The Blackheart Chronicles

Within My Means

2011-07-27T11:07:00.000-07:00

My birthday weekend gluttony.

What's exactly does 'living within one's means' entail? This is a concept I surely must learn, as money seems to be flying out of my bank account like expletives from Roseanne's mouth (if you haven't watched her new reality show "Roseanne's Nuts", set on a nut farm in Hawaii, you are truly missing a fine piece of mind-numbing television.) I suppose in simplest terms it means you must only spend what you can afford with your mind always toward savings and the future. I'm sure Suzy Orman has the phrase tattooed in a tramp-stamp.

How is it that I can be 30 and still living above my means? Who do I think I am? Do I really need a closet of clothes I've only worn a handful of times a piece? Do I really to pay for a month of tanning to get this terrible farmers tan off my back in time for my beach vacation? Do I really need a beach vacation after being gone for three months on the Camino? Do I really need to pay $2300 to fix the dent in my car I got pulling out of the parking lot after watching "Harry Potter" (isn't a dent like a cool scar but for your car)? Did I really need a birthday facial and pedicure on top of my hotel weekend with the girls? Do I really need to spend a bit more on the studio apartment in the towers when I can get a one bedroom for less in the villas? Did I really need that sushi last week? Or the Jamba Juice today? Do I really need to buy new trail runners (aren't there people somewhere who just run barefoot)? Do I really need to fill my life with fun experiences and beautiful things I can't afford?

The answer is quite frankly, ye--- NO! I don't need them. But I really really really really want them!!!

I Deem Thee The Decade of the Bizarro!

2011-07-12T20:25:00.000-07:00

Your author in her 'yute'.

Thursday, July 14th, 2011. The day that will stand in infamy as the day Blackheart turned 10 x 3. (If you're intoxicated reading this, that's 30.) As Dylan Thomas wrote, "Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light." Amen, brother. Why should it be that when we women (and I say "women" because studies show that men don't consider themselves old until 58, while woman consider themselves old at 30... gross) are supposed to suddenly feel that our youth is past us when we click over to this fine decade? Youth is relative. Working in elderly facilities, I have overheard 90-year-olds call 60-year-olds "kids." If I live to be 109 like my great grandmother, that means I will be a kid until I turn 80!

Now, I'm not saying to hell with maturity. Maturity is a fine institution. I'm simply expressing a simple truth - that turning 30 is not, and never will be, "old." "Old" is wearing adult diapers and watching "Wheel of Fortune" with the volume turned to full blast, while your dinner gets fed to you with a straw. 30 is simply a bench marker. It says, "I can now afford to have fun"... and "I am good in bed" (practice makes perfect)... and "I can discuss books and theater and politics without sounding like a naive, pretentious ass." 30 is a badge of honor, not a cry for help. My uterus isn't going to suddenly shrivel up and die nor will crows feet attack my face as I lay sleeping, having nightmares about not having yet set up an IRA.

So, what will the 30s hold for Blackheart? Well, I've decided to deem this "The Decade of the Bizarro." By that, I mean, I want things to get weird. Really weird. I want to try new and wild stuff. Stuff that seems like a really bad idea at first. I want to befriend people on the fringe with names like Ursula and Blaze and Dirty Mike. I want to taste food that freaks me out. I want to travel to places where crazy sh** goes down. I want to watch movies that make my eyes pop and my mouth gape open (starting with Trash Film Orgy's midnight film "Humanoids of the Deep".) I want to say out loud all the weird stuff that pops into my head. I want to write without censorship. I want my mind to be blown over and over and over again. I want magic and fireworks and whimsy. Your 30s shouldn't be a "slowing down period" or "a time to grow up." They should be a circus with you in the spotlight wearing a glorious sateen top hat while gripping a lion tamer's whip.

On that note, anyone know where I can by a sateen top hat?

I Birthed A New Blog!

2011-03-26T21:23:00.000-07:00

Wanna see the spanking new baby blog grow up? Then follow The Camino Gypsy Chronicles, which will take over for The Blackheart Chronicles from April 9th until July 4th, give or take a week or two. I promise, you won't be disappointed. Golden-hearted Momma K and a snarky Blackheart walking 1000 miles through France and Spain with only three changes of clothes? I mean, honestly, can you think of anything more entertaining? Well, other than the this blog, of course...

Alpha Male

2011-03-07T12:31:00.000-08:00

From Wikipedia: "The term "alpha male" is sometimes applied to humans to refer to a man who is powerful through his courage and a competitive, goal-driven, "take charge" attitude. With their bold approach and confidence "alpha males" are often described as charismatic. While "alpha males" are often overachievers and recognized for their leadership qualities, their aggressive tactics and competitiveness can also lead to resentment by others."

I took this picture today while on a sunny Sacramento walk. The framing is a bit off, as the taking of said snapshot was a hurried endeavor. I was afraid the Alpha Male in question might come running out of the house in his boxer shorts, gold chain and trucker hat and demand to have my phone. Sure "alpha male" might describe someone with a take charge attitude - a leader with charisma - but for some reason, I can't picture him running out in his Calvin Klein briefs, Ferragamo tie and cappuccino.

Now I've known a lot of alpha males in my life; however, none with the audacity to refer to themselves as such, none the less, engrave it on a car window for all to see. I mean, it truly takes some nerve, of which, rather than criticize, I tip my hat. In fact, I had a discussion the other day with some lady friends of mine about our own alpha female status. We're all the courageous, powerful, feral types, priding ourselves in our ability to grab life by the balls. However, never would I have 'Alpha Female' screened onto an American Apparel t-shirt or have it tattooed above my butt crack. So to you, proud Alpha Male, I say 'bravo'. Why leave people guessing when you can just put it out there. In fact, it would be nice if all guys did this with window decals. Some possible examples:

Gentleman
Protector
Bread Earner
Shower Farter
Player
Player Hater (a man who wants to settle down)
Stoner
Outdoor Enthusiast (would certainly turn my head)
Amateur Chef
Perpetual Student
Gym Rat
Momma's Boy
Sport's Junkie
Metro Sexual
Risk Taker
Thug
Sensitive
Recent Divorcee
Bar Tender (avoid!)
Smart Ass
World Traveler
And my personal favorite... Dinner Bill Payer

The Scent of Love

2011-02-02T13:22:00.000-08:00

As I completed a training walk this morning I couldn't help but notice the abundant display of red hearts and cupids spewing forth from store windows. Uh-huh, it's that time of year again - Valentine's Month. My favorite Valentine's memory? Watching "My Bloody Valentine" in 3D and making a mix CD for girlfriends entitled "Valentine's Day Massacre." In case you're wondering, yes, Track 1 was Tina Turner's "What's Love Got To Do With It." Funny part is that on both of these aforementioned V-Day's I was in a relationship... (someone's got issues, no?)

