Stories.

Onward and upward.

2010-10-19T17:03:00.000-07:00

http://dlrandall.tumblr.com/

Come on, guys!

This blog could be all about how much I love my Michu.

2010-07-30T14:45:00.000-07:00

"Danielle, are you alright?

Do you want a little yogurt?

Some seltzer?

Shot of Patron?"

I wish I could take direct credit for this.

2010-07-28T09:57:00.000-07:00

Midday Instant Messenger Stream of Consciousness

2010-03-09T15:40:00.000-08:00

My mother, whom I like to refer to as Mich or Michu or Moosh or Mumsy makes me laugh very hard a lot of the time. I like to think of her as a combination of Rush Limbaugh and the nun with the glasses from The Sound of Music all rolled up into a classic, chic, textbook example of a French Women Don't Get Fat prototype.

She sends me wonderful little boxes from home filled with tiny tubes of toothpaste and t-shirts from my high school theater productions and Boston Sunday Globe magazines so I can keep up with Tales from the City and see how my dad successfully completed the crossword puzzle. She also sends me place mats and little statues of saints and nips of Patron. She is very technologically savvy, although she does get a little paranoid about things like my siblings and I having alternate Facebook accounts (separate from the ones she's friends with) on which we are scandalous. She is also famous for her stream-of-consciousness instant messages and e-mails, one of which I received just now:

MOM: hi
ME: hi michu
MOM: i know you don't have a prius, but if you ever feel your car is racing out of control, PUT IT IN NEUTRAL
how's your day, i had to say an "Our Father" to calm me down today. [OMITTED] pissed me off but i felt better after my prayer.

I just love her.

What's important.

2010-02-23T11:14:00.000-08:00

"The eye doctor I'm at right now has autographed head shots on the wall in lieu of diplomas. I feel like I'm getting an eye exam at Jerry's Deli." - Liz on Hollywood Medicine

My Mother in a Facebook Fandom Nutshell

2010-02-11T14:48:00.000-08:00

Super.

2010-02-07T12:52:00.000-08:00

You'd think that since I was born just three days after the 1986 Superbowl (Wikipedia informs me that this was Superbowl XX, wherein the mighty New England Patriots were defeated by the Chicago Bears) any Sleeping Beauty-esque fairies that were in the vicinity at the time would have given me the Gift Of Fully Understanding And Only Loving Football. Particularly since, due to my sizable birth weight (just under 10 lbs), curiously dark skin (which my mom and grandmother always recount, every January 29th: "...a full head of hair, and so dark skinned, you were darker than the black family's baby."), and my parents' indecision over what to name me, I was known throughout the hospital as The Refrigerator. That would be after this particular Patriot, whose name, Wikipedia is once again good enough to inform me, is actually William "The Refrigerator" Perry.

Deeply, deeply flattering. As the story goes, I believe we can credit Grandmaman for lighting the flame under my parents to get going and "give dat baby a name" other than one that is shared with that handsome fellow.

Anyway. Despite meeting all the prerequisites necessary for a lifetime of superfandom, I have missed the boat. I don't know how to play football. Or really watch it. However, I DO know that I love bandwagons and chicken wings. So as a result of those loves, hooray for Superbowl Sunday. But since the Tom Bradys are out for the season, I have the next few hours to decide whether to root for the Peyton Mannings or the New Orleanses.

The same guy.

2010-02-05T12:54:00.000-08:00

Earlier today, the following question was posed to me by Catherine, an expert in celebrity doppelgangers.

Catherine: I have to get a new computer because I clicked on some celebrity look alike thing and it loaded viruses. Is Channing [Tatum] aware of the fact that he looks exactly like Josh Hartnett?

Which is an excellent point.

Why did Josh Hartnett change his name to Channing Tatum? I know LUCKY NUMBER SLEVIN didn't go over as well as everyone might have hoped (I'd venture to guess that the reason for this is because it featured Morgan Freeman and Ben Kingsley as villains. No one can suspend their disbelief THAT much), but really? And Josh, just as a heads up, Channing Tatum isn't a name. It sounds like a law firm or MAYBE like you're taking attendance in a freshman seminar and looking for a girl named Channing, Tatum. When I saw Pearl Harbor in tenth grade, I loved it. I'm not afraid to admit it. And I still think you're very attractive. My straight brother does, too. In fact, he regularly calls me to check up on your career and well being. Why? I'm not sure. But people care for you. The real you. JOSH HARTNETT.

Spaaaaaaaaaaaa.

2010-02-03T14:43:00.000-08:00

So I've never really been much of a spa girl. In fact, whenever I say it, I feel the need to draw out the 'a'. Spaaaa. Reaaaaally top draaaawer. I appreciate massages and skin care and the importance of having cuticles that are trimmed to reduce the urge to peel off layer after layer of my thumb skin. I get it, and I enjoy it, but at the same time, I feel a little awkward and bourgeoise about strangers exfoliating my face or painting my toes and my aversion to strangers touching me naked most definitely gets in the way of most professional massages. I'm not used to it. Growing up, my mom and I never did the thing that some women do where we go and sit in robes all day and take baths in tea. Though if we did, it'd probably be fish-out-of-water comedy hilarious. The closest I ever came to any of that was convincing my parents to let me sign up for a gym membership my junior year in high school. The closest I ever came to using that gym membership was running around a track and stomping on an elliptical machine with Liz every now and again, and we'd almost always close out our sessions with a trip to the local ice cream barn.

