Fear and Laughing in Los Angeles

CONFRONTATION IS THE WORST! so I don't do it.

2012-02-12T13:09:00.000-08:00

I am seriously THE worst at confrontation. I can't believe that for a large chunk of my college career I had every intention of being a lawyer. Following any rebuttal I would switch sides immediately, possibly before the end of the rebuttal. It doesn't help that my definition of 'confrontation' is incredibly broad, “Any situation in which my opinion could affect another person's mood in a slightly unfavorable way.” If that sounds like it knocks out pretty much all human interactions, it's because it does.

It is especially bad with people I will have to continue to see regularly. I basically volunteered to get paid less in my most recent nannying job. When the mom posed the lingering question, “we paid our old nanny $____ (you didn't really think I would let you know how balling my paycheck is, did you?), but, I mean, obviously, you would want $____ (two dollars more)...” I basically cut her off, saying, “let's just meet in the middle!” A completely unnecessary backdown. It would have been like a boxer retreating to their corner when being shown the venue.

A big reason I jumped at the chance for a smaller paycheck was because her old nanny had gotten me the job and I didn't want her to somehow find out I was being paid more, because who KNOWS what kind of confrontation that would have led to. After I hung up the phone, I thought, well that didn't go well. That is not how anyone in the history of ever having a job would have wanted that to go. But maybe I came off as really agreeable, affordable and flexible? Meanwhile I'm sure after the mom hung up the phone, she thought, well, the good news is she accepted the job, the bad news is I think she's retarded.

I'm sure my parents will be pleased to read that I consider it a confrontation to not giving someone my phone number when they ask for it. While I would have no desire to see this person ever again, I would also have no desire to awkwardly think of a reason and possibly face the wrath of an upset stranger, someone who has just suffered from love at first sight. The result is some interesting additions to my phone contacts, including “Smilie Jack” and “DE'Playa.” The realist in me had to fight the anti confronter in me over asking if these were their birth names.

Despite being overly nice and agreeing to give these men my phone number, ice runs through my veins shortly after and I don't answer any phone calls or text messages, which I'm sure upsets, if not completely destroys, these men. The other day my roommate told me a girl he was interested in blatantly lied when he asked her out, I told him she handled that flawlessly because I just would have never answered. He preached that we should all just be honest with each other and when I saw how strongly he felt about this, I realized that when it comes to matters of the heart, my attempts to avoid confrontation end up affecting other people. Which, according my definition, would make my avoidance of confrontation a confrontation in itself. But what is the alternative? An actual confrontation? No, thanks!

But here is ONE thing I will confront people about and is my new project being live on kickstarter for donations RIGHT NOW! That means, as you read this, you could be throwing anywhere from 1 dollar to 1 million dollars to a pretty sweet project. Well, unless you are really behind in my posts, or reading through old ones to relive some happier times, and the kickstarter has already expired. But that wouldn't be the reality unless it was after MARCH 19, 2012. That's right, you have until MARCH 19, 2012 to donate to Educated on kickstarter and help make a really fun project happen! If you enjoy my awkward interactions in writing, you will love them acted out by hilarious and talented actors in a sitcom. So check out www.iameducated.com and throw a few dollars if you like what you see!

FUN FACT ABOUT THIS POST: I wrote the word “confrontation” or “confront” 10 times!

Cutting The Cord... For Now.

2012-01-26T11:10:00.000-08:00

After almost a year and a half in Los Angeles, I did what I should have done (by law) in June 2010. I registered my car in California. Anyone who has ever talked to me for longer than three minutes knows I have a (possibly unhealthy) obsession with Colorado, and getting rid of my Rocky Mountain plates was the last thing I ever wanted to do. But my fear of driving an unregistered car had hit an all-time high; I became paranoid. I thought every cop was out to get me. I passed a motorcycle cop driving the opposite direction, and while he showed no intention or movement towards pulling me over, I turned my music completely off, gripped the wheel at 10 and 2 and slammed on my brakes to an inconspicuous 5-under the speed limit.

I knew it was only a matter of time before I was pulled over, and knowing how I deal with unexpected situations, I'm would volunteer the information of my illegal stay without provocation. I had to give into the law for my own mental well-being. My confidence hitting the California roads has skyrocketed since legally registering in the state. Now when I pass cops I throw my hands in the air in a confrontational manner and yell, “what, bitch!” daring him to pull me over. Hopefully that mindset will pass.

It was really hard for me to take those good ol' Colorado plates off my car, figuratively and literally (I got my first ever blood blister from the pliers I was using-- A SIGN??) I thought about keeping them on my bookshelf in memoriam, surrounded by candles and Buffs paraphenalia, but my roommate noted how my room resembled a Chili's (one of his better burns) and I had to hide them behind a decorative box. The worst part about getting rid of my Colorado plates is that my CU Buffs sticker wilted away around the same time and now no one knows where my loyalty truly lies. To remedy this I'm currently looking into personalized liscence plate frames so that I can continue to proudly represent. Here is what I've come up with so far:

- I'd Rather Be In Colorado
- My Other Car Is... In Colorado Because That Place Is The Shit
- Colorado Is Smarter Than Your Honor Student
- How's My Driving? Call 1-800-I-Love-Colorado
- Honk If You're Horny... For Colorado (too much?)

I am open to more suggestions re: these frames. You can also contact me if you are interested in purchasing one of them, I'll get a deal if I buy in bulk.

It's About To Be.... A GIRL FIGHT!

2012-01-15T11:55:00.000-08:00

As you all know, by night I am a blogger and all around badass, but by day I am a nanny in Hermosa Beach. A place that, according to its website, is “the best little beach city.” It is great. It's calm, laid back, slightly backhandedly judgmental, but great. I feel like everyone I encounter is a former hard core college partier/sorority or fraternity member who, after making millions of dollars, decided living in Hermosa was a fair trade for giving up their partying ways to raise beautiful, shaggy haired children. PLUS there is a Farmer's Market every Friday that has really great hummus, so yeah, I'm down with Hermosa Beach.

My working day in Hermosa is pretty straight forward: I take the boy I nanny to the park and we have the time of our lives. Every day is the best day of our lives. While the park is pretty great all day long, four o'clock is my favorite time. At four o'clock, the older kids are out of school and all the moms find each other and cluster together to (I assume) discuss their latest yoga class, their newest yoga pants and their plan to start a yoga collective. This point in the day just reeks of class and ease. But this illusion was shattered a few weeks ago when a mom fight broke out. I've seen my fair share of girl fights (like, at least two), and nothing could have prepared me for the schizophrenic verbal assault that occurred between these two ladies.

The interesting thing about this altercation is that it was a dog fight that spurred a cat fight. Literally. But also figuratively. One woman's large, unleashed dog attacked the other's small, leashed dog without cause. Their dogs started it so they, AS LADIES DO, finished it.

I figured these competent Hermosa moms would exchange information (should the small pup have any injuries), passive aggressively forgive one another and return home to tell their husbands and/or Pilates buddies everything they wanted to say to the other's face. But these women were confused. Unsure of whether to stick to their educated, mild mannered, beach persona or seem sincere and ready to brawl without hesitation, these women bounced between catty, personal digs and thug-like threats for twenty minutes.

The fight started with the usual insults that fly out in the heat of the moment, “I'll fuck you up,” “you're an ugly bitch,” “you can't do the Lotus pose and I'm embarrassed for you,” but that quickly changed. As the argument escalated, these ladies knew they had to really hit hard with their insults. “I have a Masters...and... I'm... going to shove it up your ass....with your dog!” “I have a PhD.....BITCH.” Only in Hermosa Beach would women put each other down by flaunting their higher education, realize it wasn't living up the the expectations of the situation, and scramble for a something to build a gangster facade around.

I was too entertained to be upset with them for ruining the point in the day that usually lulls me into relaxation. And, yes, I should have been more upset for the three-year-old I nanny. But I think it was motivation to stay in school. He doesn't want to find himself in the same situation, and only able to prematurely end the fight with, “Well, I have a high school diploma.....DICK!”

BeSt fRiEnDs FoReVeR!

2011-12-12T10:36:00.000-08:00

A few days ago I was reunited with Mort. For those of you who need a refresher, Mort is the three-year-old boy I used to nanny who I lovingly named after a grandpa because of his large but dysfunctional vocabulary. (See entry “Out of the Motherhood” from September 6th, 2011 for more details on this amazing child.) I was so excited to see this little guy; I’ve been surprised by how much I miss him.

I had to stop nannying Mort because he started going to school, a place that I’ve recently realized harbors my greatest fear. Mort at school means he is constantly surrounded by teachers, teachers who could easily be confused for nanny-figures, and therefore nanny-figures who could easily replace me as Mort’s best friend in his mind. I didn’t know Mort forgetting about me was my biggest fear until I babysat him on Friday night and the time we’ve spent apart was all too obvious.

In an effort to remind Mort of all the fun we’d had, I acted like a 14-year-old girl desperately trying to win over the popular kid or a neglected son seeking his father’s love and attention. I was overeager (let’s play GAMES and have FUN!), I was overly flattering (cool new pajamas, Mort!), I was begging for his approval. I had to cram in enough fun in the hour and a half before bedtime to outshine the months of preschool fun he’d been having. I had no time to lose. As soon as the parents left, I decided to address the elephant in the room. I’m sure Mort was unaware of this elephant in the room; he was probably busy reflecting on the fun filled day he had at school with his cool teachers, but I had to know: did he miss me as much as I missed him?

“Do you miss me, Mort? Do you miss all the fun we used to have?” I was guilting him into reminiscing with me.
“No, I miss mommy and daddy” Not only did Mort not miss me in his daily life, he was also having so little fun with me that he already missed his parents who had been gone all of 5 minutes.
But I was not deterred, I was going to remind him how much fun I was whether he liked it or not! While playing with cutout monsters, Mort warmed up to me (I’d like to say I knew he would all along, but the truth is I was a jumble of nerves). When our monsters teamed up to successfully defeat an action figure, I found it to be the perfect time to bring up our friendship again.

“Nice job monsters! We’re a great team!” our monsters high-fived. “And best friends…” I added, gently insinuating that these monsters were a metaphor for us. Mort responded with a trailed off “Well…” and the very distinct let’s-not-get-ahead-of-ourselves-here tone was impossible to miss.

The lack of love I was getting from this kid was ridiculous. I found myself voluntarily doing things that he used to have to demand of me just so he would notice me. Hey, hey, Mort, do you see me hunching over, severely damaging my back so we can have this really life like train chase on this table that is a proper and comfortable height for a toddler but terribly low and awkward for a grown person? Do you see, Mort? DO YOU SEE??

I gave him some “look, I’m cool and fun” M&Ms, I let him stay up 30-minutes past his bedtime and I made sure the photo of us that I gave to the family before I left was front and center on their refrigerator. I really think I subtly reinforced my presence into his subconscious. Take THAT, teachers!

Cooking Up a Fire Storm

2011-11-30T10:38:00.000-08:00

Happy belated Thanksgiving to all my food/American history lovers out there! This year I set out to cook my own Thanksgiving feast with my roommate and brother. I was excited, I was motivated, I was… not at all prepared for the stress that comes with cooking a large meal. Not just a large meal, but a large meal with such high standards attached. I mean for god’s sake this is the meal when the Indians totally forgave the white man for being real jerks and broke bread with them. Peace was accomplished, bygones became bygones, I’m pretty sure this is where the high-five originated. That is A LOT to live up to.

The struggles started in the grocery store. As someone whose grocery shopping is limited to spaghetti, vegetables and almond butter, I was flustered. I felt like I had never been in a grocery store before. When did those things get so confusing? I had so many questions. Many of which I was too embarrassed to ask of a real person. What if my questions were common sense? What if anyone who spent more than 12 dollars at the grocery store at one time could answer them? Does everyone know if active yeast is the same as nutritional yeast? If Lilly’s pure pumpkin is the same as pumpkin puree? The difference between kosher salt and regular salt or where the piecrusts are?