So in celebration of this chocolate-y, sparkly, ooey-gooey love fest, I thought I'd share with you a recent CNN Health article entitled "The power of smell in picking sex partners" sent to me by a friend well-versed in the art of love. Not only are sexual scent preferences dependent on gender, but also on region... and to hilarious degrees. According to findings here's what women are most attracted to in the following cities:

1.      New York – coffee
2.      Los Angeles – lavender (f'in hippies)
3.      Chicago – vanilla
4.      Houston – barbeque
5.      Atlanta – cherry
6.      Phoenix – eucalyptus
7.      Philadelphia – clean laundry
8.      Dallas – smoke/fireplace
9.      San Diego – suntan lotion/ocean
10.    Minneapolis-St. Paul – cut grass

The proof that men are led by scent is a bit less concrete, although the following smells are known to cause... ahem... some very specific physical changes in the male body: lavender, pumpkin pie, donuts, and black licorice. So, in an effort to make myself more alluring for the upcoming V-Day holiday I've decided to: 1.) Start wearing a sprig of lavender behind my ear; 2.) Burn a pumpkin pie candle in my boudoir; 3.) Dust my bosom with powdered sugar; and 4.) Drink Anisette cocktails. Lock up your fellas, ladies, Blackheart is armed, dangerous and reeking of love.

My Future BF

2011-01-17T20:06:00.000-08:00

Perhaps one of the hardest parts of getting used to singledom (once again) is sleeping alone at night. Sure, at first it's nice to spread your wings or slowly spin clockwise over the course of eight hours or roll from side to side like a steam roller without fear of knocking someone off the bed or getting an elbow to the eye. And, sure, it's nice not to be awakened by snoring or the sharp grinding of teeth or farting. However, a few months down the line you begin to realize that, hey, you really only sleep on one side of the bed anyway and, hey, the teeth grinding was like white noise lulling you to sleep at night and, hey, you miss that manly arm snuggled around you as you sleep, hugging you safe and sound. So what's a newly single girl to do? Live with it? Cry about it? Pay her gay male friends to cuddle up? Place an add in the Penny Saver? Craigslist? Heavens no. None of those things.

Japan, the country that first brought the world used schoolgirl panty vending machines, now introduces THE MAN PILLOW. Why I didn't come up with this in between my last two boyfriends god only knows. It's sheer brilliance stuffed between a faux work shirt. A woman named Suzuki in USA Today sums up its appeal ever so eloquently: "It doesn't squirm or thrash in the night, and you know it'll be there in the morning." If that isn't worth $80, I don't know what is. Not to mention it comes in three colors and its manufacturer, Kameo, will soon offer both muscular pillows for women who prefer their pillow well-built and slender models for those who desire a "more sensitive, vulnerable partner."

Miss Manners

2011-01-04T10:14:00.000-08:00

I may not be the most well mannered girl in the world (yes, my burps have been known to shake a house or two), but in public I try to be as polite and well behaved as possible. Yet, lately I've been hit with a barrage of rude, ill mannered Americans, leaving me scratching my head as to what in the world has happened to our society. And I'm not just talking about our behavior but our appearance, as well. When did it become okay to wear leggings as pants, for example? I understand the necessity for them in the winter under dresses or over-sized sweaters (although I thought we'd left that particular craze back in the 80s) but with a waist length t-shirt? Come on! My face literally crinkles up like I've bitten into a bitter lemon every time I see a girl trying to pull this off like it's some hot new trend. Just because Sienna Miller did it back in the early 2000s doesn't make it okay. Camel toes simply aren't proper, and I certainly don't want to see every lump and bump of your lower half as contoured by a thin sheath of spandex. The airport this holiday was full of them, as were shopping malls, Starbucks and even (gulp) restaurants. I've got my own lumps and bumps to think about without the lasting image of yours engraved in my mind for heaven's sake! I put it right there with wearing Crocs outside the house if you're neither gardening, camping or going for a walk in the woods. I watch old movies or look through photographs of my grandparents and long for a time when nearly all Americans actually cared about their appearance. Didn't matter if you were poor or rich, hot or busted; you put your best self forward, and in doing so, made the world a little more beautiful. I used to be one to go straight from the gym to run errands, sweaty shirt and all, but no longer. So, yes, I practice what I preach.

Then there's the general rude factor, as best exemplified in two recent movie theater experiences. The first was at the Crest Theater during a screening of "A Christmas Story," which two tween girls talked through the entire time. "Like, what is that thing? A leg? Why is it glowing? Dumb."... "Oh my god, what does that ginger head keep laughing like that? So annoying. Dumb. And he's ugly."... "Are those robbers real? Why are they moving so fast? Stupid. Hehehehe. He put a cap in his a**. Sweet." These are direct quotes. My mother, who has even less patience for bad manners than I do, actually moved seats, leaving me to suffer alone. Then during "The King's Speech" at the Tower Theater there were two ladies having a heated argument through the first quarter of the movie. On and on and on they went after numerous 'shushes' and an employee intervening twice. The King may have been struggling to find his voice, but they sure the hell weren't. And then amongst this vocal squabble the woman two seats in front of me got a phone call and actually had the gall to answer it and start a conversation! Five minutes later someone finally walked over to her and told her to cut it out (only the rated R version of this line.) Meanwhile, the argument between the two women got to the point where I couldn't even focus on dialogue, whole scenes flying by like a silent film. Finally, the employee came back and asked them to leave. And as they began to file down the stairs, you know what I did? I said 'to hell with manners' and began a slow clap. Yes, just like the dramatic slow clap found in countless movies. My mom picked up my trail and in a matter of seconds I had gotten the entire theater to clap them off stage and out the door. Does this make me ill mannered, myself? No. Sometimes, my friends, you simply have to fight fire with fire. (But never, please never, spandex with spandex.)

Walk This Way: Dabbling in Mall Walking

2010-12-23T12:12:00.000-08:00

Although I'm a mere 29-years-old, yesterday I joined the ranks of senior citizens everywhere by undertaking my first Mall Walking session. Yes, you heard me right. Mall Walking. Mall Walking is a physical activity where people walk back and forth through the long corridors of shopping malls to get exercise. Malls actually open earlier than the stores within them just to welcome mall walkers into their confines. I honestly always thought this was some kind of a joke. Do people really do that? And who the hell are these people? Well, apparently, I'm one of 'these people', if one mall walk does a mall walker make.

To train for our 1,000 mile hike along the Camino de Santiago, mom and I have been adding long walks into our workout repertoire. They range from about 10 to 13 miles and take us to the far corner of Sacramento - along railroad tracks, over levees, across bridges, through parks, down the cobblestone streets of Old Sac and past endless streets of houses, from cozy craftsman cottages to artsy urban lofts to regal Victorians. However, now that the rains have come, our schedule has been a bit thrown off. Now before you judge, it's not that mom and I haven't walked in the rain before. I spent a great deal of the Coast-to-Coast hike across England eating rain-soaked sandwiches in the moors with muddy gators strapped around my ankles. I know rain. We have met. Yet, that doesn't mean I would volunteer to walk through it if I didn't have to. Which is why yesterday, when mom suggested we try mall walking for the first time, I thought, 'Why the heck not? Count me in.'