However, far be it for me to posses a gift certificate and not use it. After all, aside from my general dismissal of all things time consuming and high maintenance, the only thing that really keeps me from being a bourgeoise wench is general lack of funding. So when I was given a gift certificate to a spaaaa for my birthday recently, I decided to investigate. Get a load of this description:

Cross the threshold of SPAAAAA THAT SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS and be transported to a sprawling, sumptuous oasis where the ancient techniques of a world-class European spa blend with modern advances in health and science.

Slip out of the real world and lose yourself in a delicious, over-sized robe. Breathe in exotic scents. Sip cool drinks that echo with ethereal flavors. Surrender to the desire to indulge your body and delight your senses for an hour or two. Or spend the entire day.

A sprawling, sumptuous oasis? In West Hollywood? You don't say. And well, if it's European, you know it must be good. No one would ever brag about their American spa. There's nothing luxurious about America except, you know, freedom. And a delicious robe? Are we supposed to eat it? Nothing grates on my nerves quite like an inappropriate adjective, sarcastic or not. Robes are not delicious. Tater tots are not sexy. Robes can be fuzzy, they can be plush, they can be luxurious, but unless that robe is made out of Chipotle burritos, it is far from delicious. And I guess I'm going to have to find out what exotic scents I will be breathing and what ethereal flavors will enhance my echo-y beverages. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was headed to Narnia.

LOST.

2010-02-02T14:07:00.000-08:00

Me: I thought my days of festively themed lunches were over in high school. Then I started working at Disney. Today is LOST day.
Liz: Did they make you wait in a bunch of different, random lines for food, only to not serve you anything at all?

And scene.

What

2010-01-24T12:41:00.000-08:00

It is, is.

A crock.

2010-01-23T09:02:00.000-08:00

Here's the magical, not so revolutionary thing about crock pots: you throw a bunch of crap in them, run away for a bunch of hours, and then come back to deliciousness. It's like stone soup. Kind of.

My problem is getting motivated to throw the crap in. And buy the crap. And look up recipes so I know what kind of crap to buy. One of the many stereotypical things I struggle with as a single girl in a major metropolitan area is how accessible take-out is. If I were the type to swing bats, I could demolish five or six restaurants in one swing without ever leaving my bed. And the last incident we had with this crock pot ended with what seemed like forty pounds of chili being chucked down and ultimately choking our wheezy garbage disposal. Chipotle does not result in a week of haphazardly self-plumbing a clogged sink and doing your dishes in the bathtub, that's for sure.

But the past five days of rain have put me in a mood for stew. Granted, I wake up today, Stew Day, and L.A. is back to normal with the blue sky and the sunshine and the crows blasting their sweet, sweet melodies with extra vigor. But still, it is January, and winter is a time for stew in other parts of the world.

I think I'll call this one boeuf bourguinon, in light of my recent random decision to be as Francais as possible at all times. I blame the rain, it's just so conducive to Edith Piaf and cafe lattes avec le pain au chocolat. Magnifique, non?

No Questions Asked.

2010-01-22T10:45:00.000-08:00

Me: I want to call Leonardo DiCaprio tonight.
Catherine: Do it.
Me: He's working at that telethon [to benefit Haiti], in case you somehow didn't know. It makes it slightly less random.
Catherine: I would never find you saying you wanted to contact Leo random.

The closest I have come to this in the past is finding his e-mail address in my old boss's Rolodex. As I am a professional, I made a point to only remember that it's @aol.com. Who other than my mother still does that, Leo? I guess he really isn't looking to be taken seriously in people's inboxes, which I can respect. He doesn't have an agent either, the man lives outside the box. Since 1998, Leo has joined Julie Andrews and Steven Spielberg as one of the three (live) celebrities I am allowed to be flustered by in the event I ever actually meet/speak to them.

Clearly, my friends already know this.

Parental Guidance Suggested

2010-01-20T11:30:00.001-08:00

These are my adorable grandparents. Their names are Grandpapa and Grandmaman. Grandpapa likes watching movies, Grandmaman does not, unless they are in French, somehow involve a French speaking country, feature someone she knows, or are written by a certain granddaughter's boss' fiance. Distance from the source does not matter, as long as there's no gratuitous, non French sex, action, or violence of any kind.

The following is a conversation between my mother and I, via IM, one fine Wednesday morning.

Mom: Is that bastard movie [read: Inglourious Basterds] ok for Grandmaman?
Me: Hell no. Are you kidding me?
Mom: Oh kay, we're off. Grandpapa is watching it, and I could tell things were going to get ugly.
Me: Yeah they scalp people in that movie.
It's about Nazis. But not ACTUAL Nazis, Quentin Tarantino Nazis
Mom: Oh gosh. Grandmaman says, "I hate dat, it's NOT-TING good about dat."

When I'm 24

2010-01-18T22:13:00.000-08:00

I was teetering on the brink of panicking just a bit about entering what is really the last year of my "early twenties", when I realized how lovely and perfectly even a number twenty-four is. It's perfect. Two times twelve. I'm also pretty sure it's prime, but don't quote me on that. The point is, I love even numbers. I've loved them ever since my Algebra teacher turned my world upside down in middle school by trying to drive home the point that LETTERS played a role in MATH. Worlds collided and even numbers are obviously infinitely easier to divide. Even numbers and I really clicked there, despite the fact that so far, nothing I ever learned in a math classroom has proven to have resonated at all. Even numbers are good, odd numbers are bad. It just makes sense.

