Home Sweet Home

I think a lot of the people that work for and/or live in my apartment complex are constantly confused. Today I woke up to find my neighbor’s garbage disposal had backed up and spaghetti was floating around in one-inch high water in my sink. I didn’t have time to deal with this right away. As you all know, I’m a very important nanny and I had to get to work. I called the maintenance man of my apartment complex while we were at the park, he sounded flustered like I was a woman he was having an affair with and his wife was in the room. “Call the front office!” he blurted out. I imagined his eyes jotting back and forth, using his free had to cover his mouth and hide the receiver, “they will make a work order for me.” He is obviously doing repairs for another complex on the side.

When I got home from work, my apartment door was closed but unlocked. While my TV was still there, everything from under my sink has out and askew. Someone had broken in! After a few minor heart attacks, and logical thinking that because the only sign of a break in was under my sink and no one would steal Swiffer sweepers, I was safe. The maintenance man walked in behind me, apologized for scaring the bejesus outta me, and returned to fixing the garbage disposal. I asked what seemed to be the problem and he answered, “so much food in the pipes.” I KNEW it wasn't my fault. From day one I never trusted the garbage disposal, I’ve never put food down my sink. It was my neighbors! Plus it was fettuccine and I eat angel hair.

I stood at my door as the maintenance man passed by with a disgusted look on his face, so disappointed, so offended by the mess. He stopped and dumped a bucket of the old spaghetti found in my drain on the lawn/sidewalk right outside of my apartment. A path frequented by everyone in the complex. I was shocked. How was he so grossed out by my sink (a sight that lead him to use a face more commonly reserved for those picking up dead animals), but found the route of choice for many tenants to be a suitable place to dispose of it? Was he teaching me a lesson for something I didn't do? Was he mad I called his private line earlier?

As they finished their work, my neighbor walked by. He nodded to my open door and the maintenance man splashing food on the sidewalk and said, “they’re working on my sink, too.” Like it was a coincidence. “Weird!” I laughed out in response, dripping with half you’re a dumbass, half you ruined fettuccine for me undertones and walked to my car- I had to get away from this ass-backward situation that I call home.

Smarty Pants

Lately I have become concerned that being out of a classroom has left me quickly falling into the depths of dumbness. The lack of information being forced into my mind and the lack of requirement to make sense and/or spell things correctly in a paper or public classroom response have allowed me to lower my standards to an alarming level. I’m not going to lie; I was never a big reader in college. I was pretty good at getting the “gist” through classroom discussions and found if you read the first 2 chapters, the middle chapter and the last two chapters, you are pretty much up to speed in 1/4 of the time.

But I did always pride myself on my ability to articulate my point well in papers. As all of you have probably noticed, I have an uncanny way with words. But now I find myself misspelling the most common things. Today I almost spelled caps with a K. In my first draft of this post I spelled ‘swung’ as ‘swong’ and ‘original’ as ‘ariginal’. What makes this even more difficult is that I’m too proud to resort to spell check. I will re-type the mistake over and over in Word waiting for the red squiggly line underneath to disappear. You can imagine how much time is wasted adhering to my stubbornness. I tap at my brain and think to myself, you graduated from college, Anna, why does this word look so weird?
Oh, right, because I spelled traffic with two Rs.

I can’t even articulate my point well in spoken word anymore. I get easily flustered, forgetful and I believe I’m developing a stutter. The other day, the little boy I nanny ran in front of me as we crossed the street. He was safe but I still I yelled out a gentle reminder, “hey, stay on the… the… the lines… shit what is that word? The yellow lines…stay on those while you cross!” I swung my arms around like a conductor hoping the child had eyes in the back of his head and understood what the hand motions meant, because I sure didn’t. When I made it safely across, out of breath and completely mentally exhausted from searching for the correct word, it came to me. Oh, did I mean crosswalk? YES, I DID.

I have never been more consciously aware of my intelligence than I am now, when I’m no longer being graded on it. I have come to turn to the “story time” portion of my nanny job to get some new information. I first want to say everything is much easier to learn and remember when it is in rhyming form. So thank you, Dr. Seuss, I now know that all the planets of our solar system can fit in Jupiter! I also now know that it’s spelled Jupiter not Jupitor.

Inside The Mind of a Serial Writer

I’m reading “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott, a book of advice on writing. And it got me thinking about this two faced hell/heaven I call writing and trying to make a living out of it, the end goal being to write for a TV show. I have never done so much consistent writing in my life. Not only do I have to wrack my brain for hilarity to bring you in these blog posts (just kidding there is no “wracking” involved, this is all very natural and easy), but I am working on an original pilot, another spec script and several short story ideas I have. With this much nonstop writing going on, I’ve really come face to face with my personal writing process and the bipolar reactions that come with it.