When we arrived at Arden Fair at 7am, the mall had already been open to mall walkers for an hour. Yup, 6am! Guess those must be the Extreme Walkers. Just opening the doors to the mall when all the stores, themselves, were closed sent a thrill of excitement through me... like the time a group of friends and I spent the night in the Psychology Building of Sac State after breaking into the swimming pool... but that's another story.

When we got inside, I expected to see a flurry of canes and metal walkers with halved tennis balls on the bottom of the legs, but actually, these blue hairs are pretty spritely and swift. One woman had this whole zigzag technique, weaving in and out of the kiosks that dot the aisles of the mall. She looked like a human pin ball, only one wearing an extremely tacky Christmas sweater. I will say, however, that mom and I were definitely walking the fastest. If the other walkers were vehicles on a highway, we were race cars at the Indy 500. The best part of the whole deal is the window shopping. Man, there is this jacket at Forever 21 that would look great with my NYE dress... Once the stores actually opened, we couldn't help but pop inside to check out sales. There's nothing like shopping when the clothes are still organized and folded, the employees are still cheerful and there's no one else around. It's what I imagine heaven to look like should it exist - my experience at the same mall only days ago as I struggled for half an hour to get out of a parking lot filled with crazed holiday shoppers being my image of the fiery depths of hell... should it exist.

The only downfall to mall walking - the Food Court. Cinnabon and its magical cinnamon/sugar aroma nearly undid my entire 5-mile walk. I resisted though. Mom almost got sucked into the Pretzel Shop, herself, until we saw the employee sneeze, covering her mouth but not her nose, which hovered over a vat of bubbling butter. Starbucks did get us, though, but when you're mall walking like a bat out of hell, you need some fuel, dang it! All-in-all, a good rain-free time. Think I'll wait until after the holidays though to go back and get that jacket... I'll leave you with my favorite quotes from Wikipedia's 'Mall Walking' entry...

"Mall walking in the United States is especially popular amongst senior citizens."
"Mall walkers tend to be a crowd requiring little supervision."
"After walking, mall walkers may well stay on and shop the stores or patronize the mall's food court."

Camino Mission Statement

2010-12-16T21:43:00.000-08:00

It took me far too long, but finally, a few weeks ago I finished my pitch for the Camino Gypsy Chronicles. Whether my travel blog gets picked up by the big leagues, or I end up hashing it out on this very site, it feels good to have some focus in my journey. Granted, most things in life refuse to be put in boxes, but I've always found that good writing requires good editing. A box isn't always a bad thing. I mean, who wants to read stream of consciousness literature? Or listen to a friend's insanely long, nonsensical dream from last night? So in an attempt to not make my future blog of my Camino adventure a daily log of verbal diarrhea, I've crafted a mission statement as a self editor. Here goes...

_________________________________________________________

On April 8^th, 2011, my mother and I will set off on a three-month adventure that could kill us. An adventure we will undertake by foot, hiking 963 miles on the thousand-year-old Camino de Santiago (or Way of St. James) from Arles, France to Santiago de Compostela, Spain. Scarier than any of the obvious perils of the journey - plummeting down the Pyrenees, bands of roving thieves, starving to death because of an ill-timed Spanish "siesta", refugio Staph infections, a misspoken word of French, my mom or I suffocating the other with a pillow in the night - is the fear of the unknown. The blog I'm proposing, Camino Gypsy Chronicles, will be a story about that fear: facing up to it, battling it, kicking it with the heel of your hiking boot and hopefully, in the end, conquering it.

Facing the unknown each and every morning is one of life's most frightening truths. When you exist mile-by-mile, footstep-by-footstep in a place far from home this fear becomes more acute and the question marks more defined. Is my body physically prepared? Will I get blisters and be unable to walk? Will we be able to find food each night? A place to sleep? Will we get sick on the trail? Lost? Do I have enough courage? An open mind? A strong stomach? Will my 63-year-old mother and my 29-year old self be able to get along for an unadulterated 88 days? Will we fight over directions, time schedules, religion, who gets the first shower after a hard day's hike, the last bar of dark chocolate? Will the language barrier be too great even with my mother's knowledge of French and Spanish? Removed from normal routine and alone with my thoughts through vast springtime landscapes, will what I discover about myself scare me to death? Will I be able to get by without the comforts of home - my bed, TV, friends, cat, beauty products, car, Trader Joes? Will the life I know be waiting for me when I return? Can I, should I and will I do this?!

Just as in everyday life, I don't have the answers. I can read as many books and peruse as many websites on the Camino as humanly possible, stock up on all the essentials at REI, put umpteenth miles under my belt in training, make all the reservations I can in advance and recite positive affirmations until I'm blue in the face, but what makes a vacation a true adventure will always be the mysterious, frightful and magnificant element of the unknown. The Camino Gypsy Chronicles will be a blog for anyone living in fear. For those who let it hold them back from walking into the great unknown. I wish to share this crazy journey of mine because maybe, just maybe, my quest to conquer my fears will inspire others to conquer their own.

December's Television Challenge

2010-11-30T12:23:00.000-08:00

I have always had a love affair with television. When I was young, my parents allotted me a fixed number of viewing hours a week. Usually, I'd try to save up my time for Saturday morning cartoons or Mousercise (if you've never Mousercised, you've never lived), but the trick was learning to love what my parents watched. Parent shows meant extra hours of tube. What were they going to do... force me to stay in my room every time they turned on the TV? So began my friendship with Crockett & Tubs and Captain Jean-Luc Picard. Not only did I have "Star Trek" trading cards (I may never get a date again after writing this...) but I had "I Love Lucy" ones, as well. She was my queen. My idol. If I could grow up to be Lucille Ball, I would have won the life lottery. I dreamt of making audiences laugh by stuffing too many chocolates in my mouth or drinking copious amounts of Vita-Meta-Vegamin. I even named my first cat Lucy.

Today, I cringe when I hear people say "Oh, I don't watch TV" with their noses turned up as if simply saying those two letters is beneath them. Even worse are the "I don't even own a TV"ers. If you can't afford a set, that's one thing, but normally that line gets tossed around at hipster dinner parties as people try to impress one another with their non-conformity. In my opinion, television writing has hit its peak. "Mad Men," "Justified," "30 Rock," "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia," "Modern Family," "The Walking Dead," "Boardwalk Empire," "The League," "Eastbound & Down"... the list of incredible writing, acting and directing seems endless. Sure, there's a load of crap out there, as well, but there's a load of crap in any art form. Even I have been known to watch a reality show or two (ahem, "Top Chef"), so I try to withhold judgment.

