Archive for the ‘L.A.’ Category

The Dallas Debutante Debaucle

September 20, 2007

So yesterday I had this audition for the part of a Texas debutante in a TV show. It was a fun part, and I felt great about it and was really excited.

So I get in there all confident-like, and the dude takes one look at me and says, “How old are you?”

“23,” I said. You may think this is an untruth, but you’ll note he didn’t specify whether he meant actual years or how young I felt in spirit. How was I to know?

Apparently this was still the wrong answer, because he said, “They’ll never cast you as Deb. Here. Read for ‘The Mom.'”

Um.

The mom? Really?

So anyway, that happened, and I went home to complain to my roommates and run an errand before heading to work, and then something very interesting happened:

I went to the bathroom, then got up and noticed something in my pants that didn’t seem like it should be there. I thought, did the toilet paper get waylaid in my jeans on its way into the toilet? Surely not. I can be on the scatterbrained side, but come on, now. So I reached in and pulled out… another pair of panties. A balled-up pair of underwear that was outside of the underwear I was wearing, floating around in my jeans. The jeans I had worn to the audition.

I guess when I had worn them before, I took them and my underwear off at the same time and folded the jeans and put them on my “clothes chair.” Then yesterday morning I put them on, not noticing that there was a pair of panties inside. Then went to an audition.

Could it be the casting director thought I looked more like a mom than a teenage debutante because no young woman with a large butt tumor would ever be selected to make her debut into exclusive upper-class Dallas society?

I can’t imagine how I didn’t feel anything the whole time… parking, finding the audition, talking to the security guard, standing, sitting, walking, moving around in front of the casting director and all the other people who were waiting to audition… I can only hope this means the auxiliary, contraband panties were flattened against my butt in a way that made them invisible to the naked eye, and only when I shifted things around in the bathroom did they ball themselves up and appear like a freakish butt goiter.

I can only hope.

zzzzzzzzzz…

September 19, 2007

This has to be short because I’m sick with the cold that’s going around and I’m so, so tired… but before I forget I have to just say that I’ve been listening to Brandi Carlile a lot lately, and as a side note I saw her last week and she is amazing; so badass and incredible… but anyway there’s this song and I swear at one point she says, “my mind is full of raisins.” I know this can’t be, so I listen as hard as I can every time it comes around, but that’s all I can hear. Tomorrow I’ll look up the lyrics and let you know how far off I am, but right now I’m so tired I feel like my mind is full of raisins.

I had an audition today and have a ridiculous story to share. I think this story will make you all wonder why I’m not on a sit-com. Not because it will awe you with tales of my acting acumen, but rather because I pretty much live in a sitcom in which I’m the character who always runs into the doorjam on her way out the door, slips and falls, and walks around with toilet paper on her shoe. I’m that one. If my actual, real life were a sit-com, you’d watch it and go, “Yeah, right, nobody is that ridiculous in real life.” But you’d be wrong. Anyway, so I have this ridiculous story but again I’m dying of tiredness, so I will leave you with one final mysterious tidbit before I go to sleep: I just got a high five from Ryan Gosling. WOOT!

Quake

August 9, 2007

Last night at one a.m. I awoke with a jolt. Sat up straight in bed with a sudden inhalation of breath. There was some sort of loud noise and sense of movement, and I thought someone had broken into my house and was right outside my room. I remember thinking, “Should I scream? Would that help anything?” All this flashed through my mind in a fraction of a second, and then I noticed the chair near my bed was shaking. Ah! An earthquake. (It’s good to know that if there were someone on the way to hack me to pieces I’d just sit there frozen and confused — “huuh? Oh, you’re going to kill me? Ohhh, ok…)

I usually sleep through earthquakes, but I had only been asleep about 20 minutes, so I guess I woke more easily. The two others I have felt were just one quick jolt, but this one was just like the movies, where stuff goes on shaking for a while. Mind you, in my sleepy fog it seemed like forever, but I’m sure it was only a few seconds.

