Merry Christmas, Bitches

To start the holidays off right, here's a quick little Christmas flashback to 1990.

You know that YouTube video where the kid freaks out at the sight of books beneath his Christmas tree? Well a couple decades ago, some of us were a bit more appreciative.

Some might even say possibly a bit overly-appreciative.

Enjoy!



P.S. Gems to listen for:
*"Hi Mom" (So sweet and innocent. Sigh.)
*"My hair is stuck on my tongue."
*"Really this sled is for people to push it" (AKA Where's my sled chauffeur?)
*"Mine is purple, yours is pink." "My favorite colors." (Earlier in the video my sister had mentioned how much she liked yellow. I responded by immediately claiming it as one of my favorites as well. Obviously. What's yours is mine. And I had it first.)
*"Santa used ours. He used our wrapping paper."
*"Baby Bubbles!!! Just what was on my list!!!!"

Happy Birthday, Jesus.

I ♥ Van Wilder

Notice how he's all alone in that photo? That's because he and Scarlett are splitsville.

Not that I wish them any unhappiness (Especially RyRy,) but we all know she wasn't right for him.

Because I am so right for him.

http://nymag.com/daily/entertainment/2010/12/ryan_reynolds_and_scarlett_joh.html?imw=Y&f=most-viewed-24h5

Hope has once again been restored to my life. Maybe Jesus does love me.

Is it going to be awkward when I tell him that I always wanted to name my first-born daughter after Scarlett O'Hara?

I guess we'll just deal with that when we get there.

We.

Exercise is Not Mandatory

I slept in this morning, making it impossible to make it to the gym before my audition. Incidentally, I turned on the television to find myself watching an interview of a "diet expert" going over some weight loss myths. The myth she was debunking at that moment. 'Exercise is mandatory.' She said you do not have to exercise to lose weight as long as you keep your calories tight. I was overjoyed. Thank you for that message, Jesus. I love it when it's so easy to receive validation for my laziness.

I will choose to ignore that fact that when the camera panned out so that you could see her arms, I could see that she was definitely not familiar with the term 'bicep curl,' and possibly a little too familiar with the term 'curly fries.' Maybe I'll just do a couple tricep exercises...

I Don't Have Gumby Eyeballs

It was a typical Thanksgiving weekend Saturday night. Sore and tired from 6 games of volleyball and a 9 mile hike, I decided to take it fairly easy. I threw on my comfiest sweats and pulled on my UGGs (I know, mylifeissonotironic - but they're SO warm and cozy...)and layered my wool coat on top and prepared for a night of blissful laziness. I was taking my sister's puppy, Jack, to have a playdate with iprefermyironyinotherpeople's sister's puppy, Royce. After a successful session that was mostly filled with Jack avoiding Royce's advances from behind, I went to return Jack to his mother at her boyfriend's house in Isla Vista.

As I drove through Isla Vista, I was careful to make a full stop, complete with roll-back, at every red octagonal sign. The exact thought that went through my head was that police like to troll around IV because college kids are easy targets for traffic violations.

Interesting. Go ahead and file that away for a couple mini paragraphs.

At my sister's boyfriend's house, she asks if I want to stay and have a glass of wine. Normally, this isn't something I need to roll around in my head for a minute. Call me a lush, but hand me a drink first. On this particular evening, however, I am so tired and full of holiday feasts that I almost decline the offer. Almost.

One glass and a few conversations later, I am back on the road.

I notice a car following me. I notice this because I am absolutely terrified of almost everything. I actually made my sister walk me out to my car while I checked the backseat and underneath the vehicle to make sure no one was hiding there, waiting to kill me. This car is hanging back a bit, but is definitely following my chosen path. Now, when I say chosen, it wasn't necessarily I who chose this path. I was more sort of following the road in front of me. I am near-sighted and I couldn't figure out what street I was on or where the freeway was. Because of this, I slow down at every intersection and speed up in between, apparently giving the illusion that I am under the influence. When I discover that I am at Fairview and need to turn left to get on the freeway, I put on my blinker... only to have the car that has been following me at a distance speed up. Fine, A-hole, I'm getting over into the turning lane anyway. Chill out. As I maneuver into the turning lane, A-hole follows me right on my tail. Really dude? Really? Why are you such a creeper. Get over it. I begin to turn. Red, white and blue appears in my rear-view mirror.

Shit. My stomach drops. I went from being completely pissed and sort of creeped out to totally nervous and shaking.

I pull into the lot, as instructed by the sheriff car, and look out my window in horror at the discovery of a female cop walking towards me. This is not my target demographic.

Sheriff: "Do you have your driver's license with you?" I hand it to her. "Have you ever been arrested or are you out on parole?" I shake my head no. My eyes are huge. My face is ashen. "Is there a reason you were trying to cause an accident back there?"

Ok. Wow. First of all, I was not trying to cause an accident. I was trying to switch lanes. You were being a dick and pulling right up on my ass. Breathe. Then speak.

Me: "I'm so sorry. I really didn't mean to. I was just trying to figure out what street I was on because I couldn't remember how to get to the freeway and I couldn't figure out which street connected to the freeway and then I saw I was at Fairview and I remembered Fairview hits the 101."

I tend to ramble when I'm nervous.

Sheriff: "Where are you from?"

Me: "Well I'm from here - I went to high school here, but then I was living in LA and then I was just living in New York for a couple years, but I just moved back and am moving into LA but I'm at my parent's house here right now. I'm so sorry, I just had my sister's puppy and was dropping it off at her place and couldn't remember the quickest way to get back."

Yup. Still rambling.

Sheriff: "You have a dog in there too?"

No, A-hole, I do not have a dog in here. You already shone your flashlight all over the entire interior of my car; I'm pretty sure you are well aware there is no canine drooling on my leather seats.

Me: "No, he's not with me, I just dropped him off at my sister's.

Sheriff: "And now where are you going?"

Me: "Home."

Sheriff: "Home in NY? Home in LA? Home where?"

Ok, really? Honestly?? Again. Breathing.

Me: "My parent's home, here in Santa Barbara."

Sheriff: "Which is where?"

Me: I give her my exact address. I would write it here, but then my stalkers would know where I live. And I would prefer them to just Google that instead.

Sheriff: "How much have you had to drink?"

Presumptuous much?

Me: "One glass of wine." She gives me an eyebrow. "I swear. I will take whatever test you want me to."

She shines the flashlight DIRECTLY in my eyes. Ow.

Sheriff: "Have you taken any drugs or are you on any medication?" I shake my head no, with confusion crossing my trembling features. "You're not on any medication?" I know, I get that a lot. Can we just get on with this, sheesh. "Have you bumped your head in the past few days?" Ohhhhh now I see where she's going with this one.

Me: "No, but I have a dilated pupil."

Sheriff: "Yes you do. And why is that?"

Me: "It's uh - I was born like that. It's been like that since I was born."

Sheriff: "Anything else I should know about your eyes?"

Me: "Um, no, well, I have an extra tear duct on this one, well, actually it's not an extra tear duct, I always thought that's what it was because that's what I was told when I was little, but it's not actually, it's just like a little hole, well almost, well I'm not sure exactly what it is - "

Sheriff: She is now apparently seriously amused by my nervous stammering and trying very hard to keep a straight face. "Maybe just some scar tissue?" She's just lucky I didn't get into the story behind my crooked pinky. It's a dominant genetic trait, in case you were curious.

Me: "Yeah." Maybe the important thing about my eyes would have been the fact that I'm near-sighted. Oh well. I didn't want to back-track now.

Sheriff: "Ok, follow my finger with your eyes, without moving your head."

She is once again shining the flashlight directly into my eyes. First of all, Ms. Sheriff, my eyes are sort of naturally attracted to anything bright, sparkly or shiny, so my first instinct is to keep looking back at the light and not at your fingers. Second, I am seriously blinded by that light and can barely even see your fingers. Third, there is no way I can make my eyes go that far over without moving my head. My peripheral vision is pretty stellar, but I don't have Gumby eyeballs.

Sheriff: "When was the last time you ate?" It is currently 10:15pm.

Me: "Um, well, I guess I had a little something at like 6 or 6:30."

She just nods. Shit. I'm so screwed.

Sheriff: "Ok, step on out." I start to open the door wondering what is next and what's going to happen to me. She stops me: "No, I said sit tight." Oh. Right. Of course. I can hear. I don't really think you're going to make me walk in straight lines and then put me in handcuffs and arrest me and destroy my entire life.

I sit and wait. Tears well up. I start to wonder what exactly she's going to give me a ticket for and how much it is going to cost and just how screwed I am.

