For example:

Eponine in Les Mis: If you’re not familiar with her story, there’s this whole thing where this guy Marius meets this girl Cosette, and they fall in love and sing beautiful duets and so forth. Well, Eponine has been friends with Marius forever and is secretly in love with him, and can’t stand it when he falls for Cosette. Hence the song “On My Own,” and Eponine piping into other songs singing about how she’s all alone and isn’t life so hard and yadda yadda yadda. Well, when I was in high school, I romanticized the ever-loving shit out of Eponine’s story. Wasn’t it so heartbreaking that she loved this man, and he just treated her like one of the guys? Wasn’t it valiant of her to deliver this letter from Marius to Cosette in the middle of the French Revolution and get shot on the way, and didn’t that just serve Marius right to have her die in his arms? Wasn’t she the most beautiful, the most tragic, the most passionate, amazing woman?

Um… and now I just find myself thinking, “Girl! Pull yourself together! Sure, this dude has a lovely singing voice, but he’s in love with somebody else.” I mean, I’m frankly more than a little embarrassed for her. She’s kind of making a fool of herself if you get right down to it. She needs to stop whining, stop obsessing, pull herself up by the bootstraps, go get some fondue and a glass of burgundy, and eventually meet a man who actually notices her. Geez, right? Seriously, lady, put on your beret and go get on your bike with a long loaf of bread in the basket, and I’m sure you’ll meet someone new in no time. Someone who will make you forget all about Marius and his pesky girlfriend. I mean, you don’t need him! Sure, it may take time to mend your heart, but I suggest getting some fine milled soap and taking a bubble bath. Hunker down with a good Victor Hugo novel to take your mind off things. Go ride a carousel or get a crepe or listen to some accordian music, I don’t know, these are just things I’m throwing out there.  But my point is, when I was 16, this character was like my hero, and now, well… well.

And while I’m at it, what’s up with Rent? I mean, some of the characters I have to admit are really in tough spots, like Mimi for example (AIDS, junkie); and the Collins (AIDS) and Angel (dies of AIDS) storyline is heartbreaking. And it sucks that Roger’s gf killed herself (because she had AIDS). That really does suck. But still… Maureen and Joanne seem fine and in good health. And Mark seems to have had a pretty stable existence up until now, and his mom seems positively delightful — I mean, she sent him a hotplate for goodness’ sake, and she calls him all the time to tell him she loves him — and yet he’s burning posters and screenplays to keep himself warm because he hasn’t paid the heating bill? And everyone’s bitching and moaning because Benny is making them pay…. oh my gosh, say it isn’t so… Rent! Like, because, aaaahhh, what a hardship to have to pay for the place where you live! Oh my gosh, he’s such an asshole for asking us to pay him to live in the building he owns! We would prefer to live for free!

Oh yeah? Would you? Would you prefer to live for free? Because you believe your housing is someone else’s responsibility? There’s a word for that, and it’s “communism,” and I’d like to see you move to a communist country and try to be a professional actress or musician or filmmaker there. Go ahead, Maureen. Be my guest, Mark; Roger. Go move to China and start a band and get some gigs and see how well you do.

Listen, I get it. I’m an artist, too. And I would much prefer to spend all day languishing about, creating, rather than working a day job just to pay the bills. But since I’m not an heiress, I accept that sacrifices must be made, and I get it done. And maybe you should do the same, Cast of Rent. And you know what, Eponine? I’ve had my heart broken, too, and I’ve been into plenty of guys who weren’t into me back. (I know, it’s reeeeeeally hard to believe, but it has happened). And did I moan and cry and sing sad songs all the time? Well… OK, I did write a bunch of bad poetry about boys I liked in middle school, and you should see how ridiculous my journals from circa 1993 were… but I mean, ahem…  You get my point.

So anyway. When I’m in New York, am I going to be a cynical old lady? Am I going to look at these characters and roll my eyes and go, “Puhlease, Billy Elliot. You’re a boy! In a coal-mine strike! Just practice your boxing and for Pete’s sake, put that leotard away.” Or, “Maria! Maria! Can you hear me?! This guy is going to cause you no end of trouble. There are plenty of cute boys in your own gang!”

