I was just cleaning out my email inbox, if you can count reducing 2,400 emails down to 1,688, and while dragging things into the trash folder, I happened to open one of the first emails I received from someone I went on one date with last year. This email chain was exchanged before the date, during the “we’ve met once and are going to flirt a little bit via email before our first date” period — and as it happens, there was only one date, because this guy turned out to be filled with douchebaggery from the top of his douchebaggy head down to the bottom of his douchebaggeriffic toes. And do you know what I saw just now in that email? The thing that should have been a red flag from the very beginning? The thing that could have saved me at least two hours of my life that I’ll never get back? He confused “you’re” and “your.” Dear People, what was I thinking?

I was just reminded of a conversation I had a few months ago that reminded me of how much I hate being talked down to. There aren’t a lot of things I enjoy less than being patronized. I get it a lot, being a. a girl, b. a girl who has a young, innocent-looking face, and c. a girl who is polite and not too loud. Not many people are scared of me, and a lot of people think this gives them clearance to treat me like they’re my kindergarten teacher. And then, there are the people who talk that way to everyone, and I think the woman I’m about to discuss falls into the latter category.

This woman works at a place that does casting director workshops that last for several weeks at a time. So basically, you pay a few hundred bucks up front, and you go every week or whatever and take these workshops with casting directors. It’s a pretty cool idea I guess, but I’ve never heard of actors getting work from these particular workshops, and furthermore, they’re pretty expensive, especially if you’re trying to pay for other classes and whatnot. Sooooooo, a friend of mine had given this woman my information as someone who may be interested, and you know, I’m always up for hearing the details about an opportunity, so I was happy to listen and consider, but it was pretty annoying from the get-go. She was quizzing me about my talent and experience, emphasizing that they don’t just accept any Tom, Dick or Harry off the street, and you know, you have to take this seriously and you have to really be doing this as a career and have real potential, etc. But the most annoying, nails-on-the-chalkboard, whistle-in-your-ear, telemarketer, Jehovah’s witness-level of annoyance came from this: After everything, everything she said, she then said, “Does that make sense?” Everything. After every single sentence. I know that she must do this with everyone and must not even realize she does it at this point, but it comes across as so condescending, like, “Do you understand the meaning of the really simple thing I just said? I want to make sure, because you seem really dim, and it’s probably pretty hard to wrap your head around ideas. That must be tough.” Or maybe it’s more like, “Do you understand me? Because I know I’m talking way over your head right now, because you’re just a layperson, not a genius like me.” Either way, she must not have had any idea how irritating she was, so I thought I’d help her out by repeating it back to her to call her attention to it. So our conversation sounded a little like:

Her: We want to make sure that our actors are serious about their careers. Does that make sense?
Me: Yeees, yes, that does make sense.
Her: We need to know that you’ve worked, does that make sense, and that you’re taking active steps to get yourself more work, does that make sense?
Me: Yes, both of those things make sense, and I have, and I am.

And then came the part where she asked if I wanted to sign up.

Me: I’ll definitely keep it in mind for the future, but right now, unfortunately, I just don’t have the money.
Her: Well, we suggest that you have a separate bank account where you save money for acting, does that make sense?
Me: Yes, that does make sense, but you know, right now is just not a good time.
Her: Well, because if you’re serious about your career, you really need to be setting aside some money for it, does that make sense?
Me: Yes, it does make sense. Believe you me, if I were making enough money to have even a penny to set aside, I would.
Her: So we really suggest that you save some money, does that make sense?
Me: WELL, I SUGGEST THAT YOU GO FUCK YOURSELF; DOES THAT MAKE SENSE?

And then she was silent, and I said, “Make sense of this!” and hung up and smiled peacefully in the beams of benevolent sunlight filtering through the windows.

Just kidding. I didn’t say it. I didn’t say it because I’m polite, remember? Damn it. Damn it all. I’m so polite. But I thought it. You can bet your bottom dollar I thought it. I positively screamed it in my mind. But I didn’t say it, and now, thanks to my politeness, this awful woman is probably going around right now making sense of everyone she comes across.

