A Rose By Any Other Name

Well the magical season that is Christmas-time is coming to a close. I find this to be the most wonderful time of the year because it’s the only time that we openly accept the idea of a stranger entering our homes while we sleep. I’m talking about the most dangerous, ballsy criminal known to mankind, Santa Claus. It’s the only time of year that every creak made in the house prompts a child to shut their eyes tighter so that Santa continues to stuff their stockings as opposed to running to their parents' bedside at the sound of a potential break in. At what point do you tell your children that they still need to be aware of such sounds on Christmas Eve? Because turns out, that might still be a break in. At what point do you spoil the illusion of Santa Claus for your own safety?

I remember when I first stopped believing in Santa Claus. I was in 3rd grade. I had my suspicions the previous Christmas, but I wanted to hold on tight to this childhood tradition. I was on the phone with my mom’s friend the day after Christmas and was rattling off all the presents I had received without specifying which were from Santa (a lava lamp) and which were from family. When I told her I got a lava lamp, she said, “oh yeah I was with your mom when she picked that out.” And just like that all my suspicions were confirmed in one nonchalant sentence. My jaw dropped. I wanted to stop her and ask if she was aware that she had destroyed a young girl’s belief in Santa Claus with such ease. But I didn’t. Instead, I succumbed to the reality of the post Santa Claus world with the same unhappy reluctance one experiences when being forced to continue with a shower after realizing there is no hot water.

Breaking the illusion of Santa Claus, and thus destroying someone’s youth, is a very touchy subject. With older siblings, the internet and plain common sense kids these days stop believing in Santa Claus at varying ages. One must proceed with caution on the topic of anything Christmas related. You should make sure to include Santa Claus when talking about the holiday season; to open it up to any still-believers to make their delusions (ahem) attachment known. This tactic is especially important when talking to children, but because I’d rather be safe than sorry, I use it when interacting with all ages. That is why I asked the kid I nanny, AS WELL as the woman I intern for, what they asked for from Santa.

In the weeks leading up to Christmas, the boy a nanny would look through toy magazines and tell me what he wanted. I took the Christmas tree and stockings in their house to be proof that they weren’t Jewish so I decided to bring some holiday spirit into the mix. Whenever he would tell me he wanted something I would tell him he should ask Santa Claus.

I must mention that this child always uses the word “okay” where most people would say “yes”. For example, we were looking through the Toys R Us magazine, he pointed at a train set and said, “I want this” to which I responded, “oh yeah?” as in, how interesting that you would want the 15th train set we have come across in the first three pages of this magazine. Then he said, “okay”, as if to say, “great idea, Anna.” He gives me far too much credit in our conversations, really.

A few days after I instructed the child to direct his toy desires towards Santa, I was in the kitchen with his mother before she went to work. The boy said he wanted a lollipop (really a frozen yogurt) and the mom told him not now. He said hopefully, “maybe for Christmas.” She turned to me and said, “it’s so funny he has been saying he wants things for Christmas a lot lately, I guess you really can’t escape the commercial side of Christmas.” No you cannot. And it doesn’t help when your nanny makes sure he knows Santa is the only thing to care about during the holidays. She didn’t seem upset that I had dragged her son into the deep, darkness that is commercialized Christmas, but it also did not sound like emphasizing presents for Christmas was really part of their parenting plan. I had spent so much time nurturing and protecting the belief in Santa Claus that it never occurred to me that my preservation of youth would be interpreted as commercial capitalist propaganda.

The good news was she seemed to think this idea had magically appeared in her son’s head. I shrugged an “I have no idea where that came from” shrug convincing my innocence, but also insinuating that if he tells you it was my idea to get those train tracks he’s lying!

Merry Christmas to all!! I purposely made this blog post 3 days late so that you could feel a resurgence of the holiday spirit just as it was fading away...

Weirdos Need Fitness Too

Going to the gym never fails to leave me in an awkward situation that I would rather not be in. I always leave shaking my head in confusion over an encounter some weirdo or another. Like, those who wear flip flops to the gym. Or those who sing along to their iPod while on the stationary bike. Or those who strike up a conversation with you while you’re lifting weights, notice your Colorado t-shirt and begin quizzing you on the Ivy league schools you CLEARLY didn't get into and their locations.

But my absolutely least favorite kind of people to encounter at the gym is anyone, male or female (although it's almost always women), wearing an insufficient amount of clothing for their less than bangin' body. It’s not even appropriate when you do have a bangin’ body because you just look conceited. There’s a whole lot of movement at the gym so I find it better for everyone if you ditch the crop top if it doesn’t cover your beer belly. Or ditch it if you have rock hard abs because it just reminds me of my beer belly. This has taken such a toll on my mind that I have created a new rhyme, loosely based on this popular, and also annoying, reminder you can often find scribbled in bathroom stalls:

If you sprinkle when you tinkle
Be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.

To all sports bra and spandex short combo wearers, I say:

If you jiggle when you wiggle
Be a normal person and put a shirt on.

Babysitter's Club (Club De Las Niñeras)

Right now I am working as a nanny to support my real career that is currently not making any money. It’s a pretty sweet deal I’ve got going on here, I get to eat a lot of organic snacks and have ample time to write. I have successfully transitioned from being stuck in a home office and speaking to no one, to being outside a lot and speaking to only two year olds and/or Spanish-only speaking nannies. Moving on up! While the kid I take care of now is very well behaved and actually pretty funny to be around, I have had some not so pleasant nannying experiences.

One time in college I went to a woman’s house for a meet and greet with the family to see if it would be a good match, a sort of speed dating for nannies. She started by telling me that her son was a sweet heart but that her six-year-old daughter had ‘behavioral issues’. I assumed that meant that her daughter didn’t share well or preferred to play alone. But when her daughter entered growling, a distinct ‘don’t fuck with me’ look piercing past her furrowed brow, not sharing well with others was small potatoes. Her mother assured me that she wouldn’t actually bite me, but I wasn’t as confident. Needless to say that meet and greet did not extend to a second date. I mean, what good is a writer without fingers? I had my future to think about here.

I also once nannied for a five-year-old boy who, when I told him he couldn’t have anymore cookies, cried so long and so hard that he all of a sudden face planted on the table into a deep REM sleep. I approached with caution to make sure it wasn’t some sort of act and when I successfully deducted that he was fast asleep, I surfed the internet until he woke up. I quickly brushed the cookie crumbs from his face so as not spark a memory of his meltdown and experience another fit, then I built him a fort and I became his favorite nanny once again.

At another juncture in my life, I was a head coach of a middle school girl’s basketball team. And while I wasn’t their nanny, I was in charge of keeping track of them, an added bonus of this job being to keep track of their threats to opposing teams. There were several outbursts, but when one of my players threatened to shank an opponent, I decided I would not be back to defend our win-less season the following year.

Yes, I have had my fair share of challenging kids, but I really lucked out with the kid I am nannying right now. He’s really cute, never cries and usually listens to me. He did throw a stick at my face the other day but I’m pretty sure it’s just because he has poor aim. Which I can’t fault him for, that is for the mean, judgemental hallways of middle school to point out to him. But no matter how easy the kids are to get along with, my years of nannying have driven me to come up with…‘lies’ is too strong, so we’ll go with ‘tricks’ to make sure the child and I both have a mutually enjoyable time together.

Yes, this means telling the child that we will come back and get the oversized, muddy stick after lunch, then throwing that stick as far as I can when his back is turned. Silently cursing it for adding 45 minutes to our walk home by making it exciting to poke every speck of mud along the way.

Yes, this means only reading every 3rd page of “Cars and Trucks and Things That Go” right before nap time because we’ve read if for 3 weeks straight and Anna needs to catch Gangland on cable upstairs. Damn you Richard Scarry for writing a 74 page long children’s book.

And yes, this means asking him if he wants a snack so as to distract him from the steep hill that he is capable of climbing due to his age but I am incapable of climbing due to my laziness.

These tricks aside, I am a pretty damn good nanny. I know what kids like. They like me blowing bubbles with my gum, they like forts, they like reallllly high high-fives. And I give that to them. I'm getting things out of this job besides money... really toned arms from lifting the kid up and down and I'm picking up a lot of Spanish from my peers.

Gimme Dat Technology

This blog post comes to you with overwhelming joy. I have been without a computer for over a week and finally got it back. It’s a dark, dark world out there without technology and our separation revealed how attached I am to my laptop. I was lost without having the option of going online. I began convincing myself I had to google things, things that I would have never cared about if the information were easily accessible. But the inconvenience of not having it at my fingertips made the need of google-ing seem that much more pressing. My daily life was thrown off, how on earth was I going to know what to wear for the day without checking the weather? How was I going to know which celebrity marriage was over without the gossip websites? And how was I expected to go ANYWHERE if I couldn’t google map directions?

My week-long break from my most dependable companion was not pretty. I had to take up recreational activities that I’m not proud of. Reading being the main one, but handwriting notes to myself a close second. I forgot how empowering it was to feel the weight of the pages in a book fall to the left, knowing you’ve accomplished something. But just as quickly as I took up reading, I turned my back on it and burned all the books within reach, a way of destroying evidence of my unfaithfulness to technology before my computer’s return. While writing reminders to myself on sticky notes I realized I had forgotten what my handwriting looked like. Several years ago I had adopted Times Roman as my official handwriting font, so why did it look so dangerously close to Marker Felt?