I usually start writing with excitement and confidence. I have so many ideas, details, snippets of dialogue swirling in my mind that I want to include; how could this project not be solid gold? Shortly after that I realize that my thoughts are way too scattered to come together. The very thought of filling an adequate amount of pages and making the story smooth seems impossible, or just like a lot of work. Both of which discourage me. I immediately follow up this reaction by writing down these small details somewhere and then I continue writing, knowing I can add them in whenever and wherever later.
Then I start cruising again. Words flow swiftly yet peacefully like the most beautiful fucking river you could ever imagine. When I’ve reached a place that feels like a good stopping point, I re-read my work. And am so blown away by how terrible it is that I start looking up corporate jobs in Colorado to trick myself into thinking my inevitable move back is more by choice than it actually is. Then… right when I ask myself why anyone would ever want to read this, I keep writing. In the end, after multiple re-writes, I realize that I am slightly satisfied with the result.

Encouraging myself to push through these conflicting emotions and continue to write is tricky. It does not help that I don’t take compliments well (this does not mean you should stop giving them). Instead I find encouragement in the most bizarre forms. I can find motivation to get started writing again in a text message from a friend reminding me of a distant and hilariously amazing college memory. Or in a youtube clip of Tina Fey’s 30 Rock bloopers. Or in a small failure in someone else’s life. Writing is consistently agonizing and rewarding all at the same time. That’s exactly why writers have their vices. Stephen King drank Scope and I eat fro yo.

But even with the staggered stages of happiness in writing there is nothing better than finishing some good stuff that makes someone say, “Oh my God! This is the best thing I’ve ever read! This is worth THOUSANDS, let me get my checkbook!” This has never happened to me, but I can assume there is nothing better.

So there, there was an extra special glimpse into the inner workings of my mind that none of you asked for. But that is my weekly, daily, and hourly struggle while I write and “follow” (more like silently hate) my dreams!

Bad News on the Streets

I had epiphany last night that made me very sad. I was driving back from an improv show in Hollywood, was exhausted and really not looking forward to the 40 minute drive ahead of me. I cursed myself for staying out late when going to bed early had sounded like the ideal situation since about 5pm that night. I was stopped at a light and saw a homeless man to my right sleeping on the corner of the very busy intersection of Hollywood Blvd and Highland. There were still tons of people out and about, walking past him, shopping, drinking; living their lives. And then it hit me; one of the worst things (dare I say THE worst thing?) about being homeless is that you can never go to bed early. When all of society is your roommate no one is going to courteously tip top past you and press their index finger to their lips to warn fellow passersby that you’re sleeping, “shhh! He has a big day of panhandling tomorrow.”

Never wear a red shirt to Target.

I get severe buyers remorse. At any given point that I have money at my disposal, I feel capable of buying things. A feeling that quickly goes away as soon as I get home, sit on my couch and look at my the shopping bags full of mistakes. I usually return most of the things I bought the very next day.

It is interesting that I so quickly change my mind when I get home because a lot of planning goes into my shopping adventures. I need to think seriously about plan the area surrounding the mall or shop I will be patronizing and there are two things that must be available to me for a pleasant shopping experience.

The first is a place to replenish my shopping enthusiasm (this can come in the form of a Wetzel’s Pretzels or Mrs. Field’s, but it must, must have Coca-Cola products). I have on several occasions left businesses because they serve Pepsi products and in an activity that brings me to an internal mental debate I can’t risk the reaction of an unfavorable variable.

The second factor I must have before shopping is the availability of ample parking. I am not into circling my prey like a shark. I need to dive in before my buyers remorse sets in pre-purchase or even pre-browse. That, and I don’t know how to parallel park.

And because I am by no means a baller (in the sense that I don’t make a lot of money, however, I AM a baller in every other sense of the word), I have to do intense monetary weighing to ensure I will survive this shopping trip. I schedule what I will be eating day-by-day for the week before I will allow myself to spend any excess money. So screw you, cravings, Tuesday says “mac-n-cheese”. DEAL WITH IT.

The biggest problem is not that I waste my time, gas and energy justifying or criticizing my purchases. No, the biggest problem is that I’m bad at having buyers remorse. I usually go back to the store and after returning my items, take a lap around the store and find other things I want to buy. Yesterday I went to Target to return a $16.00 pair of sunglasses and left with $58.00 worth of bathroom accessories.

I have decided it’s my old athlete’s mindset taking control. I need the first trip to the store to warm myself up for the doozie of a purchase I will make upon my second trip. I could pull something if it wasn’t for these warm ups.