She starts to walk back toward me. I rub away the tears, leaving the pathetic evidence for sympathy points.

Sheriff: "Ok, here's your license." I take it in my shaking hand. "Do you have any idea how much paperwork I have to fill out when you cause an accident?"

Me: "I'm so sorry." Just keep saying sorry. Juussstt keep saying it.

Sheriff: "Ok. Now you can just turn right out of here and you'll get to the freeway. Be careful."

She walks away.

I'm ok. I'm ok. AHHHHHHHHH I'M OK.

Stupid a-hole female cops. Sorry I'm not sorry.

It's All For The Ancestors

iguessthatwasironic: Bring whomever is excited to go - adventurous peeps. And pretty helps.

me: Hahaha k done and done. I only hang out with pretty people. Duh.

iguessthatwasironic: Snob

me: Guilty. It's better for pictures/memories.

iguessthatwasironic: Hahahahaa - Better for pics

me: One day my ancestors will judge my life based on those pictures. I don't want to disappoint my future family.

iguessthatwasironic: You have really opened my eyes.

me: I'm full of wisdom.

iguessthatwasironic: Hold on. I'm breaking up with my fat friends.

With all this in mind, I guess I had better pull a McQueen and find slash destroy any slash all photos associated with my junior high years. And perhaps my first few years of college while we're at it.

I Think I'm Really Special

I did not get the whole 'flowers on the right side, smile with teeth' memo.

What Do I Do With My Hands?

Los Angeles is full of people watchers. I, myself, am well-versed in staring down strangers, assessing and judging their appearance, attire and mannerisms. So, sometimes, when you're walking down the street, by yourself, it's easy to feel a little self-conscious.

Last Thursday, I was having one of these moments. I was walking from my friend's apartment in West Hollywood to the Whole Foods on Santa Monica Blvd. People sitting at restaurants to my left, people sitting in traffic to my right. A lot of awkward eye-contact occurred.

To make the situation worse, I couldn't figure out what to do with my hands. I started with them in my pockets, as it was a cloudy day and it seemed the appropriately schlumpy move. This would have been fine if it weren't for the fact that I suffer from severe ADD and need to change my hand position, check my blackberry, etc with an overzealous frequency.

Ok, still not a big deal. Except for the fact that the pockets on my army jacket have buttons on them that I have never bothered to unbutton; thus, when I put my hands inside them, they kind of get a little bit stuck. I have to do the whole pull down on the bottom of the jacket with my other hand while pulling the trapped hand out of the pocket. You know what I'm talking about.

So awkward.

Especially when you then realize that the blackberry you wanted to check is still inside of that pocket, forcing you to repeat previous steps.

Basically, I was having a big, huge Will Ferrell moment.

Fast forward to my acting class that evening.

One of the actors was suffering a similar fate with her hands and our acting coach stopped the scene to discuss this predicament. He referenced the above scene from Talladega Nights, noting that the reason this scene exists is because it is a common experience shared among actors. He also went on to say that it occurs when we are acting because we are aware of the fact that everyone's attention is on us - that during our general daily lives, we don't think about our hands, because we don't assume that everyone is looking at us.

...

Right. Of course not.

...

I chose to remain silent.

A Veritable Genius

"Your face is not one that is easy to not remember."

"You mean forget?"

"No, I would never forget!"

...

cricketcricket

...

"Ok."

People are so special.

I'm A Really Good Talker

In sixth grade, our gym teacher told us that our mile pace should be one that inhibited our ability to converse with our peers.

I informed her that I didn't believe in performing activities that rendered casual conversation impossible.

I wish I could remember her reply.

What Are Business Hours

Reasons we love online courses:

1. No driving, no parking, no need to get out of bed at all.

2. All quizzes are open-book.

3. No teacher to go off on tangents, distract you with their ill-fitting clothes, non-pedicured, Teva-clad feet and unkempt hairstyles circa 1997, or speak too slow, too fast or too incoherently.

4. No having to deal with avoiding the awkward attempts at conversation by classmates you have no intention of becoming friends with.

5. No chalk or overhead projectors. The dry-erase markers are kind of missed a little bit.

6. You can take them at any time and on any day of the week.

Right.

So let's focus on #6 for a moment, shall we?

I happen to be enrolled in real estate courses via Allied Schools. Mostly because, through their program, in a mere 54 days, I can complete the mandatory three courses in order to be eligible to take the Real Estate Salesperson exam.

What? I like to constantly expand my skill set.

Brief pause while I tune my guitar and finish up a French lesson.

So, back to my online courses. I was looking forward to this particular Saturday to sit down and knock out about 11 chapters and a final exam. Let's just say, I had a couple hours free. When I went online to access my courses, I found that the documents I needed to read and complete wouldn't load; instead, I received a 'Page Error' notification. I tried refreshing the page, switching browsers, restarting my computer, using a different computer, and of course the go-to of clicking every possible button slash word on the screen. At one point, I even attempted to right-click, 'Inspect Element' and try to understand ANYTHING that was on that page. (Translation: Unsuccessful.)

When I reached the point of berating the webpage with uncouth expletives and questioning the motive behind its obvious personal vendetta against me, I decided it was time to call the Educational Support line listed on the website.

They would be able to help me.

Correction: They will be able to help me. Anytime. As long as that time is Monday-Friday 8am-6pm.

Seriously?

Right.

Apparently, come Monday, I will be using my daytime minutes for the first time since the invention of the Blackberry. Until then, I will be leaving them a voicemail. And writing them an email. Possibly sending a fax. Because I'm passive-aggressive like that and I need somebody to blame.

Online course 24-hour access fail.

Glad That's Settled

me: omgomgomgogmomgomg
kylieeeeeee

improbablygonnabeacatlady: dude
how amazing is it
seriously
seriously
no joke
i love it

me: so amazing
i cant stop watching

improbablygonnabeacatlady: yup
i have watched it so many times this morning
i love kylie's outfits in the video
i love everything
love the lights
just watching it again
no big deal

me: i literally cant stop

improbablygonnabeacatlady: i love all the gay men dancers

me: the dancers
the flowy white

improbablygonnabeacatlady: i mean
this is my favorite song on the album
and this is now one of my most favorite videos of all time
i may or may not be watching it again
stacie i really wonder if we were best friends in our past life as gay men
or do you think in our next life we are coming back as full fledged gay men
this is a precursor
things to ponder

me: THOUGHT OF THE DAY

improbablygonnabeacatlady: i think we might come back as gay men in our next life
like wearing sequins everyday

me: omgomg
yessss

improbablygonnabeacatlady: OR
maybe we come back as gaycons
like kylie

me: HOW AMAZING WOULD THAT BE
BEST LIFE EVER

improbablygonnabeacatlady: there we go
THERE WE GO
our next life
gaycons

me: happy sigh

Consider the Courtesy Unextended

Photo Courtesy of Stacie Corliss

Oh. Is it? Really? Because I don't remember ever giving you the photo, courteously or discourteously.

What happened to the days when a photo credit was simply a photo credit, acknowledged with those two words, a colon and a name. I understand that the newer syntax is more eloquent, implies a certain civility, and is a marker of a polite society; I just also happen to think it's a bit presumptuous.

Ok, yes, fine, I use it. And I will keep on using it. I can't help it - the general aesthetics of the courteous credit are a definite improvement over the credit with a colon, and I'm a sucker for looks and manners. I still think it's a little weird.

These Directions Are Unclear

Have you ever taken the time to read the directions on the tube in which the magical little tablets, dubbed Airborne, are packaged?

DIRECTIONS: As a dietary supplement for adults and children 12 years and older: Simply drop (1) AIRBORNE tablet in 4-6 oz. of water, let dissolve (about 1 minute) and drink. Do not shake or cover. Repeat every 3-4 hours as necessary, no more than 3 times per day.

The directions continue with talk of breastfeeding and physicians, but those are of little to no concern to me. What is of concern to me is the fact that those directions make absolutely no sense.

Repeat every 3-4 hours as necessary, no more than 3 times per day.

Ok, well the thing with Airborne is that you're supposed to begin taking it when you think you're getting sick. I'm fairly certain, that if I think I'm getting sick, "every 3-4 hours as necessary" is going to be EVERY 3 HOURS ON THE DOT. Now, if I'm doing my math correctly... 24 hours in a day... divided by 3 hours... 8. I should be taking 8 Airborne a day. Even if you discount the 8-10 hours you sleep a night, you're still dealing with about 5 opportunities for a solid vitamin overdose.

How are you supposed to choose? Should you start earlier or end later? Maybe cut out a couple in the middle?