As strong as my attachment to technology is, my relationship with it is turbulent to say the least. I do not understand pretty much anything about computers, cell phones, and don’t get me started on fax machines—seriously, how do those things work? I am a traitor to my technology savvy generation. When I was at my last internship, I was always put in charge of finding out why an iPad wasn’t sending emails, why the computer’s screen was pink, why the Blackberry wouldn’t hold a charge, and the like. I would be on the phone with tech support as they talked me through every step, starting with holding the device right side up. But I would no doubt fall behind, but instead of admitting defeat and asking the representative on the other line to repeat the step, I would pretend as if I was moving right along with them. I would quickly fall several steps behind and become completely lost. But in the end I would lie; say it was fixed, hang up and call again, crossing my fingers for a different representative. With the second call I would be ahead of the game because I would be starting mid-solution, but always fell behind again. Redial became a good friend of mine.

I encounter similar problems with technology in my home life. I can’t program a universal remote, which has made home entertainment a struggle. The other day I decided to watch a movie, the perfect way to enjoy a relaxing evening. Or so I thought. I had to hunch over the DVD player waiting for the previews to end so that I could press play and finally kick back. But there were far too many previews and when I glanced back at my meal sitting pretty on the coffee table I could see the steam slowing down. I knew that I could not wait for these previews to end and risk my food being cold. I urgently pressed the “skip” button to speed up the process. A small hand appeared in the corner of the screen as if to say, “stop that right now. I call the shots around here”. And it was true. I am no match for technology. We have a very abusive and unfair relationship. I am lost without technology, and am willing to spend hundreds of dollars to bring it back in my life.

With my love/hate/obsession with technology aside, our movie has been postponed until after the first of the year. So it will not be so much a wonderful Christmas present for us all, but more a Ground Hog Day present for us all. And isn't that really the whole purpose of Ground Hog Day anyway?

Make It Work

We officially wrapped the shooting of our short film earlier this week. It took one amazing crew, 4 days, and countless gallons of coffee to get it all done. It was really fun, we had a great cast and crew who made all the hiccups we encountered along the way seem less like the end of the world. This whole experience made me appreciate how much goes into making a movie and how lucky Hollywood is to have millions of dollars to make it work.

Every shoot has its obstacles and ours was no different. Whether we were kicked out of our first location for going over time, forced to “cheat” a kitchen scene in a backyard, kicked out of the backyard for not being allowed to shoot there, securing a location just hours before we were set to shoot or having to film in a crowded café and deal with the sound of barking Chihuahuas and dominos being played in the background, we overcame it all. I may sound calm about all of these issues, but in reality I think I had several minor heart attacks over the weekend.

Because I am the writer behind this beautiful project and have no film school experience I spent the majority of the days sitting by the actors, eating pretzels and wondering why the crew was referring to clothespins as “ C47s”. I think those who did not know that I wrote the script were wondering why I was there. Some thought I might be an assistant of sorts, but that was quickly revealed to be false when I didn’t know the answer to basic questions like, “what are we doing next?”, “are we shooting the forest scene today?” and “when is dinner?” It seemed the questions transitioned in importance as people tried to pin point my role on the set. I was first thought to be important enough to know what was immediately happening next, to possibly knowing if a huge scene was on the day’s agenda, to the caterer.

I learned a ton working on this shoot, but it also showed me how much I would rather work in television. I was lucky that my brother was directing this film because most film writers are tossed to the side after their script is picked up, whereas in television, the writer runs the show. We had to search for weeks to find locations whereas TV shows have their permanent set and do not move much from there. In movies you work with your cast and crew for weeks but then go your separate ways when you wrap, in TV you can get much more attached because everyone will be back the next episode or next season.

Eli and I enjoyed this project so much that we are already planning our next one. In other aspects of my life, I picked up a nanny job that PAYS, I’m working a different internship and trying to write my hands off. Hollywood will be mine soon.

PSA brought to you by ANNA

I have a strong feeling that people who jog around at night, with nothing but a small flickering light clenched in their hand, have a death wish. Those tiny shining lights that these joggers carry with them give them a false sense of safety and an even falser sense of visibility. If your light is so small and so faint it can easily be mistaken for a firefly until a car is 2 feet away from you but still going 30 mph, you need to invest in neon reflective clothing and a Chilean miner headlamp. That is if you got to this blog post in time.

If your favorite time to jog is between 5 and 6:30pm, I would advise you to consider a gym membership. It’s dangerous to jog at night at any point but especially when all the weary eyed working professionals are driving home after a long day. When I drive home from work the only things on my mind are: What am I going to have for dinner? And when did I get in my car? Sometimes I get home and have to think of an exact moment that I was driving myself home to convince myself it really did happen. Rush hour drivers are too distracted already to have the energy to avoid hitting anything other than traffic.

Nighttime joggers, you have been warned.

Going a Different Kind of Green

I recently had the opportunity to see a California medical marijuana card up close. This should not be taken as me sneakily telling you I got a medical marijuana card because that is just not true. Weed and I do not get along. Never have, and I refuse to find out if we ever will. With that being said, I’m fairly confident that I have found the solution to this ridiculous debate of legalizing marijuana.

Medical marijuana advocates need to start taking their cause more seriously. This starts with making the actual card look a little bit more legitimate. Right now the California medical marijuana card is a piece of paper no bigger than an index card and can be easily confused as a loyalty card at your local laundry mat. A little lamination goes a long way.

The most alarmingly casual aspect of the medical marijuana card is the following statement written on the card: “this is to certify that ‘blah blah’ would probably benefit from the use of medical marijuana”. This is not verbatim, but this does include one crucial word: Probably. Call me a stickler for proper medical care, but I don’t find the word ‘probably’ on a prescription to inspire much confidence in the diagnosis. You would never go to a hospital and happily volunteer your limbs if a doctor said, “you would probably benefit from an amputation of the left leg.” You would never gladly accept a doctor’s nonchalant ‘dunno’ shrug when you ask if the medicine they are prescribing will cure your migraines. That is unless the medicine can be taken in delicious edible chocolate forms.

I believe that marijuana has medicinal qualities, but I do feel that it needs to take some steps in a serious direction if it wants to get the attention it deserves as a viable medical option. It is just so silly right now, no wonder it’s losing in elections. It would be like putting something ridiculous like Arnold Schwarzenegger for the governor on a ballot.

In other news, we are filming our movie (based on the short story I wrote) this weekend! I'm PUMPED because we have an awesome cast and since I will be working behind the camera I can eat non stop. I will hopefully have a link for you all in the next few months or so. Possibly a wonderful Christmas present for us all...

Twilight Zone

Today I put in my notice that I would be leaving my internship. I am moving on to bigger and better things… another unpaid internship. Before you ask, I can answer you. Yes, I always imagined not getting paid for the work I do. Some may see this as a lateral move as opposed to a step up, but I can assure you that I also have no idea whether it is a lateral move or a step up. But what I do know is that I am making moves, and that is important no matter where you are. I was dangerously close to developing career blood clots at my old internship so I had to shake my career legs out.


With my new internship comes a new driving route. And with that comes several new grey hairs and an unimaginable amount of U-turns. I was asked to drive a script out to a woman’s apartment and after roughly 15 U-turns within two blocks of my destination (the numbers on buildings are so small these days) I parked, thinking I had survived all the annoying, time wasting obstacles I would encounter on this trip. I was wrong. The woman I was to give the script to was not home, and after circling the building three times (on foot) to make sure all exits were sealed, I was finally let into the main office. Where I found myself in the middle of a drama between two elderly female tenants of the complex. They both wanted to help me. I was so thankful, until I realized their help was the annoying, time wasting obstacle I had hoped to avoid.

While one tried to open each individually locked mailbox with her own mail key, the other whispered to me about her fellow tenant’s rude husband. And the fact that the office was never open. I told her she was preaching to the choir, that I also needed that office to be open so that I could leave this script in good hands, hoping to hint that I had places to be and speed up this process a bit. But she had already abandoned that topic of conversation and was on to telling me about how her toilet didn’t work. I smiled politely and said things like, “well that’s never good” and just as I had almost completely turned my body around to make my escape, the other tenant had made her way down the line of mailboxes and was standing in front of me. She looked at me, confused, and said, "what just happened?" I told her my predicament again and she responded by trying to open each locked mailbox with her own mailbox key. Again.

I felt like I was in an episode of the twilight zone. I looked back at the woman with the broken toilet and she took my eye contact as time to tell me about her days in the beauty salon business. I began to wonder if all exits were sealed because this was a retirement community, was I allowed to be here? Finally when 'tenant with a broken toilet' told me that 'tenant with the mailbox key' took to flashing strangers I walked swiftly to the doors. I was, after all, faster than these women so my exit was much smoother than I expected it to be.

I have already learned something crucial through this internship that I had always wondered about. Mailbox keys do actually only open your mailbox. No cutting corners there.

Trick or Treating with Bigfoot

We are just creeping past the recovery period of Halloween, and with the haze of the past weekend fading and the brightness of a new weekend approaching, this is as good a time as any to reflect on the recent holiday. I’m sure this will come as a relief to my parents that the only thing I dislike about Halloween is the unwritten acceptability of dressing like a, for lack of a better word, prostitute.

My friend recently let out a sigh of relief when she said that now that we were no longer in college we didn’t have to alter (usually already slutty) costumes to be slutty(ier). This is true, with that diploma came the strength to wear full pants. To be honest, my inability to dress like my peers is not completely by choice. I have very large feet, feet that have trouble finding heels. It’s really hard to dress slutty when you are trying to find men’s shoes that can pass as unisex. If you think you have a problem finding white knee high boots for your go-go dancer costume, try finding them in “huge ass”, as that is my shoe size.

One of the trickiest parts of Halloween is the inevitable misplacement of parts of your costume throughout the night. One minute you’re dressed as a Lumber Jill then, after losing your hunting hat and fake ax, all of a sudden you’re Melissa Etheridge. You have to have a backup costume idea that is closely tied to what you are wearing in case the above scenario happens to you. I always have a backup explanation in my head, and this year was no different. I went as Emma Stone from Easy A, I wore a black top, black leggings, black sunglasses and a red sticky-backed A on my chest. I knew that should I lose my red sticky-backed A, (which I did, only to later find it stuck to my friend's purse) I could easily tell people I was dressed as nighttime. Or stage help.