After we left the grocery store my nerves settled and the ease of Thanksgivings past crept into my mind, surely this year would be the same! I envisioned us laughing casually, nibbling on the cheese and crackers we set out and gently waving an oven mitt over a steaming dish to cool it down. Of course all of these visions were in slow motion because isn’t that how we all make memories? These images clouded the reality that would soon hit me.

The afternoon started out so peaceful and smooth, but it was not long before the fast-paced, high-risk activity of making sure every dish received the proper cook time and attention began. I cannot even accurately put into words the transition that occurred in the kitchen. And probably more likely than not, I was the one who instigated this transition from calm and collected to THERE’S NO TIME!!!!!! Gravy was flying, measuring cups went missing, people were crying! (a lot of the recipes called for onions.) My brother and I had a quick, pointless snap at each other over why we didn’t buy a potato masher. Honestly, I was treating each situation/minor hiccup as if a bomb were going to go off if we did not have each dish piping hot and on the table at 6:30.

But… SPOILER ALERT! I panicked for no reason. Dinner was delicious. We laughed, we drank, we cheers-ed to multiple things for which to be thankful, my favorite being that the house didn’t catch on fire when we burned through a pot while boiling potatoes. Oh, did I not mention that? It’s okay it wasn’t a disaster. Unless you call mashed potatoes that smell like burned steel a disaster, then, yes it was a disaster. But it didn’t matter; we had successfully cooked Thanksgiving dinner on our own! Maybe next year we’ll try to cook a turkey. Or maybe we’ll just buy a rotisserie chicken. Because I KNOW where that is in the grocery store.

Here is our wonderful dinner:

Here is the pot we burned through to make that beautiful dinner:

Home for the HOlidays

2011-11-16T10:42:00.000-08:00

For some reason, during my last trip home to Colorado, I decided to get really into reminiscing. It might have been the crisp, nostalgic feeling of Colorado fall or the challenge I had made for myself to stop depending solely on the Internet and TV for entertainment (I’ve been feeling dumb lately) but I started looking through a bunch of old stuff in my childhood room. Okay, fine, the Internet was down. You can really learn a lot about yourself by looking through all your old stuff. And the things I learned were shocking.

Shock number one came from when I decided to check the small trap door under the ceiling vent in my room where I had routinely hid a treasure box. I was hoping to find extra cash, an ironic keepsake I once cherished, or at the very least, a funny note from my youth. But instead I found a (ONE) shoelace and the spare key to the very “treasure” box I was holding. Obviously I was disappointed. But that disappointment was quickly replaced by confusion.

What value did I place on shoelaces to warrant hiding them in the ceiling? Had something spectacular happened with this shoelace and it needed to be hidden in memoriam? It couldn’t have been making a game winning shot in a high school basketball game, because if that were the case I might as well have hidden all of my shoelaces (I was an all-star, okay?)

Why would I go through all the trouble of hiding something if I wasn’t even going to bother locking it? Did I really regard the ceiling vent as the end all be all of hiding spots? As if anybody determined enough to check this ceiling vent should be rewarded with an unlocked box. I mean they obviously put in the extra legwork. Either that or they are our electrician. What if banks took on this same mentality? A bank robber, after getting past security, would find all the cash divided into perfect to-go bags and a getaway car idling in the parking lot. Ya know, because they must have worked really hard to get there.

I guess I can only speculate as to what made this lone shoelace worthy of being hidden, but apparently not a lot has changed, because I put the shoelace and keys back in the box and returned it safely to the ceiling vent to relive this anticlimactic discovery in another 15 years.

After putting away my “treasures” I set my sights on my senior yearbook. And this is where I made my second shocking discovery: my family wanted my high school graduating class to remember me as a ho. There is a section in the Cherry Creek High School yearbook where parents of graduating seniors submit a baby picture and note for their child. In these notes parents usually gush about how proud they are and how excited they are to see where the future takes their shining star. My note was just like everyone else’s except for the extra special, “P.S. Oh I remember her…” signed at the bottom. While some families quoted scripture, my family quoted the famous Steve Carell line from “The 40-Year-Old Virgin” that ends with “…she was a ho. Fo sho.”

I know why the quote is there, it was my brother’s attempt to insert one of our favorite jokes and lighten the mood of what I can only assume was the most life altering transition in my parents’ lives (it is really difficult when your favorite child leaves home). I appreciate the connection my brother was making but the unfortunate reality is that our “inside joke” makes me look like a slut. I mean, “The 40-Year-Old Virgin” was huge when I was in high school; EVERYONE saw that movie. There was no way to utter the words, “I remember her” without someone following it up with “She was a ho!” It’s a hilarious scene in the movie, it’s a fun line to quote at parties, it’s NOT a great way to be immortalized in your high school yearbook.

The worst part, or best part, depending on your sense of humor, is that yearbooks are all about remembering. My note reads like my parents are predicting the future of what my fellow classmates will say out loud when my name is mentioned at reunions, etc. Or in an alternative scenario, a fellow classmate is also reminiscing while home for vacation and upon flipping through the ol' HS yearbook, stumbles upon my baby picture and note and thinks, “oh, wow. That girl must really have been a ho if her parents will so candidly put that in her yearbook. Who are they fooling? We all know the end of that quote.” Of course this person would be someone that clearly did not know me in high school (which is a high possibility; I had a graduating class of nearly 1,000) because I was anything but a ho in high school and that’s what’s FO SHO.

Child Stars All Over the Place!

2011-10-27T10:04:00.000-07:00

Because we are huge ballers and love collaborating, my brother, Eli, and I are entering the Dorito’s Crash the Super Bowl Contest. The Crash the Super Bowl Contest is a competition for the average Joe, giving he/she (in our case literally he/she) the chance to shoot a Dorito’s commercial, send it in to Dorito’s executives (I’m assuming there is a division of Dorito’s dedicated to this contest) If they think it’s good enough, his/hers commercial moves on to the public voting stage, if it wins the voting, it is shown during the Super Bowl. THEN if it is ranked high enough among all the Super Bowl commercials, including the pros, then you can win anywhere from 400,000 to 1 million dollars. Any participant can enter up to ten commercials*, we came up with ten pretty fantastic ideas but after some realistic budgeting of money and time we decided to just do two.

Both of these commercials star children, meaning we had to hold the most difficult auditions of all time. We had to audition toddlers, kids and teenagers. I knew that instructing kids would be difficult, but because I’m not the director and because I wanted some extra entertainment, I let Eli take the reigns for the first few rounds just to see how he would handle kids.

Eli talks to children like someone talks to the person holding them at gunpoint: with a very polite, yet terrified, high-pitched voice. His interactions were an odd mix of a business agreement and a psychologist trying to explain to a child why their parents’ divorce isn’t their fault. I can’t really blame him, auditions are awkward to begin with but are even more so when you are trying to establish a calm and fun yet slightly authoritative relationship with a toddler in just a few minutes. I still can’t really wrap my mind around the idea that kids that age even totally understand what acting is. How are they not weirded out or uninterested? Why would a three-year-old do or say something for no reason? Why would a three year-old push over a 6’5” guy who is wobbling towards them in a squatted position, pretending to be a child? The answer is they might not. Kids are stubborn. A three year old will poop his pants to prove a point. I know, I’ve witnessed it.

But like I’ve said a million times: all you need to survive a day with a toddler is a really high high-five. Actors over the age of five but under the age of 18 are a different story. The hardest part of auditioning non-toddler aged kids is finding the appropriate language to use. Especially when you have six-year-olds coming in right after sixteen-year-olds and vice versa. Can you say, “jerk” to a third grader or do you still use “meanie”? Can you tell a child to act “pissed off” or is that like telling an adult to act “fucking pissed off”? Words that are G-rated to Eli and I are obscene to children but G-rated words to us are like PG words to teenagers, super lame and not nearly edgy enough. I knew Eli was having a hard time with the language barrier when he used the word “crap” when talking to a teenager. I have not heard my brother use “crap” in probably ten years. But it was a great choice because “crap” is like the training wheels for swearing and therefore perfect for a fifteen-year-old.

Aside from the kids, I was publicly dreading, but privately hoping for, encounters with stage moms. I wanted the kind of moms that would jump in and audition themselves for the part, but there were none! We had a real mix of parents throughout the day. A lot were clearly supporting their child’s dream, not their own. These kids were outgoing, talkative and truly entertaining. I saw how some people are born to perform.

We saw one parent who could not have been more bored with his son’s amazing audition. He looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the world than chained to this, what I can only predict will be, child star. Well guess what, pops? That’s what you get for naming your son (no joke, only first name has been changed) “Brady Rock Starr.” The kid has two options: child star or porn star. Rock star is out because that’s just repetitive. And there is nothing the music industry hates more than repetition.

A few kids were really shy, wouldn’t talk and clearly didn’t want anything to do with us. This was when I had a hard time believing these kids were begging their parents for auditions. One woman came in with her father (roughly 70 years old) to audition her young son (two years old.) She told us her son was a natural, could repeat anything we wanted and was great with direction, but he would not come out from behind his mother’s legs.

We did what had come to be our “toddler ice breakers” but the boy refused to look at us. It wasn’t long before the mother started talking briskly to her son in Russian, trying to peel him off her leg and turning to her father for some extra help. The grandfather then joined in on directing the child in Russian. I cannot say for sure what happened in the next five minutes, mostly because Eli and I had lost control of the room and Russian was the only language used for the duration of the audition. Eli and I sat silently as the boy turned away each time the mother moved him to face us. At some point we all ended up squatting on the floor where the mom would occasionally push me down to show her son what he needed to do. And because I don’t speak Russian, these shoves came without warning.

After a few more hits from the mom, we decided it was time to shut it down. In order to cut off the audition we had to first establish the language change. Then we had to excuse them based on the fact that the boy only understands, but still doesn’t respond to, Russian. After the mother backhandedly blamed us for her son’s performance (or lack there of) they left.

Two days of long auditions, fake smiles and tons of high-fives later, we have our actors and they are all the cream of the crop. We shoot in a couple of weeks and I’ll keep everyone posted.

In other news, I got another nannying job. AW, YEAH! So when I said that chapter in my life was over. I was lying. But this chapter is much more interesting and financially supportive than the unemployment chapter. I have been in Colorado since Friday for CU’s Homecoming weekend and will be here through Halloween and my m’fin’ Bday y’all. I will hopefully/probably/most definitely have something to blog about in the next few weeks. Hold on tight!

*Do not quote me on any logistics of this contest because there is a decently sized chance I could have mixed up some regulations.

Long Time, No Post. MY BAD.

2011-10-11T07:24:00.000-07:00

It has recently been revealed to me that I have bigger feet than my male roommate. I wish I could say this is the first time this has happened, but that would make a liar. And I am many things; a riveting writer, a fantastic driver, friend to all, but I am NOT a liar. It is no surprise to me that I have big feet. It’s a reality I have been living with for years. And unlike most disproportional body parts that children grow into through the years, my feet have been large at every stage. My hands are also large, I can palm a basketball (if you don’t understand this then you should be even more impressed than if you do understand) God, if I was a guy I would have a biiiiiiig… selection of shoes because I have a normal sized foot for a male.

The worst thing about having big feet is the fact (okay, maybe not so much a fact but the belief I cant seem to shake) that it is weird and not at all cute to have the same sized feet as a boy. Especially a boy that you are interested in. I have had to rule out a lot of great date ideas because of my feet. Anything that involves me voluntarily revealing my shoe size is out. See ya, ice-skating, skiing, snowboarding, and his and her pedicures.