I feel so lost.

Dear Self, That Was Unnecessary

When I am working out in the mini-gym in my parents' garage, there are only two scenarios in which I remove the headphones from my ears. Actually, I only remove them from both ears if my grandmother happens to come in to say something to me. Which happened once. And that's just because she's partially responsible for my existence on this Earth, and she's not one of my parents. Jesus, I'd take both headphones out of my ears for you too.

Excepting visits from grandparents and Jesus, the right headphone will occasionally rest on my clavicle bone for one of these two reasons:

1. If I need to check to make sure I'm in tune while I'm belting out Xtina and Kylie mid-leg extension. You're welcome, neighbors.

2. If I need to listen to a voicemail.

Apparently, when I've been working out for a bit too long, I get a little confused about self-enforced rule #2.

Today I took out my headphones to read a bbm. That was an uncomfortable moment.

Future of America

me: I am now getting my only exercise of the day by walking to Yogurtland

ithinkironyisSOfunny: Niiiiiice!!!! That's more than I do ever.

me: Hahahahahahaha

ithinkironyisSOfunny: Seriously. My ass and thighs are a little sore from dancing.

me: Aaaaahhahahahahahahhahhahaaaa. Dude. We gotta start getting you to the gym lol

ithinkironyisSOfunny: Hahahahaha. I like my body better when I don't work out though. Is that weird? I look weaker...more sickly.

me: Hahahaahahahahahhahhahahaha

ithinkironyisSOfunny: Not as sickly as I would like though of course.

me: No I totally know what you mean. As f*cked up and so not okay as that is. LOL

ithinkironyisSOfunny: Hahahahaa I was half-kidding. But it's sort of true.

me: Like I don't want to look strong. I want to look like I can barely hold my purse.

ithinkironyisSOfunny: Hahahahahaha! But strong is hot too! I just never looked that strong either.

me: HAHAA

ithinkironyisSOfunny: Hahahahahaha! Oh we dream big.

me: Right? Future of America. Thank youuuu womens' movement

ithinkironyisSOfunny: What are our daughters going to be like?

me: F*cked up. But skinny

ithinkironyisSOfunny: Hahahahahahahahahahahahah!!!! Omg. I loved that answer. I wouldn't want it any other way.

me: Although no one kidnaps a fat kid

ithinkironyisSOfunny: Hahahahaha! Yeah, but I'd wish that they would. I don't want to raise a self-respecting fat girl!

me: Ew no. Grossss

ithinkironyisSOfunny: Omg! If I raise some big fat lez I'll just die

me: Omg I just died. Some huge butch chic. Brilliant.

ithinkironyisSOfunny: Hahahahhahahahahahahahahahahaha

me: um, ithinkironyisSOfunny... I don't think you have to worry about your daughter having any self-respect.

Mwahahhahahahhahahhaa

ithinkironyisSOfunny: Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Thanks, Stacie!

me: Bahahaha

ithinkironyisSOfunny: Quote of the day! This is the funniest conversation that I can never repeat.

Consider it repeated.

Pat Your Head and Rub Your Tummy

I made the mistake of putting Let the Right One In into the DVD player to watch while I ate dinner tonight. If you are like me and have never heard of the movie, it is a Norwegian film, complete with subtitles.

SUBTITLES?! Really?

I kept missing parts of the movie, and really have no idea what happened for the first half hour or so, as I am apparently not coordinated enough to eat without looking at my food.

I swear it's harder than you think.

RIP AVP

It is a scientific fact that my future daughters are going to be giants. I am already planning on pumping their veins full of coffee, but diminutive statures are just not in their cards. For those of you who are thinking to yourself: "Unless you marry a short dude," I say: "Ew. That is disgusting and please stop reading my blog now, thanks. Your penny contribution to my ironic life means nothing to me now."

Moving along.

My 6'2" husband and I will be breeding giants. I came to the conclusion long ago that the only logical solution would be to put them in beach volleyball training from the age of two or so. What? It worked for Jennifer Capriati and tennis. I was convinced that was their only hope for a normal, happy lifestyle.

Then came this recent piece of news:

AVP Tour Suspends Operations

The death of the AVP?

What are my future children supposed to do?? More importantly... now where am I going to find a husband?

I Sang With Katy Perry

With beginnings like this, it is no wonder I have achieved so much success in my career.



If you want to see Katy's thrilling "solos," you can scroll ahead to the 1:36ish mark... and again around 2:10.

I know... I'm so cool.

P.S. Please notice my awesome braces. You're welcome.

Your Local Library Doesn't Trust You

A few months ago, a major life event occurred: I GOT MY NYPL CARD!!! For those of you who suck at acronyms, NYPL stands for New York Public Library. It was not as easy as you might think.

Words of wisdom for those who wish to follow in my footsteps:

1. Bring proof of address. If you don't, you will have to get permission from a supervisor to bring said proof upon return of the book. And the girl at the desk will basically make you feel like a homeless hoodlum.

2. When they give you that little receipt with the name of the book and its expected date of return, do not crumple it up and toss it in the trash after a brief, perfunctory glance at the due date; if you do, you will not make it through the security line at the exit and will be forced to return to the front desk where they will have to print you another copy. This time, you may not feel homeless, but you definitely feel like a hoodlum. And an a-hole.

The things I do for the A.B.C. And because I totally not-so-secretly love libraries and all the germs and weirdos that come with them.

Death By Spiderbite is So Lame

I have a healthy fear of spiders.

Two nights ago, a spider had apparently made his way through my open window and onto my curtains. Not wanting to put my hand anywhere close to his furry little, poison-filled, pincher-y things, I grabbed the nearest spray bottle I could find and aimed it at him. Aveda's Sap Moss styling spray is not going to be marketed as a spider-killer anytime soon. It did, however, alarm the spider, causing him to scramble down the wall, where another squirt of sap moss led him to the floor where I stomped him with a Jeffrey Campbell Wang boot. (Which, by the way, is a very effective spider-squisher.) I even proceeded to pick up the flattened, shriveled, spider carcass with a kleenex and toss him into my trash can. (My fear of his reincarnation during my sleep led me to immediately dispose of this trash in the outside bin.)

Last night, I was regaling my mother with tales of my courage in afore-mentioned battle vs. spider. This led to that, and soon I was thinking how much it would suck to die by spider bite in your sleep. Like, honestly, out of all the things that could possibly kill you, and all the ways you could possibly die, that has to be one of the lamest.

Unfortunately, now that this thought has crossed my mind, that is probably exactly how I am going to die... just because it's so lame and annoying.

I am now going to go skydiving, followed by an afternoon of swimming with sharks. Anyone want to go chase some lions around tonight?

I Dream of Being Sued By Tina Fey

As I was baking some brownies this afternoon, I began to daydream about my future bakery. This has been a 'totally not serious but seriously, it would be kind of fantastic' daydream of mine for about 8 years or so now.

I decided I would call my dessert company "You're Fat Because I Hate You." For those of you who live in some sort of alternate universe, this is half of an amazing quote from Mean Girls. The other half of the quote will be my vegan line of desserts: "I Don't Hate You Because You're Fat."

I still honestly think this is a good idea, by the way.

As I was picturing my flourishing company and mentally drafting my business plan, I began to wonder if that quote was copyrighted.

I suddenly pictured myself being sued by Tina Fey; because, clearly, she would take the time to fight this battle. In my head she berated me for using her hard work to garner personal success.

My response? "I tried using my own hard work to gain success, but that wasn't working out so well, so I thought maybe I'd have more luck with yours."

Stop Destroying My Zen

I had a casting in Santa Monica around 2p yesterday. After which, I decided to go down to the beach to prep for my 7p acting class. I figured it would be a nice, peaceful setting where I could clear my head and focus.

It was. For about ten minutes.

Just as soon as I had gotten my stuff settled, (Extra-long towel laid out to directly face the sun, SPF30 applied, dress on top of bag to prevent it blowing away, water bottle within arms reach, sides in my hand, book beside me for when I tired of my sides, sand packed slightly higher at my head so as to create a sort of pillow beneath my towel...) FOUR BUS-LOADS OF SMALL CHILDREN ARRIVED. Not only did they arrive at the beach in general, which would have been irksome enough to throw off my carefully achieved zen, but their adult leaders camped them on the sand approximately 15 feet above where I was sitting.

I just want to wallow in my jaded view of life for awhile, can you please stop rejoicing over the waves and the sunshine?! And come on, how hard is it to get the sand out of your shoes? Do you honestly have to stand there yelling for help and slapping the soles together for a solid ten minutes?? Really? Figure it out, child.