Upon quick recollection, I also realized that over the past ten years, I have reserved my poor choices to the odd ages almost exclusively. Age 15, I went to Catholic high school and learned the true meaning of wretched. Age 17, I "dated" a gnome. Age 19, I went to UMass and got a refresher course on that This Is The Meaning of Wretched course I took in high school. And so forth and so on, rest assured, 21 and 23 certainly did not disappoint. Granted, I'm sure I'm taking some liberties here, but fact is fact: that crap happened. Even ages rule, odd ages drool.

So bring it on, twenty-four. It's still pretty old, but I can deal. People who are twenty-four can still get away with things like theme parties where you dress up like a tramp from New Jersey; they just can't shotgun beers or pound shots of vodka quite like they could when they were twenty.

An Open Letter to the American Girl Company

2010-01-18T08:30:00.000-08:00

Dear American Girl,

I would like to preface this letter by simply saying thank you. To quote the Facebook group that I have joined entitled "The American Girl Collection Significantly Influenced My Formative Years" would be an understatement. Between early 1990 (and yes, I'll admit it) 1998 or 1999, The American Girl Collection not only influenced my childhood, it prolonged it. Not only that, but my first five (in the order they were acquired): Samantha, Felicity, Kirsten, Molly, and Addy, gave me a sense of history and my first awareness that the world I lived in existed long before me or any of my contemporaries. I remember my parents and grandmother (one of your biggest supporters, both theoretical and financial, who would most definitely share my indigence over what is happening to this company) reading about how Nellie, Samantha's maid had to work in a factory where one of the other girls got her hair caught in a spool and subsequently had her scalp ripped off. And how Kirsten's best little Swedish friend Marta died of cholera on the trip from Sweden to America. And how Addy's slave driver forced her to eat worms off of a tobacco plant. And how Molly's dad couldn't even be with her for her birthday because he was off in Europe during World War II being a military doctor. (Thank God he came home in Changes For Molly, by the way. While everyone else was at the Christmas pageant and Molly was the only one home, due to a cold she caught while going outside with wet hair because of the pincurls her sister Jill taught her to do to make her hair curly for her role as Miss Victory. Gets me every time.) These are pretty hefty lessons for a four year old, but I could hack it. I'm sure you caught some flack from other parents though, which is why you now slap an 8+ label on your products. I'm sure you think I'm referencing these facts on Wikipedia or something, but I'm really not. This is one of the few topics I, as a lowly Hollywood assistant, am qualified to call myself an expert on. So, with all due respect and gratitude for what you've allowed me to have: Listen up.

I am a frequent visitor of the American Girl Place in Los Angeles, and one day I found myself waylayed there, yet again, revisiting my childhood only to find that Samantha was gone. Wiped out. Extinct as a triceratops, her merchandise and clothing uprooted and replaced by another Victorian girl, a little Jewish aspiring actress of Samantha's same social status (rich) who doesn't even not look like her (Samantha was prettier). This troubled me deeply, as Samantha the first in my collection, and as they say, you never forget your first _______. That said, I understand that perhaps a Jewish Girl was a necessity, to protect your company against the claims of anti-Semitism that people are ready and willing to throw around at the drop of a hat, and Rebecca is without a doubt a very pretty Girl with very nice hair, so I was ready to let that one slide. I accepted the fact that my poor, nearly bald Samantha was officially now a rare breed, and sacrifices sometimes must be made.

I accepted it, that is, until yesterday. Yesterday I ventured to the second floor of the Los Angeles American Girl place with a couple of my friends, only to find that Kirsten has been "archived" (read: wiped out). Not only that, but Molly and her merchandise do not even have their own room anymore. Molly, whose father was off fighting Nazis while she was rationing sugar and planting Victory carrots, is left with nothing but a display case in a hallway. I can't help but get the sense that the hallway is to the American Girl Place what Florida is to the United States: Death's waiting room. Forgive me if this is speaking out of school, but who is more "American" than Molly? KAYA?!

I don't even want to delve into the existence of Kaya. I'm sorry, a Native American/Feathers-Not-Dots Indian/whatever the PC term du jour is who sleeps in a tee pee and wears fringed animal pellets exclusively? What little girl wants that? How can you effectively integrate Kaya's world into the civilized worlds that the other Girls live in, the Girls who sleep in beds? Even Addy has a bed. It's made of sticks, but it's still a bed. I'm trying to picture this in my bedroom circa 1995, which had each Girl's bed and accouterments set up in various stations around the room, and a tee pee just doesn't make sense. I can't help but feel that this snafu is directly related to Pleasant Company's merger with Mattel in 1998, as Kaya was released shortly thereafter. This was a bit after my time, so I do not have a Kaya doll, nor have I read her stories, but I hope to God she didn't live anywhere near Amherst, Massachusetts.

I just really think there was a definite lack of resourcefulness on this one, American Girl. Kirsten, you know, the blonde, blue eyed Swede that you just snuffed out like a Saint Lucia candle, had a secret Indian friend in the woods. Remember Singing Bird? There's your Native American doll! Just introduce Singing Bird, Kirsten's companion, and you not only get to keep one of the most compelling stories on your slate, you get to keep your minority doll! The five people on Earth who want to dress a doll in variations of the same pellet ensembles would be satisfied, and Kirsten could keep on keeping on. Phasing out the white Girls is not the answer here. Would you ever "archive" Addy? I think not. I would never have expected affirmative action to trickle down so severely that it started to tamper with ACTUAL HISTORY, but here you have it. And you have the power to make it stop.