I will go to great lengths to keep my foot size a mystery. In college, my sorority had a roller skating date dash and I had to meticulously plan out a casual way to get away from my date and order both of our skates alone, a plan I was especially thankful for when it turned out we were the same size. While he never found out, unless he reads this blog, embarrassment in that situation was not totally avoided. I did have to tell the roller rink employee my shoe size. He reacted normally and emotionless but I can’t be sure that he did not burst into hysterics in the roller rink employee break room later. Trying to explain the freak-show-like shoe size that accompanied an otherwise very normal looking girl between heaves of laughter.

With careful planning I can make some foot-related activities work. But bowling is just out of the question. Having a foolproof way of getting my shoes alone means nothing when the size is telegraphed on the back of each shoe for the world to see. And of course bowling just haaassss to be the only sport where spectators watch from behind.

Someone needs to step up and represent women like me. I’m going to establish a community called WWBAF: Women With Big Ass Feet. And as the spokesperson, I will be a supporter and advocate for shoes that can be passed off as unisex (a special shout out to TOMS for making progress in this field) and stricter security systems at Nordstrom Rack to ensure that shoes are in the correct area. If I have to lunge at another cute wedge shoe only to find it’s 3 sizes too small, and in the wrong section, WWBAF (I) will start a riot.

Good thing I never actually revealed my shoe size in this post and left it to your imagination. Now you all probably think I have size 14. Or is it 12? OR IS IT BOTH? I can tell you accurately it is not both. But like many women in Hollywood who lie about their age, I will always, always lie about my shoe size. Except to the employees at roller rinks, because there is nothing worse than skating in discomfort.

I love (the idea) of football!!!!

2011-09-19T18:11:00.000-07:00

The time we have all been waiting for has come; college football season is finally here! This past weekend I went to the CU alumni watch party for the game against our in-state rival, Colorado State. Long, truly kick-ass story short, Colorado won. I was in my element at this watch party. Surrounded by my fellow Buffaloes. It was great to talk about how amazing our college experience was and say things out loud that I am POSITIVE my swagger says for itself.

I LOVE this time of year, though I’ve come to realize that my love for drinking beer and yelling can be mistaken for a love for the actual sport of football. Let’s get some things straight. I could care less about any team other than the Colorado Buffaloes. I could care less about Colorado’s history with other teams. I could care less about Colorado’s odds in the present game. As long as I am wearing black and gold, have a Coors Light within in reach and can be prompted by those around me to yell obscenities then I AM GOOD. I can see how I confuse others when at the mention of college football I ask, “How ‘bout them Buffs?” This is asked not to start a conversation about our offensive line or our defensive prowess, because if those are the topics then, honestly, I don’t know ‘bout them Buffs. No, I ask simply to assert my blind loyalty and begin phase one of my newest project: Tell everyone I ever meet how great Boulder is.

Out of the Motherhood

2011-09-06T11:14:00.000-07:00

Well it’s official. I’ve finished the “nannying” chapter of my life and am revisiting the “unemployment” chapter. And while I complained a lot about being a three-year-olds bitch, I’m going to miss that little guy. My time as a nanny was truly a give and take. With each positive came a negative. For example, there is nothing better than a hug from an overjoyed toddler, but there is nothing worse than a sneeze in the face from a sick toddler. In one simple move, a tickle of the toes, you can make a toddler laugh uncontrollably, but with a simple (and warranted) disciplining, you can make a toddler cry wildly. There are always delicious snackable treats around because the appetite of a toddler is ever present, but when they spot you eating your own snack you have to share because the nosiness of a toddler is also ever present.

Being a part-time mother has really changed how I think about a lot of everyday situations. I never realized how fire hydrants are so inconsiderately placed. Um, how am I expected to maneuver my stroller around this fire hydrant when there is a telephone pole on one side and a busy street on the other? Don’t be a jerk, city planner.

I never used to care but I now question whether I cut my food into small enough bites. Let’s be real here, guys; choking is a serious issue at any age.

I am aware of common objects/activities/toys posing a potential threat to a toddler. I surprised myself by how grown up and authoritative I sounded when I snatched a Frisbee out of the air and told the ten-year-old boys who were playing with it that they didn’t have good enough control of their throws to play so close to young children. I felt so accomplished, but it was a completely different sense of accomplishment than I had ever felt in my life. I felt the accomplishment of having just saved this child’s life. While at most I saved him from was a bruise and a good cry, the point is I SAVED HIM from that.

Throughout my time as a nanny I was exposed to some ridiculously annoying, grumpy, loud children. I was very lucky to nanny the boy I did. He was well behaved AND adorable. Because I wish to keep his identity anonymous, I will refer to the boy I nannied as “Mort” for the remainder of this post. The reason for the name Mort is two-fold. First of all, it was the first name that came to my mind. And secondly, it’s actually pretty fitting because he was very much like an old man stuck in a three-year-old’s body.

He had such well developed speech that I often had to remind myself that although he was using big words so casually he was still only three years old. His vocabulary tricked me into thinking he understood complicated concepts but when he would answer me in nonsense, I remembered he was just a child. It was very much like working with a senile old man. Mort would often repeat highlights of past conversations instead of addressing the issue at hand. Our conversations would go something like this:

Me: (after seeing him throw sand) Hey, we don’t throw sand. Do you remember why we don’t throw sand?
Mort: Because… because… We actually don’t throw sand because… I left all of my watermelons in the garbage truck.

Because he did not mumble like other toddlers, and spoke with such intent, it was hard to believe he didn’t actually think that was why we didn’t throw sand. Mort’s clear speech and large vocabulary produced hilarious quotes which brought me some of the most unexpected joy of my life. My top three Mort quotes are as follows:

3. (In reference to the sing-along songs we were listening to)
Mort: “Anna, who sings this?”
Me: “I don’t know, it’s just the same nursery rhymes we listen to every day.”
Mort: “I think it’s Lady Gaga.”

2. (Pretending a marker was a squirt gun)
Mort: “Anna, I’m going to squirt you with ice…and poop…and dog poop… and fire!”

1. (Wielding a magic marker as a magic wand)
Mort: “Anna, I’m a baaaaad guy. I’m, gonna turn you into a dress!”

Not only is it ridiculous that Mort knows who Lady Gaga is but he also followed up this comment by consistently humming the deep and rhythmic “mamamamaaa” from the beginning of Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” while I made lunch. Being told you are going to squirted with the two most extreme temperatures and two different kinds of feces is borderline torture and just about the most unexpected thing to come from a three-year-old. And, yes, you are a bad guy if you are about to turn me into an inanimate object.

Ah, memories.

I will forever reflect fondly on my time as a nanny, but I am also so happy it is over. It is time for another environment to absorb, be awkward in and, obviously, blog about.

Crime Watch

2011-08-28T11:41:00.000-07:00

I recently moved into a new house that I’m sharing with two other friends. One of my roommates went home to Oregon for a month and the other is set to make his move from New York to LA at the beginning of September. So I have been living solo for pretty much the whole month we’ve been renting. I like moving into new places because you can kind of start fresh; decorate differently and trick yourself into thinking that this will be your first grown up house. The place where you will host parties with appetizers and wine glass charms so there are no mix-ups. But then you carry your beer bong in and store it on the dining room table and you are taken harshly back to reality. The one thing I do not like about moving is having to learn all the quirks of your new place.

For instance, I’ve had to learn that the fan in the bathroom sounds like a terrorist attack, but is harmless. I’ve had to come to terms with that fact that my bedroom door only has a doorknob on the inside; making it clear to NOT go inside if the door is closed because there must be someone (not me) inside. I’ve had to grow accustomed to the squeaky front gate being the perfect entrance sound for a psycho killer, and reminding myself it’s probably just the landlord coming to turn on the sprinklers or his grandkids using the hose to fill up their water guns. And yes, all my concerns about the quirks sprout form a place of fear and that is because living I’ve been living alone for the past few weeks and THAT means I have had way too much time to think. I’m pretty confident that no one is going to break in, I live in a very safe and quiet neighborhood…And I check each door and window three times before I go to bed and use the deadbolt of my one-knobbed bedroom door each night. I’m safe.

The thing is that IF someone were to break in no one would know I was in danger because I don’t think I would scream. I think it’s unrealistic to think anyone can muster something more than a loud gasp when they are surprised by something/someone. I mean I know I can yell. But that is must more in the cheering sense. Like, I’m great at sporting events. I don’t think I would make a sound if I were in danger, most definitely not one of those bloodcurdling shrieks in movies. I’m sitting here at my computer and, for practice’s sake, can’t force myself to scream, and I’m not even paralyzed with fear right now. How could I possibly handle the real deal?

When I share this concern, which is actually much more of an observation than a concern, people tell me that in the heat of the moment, with an adrenaline rush I could and probably would scream. I beg to differ. The only screaming I’ve done off an adrenaline rush was telling an opposing player “I will fuck you up” in the middle of a basketball game. The problem being 1. It wasn’t really a scream; it was more of a low, winded, lie. And 2. I wasn’t in danger. Except of losing a playoff game. My senior year. When we really had a talented team. But WHATEVER IT’S IN THE PAST.

When I was much younger my dad told me that if there was an emergency and I needed help right away I should yell ‘fire.’ Yelling ‘fire’ gets the speediest results because a fire can affect a lot of people very quickly. I really wish that a barely audible ‘oh shit’ did the trick because then I wouldn’t be so concerned about my safety.

Don’t get me wrong I don’t actually think I will be attacked/robbed/or mugged, I have much more realistic things to worry about like running out of gas on the highway and flying. I do think, though, that I would be most okay-ish with being mugged. First of all, who mugs anymore? It’s useless. No one carries cash these days and you can cancel all your cards in a matter of 15 minutes, which might not even be necessary if you only have a debit card and the mugger doesn’t know your PIN. You really could argue that technology has affected muggings the most.

Mugger: (with gun) “Give me all your wallet!”
Muggee: “Okay, okay, here” (tosses wallet to mugger)
Mugger: (rifling through) “Dammit! No cash!”
Muggee: “My bank charges to take cash out so I never do.”
Mugger: (searching wallet) “Dammit! No credit card, only a debit card!”
Muggee: “I don’t want to develop bad credit.”
Mugger: “Fine! Give me your PIN number! Now! Give it to me!” (pointing gun at muggee’s head)
Muggee: (panicking) “Umm, okay okay. Let me think, it’s my birthday…”
Mugger: “Come on!”
Muggee: “I’m sorry I can really only think of my PIN with a keypad in front of me.”
Mugger: “Are you serious?!”
Muggee: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m a little flustered.”
Mugger: (pulling out iPhone) “Here, here use the keypad on my phone.”
Muggee: “I don’t know how to use these touch screens!”
Cops arrive.
Mugger: “Dammit!!”

Now, obviously this is the ideal situation. Honestly though, I think I would be okay with a mugging as long as they leave me my drivers license, ‘cuz, I mean, come on. No one likes going to the DMV. Don’t be a jerk.

Smell Ya Later

2011-08-23T09:08:00.000-07:00

This weekend as I was getting ready to go to dinner with some friends I decided to use some perfume that I hadn’t used in quite awhile. This smell no longer had the fresh and exciting effect on me that it once had. Instead I was immediately reminded that I used to put this perfume on in place of showering when on a time crunch OR truly overtaken by laziness. Out of habit, my nose relayed to my brain that I needed to shower when time allowed despite the fact that I just did. I washed off the perfume to stop the confusion, embarrassed that my laziness had trained my nose in such a way. I knew I would have to find a new perfume, one that I would use to highlight my cleanliness not to mask my lack there of. I was happy that my new scent was my choice, a choice I can honestly say I don’t think grandmothers have.

This week, after two encounters with grandmothers who smelled just like my own, I began to question a lot of things. Do all grandmothers use the same perfume? Is this the smell we all naturally take on as we age? And, why does it make me want meatloaf? In one week, smells had confused me into thinking I was dirty when I wasn’t, I was with my grandmother when I wasn’t and I was going to get meatloaf when I wasn’t.