But while I love the medium... and my new Sony Bravia... I have to admit it's become a bit of a crutch. When you write for a living sixteen hours a day, nearly every day, the last thing you want to do is tackle your own writing when you have an hour or two off or, heaven forbid, pick up a book and ingest more words. What I want is a stiff drink and back-to-back episodes of "Psych." Yet, I need to enrich my own body of work. I need to read the lonely unread books staring sadly from my shelf. I have music I haven't listened to. Letters I haven't written. People I should make plans with. Movies I should go see (at the theater, not on On Demand!) Blog entries and scripts and short stories that are calling my name in the night, wondering why I've deserted them... why I've abandoned the characters I love so much. This doesn't make me lazy. It doesn't make me a bad person. What it does is make me numb. My love affair has turned into a drug... a very delicious drug... but a habit none-the-less.

I'm not going to do anything drastic. You won't find me selling my Bravia on Craigslist anytime soon or giving up TV all together, like the friend who inspired this challenge in the first place. What I will be doing for the entire month of December, and would like to challenge my fellow TV addicts to do, is to limit myself to two hours of TV a day, including movies both at home and in the theater. To many of you that may seem like more than enough time, but when you add up the "Today Show" I flip on while answering emails and making my breakfast in the morning, the hour I watch at lunch so I can totally shut down my brain, the fifteen minutes breaks I take in between drafts to clear my head and the couple of hours I watch at night to relax before bed, its adds up faster than you can say 'dependency.' And I know I'm not the only one.

Tomorrow morning it begins. If there's anything I love in life it's a challenge, no matter how small. And damn it, if I can climb Mt. Whitney in a day (self promoting plug), then I can control my TV watching. If you decide to take this challenge with me, write a comment. That way, we can feel like we're in this together. Strength in numbers, friend. Strength in numbers. Come January 1st we can celebrate over tea and Tolstoy... or we can watch a "Gossip Girl" marathon instead.

Oh The Possibility...

2010-11-28T14:43:00.000-08:00

I was watching some god-awful romantic comedy the other day (really none can compare to "When Harry Met Sally") and started thinking about possibility. You know 'possibility'... that overwhelming feeling you get when you meet someone new and begin to image all the wonderful things they might be. Sure, we make assumptions on them based on the way they look or what they do for a living, but there is still this fantastic, vast abyss of mystery we can't wait to plunge into. Once you become better acquainted, however, 'possibility', that ephemeral little minx, begins to fade away. It's inevitable. A part of nature. Unless the person you're seeing keeps their cards close to their chest the rest of their life, you can pretty much bet what flavor of ice cream they'll pick or that they volunteer at a homeless shelter every Thanksgiving or that camping isn't an option for a vacation or that they prefer vinyl over CDs. Possibility is replaced by actuality.

Sometimes this actuality is better than you could have imagined. I believe some call this "true love." Other times, actuality is just good enough... hell, no one is perfect, right? And most of the time it sends you packing for the hills. As in my experience, you learn that Mr. Possibility sitting across from you at the restaurant table is an aspiring actor, a psychopath, a name-dropper, definitely batting for the other team (this has happened to me twice. One of the guys came out, eventually. The other I ran into at the West Hollywood 24 Hour Fitness... enough said), is a Republican, smokes two packs a day, doesn't like movies, kisses like he's trying to eat your face, is a complete stoner, a cheapskate, a stalker who throws rocks at your dorm windows while screaming your name, lazy, waaaay too young, a former professional juggler, drinks too much, snores or even worse sleep walks, never learned that you have to wash your sheets (yup, I'm serious), has a kid and an ex-wife named Candy, or a girlfriend he decided not to tell you about, has a Tweety Bird tattoo, hates cats, lives in a pigsty, thinks reading books is too much of an intellectual endeavor, has a gambling problem, and so on and so on and so on. But even with our long list of terrible past actualities, we keep coming back for one more hit of that possibility drug. Why? Because maybe, just maybe, this time truth will triumph over mystery.

8 Months And Counting...

2010-11-19T10:34:00.000-08:00

Eight months from now I will have ventured into a new realm of life. My thirties. Duh-duh-duh... But this is not a rant about fearing the future. It's a rhapsody about enjoying my twenties until July 14 2011. And how will I enjoy this fountain of youth to the thirst-quenching, pore-plumping, metabolism-boosting, delicious last drop? What it really boils down to is reminding people, and myself for that matter, over and over and over again that I'm not thirty.

Lately I have taken it upon myself to drop the terms "20 something," "twenties," "29" and the not quite as cheerful "late twenties" into casual speech. For example, to the woman who carded me at the wine bar, "My i.d.? Yes, I have it, one second... Here it is, 29." I grinned, showing off my lack of crows feet and smile lines. Then to the guy hitting on me at the car wash who asked what college I was attending (bless his poorly mistaken heart) to which I answered, "Already graduated." "Oh?" he asked. "But you look so young!" "Still in my twenties," I reply confidently. To the producer on the conference call who wonders, "Do you have kids?" "No. I'm only in my late twenties," as if I don't know a soul in their late twenties who has kids. Of course, one look at my Facebook friends list with nearly every profile picture now featuring babies and toddlers, and you'd call my bluff. Then there's the article in Elle Magazine with wardrobe tips for women in their 20s, 30s and 40s, that asked, "What age do you fall under?" to which I responded giddily, "20 somethings!" even though the skirts were too short and the tops too tiny and the girls looked like they could be my little sisters.

Now these answers all had some kind of merit. They weren't out of left field entirely. But as the big day draws nearer I think it's time to get a bit more brazen. I may, for instance, start saying my age along with my name when introduced to people: "Theresa. 29. Nice to meet you." Or in restaurants when the waiter asks if I want a second glass of wine, I'll say, "Of course! I'm in my twenties! I don't go to bed until the sun rises!" So what if I end up crashing at 10pm and have a hangover the next day from only two glasses of Pinot... it's the declaration that counts. To the creepy guys who ogle me when I'm out walking I'll cry, "Go ahead! Take a good long look at the 20-something ass!" Or to the person at the movie theater box office, "One senior ticket for my mom and, well, I'm only in my late twenties, so the standard adult ticket for me, thanks."

Yes, I'm really going to enjoy those beautiful, youthful syllables while I can. "Twen-ty"... How they roll off the tongue so sweetly, speaking to me of late nights and dive bars and cheap liquor and empty bank accounts and bad dates and failed relationships and entry level jobs and vulnerability and low self-esteem and crowded apartments and... hmm, hold that thought... all off a sudden "Twen-ty" isn't sounding like such a great moniker. Maybe I shouldn't throw it around town like confetti, after all. Maybe, just maybe, I should start to say, when introduced to new people, "Theresa. Almost 30. Nice to meet you."

Bartering 2.0

2010-11-10T18:24:00.000-08:00

As I get busier and busier with work and there are fewer and fewer hours in the day to check off my to-do list, it's nice to know there's someone there ready to lend me a helping hand. Yes, that's right, I have finally gotten myself a personal assistant. I'm sure you're wondering how I can afford such an extravagance. After all, I'm no Hollywood celebrity or superstar athlete or corporate hotshot. I'm just a simple writer making a modest living. So how do I pay for my newly acquired personal assistance? In frozen yogurt, of course. To be exact, a Eurotart frozen yogurt with blackberries (and on occasion mochi) from Yogurtagogo in Sacramento.