So I apologize to you if you ever cross her path, and if she ever talks to you like you’re just now learning English and how to tie your shoes. Maybe someday when someone else is being a condescending jackass, I’ll say what I want to say, even if it’s not the politest thing ever. And if it doesn’t make sense… who gives a shit?

Hi Blob! Blob! OH MY GOSH, I seem to be incapable of typing “blgo” OH MY GOSHOHMYGOSH, I promise you, I’m really trying to type it correctly! B L O G. There. Phew.

It’s been a long time. I keep meaning to write, but it’s like the friend you haven’t talked to in months, and even though you really want to talk to them, you feel overwhelmed because you feel like you have SO much to catch up on. That’s kind of how I feel about this. But I’m just diving in, and instead of giving you some long-winded life update, I’m just going to tell you what’s going on now.

I’m sitting at my dining room table in my newest apartment (Mary and I moved again in March) and looking out the windows at the streets below (we’re on the 2nd floor). About 15 minutes ago, a guy in a green shirt walked by on the street that runs perpendicular to my street, and he reminded me of Kenneth from 30 Rock, which is why I noticed him. It wasn’t him, but anyway, he was carrying a manilla folder, and I wondered if he was on his way to some type of audition or interview and was glad it wasn’t me. Even though I should wish I were going to an audition, right at this very moment I’m tired and have a sinus headache and am happy to be sitting at my table looking out the window. So anyway, that was like 15 minutes ago, and just now, like one minute ago, he walked by on my street, still carrying the folder, but now carrying a water jug in each hand. What is he up to? What do y’all think he’s doing out there? The worst thing is, I’ll never really know.

Another thing that happened the other day while I was sitting here was that I saw on that same perpendicular street a girl who I at first thought might be this girl I kind of know who we’ll call Marjorie, because she had a similar haircut and distinctive style of dress. But it wasn’t her, BUT about half an hour later, old Marjorie really DID walk down that very same street. WHAAAT??

Here’s another thing: I was just writing an email to my sketch team, and I cut a sentence out, then decided to paste it back in — BUT, I guess I had maybe deleted it instead of cut it, because it wasn’t on the clipboard. What WAS on the clipboard and what I ended up pasting in was… well, I’ll see if you can guess. Here is the real email with the real sentence that I pasted:

Hey TSP Actors!

Last night at the writers’ meeting we discussed a new potential system of paying Kevin in which the writers would pay him for writers’ meetings, writers and actors would both pay him for the initial read-through, and then actors would pay him for the actors’ rehearsals. Would you all be ok with that? It seems like it would come out about even for all of us. Marie hugs Jane and gives her a bouquet of flowers.

Thanks!
Marcy

Oh man, email hijinks, right?

Well, this has been a thoroughly weird blentry, but you’ve gotta just jump back on that horse. Except not literally. I’m done with horseback riding after a fateful “adventure” on the last horse I ever plan to ride. But that’s a story for another time.

Recently someone suggested I get some plants for my room. Since I value this person’s opinion and since I could always use an extra dose of Oxygen — hey, who couldn’t? — when my friends Mike and Rebecca offered me a peaked-looking plant in their living room window, I eagerly agreed. He was a spider plant, so I immediately named him Peter Parker and resolved to nurse him back to excellent health — this being opposite of my usual M.O. of taking perfectly healthy plants and killing them in record-breaking time.

I brought Peter home, watered him and left him in the sink overnight, and the very next day, instead of procrastinating for weeks, which again would have been the usual protocol, installed a hook into my bedroom ceiling, tied a pretty ribbon onto it, and hooked his pot onto the pretty ribbon, where he has been hanging for the last few days and at least in my imagination seems to be improving health-wise.