I don’t understand how a lot of things work. Most of these things involve technology (I’m still trying to wrap my mind around electricity so don’t even get me STARTED on fax machines and cell phones) but our sense of smell really gets me. How can something trigger vivid memories but turn on you in a split second? I have never felt so betrayed by my own body than when I drank a glass of Sprite that tasted like the zoo smells. Like, come ON.

Aside from my sense of smell I have been focusing on a lot of other things lately. I am half way through the 4th level of Upright Citizens Brigade improv classes - BE IMPRESSED. But on another note, I am losing my nannying job in September because, damn it all, kids grow up and go to school and don’t need their nannies anymore. I will be taking some time to reflect on my time as a part-time mother and will hit you all with a very mothering and nurturing blog post. But what is more likely is a post about how I’m worried I will develop a vitamin deficiency without the plethora of fresh fruit available to me at their house. But I have great news for network executives! I am now free to hire.

What Happens in Vegas Goes on Blogspot

2011-08-04T10:57:00.000-07:00

This past weekend I took a little trip to Las Vegas for a friend’s birthday. Although I think we celebrated more so as if the Apocalypse were approaching. Which, I suppose it is. Sorry to get so real so early in this post.

I have a love/hate relationship with trips to Vegas because on one hand, they are amazing. And when the fatigue wears off, your brain can finally remind you of hilarious things that happened. It’s like a gift that keeps giving. But, then on the other hand, that fatigue never fully wears off until your next trip to Vegas. The recovery from a weekend trip to Vegas is almost double the length of your actual time in Vegas. This is not so much observation as a stone hard fact. Anyway, the point of this post is not to explain what the aftermath of every trip to Vegas is like but to tell you how I (tried to) handled mine.

You all might be aware that I do not travel well. Unless I’m traveling by car and only if I’m driving. I get antsy and frantic when I have to fly. Which is never actually visible on my face or in my actions. I look more like a non-chalant zombie than a person with a fear of flying. My anxiety extends past being on planes and includes being in airports. Which made it unfortunate that I had to spend almost 4x the length of my flight in the Las Vegas airport.

Because I wanted to spend my money on bloody marys in Vegas, I took the cheapest flight back to LA, conveniently scheduled for 10:20pm. Because my friends’ flight was at 8:40, I went to the airport with them at 6:30 and because I didn’t want to entertain myself alone for 4 hours I stayed with them at their gate, which was in a different terminal. It was pleasant sitting on the floor outside of their gate, eating a personal Pizza Hut pizza. It was an extra special treat considering we spent the excess time after our hotel check-out and before leaving for the airport searching for a place to sit. The sudden and out of place rainstorm took away our best option of sitting at the pool. So we flopped over a closed craps table under a covered patio and drank six cups of water.

Getting to their terminal was a breeze but when it was time to part ways, my Vegas fatigue had hit a sassy plateau and getting to my terminal was a stressful, sweaty nightmare. Looking back, the route from their Southwest gate to my Delta gate was up an escalator, around a corner and through a door. But at the time I asked five. FIVE. TSA guards where to go. That’s almost a TSA guard every ten feet. I should mention I had lost my voice and asking anyone for anything, let alone complicated (turns out not that complicated) directions, was a major struggle.

By the time I finally boarded the plane the trip was catching up to me. I didn’t have patience to watch the 13-year-old girls giggle and crane their necks to see Randy Jackson in first class. Randy Jackson, really? I didn’t have any patience for the woman swaggering down the aisle and stopping to ask the flight attendant at row 15 if row 25 was towards the back. No, bitch, plane aisles are in alphabetical order. OF COURSE IT’S TOWARDS THE BACK. And I most certainly did not have patience for the kid sitting next to me to immediately fall asleep slumped over, only to have each movement of the plane send his body over our dividing armrests and basically in my lap. But did I do anything about any of these things? No, of course not. I did what I always do. I sat in my seat and prayed the plane didn’t crash.

I’m going to Colorado tomorrow for a ten-day free for all in the clean mountain air. And by 'free for all' I mean I’m crossing my fingers for an extra few days to work on getting my voice back. I’m sure I’ll have something fantastic to share when I get back OR while I’m there? Who knows, who knows.

Talking Shop

2011-07-26T22:01:00.000-07:00

My brother told me that I was really risking a hefty fine by not registering my car in Los Angeles upon moving here. I did not do it and I continue to adamantly refuse to. I love my Colorado plates. I could say not registering makes it easier to spot my car, but the Buffs window decal and the fact that I am part of the 2% of Angelenos who do not wash their car frequently (ever) make my car stick out plenty. To be honest, I love my Colorado plates because I love Colorado. I flaunt them proudly and I have no desire to ever get rid of them. And, as I realized this weekend, I will go to ridiculous lengths to keep them.

Months rolled by and I didn’t register my car, my brother warned me that the fine would continue to increase the longer I waited. He also told me that after two parking tickets I would be forced to register. Three parking tickets later and my car still remains unregistered. But I still knew there was someone out there trying to take my Colorado plates away from me. What if I was pulled over for a traffic violation? I would have to explain to the cop where I was going without revealing that I have been sneakily living in Los Angeles with my Colorado plates for over a year.

I decided that I would always say I was going to ‘visit’ my brother. I mean, I’m sure I would be going to see him at some point that day or, at the very least, that week. And he does live in Venice while I live in Santa Monica, so I think the change in city makes it a legitimate ‘visiting’ distance. My ‘visiting’ story was locked down and parking tickets were clearly not an issue, but I was not at ease. And then, this weekend, my paranoia took a turn for the absurd during a routine interaction at the bank.

I was taken to a back desk to activate a new debit card. When the banker commented on my Colorado ID I thought nothing of it, and when he asked how long I had been in LA, I said a year. Shit. Now he knew that I have been living in LA with a Colorado driver’s license, and was no doubt driving a car with Colorado plates for a whole year. My mind raced, I should have said I was passing through, I should have said I had just moved, OR I could have been a normal person and realized this was a banker not a cop and he had no authority over my driving business. But it was too late; I was already panicked. The interaction continued with completely innocent questions from the banker followed by blatant lies from me.

Banker: What brings you out to LA?
Me: Oh, I go to school here.
Banker: Yeah? What school?
Me: Santa Monica College.
Banker: I went to Santa Monica College!
Me: Get out!
Banker: That is until I transferred to Cal State Northridge.
Me (as if considering Cal State Northridge for my next educational destination): What did you think of that?
Banker: It was great. It depends on what you’re major is. I went for business, but we have great psychology and communications departments. I don’t know what your major is.
Me: Neither do I! Still figuring it out.

The banker walked me out and we discussed how the recent renovations to Santa Monica College have really improved the appeal of the school. I have never set foot in Santa Monica College in my life.

When I reached my car and settled in I had a chance to reflect on the conversation and became upset with myself for several reasons:

HOW was I able to so fluidly bounce from lie to lie? Granted they weren’t good lies, this interaction was going to end before I could weave a tangled web and get caught in it. But, damn, I was shocked and impressed by how I directed those lies so effortlessly.

WHY didn’t I just recognize this banker as the non-threat that he is? He was making small talk, not investigating. And most importantly…

WHO was I? I didn’t even recognize myself. I jump at any and all opportunities to talk about CU Boulder and I opted to say I went to a two-year junior college? I couldn’t even flatter myself and say UCLA?

I’ve decided that from here on out I’m going to save myself the stress and trouble and just tell the truth when asked anything about my car. That is unless you’re a cop, in which case I’m visiting my brother.

On a separate note: I will try my best to write a post that actually tells you what is happening in my life not just daily interactions that I approach with nothing but alarming awkwardness. I'm going to Las Vegas this weekend for a friend's birthday party so I can pretty much guarantee something great and blog worthy will happen.

PS: I will shamelessly plug my twitter account again! follow me! senny24

Silent Laughing Leads to Loudly Lying

2011-07-13T21:13:00.000-07:00

I have realized lately that I dislike when people look to me for approval. I mean sure it’s flattering, but it really puts me on the spot. I should probably clarify what I mean by “approval.” It’s not like hundreds of people are lined up, presenting something to me in hopes that it receives my blessing. I’m mostly talking about a few encounters I’ve had recently in which others look at me to see if I am laughing as hard as they are at something we are watching. I’m a silent laugher and I’m kind of self conscious about it. I worry it does not give the proper positive reinforcement that my entertainer deserves.

This paranoia is only made worse when people look over at me to see how hard I’m laughing. Do they think I’m not showing my gratitude? I end up making myself laugh aloud, which sounds clearly forced. Then I just feel fake and like I’ve cheated my entertainer. But why, if my spectator is really enjoying this funny stuff so much, does he/she keep looking at me? Just look ahead and let’s regroup when it’s over. I’m not going to make a sound, no tears will be run down my face, I won’t slap my knee. What are they expecting?

I’m sure it’s not actually an approval thing. I don’t think people are looking to me for permission to laugh, it’s probably a camaraderie thing. Like, hey, we’re in this together. It’s just weird when the woman sitting next to you in the movie theater looks up at you expectantly at each funny part. It’s especially weird because she brought in what smells like day old McDonald’s french fries. If you are going to insist that we share a bonding laugh, then at least have the common courtesy to share your fries.

Learn To Road Rage!

2011-07-05T14:06:00.000-07:00

I have been fairly frank about how I feel about the drivers in LA, but in case I’ve been too subtle, let me make myself clear; they’re terrible. I can count on one hand how many drivers I’ve seen make a right hand turn from the left lane LAST NIGHT. It is strange, though; since I’ve lived here I’ve seen very few car accidents. Please, please do not use that information as a basis for an argument that that means California drivers are good. It actually makes their dangerous and sporadic maneuvers more disturbing because that means all other drivers are adapting to their environment, this awful, free-for-all driving environment.

Where have all the courteous drivers gone? Are they crossing over, never to return again? Like when a vampire bites a human and changes them into a vampire forever; there is no turning back when you cross over into the California drivers category. But I’m going to fight that change! I will never become a California driver. I even have proof. I have been living in LA for over a year and have driving here for what seems like, and most likely equates to, longer than a year and just a few days ago was happily reminded that I still got it! (‘it’ being proper driving etiquette.)

I was driving in the left lane, like a normal person, when a woman trying to turn onto the street from a sidestreet on my right, honked. I looked around, confused. I was in the left lane, the right lane (the lane one is supposed to turn onto from a side street) was wide open so I wasn’t blocking her from making her turn, it wasn’t an intersection so I didn’t blown through a stop sign or stop light, I wasn’t speeding, and I wasn’t talking on the phone. I ran through all the possible scenarios that would warrant a honk, and confirmed that wasn’t doing anything wrong so surely that honk wasn’t for me.

But as I was easing to a stop at the upcoming stop light, the woman who honked rolled past me, yelled “fucking white lady” at me through our open windows and then cut me off. I was shocked. Only in California would someone not even know how to properly verbally assault someone on the road.

I cannot and will not claim to be a road rage expert, but aren’t you usually supposed to insult the driver you have beef with? Yell something that is sure to get under their skin, really put them down and shame them into making better driving choices? Was I supposed to be offended by being called a “fucking white lady?” It would have made sense if she yelled “dumbass” or “bitch” because no one wants to be called something they're not, especially in a derogatory tone. When did road rage insults turn into declaring observations? If road rage is now based on obvious physical characteristics I would have yelled back, “fucking highlighted hair!” But I didn’t because I made no driving mistake to defend!

If driving like a “fucking white lady” means driving well and within the law, then yes, I AM a fucking white lady! Well, and I’m a fucking white lady regardless.

A Cartoon Picture Haunts Me Daily

2011-06-27T21:05:00.000-07:00

It was my brother’s birthday this weekend, he has reached the ripe old age of 26. A number that seems so much older and more mature than the age my brother seems to me. To me he is just my brother, an ageless friend with whom I have a fiercely competitive (we keep a tally score of our games of ‘Speed’. And, yes, we still play ‘Speed’) yet completely supportive relationship (I have written him stories to turn into shorts and he has called production offices to find me a job when I was too scared.) If he’s 26 then that means I’m 23, which can’t be right because I feel like I act exactly as I did when I was 17.