Now, the next obvious question is, 'where in the world did I find such a gem of a PA?' It was quite easy, really. All I had to do was look no further than the gene pool from which I crawled. Yes, that's right, I'm speaking of my mother. For a trip to CVS to pick up contact solution or a dry cleaning delivery or a deposit of paychecks at my bank, she collects one heaping cup of froyo. Pretty fair trade really for any of us who live and die for the frozen dessert. I get the hummus I forgot to grab at the Safeway, and she gets a pint of Eurotart. This whole fantastic transaction has got me thinking about the days when people used to barter for goods and services. A fur coat for perfume. Eggs for milk. Yard work for construction. Two virgins for six goats. And on and on and on.

With the economy the way it is (aren't you just sick of hearing that line?), it might be a good time for a bartering resurgence. In fact, I'm publicly offering my writing services to anyone who cuts hair, does nails, drives a cab, leads a boot camp class, cooks, massages (not that kind, sicko), has theater or concert tickets or teaches banjo. What can I do for you in the way of writing? Well, I can write letters of complaint, church bulletins, party fliers, threatening stalker letters, marketing materials, pitches and love poems (although the latter will cost extra as it goes against my nature.) But we need not limit the movement to services. I can see people trading books, clothes, music, shoes, pets, apartments (anyone live in Bali? I have a terrific flat in Sacramento you might be interested in trading for a week), cars, electronics... Hell, boyfriend swapping is perfectly reasonable if, say, your friend's bf is a lawyer and you need someone to impress the folks at Thanksgiving dinner this year. In return she can have your hot out-of-work musician boyfriend to make her look cooler at her high school reunion. It's win-win.

As a way to get this system started I encourage anyone with LEGAL good and services they're willing to barter to please list them in the comments section on this post. If there can be a reality show about swapping wives, then we can certainly start swapping DVDs, no?

Top Seven Worst Dates

2010-11-08T01:05:00.000-08:00

"Whenever I date a guy, I think, is this the man that I want my children to spend their weekends with?" - Rita Rudner

Recently a friend suggested she set me up on a blind date. The sentiment doesn't really scare me as it does most people. Not because I'm brave. Not because I'm especially open minded or a risk taker. And certainly not because the prospect actually sounds fun. No, blind dates don't scare me because I've already had so many laughable, cringe-worthy, 'did that really happen?!' dates in my life that nothing seems to phase me anymore. In fact, if a date is going to be bad, it better be extremely bad so that I can at lest get a good anecdote out of it to amuse my friends. So in honor of being back out on the market (I love this expression... makes me feel like a prize-winning pig), I thought I would air out my dirty dating laundry and share the top seven (I like an odd number) worst romantic rendezvous I've had the exquisitely painful pleasure to partake in.

During a dinner date with a basketball player I met at a nightclub in Sacramento (this should have been a warning sign, no?) the guy... and I kid you not... actually fell asleep at the table as I was talking. I mean, he literally dropped his head beside his brick oven personal pizza and slipped into REM. This same guy then attempted to call me every other night for the next two weeks wondering why I wouldn't go out with him again. Must have hit his head quite hard on that table.
Here's the next scenario broken down into scenes, which is appropriate seeing as though it was a movie date. Act I: Guy takes his retainer out at the dinner table and sets it in the middle of said table on a napkin. My eyes remain fixated on the trail of saliva running from his mouth to the retainer as he tries to engage me in conversation. Act II: In the middle of the movie guy realizes he left retainer on table and runs out, leaving me by myself at a particularly gruesome horror film. Act III: Guy comes back upset, sweaty and smelling of garbage after having searched for retainer in the restaurant dumpster without luck. He mumbles about the $500 he'll need to scrounge up to get a new one during the rest of the movie. Needless to say, there was no Act IV.
My first date in LA was with a photographer I met on the plane ride over there. He was quite a bit older but looked like Sting so I thought I'd take my chances. Unfortunately, the entire date consisted of him ranting about his ex. What sparked this diatribe? I had asked him how he got the bloody cut across his face. Turns out she went to town on his cheek with her car key. I spent the rest of the night looking over my shoulder waiting for her to seize me by the hair and smash my face into my vegan meatloaf.
One guy actually had the nerve to call me an hour before our date and ask if his buddy who lived near me could pick me up and take me to my date's house. This way, he wouldn't have to drive across town to get me himself. His buddy who I'd never met. His buddy who drove a pick-up. I told him "sure", hung up and then called him back five minutes later complaining of a terrible stomach flu. A stomach flue that lasted the three weeks it took for him to stop calling.
I made the mistake of inviting a new guy to my office Christmas party. He showed up wasted (to calm him nerves, he said) and then proceeded to brag to my boss during a smoke break on the restaurant balcony the very intimate details of our first date. Thankfully, my boss was a woman with a bad date list of her own.
A guy bit me. I believe he thought it would be sexy. Perhaps on some occasions. But in the middle of a Mexican restaurant over a plate of enchiladas? Not so much.
I was taken on a date to a very chichi restaurant. The guy I was with insisted that we order the sweetbreads, promising me it was a vegetarian dish. I ate them, of course, trying to look the part of 'classy lady'. He said, and I quote, "those are just mushrooms inside." Later I learned the guy had forced me to eat cow thymus and pancreas. I still haven't forgiven that one.

So there you have it. The worst of it. Funny how the running theme seems to be dinner dates. Perhaps I need to cut eating out of the dating equation entirely. Nah. Without the bad, how can you know what's good? And without the horrendous dates I'm infamous for, who would my friends turn to to make their own horror dating stories seem timid by comparison? So I guess it's fingers crossed for a terrible blind date in my near future...

Honking And Yelling

2010-11-02T16:03:00.000-07:00

There are two ways Americans love to express joy. Perhaps above all other options. And those two things are honking car horns and yelling. The heroine of joyful articulations. Last night, after the San Francisco Giants won the World Series, the streets of Midtown Sacramento came alive with a cacophonous mixture of piercing car horns and blissful, unhindered outcries. A mixture that wasn't at all unpleasant. In fact, it put a smile on my face. Sent my heart racing like on Halloween night when kilos of sugar surged through my veins robbing me of sleep. The way the horns sliced the air like knives and drunken men of all ages sent expletives flying into the night sky like confetti had a thrilling, almost punk rock quality to it. We're not just celebrating... we're making some f'in noise!

It's not just the sports crowd that get into this. We dress up bridal vehicles just for the sake of making complete strangers honk and holler in celebration of matrimony. Sometimes I'm even tempted to do it when a funeral procession passes just as a way to cheer everyone up. Can you just picture a row of car following a hearse with everyone honking horns and whooping it up out the windows? Would be one hell of a send out. (That may actually have to go into my will.) We stand at street corners holding up signs that sum up our political beliefs in catchy slogans in hope that others will agree and unleash a litany of honking. We do it as parades pass. Or when we arrive at a friends house to pick them up for a night of debauchery, "HONK! HONK! HONK! Get your butt down here! And bring the flask! HONK! HONK! Woohoo!"