Will I? Or will I cry my eyes out and love every minute?

I’ll keep you posted.

Well, for some reason, flights and hotels cost money — like, more than five dollars kind of money. I know! And seeing as how I’m still recovering from having been mostly unemployed for four months and am now a temp with no paid vacation days, I started to investigate the hostel scene in New Orleans… until my wise friend Elise reminded me that I’m turning THIRTY, and ringing in that milestone by staying in a hostel is just sad and will not be allowed, and I agree. But anyway, for a minute I was reading reviews on hostels and found this gem written by someone from Denmark named Knud:

It´s a hostel for hippi- people and youth who want to reknow their anal face – living in shit and enjoy- or fly away being high. –knud, from Denmark

Do you think “reknow their anal face” is a phrase directly translated from an expression they use in Denmark? I’d like to know. Either way, I somehow think I know exactly what he’s saying and found his review as helpful as any other, or more so. Clearly, I’m not a hippi- person (or a youth, for that matter), and if I did want to stay in a hostel, I would certainly take Knud’s advice and steer clear of that one.

So I may or may not go to New Orleans for my birthday. I had really, really wanted to organize a ski trip with friends this winter to Big Bear, Mammoth, or Tahoe, and I surely won’t be able to do both unless a rich old aunt I didn’t know I had suddenly dies and leaves me a fortune. But if I don’t make the trip to the land of hurricanes and Cajun food, what will I do to celebrate my having lived on this earth for 3 decades? Sigh. I wish I could ask Knud. He always knows exactly what to say.

Yes, I took pictures, and yes, I will upload them as soon as I get my act together.

I have been trying, for almost two years, to get a free tropical vacation for two that someone promised me.

I know what you’re thinking, and no, it wasn’t a time-share sales pitch or an internet pop-up ad or someone who also promised me a handful of magic beans in exchange for my cow.

I was on a game show called Starface in the summer of 2006. There were three contestants, and near the end, I was neck in neck with one of the others. We were in the round where we were holding Anna-Nicole Smith masks over our faces and answering in her voice (yep). The answer to a question was Playmate of the Year. I just said “Playmate,” and it was wrong, and the other guy answered it correctly and won by a slim margin. After the show, the contestant producers came up to me and said they should have let me try to answer it completely before giving it to him, so here’s what they’d do: If the show got picked up for the next season, I’d get to go back on and try again. If it didn’t, I’d receive a grand prize vacation for two to a tropical destination. SWEET!

Well, being the kind of show in which contestants wear cardboard masks of celebrities, it did not get picked up for a second season… meaning… a vacation for me and one lucky guest! Right? Um… well, as it turns out, after 29 years of living on this planet, I have somehow managed to remain hopelessly trusting. Believing they meant what they said and intended to actually do it, I failed to get any sort of official document. As soon as I realized the show wasn’t returning, I went, “OH! I should contact someone… ” and proceeded to search for someone’s contact info. Finally I dug something up, and I emailed her and emailed her and emailed her, and she apparently was emailing someone else at another office who wasn’t emailing her back, so she finally gave me his info so I could contact him directly, so I did, and didn’t hear back, and emailed again and again and finally heard from a third person who said it was now out of this office’s hands and I needed to contact the network… so I did, with this one address she gave me, and didn’t hear back, and didn’t hear back, and didn’t hear back… until finally I ran into the original contestant producer on a NEW game show I was on recently, and she gave me a new name of someone at the network, Kevin, so I called him and spoke to his assistant, then You guessed it! didn’t hear back, so I called again and emailed just to be safe, then finally heard the very encouraging, “We haven’t forgotten; we’re working on it. Please contact us again near the end of the month.”

That was early November, so I emailed again today and received an email back from a brand new person, Joel, who said that Kevin was no longer working there and that now legal was “investigating the situation” and he would let me know. Sigh.

Do y’all think I’m getting this vacation? Am I the biggest, dumbest, optimist ever? Because I still believe I am. Despite two years of being passed from hand to hand like a dish of salted nuts*, I still firmly believe that I will get that vacation, for two reasons: #1: It is the right thing to do. They told me I’d get it, and I can’t help but believe that somewhere in every human is the need to do the right thing. and #2: I am going to continue to politely bug the hell out of these people until they give me the dang vacation that they told me they were giving me!!!!!