I was thinking about it today, and this, I realize, is completely backwards and a terrible way to think… but… I kind of wished I could live through a real natural disaster just so I could relax about some things. Does that make sense? You always hear people talking about their near-death experiences, and they say the whole thing has made them focus on what’s important, and suddenly the things that used to stress them out don’t seem like such a big deal anymore. They’re just so happy and thankful to be alive, they just want to enjoy their family and friends, and now they wake up every day with a smile on their face.

I think in general I maintain a pretty firm grasp on the big picture. I know I’m incredibly blessed in so many ways, and overall my life is amazing. And I also know that a big part of life and happiness is having goals to work toward — it’s the way humans are designed. So I know that no matter what I achieve, I will always want something more. It’s good, but it can also be exhausting.

In conclusion, God, if you read my blog, I am not asking for a natural disaster to smite me or my loved ones — especially not my loved ones! I’m just maybe going to try to pretend I’ve been through one. Yeah, I’m going to try that. I’m going to try to get up every morning and just be glad I’m here, breathing in and out.

I have a feeling it will be good.

The Situation Becomes Dire

June 19, 2007

My roommate Matthew is moving out, and we’re supposed to find a new roommate to replace him (not that anyone could replace you, Matthew) (not that you read my blog anyway) by July 1. And we have not. Mind you, we have interviewed several people and have offered the room to four of them, and all four have turned it down for various and sundry reasons. This leaves me befuddled, because we have never had this kind of problem in the past. Usually people are begging to move into our adorable house. This time it has been like pulling teeth, though, and as the clock ticks by, offers we would never have considered in the past are now starting to seem more and more attractive. You have a dog? Sure! A snake? Well… come over and we’ll meet you. A snake that roams free in the house and likes to cuddle on the couch and watch TV? Uh… I mean, I’ll try anything once…

The best of these, though, is the twins. Please enjoy their email and photo below (ALL IN CAPS! THEY ARE TWINS AND MUST SHOUT AT ALL TIMES!):

HI MY NAME IS J***. MY TWIN BROTHER J**** AND I ARE LOOKING FOR A ROOM THAT WE CAN SHARE. YOUR PLACE SOUNDS GREAT SO I THOUGHT I’D ASK IF THE TWO OF US COULD SHARE THE ROOM.

WE ARE BOTH 21. WE GO TO SCHOOL,WORK, WRITE AND WORKOUT. WE DON’T DRINK OR SMOKE. WE ARE VERY SOCIAL,OUTGING AND VERY CHILL GUYS. HOPEFULLY WE CAN HAVE THE CHANCE TO GET THIS PLACE. PLEASE CONTACT US IF YOU CAN, I’D LOVE TO TELL YOU MORE ABOUT US.
TWINCERLY, J*** L******
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No, your eyes are not deceiving you. He signed the email “Twincerely.” Could this possibly get any better?

Kids These Days!

May 30, 2007

Sunday night I went to a party with my friend Brennan. I should have known this would be an eventful night, because the last time I went to a party with him we ended up chauffering a group of dressy young adults we didn’t know up to a castle on top of a mountain, where the valet yelled at us. Then at the party Brennan spent most of his time gone to get ice and trying to find a parking spot once he got back. Then when he finally did, and I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if that ice wasn’t melted anyway, the police came and the host got mad and started yelling at everyone, and it was raining and I kept slippy-sliding down the hill on our way back to the car. But that is neither here nor there.

At this particular party, the one on Sunday, we walked up, all unsuspecting and innocent (read: dummies who never learn), and were greeted by a crowd of people out in the yard all listening to a band. As we approached and I was able to see this band, my first instinct was, “awwww,” because it was one kid that was probably about ten or eleven, and one kid that couldn’t have been more than six. The ten-year-old was lead singing and guitar playing (The little one was kind of doing nothing, although you may get away with calling him “backup vocals”), and starts in on “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” except instead of Heaven’s door he was knocking on Satan’s door, and throughout the song he was swearing up a storm, to the point that any sailor in the audience may very well have blushed.

Brennan and I stood there for a minute trying to process this incongruous situation, and then we just looked at each other like, “ummmmmmmmmmm… ” I kept glancing around expecting the kid’s mom to march up and stick a bar of soap in his mouth.