I'm not going to touch upon the debacle over the recent release of the "homeless" Girl, because I think you've learned your lesson there. I'd also like to reiterate that I currently love your store. It represents a lot to me, and I still get a little teary when I go in. I'm about to turn twenty four and am seriously considering celebrating at the little tea house you have, particularly since I noticed you serve champagne cocktails there, which I am a huge fan of. My mother mailed me my Felicity doll unexpectedly in a box one day, and after the initial shock of opening a box only to find a doll lying in it, I was only happy to see her. Your product has profoundly influenced me, and I urge you to take what I've said into consideration before you fully dilute your wonderful Collection simply for the sake of arbitrary political correctness.

Sincerely,

Danielle

Like it's 1999

2009-12-08T18:41:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-21T20:01:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-17T18:00:00.000-08:00

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

Merciful Heavens.

2009-11-08T12:31:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-10-15T14:43:00.000-07:00

"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

2009-10-04T11:52:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-09-23T23:03:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-09-13T16:42:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-06T22:23:00.000-07:00

"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

2009-07-19T08:20:00.001-07:00

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

2009-07-11T22:32:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-08T22:54:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-13T17:41:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-06-13T16:03:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-26T15:44:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-05T09:43:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-03-21T08:32:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

2009-03-15T16:57:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-03-09T22:05:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-02-22T21:34:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-20T21:44:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-02-16T11:19:00.000-08:00

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?

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.

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.

2009-02-15T15:52:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-12T11:01:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-11T08:21:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-10T10:01:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-09T12:23:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-02-07T07:30:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-02-05T22:31:00.001-08:00

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

2009-02-04T22:07:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-01-19T08:31:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-01-11T16:06:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-01-10T10:07:00.000-08:00

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.

Jingle.

2008-12-13T07:27:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-11-15T21:23:00.000-08:00

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

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

Japan.

2008-11-13T21:43:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-10-25T08:40:00.000-07:00

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:

Favorite TV Shows:

Favorite Movies:

Favorite Books:

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.

2008-10-13T20:17:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-09-28T16:15:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-09-21T11:53:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-09-20T15:55:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-09-14T01:05:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-09-05T20:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-08-21T22:58:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-08-05T22:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-08-02T19:35:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-29T21:14:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-28T22:20:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-15T23:25:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-07-10T19:46:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-05T19:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-04T11:34:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-03T08:50:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-27T16:36:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-22T01:19:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-20T17:20:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-17T23:54:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-16T17:50:00.000-07:00

Fact.

2008-06-15T21:01:00.000-07:00

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.

Saved.

2008-06-11T20:03:00.000-07:00

In case anyone was wondering, the second coming has already happened. "Christ" is an employee at the Vineland Avenue Ralph's in North Hollywood.

Apparently they didn't want to make a big deal of it this time around.

Pennies.

2008-06-06T14:05:00.000-07:00

I have discovered my future place of residence on Beacon Hill.

I will return from L.A. when I have $650,000 with which to purchase my one bedroom apartment with two fireplaces on Garden Street.

Annnnnd GO.

Intervene.

2008-06-03T20:36:00.000-07:00

After watching Intervention for the first time and witnessing the struggles of Caylee, a 21 year old meth/heroin addict AND her mother, Christy, a bulimic, chronic over-exerciser, I have made the executive decision to eliminate my own crippling habit: fingernail/cuticle gnawing.

I'm not going to do it anymore because I realized that it probably makes me look like a fidgety meth addict and in a place where people don't know me that well, I can't risk that kind of misconception.

I should also point out that I am totally serious. Just as I always am when I discuss the effects of crystal meth and meth labs in general. This is important to note since last year, while strolling down Newbury Street, Liz and I got admonished for our apparent lack of reverence on the subject of exploding meth labs by an angst-ridden stranger who was eavesdropping on our conversation, which had to do with finding hypothetical reasons to bring down Boston Realty Works following our apartment fire, and meth labs on Grey's Anatomy. He informed us, rather unnecessarily, that there was nothing funny about meth labs and that his own apartment in Atlanta suffered damage from a drug related explosion. All of this happened on the street, completely at random. Bottom line: Yes, sir. Meth labs are no joke.

We brushed it off as him being angry with his own ignorance for choosing to live in Atlanta, of all places. What did he expect?

Move.

2008-06-02T21:28:00.000-07:00

Growing up, my grandparents lived six hours away in Ocean View, New Jersey. Six hours. In a pre cross country road trip world, six hours might as well be four years. My parents tried to throw the travel time into perspective for us by converting the hours into increments of time we could wrap our minds around. Ocean City, New Jersey is six hours away from Massachusetts which is equal to two The Sound of Musics, four The Little Mermaids, six Star Trek: The Next Generations, and twelve Reading Rainbows away. Pretty far.

Since Grandma and Grandpa lived a whopping twelve Reading Rainbows away, we didn't get to see them as often as I wished we could have, so our time there was always really special and, as is typical of treasured time, went by in a flash. It didn't seem fair that six hours could drag on for so long when six days went by in what seemed like one Opening Credits Sequence of Star Trek. Obviously, leaving my grandparents' house in New Jersey was always a real bummer, but I remember my mother reminding us that we had to leave in order to be able to come back.

So I'm 22 now and I'm finally realizing what she meant by that. For years I brushed it off: If we just stayed at Grandma's or Disney World or wherever it was that was so hard to say good-bye to, we'd be happy forever. Sure, we'd be happy, but soon it wouldn't be special anymore. It'd be regular. It'd be toast. Time would eventually slow back down to normal, the hours would become hours again and someplace else would become the coveted escape from the familiar.

