Belgians.

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

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

Ambush beautiful musical numbers in public places.

Allons y!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Type Stereo.

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

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

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

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

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

It's my own fault.

Pas de Shabby

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

...Maybe a few of my own words?

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

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

Victim.

Okay so riddle me this:

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

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

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

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

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

or

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

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

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

I'm legitimately losing my marbles. 

Deja Tu.

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


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


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


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

Tnemilpmoc.

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

INT. PARKING GARAGE THIRD LEVEL - CRACK OF DAWN

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

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

DANIELLE

Good morning!

JUAN CARLO

Good morning miss! Haveaniceday!

DANIELLE

You too!

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

JUAN CARLO

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

DANIELLE

Oh stop it, you make my whole day.

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

JUAN CARLO

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

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

Whatever, I love him.

*I don't know his real name.

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