I'm Afraid of New Year's Eve

mylifeissonotironic mentioned something to me yesterday that has burrowed itself in my present consciousness.

We were discussing what we wanted to do for New Year's. "I have this weird thing where I honestly believe that how you spend your New Year's is a sign of how your year is going to go."

Um. Ok. Let me think about this for a minute.



New Year's 2006:
In LA, with my best friend and her boyfriend. Me?? A third wheel?? Shocking. At some point in the night, we lost each other and she ended up in a hotel with her boyfriend and I ended up alone in a friend's apartment, as I had locked myself out of mine. Oh, and at some point, someone came to wake me up because the apartment smelled like gas and they were afraid I could die.
Awesome. Ok, next.



New Year's 2007:
San Francisco with my besties. They were driving up from Santa Barbara, I was taking the train from LA and meeting them later, as I had a shoot the afternoon of the 30th. I arrived the morning of the holiday, freezing and exhausted, and spent the afternoon napping in the hotel room. After having a fantastic time getting ready, we went to an overcrowded (and annoyingly expensive) party where I proceeded to trip and fall all night long on the alcohol-soaked floor. Eventually, bruised, battered, utterly exhausted and missing a camera, I left early to go back to the hotel and sleep. I was kindly accompanied and tucked in to bed by a totally platonic guy friend.



Stellar. NEXT.



New Year's 2008:
I was in Nebraska, visiting family. One of my best guy friends was in Kansas, visiting family. He fabulously agreed to pick me up in Nebraska and drive me back to KC so that we could have an awesomly random midwest New Year's. How could I possibly screw this one up? HAHAHHAAAA. Easily. I was totally ready to go out when I realized that the shine on my patent leather heels was a bit lackluster. Nothing a bit of shoe polish couldn't fix! As I went to put my shiny shoes back on my feet, I noticed a spot on my dress. A very large, very black spot on my very pink New Year's dress. Yup. Shoe polish. Emergency calls were made to alert his friends of our impending tardiness and to my mom for cleaning advice. Miraculously, the stain was eventually removed and we made it to the party. Fast forward to the next morning, when I woke up on the couch with a black eye.
Sweet. Yeah. Uh, next?



New Year's 2009:
First New Year's Eve in New York. I was so unbelievably cold that I kind of wanted to die. I am fairly certain I had about 5 pairs of tights on beneath my short, sequined Alice & Olicia dress. And knee-high leather boots, obviously. We cab it to my roomie's boyfriend's loft party and eventually leave to attend a party hosted by Olympians - one of whom was my midnite kiss. Ok, not a terrible way to kick off the the New Year, but here's the ironic twist: A few days later, when Olympian called to ask me to dinner, I was deathly ill. By the next week, when I had recovered and he called once again, I had decided that he was too short (6'0") and not my type and I was over it.
Fabulous. And typical.

New Year's 2010:
*TBD*
So far, the only prep step I have taken, is a pedicure. I managed to smudge/massacre my impeccably painted toenails even before I reached the drying machine.

I am already terrified of this New Year's Eve and the year it will foreshadow.



**Update:
This New Year's Eve was lovely. Things of note: walking out of my apartment, we managed to get a cab right away and remarked that this must be a precursor of excellent things to come. That was the only cab we were able to get that night. Even the subway quit on us. All in all, there were good drinks, nice people, and entertaining conversation... though, of course, I was surrounded by dudes who were disparagingly shorter than myself and yet again, neglected to have a New Year's kiss.
I'm not going to bother with interpretation.

Have I Told You Lately, That I Love You

Happy Belated Birthday Jesus.

I thought about having my thumb and index finger take a trip down good ol' Rosary Bead lane in honor of your day, but I realized it's really just full of Hail Mary's and Our Father's. And this day (yesterday) isn't (wasn't) really about your parents. It's about you. So instead, I stretch my arms wide and say: Dear Jesus, I love you thiiiis much and even more. No really, I love you. A lot. Like a lot a lot.

Please be kind to me... because, speaking of trips... I am flying today.

I just looked at my itinerary. Burbank to Phoenix. Phoenix to Boston. Boston to La Guardia. Commencing at 6:45pm and touching down on the East Coast at 8:50am. Not only is that an unnecessarily roundabout and lengthy journey to NY, there also happen to be a few exclamation points in red circles on my online reservation update email. As in "Hi, you might get stuck in these airports forever because the weather sucks here" exclamation points.

improbablygonnabeacatlady attempted flights yesterday and the day before and ended up spending Christmas in a Cincinatti Airport Marriott, eating Domino's Pizza and watching Vin Diesel movies.