My head was neither cleared nor focused.

This'll be Perfect for Your Knee

Me: So the thing I'm going in for tomorrow is a health mag

improbablygonnabeacatlady: OOH yay

Me: Wonder if it's a joke... What with my bum knee and all LOL. I come limping in...

improbablygonnabeacatlady: HAHAHAHAHA

"Ok Stacie, we want you to jump"

"and kick sand"

Me: AHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAA Right? "If you could just do a forward lunge..."

Honesty is the Best Policy

Special overseas update from improbablygonnabeacatlady!!!

So, today, I got a massage before my flight tomorrow back to the good ol USA. I got it at my aunt's apt because she lives in an expat sort of serviced apt building here in Singapore. Unfortunately, her favourite masseuse left the spa so it was a new lady, Isabel, and I got to be a guinea pig.

When I checked in, I could already tell this lady was a total space cadet. She even walked into the effing room when I was undressing. WTF?!

Now, Asians are not known for their manners, esp. Singaporeans (I cannot tell you how many times I heard Chinese and Singaporean people burp out loud or in my face while they are talking to me).

So, when she was massaging my thighs and butt area she said, "you need to run."

I replied, "Excuse me?"

Isabel: "Your muscle here. It loose."

Me: "Well, I have been walking a lot here."

Isabel: "That not enough. You need to run. You exercise?"

Me: "No. I never exercise."

Isabel: "Yes. You need to. So you can make it tight. It loose now."

It could have been worse- she could have said other body parts were "loose." But you know I'm not like that...

Just when you thought her honesty stopped there, she let me know what's up again when she massaged my stomach area.

Isabel: *soft chuckle* "Oh, well you are still slim for not working out. Except for this-you have small tummy here."

Me: LAUGH. "Yes. I know."

Isabel: "Let me guess- you work. Then you eat. Then you go back to desk and sit down for long time. That's why you have that."

I laugh again, thinking that if she even knew the half of it (I am a professional horizontal eater- eating with a plate on my stomach while I'm laying on the couch watching TV), she would probably feel free to rip into me even more.

Isabel: "Well, at least you are still young and have time to fix."

I have never had a masseuse talk to me (annoying and unprofessional), but this time was pretty comical. I guess I can't fool her with my oversized t-shirts and pregnant dresses as I lay nakey on her table. She totally called me out.

The final backhanded compliment came when I was checking out of the spa and drinking my tea. She was staring at my face and said, "Pretty. You young and have beauty. But need to exercise. Fix it now."

So if you ever want someone to tell you what's wrong with your body (whether you already knew it or not), a real live "fat mirror" if you will, book a massage with Isabel in Singapore!

I've Maintained My Youth

Do you ever look back on childhood events and marvel at how far you've come? I don't. This is a vignette I wrote in the 3rd grade:

THE WEDDING

Today I was really excited! My Grandma had just brought over my flower girl dress because tomorrow I was going to be in my step step aunt's wedding. And so was Matt Carper. I forgot the other people. But anyway Matt was going to be the ringbearer, and we would have to walk down the aisle together. My step step aunt Jenny tried to make us hook elbows by saying it would look good in the wedding, but not a chance! We weren't even close to hooking elbows. We stood as far away from each other as the aisle would allow us. Well, good night I've got to get some sleep because tomorrow is a big day. "Wake up!" my mother called.

"Okay!" I said since I was already awake. First I made my bed and did all that other morning stuff. I put on my flowergirl dress and my mother did my hair in a french braid, then my Grandma took me to the church. I went down to the basement of the church and got the flowers I would hold (not throw) while I went down the aisle. Then I talked to the other people who were going to be in the wedding. And chased this little kid around. Just then somebody told me to go upstairs, so I did and when I got up there I saw how many people were there. Matt and I went first. I was on the side that Jenny was going to be on and Matt was on the side his dad was going to be on. Then Jenny and her dad came. When they got to the last aisle bench she traded off to the groom (And by the way, the bridesmaids were holding up the train that trails behind the bride.) They walked the rest of the way to the priest and he said some words. Then the people had to take millions of pictures. Then we went to this place to eat and dance. (I had to dance with Matt.)

THE END

Who could have predicted that that girl would still be single 18 years later?

Knees Are Overrated

Over the weekend, I decided that I want to run another half-marathon soon. It's been awhile, and I'm ready to get back into them. I even started to consider when I might run the one full marathon that I want to run at some point in my life.

Sunday afternoon, I was sitting back on my heels, playing with my sister's puppy and when I went to stand, there was a loud popping sound from my knee. It kind of made me feel like a 95 year old arthritic hag, but there was no real pain associated with it, so I figured it was sort of related to the clicking noises my ankles make when I walk up stairs. Please say you know what I'm talking about - in relation to yourself, not just that you've heard mine from across the country.

Monday, I go for a run and all is fine... until I head down to East Beach for volleyball. We were running the drill where you sit down backward in the sand and pop up, ready to pass the ball when coach says "Go." I sit down. I pop up. My knee also pops... out... and neglects to then pop back in. I try to shake it back into place, I have my sister try to pop it back into place... all to no avail. Whatever, I keep playing and by the end it doesn't feel great, but the pain has lessened substantially. Once at home, I sit in the hot tub with a bottle of wine and then move onto ice (wine still readily available.) I am confident that I will awake to a fully healed joint. Okay, maybe not so much confident as extremely hopeful slash slightly worried.

I woke up this morning unable to walk. My knee is currently wrapped in ice. My father suggested motrin; unfortunately, that is upstairs.

Apparently, Jesus is not a fan of my half-marathon/full-marathon gameplan. Duly noted. I will be on this couch until further notice.

OOOOHHHHH It's A-SPARKALIEEEEE

When most people walk around barefoot, they end up with dirty feet or things like grass or dust attached to their soles.

I walked around barefoot this morning. Guess what I found on the bottom of my foot.

A rhinestone.

That's right. Because my life is A-SPARKALIIEEE! Either that or because I am a 5 year-old and I tend to have a surplus of shimmer in my general vicinity.

It could go either way.

Bedhead is Hot

Since returning from New York, I have been waking up at 6am. Apparently I haven't adjusted to the time change yet.

This being the case, I decided there was no need to set an alarm for this morning. I went to bed around 12:30a and assumed I'd wake from restful slumber no later than 9am. I had a casting in LA between 10a-3p, so I planned to leave SB around noon, hopefully getting in a nice long run beforehand.

Interesting. When I pried the sleeping mask from my eyes and reached across for my blackberry, the time read 11:03am. My first thought was that my phone had switched back to Eastern time. My second thought was FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF. My third thought was: "Sh*t, my earplug is stuck in my ear." (True story. It was a scary 3 minutes of gentle prying slash pulling. I didn't even know that could happen.)

My father didn't help things when he popped home after a meeting and saw me speed-eating my oatmeal in my pajamas, my bedhead slightly more pronounced than usual: "Oh yeah, you look like you'll get picked to model something." Laugh, laugh, laugh.

Thank you for that. No really, thank you.

Just Say No

After my friend's shocked/appalled/aghast/bewildered reaction to the intense level of inactivity in my dating life, I vowed to liven it it up a little bit. Two nights later, a tall Australian entered the scene. He had flown into NY that Thursday for his 'best mate's' birthday party and was leaving on Saturday morning for a business trip. His one free night was Friday and he would love to take me to dinner.

I ran through my mental checklist:
6'2" or above: Check.
Sense of humor: Check. (Though dangerously close to the cheesy side, not so close as to dismiss immediately.)
Broad-shouldered, athletic and attractive: Check, Check, and Check.
Easy conversationalist: Check.
Good job/income: Check/Check.

Looks like I was saying yes.

My initial concerns: he appeared to be older than I am generally comfortable with dating (I prefer 28ish, he seemed more 35ish,)and I was also worried about the cheese factor, due to a couple fleeting moments in conversation and also his shirt, which I was not particularly fond of.

Early afternoon on Friday he calls to say he has made 8pm dinner reservations and perhaps we can meet at 7p and walk along the westside a bit first. I say fine. Around 4p, he texts to confirm 7p at his apartment in SoHo. I respond that this should be fine as I am currently frolicking around the West Village with friends. He replies back that I can come around 6:30 instead if I would like. I choose to ignore this text. An hour before dinner, to talk about lord knows what, should suffice, thank you. And I'm not sure what it was about "frolicking around the West Village with friends" that led him to believe I would want to meet up earlier. Regardless.

I arrive in SoHo around 7:15, too late to allow for his planned hour 1/2 long pre-dinner stroll. Really though? Let's not jump ahead of ourselves, okay, Turbo? Thanks.