But tonight I got home and something unsettled me a little bit. Nothing even tangible, but something about his leaves gave me a very, very slight case of the willies. And this reminded me of why I didn’t already have a room full of plants, why I’ve never even purchased one single houseplant, at least not for myself. I will make no bones about it — plants are creepy! I look at Peter, and it’s like his leaves are tentacles lurching out at me, or maybe they’re strands of hair on the head of a tiny troll submerged in the dirt of the pot. Either way, there’s no escaping the fact that plants are alive, and just because they don’t speak doesn’t necessarily mean they aren’t plotting a coup against all animal life. It makes me shiver.

Mind you, I’ve never gotten anything but friendly vibes from Peter. I assume he must be grateful to me for rescuing him from the negligent parenting of my friends and giving him water, sunlight, and his own hook in the ceiling where he can swing merrily all day and observe goings-on from high up. I mean, he should be grateful! But plants need more than water, sunlight, and prime real estate, from what I’m told. Like animals, plants, I’m told, also need love. And folks, I’m just not sure I’m ready for that. I’m just not sure I’m ready.

*****

Update: I wrote this about a year ago and didn’t post it for whatever reason. I’m pleased to announce Peter is still alive and has accompanied me to my new apartment (new as of last March). The bad news is, my plant-care habits have waned down to a level that keeps young Pete alive, but barely. I regret to admit that he is much less full than he was at his peak. (His health really did improve at my last house; I’m thinking it was all the sunlight. Oh, and the watering). In fact, about a third of him died altogether. There were about three sets of spriggles planted in his pot, and one set completely died. Also, he had a baby! Who died. Not sure how familiar you are with spider plants, but when they’re healthy, they form baby spider plants at the ends of their tentacles; and he did, and I intended to plant the baby and let her grow up and name her M.J., but alas, she died, and it’s all my fault. I did find her pretty creepy, but I didn’t mean to kill her. Sigh.

One time recently I was at the gym and ran into a male person whom I know from the comedy theatre where I took improv classes and spend a disproportionate amount of my time. And when I saw him, I cleaned my proverbial glasses (“squeak, squeak!”), because “improv” and “the gym” are two worlds that rarely collide. Too often for my comfort, men who are comedians (or in a band, for that matter) seem to have an excercise phobia. It’s such a widespread phenomenon that it caused me to coin a term for it: “improv arms.” I think it’s a shame, because funny guys and musicians have a degree of automatic hotness because of their talent, so if they’d do a bicep curl once in a while, they could likely be an unstoppable force of hotness. It seems like a waste.

And that leads me to my next point: I love men’s arms. I love them so much. Every day that I wake up in the morning, I love them more than I did the night before. If I could only take one object with me to a desert island, I’d take a man’s arm. I can’t get enough! Men’s arms to me are what boobs are to many men. I love looking at them. I love touching them. Sometimes I stare inappropriately at them. When they’re covered up, I wonder what they look like underneath all that pesky fabric. I love kissing them and squeezing them and rubbing my face all over them. I’m serious, Internet! It’s true! It must be a cavewoman instinct. Probably if you were a caveman, no woman would mate with you if you had improv arms, because you wouldn’t be able to protect her from beasts or wrestle tigers to the ground to bring home for dinner.

If you are a man who has nice arms, you are automatically 75% more likely to get into my pants than if you have improv arms. I’m not saying IAs are a definite dealbreaker… no, if you’re perfect in every other way, I’ll still give you the time of day. But don’t be surprised if you wake up with a set of weights jury-rigged around your wrists, or if I ask you a little too often to lift heavy objects for me. Just bein’ honest.

I upgraded to WordPress 2.9, and it actually seems to be working ok! Now to find some fun new themes, and actually write more often. Yay!

Update: I swear my Archives tab was working fine, or maybe I just imagined that, because now it’s not. But I’m still proud of myself for figuring out the upgrade. And how do y’all like this new theme? I like it for now. Can you tell that I like turquoise and red/orange together? How can you tell?