Please don't make me suffer a similar fate. I'm fragile. And neither Domino's nor Vin agree with my delicate constitution.

So please, dear little tiny baby Jesus, be kind.

And don't pretend you didn't notice that moment we had during Christmas Eve mass. I know it meant something to you too.

Whoever Invented "Plus 1" is an Asshole

One of my best friends just got engaged.

Weird.

Ok so it's still kind of processing, but whatever. She's happy, I'm happy. Regardless of the fact that this news came to me on the same day I drafted an entry entitled "I Will Be Alone. Forever."

Don't wanna talk about it.

So last night we go over to her place to start wedding planning. Don't wanna talk about that either. All is going well... color theme... flowers... dresses... champagne... and then we get to guests.

Obviously, I am invited. And guess what else? I get a PLUS ONE!!!!!! WOOHOOOO!!!!

...

I'm not sure why this hadn't crossed my mind earlier. I'm also not sure why everyone looked at me and laughed.

It wouldn't be so bad if the rest of our attending besties weren't in actual relationships, leaving me to be the awkward cougar-in-training glued to the open bar, eyes scanning the dance floor for prey.

Awesome. My best friend manages to get married and I'm seriously concerned about having a wedding date.

Dear Jesus, How did I end up here?

I Will Be Alone. Forever.

One Saturday evening, I'm on my way to visit a friend at Indochine, where she works. I'm walking there, somewhat dressed up, as I may be going to a birthday party later and don't want to stop home to change. Perhaps it was a touch early in the East Village for thigh-high stockings, 5 inch heels, a mink coat, and red lips. Guys feel the need to comment and stare as usual, as I concentrate on my Blackberry whilst traversing the sidewalk at my elevated height of 6'4".

One of them bids adieu to his friends and scurries to catch up and walk next to me. I hate when guys do that. Particularly because they are generally disgusting. I offer non-commital, sarcastic responses to his attempts at witty repartee, still refusing to look up from my bbm.

Eventually, he takes off his furry cap and announces that I have to let him walk me where I'm going because it's his birthday. Of course, I look up at that moment to ensure that he has a stellar view of my serious eye-roll at his lame offense. At this point, I realize that not only is he tall (6'3") with a charming accent (British) but he is also apparently a good-looking dude. I qualify this statement with apparent for two reasons: 1. He sincerely believes he is. 2. I think I agree, but it is also night-time, and my blurry near-sightedness tends to skew towards the favorable. Regardless, I was suddenly interested and immediately more charming. We have a lovely walk, covering many pertinent topics, such as occupation (finance, obviously,) residence (SoHo,) poetry (Robert Frost,) and the fact that we are both convinced that we have quite a way with words. He is, at times, a bit condescending and cocky, but, to be fair, I do like a bit of asshole in my guy, and he does immediately retract all condescending statements after my look of death and sardonic reply.

He makes several remarks about "next time," looking at me expectantly, which I choose to gloss over. I'm sorry. Be direct. Don't make me do your work for you. He also asks what I'm doing that night. "Dinner and a birthday party. Obviously not yours." I laugh.

He drops me off across the street from the restaurant. Yes, he thinks he's dropping me off at a date, because, you know, I'm like really popular and super pretty and every guy is in love with me. He gives me a hug. Pause. "Well, it was lovely to meet you." Pause. "You too, thanks for walking me to dinner." Laugh. "Yeah. Well, I guess I will see you soon, then?" Pause. Expectant look. "Yeah, sounds good." Laugh. Kiss on the cheek. Waltz across the street, into Indochine.

W. T. F.

I seriously have a problem. I will be alone forever.

Shut up, cats.

We Got Spirit... Yeah, Yeah, We Got Spirit...

So I'm flying out to LA. Apparently this is a prime flying day (who woulda thunk it) and flights were all super pricey. One airline was remarkably cheaper than the rest. Spirit Airlines. If you have never heard of it, you are not alone. I had to minimize my priceline page for a moment to google and verify that it was, in fact, an existent airline.

Lo and behold, Spirit exists. It is based out of Florida. It is actually the only airline to have a flight make it out of the Northeast during our little weekend snowstorm. Ah, Spirit, the Little Airline that Could. How happy I am that I found you. Ok, so yes, I did immediately find that they charge for 'seat reservations.' Fine, whatever. For once I will let the cards fall as they may. Put me in the middle. I dare you, Spirit Airlines. Printing out my boarding pass, I am thrilled to find that I was assigned an aisle seat. Spirit and I are apparently BFF's already.