My first introduction to this celebratory audial expression of delight was in 5th grade when the 6th grade teacher led his class and our own out onto the sidewalk to demonstrate against the war in Iraq. The first one, that is. Bush Senior. We held up handmade signs in our little Catholic school uniforms and screamed at oncoming traffic "Honk for peace in the Middle East!" like pint-sized UN cheerleaders. With each pounding of a horn or holler out a car window, my excitement grew and grew. To a near feverish state. I'll never forget this one guy in a white convertible with a matching white suit and tight Jheri curls literally driving around the block in circles to up the ante on his fantastic rave of honks. At one point (while stopped at a light) he jumped up onto his seat and started honking with his foot. I kid you not; I couldn't make this stuff up. I had no idea what the war was about, but if raging against it caused a grown man to stomp on the steering wheel of his Chrysler Sebring, then I was a peace crusader.

It was this man I thought about last night as the honking and yelling lingered well past midnight. That if I had planned better I would be an hour and a half away in San Francisco with my head out the moon roof of my Rav4 tapping out "We Are the Champions" on my steering wheel with my boot heel. Well... there's always next year.

Why Have Kids?

2010-10-29T21:48:00.000-07:00

A friend recently revealed to me their reason for wanting to one day have a kid - to have someone to take care of them when they get old. A sound argument, but not convincing enough. I mean, isn't that what hospice workers are for? I, for one, have never imagined having kids. Ask anyone in my life with babies, and they'll tell you I DO NOT HOLD THEM. It's not because I'm afraid I'll break them... a rather cliche excuse if you ask me. It's because I hate having to put on the 'look at me, I have motherly instincts after all!' song and dance by cooing at them and saying gooey things in a whiny baby voice. I just don't have it in me. When I hold a baby it's more like Jeremy Renner in the "Hurt Locker" carrying a bomb he's trying to diffuse. I know it's gonna go off... but when? So I grasp it rigidly in my arms with a look of terror on my face and try not to make any sudden moves.

Yet despite my inherent fear of motherhood and pudgy, diaper-sporting mini people, there is one reason and one reason only I would want one of my own - to have someone to dress up for Halloween. Yes, that's right. Just as my mom dressed me in fabulous homemade bumblebee and Snow White costumes, I too want to take my little person and slap a pirate hook on their hand... a tiara on their head... a wart on their nose... wings on their back... a stinger on their butt...

Perhaps more importantly, I want to raid their candy loot. When I was little I informed my mother that the only candy off limits in my stash was the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. And every year, without fail, I'd catch her in the act. Once she just breathed on me and, smelling the unmistakable mix of chocolate and peanut butter, I called her out with tears streaming down my face. 'How could you?! I told you you could have all the Almond Joys and 3 Musketeers!' Another time I found the orange and black wrappers in her bed, crinkled up and stowed away under the sheets after I caught her by surprise. Me: 'Mom, are you eating something in bed?' Mom: (With mouth full) 'Hmm? No. (Swallow) Not me. (Another swallow) Why do you ask?' Of course, as a mom I'll learn from such errors. I will only eat my child's Halloween Reese's when they're at school and will promptly burn the wrapper in the fireplace. Or is down the garbage disposal better? The shredder? Should I just eat the wrapper too?

So there you have it. Blackheart's reasoning for having kids. A selfish reason? Maybe. But as I was getting dinner at the Subway in Flagstaff, Arizona tonight and a short, chubby Mexican boy wearing a muscle-bound Batman costume came swaggering in (after I just finished reading "Little Bee" none-the-less!) I thought to myself, 'Who cares? Kids in masks and capes are freakin' cute.' The best part is, when I told him, "Nice costume," and he turned to me and confessed, "This is my favorite," I saw his mom's proud grin in the corner of my eye.

Breakup in Revolt

2010-10-22T18:12:00.000-07:00

When you breakup with someone you're left with a heaping pile of nasty side effects. For one, you have to sleep alone. Actually, I quite like that. More room to toss and turn, not to mention my cat appreciates the expansion of her down property. Then there's the ache of never seeing the other's family, again. And for a girl with a rather small family, I always feel the downsizing. Sometimes, when the breakup is a doozy, you even lose friends as they sheepishly (or vehemently) choose battle lines. Then, of course, when you live with the one you love you have to divide your stuff. I actually have a friend who lost an entire hybrid car in that debacle.

This time around, however, there is one small effect of my breakup that is nagging me above any of these more acute, life altering consequences. Right before we moved back to California, as my ex and I were going through what to take and what to give away, I was talked into getting rid of my copy of C.D. Payne's "Youth In Revolt." I looked at it longingly, its 499 pages and cheerful turquoise cover full of whimsical cartoons begging me not to let it go. When I first read the book in high school I hadn't discovered something so wonderful since I tried my first chocolate croissant from La Bou. I rarely hang onto books I've already read, but there was something special about this novel that said to me, "Blackheart, keep me on your shelf. I'm a reflection of your inner self. People will see me there and know instantly that you're a cool, angst ridden chick." "OK," I would reply to my paperback friend with each and every move, from that first college dorm to my current home in Nashville. "For you, anything. Hop in this Pabst Blue Ribbon box I scavenged from behind the 7-Eleven and hold tight!"

But now, its thickness and weight was creating a schism in our relationship. It was too big. Too bulky. It had to go. For the first time in 11 years, it wouldn't make the cut. So reluctantly I compromised, setting it delicately on the Salvation Army pile and asking Nick Twisp (the protagonist) to please forgive me. But my heart ached. I had told myself I would always keep it. A book to give my fictional children one day to show them how interesting and hip their mother actually was at one time, long long ago. I hauled it to the charity drop-off and watched as two burly men brutally tossed it into a metal cage full of yellowed, trashy romance novels and sad looking childrens' books that made "Revolt" look like a bright shining literary star.

One month later, and I had not only lost one of my oldest, dearest books, but I'd lost my man, as well. But the book, oh the book! How it pains me. So here's the possible lessons learned: 1.) Compromise sucks; 2.) The Salvation Army participates in book cruelty; and 3.) If he's the right one, the things you love will somehow find a way into the moving box.

Best Hangover Cure in Santa Fe, NM

2010-10-21T13:28:00.000-07:00

Pops, the pups and I took a nice hike today on the Tesuque trail, ogling fall colors (yes, I took the cliche 'carpet of leaves' close-up with my BlackBerry camera phone) and the fresh powdering of snow from last night's mega storm that sent my cat running under the covers for fear of total annihilation. On the way there dad decided he needed some fuel, so we stopped by Blake's Lotaburger for a bacon/egg/hash brown/green chili breakfast burrito (I had the poor guy hold the cheese so I could take a few bites... selfish, I know.) Now let me tell you, I wasn't hungover this morning. Not in the slightest. Not even one sip of Santa Fe Pale Ale consumed last night. But, my god, if you're ever in Santa Fe nursing a head splitting alcoholic miasma, please do yourself a favor and get this stuffed tortilla manna from heaven. After four days spent in Portland last weekend drinking my weight in micro-brews and reasonably priced vodka soda's (only $4?! Are you North Westerners insane?! Are your beards and too-tight skinny jeans stifling your Capitalistic good sense?!), it was like erasing every last sip. Just five bites of this burrito worked like a sponge on the ole liver. I feel reborn. I feel replenished. I feel sober... I also felt a bit queasy, having just returned to occasional meat-eating. But, man, was it worth it.

