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.

Just In Case I was Serious

The other night, a coworker and I discovered our mutual love for spin class at Equinox. After a lengthy discussion concerning favorite teachers, annoying people in class, preferred music for rides, etc, I mentioned that I would secretly love to be a spin instructor.

What? I really like concocting the perfect playlist - Embarrassing true story: I once went through my iPod and divided my songs into 5 different playlists: Warm-up, Flats, Steep Inclines, Jumps, and Cool down.

Apparently a penchant for athletically-inspiring playlists does not an awesome spinner make.

The next morning, I sprinted (sprinting = socially appropriate power-walking) to my favorite Thursday morning spin class, finding myself 7 minutes late for class. The bike that I had carefully booked online 24 hours ahead of time? Taken. The instructor motioned me inside and said I could take his bike at the front of the class if I wanted. I considered this momentarily. I looked around the room. I suddenly realized that no one in this room, myself included, would be inspired by my "I work kind of hard for long periods of time, but can't really push myself into the 'pain is gain' category" gym mantra.

I looked back at Gregg and said "Um, I would feel bad..."

Now, at this point, there are two ways he can go with this:
Option A: "No, don't be ridiculous, you're awesome. C'mon let's get you set up."
Option B: Needing no explanation, he has me follow him to the back row, where he asks a very athletic looking gentleman if he would mind riding up front so that I can ride in the back.

I don't think I need to tell you which way he went.

I also don't think it would have been quite so painful, had it not been for the immediate look of understanding/smirk on the guy's face.

Sheesh, Jesus. It was just a pretend goal on which I never would have followed through. I thought you knew me better than that.

That's Just Mean

I awoke to find this email in my inbox:

Hi Stacie,

I am a fan of you and your work as an actress. I hope you are doing well and wanted to know how I can get an autographed photo of you. Thanks so much for your time. I wish you continued success and blessings :) Take Care and have a great 2010!

~ Patrick

Oh, he also included his address in Alabama at the close of his message.

Really Patrick? And exactly what of my work have you seen slash are you a fan of? My 5 lines on Days of Our Lives? My awesome "I want to kill myself" look at the top of the runway on Shear Genius? Ohhhh I know - my student films. You love my student films.

People are really creepy.

Sorry, Teach

Do you ever think about your elementary school teachers? The teachers who knew you when you were bright-eyed and brilliant... the very picture of wide-eyed innocence and undeniable promise.



Do you ever think about contacting them today and letting them know how far you've come?

I had this thought earlier this afternoon and drafted a hypothetical letter in my mind.

Dear Mrs. H,

First of all, you were the most amazing first grade teacher. Not only did you notice that, at the tender age of 6, my legs were already too long for the child-sized classroom standard furniture; you were also astute enough to ask my mom if you should get me a regular-sized desk or if that would be embarassing. You may be able to take comfort in the fact that my life has continued to be a constant question of "Which is less embarassing?"

Also, I would just like to let you know that, no, I did not become the first female President, as you predicted I would.

You were close.

Thanks for setting the foundation for my education!!!

Xoxo
Stacie :)

Disappointing? I'm going to say no. Because sometimes it's important to say no for the sake of your self-esteem.

Um Thanks, I Think?

I stopped at a gas station at 6:45am to pick up gatorade, water, a power bar, and cigs.

So I get to the counter. He asks me for ID of course. He goes: "84?!?!?!?!! WHAT? You look too young. Very young." "Oh, thank you." "Are you married? Most people your age are married."

No........

Yes.

This ironic incident was contibuted by improbablygonnabeacatlady

I May Have Jumped the Gun at Blaming Jesus

I just remembered something that may shift the blame for my Blackberry's current critical condition.

Last night, my roommate dared to suggest that my New Year's resolution should be revolve around being less attached to my blackberry. I declined the suggestion, saying it was not something I felt the need to change.

Obviously, today my blackberry entered coma-status. Is it possible that he Secreted my berry's demise??

Maybe Jesus doesn't want me to be fat this year.

Jesus Wants Me to Be Fat

Today was the coldest day of the year; it was literally 2 degrees outside. The kind of day that makes you want to don your Snuggie of choice and camp out on your couch. However, in honor of my New Year's vague resolution-y ideas, I decided to double up on the thermal Sugoi leggings, zip up the down coat, and fight my way through the wind to good ol' Equinox.

Fine. I work out. Now time to make it home in time to change and get to Sunburnt Cow for endless mimosa brunch. Speaking of time... I pull out my blackberry to see how late I am. Awkward coat pocket... awkward gloves... awkward grasp of my berry... phone slipping... falling... puddle... NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooo. My blackberry landed in a puddle. A puddle. In 2 degree weather. How is that even possible?!??

Don't even bother to answer that.

My berry is now sitting unconscious in an air-tight bag of dry rice. My hand is twitching.

Welcome to the Lifestyle!

Just in time for the new year, mylifeissonotironic had her first babystep into the world of irony.

Seconds after explaining how she doesn't want to see or talk to a certain gentleman, we get into a cab. The cab driver is wearing said gentleman's cologne.

Small, but telling.

I am so proud.