Lately I’ve noticed that I’m having an age identity crisis and I can trace the origin of this crisis back to the 2nd grade when I was reading a book about life… or something. This book had a series of pictures of what you look like and the things you do and achieve at different stages in your life (okay, it was a picture book.) I vividly remember the hand drawn picture of a 20-something year old woman. Her hair rested nicely styled on her shoulders, indicating that the ponytail and pigtails seen in the previous pictures of “teenager” and “child” were long gone. She had a purse that looked like a small briefcase, hanging on one shoulder. She was dressed in a green shirt and long red Bermuda shorts, and the slight heel on her shoes found a classy middle ground between childhood flats and business pumps. Clearly, THIS WAS MATURITY. I regarded this picture fondly and found it not only aspirational but also non-negotiable. This IS what I was going to be like at 20-something. But now being 20-something, I can honestly say there are obvious differences between this “model 20-something year old” and myself.

First of all, I love wearing my hair in a ponytail, especially since I don’t love washing my hair. I bought my first “round brush” a few days ago, a purchase to help me transition into the first stage of womanhood: styled hair. Which reminds me that I need to youtube “how to blow dry hair with round brush” later.

Secondly, I often don’t want to use a purse, and instead choose to juggle my belongings in my hands. This is not helpful when I need my hands to do common chores like pick up things up or open doors. I have to shove my wallet and/or phone into my back pockets or, if wearing gym shorts, slide them in my waistband. Gym shorts. NOT Bermuda shorts, mind you. Very immature.

The difference in shoe preference between the “model 20-something” and myself is not totally by choice. I was cursed with large feet, which leaves me looking for gender neutral shoes. So slight heels are obviously out.

The point I’m trying to make here is that I had an idea, greatly influenced by this picture, of what I would be like at 23. And I am not like that. Sometimes I wonder when I’m going to start identifying with what my elementary school-aged self thought a 20-something year old would be like…

I wonder when I’m going to stop refusing to go out at night without a pregame. I wonder when I’m going to know what information to give if I ever got into a fender bender. A cell phone number seems like too little, and a social security number too much. I wonder when I’m going to accept the fact that people I went to high school with are getting married and having children (probably never. Or when I’m 35.)

But I mostly just want to know when I am going to stop referring to money in Chipotle burritos. I’ll think to myself, do I want to spend 13 dollars on a movie I don’t REALLY want to see? Why, that’s two Chipotle burritos! WITH guacamole. I can only imagine in 20 years explaining that I spent 500 Chipotle burritos on my daughter’s wedding dress. I mean seriously, though… How does money work??

But this is not to say I am jealous of the “model 20-something year old” or that I’ve fallen short. I mean, let’s be real here, I’m much better than that cartoon drawing, stuck on that page and in that book for all eternity. For starters, I’m 3-dimensional.

Stars, they're just like ME. right??

2011-06-13T18:48:00.000-07:00

Living in LA I see a lot of celebrities. Not only are they just everywhere, but I have an uncanny ability to identify celebrities from obscure guest spots or hit movies from the mid-90s. Yes that is the troubled teen from “Disturbing Behavior” at the Grove. And yes, that man with dread locks sitting across from me at the coffee shop did have one line in one episode of How I Met Your Mother… three seasons ago.

I see celebrities in so many different places and they come without warning. Like many of you (I’m sure) I assumed an army of paparazzi follows every celebrity around, snapping photos and giving us commoners a heads up to their arrival. But, no. Because there is usually no warning and I see celebrities in some of the most common, public places around, it reminds me that stars really are just like us. Like Ryan Kwanten at Starbucks, enjoying a coffee or Uma Thurman at the Apple Store, dropping an iPad.

I see celebrities in odd couplings, and I have always wondered if a celebrity sees another celebrity walking down the street, but they have never spoken, do they nod hello? Shake hands? Does their shared celebrity, the fact that they (and the rest of the world) recognize each other give them the ability to say hello without cause? I saw Jennifer Love Hewitt and Tyra Banks grab froyo together. I saw Kate Walsh and Angela Kinsey take in an improv show together. Have these women always been friends or did they just arrive at the same place at the same time, instantly bond over their shared fame and decide to enjoy the activity together? I’m not a celebrity and I would never just sit down and have a frozen yogurt with another non-celebrity just because we are in the same shop, but there’s something different about celebrities… I think they could pull it off.

I even see celebrities exactly where one would expect. Ie a disheveled David Hasselhoff atop an electrical box, barefoot, talking on the phone in the middle of Santa Monica.

Everyone has a different reaction to seeing a celebrity. Some ask for autographs, some snap pictures on their cell phones, some point so that no one around them will miss the sighting. I don’t do any of these things. Instead I make direct eye contact with them. For some reason I think this eye contact calms them into knowing I respect their job and we quickly bond over our mutual agreement that fame is just a ridiculous result of an honest days work.

The eye contact says, “we’re cool, buddy,” or “you’re safe here, I understand.” The eye contact has several flaws. 1. I’m sure it is not calming. 2. I am sure no celebrity needs me to telepathically tell them “we’re cool” and 3. I used to think the eye contact I made was by chance. But the more I think about it the more I think I just stare until we inevitably meet eyes. After all, there are only so many things a set of eyes can focus on in a certain amount of time.

Think About It. For Far Too Long.

2011-06-05T20:50:00.000-07:00

I have this problem where I over think hypothetical situations to a detailed and ridiculous extent. I spend so much time playing out a second ending to a given situation that by the time I have mentally worked out the perfect solution, the possibility of the encounter has already passed.

For example, a few days ago, as I was leaving my nannying job I jogged lightly down the concrete porch steps to my car. My foot slipped a little bit but I caught my balance before I fell down completely. Instead of accepting my survival, I played out what would have happened had I not caught myself and, instead, had fallen down the flight of stairs and broken my ankle.

I imagined myself stranded on the driveway unable to walk; what would I do? I don’t have the dad’s cell phone number so I couldn’t call him to help me. I decided I would have to call the mom at work and calmly ask her between choked breaths to please tell her husband to open the front door. But what if the mom didn’t answer? While I debated between dragging myself to the garbage cans alongside the house and hitting them against the wall to attract the attention of the dad inside, I decided that was much too noisy and would wake the sleeping infant I had just put down for a nap. Of course the dad would be mad at me for waking the boy and he would prioritize getting his son back to sleep over getting me to a hospital.

No, that wouldn’t work. I would have to call my brother. But he lives far away so what would I do to pass the time while I waited, unable to move, on the front stoop of my employer’s house? I decided I was lucky that I have internet on my phone and would be able to surf the web, potentially google “broken ankle” while I waited for him. Then, because my alternative endings love to complicate things, the dad would come outside and see me sprawled on the driveway, my mangled ankle drooping to my side as I wait for my ride. And, of course, because I don’t want my pain and clumsiness to be the focus of the conversation I would casually explain myself, “I was going to call and ask you to save me from this agony but I didn’t have your number, so my brother is on the way. Yeah, he doesn’t have a car so he’s taking the bus from Venice. So, yeah, he’ll be here in about 4 hours.”

My desire to not talk about my problems first and foremost is actually the most realistic aspect of this hypothetical situation I’ve created. I always make small talk before announcing my true intentions, news or dilemma. If I call my mom mid-mental breakdown, despite being on the verge of tears, we always have the same opening: “hi, Anna” “Hi, mom” “How are you?” “I’m fine, how are you?” “I’m good, what’s up?” “I’m having a mental breakdown!!!!” Sure the outburst came out of nowhere, but at least I eased her into the reality of the call.

And before I know it I park my car and I'm at my apartment complex, I have just spend 45 minutes reaching a suitable conclusion for a near death experience I did not have. Phew, that was a close one.

Now, along the lines of weird hypothetical situations being played out in my mind. It’s not that I never thought this day would come, but I never thought this day would come so quickly…. I have lived in LA for ONE FULL YEAR. A lot has happened in a year, a lot of really, really boring stuff and some fun, interesting stuff. If you would like to know more about my accomplishments you can google me, or search me on IMDB. Or for much more accurate results you can read my past blog posts.

Dance It Out.... Just Not With Me

2011-05-20T14:34:00.001-07:00

Wednesday night I unsuccessfully tried to attend an electronica concert with my brother and a friend. We stood in line for over an hour and moved about 15 feet in the line that looped around the block. We bagged it and opted for a reggae concert at a small venue. I use the term "concert" loosely. There were three people on stage at all times, but no one was singing. There was just the occasional “yeah”, “well”, and “come on” babbled into the microphone in between long stretches of swaying. We lasted twenty minutes. The night ended where none of us would have expected, but I considered it to be a success for I did not have to fend off any random, unknown male dance partners.

I usually have to prepare myself for nights like this one because I hate going out, ready to get my dance on, only to find myself bombarded by males jumping behind me and trying to join. Let me make something clear: I like to dance solo. I like the freedom of being able to circle up my friends, pretend there is a spotlight on us and show off our unique moves. I like to be able to stop dancing and rap/sing (usually rap) along, this usually comes hand in hand with a stationary lower body and swinging arms. And sometimes my hips want to linger on a looming beat without warning. Why should I sacrifice these activities because my self-declared new dance companion has a different plan?

I don’t like having to telepathically communicate a synchronized dance without knowing anything about this other person. What is their background? Are they a serious or funny dancer? How would they react to me switching from dipping on the 2 beat to dipping on the 3 beat? A random dance partner is too smothering, too stressful. I end up resenting the person for not allowing me to be the dancer I truly want to be.

Why do guys even think sneaking up behind a girl and dancing with them in a dark, loud bar is acceptable? I mean, I get it; these guys want to get your attention, maybe offer to buy you a drink when the song subsides. But what about having dance involved makes that sudden presence of a man behind you NOT creepy? If a stranger danced against you at the laundry mat you would call the cops. If a random man held you by the waist and guided your hips side to side while you waited for your Starbucks you would slap him in the face. And if an unfamiliar man tried to sway with you at the gym you would be grossly offended.

I personally do not find the sudden approach any less disturbing and weird when music is playing. Want to get my attention? Easy. If at a club I would like to see some funny solo dance, one that will allow me to admire your courage and creativity. If at a laundry mat, Starbucks or gym it’s even easier. Offer to pay for my laundry, pay for my coffee or pay for my gym membership. See? EASY.

My Love Letter to CU

2011-05-13T13:47:00.000-07:00

It has been one year since I graduated from the finest undergraduate institution in America: The University of Colorado—GO BUFFS!!! It is near impossible and very frightening to believe that I have been a college graduate for an entire year. I like to think that everything froze in Boulder, CO when I finished my degree and moved away to find a job where a college degree is not necessary. Which made it difficult to believe that anyone younger than me at school had work, or tests, or parties, or FUN in my absence. But alas, it’s not true. Another class has graduated and left the place that has been called such things as “ The Happiest Place in America” (CBS), “The closest a college town is to Heaven” (Sports Illustrated) and “The shit” (Me).

The realization that this year has passed so quickly terrifies me for two reasons. My first fear is that each year of my life will pass by just as quickly and as ruthlessly as 2010 did. Before I will know it I will be asking my fellow retirement home residents to hit this “Take It, Bitch” beer bong, made my Junior year of college:

My second fear is that with each passing year hundreds of college graduates begin their job search, thus making it more dfficult for me to find a full time job. I know what these Colorado graduates bring to the table: every desirable quality.

A likeable attitude? Check. After four years surrounded by clean air at the base of the Flatirons, a CU graduate can’t help but be enjoyable to be around.
Dedication? Check. We Buffs have suffered through several horrible football years, but still support our team and fill the stands. And we aren’t even allowed to drink in the stadium.
Confidence? Check. Every CU graduate knows they went to the best school ever and will not allow anyone to tell them differently.