Right now I feel like I could stay in Massachusetts forever. It's great here. So great in fact, that I could almost forget why I can't stay. It's easy here. It's stable. It's familiarly filled with memories of my most favorite years and moments and people but at the same time, I know that I can't be a grown up in a place where I've always, until now, been a kid. Being home makes me want to hold onto a part of my life that cannot exist anymore, and for every hour that I sit here wishing I didn't have that damn apartment to go back to in L.A., a city that I have come to associate with sunshine and bitterness and opportunity and stress, there's a second when I remember that I have to go back there for awhile so I can look forward to coming home. That second is all it takes.

I will always only love Boston. Only, only, only and I will be back for good someday. I've got to hand it to L.A. though- it was moving there that made me realize how truly special the East Coast really is and how wonderful it is to come back to. I don't know how long it will take, or how many Titanics I am from my triumphant return to Beacon Hill, but when it happens, I know I'll appreciate it.

Bugs.

2008-05-26T20:19:00.000-07:00

My dog- am I still allowed to call him my dog or is he now, since I'm a Real Person, considered my parents' dog? I have no clue. At any rate, Milo is a real treasure of a Golden Retriever, but he never finished the portion of puppy school that teaches the puppies how to come the instant they are told to. He gets it eventually, but holding the storm door open at 11:30 PM, welcoming every blood sucking member of the local mosquito population into the house, repeatedly ordering Milo to "come" in my most authoritative voice while he stands there staring at me, slack-jawed with eyebrows aflutter, makes me hate him. He always redeems himself though.

I think I heard somewhere that they don't have mosquitoes in California. I might have made that up, but I don't remember getting viciously bitten by them while I was there, so maybe there aren't. Which is great and all, but let's not forget that there are no black widow spiders in Massachusetts.

My night would be infinitely worse if I had just let dozens of black widows into the house. Thinking about it makes mosquitoes seem kind of peachy.

Truth.

2008-05-20T19:20:00.000-07:00

When I was in second grade there was a solar eclipse and all of the teachers at Johnny Appleseed elementary stressed the importance of not looking directly at the sun. When a problematic classmate of mine whined "What if we wear sunglasses?!" everyone flipped out and jumped down his throat, reinforcing the fact that nothing, not even sunglasses, could protect his eyes from the solar eclipse.

This got me thinking. What would happen if we looked at the sun? Nothing good, that was for sure.The consequence I came up with was based on Raiders of the Lost Ark, which I saw for the first time earlier that year with my dad: eyes dissolving and pouring out of sockets, skin melting away- biblical horror.

I'm not sure that that ISN'T what would have happened to me if I looked at the sun back in 1993. What I am sure of, especially after having just re-watched Raiders in preparation for Indiana Jones' triumphant return this Thursday, is this: When I have kids, I will absolutely tell them that if they look directly at the sun, their eyes will melt out of their sockets.

I will also tell them that dinosaurs are actually not extinct but nocturnal with a penchant for children who aren't in bed before dark.

Yes. My hypothetical children are hypothetically awesome.

Musing.

2008-05-07T17:00:00.000-07:00

Swiped from a headstone in a Revolutionary War cemetery in Groton:

Stop, friend and read as you pass by.

As you are now, so once was I.

As I am now, so you must be:

Prepare for death and follow me.

I really appreciate the foresight this guy had. When I die, if I don't make it into the Bodyworlds exhibit as an example of what the muscles do when one lies on a couch and watches Titanic, I at least want an interactive epitaph.

How great would my Bodyworlds exhibit be? Just Titanic...on a loop...all day.

Fight.

2008-04-28T08:26:00.000-07:00

So it's 8:45 AM.

About forty-five minutes ago, I awoke to two really significant, ground shaking, booming type noises. Obviously my mind immediately leapt to earthquake and then sort of halfway came to its senses when it next switched over to a sleep induced, ignorant "but don't earthquakes always happen at night?" before finally settling on the more correct conclusion of "aren't earthquakes not just two, significant booms?"

Then came the fighting. Apparently the little knoll in the middle of the building that I thought was just deck space is actually a fighting arena. Got words to yell? Take it to the arena. I don't know what this dude did to piss his girlfriend off at 8AM but I'm betting he wishes he hadn't done it. I never really understood scream fighting or its purpose. The person you're screaming at is only hearing screams. The only people actually listening to the words are eavesdroppers like me.

At any rate, I hope this isn't going to become a Thing.

Educated.

2008-04-28T00:58:00.001-07:00

The fact that I am now a real person seems to have sparked some sort of regression in me. For example:

Since becoming a grown up, I have eaten and enjoyed more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches than I ever ate or enjoyed as a kid. Seriously, I was totally uninterested in peanut butter and jelly until maybe two years ago. I have also played more Mario Kart in the past two days than I've played in the last year. I also bought Lucky Charms for the first time in a really long time and irresponsibly got a parking ticket. If I had a dollar for every parking ticket that I've gotten since being here, I would have earned $2.00 back from the total $90.00 I have donated to the cities of Los Angeles and Santa Monica. I also need to confess that I do in fact love that damn Miley Cyrus song. I do. I do love it. I'm 22 and as formally educated as I'm ever going to be and I Can't Wait To See You Again.

I was much more mature when I was in college...ah, yes. I remember those days.

Old.