At one point? He started singing about things he would do to a woman that are, um, very sexual in nature and involve, you know, um, a mouth and a, um, a… hoo-hoo, if you will. And I’m like, holy mother of pearl, where are this kid’s parents?! And here’s the part where I start to sound like your granddad who says when he was your age a bottle of Coca-Cola was a nickel… but when I was this kid’s age I had no idea what any of that “sex” stuff was, and if you were a fly on the wall, you may have even overheard me saying, “I don’t get why kissing lying down is so much worse than kissing standing up! Like, why does my dad always stand in front of the TV when people start kissing in bed? I don’t get it.” In fact, when my friend and I were twelve and discovered her uncle’s collection of cheesy romance novels and I read something about oral sex, I was completely traumatized. “He put his tongue WHERE????”

I mean, maybe I had an unusually wholesome upbringing, but Brennan was equally as shocked… although I do have to hand it to the kid… he was totally badass. He could shred that guitar, and later in the night he actually shot a bottle of red bull, like how you’d shoot a beer by puncturing the side of it. As though he were practicing for the real thing. I have to admit that although I did get caught in the crossfire and sprinkled with red bull, I was a little bit impressed.

As we journeyed through the house and encountered various characters, we found that the rest of the party was no less strange than the beginning. I had brought a bottle of wine, being the classy broad that I am, and as we unsuccessfully searched around for a corkscrew, someone who had opened his own wine with a knife knocked over a glass (red plastic cup) of it on my shoe. Simultaneously, an awkward dude came around asking everyone for money, because apparently someone had stolen someone’s computer, and this guy was taking donations for, “you know, first of all, to like show appreciation for the party, and also for like, you know, Kevin’s computer.” Although we’d probably been there for a total of twenty minutes, we felt this was as good a time as any to get the H outta there, and we sidled our way to freedom and went up to Birds, which felt a lot more normal.

Normalcy is something I enjoy, although I’ve got to say, experiences like these are what makes the world go ’round — or at least, they make for fun “Remember that time… ” stories. Ahh, life. (shaking my head and giving you a knowing look).

Here are a couple thumbnails (I’ve just decided I hate the word “thumbnails”) of the more normal part of the evening when we went to Birds and met Eric.

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I think in the second picture I was trying to make Brennan look at the camera, which he will not do without force, because he thinks he’s picture kryptonite.
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BALLS

April 25, 2007

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A Little Bit Country, a Little Bit Rock ‘n Roll

April 18, 2007

I guess I haven’t been paying attention to the news, because I missed it when someone deemed today the official “Drive Like an Asshole” day. All day long, I have been swerving in and out and around idiots. This morning someone in an old VW Beetle cut me off to the extent that I had to slam on my brakes, then swerve into the other lane and lay on my horn; and I would like to share right here that what I shouted was — because I’ve kind of made a half-assed attempt to vary my vocabulary in such a way that makes me slightly less old-man-sailor-like — what I shouted was, “GEEZ LOU-FUCKIN’-WEEZE!” Yes, that’s right. Geez Lou-fuckin-weeze.

But I’m telling you, she deserved it.

Haikus for You’s

March 7, 2007

I need to write more.
This blog is getting lonely.
Sorry, Internet.

Today was sunny.
I read a book in the park.
Don’t be too jealous.

With windows open
the whole house smells like flowers.
California rocks.

Men with arm muscles
make me get all swooney-like.
Show me those guns, man.

I Take It All Back!

February 20, 2007

This is unbelievable. I called the Traffic Court peeps today to ask them how I could pay my ticket, and two things:

1. When I first called, the robot said, “You have. seventy. nine. callers ahead of you. in the queue.” And I said, “Uggghhhhhh, are you kidding, Robot?” and the robot didn’t answer. But I decided to stay on hold and put it on speakerphone while I worked, and within a couple minutes the robot came back on to say, “You have thirty. nine. callers. ahead of you. in the queue.” And I said to myself, I said, “Wow, that’s a lot lower than seventy nine, and it hasn’t been long at all.” And sure enough, before I knew it, an non-surly and perhaps even borderline friendly human voice picked up the phone.