While I thought losing my red A (the only real hint to my costume) would be the biggest challenge of the night, I was wrong. Both explaining that my costume was Easy A and not ETA, (how does one even dress as Estimated Time of Arrival?) and telling people that my name is not Hanna, Manna or Monica were both equally harder than keeping track of my red A. It is SO hard to correct people in a loud club. And wracking my brain for hand gestures to explain the correct pronunciation of my name, which usually becomes me making circles in the air like a wind turbine to suggest that one more turn of the mental mouse wheel in their brain and they've got it, is exhausting. Then having to come up with hand gestures for Easy A, not ETA, is down right impossible. It did not take long before I gave up and accepted whatever muffled name anyone heard during our introduction. Yes, yes my name is Paula. And I'm dressed as a measurement of time.

While I am a strong believer in Halloween being the perfect opportunity for psychopaths to hit the town, innocently dressed as Billy Mays, I do love this holiday. And despite my feet’s efforts to change my mind, I will not yield! Happy Halloween (four days late…)

Making Mov(ie)s in LA

In college I wrote a short story, which was a huge success in my 14 person creative writing class. A few years later and now my director brother, Eli, has decided to make it into a short film while he is in film school. We are teaming up as a dynamic brother/sister duo to tackle this project and this weekend we held auditions.

Despite this being a student film, I wanted to make everything as professional as I could. We held the auditions at Eli’s school, The Art Institute, and were given a room used by the culinary department for the two-day casting. This made my first order of professionalism to be taking down the posters of how to slice meat. It would have been uncomfortable for the actors to stand in front of a backdrop of sliced animal products, as if they themselves are a piece of meat. Which is exactly what they were: a vulnerable carcass waiting for us to tear them and their acting apart. Just kidding, that didn’t happen. My highly overused declaration of “that was awesome!” made sure everyone’s confidence got a little boost.

The next order of professionalism was to take notes during the auditions. This was abandoned upon reviewing my notes after three auditions and seeing, “purple shirt”, “she’s from Seattle and that’s ALWAYS cool”, and a doodle of a brick wall that took up the majority of the top right corner of the paper, as the only things I had written down. I decided to go a different route, which became staring at the actors internally critiquing every line of the script, the very words I had written, to the point that I asked myself why I ever thought I could write a memo let alone a script.

Professionalism all together was forgotten by the end of the day when I threw up the “303” hand sign, (a gang sign of confused, rich, white kids in Colorado) to our last actress as she entered the room. I knew she was from Colorado but wasn’t sure if she was going to be familiar with the sign. What can I tell ya, this business is a gamble.

Auditions were fun. It was interesting being the one that people were trying to get a “job” from instead of the other way around. I was able to turn my back on my usual game of masking my resentment for not having a job by enthusiastically interacting with complete strangers.

This is the first time Eli and I have worked on a movie together in years. We’ve come a long way since the candid moments caught on tape of me publicly undermining his artistic vision or blatantly showing my unhappiness with the shoot through unpredictable facial expressions while filming. Unfortunately he’s a much bigger deal now so I can’t undermine him at all times. Although I probably still will. I will post a link to this film when it’s all finished and you can all laugh, cry or forgo the link completely and continue to follow me through written word alone. How primal of you.

Celebrity Treatment

When you move to a new city you have to start everything from scratch. That means new grocery stores (what is this Vons nonsense and where is Safeway?), new easily accessible restaurants (hello Pollo Loco, goodbye Noodles and Company) and new routes to find all of these things.

I dislike having to circle around a grocery store several times before I establish the layout. Who doesn’t put bread by the deli?? I dislike hearing my body tell me it only wants Noodles and Company’s macaroni and cheese but having to settle for the Loco Value Menu. And getting to these places is a separate story (perhaps even blog post) entirely. I have done U-turns, casually turned around in driveways and even parked my car to pursue finding my destination on foot, all to familiarize myself with my new surroundings. This almost always results in me being either 15 minutes late, 25 minutes early or profusely sweating by the time I arrive.

But one of the biggest challenges I face here in LA is finding a new hair salon. Now, I have quite possibly the easiest hair to cut. It dries in roughly 4 minutes, saving my stylist from dealing with the peskiness of thick haired clients and there is no curl to tame. Working with my hair is a lot like cutting perfectly cooked spaghetti.

But no matter how clear the directions to cutting my hair are; there is still anxiety that arises with a new salon. I found a salon close to my place through google maps (how else does one find a salon in a new city?) and the fear that I experienced for the well being and future of my hair took years off my life. The stylist told me he was going to give me the “Beverly Hills Cut” and because I am embracing all that comes with this city, I agreed. But when he pulled all of my hair forward into a ponytail at my forehead like a unicorn, I began to wonder if the “Beverly Hills Cut” was a hazing tactic to all new LA residents, an initiation of sorts.

As I watched him cut at my hair, I gripped the armrests of the chair and reminded myself that he is a professional. I could tell by his laminated certificate jammed into the corner of the mirror. When he commented on how quiet I was being, I tried to explain, but I was too paralyzed with fear to muster anything more than a smile. He took that as a blessing to continue and I sat for several more minutes, unsure of what my hair would look like when this ponytail in front of my face came down.

Luckily for me, and all of you, this story has a happy ending. My hair looked great. I don’t think it looked “Beverly Hills” great, it looked a lot like “Boulder” great, but I was just pleased to have hair at all. I strutted my stuff out of the salon knowing that when people asked me what kind of cut my hair was, I could confidently say, “Beverly Hills”. Unfortunately that's not a thing. If anyone had asked, in the first 22 years of my life, "what kind of cut is that?" I would have answered, "hair" and walked away. But now that I have an answer, I can't wait to be asked! Ah, California, you are so different.

You Know Who You Look Like...

I like to pride myself on my ability to find similarities between my friends and celebrities. This is really tricky because it is not always flattering to tell someone they look like Stephanie Pratt (a rehab graduate and former reality TV star). I often find myself assuring her that I meant post-plastic surgery, or pre-plastic surgery depending on the celebrity and/or friend…

Some people just don’t understand that the comparison means that you look like that celebrity; you don’t act like that celebrity. Just because I say you look like Angelina Jolie does not mean you’re a homewrecker who kisses her brother at the Oscars, take that generous compliment and go with it. Just because I say you look like Carrot Top it does not mean you make bad jokes, it just means you have red hair.

Just as I was getting sick of the negative backlash that came with my celebrity comparisons, I was on the receiving end of such a comparison and had an eye opening experience. I was compared to this "Freaks and Geeks" star:



Millie Kentner. A religious Mathlete, famous for her rendition of “Jesus is Just Alright With Me”. I was shocked by this comparison. I was nothing like Millie in high school, I was far too busy being a heathen and becoming famous for my rendition, “Cheap Vodka is Just Alright With Me” to be a Mathlete or perfect a flawless center part.

But as I continued to watch the show I could not help but see the comparison clearly. I did look like Millie (when I was 11). And I realized: celebrity comparisons are hilarious. As long as the resemblance is there in the slightest and you aren’t being compared to a member of the opposite sex (unless it’s Justin Beiber, because let’s be honest that comparison really works both ways) no one should be offended by a doppleganger.

I will not deny myself, or others, of my talents! Thank you family member, who was around during my awkward Millie phase, for pointing out this resemblance. For without you I might not have realized how important celebrity comparisons are to comedy.

It's A Dangerous Job But Somebody's Gotta Do It

Trying to get started in the entertainment industry is stressful. Because this industry is all about connections I’m terrified to mess up and ruin a contact. I have a deep-rooted fear that one screw up and I’m done with Hollywood. Or rather, Hollywood is done with me. So because I am terrified to make one mistake, I begin second guessing everything I come across. I recently went to pick up lunch for my boss and managed to add levels of stress to the build-your-own salad bar that should be reserved for bomb detonations.

He asked for “mixed greens” and “romaine” and I confidently recognized romaine lettuce and put it in the box. But when I came across lettuce labeled “spring mix” but no “mixed greens” label in sight, I panicked. I asked myself if “spring mix” and “mixed greens” were the same. Of course they are. I reached towards the tongs, but pulled back. Are they? I decided to make the rest of the salad and let the lettuce situation simmer in my mind for a few minutes. I soon came across the same issue with blue cheese and then again with hearts of palm. On any other day, in any other environment, I would be able to identify blue cheese and hearts of palm without a problem. But all of a sudden with the pressure and stress of my future bearing down on me, my mind decides to kick my ass.

I took a few deep breaths and went with my gut feeling. I put the blue cheese, hearts of palm and spring mix on top of the 1 ladle of ranch dressing specified by my boss. I closed the salad self-assuredly to go back to the office and stand in front of my boss in tortured silence to see if the salad is approved. When he didn’t see the salad dressing hidden under the ingredients that ruined my life for 45 minutes, I assured him it was there. But strained my memory to make sure I had, indeed, put the dressing on and wasn’t hallucinating during my stress-induced panic at the grocery store.

This does not just happen with salads, but since moving to Los Angeles, I do tend to over-think to the extreme during basic human activities. Such as: getting gas, putting a stamp on an envelope, and opening a gate. The most ridiculous part about my internal freak-outs is that there has never been a repercussion or sign of a repercussion that would lead me to act this way. My boss has been nothing but nice to me yet I find myself taking each task as if it could end the world. But on the other hand, maybe it is because I treat every task as if it could end the world that my boss has never yelled at me. Or maybe he has yelled at me and I have blocked it out as another way of dealing with my stress-induced panic. I guess we’ll never know……

Playing The Mature Part

When I moved into my one bedroom apartment in August there were several signs that my apartment complex housed a lot of college students; its close proximity to a city college, the model rooms furnished with two twin beds (despite being a complex of all one bedroom apartments), and the overwhelming number of popular skateboarding brand bumper stickers. It became all too clear that I was living in a dorm. At first I was excited about reliving my freshman year, I look back fondly on the unhealthy and borderline disgusting life I had in the dorms, but when my living situation started teetering towards fraternity life I was less than pleased.