2008-04-22T17:20:00.000-07:00

I just threw my back out while color blocking my closet. This might make me an official grown up. Although, let's be real, maintaining said color blocked closet probably will not happen. But for now, it looks pretty cool, like Cher's closet in Clueless. I wonder if they've actually invented that outfit selecting computer software that she had yet.

Now that I'm old and a few days away from the end of my formal education, I find myself doing and thinking about a lot of things that my mom used to say and do that never made sense to me before. Par example:

1. Washing fruit before you eat it. I never saw what the big deal was and would constantly neglect to wash fruit before consumption. Now I'll occasionally forget, but when I do I can't help but think not about pesticides, but about how many grotty grocery shopping fingers came into contact with/squeezed the apple that I'm eating.
2. Sort of along the same lines- eating the skin of a grapefruit. Not the rind, the white papery skin that sheaths the pulp. When I was little, my mom would peel a grapefruit, pull out the pulpy sections for us, and eat the white skin part that was left over because, according to her, that is where the Serious Vitamin C is. As a kid I thought, "Wow, she's eating the raunchy part of the grapefruit and giving us the delicious pulp. She must really love us. THIS is love." Now I eat grapefruit the same way, in sections, like an orange, and I swear to God, I feel healthier after eating the bitter inside skin.
3. Not standing too close to the microwave. In the 90s my mom would tell us to close the door and RUN AWAY from the microwave to protect our brains from Micro Waves. It was probably a little bogus then, and definitely bogus now that microwaves have evolved some over the past twenty years, but yesterday at work when I was microwaving coffee and watching the cup inside to make sure that the foam didn't overflow, I could swear I felt my brain get a little sore.

Case in point: Mitch is a wicked smaht grownup.

I can't stop looking at this closet. It's like a beautiful spectrum of clothing. Practically art.

Next thing you know, I'll be getting all riled up and excited about, I don't know...something really mature.

Shoot.

2008-04-19T09:14:00.000-07:00

Today is the 233rd anniversary of The Shot Heard Around The World.

April is full of great commemorative holidays with corresponding movies to watch in honor of them. I've always celebrated Titanic Day (Titanic) and Holocaust Remembrance Day (Schindler's List). I can't believe I've never celebrated Shot Heard Around The World Day with The Patriot or something.

On Holocaust Remembrance Day 2006 I tried to include Natalie and Eleanor in the Schindler's List viewing, but when I left the room three minutes into the movie to grab a blanket I came back to find that they'd swapped out Schindler's List for The Sweetest Thing starring Cameron Diaz. I should have known better and learned from the mistakes made on Titanic Day 2005 which was an utter fiasco that resulted in exclusive, VIP-only Titanic Day viewings of Titanic from that day forward.

Anyway. This is the first year that I spend Shot Heard Around The World Day in a part of the country that was blissfully ignorant on April 19, 1775. It's kind of like that joke, "If Helen Keller were alone in the woods and a tree fell down, would it make a noise?" Nobody in California heard a damn thing. The only guys that would have been around to hear anything were Indians, so while everyone on the east coast was shooting and revolutionizing and laying the first tumultuous, bloody bricks of the path to democracy, whoever was over here was just, I don't know, building tee pees, picking berries, painting pictures on birch bark paper, using every piece of the buffalo and crying about litter.

God, I love the east coast.

Bigot.

2008-04-16T20:51:00.000-07:00

I've been sitting on this list for way too long. I've given up on it though; it was a lot easier to pinpoint specific hates when I was living in Boston. Here there are just way too many to keep track of.

270 Things That Irk Me

aka

My Hate List

1. alternative spellings for words, i.e. "hawt" and "hunny"

2. adults with braces

3. adults with pigtails

4. 7th Heaven

5. Match.Com

6. when dishes come out of the dishwasher and are still dirty

7. people who sit on the outer seat on the subway.

8. over plucked eyebrows

9. crossword puzzles

10. raging members of all political parties

11. children over the age of 2 who don't speak.

12. soggy bread

13. over explaining

14. people whose myspace profiles make my computer freeze

15. short people who make up for their small stature by being loud.

16. people who sing to themselves in public

17. Alec Baldwin

18. when people phrase a demand as a question or suggestion.

19. extreme facial hair

20. Fergie

21. lame excuses

22. receipt-less returns

23. When good movies are on TV dubbed over in Spanish

24. Roseanne Barr and her sitcom

25. Faucets that you have to press down to turn on that only run for 5 seconds

26. Hand dryers as a bathroom's only drying option

27. Missing the trailers at a movie

28. The B-Line

29. Sudoku

30. performance art

31. people who sue McDonald's for making them fat

32. scientology

33. car reflector shields, especially ones with Looney Tunes on them

34. Jared the subway guy

35. bad parking jobs

36. old sponges

37. distracting underbites

38. large insects

39. the words "smear" "moist" and "panty"

40. automatic faucets with no temperature control

41. poor timing

42. people who think that the value of a sacagewea dollar will one day exceed $1.00.

