Me

Thank you for noticing.

Also...

I Have Engaged Couple Friends

So I can finally talk about this, thank God. Natale and Ray are really setting the bar ridiculously high in terms of my future, peer People Who Are Perfect For One Another And Decide To Get Engaged group. Bon chance to whoever of you decides to try and follow this act. 

Favorite.

I have to wonder if the sudden upheaval of cases of "non clinical depression" correlates at all with the possibility that maybe people just aren't watching THE SOUND OF MUSIC* as often as they should be. Seriously. There's a reason why this is my Sick Movie. Try to feel sorry for yourself while watching The Sound of Music**. Better yet, watch a Holocaust documentary to gain some perspective and then chase it with The Sound of Music. I'm telling you. Possible side effects include sporadic singing and frequent line reciting with the occasional urge to, I don't know, leap or something. The only thing I can think of that releases similar endorphins is a tour jeté. 

Anyway. Between the ages of two and five I was exceedingly precious and happy and  I'm pretty sure I can attribute said happiness to my parents, sure, but also to daily viewings of The Sound of Music and specifically Julie Andrews. What a princess. That woman is Xanax in human form. Luckily, I didn't build up a resistance to The Sound of Music as a mood booster during those heady toddler years, so it still proves to be effective now that I'm a twenty-three year old East coast transplant living the dream in Los Angeles amidst a concentrated amount of bonafide douchebags. 

Okay, seriously Liesl, you're way more invested in Young Nazi Rolf than he is in you. It's okay, you're only sixteen. Sure, he sings a good game, but you'll learn the truth eventually. For what it's worth, your gazebo dress is absolutely gorgeous and gave me a total dress complex that started as soon as I developed the coordination necessary to stand up in a dress and make it twirl. This one just takes the cake and you go and get it all covered in rain and dirt over Nazi Rolf in the gazebo. 

And Georg, what could you possibly see in The Baroness? She's clearly a money grubbing whore who does not even love your children! Open your eyes! She wants to send them to BOARDING SCHOOL of all places! Maria is a ray of sunshine with a lovely voice and has nothing but the best intentions and yeah, she might not have a billion dollar ball gown collection like The Baroness does, but come on now. She's clearly the answer, and what do you do? You try to ship her back to the abbey! Oh man.

Wow, I'm only twenty minutes in and this is turning into a stream of consciousness liveblog of The Sound of Music. While I'm sure that nothing could possibly be more interesting to read than three hours' worth of my Rodgers and Hammerstein free association musings, I'm going to go ahead and quit while I'm ahead.

Assuming, of course, that I ever was ahead to begin with. I might have given up that spot when I admitted to Sound of Music Therapy so...it's fine. 

*I'm leaving this as is because I automatically typed it this way without thinking. Has putting the titles of movies in all caps seriously become a reflex? Is that actually happening? It's bad enough that I can blind dial a phone based on the sounds that each number makes and even worse that whenever I dial any number, ever, I have taken to throwing a 9 ahead of the area code, just because. My job is such a dream.

**I made a conscious effort that time. There's no need to shout.

***I really like footnoting, I've decided.

A Roadtrip That I Am Not On IV

Flagstaff, AZ to LOS ANGELES, CA

10:20 AM: "So we're entering the desert and since Natty spiked my Smartwater with Benefiber, we're hoping to make it through without any hold ups."

10:39 AM: "I just want to let you know that we are in the middle of a blizzard AND in the middle of a desert! Ahh thank God for this because it was the only weather condition we hadn't experienced yet and now we can check it off our list!"*

11:31 AM: "This stuff is so BIG. Its like the hotels in Las Vegas. Good work, Mother Nature."

*I didn't know they were playing weather pattern bingo.

A Roadtrip That I Am Not On III

Oklahoma City, OK to Flagstaff, AZ

5:56 AM: Liz: Maybe you're meant to wake up at 6 AM!
Natalie: Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

8:51 AM: "Shit. We're in Texas."