Until I sat in my aisle seat. First, Spirit apparently has the smallest amount of leg room of any flight I have ever been on. And I've been on a lot of crappy planes. There is literally not even enough room for my knees, let alone my calves and my platform wedge boots. Second, you know that flappy pocket thing that holds the magazines in front of you? Well, mine was broken. The top metal bar that is supposed to hold it close to the seat in front of you, was instead wedged between my knees and the seat, harshly digging itself into my skin. This would, of course, be the one time I am flying with a knee injury. (Don't ask how I got that.) And I don't even want to get into the knees of the person behind me that have dug themselves into the small of my back. I have a feeling that whatever I may have saved on this flight will come back to haunt me ten-fold in the form of physical therapy.

I try to be patient. I have my legs stretched out in the aisle, moving them every ten seconds for the awkward amalgam of passengers plowing down the aisle toward the bathroom. I eat my carefully packed tofurky and fitness bread, sort of laughing to myself as I remember my friend's reaction to the name of the airline: "Seriously, Spirit Airlines? WTF. Who takes Spirit Airlines?! Do they like serve American Spirits?" To which I responded: "I don't know, apparently I do. And probably. American Spirits and firewater. This is gonna be be an awesome flight."

Suddenly, I realize how thirsty I am. (For water of the non-fire variety.) The whole not being able to bring water into the airport thing really places a damper on my 16,000 glasses a day. As luck would have it, the cart is one row behind me:

"Would you like to make a purchase?"
"Um. No. I'd just like a water and an orange juice, please."
"That will be $6."
"I'm sorry?"
"Beverages are $3 each."

I look at the miniscule bottles of water, knowing deep inside of me that it will take at least ten of them to make a dent in my dehydration.

"Ok, fine. Can I just have some tap water, please?"
"I'm sorry, we can't give you tap water."

I am sore. I am tired. I am aghast. I give the flight attendant the look of death and politely (read: icily) ask for a cup of ice.

I have, at this point, made no friends on my flight.

I hate the people in my aisle for forcing me to maneuver out of my seat every time they need to use the bathroom and made sure they were uncomfortable attempting a second venture. (Step 1. Pretend not to notice their lame, pseudo attempts to stand. Step 2. Ignore awkward throat clearing. This ignorance is excused by the fact that I am wearing headphones and clearly listening to loud, awesome music. Step 3. Finally, they either wave their hand in front of my face or tap me on the shoulder. I sigh, look down at my book, ipod, and cup of ice, making sure they note that this is a major inconvenience. Step 4: Awkwardly manage my way up and over the armrest that is, for whatever reason, immovable, and out into the aisle. Step 5: Repeat steps 2-4 upon their return.)

I also, clearly did not befriend the flight attendants or the people who had to choose to either clamber over and around my feet in the aisle or wait for me to convince my knee to bend without popping painfully back into place.

As the plane hit a major bout of turbulence and I became convinced that this ghetto little plane was about to spiral downward into the rocky, ocean waters (yes, in reality, we were flying over land, but not in my hypothetical daydream plane crash,) I almost regretted my ahorrance of in-flight small talk. I realized, that were we to crash, there was not one person on this plane who would pull me onto the lifeboat. I would perish, alone, amongst a hostile crowd.

I SO do not 'got spirit.'

I'm Sorry, Mom

My mom comes to visit me in New York, as I will not be coming home for Christmas. We have grand plans for Thursday night - Tuesday morning. Not having a 9-5 job comes in handy for times like these. For most people. First, I have options to work every day that she is supposed to be in NY. Not before... not after... just Thurs-Tues, obviously. I take two of them, and forego the others in lieu of maximizing mommy time. Perfect. Not ideal, but we will still have a lot of time together.

Friday night I get a call. I have a shoot in LA on Tuesday and will be flying out early afternoon on Monday.

Really? Because I'm not sure if you remember how I was just in LA for a month... ready, willing, and able to work... no? No takers?

Sigh. Sorry Mom. Way to go, Jesus, way to drag my mom down with me... just because it's almost your birthday...

Isn't It Ironic, Don't You Think?

In my 'About Me' section, you will find the following sentence: "And to my friends who have fabulous lives sans irony: You're welcome." I assumed these friends knew who they were. A conversation I had a moment ago has forced me to question this assumption.

mylifeissonotironic: I wanna think of something funny to write!! Ahaha

me: Yes! I need your contribution! Improbablygonnabeacatlady and I cannot suffer alone lol. Although, I'm not sure your life is properly ironic.

mylifeissonotironic: My life SO is ironic lolol

me: AHAHAHHAHAHAAAA. Uhhuh.

mylifeissonotironic: I meeeeean - I can't ever find anything on sale! You know this, and the pain it brings.