2. That same borderline friendly voice told me my ticket had already been dismissed.

3. It was dismissed.

4. The ticket was dismissed.

5. I do not have to pay a dime. My driving record remains pristine. I do not have to do traffic school.

6. They dismissed the ticket, people.

Why? I do not know. I can only conclude that a. This has happened to me before, and for some reason I seem to have amazing luck with traffic tickets, or More Likely, b. the young, hot cop decided he liked me and didn’t want to give me a ticket after all because I’m so adorable.

So, I take it all back. All of it. I love the government, and I believe it is efficient and wonderful and kind and beautiful and hot and sexy and delicious, like Maverick and IceMan wrestling in ice cream while Captain Jack Sparrow plays with puppies atop a unicorn.

God Bless America, and Happy Belated President’s Day.

Stupid Presidents!

February 19, 2007

Happy President’s Day, my ass.

This morning I decided to attack the pile of clothes that was trying to defy gravity by towering precariously on a chair in my room. As I gathered an armload of clothes that were too dirty to put away, yet too clean to put in the laundry, out fluttered a slip of paper. I picked it up, and, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, I said. It was that ticket I got right after New Year’s for running that stop sign, and I had totally forgotten about it. As it happens, tomorrow is the last day to pay it.

OK, no problem, I thought, I’ll just log onto the handy little traffic court website and pay it online. Except that it kept telling me my citation number and birth date didn’t match. So I tried searching with my licence number, which also apparently didn’t match my birthdate. So I tried the automated phone system, which cheerfully told me the same thing. So I tried holding for an operator, but the same cheerful robot (I’m really starting to be wary of robots) told me that “Our office is open, but we are unable to assist you at this time. If you need operator assistance, please call back later. Otherwise, press one to return to the main menu.” Um… So I tried “calling back later” about a thousand times, hence my spot-on memorization of the cheerful robot message, but to no avail. At last, I thought I had better just go down to the ghetto place where the court house is, and pay it in person.

So I hopped on the 10 and freewayed down to the courthouse, parked, mused that it appeared to be a ghost town (hmm, how quaint, nobody is here, except for this couple parked in front of me in a red Tercel making out with each other. However, I am sure there will most definitely be someone in the courthouse who will be able to help me with a smile. After all, their phone system robot is so cheerful! I’m sure that all employees at the Los Angeles Courthouse will be equally as friendly and helpful)! I am an optomist.

Unfortunately, I was never able to determine the level of cheerfulness a human courthouse employee might exhibit, because there was a paper sign taped to the door announcing that the courthouse was closed today for stupid dupid President’s Day. Maybe there would be a mail slot or a handy ticket payment drop box somewhere on the building, I thought, and walked all the way around it. But… nah. Why do that? That would be “convenient,” and “efficient,” which are things we here in the government try to avoid.

So, just to recap for you, someone put in the incorrect birthdate on my traffic ticket. The ONLY way to access the ticket online or via the phone system is by entering my birthdate. The court house was closed today, but the phone system robot specifically told me they were open. Unfortunately I cannot see a paper sign taped to the courthouse door from my living room.

Hey, here’s a thought! When the average government office starts operating even almost as efficiently as, oh, I don’t know, a store at the mall or a child’s lemonade stand, and doesn’t make you want to slit your throat every time you have to deal with it, then I can pat our presidents on the back for a job well done.