One day I went to my car in the parking lot and found a seagull standing atop my car eating something. I walked towards my car hoping to scare it off to eat somewhere else and after a struggle and failure to lift its meal with it, the seagull flew away. As I came closer to my car, I found its food to be a half human eaten/half seagull eaten piece of fried chicken. Considering the seagull could not lift the chicken away with him in flight I came to the conclusion that some trickster had put the fried chicken on top of my car. I drove away with the fried chicken still on the roof hoping it would fall off with a quick turn, completely oblivious to the possibility of it streaking down my front windshield with one sudden stop. Thankfully this did not happen, but the last thing I wanted was Double Down grease all over my car so I took my ice scraper (useful in all climates) to push it off. In days following the fried chicken incident, I have seen a large rock on top of a Mini Cooper and three pizza boxes stacked on top of a Ford Explorer. I’m either dealing with fraternity-like pranks or a very strong and stealth seagull.

Doing laundry in the dorms freshman year was one of the worst possible experiences. If you were one minute late to change your load you would find some perv handling your delicates by throwing them wherever they pleased and leaving it to collect the mildew smell of wet laundry. Because I had forgotten about this frustration and because I thought I lived in an apartment complex not a dorm, I was surprised when someone stole some of my clothes out of the laundry room a few weeks ago. It is hard to pinpoint potential suspects because there was no pattern to their crime. They stole a pair of basketball shorts, a tank top, one sock and a Colorado Football shirt with my sorority’s letters on it (okay, the sock could have been a mistake on my part). I don’t understand why someone would want my sorority football shirt, I’m fairly certain I’m the only Colorado Alpha Phi in my apartment complex. And if I’m not I would smack that sister right in the mouth for stealing my t-shirt. Because that’s what sisters do.

Then there is the blaring music from my neighbors two doors down. I WOULD be able to hear each lyric clearly if it wasn’t for that neighbor’s broken Spanish accent trying to sing along. The only thing worse than having to hear someone else’s music is hearing them botch the lyrics to American classics. “American Pie” didn’t originally have a mariachi feel to it, did it?

With all of these adjustments of living in an apartment complex (I’ve only lived in houses previously), I can’t help but feel like an RA in this community. The boys living above me should not be playing Guitar Hero at 2am, some of us have to get up early for work. And by work I do mean free labor. And the girls living next to me should switch their reversible doormat from “partying” to “studying” a little more often—I’m becoming concerned about their grades.

There Is A Season-Turn, Turn, Turn

Having lived in Colorado my whole life, I have become very attached to seasons. And while Colorado is a little Schizophrenic, often times giving you warmer temperatures in February than May (hello snowfall night before my graduation), there is always a change in mood that I welcome with open arms. Like when the leaves start to turn colors and fall arrives I find myself wanting to speak in Old English because it reminds me of witches. While my friends use these pre-winter months to think of the best Halloween costume I work to suppress my desire to insert “twill” and “twas” into daily conversation. Some may argue that reverting to Old English is weird but I beg to differ. I call it authentic. There is no better way to say “time to put on a scarf for this crisp fall air” than “twill be chilly today”.
Or when the crispness of fall transitions into the next season of winter, one thing comes to mind: Christmas. Some might believe that I am, as a half-Jew, confused around this holiday season. But with any uncertainty that arises I allow my mood to naturally change with the season. Therefore I drop my Old English accent and give into my next seasonal habit: changing my facebook profile picture to that of me in a Santa dress made out of a Christmas tree skirt (with a theme party looming in the near future my freshman year at CU, I made a brave, crafty and affordable outfit). This change reminds me to be thankful. Especially for leggings because the long slit in the back of that Christmas tree skirt would not have left a lot to the imagination had I forgone them.
And with the warm temperatures of spring comes the inexplicable and uncontrollable need to find any reason to drink outside. I can’t explain these moods that come with the changing seasons, but they do and I’m not one to argue with the science of my body.
But since moving to California the lack of a distinct change in weather or season has completely thrown me for a loop. I don’t know when to spark up my Old English accent and I’m concerned Christmas will pass before I feel the innate need to change my facebook profile picture. And the consistent, warm temperatures make the outdoors inviting at all times, a solid concern for someone with a limited friend circle and therefore limited drinking buddies. But, alas, I have decided to take California as my own. And that means taking its flaws and confusions as well. Let’s just hope my natural instincts don’t become numb and dormant throughout this experience.

Disaster at 1 O'Clock

The other day I was on my lunch break and went to my regular lunch spot. My car. I’ve found a nice little place where I can park and look out at the ocean and eat a packed lunch (in this economy you have to tighten the belt where you can. Especially when you’re unemployed). Before you pass judgment on my eating in my car, remember that I work alone in a home office and don’t have anyone to grab food with. With that said, my lunch spot is usually a very peaceful place to escape the office, listen to my rap music that I’m far too nervous to play at work for fear that my boss’ children will hear, and enjoy a break. But today disaster struck.

An older man, I’d say 65, stood outside of my car and stared at me. He wasn’t directly outside of my window but close enough to make me sufficiently uncomfortable. I could feel him staring at me. I tried to busy myself with my iPod and air conditioning buttons, but that did not help.I think we all know the only appropriate time for one person to stare at another for a long period of time. And that is when a grown up stares at an infant (ages newborn-three years).

We are all guilty of watching a child struggle to scoot across the floor or open their sippy cup, smiling as they discover the world. And when said child turns and notices you staring at them, it is normal for you to smile, in wide-eyed shock, (like you haven’t been spying on them for hours) and hold your arms out, inviting them to waddle into your embrace. It’s almost rude to NOT stare at a child because then you seem cold hearted. Has anyone wondered if our staring at babies makes them uncomfortable? When they get to the age that their parents tell them that staring is impolite, do they wonder why their mother did pass this information along to complete strangers for the first three years of their life?

Yes, for some reason it is socially acceptable—neigh, expected—to stare at infants. But I’ll tell you what is not socially acceptable: the 65-year-old man staring at me while I eat lunch. It is also not socially acceptable to then, upon us locking eyes, proceeding to react with the wide-eyed, shocked grin that is reserved solely for babies. I responded to this by picking up my phone and fake calling my dad, which turned into real calling my dad because I’m bad at acting. Then I pulled away casually and drove several blocks forward to finish my Clif Bar. I suppose I should have been flattered, everyone aims to have the smooth, flawless skin of a child, and he just asserted the fact that I do have such skin. But as unsettling as the entire situation was the worst part is I need to find a new place to eat lunch.

Growing Up Artsy

This weekend my dad was in town and we had big plans to see this outdoor installation of modern art in Santa Monica called Glow. It took place all along the Santa Monica beach and was advertised as an absolutely mind-blowing, must-see art presentation. It was dumb. We left after our first two stops and went to see “Easy A”.

I’ve decided it’s difficult to have an outdoor art show in an area highly populated by homeless people. I walked by a tree with several shopping bags hanging from the branches and wasn’t sure if it was part of the show or a storage unit. Walking along the boardwalk you see people dressed in odd outfits dancing to silence every day. And you react in the normal way: by lifting your bag subtly to make sure it is as heavy as it was at the beginning of your walk, by casually veering your stride so that you are inconspicuously moving further and further away, and by looking directly forward as if your lack of eye contact makes your transition into a jog less obvious. But when you are walking the boardwalk at night during a highly anticipated art show you find yourself stopping to admire the woman dancing to silence in a bikini top and brightly colored tutu. And you think, you’re right! You’re right! We don’t need music to dance. Dancing is an art on its own. You nod and smile and continue on your way believing you have just witnessed the newest installation of modern art on Santa Monica beach.

No one ever wants to be seen not reacting to an art piece, especially at a very public venue such as Glow, you will immediately be tagged as the narrow minded, concrete thinker that “just doesn’t get it”. A shameful headshake will be thrust your way and that label will stick. Thanks to my artist mother I have had years of getting used to seeing art in the most obscure forms. I have been scolded for cleaning the molding fruit out of our refrigerator. Throwing away her newest art piece but saving our health. I have dragged her away from snatching up rusting wire from the pavement of a VERY public parking lot. Explaining we would pick it up when we were leaving the mall all the while planning an alternate route back to the car.

Both of my parents did a great job of exposing me to artwork throughout my life. ‘Exposing’ took on a quite literal meaning with my father’s addition of a life-size, fully nude sculpture of a woman in our entryway. I later named her Louise as in “geez, Louise!….. put some clothes on”. It’s difficult to explain to your 12-year-old friends that Louise is art when they insist on comparing her face to popular hosts of MTV shows. I wonder if Leonardo DaVinci had to be bothered with these comparisons as he explained art to his friends. However traumatizing at the time, each of these experiences helped me become aware to the art in my surroundings. That is why the other day, while visiting a friend’s studio; I asked if the tree trunk in the middle of the room was a seat or a project. Granted I asked as I was sitting on it, but the important thing to note is that I was aware.

In other news, I am still interning, slowly developing a path to stardom one coffee run at a time, I am taking improv classes, and I continue to successfully leave my house wearing pants without the help of roommates!!