Today I’m snowed in at my parents’ house in NC, and while I wait for my mom to remember that she was going to bring me some boots so I could go try to shovel the driveway and/or finish her phone conversation so that I can remind her, I’m trying to upgrade this very blog to the most recent version of WordPress. It seems as though someone hacked into it pretty badly and put “pornstuffs” (in the words of the web host tech dude) all in the coding. I’m not even sure how it’s working right now, because for months there was an error message when anyone tried to access it. I haven’t messed with the nerdy side of my blog since I originally installed it and installed a couple new themes in like 2006 (hence the ease with which someone hacked it), so I’m a little nervous that I’m going to break the whole thing, and all that will remain is the pornstuffs. Wish me luck, Internet, and I hope I’ll be seeing you soon!

Today as I was leaving the gym, I turned on the radio and heard the last of a story about a group picking out Hebrew names for all the planets or something. When they got to Uranus, both dj and guest admitted that the English word should be changed, too. There’s nothing good about that name; I think we can all agree on that. And it reminded me of a project in Mr. Hutchinson’s Earth Science class in high school. We were all assigned planets, and we had to give presentations on them. Uranus was assigned to me, and in my presentation, I did what I felt any self-respecting highschooler would and should do: I planned out my sentences to sound like I was talking about your butt. You’d do that, too, right? Things like, “Uranus has a pock-marked surface.” Gold, right? Well, nobody in that class so much as even snickered! Crickets! Literal crickets! I mean, correct me if I’m wrong here, but I was always under the impression that Uranus, like farts, is always funny. Yes, we’ve all heard it before. But it’s still funny! Just like farts! I have no doubt that farts have been funny since the dawn of time, and always will be. And the same goes for Uranus, as far as I’m concerned. And if I can’t count on my fellow highschoolers to laugh at those things, on whom then, can I rely? It’s an unsettling thought. Almost as unsettling as the toxic gases emitted from Uranus.

I just had to check my horoscope for fun to see what it would say, because the last few weeks, and especially the last couple days, have been bat-shit crazy. I feel like it’s time for me to clean out my life like an attic, and time to stand up for myself and assert my rights, which is something I’ve tended to struggle with. People are coming at me like rabid bats in a dark cave (I’m going to try to use only analogies that include bats), and it’s wigging me out and making me think really hard about who I am and how people see me. Right now I’m done being the nice one, and I’m especially tired of keeping my thoughts to myself in order to appease others or keep from making waves.

So anyway, I read my horoscope, and it made me laugh like a bat who’s just read her horoscope and found it very apropos: Here’s what it said:

The world is mad at Pisces today because you will no longer play their game. There will be those that try everything to turn you around. They all have their own reasons that they claim are for your best interests. Your path is in the stars not in the starry eyes of those that wish to control you.

Enough said.

Bats.

Guess what, Friends? I’m going to New York on Monday to meet my dad and see two Broadway musicals! It has been yeeeeeaaaarrs since I’ve seen anything on Broadway. The first one I saw was Les Miserables, and boy, did I fall in love with that show. I still love it with all my heart, as I do a few others I’ve seen. But as I’ve gotten older, I find myself looking at certain storylines a little… differently.

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.

Why do things taste so good when you’ve been drinking?

I just had a couple drinks at the bar, and I got home and was putting on my PJs, and I was in my closet and noticed for the first time since I’ve moved into this apartment that there was a box of raisins on my dresser. Now, I remember that I got these raisins on an airplaine, and as I recall, the last time I was on a plane was when I flew to North Carolina for Christmas. So for some reason… when I moved in March, I chose to bring that box of raisins with me. Sure, I got rid of the slipcovers that were custom made for the couch, and which I’ve wished I had every day for the last three months. Sure, I gave away my vacuum cleaner and my garbage can with the lid for the kitchen, and the lid for the other little trash can for the bathroom, and that whiteboard that I could have used instead of buying a new one… but I kept the raisins. The raisins from December.