We walk through SoHo and over to the Flatiron district to dinner at Pure Food & Wine. The walk was actually quite lovely and entertaining, and dinner proceeded to be fun and delicious. I found myself remembering why I like dating. Fun, flirting, White Light Tinis... I really should do this more often.

As he paid the check, I reached for my blackberry, suddenly realizing how late it had become. Dinner had taken over three hours, and it was currently pushing midnite. So much for going home to change before meeting up with my friends. Alas, I assumed we would say goodnight and I would hop into a cab in front of the restaurant.

This is where things began to unravel.

I'm trying to politely peaceout; Aussie has turned his game on, angling to get laid. This is not an excellent combination. He wants to walk. Curbside, of course, as his grandmother instructed him to do when walking with a lady. (Uhhuh. Yup.) Ok, fine, I can saunter through the park with him and get a cab on the other side. I BBM my friends telling them my ETA is 30 minutes. 30 minutes later, duderino is still ignoring every semi-polite attempt of mine to end the date. I'm really trying not to be rude and abrupt, but he has suddenly turned from entertaining and charming to annoying and cheesy. (I KNEW IT WAS IN THERE.)

As our walk takes us mysteriously close to his apartment(I will spare you the cheese-ball extravaganza that occurred on that trek,) I am rescued by back to back phone calls from my besties (Hi! Yes! I'm coming right now, I swear! Sorry! Literally getting in a cab right now!!)

"Are you sure you have to go?"

Is he serious?

"Yep! Oh! There's a cab! HadagreattimethankyoufordinnerBYE!"

His reply?

"Oh man, you're totally running. I wish you wanted to stay and chase the passion with me."

Yup. Uhhuh.

CHASE THE PASSION.

Except he did not say it in capital letters. It rolled off his tongue, nonchalantly, as though that is something that he has said before. Often.

"Yeah, ok, I'm going to chase that cab."

This is why I don't date. Now, where's my cat?

So That's Not "Normal?"

I meet up with a friend of mine for an afternoon drink (or five.) As it is wont to do, conversation eventually turns to our respective relationships (or lack therof.)

"You've NEVER been in a serious relationship?!?"
"God, you say that like it's a bad thing."
"When was your last date?"
(I pause briefly, trying to remember. When I realize it's probably been over a year, I stop searching my brain and decide to concoct what seems like a typical, average period of time."
"Um, like 3 weeks ago."
"THREE WEEKS?!? THAT LONG?!?"

Guess it's a good thing I didn't go with "approximately 14 months ago."

I Gotta Run to the Dentist!

For the average American citizen, going to the dentist is a mundane chore squeezed into a lunch break or in between other mind-numbing errands.

For me, it's an ADVENTURE! (That exclamation point and pre-adolescent eagerness will diminish as this post continues.)

I haven't been to a dentist for four years. 1. I have a deep-seated fear of people shoving things such as drills and their creepy fingers into my mouth. 2. I have no dental insurance and can think of several things on which I'd rather spend the money I don't have.

On my recent trip to NY, I decide to take advantage of the "friends & family discount" offered by my dentist friend. The only caveat is that his practice is in New Jersey. Whatever, this will be an ADVENTURE! Hopstop informs me that I will need to take a bus from Port Authority, transfer to another bus once in the foreign land of Jersey and I will be dropped off at the doorstep to my dentist. EASY BREEZY! This will be all kinds of fun, I'll meet all kinds of interesting people and I'll feel all kinds of independent.

The morning of the great adventure arrives. I awake on a friend's couch after a rollicking good time the night before at Juliet. (Rap Video Sundays YESSSSS) He lives close to Port Authority, so I decide to just trek on over there and make my travels in my outfit from the night before. (Short, yellow, vintage lace dress with nude lace-up 5in. wedges.)

The day starts off well. I should have known that was a bad sign. I make it to Port Authority in plenty of time to figure out how to buy a ticket and where to meet the bus. Once on the bus, I realize that everyone has done this before and I am the only idiot looking around confusedly, having no clue when or where my stop is coming. Luckily, a small black child takes me under his wing and informs me that my stop will be four stops away and to not leave the bus until the driver tells me to. This is after he went to the driver and asked him to look out for "the nice, pretty girl in braids." Yes, this child was approximately seven years old.

I make it off the first bus at the local City Hall. Stop #1 a success. I'm supposed to transfer to my next bus here. The sign affirms the fact that that particular bus stops here, unfortunately it leaves off pertinent details such as the time at which this bus arrives and how I buy a ticket for said bus.

I prop myself against a tree, hiding from the intense sun, watching each bus come. Each time, wondering if my bus if ever going to arrive. I leave to buy some gum. Brushing my teeth with my finger, as I was at my friend's apartment, was probably not the best move on dentist day. I come back and continue my watch from the shade tree. I watch webisodes on my blackberry and continue to gchat with everyone I know, still wondering if I am ever going to make it to part two of my adventure.

An hour and a half later, my bus arrives. Hmm, now about this whole ticket thing. I ask the driver how much it costs. $2.35. I hand him a $20 bill, but he shakes his head and points to the machine. I put the twenty into the machine. It reads: $1. Driver says: "You need another $1.35." I JUST PUT A TWENTY IN THERE. "It doesn't give you change." THIS DIDN'T SEEM LIKE A PERTINENT FACT TO MENTION TWO MINUTES AGO? At this point, someone on the back of the bus says: "Girl so stupid." I was loving this adventure less and less by the minute.

I sit down, contemplating the fact that I probably could have taken a cab from there for less money and wondering how I am going to figure out where my stop is. We go through an intersection and turn on Ratzer Rd. "Oh! I'm on Ratzer and Selby*," I tell the driver. He nods. I settle back into my seat. Almost there!!! My phone starts to die. The webisodes were probably a bad idea on a phone running on low battery.

Suddenly, we turn off. We're no longer on Ratzer. "Wait, are we not on Ratzer anymore?? I told you my stop was Ratzer & Selby*!!!"

The driver forgot to stop at my stop. But not to worry, he said, this bus makes a loop so we'll pass it on the way back. Cool. Except for the fact that I am now late. Whatever, I will make it. All will be fine. I text my friend that I will be late, as he normally leaves the office early on Mondays.

It took us another 45 minutes just to get to the turnaround point. By this time, the sunny day had turned cloudy and drops began to fall from the sky. The driver told me I had to get off while he took a ten minute break. Awesome. I go to wait in the little clear booth things, now freezing in my sleeveless dress. During this ten-minute period, the drops falling from the sky turn to larger drops and eventually hail. Of course.

By the time I am in back in the bus, I am soaked, freezing, my makeup from the night before has streaked down my cheeks and around my eyes. In another 10 minutes, I finally arrive at my stop. 5 hours after my adventure began.

"Hey Stacie! Great to see you. How'd you get here?"
"You too! I had a friend drop me off; it was perfect!"

I die.

*I don't remember what the actual intersection was. I sort of wish I didn't remember any of this at all.

Who Uses A License Nowadays?

I am not a huge fan of carrying around a huge wallet. Any extra purse space I might have is reserved for keys, my camera, lip gloss and gum. Thus, I am a huge fan of the credit card holder. A small silver case that holds the annoying essentials: License, credit card, ATM card, school ID... (Yes, I know what you are thinking, and I fail to see your point. I will be flashing that piece of plastic for my 10% discount at Topshop 'til I'm a senior citizen.)

I often leave the house without a bag, tossing my credit card holder and keys in my pocket and gripping onto my blackberry. So easy & breezy.

This week, however, I left my house in Santa Barbara and headed to LA with a few bags... and no said credit card holder. Awesome. My first reaction was to freak out. How was I going to pay for anything? What if I got pulled over? How was I going to get into the club? (Not necessarily in that order.) As I thought about it more, I began to think that it wasn't necessarily a disaster. I really shouldn't be buying anything anyway, I haven't gotten pulled over in years, and if we do decide to go out tonight, we have people who can get us past the ID check. Besides, it's only 3 1/2 days.

Day 1. We don't go out. I buy nothing. Success.
Day 2. A planned lunch with a friend becomes more of an iced tea. Picked up headshots I had prepaid for online. improbablygonnabeacatlady spots me for the clearly crucial Yogurtland excursion. Safe once more.
Day 3. Should be a safe day. In my plans: Gym, prepping for acting class, tickytackypaperworky type stuff, selling clothes at Buffalo Exchange, and acting class. Not only should this be a safe day, it should also cover me for any possible emergencies (ie running out of gas) that should occur on the final half day, thanks to the clothes I would be selling. This is where things went awry. Did I get too cocky?