21 (million) Questions

Traveling is stressful. And no matter how hard you try to avoid it you are inevitably going to encounter people who unnecessarily raise that stress level. These people cleverly disguise themselves as those who are supposed to help you and expedite your travel process (i.e. the employee at your rental car company, the woman at the front desk of your hotel, or the TSA representative at the airport), but do not be fooled. These people WILL take away precious and irreplaceable minutes of your life. Being the educated person you are you will become aware of the ridiculous hold ups being forced upon you. And when these people sense that you’ve caught on, they will no doubt appeal to a higher power (company policy), point fingers at co-workers, or blame you. If you are lucky you will only be held up by one of these disguised allies one time per trip. Or if you are me you will meet one at each step of your travel process. As was the case with my recent trip to Washington.

It all started with the rental car company. The rental car company that pointed to their company policy of asking everyone to pile their luggage outside of the building to ensure time efficiency inside. Now I can only speak for my luggage, but I know my carry-on didn’t rent a car. As I move, the bag moves as well. No one was going to be waiting for it to get its rental terms, causing little to no hold up. But Enterprise saw the pile of luggage accumulating directly in front of the shuttle door, releasing customers to the building (hello obstacle course for tired and irritated travelers), to be a way to speed up the wait. Want to speed up the wait? Don’t give every customer a personalized escort to their choice of vehicle. Don’t give them a brief history and tutorial on their options. And don’t give them a rundown on the stain in the backseat of the car that you “just can’t seem to get rid of”.

Next, the woman at the front desk of the Fidalgo Inn. The woman who, after we requested to be moved from our room that faced a noisy highway, blamed a co-worker for forgetting to ask about our traffic noise sensitivity. Do not blame your co-worker for not checking on a made-up disorder such as traffic noise sensitivity. And please do not waste our time by interrogating us about our later arriving family members. It is not time efficient, nor normal, to want to know the first, middle and last names of my relatives, which rooms they are going to be sleeping in, what their relation is to each other, their likes and dislikes. As a customer grows obviously irritated with your insistence on useless information do not justify yourself by boasting of the high security available at the hotel. If by high security you mean each room is easily accessible to anyone from the outside, then yes you offer the highest security.

My trip rounded out nicely at the airport. Where I was targeted as holding up the line. I don’t think throwing a zip –lock baggie at me when I have one free standing bottle of face wash set next to my iPod, in plain sight to show I have no secrets, and then announcing to everyone, “we do not want to slow down the line by not having liquids in zip-lock baggies” lowers the stress of airport security (especially for us hesitant flyers). And do not insinuate that my 3.4-ounce face wash is holding up the line when you stop all bags from moving forward on the conveyer belt while you do a hand search of a man’s backpack. If the backpack is out of the machine and taken to the side, the man forfeits his spot in the security line. There are no “spot-backs” at the airport.

As you can see I experienced a triple threat weekend in Washington. My life was negatively affected by three different travel aids. With the individuals causing the inconvenient and pointless delays blaming everyone (including me) but themselves, I can see why my mother travels with a personal wine opener.

Flying Solo

After my summer sublease was up at the beginning of August I moved into a one-bedroom apartment. This is my first time living solo and after living with 10 girls for two years it is quite the change. Quite the terrifying change. I know some people have fears that they will choke alone in their apartment or trip over a loose edge of a rug, but mine are much more frightening. What if I go out to meet friends and am overdressed? Underdressed? Not dressed? A problem only a roommate could alert me to. This independence has forced me to buy all the things I have been stealing from my roommates for years. Like cotton balls, Sriracha hot sauce and underwear. Sure there are perks, I can finally push the toothpaste from the end of the tube without coming back and finding that someone was a real jerk and squeezed the perfectly shaped middle, but I need someone to go on late night food runs with me. That and it's really hard to hold your own beer bong.

Up Close and Personal Way Too Soon

I spent this past weekend in Anacortes, WA (which I successfully turned into a week-long vacation thanks to my lack of job or any real responsibilities here in LA) for a family reunion. With this family reunion came lots of hugs. Which I do love. When I am expecting them and/or welcoming them. I’ve noticed for sometime now that I do not handle hugs well when I’m caught off guard. I think hugging people after a first meeting is awkward, which both parties MIGHT recognize, but if not, I do a pretty good job of making sure they do. I have, on two occasions here in LA, been caught so off guard for a hug that I have said “oh we’re doing this now” in reaction to my new friend’s outstretched arms and subtle lean forward. The only time a hug should come before a handshake between strangers is on The Oprah Show or at the dentist’s office (Oprah can do absolutely anything she wants and your dentist will be handshaking each of your teeth fairly soon after your meeting so no need to oversell it). OR if you call me Anna upon seeing my name, a hug—probably a bear hug—is in your future.
I do painfully enjoy watching others go in for hugs when it’s unclear if both parties are on the same page with the embrace. The small steps forward to see if the action is reciprocated. This small, subtle move to make way towards hugging range is an important first step in giving your subject fair warning to think of something better to say than “oh we’re doing this now”. It’s really important to make sure you don’t make a grand gesture with your arms too soon because then you’ve given your intention away. Had your subject not been mirroring your moves towards hugging, you have just forced them into it. The worst part being you both know you don’t want to be there. I find this uncomfortable realization is best softened by saying something along the lines of “come here, get in here for the real thing”. Even though neither of you really wanted to get in there for the real thing. I definitely can’t hide how awkward hugs are when they are not necessary. I’m sure people don’t have as big of a problem with these hugs as I do but to those people I say let’s build a relationship before we go too crazy.

To my family who is convinced I’m going to talk about them after our weekend together- this is not directed towards you. Please keep hugging me, you’re the only ones I can count on to do it right.

Keepin' In The Know

As I was driving to my internship today I noticed the beach was very overcast, much more overcast than I have seen before. I didn’t think much of it; I have grown to know the fog burns off later in the afternoon. I noticed the fog was still around later in the afternoon and when I left my internship for lunch it was clear there was a full on wildfire somewhere. I could not see the ocean and since one of my new things is “keepin’ in the know” I googled a Los Angeles news channel’s website to get some answers. There was no headline for ‘smoke’, ‘smog’, ‘fog’ or anything of that sort. There was no way this issue could be a common thing, there must be some reporting on this! I searched the site in a frenzy; was my health in danger? What I stumbled upon at the bottom of this website lead me to the only conclusion possible: LA does not have real news channels.
As I scrolled to the bottom of the page without a sign of information of my potential impending doom, I saw four tabs that are clearly more important than a wildfire in my surrounding area: PHOTOS: College Cheerleaders, PHOTOS: Who Is My Celebrity Parent? PHOTOS: Crazy California Laws and PHOTOS: 2010 Celebrity Deaths.

REALLY, LA, REALLY?

UPDATE: It wasn’t a wildfire. It was overcast. But still. Those bottom tabs are just ridiculous.

Getting Paid's The Only Thing On My Resume. Oh Wait, No, No It's Not....

I have gone on two job interviews during my time in LA, even though I apply to about two jobs every 15 minutes. Talk about an impressive ratio. So I’m clearly not a well-versed veteran in this area, but I’m pretty sure the experiences I have had are not normal. At least I hope they aren’t.

My first interview was earlier in this summer for a company that sneakily advertised themselves as a marketing firm when, in actuality, they are just a door-to-door sales organization. If I didn’t know from the get go that I wasn’t going to take this job (I can’t be pushy, and when they say do anything to make a sale, I take that as smile enough to cover my fear and discomfort with the situation and say something along the lines of ‘so, do ya wanna… it would help yer business… buy this thing… or ya know, don’t. If you’re busy or find it to be unnecessary…’ Real solid pitch.) I knew I wouldn’t be taking this job after spending 5 minutes in the waiting area. I was reminded twice to wear business professional attire to my interview because that was the standard at that office. Knowing this I expected the office environment to mirror that attitude. I’ll tell you what I did not expect: WWE fighting on a big screen TV, and the 1998 R&B hit single “Too Close” blaring from the radio. If you aren’t familiar with the song “Too Close” it is anything but business professional. In fact, it’s borderline pornographic. I certainly was not expecting to have the receptionist ask what my plan was for the fourth of July and continuously insinuate that I would be drinking large amounts of alcohol. Had this not been a business professional setting, or rather, had I not been wearing my business professional attire, I probably would have grilled her about potential hot spots for the fourth of July activities. But I was far too preoccupied trying to block out the lyrics of “Too Close” to wrap my mind around my entire situation. I also knew my future with this company was bleak when the highlights of my actual interview were discussing the Denver Broncos and my premature, and unprovoked confession that I had zero sales experience. But I was okay with it. I couldn’t work in a setting that required business professional attire yet constantly teased me with hit 90’s hip hop jams. Everyone knows it’s impossible to bust a decent move in heels.

My next interview came just this past week. I use the term “interview” loosely because this was much more like speed dating for a job. Each person had a timed 1-minute opportunity to pitch oneself to a human resources representative from various TV networks. Again I had certain assumptions about this interview. I thought I would be ushered into a room, sit down across from the representative, talk for a minute and be ushered out to my next company. I did not expect all the tables lined up in one large room. I did not expect that I would be directed in numerical order, single file towards the tables, like cattle to their trough. I did not expect that there would be no chair for me to sit in across from my representative (Who would have thought it would be so intimidating towering over your interviewer while they are comfortable seated?) I definitely did not expect that I would be pitching myself to someone eating a bagel and schmear. I’m beginning to wonder if California is confused about the meaning of the word “professional”, it’s like that Katy Perry song “California Gurls” (where the confusion on that one is obvious). Hopefully I’ll have more interviews and can tell you if these other two were just flukes. So at the rate I’m going I’ll have two more interviews to discuss by Thanksgiving!