Pros & Cons

2010-10-14T13:47:00.000-07:00

Warning: This is a self serving blog entry. Read at your own risk of boredom.

It dawned on me of late that I wasn't sure whether or not I actually liked myself. Maybe it's a quarter life crisis (I could live until 120 right? Who am I kidding, it would have to be a 'one-third' life crisis)... or could be it has to do with my recent breakup... or maybe it's some larger existential dilemma. Well, whatever it is, I decided to make a list of all the things that irritated me about myself and then sift through the muck and try to find some redeeming qualities underneath it all. Let's begins with some of the cons (note: this list has been edited to protect the ego.)

My fingernail polish always chips a day later.
I watch too much TV.
I can't cook to save my life.
My bangs always curve in one direction as if by some magnetic pull. And I could use more hair.
I'm terrible at keeping in touch.
My boobs are too big (and, yes, this is a con)
I have never been good with authority.
I prefer to read Stephen King over Yeats.
My one freelance TV script was never produced.
Babies frighten me. As does marriage. And spiders. And failure. And technology. And any sport that requires balance.
I get stressed out very easily.
I cannot focus enough to do yoga or Tai Chi or meditation.
I don't have a literary agent, and I've been at this game for 5 years.
I get my feelings hurt easily but am an expert at hiding it... which I hear is a bad thing.
I never know the appropriate amount to tip.
I am quick to anger.
I should have put money in an IRA about 10 years ago.
I don't volunteer nearly enough.
I am a horrific gardener. Plants die at my feet.
When I'm hungry I get very whiny. And that's putting it nicely.
I can't tell one bottle of wine from the next. It's red or it's white. Done.
My feet are getting bigger from training. WTF!!!!!
I am never up enough on politics and world events. Don't read the paper. Avoid the nightly news. Shameful.
I find pleasure in cracking jokes about strangers.
I'm afraid of heights.
I am awful at romantic relationships.
I have neglected my banjo. And my Italian. And my piles of books waiting to be read. And this blog. And my current screenplay. And, often, my cat.
I am extremely cynical.
My teeth need whitening.
Worst of all, I'm 30 and have no more answers about who I am and what I want than I did 10 years ago.

So considering this lofty list - a list that only scratches the surface - can there be anything in this Blackheart capsule I call a body/soul/personality worth celebrating? Yes. Two things. There are two, count them two qualities about myself which have been there since the beginning and have only gotten better with time. 1.) I am a strong person. And 2.) I am an adventurer. Both traits are very chicken-or-the-egg. A symbiotic relationship. To be strong in life you have to have a spirit of adventure, knowing that no matter what comes your way, there's still more to discover. To be adventurous, you have to be strong, because you have to have the guts and courage to go beyond what's safe and secure and seek out the unknown. Trite as this may all sound, it gives me hope to know that in the lengthy con list of life, I've got two things going for me. And I guess, for now, that will have to do.

Ode To An Art House Theater

2010-09-16T14:11:00.000-07:00

Oh Nashville, Oh Belcourt Theatre, how this heart misses you. Long gone are your discounted membership tickets, blown from my hand like Autumn leaves from the trees. No more are your Whole Foods/Wino screenings with delicate crumbs of phyllo dough gathering in my lap in place of stale popcorn. Hence forth I'll never stare bright eyed at your full bar... yes, a full bar at a movie theater. Could life be sweeter? No longer will you offer me vintage cult faves and midnight horror or free screenings because I lied and said I was a Vandy student. Sorry about that, actually. How I would rejoice just to hold your vegan cookies in my hand and smell that blissful aroma of upholstery glue, urine and real butter. I miss the occassional broken spring reaching out and gently touching my back like a dear old companion. I weep for your noir festivals and your foreign surprises. Your fundraisers, indies and your weekend classic. Your non-profit status. The people with cool hair, skinny jeans and cowboy boots who filled your lovely red aisles. Who else in the world would have the gall to play "Big Trouble in Little China?" No one else. Just you, friend. Just you. Perhaps one day I'll return. Cuddle up in your spanking new - and well deserved - theater seating. Nibble a pumpkin cookie. Sip an icy cold beer (on tap!). And let your glowing, flickering daydreams wash over me. Until then I wander the street of new towns and new cities searching with hopeful eyes. Begging the universe, which I'm sure is run by movie execs, that I'll find a theater I can call home. Hoping for a cinema as beautiful and sublime. Hoping for my Belcourt reborn. Hoping for another you.

A Book By Its Cover

2010-09-01T15:42:00.000-07:00

I have a very hard time not immediately judging people. It can be the way they're dressed. Who their friends are. The way they talk or hold themselves. Their job. Their taste in music. Etc... There's no situation where I'm more inclined to be judgmental than at the airport. That girl over there in the army jacket and Panama hat - a photo journalist who's never been able to keep a relationship. That man eating Burger King - a diabetic ignoring the advice of his doctor. That woman with the skinny jeans and baby bassinet - trophy wife who's been contending with a mistress ever since Jr. was born. The woman with frizzy hair rolling her eyes - a power player with little patience and a lot of ulcers.

I know it isn't right to judge a book by its cover. God knows what people must think of me. My old landlord thought I was a lesbian because I was always in workout clothes. I'm a hiker, okay? Not to mention my boob size throws people off, as in big boobs = lower IQ. I've been asked if I'm Jewish as people stare at my robust nose. I'm Italian, actually, thank you. Of course, having someone think you're one thing is a rather fun invite to prove them wrong. I don't mind it so much, so I continue to do it to others. Perhaps it's the writer in me. I like to make a story. Write a person's book before they can steer me otherwise.

However, just this last week, as I was flying home from visiting my dad in Santa Fe, I had the pleasure to sit by a rather giggly old woman. She was white, skinny, grey-haired and very jolly. I don't know why, but my first instinct was, 'she loves Glenn Beck, is old fashioned and probably spends her days petting her ten cats and crocheting Kleenex box covers.' (As I cat lover, myself, I can usually pick the type out.) Above all else, I was certain she was a conservative, Fox News type who I would have nothing in common with. I chose to keep quiet, digging into my book so I wouldn't have to make conversation, even though she kept looking at me when the Southwest stewardess/stand up comedian kept making jokes. I tried to laugh with her. I didn't want to be rude and the stewardess was actually rather funny - she kept asking us if we had any small jewelry items we wanted to donate to her. I mean, who does that? Genius.

