This is a testament to my steadfastness; to my desire to finish what I’ve started; and mostly to my love of drinks with umbrellas in them.

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.

Aaaaaahhhhhh, dudes, I was just in my bathroom in my underwear standing at the sink, and I felt something very light touching my back, and without panicking, I turned to look in the mirror, and there was a terrifying spider on my BARE BACK. He or she had climbed down his/her web from the ceiling, I’m deducing, and stopped to rest on my BACK!!! I shouted, “OH MY GOSH! OH MY GOSH!” Luckily s/he kept on moving down the web, and I was able to grab the web and move it away from me, and the spider went on the floor and I was able to look at him/her more closely, and s/he’s the kind with stripey legs and a picture of something on his/her back, and I left the scene and abandoned my task and came over here to tell you guys about it. I really don’t mind spiders that much; I don’t! I just really and truly do not want them on ME!

For the past several weeks I’ve been interning at an improv comedy theatre, and one of my jobs is to hand out flyers as people are leaving the shows. The other night I noticed that it goes in waves, like traffic when you’re trying to take a left onto a busy road. A big chunk of people will all take flyers, then someone says “No thanks,” and 5 or 6 more people in a row say no. Then some trailblazer renegade takes one again, and the 10 people behind him or her all take one, too. People just want to do what other people are doing! We’re copycats, sheep, and a little bit puppets. Sheepuppycats. Copuppyysheep. Copysheepets.

In 6th grade, our teacher Mrs. Harter had us, as a class, write a rap — yes, a rap — about taking care of the earth. We called it the Pollution Rap, and we spent, I don’t know, like an hour a day for at least a week working on this thing. Some highlights that I remember include these golden nuggets:

“Oil spills and landfills give you chills

when you think of all the things it kills.”

and

“Air conditioners and aerosol sprays

are ruining the ozone and letting in the rays.”

and of course we had the requisite “Reduce it! Re-use it! Just don’t abuse it!” chorus, with Kenji Lunsford beatboxing in the background.

Mrs. Harter loved it and wanted to call up the local news station to put us on the news. Of course we were mortified at the idea, and hugely relieved when that never happened.

In any case, though, in the same way that DARE might have worked for me, because I never got into drugs, maybe this pollution rap had some sort of permanent effect on my priorities. I care about the Earth a lot, y’all! And I want to do whatever I can to help a sista out. Unfortunately I’ve been going about my business with not enough information. For example, the whole time I’ve lived in LA I’ve been wondering what to put in my recycling bin. Plastics coded #1 and 2 only? Aluminum foil? Stray cats? I’ve heard various information from various sources about what the city will recycle, and rather than finding out for sure, I just sort of guessed. But just now I remembered to look it up… after 5.5 years… and I found these helpful links, which I shall now share with you! It turns out we can recycle a lot more than I thought. Yay!

I’ve included links to recycling guides for LA, We-Ho, and Santa Monica. I found this by Googling “recycling los angeles,” so if you insert your city, I imagine you’ll find something similar.

Los Angeles
West Hollywood
Santa Monica – single family houses
Santa Monica – multiple family buildings

Happy recycling to you, and, um… just say no to drugs.

I was playing the guitar just now and noticing how my left pinky, when not in use, curls up into a gimpy little ball, and there’s nothing I can do about it. And it made me remember one time a year or so ago when I was playing the guitar for a boy I liked, and I’m all nervous and sweaty-palmed like, “This is it, I’d better be good so he’ll keep liking me and think I’m awesome,” and then I’m thinking, “Wow, this sounds really good; go me!” and I noticed that he was watching my hands and figured he was impressed by my fancy fingerwork and was probably falling in love with me because of it. But instead when I finished the song, all he said was, “Wow, you have really long fingers.” And suddenly instead of feeling proud I just felt embarrassed, because all along he’d just been sitting there mesmerized yet horrified by the car accident that was my comically long Jafar fingers: fingers that probably gave him nightmares at night; fingers that are attached to giant hands made more ridiculous by their juxtaposition with my teeny tiny wrists.

So I was thinking about that just now, and then I remembered a time long before, when I was in high school and visited a new friend’s house for the first time. The minute I stepped onto the big, sweeping porch (we’ll call it a “vast veranda” for effect), I was already feeling insecure, wishing he had never seen my little plain-jane house. He took me on a grand tour of the premises, ending at his room, which was pretty much a tower, with windows lining the walls on three full sides. It was stunning, but when he asked what I thought, all I could manage was a nonchalant “It’s nice,” like, “Whatever, I am sooooo not impressed; I eat houses like this in my cereal with sliced bananas as part of my complete breakfast.”