...

*cricket*

...

I'm gonna go wash my Snuggie or something.

A Breath Away From AARP

Last year, around this time, I was standing in front of my mirror, when a terrible, life-changing event occurred. I noticed a neck wrinkle.

The next day, I was at lunch with a friend of mine, who happens to speak with very animated facial expressions. I noticed that, although she is only 24 and looks about 20, she had several deep forehead wrinkles, assumedly forged by her expressive tendencies. "But I often speak with animated facial expressions," I thought to myself. "Do I have massive forehead wrinkles?!?"

Once at home, I ran to my bathroom mirror and analyzed every fine line and unnecessarily large pore. I discovered the beginnings of a potentially disastrous forehead wrinkle.

Since this discovery, I have a new-found appreciation for all the anti-wrinkle creams I used to toss in my mother's cabinet. Night creams, eye creams, fine line and wrinkle minimizers, deep set wrinkle relief... you name it, I will gently massage it into my skin in small, upward circles.

I thought I was making progress. Then last week happened.

It just so happened that two Neutrogena castings were taking place in the same location. When I arrived and looked at the board, I saw Room 8: Neutrogena. I walked over and signed in. I began to worry a bit when I noticed that I seemed to be about 20 years younger and 25lbs lighter than everyone around me. Eventually the casting director noticed me, and asked if I was there for the 'Neutrogena Bodywrap' casting. As I nodded, she smiled, took my arm, and led me to Room 6, saying "You're way too young for that one." Apparently Room 8 was casting old people, which, thankfully, did not apply to me. I felt much better.

Fast forward to the Room 6 casting director. She calls me in, we exchange small talk, and I mention the room confusion I had stumbled into. She laughed, saying "Oh yeah, no, you're way too young for that one. You don't even have any wrinkles yet, at least not those kinds of wrinkles." I laughed. Kind of. WHAT DID SHE MEAN, NOT THOSE KINDS OF WRINKLES?!?
Apparently my creams aren't working. I am a few, short years away from becoming the female version of this: http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2008/05/27/article-1022221-0165F1D700000578-996_224x335_popup.jpg

For the rest of the week, I concentrated on keeping my forehead very still... while talking, while walking, even as I slipped into deep slumber. At the end of the week, I got an email from my booker with a casting for the upcoming Monday. Juvederm. Botox. "OMFG," I thought. "She told them. The casting director told my agency I was too old and wrinkly. I am now, officially in the old woman box. They're probably going to make me get a mom haircut to capitalize on my new market." (Yes, fear of old age leads directly to paranoia.) When my initial depression lessened a bit, I reopened the email to check for details. Rate: 15k + 20%. I was giddy. I thought this was a sign. My wrinkles came just in time to make some serious money. YESSSSSSSSS.

Perhaps I was a bit overconfident, because it seemed appropriately ironic. My first cover, I was bald. My first big paycheck, I'm wrinkly. So funny you are, Jesus. Thank God your ironic humor is working in my favor for once. Isn't it much more fun when we can all laugh together?

Apparently, Jesus likes to laugh alone.

I show up at the casting. First of all, the other girls were in my age range and essentially wrinkle-free. Second, when discussing this amongst ourselves, one of them reveals her agency told her it was for the wrinkles between your nose and mouth. Like those wrinkles you get when your forty from smiling too much or wrinkling your nose too much or however you possibly get those wrinkles. To make a long story short, I don't have them. I don't even have a smidgen of a wrinkle in that area. Forehead...neck... even around the eye I could probably drum one up. But no, $15k was going to go to a girl who somehow managed to get her under-nose area to wrinkle.

Thanks, Jesus. Reading you loud and clear.

Google Knows Me Way Too Well

Google AdSense. Designed to target ads directly to their prospective consumers. What a genius idea.

As some of you have noticed, the ads on my blog are a tad bit, shall we say, thought-provoking.

The other day there was Sarah Palin's new book, elevator safety weblinks, and cheap clothing. REALLY GOOGLE?! THIS is my target demographic?! Poor, neurotic ultra-conservatives?

I think I am going to start awkwardly inserting chic/fabulous words/phrases into my posts.

Example:
So yesterday, I walked into a pole. CHANELCHLOEHERMESKARLLAGERFELDDIOR. It was awesome.

Happy People Don't Kill Their Husbands

Working out releases endorphins. People leave the gym feeling better about themselves and their lives.

Theoretically speaking.