Please picture me on a beautiful beach somewhere, with white sand and clear water, sipping the fruitiest of drinks, with a big smile on my face. Thank you! Now I’m one step closer. And while you’re at it, can you help me steal this golden-egg-laying hen from underneath this sleeping giant? Thanks.

*That wonderful descriptive phrase is from a Nicky Silver play, I think called Free Will and Wanton Lust, unless I’m confusing it with another one.

1. I quit my office job. (Yayayayay! After 5 years straight of being office girl, for the last month and a half I have been unemployed girl, and it’s been a wonderful break, although I’m starting to get a little antsy). So anyway, maybe I always have to find something to be discontented about. Now that I can no longer be tired of my job, maybe the only thing to be tired of is the city. Maybe? I don’t know.

2. Um, I totally just blanked on the second reason! It’s coming, I know… OH, yes, here we go: I haven’t been on a long vacation since Jep was a pup, or since you were knee high to a grasshopper. The last place I went, other than home to North Carolina for Christmas, was to Mexico for 5-ish days last October for my friend American Virginia’s wedding. That was wonderful, but I don’t think I was away long enough to fully recharge.

3. (I just thought of a third). The SMOG, you guys, is totally out of control this summer. My chest has been burning for months, and I got a cold for the first time in at least 3 years, and I’m convinced it’s because the smog caused a bunch of goop to build up in my lungs and sinuses, which made an ideal home for the cold virus to lodge on its vacation in my body. See? Even the cold virus is traveling! Shouldn’t I?

So… now that I’m unemployed and untethered, Operation Travel shall commence! The bad news for me is that I don’t have a great deal of money (see #1), so going anywhere far, far away or for a long time is out of the question. My weeks-long tour of Japan, hiking in the Andes, and skiing in New Zealand will have to wait a little longer. Instead I’m going to New York next Wednesday for 6 days to perform with one of my improv groups in the Del Close Marathon, and most excitingly, I’m planning a trip to Seattle next month with my friend Elise. I’ve never been, and I’ve always wanted to, and right now the thought of rain makes me want to run around in circles with excitement. Just for something different, and for some clean, fresh air to breathe, and to be able to look out the window and actually see what’s there rather than know there is a beautiful landscape that I can’t see because it’s buried in haze.

P.S. The whole time I’ve been typing this, something on me smells good, and I can’t figure out what it is. My hands smell pretty good, but I don’t think that’s it… maybe it’s my deodorant? Oh, gosh, nope, definitely not that. Hmmm. I think it is my hands, actually. But I don’t know why! Neither my soap nor my lotion smells like that. Maybe it’s a combination that chemically combined to create this new delicious aroma. Must be. OH! I just figured it out. I got home and my feet were filthy because I’d been wearing flip flops all day, so I washed them in the sink with this new bath gel I got (Alba Botanica honey mango) (mmmm). And I also got some of it on my hands, obviously. Mystery solved!

P.P.S. I realize this blentry is totally boring, but at least I wrote something, right? Right? mmm?

Night one of our adventure

The air is warm, the ocean warmer

Sun sets on one side, Full moon rises on the other

and we are in between

Reflections on the water like yellow glass

Dinner has settled

Drinks have gone to our heads

We smile and spin, drowning in the romance

and holy mother shit, are those dogs humping our stuff?

Those dogs are humping our stuff!

Oh, disgusting!

Get away! Shoo! Go!

Yeah, that’s right.
Sheesh.

Back in the water. Ahhhhh.

Lean head back and go under

Moonlight glimmers overhead

Reflections so bright we’re floating in mirrors

We drift away into nothing and everything

Warm breeze blows

So calm we can taste it

And mother fucker, they are at it again!

Fuck this shit, I’m going inside.