Combine these qualities and you have the perfect employee. Or politician. Or boxer. So to all my Colorado graduates I say, congratulations!... And don’t even think about writing for a sitcom. Unless of course you get a job writing for a sitcom before I do and to that I say, help a fellow Buff out!!

What's Your Sign?

2011-04-30T13:40:00.000-07:00

I do not believe in signs. I don’t often over think any situation or occurrence, I don’t sit around and wonder what “out of the norm” interaction means for me in the long run, I caulk them up to being just one of the million weird things that I come across daily. That is, of course, unless I’m flying. As many of you know I have a fear of flying (if you didn’t know this I would like to direct you to blog post titled, “I’m Baaaaack” from August 20, 2010.) I am happy to report that I’ve seen an improvement and am no longer afraid of landing… taking off and being in the air are different stories.

So when I fly, everything means something. And that something is usually that God is telling me the plane is going down. On Thursday, I flew back to Los Angeles from a trip to Denver and was hit with so many “signs” I’m surprised I didn’t have a panic attack. First of all, I was greeted with a last minute gate change, which most normal people would find to be a slight inconvenience but to me it’s a warning: Do not board this plane.

As I made my way to my window seat, I was asked by a man to switch seats with his brother at the front of the plane so they could all sit together. Being the people pleaser I am, I obliged. But now I was in an aisle seat. How was I supposed to monitor that the distance between the plane and the ground did not suspiciously decrease? I could only think of that scene in Final Destination when Devon Sawa realizes he had mis-planned the course of deaths because he forgot that he switched seats with a peer pre-flight (sorry for the spoilers). What if I was perfectly safe in a window seat at row 16, but an aisle seat at row 6 was doomed?

Finally after I forced myself to file pop culture references away as “NOT signs of my death by plane crash” I sat down to prepare for takeoff. I picked up my phone to shut off and saw I had a new email; I had a new follower on Twitter! “aaliyah.” Aaliyah, the name of a popular American R&B star and actress who died in a plane crash, was now following me on Twitter. It wasn’t even capitalized; she must have rushed back from the dead, in too much of a hurry to bother with proper punctuation to warn me about this plane.

I took a few seconds, mentally slapped some sense into myself and now here I am. I am now confident that thinking is what forces the fear of flying into me. If only lobotomies were temporary….

Friendfest

2011-04-21T16:38:00.001-07:00

A few weekends ago some college friends and I went to the LA Beerfest. We were happy, enthusiastic, and focused; but none of this was directed towards the beer. My friends and I are still yearning for a steady friend circle in LA, and we saw Beerfest as an opportunity to find these like-minded individuals. We set ourselves a goal: two phone number exchanges. TOTAL, not individually, that would have been a ridiculously unobtainable goal.

It never crossed our minds that a large gathering created with the sole intention of trying as much alcohol as possible would not be the best place to make lasting friendships. Thank goodness we went to a beerfest, I can only imagine a vodka fest being a very angry and aggressive festival. But the patrons of LA Beefest were jolly and fun and LIKED BEER. We assumed that was enough to start some solid friendship groundwork, but I soon found that it was hard to find a common ground beyond the beer.

I can tell you that you aren’t going to become friends with the person at the Snoop Dogg caffeinated beer stand because you both posed with the life size cut out of the beloved rapper and you both sang “Next Episode” as you did so.

I can tell you that you aren’t going to become friends with the perv who will only allow you to have a pretzel from his pretzel necklace if you bite it off his chest. I’d rather continue my day with this taste of dried beer bubbles in the back of my throat, thank you!

And I can tell you that you surely aren’t going to become best friends with a person you recognize from your gym and have had just enough to drink that you don’t think it’s creepy to tell them.

My fellow CU grads and I knew that we needed better talking points to make this beerfest our friendfest, we needed just one more common thread with these strangers to know our friendship could be the real deal. So we gathered in the middle of the festival and did what any other former Buff would do. We sang the CU fight song. This was not the first time I’ve busted out the CU fight song at a non-CU sporting event. It wasn’t long ago that I sang the CU fight song solo after the applause subsided following the introduction of a cake at my friend’s college graduation BBQ. I was just lucky enough to have some others to harmonize with this time around.

It did not take long for our fellow buffaloes to roam towards us, and join in and with that spirited decision we got our two number exchanges! While I would call Beerfest a success, I can see this whole ‘making friends at a beerfest’ thing being problematic. It gives way to waking up the next morning with new contacts in your phone under names like “Charlie Chocolate Ale” and “Amanda Brie Cheese” to signify which beer tent and food truck you met your new friend. Then upon thinking deeper into your conversation and realizing that you bonded over your joint decision that the beer should join forces with Hershey’s for a marketing campaign and the importance of trying different cheeses on sandwiches, you have to face the harsh reality that making friends is not easy sober or drunk.

Long Day At Work

2011-04-16T10:06:00.001-07:00

All I have to say about my day at work yesterday is that I think a child is old enough to be potty trained if they are big enough/skilled enough to makeshift a ladder out of an upside down hamper, climb onto their changing table and throw an entire bottle of freshly opened baby powder around their room, ripping open diaper cream and rubbing it on their floor, mirrors and stomach in the process.

Just sayin’.

An Eye for an Eye

2011-04-06T17:15:00.001-07:00

As a nanny, I’m a step down from being a parent in several aspects but the main one is that there's a lot less pressure. I love the comfort of knowing that the kid isn't going to grow up and resent me. No one at 25 blames their childhood nanny for the reason they're so messed up. I like (okay, love) being able to go home and do my own thang. This is more commonly known as nothing. But don’t be fooled, I still make sacrifices!

I have to make sure the child is fed and happy before I can feed myself and be happy. I have to make sure I don’t casually swear at the drop of a hat. I have to use the word "potty" in public. The life of a nanny is not as glamorous as it may seem. Sometimes when I feel like I’m getting too close to being a parent, like I’m making too many sacrifices, I need to treat myself. Just to remind myself I can. Last week we went to the farmer’s market near his house. This farmer’s market is close enough that a dizzy blind man could get there in less than 30 minutes. It took us an hour and a half. So, naturally, when I saw cookies for sale at one of the tents, I bought one to take the edge off.

This was going to be the perfect treat to eat after we got home and he was napping. Unfortunately, he caught onto my plan. Not only did he see the cookie, but he insisted that I buy the one shaped like a bunny covered in pink molasses. Whatever I thought, I’ll get the stupid bunny cookie; he’s only going to get a bite anyway. When we got the stroller I told him I would give him some of the cookie, but that this was “Anna’s Special Treat” so he only got a little bit. Of course he was greedy and wanted it all, crying ensued so, to prove a point, I didn’t give him any.

That’s not true. I did end up giving him a piece when we were half way home. Then, in an effort to avoid another meltdown but also satisfy my own desire to eat the cookie while he ate lunch, I surrounded the cookie in a barrier of cleaning products that were left on the counter for the cleaning people. Not only could he not see it but the warnings his parents spout out regularly of cleaning products would leave him too scared to venture over to see what I was reaching for intermittently.

I TOLD YOU I make sacrifices. I put my own health in danger by storing my food within a chemical fortress in order to avoid sharing. #therealsupernanny. <-- this reminds me! Follow me on twitter at senny24 because I misuse and overuse hashtags all day long!

Enjoying The Outdoors

2011-03-29T16:51:00.000-07:00

The southern California weather is a real tricky bastard. The sun shines almost daily making the outdoors look appealing but then you step outside and BAM! The ocean breeze hits and you find yourself wishing you brought a sweater, jacket or down comforter to wrap around yourself. I always want to sit outside and soak up the sun, but the freak and abrupt temperature change, as well as my desire to sit in a comfortable, (preferably overstuffed) chair hold me back. Luckily for me, I have found the perfect solution: sit in my car with the windows rolled down. It gives me the illusion of being outside but provides the comfort and shelter I need but also adds the perk of listening to my own music. Not only that, but there are several activities I only feel safe doing in my car.

Such activities include dancing and talking on the phone. Dancing in my car has been the topic of past posts and will probably be the topic of future posts because I legitimately love my car dancing. I’m not sure why I feel most comfortable talking on the phone in my car, but I do. I like knowing there is no one there who can hear me. It’s not like a paranoia thing, where I think someone has bugged my house, but I do think it has something to do with being surrounded by windows. I can see if anyone is approaching, allowing me the time to change the subject or lower my voice. I do this pretty much everywhere; at restaurants I always stall my conversation when the waiter comes to my table. I think it helps maintain my anonymity. And I'll be damned if my waiter knows my plans for the rest of the day! I suppose if I lived in a glass house I would enjoy talking on the phone in my apartment. But then again, I would never be able to throw rocks and I love that. At any rate, this is NOT the topic of this post. This post is about what many of my posts are about: the freaks that live in my apartment complex.

Yesterday, I was sitting in my car, enjoying the sunshine, when I noticed a guy was walking back and forth, from one side of the parking lot to the other as if he was taking a casual stroll. It appeared that he was doing this for exercise, which is just weird because we have a gym and live a block from a park, but his attire told a different story. He had on dressy boots, jeans, a polo, a scarf and aviators; not exactly what someone would wear to work up a sweat. After his walk surpassed 20 minutes I decided was most definitely exercising. And then, since I have seen and interacted with the people that live in my complex, I assumed he was confused and thought a parking lot was a great place to walk and clear your head. And maybe it is! He is not the first person I’ve seen do this.

There is an elderly woman I've seen walking for exercise in the lot. But she is always wearing slippers I often see her sitting in a planter at the front of the apartment complex at 7:30am, drinking a Pepsi Max, so I had chalked her walking up to her being a little off. I know what you’re thinking; I should stop being such a "work out habit snob." But it’s MORE THAN THAT. Why would you walk around a seagull and trash infested concrete parking lot like you’re in prison, when you can see a green-grassed oasis on the other side of the wrought iron gate? I know there are much more pleasant places to walk. Places where you aren’t in danger of being hit by a parking car or long boarder. But who am I to judge? I’m sure the guy walking was thinking to himself, “Why is that girl looking at me? Doesn’t she know there are patios for sitting outside, or clubs for dancing or EVERYWHERE ELSE to talk on the phone?”

I'm still going to proudly believe I am the only normal person in this apartment complex. Possibly Souther California as a whole.....

Dude, Where's My Longboard?

2011-03-21T19:19:00.000-07:00

It’s interesting living in Los Angeles and being able to recognize the different “feel” of each area. Within one city I can feel rushed (Hollywood), like I belong on a reality TV show (Beverly Hills), and as though I will be lied to before even having a conversation with someone (Everywhere). But I feel the most calm and comfortable in the beach cities. Not as comfortable as some of my peers, however. I live in Santa Monica and work in Hermosa Beach so I encounter a lot of beach-y, laid back, surfer “brahs” a lot. And since the weather has heated up recently, I have noticed people going about their daily lives sans shoes. Don’t get me wrong; I love the feel of sand between my toes as much as the next person, but what I don’t love between my toes is asphalt, shards of glass or blood.

I saw one of my neighbors riding his longboard barefoot through my outdoor apartment complex to take out his trash. On one hand, I was envious; I've been trying to find a quicker way to get my trash from my apartment to the dumpster and here he was gliding away with such ease. But on the other hand, isn’t this boy aware of how you stop a longboard? You drag your foot along the pavement. I’ve seen shoes that have had to be replaced because the soles had worn thin from longboarding. Yes, I was friends with longboarders in college (also known as every freshman boy), please contain your jealousy. I know I’m no doctor, just a humble writer; but I’m pretty sure it is pricier and less comfortable to replace a big toe than an Airwalk. And before any of my longboarder readers point this out, I know there is the alternative of jumping off the longboard and picking it up before it rolls away. To that I say: what kind of pointy, sharp, or even (opposite end of the spectrum) gooey things could be on these unmanaged streets that you would jump into? Wear shoes while longboarding.