Table Manners

I’m an individual that loves my food. I tend to plan most of my life around what I’m eating and when I’m going to be eating next. There is nothing more enjoyable than sitting down with good company and having a chat over a fine meal. There is one aspect of restaurant dining that truly ruins the experience, and that is live music. I like to hear what my company is saying, or more accurately, I like them to hear what I’m saying because it’s probably much more interesting. But this has been made virtually impossible with live bands harassing your eardrums! I can appreciate the soft classical music in the corner, but I’m talking the four-man band fully equipped with a drummer, guitarist, lead singer, pianist and, of course, groupies. I love live music normally, but not when I’m being charged 15 dollars for an appetizer. It is the nicer restaurants that are not set up for such “entertainment”, often times there is no stage leaving tables directly in the spit zone of the performers. Tables are squeezed awkwardly together so that you have to pole vault over your neighbor to get to the bathroom. No, these restaurants are not designed for such nighttime attractions. I especially hate when the band gets into the music and misunderstands the audience’s enjoyment. Don’t start clapping your hands and pumping up the audience for your Ray Charles cover. The words “Let me hear yaaaaaaa!!” should never be shouted into a microphone at a restaurant that has a dress code. And if I seem uninterested or down right peeved at your overbearing set it’s because your aggressive “rocking out” makes the head of your bass dip into my soup.

I'm Baaaaaack

I’ve arrived back in California safe and sound from my wonderful trip to Colorado. The most important thing for me is that arrived to both of my destinations, via airplane, safely. See, in the past four or so years I’ve developed a fear of flying. Many can’t tell I’m terrified on the plane and that is because, like in most every other aspect of my life, I keep my cool. But little do people know that every muscle in my body is constantly flexed, always prepared to launch through the aisles to an emergency exit. Several people have offered the advice that I drink before a flight to calm myself. This is out of the question. I must have my wits about me while in the air. The last thing I want to do is forget where my floatation device is because I’ve had too many Bloody Marys. My fear ranges from making flying mildly to severely uncomfortable for me. This range in anxiety depends on the variables I have come to realize ease my nerves. Unfortunately, the chance of having all of these variables occur in one trip is slim to none. I follow the acronym, “FLY”, to remind myself of these variables and I advise any and all of you to remember this acronym as well should we ever fly together. Otherwise “FLY” is exactly what we won’t do; a panic attack on my part might ground the plane… (this has never happened)

F
Forty to sixty-five year old men.
I must sit next to one. It helps if they appear to be businessmen, this way I know they travel frequently and usually show no signs of fear. What does not help is sitting next to a man that is too elderly, because then I end up helping him with his tray table when I have far better things to do. Like make sure the wing of the plane has not dipped below the invisible line I’ve drawn across the sky suggesting a fall in altitude. This brings me to the second calming factor for my flying experience…

L
Latitude.
I must sit by a window. It gives me the best view of the skyline and I can keep tabs on the consistency of the plane’s latitude. For some reason I think that I can see, perhaps sense, a storm that the pilot might be unable to detect. You can never have too many eyes when flying the friendly, if not sometimes misleading, skies. Speaking of friendly, we come to the last of my variables.

Y
You better know what you’re doing, flight attendant.
I rely heavily on my flight attendants. I look to them for comfort; if they seem in control then all is well. If they seem like they could have taken Britney Spear’s outfit from her “Toxic” video, boarded the plane and proceeded to serve me refreshments while being completely clueless and thus useless to an alert passenger such as myself, I am not at ease.

One time I had boarded a plane headed from Charleston to Chicago. The engines started up and we began to pull away from the gate only to have the pilot come over the loud speaker. We were told we all had to de-board and the problem with the plane would be fixed in a couple hours. As soon as we got back to the gate the pilot came back on and informed us the problem had been fixed and we were heading out again. Immediately I felt the crew did not put their A-game into fixing this problem. How can something go from needing 2 hours of attention to being fixed before we even reach the gate? I was skeptical, so naturally I turned to my flight attendant. She shook her head and looked around, “I don’t know what’s happening” That is absolutely the last thing you want to hear your flight attendant say. It is right up there with your dermatologist saying, “hmm, this growth is abnormal” or the bartender saying “you’re cut off”, it scares and outrages you.

Some people find the flight attendants annoying because they will force you to check your bag if it is oversized (it’s easier on everyone if you check your bag), won’t take your credit card to buy your alcoholic beverage (this is a plane not a bar), and no longer serve you a hot meal (welcome back from 1995, there are no hot meals on planes). No wonder that Jet Blue flight attendant freaked out, passengers can be a real pain in the ass. Good thing I’m on the plane as their ally, another person to maintain order on the plane. Some call the Jet Blue attendant a hero (I think that might be a little strong), but a revolutionary is not. I would have loved to be on that flight because he proved something to me that most flight attendants can’t… the emergency exit slide does, in fact, work.

Embracing The Unembraceable

I have never enjoyed talking on the phone. In the past I have tried to limit my phone conversations to no more than 5 minutes. I have lost friendships because of my discrimination against phone calls. I could never have a long distance boyfriend. Or a needy boyfriend. Or a talkative boyfriend. Or a boyfriend that owns a phone…. I would constantly blame the cramp in my elbow from holding the same position towards my ear for too long on him. But that was the old me. Things have changed! This move to California has forced me embrace the long, catch-up telephone call. I can say I’ve gotten pretty good at it. My mom was really nervous when I was moving that I would never talk to her, she was all too familiar with my hatred of long phone calls, but she has been pleasantly surprised. It does help that I have no friends and decide to call my mom to tell her what I put on my sandwich each day. But hey, it’s our quality time. There are a few things I’ve learned as my phone use has increased and it has helped me realize why I have disliked this hobby for so long…

1. My humor depends heavily on my recognition of body language. If I can’t see your face, I can’t tell if my jokes are a hit or a miss. And damn you, you silent laughers. I never know if you are offended by a joke or enjoying it thoroughly.
2. I also have this tendency to talk over people because I think their story is over. I’m SORRY my definition of a breath between sentences is a short one.
3. I hate the awkward apology by both parties for talking at once, followed immediately by “no, you go ahead” which you also say at the same time. Phone conversation is far too cramped despite being so far away.
4. And don’t get me started on ear sweat, sometimes so severe it gives your phone water damage—am I right or am I right?

So if you want to know even more about my life besides what you get in these blog posts (don’t lie you know you can’t get enough of me) I am now taking phone calls. But keep them brief, alright? I have a lot going on.

I'm going to Colorado today and I couldn't be more excited! Unfortunately for you readers that means I will probably be far too busy to update this blog. BUT that means there will be a large, most likely outrageously funny blog post to come when I return to LA.

A Not So Pleasant Discovery

Yesterday I woke up to discover that someone had thrown up on my car door handle. After the immediate disgust, I went through a series of reactions. At first I was surprised, I had lived in Boulder for four years and this had never happened to my good ol’ CR-V (better known as Black Beauty). I found it much more probable that my car would have been disgraced in the student run circus that is Boulder, CO than the quaint residential area in which I currently live. After the surprise came the excitement. There was, at some point, a person in close proximity to my vehicle that partied, a quality I have been searching for in a friend this whole summer. Where was this person hiding? How would I find them? DNA test the remnants they left behind? I was willing to look past the throw up on my car if they were willing to invite me to their next event. This excitement was quickly replaced by the harsh reality of the situation. Did I reallllly want to hang out with this person? They clearly can’t hold their alcohol.

Honest Mistake

Today I answered the phone at my internship and introduced myself. I was then called Don. And still Fran Drescher is worse.

Growing Up On The Road

I've decided to switch gears on this blog post. It's not that nothing is happening in my life, in fact there is just far too much. Not really. But I am presenting you with a story from my past until I can get my present life in order to give you a proper blog post. Enjoy!

I was roadtripping with my mom to my grandmother's house when I was about 13 or so. I was in the transition stage between being promised (and being overly enthusiastic) about getting treats for the drive and being able to handle the manageable 2 hour drive without stopping. I over estimated my abilities and after an extra large soda, I had an overwhelming need to use the bathroom. We stopped at a gas station and I rushed to the bathroom. I had to begin to unbuttoning my pants as I ran through the store; this was an emergency! I busted the door open to the stall and noticed that some indecent person had not flushed. Despite the rush I was in to get to the bathroom, I refused to use the dirty stall. It was a matter of principle.

I stood outside the stalls waiting for the next available one, tapping my foot to distract myself from my fear that my bladder was dangerously close to exploding. Then from inside the stall I had just busted open came a young girl, no older than four, timidly creeping out of the stall. I had pinned the poor girl against the wall of the stall after she finished her business. This young girl had probably just overcome her fear of using the bathroom alone only to be traumatized by an aggressive swinging stall door. I could only imagine that she finished up, so proud of herself and as she reached for the handle to flush she was flung to the side of the stall, trapped between the door and connecting wall. I was so uncomfortable; I wasn’t sure whether I should apologize--would she understand my reasoning? Did she even know a person had pushed the door or did she think it was just part of going to the bathroom alone? Just part of growing up? Finally the next stall opened and a woman came out.

“How was it, Sara?” it was the girl’s mother, “did you remember to flush?” I was about to chime in that no, no, she had not remembered to flush. But then I decided that it might be because of me that Sara will never be able to use the bathroom alone again. Sorry lady, you’re going to be accompanying your daughter for a few more years and sorry, Sara. My bad.

The Name Game

My name, without sounding too negative, is stupid. Don’t get me wrong, I love the name Anna (that is “on-uh” not “anne-uh”). “On-uh” is a beautiful name, but it has the bad luck of coming second to its nasally sounding sister, “anne-uh”. For the purpose of clarity “on-uh” will be typed as Anna. And “anne-uh” will be typed as Fran Drescher for the duration of this post.