My point is, and I know we all know this; we’ve all heard it a thousand times, but for some reason it just now finally clicked with me: Insults stem from insecurity most of the time. Insecurity because the insulter is threatened by the insultee, because something the insultee has or is doing is better. It’s so much better that it’s scary to the insulter. So it must be pretty good. And that means that when someone is insulting me, it might mean I’m on the right track. It might be a sign that I should just keep going, keep doing what I’m doing, but more so.

I’m sure you’re like, “Um, Really, Marcy, you’re just now figuring this out? Duh, this is the most obvious fact in the universe.” Well, yeah, I don’t know, suddenly it just makes a lot of sense because I have practical things to apply it to. In any case, I finally get it, and I think this knowledge is going to help me a lot. And if it doesn’t, that’s cool, too; I’ll just find a genie and wish to become the most powerful sorcerer in the world! Mwahahahaha!

I’ve lived in LA for 5 1/2 years, and pretty much the whole time I’ve been here I’ve sung its praises. I love LA! I know I still do somewhere in here, but this summer, for the first time, I am ovah it. I want to get out of here. There are 2 reasons I can think of why my attitude might suddenly have changed:

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?

I went back into the bathroom after typing that blentry and didn’t see a single spider. Woke up in the morning, no suspicious bites anywhere. Phew! I thought I was home free. Until last night, when I’d just gotten out of the shower and was leaning over with my hair upside down while I dried off, and saw a baby spider dangling off my hair. Yes, repelling down his web, which was attached to my hair.

The saga continues.

How many spiders do you reckon come in a litter? A litter? Is that the correct term? or a batch, maybe? Like, if a mommy spider lays eggs, how many baby spiders generally do you think will be in that batch?

I ask because, well, I was about to wash my face just now and I happened to look up and see a teeny, tiny adorable spider dangling from the ceiling. And look, there was another one, hanging beside it! How cute! I thought. They’re dangling together and it looks like they’re about to kiss each other. Isn’t that sweet? Boy, are they tiny. Oh, look… there’s another one on the wall… and two more up higher… and three or four more on the ceiling… Wait a minute…

I don’t usually kill spiders, even when they’re in my room, unless they’re all chunky and gross and all up in my grill & stuff. We kind of have a live and let live policy, spiders and me. I like them because they kill other bugs, and I don’t really feel threatened by them unless they’re like huge with colorful patterns on their backs or something. Sometimes I put them outside — The daddy longlegs I used to just grab by a leg and hang them out the window until they latched onto the window box or a tree, but then one time I accidentally pulled off the leg and felt bad. If they’re really in my way (like in my shower when I’m about to get in), I try to get them to crawl onto a piece of paper, then put them outside. If they’re not in my way, we both just give each other a respectful nod and go about our business.

However: Sorry dudes, but I can’t have an entire army legion of spiders living in my bathroom. While I hold nothing against them, I can’t say I relish the idea of having four or five of them trapezing over my head while I brush my teeth.

So this is why I killed as many as I could reach just now, and this is why I probably should figure out how many more I will likely have to contend with. OK, here goes nothing:

***

OK! So… bad news! After Googling “How many spiders in a litter” and “How many spiders in a batch,” and coming up empty, I tried the simple and straightforward “spider eggs,” and found out from Britannica.com that “Female spiders produce either one egg sac containing several to a thousand eggs or several egg sacs each with successively fewer eggs.” I’m sorry. Did you guys see the word “thousand,” because I’m pretty sure I just read something that said there could be A THOUSAND BABY SPIDERS LIVING IN MY BATHROOM. I’m so scared to go back in there right now and see swarms of tiny arachnids gallavanting around, using up all the toilet paper, taking long showers, using my toothbrush, and generally acting like they own the place. Y’all, what am I going to do? First of all, how am I going to wash my face tonight, and secondly, what if I go to sleep and they run out and attack me in the night? Now I’m feeling all itchy and am pretty sure they’re biting me right now as I’m typing this!

Aaaaahhhhhh!

To be continued… if I live through the night!

It’s dusk in Sayulita

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.

Remember the mystery of the never-empty office toilet paper? I walked by the janitor’s cart just now and saw a pile of take-home rolls, as pretty as you please! Oh, sweet relief! They’re not throwing away the toilet paper. Finally, for the first time since Tuesday, August 14th, 2007, I can get a good night’s sleep!

The new soap in the bathroom at work smells like bad piña coladas, like the kind made with malibu rum and a pre-made mix. Incidentally, I’ve often thought bad piña coladas taste like soap.

Coincidence?

I think so.

Ugh, I am so horrible at updating my blog! There was a time when I had free time. That time is past. When I started this blog almost three years ago, it was my only creative outlet, and I needed it to stay sane. The good news is, I’m doing lots of creative things that make me happy, and my sanity no longer depends on this blog. The bad news is, my new creative things are taking up so much time that blogging (and laundry and bill-paying) is now whistling happily away on the back burner. I know there will be a point when I need to come back to it, though, so I’m thankful that it’s still here for me.