I drove to Buffalo Exchange, put two quarters I had dug from the bottom of my purse into meter, grabbed my bag of clothes and marched confidently up to the sellers. "Have you sold here before?" "Yep!" "Ok, awesome, so you know how it works." "Yup."
Apparently I forgot one pertinent detail. As they were writing up my ticket for the items they had purchased, they asked for my ID. MY ID. Of course. They always ask for your ID when you sell. I ask if I can just write down the information for her. Nope.

They give me back my clothes.

Stay tuned for tomorrow when I run out of gas on the freeway and the policeman who stops to help asks to see my license.

Thanks for the Free Day

I love going to museums in NY. It's relaxing, inexpensive, and entertaining. Museums in LA are a different story. They turn it into a huge production complete with time slots and expensive parking. Time slots?? Really?? Is this the Tim Burton exhibit at MoMA? No, that's what I thought. Get over yourself.

This being the case, although my intentions are good, I rarely end up making the trek out here on the west coast. What is my point? My point is that I really, really want to go to the Getty Villa but picking a date and time and driving out there and parking is really just way too much for me to deal with.

This brings me to Monday. improbablygonnabeacatlady tells me that she and a friend are going on Wednesday and asks if I want to join. All I would have to do is get in the car. YESSSSSSSS. I immediately accept the invitation, but am quickly forced to retract my statement upon remembering that I have a meeting with a commercial agent Wednesday afternoon. Damn it all.

BUT WAIT! Later that evening, I check to see what time my meeting is and find that the date is June 2nd. For those of you who are calendar-ically-challenged, that is not this Wednesday, but the following. YESSSSSSS! I CAN GO!!!

But wait. Tuesday morning, I receive an email from my booker. I have been requested for a casting. On Wednesday. At 1pm.

Obviously.

I would just like to add that I have ABSOLUTELY NOTHING on my calendar for today. Nothing. I'm totally free. ANYTHING YOU'D LIKE TO TOSS IN HERE, JESUS? No? That's what I thought. Thanks.

My Bucket List

Most people's bucket lists include grand adventures, emotional overtures and a couple fabulous vacations. What is inherent in each listed activity is an element of risk; specifically that of life, limb, and dignity.

I, personally, prefer my risks to be calculated. I cling desperately to life and limb (specifically, my own,)and would do the same with my dignity, RIP, if it was still in existence. I also don't really like to be uncomfortable. This well-honed survival instinct ensures that I will be walking and breathing for decades to come; unfortunately, it makes crafting a proper bucket list quite difficult. I don't want to swim with sharks if there is any possibility of being stung by a jellyfish in the process. Climb Mt. Everest? Please. What if I run out of oatmeal?

Well, as of this morning, crisis has been averted. Purpose has been restored to my amazing, yet sad, little life. My co-dependent, iprefermyironyinotherpeople, introduced me to an epic list of things I must do before I die:

http://archive.azplace.net/index.php?itemid=877&catid=8

There are two great things about this list:
1. I can do these things OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER... Practice makes perfect. Overachieving, like irony, is a lifestyle and doesn't stop just because you think your life might. I will ace this Bucket List s*it.
2. The risks involved are the easiest to calculate: The reactions of the masses. And the few select friends that I choose to honor with involvement in this meaningful journey.

iprefermyironyinotherpeople: Thank You.

Everyone else: You're Welcome.

That Could Totally Happen To Me

improbablygonnabeacatlady and I spent this afternoon watching How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days, one of our most beloved masochistic activities.

There is a scene in the movie, where Matthew McConaughey and Kate Hudson are en route to a black-tie soiree, and MattyMatt is floored by Kate's appearance in her dress.

That scene spurred the following conversation between my favorite catlady and I:

improbablygonnabeacatlady: "When was the last time someone told you you were beautiful? And meant it."

me: "hotguyfriend just told me I was beautiful."

improbablygonnabeacatlady: "Uhhuh. And would take you to a fabulous Gala like that."

me: "Um... He invited me to Vegas?"

...

Sigh.

To Be Continued...

This morning... ok, fine, afternoon... I was in the middle of my daily beauty routine, when I was hit with a startling realization. When applying moisturizer, anti-wrinkle creams, etc, I gently massage the product on my face, décolletage, and the front of my neck. That's right. The front of my neck. Just the front.

I have never been one to "Submit My Beauty Questions," Seventeen Magazine-style, but if there ever was a time, I think this is it. Because as I stood there, staring in the mirror, contemplating this new discovery within the realm of my personal habits, I wondered if this was normal.

Do most people coat just the front of their neck? This was a topic that failed to be broached in Elementary School sleepovers or on High School road trips.

More importantly, does this mean that the back of my neck will age faster than the front of my neck? Will I one day fall prey to 'back of neck droop,' simply because of an instinctual habit?

By the way, I realize this is probably better suited for my "Thought of the Day" box, but it was a really long thought.

That's all.

"I'm Just Messin' With You, Man" -- Jesus

After a brief heart to heart with one of my besties, I turn to leave, saying through tears (mixed with sardonic laughter and masked by over-sized, over-tinted sunnies, obviously,) "At least I have Justin Bieber waiting for me in my car. He is the only thing getting me through life right now."

I put my keys in the ignition, and reach for my iPod, which I always leave connected to the speakers. This time, my hand grasps an unconnected cord.

Very funny, Jesus.

Editor's note: It turns out that, for once in my life, I had disconnected my iPod and placed it in my bag. Justin was, indeed, waiting for me in my car... and, somewhere up in the sky, Jesus was ROFL.

Jesus Doesn't Want Me To Be On Glee

I love Glee. I have loved it since it first appeared in promotional advertising and I continue to love it well into its second season.

When I heard they were having an open casting call for new Glee cast members, I immediately decided to submit my video.

I decided to... I didn't actually submit it at that time. My roommate came home, and... well... auditioning for Glee is not something you can do in front of other people. It's something you do around 1am in an empty apartment with your Sony Cybershot filming you from its post on a stool stacked on top of the table, praying your friend's neighbors are out of town so you don't have to explain the dorkfest when you run into them in the hall the next morning. Purely hypothetical.

Regardless, I figured I had approximately a month to get around to it. PLEEENNNTY of time. April 26th. The final deadline for audition submission. I woke up at 11a, went for a jog, did some reading, and around 3p went online to sort out the whole audition process.

Interesting.

11:59am is a far different time than 11:59pm. I probably should not have mixed those two up.

I missed the deadline. Of course.

I was super bummed, but figured it was a sign it wasn't meant to be. The next night I was explaining this to a friend, only to discover an hour later that they had extended the deadline - added on another day! Again, I took this as a sign.

The next day, I went to my auditions, went to a new class at Equinox, and came home to do my audition. Unfortunately, I got distracted by my growling stomach and tivo'ed 30 Rocks I had yet to watch. FINALLY around 1am, I started to record my videos. Braindead... scratchy throat... no clue what to say in the stupid "tell me why you should be on Glee" video... it takes me quite a few attempts. So many attempts, in fact, that my camera dies on my last take of 'Lean On Me.' Whatever, who really needs that last second of my, at that point, trembling vibrato. It's done, let's throw it on the computer, upload it, and make everyone I've ever met vote for me.

At that moment, I paused. My camera was dead. I didn't bring my battery charger with me. Also, I failed to bring along the cord to connect my camera to the computer or even the computer itself. improbablygonnabeacatlady, who I am staying with at this time, was stuck in airport hell and wouldn't be back 'til 5am. Great. I'm an idiot. My stupid audition videos, which totally suck, by the way, are stuck on my stupid dead Cybershot. I am so dumb. I watch an episode of the Hills to make me feel better about myself and go to sleep.

Miraculously, the next morning improbablygonnabeacatlady awakes at 11am and produces a battery, cord, and a computer. YAYYYY IT'S GONNA WORK OUT AFTER ALL!!!!

Ok. Videos posted exactly at 11:59am. Done and done. All that's left to do is shamelessly promote my link to everyone I've ever known. (And tell them to disregard the huge bags under my eyes and the lame 'pick me!' video and the scratchy throat... basically tell them not to watch it. Just vote for me.)

Hm.

About that link.

I can't find the link to my audition videos. My myspace page (which, heretofore, I was unaware even still existed) update my status to "Stacie auditioned for Glee " and provided a link to the main page. Once there, I searched for my name, finding 5 other Stacie's, but not me.

I can't find my own audition.

Thanks, Jesus. I'm pretty sure he deleted it.