If You’re About to Turn 30, No Complaining

January 16, 2007

About a month ago I injured my feet and have been unable to run, hike, spin, or do any type of exercise I usually do, and I was getting totally stir-crazy, so I re-joined the gym the other day so I could use the pool and take yoga and pilates classes. The first thing I did was take a water aerobics class. I’ve taken these before and have found them to be surprisingly challenging. In the locker room, I asked an older woman if she knew where the pool was, and she looked a little confused, but said she was going there so I could follow. As I suspected, when I got to the pool, I was the youngest person there by about 3 decades. And for the first 20 mins. or so, I was thinking, Oh my gosh, I am SO out of place in this class. It was SO easy, and people were really struggling to do the exercises. But then the teacher passed out funoodles and we started doing ab & core work, and I started to feel the burn a little. Mind you, I was one of the only ones in the pool who could even do some of the exercises — Most of the class just stood there, already knowing it was a lost cause.The whole time I just kept thinking, Man. Old people are out of shape. I mean, they are out. of. shape. I’ve done almost no exercise at all in the last month and am nowhere near my peak fitness level. And this class was a total breeze for me, while the oldies in there were sta-ruggling. And this is L.A., one of the most health-conscious areas in the country. It made me want to resolve to work out like a bandit for as long as I live (because bandits are known for their intense workouts, you know), even when I have kids and get all busy. I just can’t accept that we all go downhill physically to that extent. It was an eye-opener, that’s for sure.

On the upside, I made two new friends: Betty and Laurel. Nice ladies, those two.

I like the pool, and can stay after class and swim laps, so I think I’ll go back. And if nothing else, it’ll be good motivation to keep my ass in shape while I still can. Yikes.

A Classy New Year to You, Too, Ma’am

January 3, 2007

So… 2007 is here. So far in the New Year, in reverse order, I have gotten a ticket for running a stop sign, have taken a short but beautiful road trip, and have shouted my S.A.T. scores to a stranger.

Wikki-wikki-what??? Yeah, I did.

I was drunk.

But I mean, this woman shut the door to the hotel in front of my friends and me as we were walking in — literally pulled it shut behind her right in our faces, and said, “Go find another hotel.” Who does that? We didn’t know her at all; she was a total stranger who just felt like being all exclusive for no reason. Well, rather than take her kind advice, we went on in, and saw her getting on the elevator. One of our friends walked up to the elevator door and said, “Hey, it’s our friend!” and I stepped around him and chimed in, extra chipper-like, “Oh, Hey, are you the one who shut the door in our face???” Except I’m not sure, but it may have gone more like, “Are you the bitch who shut the door in our face?” And she shouted, “Get out of my face, bitch!”, and I shouted “Oh yeah? Why don’t YOU get out of MY face, bitch?” (one of my better comebacks). The elevator door shut, then opened, and she said something dumb that I don’t remember now, to which I said, “Ooooo, real intelligent comeback!” Luckily she seemed to have forgotten the super-smart retort I had just used and just said something about me not being intelligent, so really, my only option was to offer her proof of my mental acuity by shouting my SAT scores (from 10 years ago) at her. Right? I mean, right?? Then, for emphasis, I gave her the verbal/math breakdown as the doors were sliding shut again. “XXX VERBAL AND XXX MATH, BABY!” So I got the last word. And that’s what counts, right? Pure class on my part. And good thing I did well on the verbal portion, because those skills really helped me out in that exchange… uhhhhhh…

Well… Those were my first moments of 2007. I was in San Diego spending the holiday with my friend Elise. The next day, New Year’s Day, I drove home as the sun was going down. I left at 3:30, and it was a bright orange ball hovering over the ocean, reflecting glittery yellow on the water. As I drove north, it gradually sunk lower and the sky got oranger. Near L.A. the freeway curved around so that I was facing west, and magnificent color surrounded me on all sides. Then it curved again, and the shiny buildings downtown on my east side were reflecting back the oranges, reds, and yellows of the setting sun. I felt small but totally alive, and it was the perfect way to usher in a new year.

And it’s good that I had that experience, because this morning I got a ticket on the way to work. It’s not like I didn’t stop at the stop sign, but admittedly I probably pulled the old roll-stop maneuver, which I guess could be argued as something other than an actual stop. Sigh. That said, the cop was the nicest on-duty cop by far that I have ever encountered, and was also young and incredibly good looking, causing me to feel conflicting things, because he did, after all, give me a ticket. Whatever.

So that’s my year so far. As with my 27th birthday, I have high hopes, partly because years that end in sevens tend to be good ones for me. 1987 and 1997 were both totally badass, so I’m thinking 2007 has some good things in store. I hope y’all have a good one, too.