And in my state of moderate buzz just now, I opened the box and inspected the raisins for any sign of mold or decay, and finding none, I stuffed several in my mouth, and I’m telling you people, it was the best thing I’ve ever tasted. And I’m pretty confident that anything I put in my mouth right now would take on that title. Something about alcohol makes everything taste so damn good. Is there a scientific explanation for this? If you have any inside knowledge, please let me in on it!

Meanwhile, I’ll be digging under the couch cushions for little bags of peanuts.

Guess what, Internet?

My sister is having a baby, and she just told me today that it’s a little boy, and they’re naming him Lucas, which I think is the most wonderful thing ever, and just now I was thinking about it in the bathroom at work and unconsciously began dancing around on my tiptoes, and then a woman came in and I had to pretend to be adjusting my hair like a civilized person.

It’s the end of an era.

I’m moving out of the house I’ve lived in for the last six-plus years, the only place in Los Angeles that I’ve called home. On March 1st I’m moving about half an hour away to Los Feliz with my friend Mary. It happened so much faster than I thought it would. We started looking with the intention that we wouldn’t move unless we found something absolutely perfect in the exact neighborhood we wanted. I thought it would take months, but within a few weeks, there it was! We went last night to talk about deposits with the property manager, and as soon as we left her apartment and she shut the door behind us, Mary and I gripped each other’s arms and started jumping around in a silent, elated screaming fit.

Then I woke up this morning and realized that not only am I moving to a great new apartment in a delightful community, I’m leaving my house and the neighborhood I have loved SO much for the last six years. So much has happened here, and its walls have always been a welcoming refuge. It all sort of hit home this morning, and I started out my commute with a heavy heart. Then I did the only thing I could do. I started belting out “It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday” by Boyz II Men. As I finished up the last notes the second time through, I perked up to listen to what they were saying on NPR. It was about the bill Barack Obama signed into law today: The Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Restoration Act, named for a woman who sued Goodyear for gender discrimination after learning she’d been earning 40% less than her male co-workers for twenty years, and ultimately lost, due to the dumbness of the dumb old law.

The part that moved me the most was the ad Lilly made for Obama’s campaign after learning that John McCain opposed the bill — an ad that, according to political consultant Frank Luntz, was one of the few effective negative ads in the campaign: “John McCain opposed a law to give women equal pay for equal work,” Lilly says in her endearing Alabama accent, ”and he dismissed the wage gap, saying women just need education and training. I had the same skills as the men at my plant. My family needed that money.”

“Wow,” I said outloud, and then shouted, “TAKE THAT, JOHN MCCAIN!” Then I immediately burst into tears. I must have been well-hydrated, because tears were shooting out of my eyes at an alarming rate, soaking my face and making my collar damp and soggy. I reached into the glove compartment to see if I had any kleenex or napkins, but all I found was a clean pair of underwear.

There I was, driving down Wilshire Boulevard at 7:45 AM, mourning the impending loss of my old home and experiencing crippling gratitude for this moment in history, for Obama and Lilly Ledbetter and for everyone who has fought so hard for their fellow human beings. And crying into a pair of panties.

So much is changing in the world. Some of it is bad, but a whole lot is very, very good. I tend to be optimistic to a fault, but I’m very hopeful about this world shift, and feel in many ways that it’s a new dawn of sorts. On a much smaller scale, I know the change will be good for me, too. It was time, and it felt right. But that doesn’t mean I won’t miss the cozy, sunny house I’ve come to know as home.

All together now: “And I’ll taaaaaaaake with me the memorieeeeees to be my sunshine after the raaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnn. It’s so haaaaaaaard to say goodbyyyyyyyyyeeee to yesterdaaaaaaaaaaaaaayeeeeeeeeeee!

Did you know that cash money is the number-one carrier of pink eye? (Who just told me that? Someone just told me that recently. Matt Newell? I think so). Money is filthy! And it makes sense, because all God’s children are passing it around all day, from hand to grubby hand, in and out of sweaty pockets, dropped on bathroom floors and picked up again, and whatever else you can imagine; if a place is gross, I’ll bet money has been there.