43. people who expect quality service/attention when they come to shop 5 minutes before a store closes

44. unreliable wireless internet

45. the phrase "get your feet wet"

46. articles of clothing with wolves/whales/endangered species on them

47. ryan seacrest

48. sitting in a seat filled to capacity on the commuter rail

49. jeans without back pockets

50. real estate agents

51. the christmas tree shop commercials

52. facial piercings that just look like acne

53. inexplicable breaks in timecode

54. Lili Taylor

55. consistently misspelled words

i.e. "congradulations" "rediculous"

56. movies that feature eddie murphy or martin lawrence in multiple roles

57. snotty children

58. "shaquanna" of the beacon hill cvs

59. freeze frame endings

60. people whose away messages detail every single part of their day

61. people who leave their aim signed on 24/7

62. when traffic is caused by "curiosity"

63. man jewelry

64. people who "heart" things

65. competitive fishing

66. perpetual heavy breathers

67. back fat

68. acrylic nails

69. "tiffany" as a first name

70. commercials for diet pills/weight loss supplements

71. circuses

72. mtv dating shows

73. PETA

74. the fact that some people keep the afore-hated large insects as pets

75. slick hair

76. american chopper

77. court tv

78. all clientele of "armani exchange"

79. joanna newsom and her music career

80. people who wear pajamas in public

81. poor oral hygiene

82. Paul Walker

83. extreme Celtics fans

84. toe socks

85. people who end perfectly civil telephone conversations without warning

86. insufferably slow computers/internet

87. ambulance chasing/medical malpractice lawyers; i.e. Jim Sokolove

88. when the number of self tagged photos on someone's facebook outweigh the number of those tagged by others.

89. grammatical errors

90. people who use sunglasses as an accessory - at night, as headbands, etc.

91. people who regularly refer to themselves in the third person

92. people who use bluetooth hands free cell phone adaptors outside of their cars

93. the quote "never frown because you never know who's falling in love with your smile." and its implications

94. dancing with the stars

95. overly tan people

96. suffolk university

97. Ayer, MA

98. softball

99. crocs

100. women who refer to their relationship with their friends as a "sisterhood"

101. having to repeat myself

102. overgrown finger/toe nails

103. initials in place of first names i.e. bj, dj, jd,pj, tj, etc.

104. mumblers

105. b/c as an abbreviation for "because"

106. home schooled kids who claim to have graduated "with honors"

107. veganism

108. "light" ice cream

109. beacon hill recycling day/morning

110. the phrase "famous celebrities"

111. commercials for jokes/graphics texted to your cell phone

112. people who take offense to things that should not offend them

113. melissa joan hart

114. semi-homemade with sandra lee

115. obvious table/parking space vultures

116. refried beans

117. Bob of Bob's Discount Furniature

118. the cheapest possible generic dental floss

119. michael moore

120. emeril lagasse

121. direct to dvd sequels that have different actors playing the same characters as in the original

122. mothers who feel entitled to things because they have a baby

123. room temperature/warm milk

124. skinny jeans on men

125. guilt-tripping environmental activists that solicit money on the street/in Boston Common

126. frosty lipstick

127. noises caused by teeth grinding, snapping, scraping, etc.

128. tandem parking spaces

129. when crappy cars have "the club" on them

130. st. bernard's central catholic high school

131. people who list "tanning" as an interest or hobby

132. the phrase "behind the 8 ball"

133. heather mills' prosthetic leg

134. david hasselhoff's german fame

135. scraggly dreadlocks

136. the phrase "next of kin"

137. losing games which require no skill

138. when a word ends with the same vowel the next word starts with, forcing an uncomfortable pause in between.

139. apartment 1

140. huge gums

141. crawling out of the back seat of a 2 door car

142. men who wear more than one polo shirt at the same time.

143. unkempt poofy beards

144. parallel parking

145. incessant text messagers

146. movie talkers

147. ticks

148. online photo albums dedicated to montages of self portraits

148. incessant car alarms

149. H2s

150. all sequels to The Land Before Time

151. "the Ster" as an abbreviation for "Leominster"

152. lazy eyes

153. fat asians

154. people who constantly make new screen names

155. the Trump family

156. when comcast says something is on when it's actually not

157. Dr. Phil

158. low budget local commercials

159. italian pride

160. clumpy eyelashes

161. jehova's witnesses at the door

162. white people with cornrows

163. mouth burns

164. the view

165. bodybuilders

166. broken teeth/injuries leading to broken teeth

167. high pitched barks on large dogs

168. the use of the word "Daddy" out of paternal context

169. matchmaking reality shows

170. jackie's dairy bar

171. constantly injured people

172. lower back and ankle tattoos

173. flat rimmed baseball hats worn with the stickers/tags still on them

174. residents of chestnut hill, massachusetts

175. suicidal contact lenses

176. people magazine covers dedicated to regular people who lost a ton of weight

177. women over the age of 40 who refer to their significant other as their "boyfriend"

178. when there is 1/2 an inch's worth of juice/milk in a container that has been placed back in the refrigerator

179. the last bowl's worth of a box of cereal with all the cereal dust/crumbs

180. celebrity rehab stints

181. poofy bangs

182. overly maintained straight men (eyebrow waxers, facial-getters, etc.)

183. flocks of motorcycles on the highway

184. drool strings

185. uggs in non-winter climates

186. velour/terrycloth jumpsuits

187. patrick swayze

188. detours

189. concerts featuring a group of American Idol contestants

190. starving artists

191. pro wrestling

192. rick and kathy hilton

193. "heelies" and the people that wear them

194. black lip liner

195. raven simone

196. blatantly self taken mirror reflection photos

197. when travel sites send e-mails boasting a certain low fare, but when you

search for tickets, the advertised price is nowhere to be found.