Excuse Me While I Put On My Christmas Eyebrows

December 19, 2006

Last night I dreamt I looked in the mirror and realized I had a giant Frida Kahlo-style unibrow, and that I had just bridesmaided in my sister’s wedding with said brow, and that she had been trying to tell me but didn’t want to hurt my feelings. I was horrified that I would be in all of her wedding photos looking like Bert on Sesame Street.

I imagine I had this dream because I’ve been trying to pluck my own brows rather than pay the small fortune that my waxing lady is now charging, and while I am far from having a unibrow, my eyebrows are decidedly less neat than they were before. Apparently I’m feeling insecure about it.

Speaking of eyebrows, aren’t they funny? I was just looking at this photo, and I was looking at all of our eyebrows, and suddenly they seemed so hilarious and out of place, like when you say the word “squash” or some such word over and over until it loses all meaning and just makes you giggle. Giggle is another word you can do that with, and if we’re being honest, I actually really hate that word, and I’m not sure why. But there’s really no other English word that means the exact same thing as giggle, so I’m forced to use it. Ick. I think I would like it more if it were a nerdy science word, like, “Norbert, please pass me 10.5 giggles of glycometamorphic acid.”

But I digress. We’re talking about eyebrows, and who here watched/watches Arrested Development? In my opinion, this was the most creative, ingenius, and hilarious show that has ever been on TV, and I TiVo all the reruns that play on a mysterious channel called G4 (who knew?), and it’s pretty much all I feel like watching anymore; that and The Office. Well, there’s this one character, Stan Sitwell, who has a condition called Alopecia, whereby he is unable to grow hair anywhere on his body. First of all, Lucille, the matriarch, at one point says something like, “Of course he’s bald; he’s an alpaca!” And Michael (the adorable and brilliant Jason Bateman) corrects her. But in another episode, Michael’s brother Gob steals Stan Sitwell’s “dress eyebrows,” and is later wearing them, and Michael goes, “Are you wearing Stan Sitwell’s eyebrows???” And Gob sighs, all dejected-like, “They make me feel more dressy,” or something. Anyway, you probably had to see it, but it cracks my shit up.

Maybe for Christmas I’ll treat myself to an eyebrow wax. And speaking of Christmas, I promised Rachel I’d blog about my Christmas plans, so here goes! I will be in L.A., where there will be NO traffic, and it will be wonderful. Last year on Christmas Day Jeff and I took pictures of Beverly Blvd. There was one car behind us, and NOBODY in front of us, as far as the eye could see. It was a Christmas miracle.

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This year two of my roommates and I will be home, along with a couple guests. I decorated the house last night, and I guess you could call the decor “tacky-chic,” although that wasn’t exactly what I was going for. But… hey, at least it’s Christmassy. BTW, if anyone knows where I can find colored lights on a white cord, please let me know, b/c I’ve been all over the country looking for them, and right now my hip white tree has lights with a green cord, and it looks pretty un-hip.

Soooo, our shiny 99-cent store stockings are hung by the chimney (front window) with care, and we’re going to have a big home-cooked prime rib dinner on Christmas Eve. My roommate Adam is cooking the prime rib, and maybe I’ll make mashed potatoes and/or sweet potato casserole. Then Jeff and I might go to a midnight mass, which is actually at 10:30, if we can drag ourselves off the couch. Christmas Day will probably be pretty uneventful, and will likely involve watching DVDs and eating stuff all day.

So those are my plans, and I’m pretty thrilled. I’ve got Friday off, and my usual Monday, so I plan to have as much relaxing fun as possible on my 4-day weekend. And if Santa doesn’t bring me a unibrow, I’ll consider it a success.

Merry Christmas, y’all!

How White Am I? And, You’re Welcome.

December 1, 2006

Last night I went out with some new friends from my improv class. We went to a bar in Hollywood called the Pig & Whistle, and the theme of the evening was “Frat Night.” I guess we were supposed to feel like we were at a frat party, but the only thing even remotely fratty was the fact that they kept giving us free jello shots. Otherwise, we all agreed it was unlike and more fun than any frat party we’d ever been to in college. The DJ didn’t even play a single Dave Matthews song.