9:18 AM: "There is so much roadkill here. It's like even the skunks know how bad it is to live here."

9:39 AM: "Don't worry. The largest cross in the western hemisphere is still here and has yet to be usurped by any other crosses. "

10:34 AM: "So I passed the cross. I don't think I need to see it twice. Natty slept through it and said 'I slept through it again? I guess I'm not meant to see it.' Then a couple minutes later she says 'I want to the into stealing.' "

11:06 AM: ""Are the Jonas brothers saving it for marriage?" "Yeah, I think so." "That makes me want to do them more."

11:14 AM: "Aaaaand we just got pulled over in Texas. And Natty is sitting in the cop car with the officer."

11:19 AM:

"Oh, it's just Natty kicking it in a police cruiser."

11:22 AM:

Cop: "Well our computers are down, so we can't run a search on you. Are you wanted anywhere?"
Nat: "Not that I know of."

Cop: "Not that you know of?"

Nat: "Well I think my friend that's in the car wants me right now."

12:54 PM: "WORST NEWS. I JUST LOST A CONTACT IN A NEW MEXICO BATHROOM. AND THE SUN IS ONLY IN MYEYES. Nat just says, 'Let's get on the news. I just took the biggest shit of my life and you lost a contact.' Obviously I don't have any other contacts. Because I live my life on the irresponsible side. You know how I feel about wearing my glasses. I have a whole new, long term Tyra Banks style expose. I am an offcial nerd."

4:28 PM: "We're just racing trains in New Mexico. "

4:36 PM: "Epic."*

5:57 PM: "It is 29 degrees and Natalie is peeing outside."

6:22 PM: "We're on the lookout for the nuclear meth lab we came across on the last trip. "

6:45 PM: "Spotted: Meth factory. We're waiting until we're right up in its bowels for a pic. Get ready."

6:53 PM:

"THERE IT IS. Shit's really hard to photograph. They probably did that on purpose.

Natty: 'I feel high right now.'"

7:45 PM: "Today has sucked significantly more than every other day. "

* They could probably shoot a buffalo, carry no more than 200lbs back to their wagon, and trade the remains for beads and snake bite kits with the other settlers out there.

A Roadtrip That I Am Not On II

Nashville, TN to Oklahoma City, OK

6:25 AM: "My tits are at my ankles. I am officially the least attractive I can ever be."

6:39 AM: "After shampooing with hotel shampoo (with no conditioner): 'I think I'm going to have to shave my head...yeah there's no coming back from this.' "

8:32 AM: "I just saw a f&*king bald eagle! Why do you think all those cars are parked there*? I feel epic right now. I can die now." -NZ

11:42 AM: "Don't worry, Arkansas is still full of creepy religious billboards and funnel clouds."

1:43 PM: "I saw the best super church in Arkansas. It was like a cross between the Bellagio and Notre Dame. It was also roughly the size of the Bank North Garden. There are also tornado warnings and confirmed touchdowns for our exact location. But we're pretty sure its actually just sightings of our vehicle because they are reporting dry hair and lots of smoke in its wake."

1:46 PM:

"Yup, that's exactly what I want to do after sitting in a car for 3 days and eating as much Dunkin Donuts as possible."

2:07 PM: "Still questioning the eagle sighting. "Fine, we'll just watch the news tonight. You'll see."

2:08 PM: "Have I ever seen TWISTER? I was raised on TWISTER."

2:22 PM: "If you need any proof of my terrible luck just look at weather.com for Fort Smith Arkansas and Oklahoma City. I am Job."

2:30 PM: "ISO: Do tornados smell?"

3:06 PM: "Entering Cherokee territory, hold onto your scalps. Yeah, they can have mine. I think I'd be better off without it right now."

3:17 PM: (Natty giggling to herself) "What's so funny?" "I'm just trying to find a good spot to take this up to 100 mph." This of course is to prepare for the 100 mph winds that Oklahoma City has in store for us.