I don’t think I have ever been called Anna off the bat. I can confidently say this because I think if I were called Anna upon meeting someone for the first time I would marry that person. Be they male of female I would make that person mine. This person would already understand one of the biggest struggles in my life, clearly making our meeting fate. Never being called Anna off the bat is based on those who have seen my name in writing, not actually heard my name. Two assumptions come along with my name on paper. The first is that my name is Fran Drescher and the second is that I’m foreign. Just the look of my name, 4-letter first name, 4 letter last name, screams Norwegian. I’m not sure why, and I don’t care to argue with this, but it is distinctly un-American.

The struggle of having a constantly mispronounced name is a daily one. I have to make a decision of whom I am going to correct on the pronunciation of my name. I never correct deliverymen, professors, and most recently, job interviewers, because our relationship isn’t going to last longer than a few hours. (It is a sad, sad truth. Someone give me a job!) But this is a risk. Who is to say that I am going to meet someone, not correct them, and we wind up becoming good friends? At what point DO I correct them? A week into the friendship? After the toast is given to Fran Drescher and husband at my wedding? These are issues someone with a name like mine must sort through constantly.

There are three levels of the acceptableness for mispronouncing my name. The first, and most acceptable level is the mispronunciation of my name on paper. I get it, it’s confusing having a word spelled the same but pronounced differently. It only happens ALL the time in the English language (I’m going to read a book, I read a book; the monster lives! The monster saved our lives! Come on, people). The second level is being introduced to me verbally only to find yourself unable to suppress the urge to call me Fran Drescher. I also get it; Fran Drescher is a common name. But you don’t hear me calling you Bill when your name is Bob just because I have a friend named Bill. They are different words. The third level, and by far the least acceptable, is correcting me on the pronunciation of my own name.

One time I was picking up a bulk order of sneakers for my basketball team. I told the worker at Dick’s Sporting Goods that the order for 20 shoes was under the name Anna. He went to the back, looked and looked and came back saying he couldn’t find it. I said, shocked, “really? For Anna?” and he responded, as if he had experienced a revelation, “ohhhh, Fran Drescher”. He headed back to the storage room and came back with my 20 pairs of shoes. No. Not Fran Drescher. Anna. The name that I just told you. This happened on another occasion, very recently. I was out at USC with my friend and was introducing myself to a young gent. I said, “Hi, I’m Anna” and he responded just as the Dick’s Sporting Goods employee did, “ohhhh, Fran Drescher”. I’m not sure why the long “ohhh” must come before the correction of my name and it is always coupled with an understanding nod. It makes it seem like I’m not well and that calling myself Anna is equivalent to a side affect of Alzheimer’s. Ala, a grandfather says “the spaceship is taking me to the moon, but it’s monsoon season” and the caregiver responds, “ohhh, the shower”.

It’s hard being an Anna in a Fran Drescher world. It really is.

My 4th Roommate, Edward.

I’ve given myself the challenge of living a year in Los Angeles. That is not to say that I am giving myself a year to break into the industry and become a successful comedy writer or Tina Fey’s best friend (still not sure which I want more) because I know that is unrealistic. BUT that is to say that if I’m just not feelin’ it after a year I give myself permission to leave. But a year in LA is on the horizon!

I’m here right now on a summer sublease, so my entire living situation is temporary. A sublease can never really feel like “home”. There are still the signs of the previous owner everywhere. In my case that is the “These Are The Days of Our Lives” slideshow CD that is sitting in the living room, it is the blown up picture of all the original roommates together resting nicely in the corner, and it is the Edward Cullen (the main character from Twilight for my non-Tween audience) poster tacked on the inside of my closet door. Eddie sure gave me a fright when I first closed my closet door fully to change. And my body can’t compete with Bella’s so I always keep the door open now so that Ed can’t look at me with those piercing yellow-flamed vampire eyes. I’m aware that I could just take this poster down, but, like I said, everything is temporary and I feel like I’m overstepping my bounds by taking the poster down.

I’ve noticed that when things are temporary I lower my standards immensely. For example, I won’t change the light bulb in my bedroom that flashes like a strobe light constantly. I’ve had to thank God every night that I don’t have epilepsy and I also ask that I don’t get vertigo over the duration of this summer sublease. This laziness also explains why I have not bothered to get stoppers for the wheels on my bed frame. Every time I sit down on my bed it glides across the wood floor to a new location. If there is an earthquake I can leave it in Mother Nature’s hands to reorganize my room. Sometimes I think that if there is an earthquake while I'm laying in bed looking at my strobe light on the ceiling, the combination of a moving bed and aggressive flashing light would no doubt leave me disoriented and most likely violently ill. But it’s a risk I’m willing to take because obviously the inconvenience of getting stoppers and a new light bulb outweighs the potentially dangerous repercussions. OBVIOUSLY.

Tour Guiding

This weekend one of my very best friends came to visit me!! What's the point of making new friends when you can just have your old ones come visit you every few months? Sure there will be severe depression, anxiety and loneliness in between visits but making friends is hard. And having my already established friends save money and fly here is easy. With that aside it was so fun having Natalie here. We did what we do best which is eat, and spend the time in between eating thinking about where we are going to eat next. A perfect weekend.

It was interesting having a guest because I still have no idea what I'm doing here. I would ask Natalie everyday what we should do; I was hoping she had done her research and had a to-do list for us already planned out. But alas, she did not. We discovered the city together! The one thing we did not discover on this trip was the sun. That little guy didn't come out the whole weekend! I live close to the beach but we had to drive 25 minutes away from the ocean to see the sun or feel the heat. That just doesn't make sense. But the weekend was great, definitely one of the best. I can’t wait for my next visitors coming in July 21st. See look how much easier that is! No effort required.

Am I Over The Hill?

I have been having some difficulty in adjusting to life after college. It's not an easy transition. There are still so many things I'm unsure of. These include, but are not limited to, working long hours all day-how does this work, when does one nap? What do you talk about with your older co-workers if they are not fans of The Hills? And lastly, where does one buy wine that doesn't come in a box?
I loved pretty much everything about college, and thinking back on the past four years leaves me asking myself why I didn't fail some classes to keep my love affair with Boulder going strong? After 2 months of post-grad life, I have to admit that the wound is still fresh. That is why when I was asked about my summer plans "before school starts up again" by an unknown guy at a party, I choked back tears and admitted that I was a graduate. He followed this by telling me I was old-he did not say this in a joking manner. Now, being a graduate is offensive enough, but to be called old on top of that is down right slanderous. I didn't know whether I should be more upset that he thought I was old- 22 is a PRIME age- or if I should be more upset that I was so upset by this. That made me feel even older. Now I know how the cast of Sex and The City feel when the critics say their movie needs to speed up production before their faces show their true age. I have never felt SO in sync with Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte. Stay strong, ladies! They can't keep us down!

USA USA USA

This weekend I celebrated the history of this country as any respectable American does... binge drinking. BUT drinking in red, white and blue which differs from my usual drinking routine. And I wouldn't call what we did binge drinking because Jason and I were on a mission to find friends. We had to be on top of our game. We went down to Hermosa beach with a girl I kind of know that basically has to be my friend because we are sorority sisters. I knew paying for friends for 4 years was worth it in the long run. Just kidding, sororities build leadership skills. And ya know, like, other stuff too. Anyway, this beach was packed and after a few hours one thing lead to another and let's just say events transpired. And by that I do mean there were legitimate number exchanges with potential friends! It was a successful day, and I have this beautiful country to thank. Thank god (or our founding fathers) alcohol is such an integral part of recognizing America.

Dr. Scholls Stole My Thunder!

I continue to excel at walking in this city, but this talent is really taking a toll on my knees. It's my own fault though, I have not been wearing my insoles when I walk these long distances. I don't want to brag, but I've had corrective footwear since before it was cool to have corrective footwear. Before Dr. Scholls was making a killing with his gellin' commercials, I was getting my foot plastered for personalized insoles to give my foot the false sense of an arch.
I know insoles are all the rave now, but when I was in middle school it was mortifying. Imagine a constant squeak coming each time you take a step. This was especially embarrassing when walking to the front of the class to turn in a quiz in complete silence. In middle school any squeak, or similar noise, is always assumed to be a fart. I constantly sounded like I was crop dusting the classroom.
When it became summer and everyone started wearing cute flip flops I had to wear ones that would still offer me some support. And since those cool Old Navy flip flops don't care about your arches, I was forced to wear Merrells. Which is what grandmothers wear. I looked like Robin Williams in "Jack", or at least my feet did. From calf down I looked a few years out of retirement. It is these painful memories that encourage me to not wear my insoles which in return gives me knee pain. It's a vicious cycle. Possibly after several years of therapy I will be able to embrace my arches again.

Adventures in Fitness!

I mailed the spec episode of How I Met Your Mother that my brother and I wrote to the Disney Writer’s Fellowship today! Thank you to everyone who read it and gave us feedback! The most consistent feedback we got was that it was pretttttty awesome so send good vibes to our little episode!

The other day I was going to the gym and I had a very interesting encounter in the elevator. My gym is on the second floor of an office building and I always take the elevator for two very important reasons: 1. I tried the very first day to find the stairs and wandered around aimlessly for awhile and now I’ve been going there for too long to ask where they are. And 2. I think it’s important to reward yourself before the work out as well as after. That’s why I always have a pastry on my way to the gym and crack open a beer as soon as I get home. You need to keep yourself motivated.
Anyway, I got into the same elevator as a fairly large woman and her young son. I pressed level 2 for the gym, the woman laughed and said, “I always think it’s so funny that you people going to the gym can’t walk up one flight of stairs to get there”. I laughed a bit too then said the first thing that came to mind in my defense, “I can’t find the stairs”. She told me they were right between the front entrance and the elevators, her son snorted a laugh at me and then the doors opened. I continued to ponder this experience and realized two things: 1. the woman could have been a racist, I told you about my gym and she DID use the term “you people” and 2. She was headed to the THIRD FLOOR. There is just no excuse for this in my book. She was teaching her son to not only laugh at those who can’t find the stairs (what if I was blind?) but to be lazy. Don’t worry, I called social services. Just doing my part.