198. the word "vase" pronounced "vah-z"

199. stage moms/"cool moms"

200. people who move their lips while reading silently to themselves

201. regular people (read: not wizards or hobbits) who wear capes/cloaks

202. toe rings

203. man vs. wild

204. people who refer to california as "cali"

205. hoop nose rings

206. the use of asterisks for decorative purposes

207. when people ask questions that they already know the answer to

208. one-liners delivered by little kids in action movies

209. the speech impediment where you whistle through your teeth when you talk

210. kidzbop albums and infomercials for them

211. pregnant pauses

212. "the exciting mike adams" on magic 106.7

213. the word "lover", especially when used as a synonym for "friend"

214. moving out of places

215. spy kids

216. whoopi goldberg's eyebrowlessness

217. people who think that by simply leaving a school without graduating means they are an alumnus.

218. michelle pheiffer's upper lip

219. drew carey

220. n*sync members post n*sync careers

221. first names with apostrophes in them

222. king richard's faire

223. public nose blowing

224. full house "family moments"

225. people who pronounce target "tarje"

226. people who eat perfectly normal sized hamburgers with a fork

227. bret michaels' hair extensions

228. alternatives to "common" nicknames, i.e. "shwa" for "joshua" or "topher" for "christopher"

229. ecmobile

230. loose electrical outlets

231. yankee fans

232. pet food commercials that try to make the food appealing to people

233. express trains that do not convenience me

234. excessive, pronounced blinking

235. people who leave the "t" off of words, i.e. "projeck"

236. people who love the nightmare before christmas

237. ventriloquists

238. people who chew more than one piece of gum at a time.

239. when people repeatedly snooze their alarm clock for hours

240. people who wear clothes that are too small for them

241. mealy apples

242. "the hills"

243. people who mistake being loud for being funny

244. facebook initiated protests

245. paper jams

246. the inevitable cigarette cloud outside every building at emerson

247. scene kids who constantly smoke clove cigarettes

248. people who are starved for attention

249. halloween costumes that are uniforms but sexy

250. people who think they are the only busy/tired people in the world

251. midgets in movies set in medieval times

252. people who are ill prepared for subway motion

253. towel swinging at baseball games

254. mustaches

255. tips from celebrities on how to be "green"

256. extended use of consonants i.e. "daysssssssss"

257. days of the week pronounced "mondee, tuesdee, wednesdee"

258. when people add random accents to their names to appear more ethnic

259. when people refer to people that are not their siblings as "brother" or "sister"

260. BU students/anyone who rides the B Line one stop.

261. hyperactive children

262. people who reject knowledge

263. kay jewelers commercials

264. wedge heeled boots

265. people who do not believe in the moon landing

266. when people include opinions about newly released movies in their facebook status

267. people who habitually take before and after photos of plates of food

268. terry "the hulk" hogan

269. people that hover

270. when people who are not cops hold their hand out to tell you to stop as if they were a cop.

Nope.

2008-04-12T23:55:00.000-07:00

When I was in sixth grade (I think I was probably at my most bizarre when I was 11-12 years old) I had this idea of life chapters and how they played out. It was heavily influenced by my parents' relationship timeline (now officially a defunct reference, considering that lightning like that cannot possibly strike twice within the same family) and Dawson's Creek (I can't believe I was that young and watching Dawson's Creek, but anyway) and went something like this:

1. Graduate Elementary School.

2. Go to High School.

3. Fall in love with High School Soulmate, tear things up, etc.

4. Graduate high school.

5. Go to college.

6. Whoop it up, meet and love Real Life Soulmate.

7. Graduate college.

8. Get married to the afore mentioned Real Life Soulmate.

9. Have ourselves a baby.

10. Exist.

I just realized that I'm currently wearing the same pair of Nutcracker boxers that I got in 1997, the year in question. Well, while I may be wearing the same pajama bottoms that I wore eleven years ago, I'm slightly more in touch with reality now than I was then. As such, I have tweaked my Life Expectations a bit to save myself the agony of finding a husband in the next two weeks.

At least I will have successfully completed steps 1, 2, 4, 5 and 7 on time. But when you think about it, those academic accomplishments do not mean nearly as much, as Dawson, Pacey and Joey managed to achieve them in addition to steps 3,6,8,9,and 10.

They're just remarkable human beings, je suppose.

Ton pis.

2008-04-08T15:18:00.000-07:00

French Women Don't Get Fat is a book that teaches American slobs how to maintain a healthy, French lifestyle in which one can balance what they eat in order to eat basically everything while maintaining a svelte, Parisian figure. Now, if you're Parisian, this lifestyle (the constant, casual eating of delicious food coupled with the walking forty miles a day around the city) comes naturally, but obviously things are a little different here in America and after the cupcake lady made it clear how familiar my face was to her, I figured it might be a good time to experiment with the French Woman Detox Plan.

Basically, when French women do manage to get fat (usually from visiting America or getting pregnant or a combination of the two) they immediately turn to the aide of the Two Day Leek Soup Regimen, which helps get them back to their original state. Basically, you eat nothing but leek juice for two days and on the third day you emerge all flushed out and glowing and Paris ready. C'est bon.

So I bought two pounds of leeks and immersed them in Hollywood water and boiled the hell out of them and got ready to faire le detox. I made it through leek breakfast and lunch of day one when I realized that French Woman Leek Detox was really wreaking havoc on my joie de vivre.

Alors, after my half day of leeks it occurred to me that I'm half French. I have a Grandmaman. I didn't know the English word for grapefruit until I was five and kids didn't know what the heck I was talking about when I said pomplemousse. I can sing Frere Jacques and have spent fifteen days in France. I've seen Paris, Je T'aime and I took lots of ballet. I'm pretty sure all of those factors make it fine for me to skip over the leeks and cut to the part where I only drink champagne and eat crepes and croque monsieurs.