The barefoot weirdness continued a few days later when I was driving in Hermosa Beach and saw some high school aged boys working out with a trainer at a small beach-side gym. These boys were throwing medicine balls to each other, lifting dumbbells, one was even outside doing lunges on the sidewalk. ALL were barefoot! Who was supervising such dangerous behavior? One Christmas, I dropped a metal stocking holder on my foot, my toe was black and blue for years (okay, weeks) and had to take antibiotics. That happened in the comfort of my own home, what would happen if one of these boys dropped a 145 pound dumbbell on their foot? I can’t even imagine rushing someone to the hospital on a longboard.

I love the laid back vibe of these beach cities, I feel much more at home where Coloradans will break for pedestrians and adhere to a blinker to let someone over. I’m just worried that this beach-y, no shoe wearing mentality is raising stupid kids. I was in Malibu a while back and struck up a conversation with the employee at one of the three Ralph Lauren stores at this small outdoor mall. He told me how one of his former Ralph Lauren co-workers had just moved to Colorado, enviously saying, “she finally got out.” Finally got out? Is Malibu really a place that kids work their whole lives to escape? I can just imagine the rest of the story, “yeah, she couldn’t take the fresh air anymore. She finally packed up her Porsche and headed East for the small towns.”

These beach kids can’t take the stress of sunshine, clear skies or mild weather, how dare I complicate their lives with shoes.

A Close Encounter With the Sweaty Kind

2011-03-07T20:07:00.000-08:00

On Saturday I had my 201 improv graduation show. To say the show was a hit would be an understatement. We all did very well and I was really pleased with the show we put on. Unfortunately it was not recorded so I can't post a youtube clip or anything. However, I can tell you that the high points of the show included scenes about incest, strip clubs, drug use and abuse and police brutality. I challenge you to find funnier topics.

On a slightly different note, I ran into a college friend at the gym today. Now, you all know how I feel about hugging; that it's uncomfortable more often than not because so many people hug unneccasarily at first meetings, or when the other is not reciprocating the movement to hug. And after today I would like to add hugging at the gym to my list of hugging inappropriateness. Everyone is out of breath, sweaty, listening to their ipod or eager to finish their workout, so it's awkward to interrupt or slam bodies together and catch up. That's why I wish I could say I wasn't the one who initiated the hug today to my college friend.

In a new city it is damn near unheard of for me to randomly run into someone I know from Colorado. I was so shocked to see someone from my past, I was prompted to demand a hug. And no, I was not deterred from the embrace when he said, "I would hug you but you're kind of... sweaty" as I leaned towards him, my arms wide open, ready to confirm that he was real and I was actually having a chance encounter with a friend. No, I ignored his clearly disgusted comment and chose to keep going. Sweaty? Sweaty? Who cares! You're a connection to my old life. Sure, we probably weren't on hugging terms at school, but you better believe we are now. Get over here, right in front of this bench press, let's hug.

But after the hug, when the blackout of surprised happiness wore off, it registered in my mind that he did notice my sweating and it quickly become all I could think about. I cursed myself for wearing a grey shirt to the gym! As we continued talking, I become increasingly aware and embarrassed of my sweat, which obviously, because my body hates me, made me sweat more. Finally we wrapped up the conversation and left the gym. I must be on my game the next time something like that happens. I need to remember that just because I don't interact with people very often doesn't mean everyone else leads my same life. I need to reserve such enthusiasm for family reunions, lottery wins and eventual, substantial employment.

Pop, Lock and Dropping at the Wheel

2011-03-01T17:52:00.000-08:00

Living in LA I spend a lot of time driving, an activity that I actually love. I really must credit my iPod for making my commutes enjoyable, though. But, then again, I guess I’m the one who fills my iPod with music so I should really just thank myself. Way to go, me!

I love listening to music in my car. I’ve found that if I sit semi hunched forward over the steering wheel, my right hand leaning comfortably on my stereo and my index finger poised above the volume knob, I have the freedom and time convenience to blast my music at a point in the song that gets me especially psyched. And when I get especially psyched I like to dance. Now, I wouldn’t’ say I’m a good dancer, but I do it anyway. And I feel safest dancing in my car because I like to think no one can see me. This is far from the truth because not only are my windows not tinted, but I am constantly surrounded by cars.

Driving in Colorado I was pampered with breaks in traffic, long stretches of time where there wouldn’t be a car directly next to me, allowing me to bust a move that could not be contained any longer. Not so much in LA. I’m usually neck and neck with someone at all points during the drive. I used to think I had developed the perfect car dance, one that allowed me to move freely, the only rule being that no limbs can make their way above the window line. But when I noticed that I could see my fellow drivers holding their phones barely above their laps to sneakily text at the wheel, and that I could see what kind of coffee they were drinking as it sat in their cup holder, harsh reality set in.

I took a good, long, honest look at my car dancing and realized that my hips played an integral part my movements. When you get a central body part, such as hips, involved in a dance, all subtly goes out the window (not literally, I can proudly say my dancing stayed within the confines of the car). Sure, my arms usually stayed below the window line jabbing side to side like I was playing turntables. But my popping shoulders certainly did not. My bobbing head certainly did not. And my pursed lips that make their appearance whenever I listen to aggressive/demeaning rap (which is all the time); a face I think looks like I just finished saying, “Ooooooo-weeeee! This is my jam!” certainly did not fall below the window line. My kneecaps were basically the only body part not moving.

It reminds me of my friend’s mom who said she could always spot her daughter from behind as a child because her chubby cheeks stuck out on either side of her head. My friend was using the oldest form of false sense of safety known to man; if I can’t see you, you can’t see me. She turned her head to confuse her mom and avoid having to leave the park, and I set up my own patronizing rules to avoid facing the fact that my mobile clubbing was all to well known on the road.

PS I want to take this opportunity to remind everyone to follow me on Twitter (senny24)! I make up my own hashtags on the reg because 1. It’s funny and 2. I don’t understand how to use them correctly.

Home Sweet Home

2011-02-23T19:07:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-17T08:25:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-10T14:35:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-05T11:01:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-02-02T12:02:00.000-08:00

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.

A Tip For Lifelong Success

2011-01-24T22:11:00.000-08:00

I think we have established, with a fair amount of certainty, that I do not do well with surprises that force me to make a split second decision. I can’t recognize hearts of palm when making a salad for my boss, I can’t wrap my mind around the acceptability of the truth when caught of guard with a question, I can’t even correct people when they call me Fran Drescher… or Monica… or Don. And while I may be alone on my frantic reactions in these situations, I think I speak for everyone when I say there is nothing more surprising, that forces you to make a quick decision, than realizing the person you’re talking to has a lazy eye.

I first encountered this a year or so ago when in a crowded lecture hall in college when I was a guide for freshman girls going through sorority recruitment. I was standing trying to get control of my overzealous tweens and was several rows in front of my group when I looked up at one of my girls to answer her question. It appeared that she was talking past me, several rows behind me, to someone else. I turned around to make sure she was talking to me, saw no evidence to the contrary and turned back. I was stunned into a panic and red face when I realized she had a lazy eye. She only gave the illusion of looking at someone else. I felt so bad; I almost gave her a bid to my house right then and there.

I could not have had a more obvious ‘lazy eye confusion reaction’. She saw right through my quick and panicked cover of, “oh, I thought I, uh, thought I heard my name…” I reflected on my embarrassing turn around for hours after the incident and over dramatized it to the point where I envisioned my whole body had turned in such rapid, cartoon-esque confusion that my neck looked like a twisted rope of Silly Putty, having turned several times searching for the destination of her focus. And everyone’s hair whipping across their faces from the typhoon style winds that came from my movement. In reality I’m sure I’m sure I played it cool… but probably not that cool.

I have found the best way to handle these situations is to either treat your new friend as Cyclopes and stare directly in between their eyes, or change the topic of conversation to the scenery and spend the rest of your conversation looking out at the horizon gesturing to various things and avoiding eye contact completely. Now, clearly both of these tactics have their own ideal setting and you must use your own judgment when deciding which to use. Obviously, a run-in on a rural path in Tuscany at sunset is perfect for drawing attention to scenery, but a run-in in the dog food aisle at the grocery store might leave you setting your focus to the center of their face.

Whatcha, Whatcha, Whatcha Want

2011-01-17T14:21:00.000-08:00

HELLO READERS!! BIG news coming atcha out of Los Angeles, CA. We are finally set to do our reshoots for the short film we started back in November. I cannot even express how huge of a relief this is to know this project will actually get finished. We are reshooting this Sunday so hopefully I will have a link up for you all to enjoy the finished product in the next few weeks. Or maybe I won’t. I suppose you will have to continue reading these posts to see whether I’m lying or not. A skill, as you may know, I pride myself on.

Aside from these side splitting blog posts I give to you all on a somewhat irregular basis (I’m sorry, I will try to blog more, but I have a hard time believing my daily routine is remotely interesting) I have started writing a webseries. Making a webseries has been a goal in the back of my mind for quite a while, but as I continue to work on a plot arc for an entire series and as I continue to meet exciting, funny and talented people in LA, the goal has made its way to the front of my mind. If you want a sneak peak of my webseries watch a ton of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” and “How I Met Your Mother” episodes because it is close to a combination of those shows.

I have also rekindled my somewhat tumultuous relationship with Twitter. So please follow me (senny24) for daily tidbits, and brief (140 character max) glimpses into my mind. These tweets can also serve as a snack to tide you over between blog posts! These tweets will also let you know when I have posted a new entry here!

That is all for now, I have an interesting week coming up, including going to a taping of “Rules of Engagement” tomorrow night. I am super excited to see how tall David Spade actually is and I am currently taking bets. You have your choice of any height between 4’10 and 5’2”. Aaaaaannnnddddd go.

Lying Only Makes an Ass Out of Me

2011-01-13T17:36:00.000-08:00

Lying is a choice. A choice that I have never been very good at making. My lies do not affect anyone but myself, and the only effect it has on me is pure shock of the way my mind works. I panic lie. This happens when I’m asked a question and, for some unknown reason, believe the answer will get me in trouble. These lies are neither better nor worse than the truth. In fact, they are almost always boringly comparable. For example:

Random individual in place of power: “did you bring a jacket?”
Me (panicked): “yes, but it’s in my car” when in reality it is in the bag I’m carrying.

This started in high school and I think stems from the fact that high school was the first time I was actually doing anything against the rules. I was part of a group that wore a “Muck Fullen” shirt to show school pride at the football game against our Catholic high school rival, Mullen. I got a curfew ticket because I was TPing a house with my basketball team. Oddly enough, this was our annual team bonding activity when the Varsity team TPs the JV team. This made it even harder to explain to the cops why we were TPing the house of a girl who had just transferred schools. High school was the first time in my life I had legitimate reasons to lie. Unfortunately I still hadn’t fine-tuned what to lie about. I have traced this problem to the fact that my brain can’t process whether my truth is against the rules quickly enough to know whether I need to lie. Which only leads me to lie about incredibly unimportant things.

In high school I would come home from a night out with my friends. And naturally my mom would ask what I did. I would find myself flustered. My mind would take on two forms; a logical, honest side and a guilty rebel side trying to outwit the parents.
The rebel would caution me to think my answer through: Wait. Think about this first, Anna. Did you do something wrong? Does she know and is trying to trick you? The logical side would counter the rebel and point out the boring and completely acceptable truth: You just watched a movie at a friend’s house, you didn’t do anything wrong. But the rebel would always come through with an undeniably good point: Oh, really, Anna? You think she’s going to buy that?

I had to say something that would keep me in the clear, and in the midst of the chaos going on in my mind, I blurted out, “We went bowling!” A blatant lie to cover up the fact I innocently watched "Mean Girls". Of course then I would have to give details. And by details I do mean more lies. What is an average score of bowling? 90? 150? It turns into a real disaster real quick.