Icebreakers

Something really awkward happened this weekend. There is no other way to put it. And I actually usually love awkward situations, when I can feel comfortable in a different situation immediately following. No such luck this time. One of my roommates who is not home very often, (and by that I mean I’ve seen her three times since I moved in over three weeks ago) comes home and asks me to cut her jeans into shorts for her. While they are on her body. This is NOT an easy task. So, the fear that I was going to make the cuts uneven and mangle her homemade jorts, coupled with the pure unease with the entire situation I think I may have ruined the project. She seemed pleased and thankful, but she left the house again later, sans Anna’s personalized Daisy Dukes. I think it goes without saying that I took alteration house calls off my resume.

Ummm Colorado isn't a developing state....

I had heard from some of my friends, who migrated to Colorado from other states at a young age, that there are some odd stereotypes about Colorado from an outsider’s perspective. I had never encountered this before because, well, I've lived in that wonderful state my whole life. Many people who have either never been to CO or have only skied there, are under this strange impression that it is a fend for yourself state, a place where technology and hot water have not yet reached. A state where we ski or ride horses to school that is if we aren't homeschooled to save time to work on the family farm. I'm aware there are farms in CO, but not in Denver.
So, a couple nights ago I walked into my roommates room and she was watching the E! network with one of her guy friends. The TV show was Kendra (for those who don't know Kendra, you don't know JACK! just kidding, it's a reality show of a former Playboy playmate, cameras follow her around her house with her husband and newborn son as she tries to tackle household duties and motherhood. That explanation is mostly for my parents because everybody knows about Kendra). I do have a soft spot in my heart for Kendra, I think the love between her and her husband is real, so hard to find on reality TV these days. So, because our TV in college was constantly set to the E! network and I'm a 22 year old college student not a Mormon choir girl, I have seen Kendra. Anyway, there was a scene in which Kendra is hard at work on the stripper pole set up in her living room (the only acceptable place for a home stripper pole). And the boy in the room says, "well, welcome to LA" almost apologizing for the crude behavior on the tv, as if there was no way I had been exposed to something so obscene in my life. As if Colorado does not get cable, or that there is no such behavior in Colorado. His tone was apologetic but also had a hint of relief; thank goodness I had experienced this first time glimpse at stripping in the safety of my subleased home, with friends there to comfort me.
But, at the same time, I can’t blame these people for being confused about Colorado. The men who direct you to baggage claim at the airport wear cowboy hats, boots and bootlace ties (I had to google the name of this tie—that’s how not Colorado it is). How can people not be confused when the first thing they see driving out of the airport is a demon stallion? That thing looks like a sacrifice we gave as a state to ensure a strong horse breeding season. I understand how people think the mountains are empty, snowcapped fields when the most recent Colorado contestant on the Bachelorette boasted ice fishing, hunting, and “being a Colorado outdoorsman” as his favorite activities. Most of the Coloradans I know are outdoors-y like any other outdoors-y person would be. Happy hour on a patio.
But don't worry ColoRADans I'm here as your official Ambassador to clear up this confusion. One unpaid internship at a time....

Speaking of my unpaid internship, I have very little contact with people on the days that I work so that is why my blog is lacking a little bit but I'm starting something new (in addition to this internship) on Sunday. I will be helping a small sketch comedy company with anything they need. Hopefully I will interact more and stop eating my lunch in the car (THIS IS A CHOICE!). Human contact is necessary, so good thing I have two roommates to talk to when I get home. Except sometimes I'm too scared to speak because I haven't spoken to people in so long who knows what's going to come out!? I've witnessed the weird things my friend, Natalie, says when she's been dogsitting for too many days in a row and it's not a situation I want to find myself in anytime soon.

Other than that, this weekend is promising to be pretty awesome. My friend from San Francisco is visiting and it's my brother's birthday so maybe I can update you all on something interesting after I begin speaking with people again... weeeee!!

Where Did I Get This?

Yesterday was Father's Day and in recognition of that wonderful holiday and my wonderful father I want to dedicate a portion of this post to him. As we all know, our parents make us who we are and there is no doubt I would not have turned out half as funny (or awesome) as I am without my dad. He shaped my humor by telling me puns before bed. While most children get a goodnight story, I got: "Two peanuts walked down the street. One was a salted". PURE GOLD. So thank you, Dad, for you made this blogger who she is today.

On that note, I love sarcasm. I'm hoping that comes through in this blog fairly aggressively. So naturally it is annoying when people do not think I understand their sarcasm. Listen up! If you have to tell me that your comment was sarcastic when I clearly responded with sarcasm then you obviously have no idea what you're doing. If you felt the need to clarify the sarcasm because I didn't laugh as you were hoping I would, then it probably just wasn't funny to begin with. And that's not sarcasm's fault, so don't you dare throw sarcasm under the bus like it was their fault that you aren't funny.

I have been exposed to sarcasm for many years- thank you Mom and Dad- and I can even remember getting upset when people misused sarcasm at a very young age. I was at a day camp and we were doing some acting exercise (I have always been a performer at heart) and the teacher asked who knew what sarcasm was. I had the perfect example, because my mom would say it to my brother every time he lied about anything. "You cleaned your room? Oh, yeah, and I'm Batman". The PG sarcasm I was brought up with only lead me to use it in R-rated instances. But instead of choosing me to give an example, the teacher picked this kid who said "when you say you're going to be somewhere in 2 seconds, you're being sarcastic". Umm, no... that's just being irresponsible. Who knows how fast one would have to drive to get anywhere in 2 seconds. Unfortunately my teacher also had no idea what sarcasm was because she accepted this horrible example. And everyone in that class has probably grown up to have no idea what is happening on all the major news networks: The Daily Show, The Colbert Report, Weekend Update, etc. It was at that day camp that I vowed to always protect and represent sarcasm in the way it deserves, as one of the most important tools used in society today.

Daily Grind

I have been slacking on my updating because dun da da daaah! I got an internship! I did not find this one on craigslist, I found it through my amazing brother, Eli. Eli used to intern for this man, a producer, and passed along my name. He is a refreshing change from the first experience I had in Hollywood. He is actually a nice person. He is a family man, lives a very modest lifestyle and is still very successful--who knew it was possible?!

With an internship in the entertainment industry under my belt, I have come to focus my sights on a paying job of some sort that I can have in addition to the internship. There is no easy way to say this.... but I have a spending problem. I'm a sucker for good food and a good time- which we all know is never free. Nothing is free. I don't understand how this city is so expensive when everyone I meet is working a non paid internship. This should actually be the cheapest city because no one has a job to pay for anything. I wanted to go to the beach for some sunshine and ended up paying 20 dollars to park. There goes the foot long street hot dog and admit one ticket into the Venice Boardwalk Freakshow I was planning on buying.

I have come to notice the diversity around me in this city. Let's take my gym for example. I work out at 24 hour fitness right by the airport, and it boasts some strikingly different characteristics than the 24 in Boulder. In Boulder there is a community of young, environmentally friendly moms who gather for daily yoga while Kelly Clarkson or Tom Petty play from the speakers. I walked into the 24 in LA and was the only white, female, non-body builder. This is really something else coming from Boulder where the African American population is the CU football team. I have always been a minority (half-Jew) and was immediately comforted by the loud gangster rap that played throughout the club. I do have a soft spot for gangster rap... call me a feminist.

Road Rave

Before I moved to California I had several people tell me that I would be relieved to finally be surrounded by good drivers. Both my father (who grew up in California) and by brother (who has lived here for about five years) told me that the driving in LA far surpasses the driving skills of any other state. Well, California drivers, I’m here to tell you that not only are you not that great of drivers, but I have never seen poorer parking jobs in my entire life. I can appreciate the fact that California drivers know where they are going, how to get there and don’t mess around. There are definitely those hippie drivers in Boulder who are staring at the scenery and soaking up the joys of life while cruising in their car. And this can become aggravating when they are going 10 under the speed limit. So, yes, I agree that California drivers are better in that area. But I don’t think it warrants them the title of the “best drivers in the country”, especially when you see their park jobs. I go to the same parking garage almost every day and always find myself having to pass up several—I’m talking like six or seven viable parking spots because some douchers don’t know how to stay in the lines. It’s like all these drivers are in such rush to get where they are going that once they are there anything goes! No, not “anything goes” in a parking garage. You know what goes? Staying in the lines. Jackasses.

Sticking with the car theme, I saw several personalized license plates today, which reminded me that I hate them. Honestly, they should be illegal. They are a driving hazard, more of a driving hazard than talking on your cell phone. It’s like doing a crossword puzzle at the wheel. How frustrating is it when you are behind a personalized license plate that you can’t figure out? You stare and wonder and talk out loud trying to run the letters together in hopes that something will sound familiar. If the plate is really tricky you could lose your focus, get distracted and that very license plate could end up imprinted on your front bumper.

While I was passing up several potential spots due to poor parking decisions today, I had the opportunity to make another observation. There is a semi-unwritten rule about what cars you can “pimp out” and what ones you can’t. Your car has to be cool to begin with before you can add spinner rims or a matte finish to the paint. Needless to say if you are driving a forest green Ford Focus you might want to focus your funds somewhere else than on 22” chrome rims.

I’m going to end this post on a very positive note because sometimes I feel like my blog makes it sound like I’m hating on LA all the time. I really am coming to enjoy this city. It’s so different from where I’ve lived before and I’m loving exploring a new place. Yesterday I experienced the nicest public library I’ve ever seen. It had a café with the best frozen yogurt in the city and it didn’t smell like homeless people and wet books like the Boulder Public Library does. New places are always so exciting!