That said, if you’re too grossed out to keep your cash now and want to get rid of it, I’ll be more than happy to take it off your hands — then you can go wash those hands immediately. You’re welcome.

Today I went to the big, pretty central library, which I’ve been frequenting ever since I started working up the street from it. Those sillies got all mixed up about my fines. I had a fine of $3.60, which I paid on Dec. 1, then checked out 3 more books, which I also let get overdue. I renewed them online on the 15th, and owed a 90-cent fine. Well, they were trying to tell me that I had paid the 90 cents and still owed the $3.60! I made the woman get her manager, and the manager kept saying the same thing over and over: “It shows that you paid the 90 cents but not the $3.60.” Which is physically impossible, because I hadn’t been to the library since I checked out the books that eventually cost me the 90 cents. And even more illogical, you can’t check out books when you have fines, and clearly I checked out 3 more books on the 1st, so clearly I must have paid my fines. Sigh. Sometimes people do not use their brains.

Despite the fact that the difference we’re talking about here was $2.70, it’s the principle of the whole thing. You can’t just take my (filthy) cash and forget about it and tell me I didn’t pay it, because I did, by George. And I stood there and pointed out the logic of my thinking and non-logic of hers until she waived the $3.60. But the whole time she acted like she was doing me some huge favor, like it was somehow my fault that they don’t securely fasten their thinking caps. Sigh again. In any case, I was proud of myself for sticking to my guns. And by the by, I paid my correct 90-cent fine and made sure to get a receipt.

So after that happened, I went into the library gift shop, which has become a favorite spot of mine to buy gifts due to its selection of generally awesome and delightful things. Awesome and delightful, but not particularly cheap. I ended up dropping a cool hundy on a handful of gifts for others (and two calendars for myself). As my break ended and I walked back inside and up to my desk, I was contemplating this “cool hundy” and wondering about other “hip” ways to say that I just spent a hundred dollars that I hadn’t expected to spend, because somehow if I say it in a different way it makes me feel a little better about the whistling sound of wind blowing through the sparsely populated tundra of my bank account. And the other way to refer to a hundred is, of course, as a Benjamin, but at that moment I couldn’t remember if old Benny Boy Franklin is on the hundred or the twenty. So I came back to my desk and looked it up, and here’s what I found out: (Thanks, Marshu.com.)

I’m thinking I want to start referring to all paper solely by the first name of the man whose face is on it, or a nickname where appropriate, and all coins by last names only. “Do you have change for an Andy?” I’ll ask. “One Alex, an Honest Abe, and five Georges would be good. Thanks!” Or, “Can I get four Washingtons for a George?” Sometimes I’ll call one-dollar bills “Jorge”s, to acknowledge the increasingly significant Latin American influence here in the U.S. And I always get excited to see Toms, because you just don’t see them very often.

Has anyone ever seen a Woodrow Wilson, or a “Woody”? (ahem). I know I sure haven’t — but life’s not over yet! I did one time hold fourteen crisp Grovers in my hand when my dad was about to buy a car with cash, and that was a nice feeling indeed. It would have been even nicer if the Grovers were mine, but still.

Someday I hope to have a Woody’s worth of cash and more. But for now I’d be thrilled if I could drum up a Salmon or two and a couple Jimmys. And if they’re crawling with Pink Eye, that’s just a sacrifice I’ll have to make.

I’m turning 30 this March, and I’ve only just started to think about what I want to do to celebrate. Last Thursday I got my hair cut (and ran out of gas — FYI, if you drive a Subaru Impreza, don’t try to drive to Pasadena with the gas light on — more about that later), and my hairstylist was talking about New Orleans, and I recalled that I’ve always wanted to go there — indeed, visiting the city is on my shiny new bucket list. I thought, what better time than my 30th birthday?

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.