Last night I flew back to LA, and for the first time felt disgruntled with the lack of friendliness of folks here. I was on the shuttle coming from the airport wearing my seat belt (buckle up for safety!) and a woman couldn’t get to the seat behind me, and instead of saying, “Excuse me, can you move your seat belt please?” she just stood there all hunched over and pinch-faced, kind of staring/glaring at me. When I noticed, I was clearly still in NC mode and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” and instead of saying, “Oh, that’s okay!” and then striking up a conversation about Christmas, traveling, and her uncle’s homegrown honey, like any respectable Carolinian would have, she didn’t say a cotton-pickin’ word! Not one word. I’ve been here for five years and have suddenly just realized that people in Los Angeles are unfriendly.

On the upside, my sister gave me a t-shirt that says, “You mess with this Carolina girl, you will be messin’ with the whole trailer park!”

I now consider them warned.

***

If there’s one thing I do well; maybe better than anyone I know, it’s procrastinate. The very best time to blog is when I should be doing something else; and the very best thing to put off doing is packing for a vacation.

I’ve been asking around to find out how long it takes my friends to pack for the average 5-day trip, and the answers some people give me make my jaw hit the floor. 1 hour? 45 minutes? 30 minutes? 20 minutes??? It takes me hours! And now I think I may know why…

My packing tonight has gone as follows:

5:30 pm: return home from work. Decide to start packing immediately and get it out of the way. Go get a First Aid kit out of the linen closet and become highly fascinated with it, doing a thorough inventory of what’s inside and reading all of the instructions on how and when to use each item. Toss it in suitcase. Get distracted, amble around aimlessly, and chat with roommate about her date last night.

6:26 pm: Decide I’m going to buckle down and pack and be done by 7:26 on the dot. Have several productive minutes of pouring face wash and moisturizer into smaller bottles. Get some sunscreen from beach bag and toss bottle on bathroom floor, thinking I should wipe the sand off. Remember I need a new camera battery. Store closes at 7, and it is now 6:40, so I go to the camera store and get a battery.

7:05-ish: Return home and make no effort whatsoever to pack. Test out camera battery, notice there are pictures I need to upload; upload pictures and look at all of them on computer. Start surfing web. Hit up MySpace.

7:20-ish: Decide now would be an ideal time to write a blentry.

And here we are.

***

I never finished this because I guess I eventually decided to finish packing. I did, after all, fill my suitcase with stuff and take it to Mexico and have a lovely vacation, so I must consider the evening at least a moderate success. And I can tell you with certainty that if you told me you had a plane ticket for me to go just about anywhere, I’d be home, packed, and back to the airport within the hour.

I was there for my American friend Virginia (not to be confused with my British friend Virginia who also got married this year)’s wedding, and it was wonderful and amazing, and such a relaxing and much-needed vacation. I flew down and back with Rebecca and Mike, and we extended the feeling of being on vacation as much as we possibly could, starting with almost missing our flight. We somehow forgot that we were in Mexico, and a snorkeling tour that says it’s going to return at 1:00 will actually return when it’s good and ready; in this case, 2:30. And then we had to get back to the hotel, pack, and get to the airport for a 3:50 flight. As the clock ticked, Mike asked the boat captain when we might be heading back, and his answer was, “Chill out, man, Relax! Tranquilo! You’re on vacation!” We ended up making it — albeit still covered in salt water and sand and possible sea creatures down our pants, and with everything crammed willy nilly into our suitcases — and even had time for one last tequila shot in the airport bar before leaving Mexico for good (well, for now).

I’ll probably upload all my photos tomorrow while I’m lying around half-chipmunking it up, so I hope you enjoy them.

Speaking of snorkeling, in the water I saw one of the guide dudes come towards Rebecca with a scary-looking crustacean with way too many tentacles all a-kimbo. I saw her wave her hand like, “No, no, I don’t want to touch it,” but he grabbed her hand and shoved the thing at her. I swam away as fast as my flippers could carry me, and when he looked at me all, “ehhh?” I yelled, “PLEASE DO NOT COME NEAR ME WITH THAT THING.” I have very mixed feelings about oceans.

P.S. I wrote this yesterday but fell asleep before publishing it, and now I’m too lazy to go back and change all the “yesterday”s to “thursday”s, etc. Morning update: My left cheek is now even bigger than before, and my right cheek is still perfectly normal. Now instead of a half chipmunk, I look like half Dizzy Gillespie, mid-song. (I’ve also turned into a black male jazz musician on that side, too. Weird).