Gone Eating

Yeah, I know... I didn't post at all over Thanksgiving weekend.

I would blame it on the turkey coma, but as a nod to my attempt at a vegan lifestyle, I really didn't eat that much turkey. (I will choose to ignore the salmon I had for dinner last night. It was either that or pasta, and we all know fish > carbs. At least for all pseudo-vegans who as children felt that a cheeseburger and a chocolate shake comprised the ideal birthday dinner. What? I had a thing for diners. Still kind of do.)

But no, I was not stuffing my face with turkey. I was stuffing my face with every other delectable item that lingered in the fridge as leftovers all weekend. You can only resist bread pudding for so long. And I don't even want to get into the pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. It's never a good sign when pumpkin pie becomes your "is it healthy?!" point of comparison.

Most asked question of the weekend: Is pumpkin a fruit or a vegetable?

I'd tell you the answer, but google is one-click away. And you'll feel so much more awesome if you "research it yourself." You're welcome.

ANYWAY...

I'm up off the couch, defiantly attempting to squeeze into my size 4s, and sharing my embarrassing life stories. (And the equally embarrassing stories my friends made the mistake of sharing with me. No confidentiality contract here, my friends.)

If you are not my friend and are reading this: Thank you and I'm sorry. Thank you for earning me another $.01 from Google AdSense and I'm sorry my friends dragged you here. (I was going to say cyber-dragged, but that just sounded creepy. Like a rapist's form of cyber-sex or something.)

Thank you and I'm sorry. But most of all: You're welcome.

My, Hello Kitty, How You've Grown!

I want to buy everything in H&M kids.

There were Hello Kitty leggings.

HELLO KITTY LEGGINGS.

I wanted them so bad.

But the face woulda stretched out...a lot...

This ironic incident was contributed by improbablygonnabeacatlady

Snuggies May Not Be Safe

Uhhuh, another Snuggie Incident.

I went to close my bedroom door, not thinking about my Snuggie trailing along the ground behind me.

Yeah, it got caught.

I stumbled forward, bumped my knee on my piano bench, and nearly cried with pain as my hand landed on an upturned C'N'C' heel.

I am going to go youtube the commercial and see if they show anyone walking around in their Snuggie.

**Update: The commercial is somewhat ambiguous. They never actually show anyone walking in the sleeved piece of coziness, but they do show them standing... and making coffee... activities that infer walking in the Snuggie.

I feel misled.

You Probably Won't Die

A friend of mine lives on the 3rd floor of an elevator building. This means approximately 12 seconds of excruciating boredom everytime I visit. How to fill this interminable void? This afternoon I made the mistake of passing the time by reading the warning label positioned above the number buttons:

"SHOULD THE ELEVATOR DOORS FAIL TO OPEN , DO NOT BECOME ALARMED.

THERE IS LITTLE DANGER OF RUNNING OUT OF AIR OR OF THIS ELEVATOR DROPPING UNCONTROLLABLY."

I'm sorry. WHAT? Running out of air?? Dropping uncontrollably?? And what do you mean there is little danger? Exactly how little is this danger?

Prior to reading this placard, I hardly considered either of those as legitimate possibilities. Should the doors fail to open, yes I would become alarmed. I would worry about how late I am going to be for the rest of my day, how I have to pee, or about how seriously thirsty I am....NOT about how I might be running out of air or plummeting to my death in a metal box.

So thank you, elevator warning makers, for instilling in me yet another fear. I also appreciate your sincere attempts to dispel said fear by assuring me that it probably won't happen. I feel a lot better now.

Since this post, Stacie has been diligently working on a campaign to require the installation of oxygen masks and seatbelts in all elevators. In the interim, she is taking the stairs. Her ass and calves are looking better already.

Of Course Timing is Everything

A wise man once said: Timing is everything. And millions of smirking assholes have repeated it ever since. And actually, I'm not altogether convinced that the first dude was really all that wise.

Yes, I'm bitter.

Of course timing is everything. Why wouldn't it be, when mine always happens to be preceded by the word 'bad?'

Do you happen to recall my flippant remark about my booker not calling for two months, and how sometimes I like to fly out to LA, just to see if he'll notice I'm on the other side of the country? Yes, well: A. I may have been embellishing a bit. It hadn't been quite two months and that was not the sole reason for this particular trip and B. Well... he did. Ok well kind of. He doesn't exactly know I'm out here, but he did leave me two messages today with excellent castings for today and tomorrow and a sidenote to call him.

No, but really. Honestly. All Summer long you call with the lamest castings ever. Then Fall hits and you don't call at all and instead send less-enthusiastic-emails-than-ever-before. So I leave and go to the coast with the booker who still uses exclamation points, xoxo's, and smiley faces. You're going to choose this time to call with castings I actually want to attend?? Of course you are.

In Addendum:
One of my closest friends leads a similarly ironic [read: painful] life. Today she gets a call from a company she interviewed at months ago. At the time, she was quite eager to take on the position. At the time, they were unable to offer it to her. Well, apparently at this time, they would like to offer it to her. Now, of course, that she no longer desires the position.

Ohhh timing, you slippery little minx you.

It Could Happen to Anyone

I forgot that I wore my Snuggie to sleep last night.