We Get It, Skinny Bitch

Improbablygonnabeacatlady introduced me to an amazing website chronicling the daily activities of Suri Cruise. Rain or shine, happy or cranky, Little Miss Suri conducts herself in a manner that lets the world know that she is infallibly adorable and her life is amazing. Hence, "We Get It Suri."

A recent, and reoccurring, event in my life has extracted a similar visceral response.

Every Tuesday at 12:30pm, I join approximately 20 other young women and 2 gays for Corey Hill's trio of classes: CORE Booty Blast, CORE Upper Cuts, and CORE ab blast. Like any gym class, it is comprised of a wide spectrum of body types. These body types can be divided into three main categories, each of which serves a purpose in my personal endeavors:

1. Super Skinny Tall Chics
They make me rethink anything I have ever eaten. They also make me feel better about my 3 lb. weights and excessive downtime between ab exercises. They also help the time pass, as I constantly glance at the mirror to reassess exactly how much smaller their arm is than my own.

2. Compact Athletic Chics
I look to them when questioning my form. Also, their mind-boggling ability to do a tricep extension with an 8 lb. weight pushes me to attempt to quell the shaking in my arm as I raise my own 5 lb. dumbbell toward the ceiling.

3. I Probably Live In, Or At Least Enjoy The Nightlife Of, Midtown Chics
Their average height, average weight, and average athletic ability makes me feel a lot better about my own life slash thighs.

Altogether a lovely combination that helps me to achieve my gym goals in a relatively peaceful environment.

Until a new girl arrived in class. Her arrival necessitated the creation of a new category:

4. Skinny Bitch
Ok so she's tall and skinny. Sounds like category #1, right? Wrong. The girls in category #1 may be weak, but they still manage to complete the exercises, albeit with minimal weight. This girl is not only weak, but I am willing to bet she has never heard the phrase "chest press" in her life. For the last three weeks, she has stood in the middle of the class making a mockery of every exercise. I have never seen form this bad in my life, and judging by the derision in the eyes of my fellow class members, neither have they.

Now, before confusion overtakes you, let me explain something. I am aware that my own form is far from excellent. Once, mylifeissonotironic and I decided to attend a kickboxing class, only to find that we were two feet taller than everyone in the room and spent the entire class in the back of the room flailing our excessively long limbs every which way. My problem with Skinny Bitch is that she literally can't even do a bicep curl. Like, come on, you curl your arms up and then you curl them down. Is that really that confusing??

Apparently.

The main kicker is that not is she incapable of completing (or even beginning) a single exercise, but this girl could care less. She doesn't even attempt to figure out how to do things. She stands in the middle of the room, letting all of us know that she doesn't need our silly little classes in order to have the body we are all working to attain.

We get it Skinny Bitch, you may not understand the purpose of a gym, but you don't need to. The fact that you look like an idiot in class doesn't bother you, because you already have your "bathing suit body."

Now, since you serve no real purpose in my personal pursuit of skinniness, if you could please find a new afternoon hobby, that would be great. Because this is supposed to be all about me. Thank you.

The Wise Words of Whoopi

I would like to begin this post with a quote from a life-changing, under-mentioned film:

"If you wake up in the mornin' and you can't think of anything but singin' first...then you're supposed to be a singer, girl."

Thank you, Sister Act II, for enabling me to pinpoint my true passion without ever leaving the comfortable confines of my Posturepedic. All I have to do is wake up? Done. K, now back to sleep for a few hours.

This being said, I love to sing. Probably even more than I love to act. I used to perform quite often, (when I was still in school and my future wasn't in need of a good polish) but let's just say, it's been awhile. Unless you count my next door neighbors who are forced to hear my awkward vocal warm-ups through our shared wall. You're welcome, neighbor whose name I can't remember and whom I've only seen three times. People are going to pay for that privilege one day. Uhhuh. Yup. They suuuure are. (I said the same thing to my siblings when we were growing up and they would make up rules about where I could and couldn't sing: "No singing in the kitchen." "No singing in the car." "Mooooommmm tell Stacie she can't sing while I'm trying to do my homeworrrkkk." See if I get you guys tickets to Divas Live 2016.)

So, last week I finally have an appointment to go in and sing for someone. Someone who actually manages vocal artists and could potentially help me find more opportunities to perform (read: make people listen to me) in the future. Perfect timing. My voice is getting back in shape, I've been working on some new songs, I'm healthy...

The day before my audition, I wake up with a fever and swollen glands. I can't speak, let alone channel Sarah Vaughan or bust out some Taylor Swift. Appointment postponed.

Sometimes I strongly dislike my life.

Honestly, How Do You Find The Time?

Mylifeissonotironic has a remarkable talent for finding men. Some of us (read: I) could be stranded on a desert island with an entire plane full of eligible bachelors and not manage to find one.

SO, I have decided to analyze her most recent conquest as a sort of learning/teaching tool.

Fashion Week. An incredibly hectic time for the models involved, consisting of weeks of running around non-stop to castings, fittings, shows, etc. I, in fact, barely saw my best friend during this time, because she hardly had a moment to breathe. As the week came to a close, and we finally had a chance to catch up, she informed me that she had a new pseudo-boyfriend. I'm sorry. WHAT??? WHO??? WHEN??? HOW???

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=66L1i54OOiE&feature=player_embedded

Front row. Box on the far left of the screen.

That, my friends, is, in the words of mylifeissonotironic, "how you get the mens."

So I'm gonna go grab a cardboard box from my recycling pile and stand on the corner. Anyone care to join?

You Look Like You Could Use This

A very dear friend of mine went to Walgreens the other evening for a couple key purchases; namely Diurex and diet pills.

As she went to check out, the guy behind the register asked her if she was interested in buying a Milky Way for 69 cents.

We couldn't help but die laughing. The cashier appeared to be a bit offended by this as his expression flickered between confusion and annoyance.

I'm sorry sir, but really?? Pray tell exactly what it was about my friend's purchases led you to believe she would be interested in a Milky Way.

He may want to reassess his target demographic.

Starting The Week Off Well

Two things of note happened to me this morning.

1. I went to spit out my gum on the sidewalk. I KNOW, I KNOW. Yes, I thought to myself: "That is so messed up, someone could step on it." But, I also thought to myself: "Ok, I never do this though, and look at all the gum that's already on the ground. I mean, I'm next to a high school for goodness sakes."

So I did it. Only, my gum spitting aim is apparently a little rusty slash non-existent, and instead of spitting it off to the side, I spit it out right in front of me. I almost walked on top of my own gum.

Got it.

2. Walking home from the gym, there were several times where I was annoyed by peoples' seeming inability to walk in a straight line. Once at home, walking into my apartment, I was responding to bbms at the same as I walked up the stairs. Apparently my path veered to the left. As I attempted to step up to the next level of the staircase, I found myself blocked. By the wall. Yup, I ran into my own wall.

Happy Monday!!!

No Need For Cold Feet!

Last night, over dinner at Mr. Chow in Tribeca, the conversation eventually and inevitably turned to comfy couchwear. Specifically, a discussion of the individual merits of footed pajamas and Snuggies.

While admitting that footed pajamas were basically amazing, I still stood by my ever-faithful Snuggie; though I had to admit that part of me (Ok parts... AKA my feet) was left a bit dissatisfied in Snuggieville.

Apparently, on the other coast, improbablygonnabeacatlady's feet were experiencing a similar sensation.

At 3am, she sent me an email that put my anxiety to rest. Apparently a new brand of couchwear has jumped into the ring.

My friends, we introduce to you the Hoodie Footie Snuggle Suit:

http://videogum.com/archives/free_advertising/things_i_learned_from_the_hood_113851.html

Proving that sometimes, Jesus really does care.

Can We Go Back To The Beginning?

Hot guy in my class at Equinox! YESSSSS

Hot guy stands right next to me in class! YESSSSS

Hot guy has a very effeminate stance. Um ok, that can be altered.

Hot guy is possibly dating the male instructor of my class. Damn it.

Hot gay guy is much better at all the exercises than I am. Fine. I can match that. Maybe. Ouch. Kind of. Oof. Nevermind. Ugh.

Hot gay guy walks with me to the back of the room to grab weights. Sweet. Maybe we can be BFFs.

Hot gay guy stares at the weights I grab. F. Apparently we are not going to be BFFs. STOP JUDGING ME AND MY OVERALL ATHLETIC WEAKNESS.

This class went downhill quickly.

Street Meat Can Be Deadly

I made the mistake of stepping on the scale at Equinox this morning.

Walking down the street, pondering the number I had just seen, I failed to notice a bit of irregular oncoming traffic.