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Well… after we’d each had a drink and a couple jello shots, the buzz kicked in and three of us found ourselves heatedly discussing which one of us was whiter: my friend Virginia or me. We were both adament about not being declared the whitest of the bunch, which is totally retarded now that I think of it, because, well… all three of us are… white. I initially thought I would be the whitest, and Virginia decided that since she was half Catholic that made her less white. But I said republicans are whiter than democrats, and her parents are both avid republicans, whereas my dad is a democrat and my mom doesn’t seem to really give a wet rat’s ass about politics. Then I threw in that my mom, though white herself, grew up in a third-world Latin American country and speaks fluent Spanish, and I scored some major non-white points with that. Then our friend Josh told us each to say “For Shizzle,” and I won that one, too, even though Virginia added “my nizzle.” She did get some points for that, but not enough, and she was deemed the whitest — at least for the evening. Then we started dancing, but we forbade Josh to analyze our dancing skills in relation to our whiteness, because you can’t dance when someone is analyzing you.

Now that we’ve cleared that up, you may be wondering why you should be thanking me. Really this only applies to you if you live in L.A., so sorry to those of you that are like, “Yaaawwwwnnn, Marcy, this blentry is soooooo boring, give me a break, for crying out loud, I don’t live in L.A. and I don’t caaaare about the parking there.” BUT. Those of you who do, I took one for the team last night. I keep asking everyone about parking in loading zones at night, and everyone goes, “I know the yellow ones are fine after six, but I’m not sure about the white ones.” Nobody knew! Now, I’ve parked in the white ones before and not gotten a ticket, so I thought maybe they were all cool at night. Not so. Yellows only. It’s $35 if you park in a white for more than five minutes (yes, I’m talking about “whites” again). So don’t do it. See? You’re welcome.

Three Whities: Me, Virginia, Erin

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Happy Weekend! I’m going to Disneyland tomorrow! Yaaaaaaaay!

I Want Something

November 16, 2006

Lately there’s been something swimming around in my brain. Something I’ve heard about before but kind of forgot about, or didn’t pay much attention to. But I keep hearing it, and I’m starting to think it makes a lot of sense. It has to do with the power of want. Wanting something is the first step towards getting it. And if you keep focusing your mind on getting it, usually you will. That’s the theory, anyway. It’s something about energy, and changing the energy around us — weird invisible spooky energy stuff we don’t think much about. But we should, because it can change our lives.

Well, I want something really badly. It took me way too long to realize just how badly I want it, but I know now, and that’s the first step to getting it. So for the sake of getting what I want, I’m going to announce it. On the internet. I feel really silly, but I’m doing it, and if you all could take a second to think about me doing this thing I want — just one second, or longer if you want to — I would be forever grateful.

I want to be an actor. On TV. On a brilliant comedy show, like The Office or Arrested Development. I watch those shows over and over, and I know I was made to be on a show like that. So, I’m asking you to please just take a moment to picture me walking on the set of one of those shows, if you’re familiar with them. Picture me walking in, in character, taking off my jacket, and talking to one of the other characters, preferably saying something hilarious. If you don’t know those particular shows, just picture me on your favorite one, or even just showing up on your TV screen, waving and laughing and saying, “I DID IT! I’M ON TV!”

I think some people look at acting as a selfish job, because it’s so fun. I kind of used to think so, too. But now I realize it’s exactly the opposite. We all have a responsibility to do what we enjoy most, because only then can we be happy and whole, and until we’re whole, we can’t share parts of ourselves with others. Or something like that. I just want to get up every day and feel excited about going to work. I want to laugh a lot, every day, and be a part of creating something I’m proud of. I want to feel like I’m part of something that makes other people laugh, something people can relate to.

This is something I want, and I’m admitting it. I might fail. It might never happen. But I’m not going to pretend I don’t want it, because I do. I know I’m good enough, and I know it’s possible. And now I’ve got at least a second of your focused, positive energy in my corner, and I won’t be surprised if something happens sooner than we think, thanks to you.

In conclusion, since this post has been all about me, if you want something, leave a comment or email me, and I’ll picture you doing it, or getting it — as long as it has nothing to do with killing puppies.