Yes, it was those types of things I chose to lie about. Not important things like the beer my dad found on our back porch/basement/garage. Luckily the only punishment for that was advice to drink better beer. Sorry, Keystone Light.

I truly thought I had outgrown “panic lying” but this habit reared its ugly head just a few weeks ago. I stopped by Starbucks on my way to my nannying job and because I don’t drink coffee and, apparently, am 5 years old, I ordered a hot chocolate. It was sitting on the table as the mom was leaving for work, she noticed my cup and asked what my usual Starbucks drink was. Of course I panicked.

I remembered the very first day we had met she revealed that she and her husband didn’t drink soda (I casually nodded without actually agreeing because an ice cold Coke is one of my favorite things on earth. Get out of here, Pepsi). I knew I didn’t want to seem like a caffeine freak, which I wasn’t because it was hot chocolate. BUT I also didn’t want to be honest and seem immature. What kind of nanny drinks the same thing a 2 year-old would order? A nanny unfit to care for your child, that's who. So I answered, “oh I don’t drink coffee soo…” I was pleased that I averted the question with grace. But then she said “neither do we…” leaving an opening for me to explain myself. “Umm, it’s a vanilla steamer!” I lied. A vanilla steamer? I thought to myself.

The logical and rebel sides in my mind were in agreement. That doesn’t make you seem any more mature than a hot chocolate would. The rebel adding, yup. You’re a dumbass.

Traveling with Karma

2011-01-05T19:36:00.000-08:00

There are few things about traveling that surprise me these days. Yes, our security procedures make the job of a TSA guard appealing to sexual assault convicts on parole, and yes, it’s ridiculous that Frontier only serves cookies on flights departing after 10am, but we should really focus on the ridiculous things our fellow travelers do.

Like, wear pajama pants and slippers to the airport. I suppose taking your shoes off at security would be easier in slippers that barely hang onto your feet by broken down terrycloth fabric. I suppose the “just out of bed” look clears you as a terrorist. If you can’t even plan an outfit there is no way you could plan an attack. TSA takes one look at you and waves you through. Yeah, they’re good. No need to check their bags even. Probably just more pajamas. But in my recent trip back from Colorado I was shocked and appalled by two actions of the man sitting next to me on the plane.

He cracked open his Panda Express orange chicken meal combo, the very smell of which gives me heartburn, before we even took off. I knew I was in for a smelly ride, not only are airplanes not known for their stellar ventilation (that orange chicken would be lingering around row 10 for hours), but Panda Express is known for inner grumblings immediately following consumption. Once we were air born, I was pleasantly surprised to notice that the Panda Express smell dissipated easily. This pleasant surprise was quickly replaced by outrage when he reached down and took off his shoes.

I cursed myself for singing my silent praises (in perfect key, I might add) far too early. Yes, the food smell disappeared inside of him, but he didn’t make any moves towards eating his feet. This stench was in it for the long haul. There are few things worse than flying next to the smell of stale sweat, and those things are: flying next to the bathroom and flying at all.

Current travel conditions put you in claustrophobically close quarters with your peers, peers that could be put on the jury of your murder trial. You should leave a distinctly forgettable impression. That means get your act together when it comes to the metal detector at security. Yes, that novelty belt buckle is made of metal. And it’s hideous. Adhere to the size regulations of carry on bags. If your huge bag has to be rearranged several different times in several different overhead bins before you finally surrender to a gate check, you are not being distinctly forgettable. In fact, I will remember your face forever. It’s important to pleasantly blend in. You don’t want to encounter a bitter former travel acquaintance when it comes down to your verdict. “I dunno, fellow jurors, all the evidence points to innocent, but he did take his shoes off… on a plane…”

So I am back in LA after a much-needed break from my stressful Hollywood lifestyle. The largest change in my daily California life and my daily vacation life being the move from watching hours of online TV on my computer, to watching hours of cable on a real TV. Either way it is hard to argue that my life is easy in either situation.

Some news here, we officially did not get the Disney Writer’s Fellowship that we applied to in July. A bummer, but in the time between applying and the rejection I had heard several rumors about the selection process and saw it coming. The short film we shot in November is still struggling with conflict issues and it is unclear when we will finish that project. In much more exciting news, I am starting my second round of improv classes on Saturday, and have a long list of advice I was given to follow up on. This will no doubt lead to many new adventures and (obviously) many new blog posts. If you thought I had experienced every awkward and ridiculous situation possible for one person, I can assure you that 2011 holds many, many more. Mostly because it is I who makes all of these situations awkward.

A Rose By Any Other Name

2010-12-28T15:02:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-17T22:31:00.000-08:00

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)

2010-12-13T09:58:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-09T11:01:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-26T12:27:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-18T16:18:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-15T12:39:00.001-08:00

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

2010-11-11T20:04:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-04T21:34:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-31T10:48:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-26T12:43:00.001-07:00

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...

2010-10-18T11:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-13T18:43:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-10T13:31:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-08T17:07:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-03T10:54:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-29T12:25:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-24T14:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-20T19:20:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-17T17:31:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-01T19:26:00.000-07:00

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....

2010-08-28T19:50:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-24T17:43:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-20T11:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-06T07:24:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-02T14:41:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-30T17:39:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-27T18:33:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-20T15:39:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-07-14T12:12:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-12T11:51:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-07-06T15:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-05T16:39:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-07-03T12:44:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-06-30T13:48:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-28T12:38:00.000-07:00

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....

2010-06-24T15:24:00.001-07:00

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?

2010-06-21T15:11:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-18T16:15:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-15T13:06:00.000-07:00

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!

I've Been Had!

2010-06-14T16:03:00.000-07:00

Damn you craigslist and my naivety that everyone has a good, kind soul. My “job” was a SCAM. The secretiveness that I sensed was real, but the secretiveness was to keep ME in the dark, not keep a cool assignment under wraps. Thank goodness I caught this, with the help of my brother, google scams and realistic thinking, before anything went too far. So, back to the drawing board on the job front.
Now to update you on the two other current endeavors of my life in LA: writing and finding friends. I am pleased to say that I have one friend here. His name is Jason and he’s also from Colorado. Combined we still have NO idea what to do in LA. The other day we walked along the boardwalk so far we spanned 2 cities, we were on the brink of entering Mexico but we didn’t bring our passports so we had to turn around. We encountered a few drunkards along the walk and were tempted to exchange phone numbers with them because they had already proved themselves to be cool. If I've learned anything in the past 22 years it's that public drunkeness is cool. Other than walking, we haven’t quite gotten the hang of what to do/where to go. But I can confidently say we have mastered walking. We’ve tossed around the idea of posting an ad on craigslist of “cool people seek another cool friend who does fun things”. And unlike a few other things I know on craigslists, this is not a scam.
I went to dinner with a friend from college last night, and it was one of the best nights so far in LA. It combined all the things I care about: casual drinks, the Lakers game, food and recapping funny situations of our friends from afar. So Sears if you are reading my blog, you've now made the list of my friends in LA. Be proud it's a super exclusive list. There are only two people on it.
Now as far as writing, this blog is where I am spitting quite a bit of my creative energy, but my brother and I are hard at work on mock episode for the TV show "How I Met Your Mother". We are planning on entering in a fellowship competition that would hopefully get us PAID. Not only in money but in experience. Most of you readers know that I am borderline obsessed with How I Met Your Mother, and those of you who don't know that obviously don't know me and have no business reading this blog. JUST KIDDING. read on, but also see the show because it is the best show on television.

Getting My Flirt On

2010-06-11T14:01:00.000-07:00

Making new friends is one of the most awkward experiences of all time. Be you guy or girl, there is no doubt that you gotta get your heterosexual flirt on. Thankfully I was in a sorority in college so girl flirting is basically my thing. I’m living in a house with two other girls and a boy. They, having a life, are gone a lot and I, having no life, am at the house quite a bit. Heterosexual friend flirting is a very difficult art to master, you must both leave your subject wanting more, but not creep them out. It is a very thin line to toy with. But the first weekend of my arrival in LA is quickly approaching and I’m pretty confident in my abilities to force a girl crush on my roommates (well except the boy, maybe we will just develop a normal friendship). Wish me luck everyone!

PS- if any of my roommates have somehow stumbled upon my blog… this is now awkward.

success!

2010-06-11T11:07:00.000-07:00

I got a job today! I am the personal assistant to a man who runs a business in Los Angeles but is in London for a few months. I will receive detailed instructions about what I am to do every week. Which makes it all kind of secretive, like I'm a spy or something. Like my mission cannot be disclosed until the very last second to ensure no information is leaked. And then I remember that he told me I would be taking inventory on clothes and electronics and the whole spy thing kind of falls apart. BUT it is a job non-the-less, and while it does not have anything to do with comedy, (as so perfectly put by Marshall in How I Met Your Mother) I need a reason to put pants on in the morning.
I'm still working on the comedy stuff but this will put a nice chunk of change in my pocket. holllllar.

Baby Steps

2010-06-10T12:00:00.000-07:00

The job/internship search continues. I am not having the best luck in finding an internship to replace the one that brought me out here (more on that later). But I have successfully applied for several assistant jobs over craigslist. One of the biggest problems is I know what I want to do, but when you type “being funny” into the search bar for craigslist or careerbuilders.com you don’t get the best results.
This search has brought me to the conclusion that finding jobs is dumb. How are you supposed to take all the knowledge you gathered in college and define it in one tiny word to fit into a search bar of a truly unhelpful website? I was an English major and am one of, if not the only, English major who does not want to be a lawyer or teacher—far too ambitious. I have real, completely obtainable dreams of being a comedy writer! And then there is the age-old dilemma of having lack of experience, and how is one supposed to gain experience if no one will hire you? And on top of it all, there are those parents (not mine, I have been lucky enough to have parents that are actually supporting this outrageous move to Los Angeles sans job) who are constantly on their child’s case about getting, not just a job, but a career. Well, listen up parents. None of us can get jobs because you are all still working. It’s not the immigrants stealing our jobs; it’s our own parents. Yeah, that’s right I just solved the immigration issue. That should be my job. Now who’s paying me?

Are motorcycles the new CR-V?

2010-06-09T10:51:00.000-07:00

If my two least favorite things weren't helmet hair and profusely sweating I would definitely invest in a motorcycle in this city. These cyclists weave in and out of traffic with such ease while I don't move at all. I do not even move with ease within my own vehicle in fear that any gesture towards my phone would be interpreted as violating the "hands-free law". The "hands-free law" is the law in CA that you cannot hold/talk on/text/email/play brickbreaker (all of which I do best while on the road) while you are driving. The fine is large, but the embarrassment that would come along with the ticket is far larger. I do not want to stand out as foreigner anymore than I already do with my Colorado plates and courteous driving skills. So I suppose until I make it big and get some ca$h money, I will forgo the motorcycle and invest in a bluetooth headset.

Welcome!

2010-06-07T13:16:00.000-07:00

Hello all my readers (aka Mom, Dad and any friends who are embarrassingly bored--get lives, people), this is my first post. I'm Anna, that's "On-Uh" not "Anne-Uh", just so we are all clear on that, and this blog is going to take you through the trial and tribulations of my effort to make it big (or just survive) Hollywood in comedy writing. I have never left home for longer than a few weeks at a time so naturally I decided to move to a foreign city during the biggest transition stage of my life, from college to the real world. I'm from Denver, CO and spent the last four years of my life in a blur of fun, learning and drinking at the University of Colorado- GO BUFFS! I've left amazing parents, and mediocre friends in Colorado to dip my feet in the shark tank of Los Angeles. I will keep you updated on any writing, internships, jobs, common interactions with the locals, etc as often as I can in this blog. Which will be very often seeing as of right now I have nothing on my plate. So hold on tight, because this blog is sure to ROCK YOUR WORLD.