4:49 PM: Musings on the constant and terrifying lightning:

"It's like Kristallnacht."

"I just want it to touch down and set something on fire...that'd be AWESOME."

"It's like a Natchtmare"

"I want a cigarette so bad right now...I wish I had a fourth hand to put on the wheel."

All kidding aside though, this is some seriously messed up weather.

*Actually only one car.

A Roadtrip That I Am Not On

Liz and Natalie, who will do anything, including squeeze one more cross country road trip out of herself, for her friends (and also a Ferragamo headband) are en route to Los Angeles. And I. Am so. Excited.

Since Liz is averse to blogging and a self proclaimed storyteller a la Homer, I have taken it upon myself to "live blog" Natalie's and her journey Westward, based on the periodic e-mails I recieve along the way.

Enjoy. Stay tuned for updates.


Altoona, PA to Nashville, TN

10:55 AM: "After 2 miles of "right lane closed ahead" signs, Natty freaks out when it finally happens, shouting, 'What the f&^k?! These people are crazy. They could have warned us*!' "

11:05 AM: "Well, just to let you know, Kentucky smells like flithy, rotten asshole. And West Virginia has a "POWER PARK" and a town called NITRO. So basically, its the set of American gladiators."

11:29 AM: "We have seen some seriously grisly road kill. Like, SAVING PRIVATE RYAN** gruesome."

12:15 PM: "Don't act like it wouldn't be awesome to bang some 16 year old from West Virginia in a gas station." - Natalie Zekos

12:56 PM: "Well, we have an adorable little choreographed routine to the Whisper song (Wait Till You See My Dick). And this quote: 'That car fire is the second best smell in Kentucky'."

1:35 PM: "We drove for hours without seeing another car on completely desolate highway. Natalie waited until we were in four lanes of city traffic to try out the cruise control feature."

4:12 PM: ""Natty is trying to get me to choose between these two restaurants: Rippy's and Sweat's. Mmmm."

5:45 PM: "Yeah I think we're staying in Nashville. This place is the best."

6:27 PM: "I think there is a law in Nashville that you will be assassinated if you aren't having the best time ever."

* This is classic Natalese hyperbole. Throwback to Summer 2007 when one of her coworkers called to see if Natalie would mind picking up some of her hours. She hung up and proclaimed:

Natalie: I don't know who this broad thinks she is, calling me about work at 8 PM on a Saturday!
Danielle: But...it's 6 PM. And it's Tuesday.

**Sidenote: It has been decided that there is no need to see HE'S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU and/or SHOPAHOLIC for the same reason that WWII vets and Holocaust survivors avoid films like SAVING PRIVATE RYAN and SCHINDLER'S LIST. Also because, who cares?

Dream.

I just woke up from a dream directed by Baz Luhrmann. No, really. It's rapidly slipping away from me though, which is a shame because it was definitely one of the more cinematic third person, shot in HD dreams I've had in awhile.

It involved high school cafeterias, because I distinctly remember cheating the cafeteria's velvet rope policy about waiting until it was officially lunch time to allow everyone in. 

Also, more importantly and also more Baz Luhrmann-y, it involved TIME TRAVEL. Ooh, ahh. The only reason this is at all Baz Luhrman-y in any way is because at one point I found myself at the top of the Eiffel tower - not the real one, the Moulin Rouge version. Then, in a grand, sweeping camera maneuver - my dreams are usually very well photographed, but this one was particularly spectacular - we pulled away and to reveal that I wasn't on the top of the Eiffel tower at all! Rather, I had floated down to the middle of a half-completed Tour Eiffel because...oh my god...

...I had time traveled to Paris PRIOR to the completion of the tower. And then, in my moment of dream realization, I delivered this gripping line:

"The World's Fair hasn't even happened yet!"