That said, it’s high time for a blentry, and I always find that an easy way to start back after a long hiatus is always a Loving and Hating. So here goes!

I am loving:

Spring! It’s always my favorite, and that will never change. On Monday I was suuuper sleepy, and at lunch I walked to a nearby park, spread out my straw beach mat, and fell immediately into a deep sleep. Within seconds I was twitching, and a half hour later I woke up with a start, cheek in a puddle of drool (you’re welcome), the blazing sun cooking me like a tender rotisserie chicken. Ohhhh, I will never stop appreciating sunshine and warm weather.

I am hating:

That some jackball scratched my Blubaru and didn’t leave a note. My “new” car now has 3 dings, a huge dent, and a scrape. Ahhh, L.A.

Loving:

That I did my taxes early(ish) this year. I’m so proud of myself! I got someone to do them for me, and we itemized! New fun for me. This is in sharp contrast to last year, the year before, and every year before that, when I have waited until the very last possible minute.

Hating:

My short attention span. What gives? I can’t seem to sit through a movie or do any one thing for more than an hour. I have this constant frenetic energy while somehow also being perpetually exhausted. Have I always been like this?

Loving:

My current set of roommates. I miss Danielle a lot, but my old friend Lauren moved in, and we found a great guy on Craigslist named Robb, and he’s going to be bringing his dog in a couple months. I’ll have a furry friend at home that I don’t have to take care of! Lucky me!

Also Loving:

My bike! I love riding around to run errands. I also love looking at it, because it is stunningly beautiful.

Also Loving:

The neighborhood I live in. Walking on the long streets with big trees never fails to restore balance for me. I love how if you stand on the sidewalk and look in one direction or the other, the sidewalk stretches like a long, long triangle until it reaches a point and you can’t see it anymore. There’s something about that view that speaks directly to my soul, and I know that if I ever leave this place, it’s an image I’ll have forever (and not just because I’ve photographed it a million times).

Finally, loving:

Pudding! Oh, I love pudding so much!

OK, y’all, riddle me this:

We got a bunch of these paper plates at work, and I looked at them and for a second was like, “Oh, good — recycled!”

Then I took a closer look…

Those little rats! Right? They’re trying to fool old people and people who don’t read things carefully by pretending to be environmentally friendly! #1, They call themselves “Green Label,” using a term traditionally used for earth-friendly merchandise. And even more ridiculous is this piece of BS: “Made from 100% paper; a renewable natural resource.” Well, what the hell else would paper plates be made of? Kittens?? And do they think we’re so dumb that we think trees are just totally renewable; that we can just chop them down willy nilly and re-plant them and immediatly have an insta-forest?

Those deceitful little rascals! Who are they trying to kid with this thing?! Me, obviously. Well, nice try, buttheads. I’m hip to your jive.

Y’all, this is so trippy. I’m pretty sure my future self accidentally called my present self from a plane at LAX. I got this voicemail — the kind where someone’s phone accidentally dials you so there’s just muffled talking for a minute or two, and I swear to you I hear myself talking to someone… but it couldn’t be present or recent past-self me, because they’re (I’m) clearly in an airplane, and I hear the person (MYSELF) say something about LAX, and I haven’t flown since December. It’s so so trippy, you guys. I figure it must be someone I know if their phone accidentally called me, but my only friend who’s flown recently is my roommate, who sounds nothing like me, and plus I don’t recognize the number. This girl (ME) has my exact voice and a slight, subtle North Carolina accent, JUST LIKE ME. Obviously there are only two logical conclusions here:

1. I called myself from the future.

2. I called myself from an alternate universe in which I am a fabulous jetsetter.

If only I had picked up that call and could have gotten my attention! I would have asked myself so many questions about the future (provided conclusion 1 is the one we’re going with). For example, I could have asked myself if I’ve met the man of my dreams, if I’ve achieved a fulfilling career, and most importantly if I’ve managed to get rid of the adult acne on my forehead.

Anyway, guys, this one has me stumped. The only thing we really know for sure is that phones in the future are freaking awesome. I mean, the iPhone has a lot of functions, and correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t dial back in time.

I just did the dumbest thing. I was pulling into the parking garage at work and putting my window down so I could scan my keycard, and I was concentrating on the window, because there’s a blob of bird doodoo on the top part, and I didn’t want to put it all the way down and get the doodoo all over the window and between the door panels, which I already did once, and as I was being super careful about that, I forgot that the car was also moving forward, and BAM! I hit the thing on the side of the thing where I was pulling in, and put a big fat dent in the front of my new car. I feel like such an idiot. I’m glad this happened today and not tomorrow, because I can chalk it up to being part of 2007, and I’m moving on to a much smarter 2008, a year in which I will not run my car into anything out of sheer stupidity.