I couldn't figure out why I was still stuck in my blankets as I crawled out of bed.

Today is going to be a really good day.

The Secret is an Asshole

I am a believer of The Secret philosophy. In fact, I recently gave my father a copy of the book with instructions to "Stop secreting negative occurrences in my life!" (He dared to suggest that I may not always be able to get exactly what I want. First of all: Duh, my life already made that tragically clear. Second of all: SHHHHH THE UNIVERSE MIGHT HEAR YOU!!!!)

But no, really, in all seriousness, many things that I have secreted have come true. This is where my assertion that The Secret is an asshole comes in to play. I would like to suggest that The Secret has the selective listening skills of a 13 year old girl. Case in point: When I was a small child, I was an avid reader of all things Sweet Valley. Jessica Wakefield had a Miata, I wanted a Miata. Jessica Wakefield dated ruggedly hot, wealthy dudes, I wanted to date ruggedly hot, wealthy dudes. Jessica Wakefield was a size 6, I wanted to be a size 6.

Interesting.

1. My current vehicle is either the NY subway or my brother's Ford Ranger Edge. Not that I could even fit my 6 ft long legs into a Miata. And ok, I now sort of feel like the Miata is the Gary Coleman of cars, but still, when I was 16, a Miata probably would have been more fabulous than my '95 Ford Thunderbird. Thanks for nothing, Secret.

2. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA

Sorry. Let's just say that everytime I secreted a ruggedly hot, wealthy dude, the Universe apparently decided it was opposite day. Cool, Secret. Really awesome of you.

3. Yesterday, I went to put on my favorite black satin Elie Tahari skirt, size 4. Oh, awesome. It didn't fit. I'd say it was about one size too small. Really, Secret? THAT'S where you're going to come through?? Obviously when I secreted a size 6 in 1995, I was unaware that it was to be the 2009 equivalent of plus size.

In short, I advise you all to treat The Secret as you would a junior high frenemy. Keep it around and use it for all it's worth, but don't leave it alone with your boyfriend.

Oooh layover in DC!

During my layover at Washington-Dulles Airport, I bbmed my friend: "2 hour layover in DC. Maybe I'll meet my brilliant politician. ;)"

Within the next 5 minutes, apparently every departing flight had boarded because the terminal was suddenly deserted and taps was playing in the background. Uhhuh. Yup. Taps.

Thank you Jesus. Duly noted. Clearly I was daring to dream. It won't happen again.

That's right. I'm a cover model.

Every model dreams of her first cover. As a small child, I pictured my glamorous headshot on the cover of People Magazine. I realize People is not exactly Vogue, but I grew up in Nebraska, was really excited about getting "Chic" jeans from Target (sidenote: "Chic" was the brand, not necessarily the adjective I was using to describe them,) and was unaware that Vogue even existed at the time. My other option was the cover of any bridal mag, as I was also obsessed with planning my future wedding. But that's another point of irony that I will save for a later post.

So People or Modern Bride. Which one would it be? Actually, it would be Scientific American Mind. If you are like me and have never heard of this special gem, it is apparently quite popular in airports and psychology classes. Ok fine. So it's a science magazine. No big deal. Kind of funny, but not hysterical - the girl on the previous issue had looked cute and normal.

So can someone please explain to me why, when I went to pick my issue up from the newsstand, I was to find my BALD HEAD smiling back at me?? BALD??? REALLY?? They had to photoshop away my hair and instead have my skull morphing into several different puzzle pieces??

Immediately I attached the link to an email to send to my parents. Subject: I hate my life. My dad replied immediately with a very sweet email assuring me I am still 'one of the pretty people.' My mother, however, did not reply. I called her the next day to inquire as to why she neglected to respond to my major life moment. Her response? "I was laughing so hard, your dad said I better get it together before I talked to you." Thanks mom.

Again. Sigh.

Bicoastal. Jealous?

I have always wanted to be bicoastal. I love New York, but I also love the beach and want to be an actress soooo yeah, bicoastal is clearly the dream. It's not an uncommon lifestyle, many people I know make it work and are quite content.

That being said, I am now technically bicoastal. I say technically because, well, I do go back and forth between LA and NY. Success!!! Right?? No??? Ok, so when I pictured my bicoastal lifestyle, somehow I did not picture one coast involving my parents' house and my generous friend's couch. I'm also pretty sure I thought I would be going for work.

But no, this is me we are talking about. I go back and forth for auditions... or castings... or general meetings... or merely to see if my agent who hasn't called in two months even happens to notice that I am on the opposite side of the country. Yeah, well maybe if you accepted my facebook friend request you'd notice. Or care. I don't care if my profile picture is from when I was 6 years old, you should still recognize my name. *sigh*

And how is this glamorous lifestyle funded? Generally by working events that take my $160,000 college degree and graffiti it with multiple brands of alcohol. My IQ is plummeting as we speak.

WOOOHOOOOO I'M BICOASTAL BITCHES!!! Jealous much? Much too much.

Postscript: I would like to thank my Wells Fargo Visa for consistently raising my credit limit and Virgin America for having $105 flights between LAX and JFK. Without which, none of this would be possible.