I almost got run over by a hot dog cart.

I don't know exactly what this means, but I am certain it is symbolic.

The World Is A Stage

I was talking to a friend of mine, trying to explain how I needed to be on a stage soon or I would seriously go crazy.

Monday I had three auditions. Two of them for films, one for theatre.

Film #1: Role of a sarcastic call-girl, guarded in relationships due to being molested by her father as a child

Film #2: An athletic girl, confused and disturbed, leads a double life without knowing it

Theatre piece: A comedy about sex, love and relationships

One pays decently, one pays slightly less than decently, and one is unpaid.

Guess which one cast me?

Thank you Universe for giving me a stage. Next time, if you wanted to throw in a paycheck while you were at it, that would be awesome. Yes? No? Maybe?

Right. Specifics. The bane of my existence.

What's It Like In There?

Woohooo I added a new "gadget" to my blog!!! I know, it's all very exciting.

Mostly because it has been brought to my attention that sometimes I suck at updating my blog. Well, sometimes my daily ironic occurrences are just really super lame and not even worth talking about. And sometimes they aren't things I need to share with the entire world. I mean, I do have an ego to protect. Somewhere.

SO now, if you look to the right, you will see: Stacie's Thought of the Day.

For anyone who has ever wondered what goes through my head all day.

Prepare to be astounded.

* I am fairly certain that this toilet paper is not a full ply * I should get another mink to lick my coat clean * Sometimes it's hard to hear what I'm thinking * I hate my life. I'm giving it back to Jesus * Dear short little man with the tiniest strides ever, can you please never walk in front of me again? Thanks * Miniature people fascinate me * Even my skinny shadow has fat thighs * If you try to focus on snowflakes while you're walking, it makes you really dizzy * I was unaware the back of my head could fall asleep * I am more than willing to make an ass out of myself in front of a bunch of people I don't know for the sake of amazing shoes * I find information interesting * I am thankful to BBM for letting me laugh out loud without exerting any extra energy. Or smiling. * The shoulder studs on this jacket are not conducive to carrying a gym bag * I have a remarkable lack of control over my appendages. * I don't need to do things for attention, I get enough of it without even trying. * I don't think you should be allowed to walk on my sidewalk. Thanks. * I think I shall stay in bed all day and be blissful. * Stabbystabbydiediedie. * My worst nightmare is getting pulled over for speeding by a female cop. * I know a camera adds ten pounds, but I'm pretty sure my mother's eyes subtract 15. * Why is Zales "The Diamond Store" advertising on my blog? That's just mean. * I'm an actress; I'm supposed to have a crappy car. If I had an awesome car, people would think that I'm a whore. * At what point in life do you get to start telling people they suck? * I've never been a part of the fast crowd... more of the moderately-paced-with-a- penchant-for-occasional-sprinting crowd. * Is it wrong to give a fat friend brownies? * My IMDB page is going to have so many personal quotes when I'm famous. * It is bad to use my Night Nourishing Cleanser in the afternoon? If inactivity is all it calls for, I should be fine. * How are you supposed to people-watch when all the people are watching you? * Cheesy people make me uncomfortable. * If Cash Cab took place in LA, there would be a lot less money handed out. * Can I wear my sunglasses in bed? * It's sometimes difficult to be taken seriously, when you hate being serious. * Why is Cash Cab playing on the OTHER side of the cardio room? Exercise Fail. * Please don't merge into my lane, unless you are serious about making the next green light. * That wasn't subtle * I don't think my sarcasm translates well via text *

New Low? I'd Like to Say No.

A conversation I had via text (I know, weird) this afternoon:

Me: Hi Elizabeth! This is Stacie, one of your models for your show next week. I just wanted to let you know I got your message about the location change for the fitting, and will be just a few minutes late. See you soon!

Recipient: This isn't Elizabeth, you texted the wrong number.

Me: Oh sorry! Thanks

Recipient: No problem, good luck with the modeling gig ;)

Ok, not terrible, right? Why am I bothering to write about this? People text wrong numbers all the time.

The terrible part is what went through my subconscious after recipient's last message:

I wonder if he's hot.

(Because, yes, I had already decided in my head that the recipient was a 'he,' 25-29 years old, 6'2", broad-shouldered...) I even, for a brief moment, considered responding something along the lines of "Thanks :P." Just to see where it would go. Thank God I censored myself, but really? This is where I'm at right now? Even my subconscious is trying to set me up.

I am so pathetic.

They're Fabulous, But They're Evil

I almost choked on a snowflake on my way to the gym this morning.

That is all.

I Don't Hate You Because You're Fat, You're Fat Because I Hate You

New Year's Pseudo-resolution: Lose 15lbs by March. Ok, easy breezy. I'll eat healthy and work out. I mean, I actually enjoy "health food" and I have an unhealthy love for Equinox. So why is this proving to be a slower process than I anticipated? The events of the past week have given me an idea or two.

I've been wanting to get back in to Bikram Yoga, so when a friend suggested a week trial for $20 at a studio nearby, I wholeheartedly supported the idea.

Monday was a fantastic mix of awesome, painful, and clock-watching.

Tuesday, I almost didn't want to go. I had a shoot in the morning and was totally exhausted by the time the evening classes rolled around. Luckily, my friend convinced me to meet her there. This class was much easier and I left feeling refreshed, limber and officially detoxed. I couldn't wait for the next 5 days of my week pass.

Wednesday I had an 11am hair appointment, ruling out the morning classes and a wine tasting at 4:30p which ruled out the rest of the evening. And the rest of my Wednesday night (Haiti fundraiser at Thompson LES, SL, 1OAK, L'Express...) officially ruled out all of Thursday. Uh yeah. Oops, my bad.

Friday morning was occupied with ADR and brunch with friends. Friday afternoon was occupied with a voice lesson, apartment cleaning, and a nap. Nap time unfortunately extended into Bikram time, and I woke just in time to sprint to work.

My friend was going to the 10am Saturday class, but my Friday evening of Ave & 1OAK left me sleeping until 11am. Brunch ruled out the noon class and shopping with mylifeissonotironic ruled out the evening classes.

So, today is the last day of my week trial. Somehow, I have only managed to attend two classes this week. I am determined to make it to the 10am class, despite the fact that I was up watching The Hurt Locker until 3am. I set my alarm for 9:03. I have my bag packed. I stumble out of bed at 9:22, toss on my clothes and grab my stuff. Somehow, this process took 20 minutes. Dont ask, because I don't know. I rush to the Greenwich Village location, of course missing the last light, being forced to wait for traffic to clear. I hit the door at 10:02. 10:02. The door is locked.

Honestly though??

I swear it's not my fault.

I Know How You Feel, Sweetie

I feel like this child will need an 'Irony is a Lifestyle' t-shirt sometime in the very near future.

Photo courtesy of http://icanhascheezburger.com/

People Are Seriously Really Stupid

I passed by a restaurant this morning, with a sign in the window that read:

We open at 3pm.
(We are closed until 3pm.)

Really? Ok. Um yeah. Somehow, when I read that you opened at 3p, I gathered that you were closed until that time.

I hate the people that make this sign necessary.

Sometimes I'm Glad I'm Always Late

I woke up at 7am to cars honking and people talking in overly-elevated tones. Annoyed and bleary-eyed, I grab my earplugs and shove them in. I hate when I don't put them in before I go to sleep; the sad thing is, I was really just too tired (read: lazy) to extend my arm to the decorative jar on my windowsill, remove two earplugs and insert them into my ear canal. So 7am was awesome and totally my own fault. I hate that.

I woke up at 9:24am convinced that I hadn't set my alarm. After discovering that my alarm was indeed set for 10:43am, instead of going back to sleep, I realized I was thirsty. Too tired to get out of bed, I sat there awake, pondering how many steps it would take me to get to the kitchen. (Approximately 37 steps and two foot shuffles.) 25 minutes later, I'm back in bed, hydrated, and back to sleep.

Clearly, when my alarm sounded at 10:43, I did not spring out of bed with a smile on my face, harmonizing a sweet morning melody with the birds outside my window. Suck it, Cinderella. (Yes, I'm still tired.)

The point of all of this, is that I was waking up to go to a casting at noon, which of course happened to be midtown west, AKA the middle of nowhere. Obviously, now I'm running late, and I'm in a terrible mood because I'm tired and I'm missing yoga class for this, and my phone rings. I wait for whoever it is to leave a voicemail, finish throwing on mascara, grab my keys, run out the door and listen to my message.

It was my booker. The casting was cancelled.

I hate my life.