Then I proceeded to stupidly ride the uncompleted Eiffel tower elevator, which was a huge mistake because it definitely broke and I careened backwards down the slanted elevator shaft only to fall through a mysterious wooden floor and have my face get all scarred and shredded and all of a sudden, Baz Luhrmann passes the baton to Anthony Minghella and I am The English Patient. Sweet. 

To which I ask...hey, subconscious? Uh...is something...bothering me? Am I perhaps afraid of adverse reactions to the chances I might choose to take?

And the answer, of course, is:

"Well, duh."

This wake up early when I don't have to no matter how late I go to bed business is for the birds. 

Pluie.

I never thought I would get this excited about an open window, a downpour, socks on my feet, clean teeth and a couple of comforters. 

But here we are.

Also, in case anyone was wondering how to demand designer chapstick in the most masculine way possible...this is it:

"[ASSISTANT]!! Take this cash, go to Barney's. Get me some Kiehl's lip balm. You know what that is?! For my F*#@KING lips!"

Boo, Bam

So it turns out that that the reason my room was beginning to smell like death was because of the blackened, rotting roots of my dried up, then drowned, then dried up, then drowned bamboo shoot.

Glad I solved that one. Apparently, even a bamboo shoot is too much additional life for me to maintain. I like to think that any future lives that I may or may not find myself responsible for (dogs, children, what have you) will be just demanding enough for me to,  I don't know, not neglect them for months at a time and therefore demonstrate more devoted caregiving. 

Or maybe I'm just all the life I'll ever be able to handle.

One.

If I am ever rich and obnoxious like P. Diddy, I will buy thirty plus pairs of Lucky Denim Sundown Skinny jeans and hire an assistant with a build similar to mine so that she can break each pair in for me so that I won't have to. This way I will never have to worry about discontinuation of The Best Pants Ever.

If I am ever rich and obnoxious like Mariah Carey, I will ship a weekly calzone fix from Venice Cafe on Cambridge Street out to wherever I am living, because nowhere else in the world can you get a delicious, heart healthy, cheesy pepperoni and green pepper calzone quite like the ones that the nice foreign gentleman with the marijuana leaf tattooed in plain sight on his hand makes at Venice Cafe on Cambridge Street. 

Oh wait. Scratch that. All I need is $530,000-ish dollars with which to purchase my two bedroom, fourth floor walkup on Garden Street in Beacon Hill. Then I will consider myself wealthier than all of the above. I will walk to cherche my own calzones and balance out all the deliciousness with all the walking to and from Venice, up and down to my piece of property and in doing so, I will break in my jeans, one pair at a time.

In the meantime...L.A. and I recently celebrated our first anniversary, and like any successful arranged marriage, I like it more each day, generally speaking. And don't tell Boston, but bikes to Venice Beach in California January definitely beat hikes to Venice Cafe in Massachusetts January. 

I'm just saying.

Engrish.

Natale came back from Japan with several shirts bearing a few choice English phrases, seen below. Any grammatical errors, spelling or otherwise, weren't made by me.

What you do today it? 

It will come tomorrow if there is today. 

However, the thing that can be done today cannot be reccomended to be going to be postponed tomorrow.

It smells danced and the room was fresh.

You can coice your way but I cannot guarantee your life.

Kind of makes you wonder about that Japanese character tattoo and/or the nifty, Asian inspired graphic t-shirt you bought at Lucky Jeans, huh?

Serial.

Oh, lah dee dah, look at me enjoying an enormous mug of Cocoa Rice Kripsies in my bed like some kind of princess.

I'm really into Cocoa Rice Krispies now. For awhile there it was Cinnamon Toast Crunch or bust, but that kind of fizzled out. I suppose I could always go back, but it would probably never be the same. Too much was consumed, and I just ended things without much of an explanation. Then again, how do you explain to these guys the undeniably more exciting and spontaneous appeal of these guys  without causing at least a slight amount of ego damage? 

It's for the best.