I went to the gym yesterday. In between sessions on the elliptical, I decided to go grab a drink of water from the drinking fountain on the opposite wall. While walking down the aisle, I'm looking upward and to the right at the televisions. Apparently this caused my walk to skew to the left. Suddenly, I am stumbling forward... slowly...awkwardly...and painfully. My left forearm eventually breaks my fall on someone's machine. I choose not to look up. Head down, eyes averted, I continue to the drinking fountain and shuffle back to my elliptical. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the maintenance women smirking at me.

Even the staff is mocking me. So much for Equinox being a safe place.

I finish my workout and leave the gym. My appendages are bruised. My ego is bruised. Those endorphins that everyone raves about? Apparently mine are hiding in shame.

Our Cats Will Totally Be BFFs

improbablygonnabeacatlady: I'm still at work. I mean... My life. It's freaking Friday.

me: UGGGHHHHH. Cool. An awesome day at jury duty followed by an awesome night of work. Are you 38 and miserable?

improbablygonnabeacatlady: Yes. I am. I am wearing an Xmas sweater too... and high-waisted pleated pants and holiday socks.

me: HHAHHHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAAAAA. Talbots? Or JC Penney?

improbablygonnabeacatlady: And my hairstyle looks like Susan Boyle's.

me: Ok. Penney's it is.

improbablygonnabeacatlady: Hey. JC Penney is cool now. It has CRonson and is gonna carry Mango. Let's do Lane Bryant.

me: Oh. I didn't realize you were plus size also. My bad. Of course.

improbablygonnabeacatlady: Yep. Yep. Yep. Yep. I eat a whole loaf of bread every morning.

me: AAHHHHAHHAHHHAAAAAA. Your life is depressing me.

improbablygonnabeacatlady: My cat is named Snickerdoodle.

me: Gross. Stop.

improbablygonnabeacatlady: Haha. Oh man. I really need you to watch Liz Lemon when you get home. I watched it 3 times. That clip is 10 minutes long. I spent 30 minutes of my night watching Liz Lemon quotes. HOLY SHIT I AM SO SAD.

me: HAHAHHAAA. Um. I was googling them all week. Our lives are terrifying. How did we end up here?

improbablygonnabeacatlady: Wow. Wow. WOW. At least I won't be alone.

me: You can name your cat Snicker. And mine can be Doodle.

Van Nuys is Lovely This Time of Year

improbablygonnabeacatlady: Guess who got called in for jury duty tomorrow

me: Awwnooooo what time?? That succkkksss

improbablygonnabeacatlady: 8:30am

me: Ouch. That hurts. Well at least the courthouse is like right around the corner. You can like walk there.

improbablygonnabeacatlady: Oh. Guess what. I got transferred to Van Nuys. Why the F would they transfer me to Van Nuys? They may as well have gone with Riverside or Oxnard while they were at it.

me: HAHAHAHAHAHAAAA. You know, Santa Barbara has a lovely courthouse.

improbablygonnabeacatlady: F you.

me: Jesus is laughing so hard right now.

improbablygonnabeacatlady: He's laughing so hard it hurts. He. Can't. Breathe.

My Parents Wish I Was Married

Last night, my friend had the gall to ask when my last date was. (RUDE)

Um. Well. A few weeks ago, I dropped my best friend off at her date. And then went to have dinner with my gay friend. Does that count?

Ok, so my love life is in a state of non-existence. It's not like I choose to apparently attract douchebags and old-man creepers. But yes, it is annoying. Especially since everyone seems to be unnecessarily concerned.Even my little brother told me that I should get a boyfriend soon, because 'now it's just getting weird.' Thanks bro, I'll keep that in mind. (That was two years ago. Not much has changed.) Except, of course, yesterday's marriage proposal from the 18-year-old parking structure attendant. Awesome.

My mom even went so far as to reference a supermarket check-out dude in one of these conversations. "He was a nice, good-looking guy!" "HE WAS BALDING AND WEARING AN ORANGE VEST, MOM." I have invested a lot of time, energy and money into my education, appearance, and personality and would like more than a decent return, thank you.

Until then, I will be right here. On the couch. With my muumuu. And cats. F♥rever.

My Parents Are Afraid Their Subconsciouses Want to Kill Me

I recently found out that my life insurance policy is worth a mere pittance compared to that of my parents.

This is not going where you think it is going.

This did not lead to me down a path of faking my parents' deaths and committing insurance fraud. It did, however, lead me to ponder upon the reasoning behind their decision.

There are two possible explanations:

1. I am young and healthy. Why would I have major life insurance? That would be weird.

2. They feared it might serve as an extra incentive to push my tricycle off the cliff when I was being particularly "precocious" and "melodramatic."

Yeah, I'm gonna go with #2.