But then, a miracle happened. As the plane took off, and the old woman settled in, she took out her book. And there it was. Was it Sarah Palin's biography? The latest Grisham novel? Hell no. It was a non-fiction account of the history of the Black Power Movement. I had to literally re-read the cover twice to believe my eyes. And man was she enthralled. She had proven to me with that hardbound piece of history, that you really can't judge a book by its cover. It may be fun... sure... but it's rarely accurate. Will I quit judging then, you ask? No. Of course not. I'm Blackheart. It's what I do. But I may start judging people by the books they read rather than their appearance.

Rule of Threes... Geez

2010-04-03T15:46:00.000-07:00

While the Rule of Threes may seem like superstitious dribble, I can assure you from my experiences today that it holds true. My particular trinity evolves a series of embarrassing moments - nothing worth changing my name over and going into witness protection, but cringe worthy just the same.

First off, in Spin Class this morning, the teacher couldn't think of the 70s TV show that included the songs "Electricity" and "3 Is a Magic Number" (there's irony in that last one, no?). No one in the class could say, but then suddenly I remembered... 'Jailhouse Rock!' I cried out. The teacher agreed. Yes, yes that was it. It was only when I was walking to my car thinking to myself 'why in the world would a children's educational cartoon have the word 'Jail' in it?', that I realized it's actually Schoolhouse Rock. Okay, so no one was around for my embarrassing realization, but I could just picture the teacher googling the songs once she got home and shaking her head at me as her and her equally fit husband giggled.

Later in the day, as I shopped for a dress for the Capitalist Ball, I realized walking to my car that I had put my shirt back on inside out. Now it made sense why the ladies behind the counter were looking at me weird. I thought it was my sweatstache from the 80 degree weather we're having. Maybe it was both.

For my third embarrassment, at the next store I went to, this time at a different mall so as to start afresh, shirt on properly, I was standing in line, arms full, when I decided it would be a good idea to try a ring on that was near the counter. One by one things began to fall from my arms. As soon as I'd pick up one, another would fall. And on and on and on. You couldn't write slapstick like this - my comic timing was genius. Finally, for the coup de gras, my sunglasses fell off my head and broke into pieces. At least I provided entertainment for the skinny preteens in line (I'm I now too old for Forever 21?!) who snickered every time my well-endowed ass bent over.

So that's it... proof that the Rule of Threes is alive and wreaking havoc on the world. And we thought it was only reserved for dead celebrities...

Domino's Tosses Cardboard out the Window

2010-01-12T10:15:00.000-08:00

I have to tell you about my new gastronomical obsession. As you've all seen on TV, Domino's has a new ad campaign aimed at airing out their dirty laundry. In the commercials they admit to cardboard crust and ketch-up like sauce, then discuss how they've bettered their recipes. I say bravo to anyone who actively seeks out constructive criticism, admits to their faults and then bravely works at improving them. And what a great theme for the New Year.

But what I love most of all is their new website where you can place your order then follow your pizzas in real time as they make their way from oven to quality check to the delivery boy's '89 Corolla. This "Tracker" device is inspired. My boyfriend treated us to two pies (only $5.99 a piece for 2 toppings) the other night in celebration of the NFL Playoffs. We oogled the screen in delight and surprise as our tasty slabs went from Prep to Bake. He was even able to contact the delivery boy directly to ask for Ranch dressing on the side. Isn't technology great!

You may think I'm making too big a deal out of this. But trust me, the end result was tasty and nothing like their old product. Now it's time to find a new pizza company to make fun of. Those awful Papa John's commercials are a good place to start...

"Deadwood" Showdown

2009-12-14T12:56:00.000-08:00

While I wait for "True Blood" to return I've gotten caught up in the HBO Old West showdown known as "Deadwood." Loaded with raunchy language, brothels, muddy boots, handlebar mustaches, whiskey shots and all sorts of murderous mayhem, it's definitely my kind of show. My roommate got my boyfriend and I season one for Christmukkah, swearing that it's the best written show in television history, and while the dialogue is entertaining and historically accurate (f***ing profanity and all) I'm not quite sure it takes the prize.

Now some may laugh at my suggestion that "Gilmore Girls" is one of the most expertly written shows ever to have aired, but never before has there been such a unique voice as writer Amy Sherman. Each line spoken has so many levels of meaning, intent and reference that you have to watch an episode three or four times (dictionary in hand and google at your fingertips) to get all of the humor. Crafted - that's the word I'd used to describe both her characters and her dialogue. (As a side note, "Six Feet Under" and "The Golden Girls" are runner's up in this catego

No, I love "Deadwood" not for dialogue but for the ambiance - that mixture of fear and excitement and adventure and freedom that the Old West conjures inside of me, as it did for pioneers, cowboys and scoundrels of ole. Now that the world has been mapped down to the square foot and we can google spy on every street in America, there's no more frontiers to explore. The unknown doesn't exist any longer. And maybe it's better that way, since as a race, we human's explorations tend to lead to bloody battles. But still, I can't help but sigh for a part of our history when life had possibilities out West and that by just stepping out of your wagon or saloon or homestead every morning, you were bound to have yourself an adventure.

Scrabble - More Than Just a Game

2009-12-11T08:30:00.000-08:00

If there's a rep from Hasbro reading this blog right now, I have a suggestion. Why just market Scrabble to hipster couples and empty nesters when you can market it to counselors and psychologists everywhere? Having played the game with family, friends and boyfriends, I can tell you that nothing in this world brings out the heart of a relationship (whether it's red or black as coal) faster or more effectively than a friendly game of "I-know-more-words-than-you", otherwise known as Scrabble.

You're not following? Okay, here's some examples:

1.) When I used to play with my mom as a kid, most games ended up with me feeling bitter and defeated. The woman is a wordsmith. At the time, I thought she was being mean. 'Wipe that smug smile off your face!' I wanted to say. But now I see she was just putting me in my place. What better way to show your child who the authority of the house is than to kick their butt at Scrabble? Really, it's a phenomenal parenting tool. You get to teach your child spelling while also showing them who's boss. Pure genius.

2.) My best friend and I used to play Scrabble after she got off work as a bartender. We'd play right there at the bar and, because I was always ahead in points, guys would stand over her shoulder trying to give her advice. This was the point in the game where we'd draw up our feminist sleeves and give them the what for, ultimately bringing us closer as friends and making us stronger women to boot. It also revealed to me her good character. As a tutor to her in Spelling in Elementary school, there really was never a chance she'd beat me at Scrabble, but she always tried and always gave it her all. Now that's what I call heart.

3.) Perhaps the best way for Scrabble to be used in the mental health community is in relationship and marriage counseling. Just put two people in front of that Scrabble board with its pink double word scores and blue triple letter scores and watch the gloves come off. If you're going to last, you can play without demeaning each other or crying. Or, if you two are passive aggressive, the game will help to bring your issues to light so you can work on them with your psychiatrist. Heck, I even think priests and rabbis should get in the mix, using Scrabble during their pre-marriage counseling sessions. I mean, why pussy-foot around when you can rip open wounds within fifteen minutes? Nothing like a handful of vowels or a word challenge to bring out the best and worst of humanity.

My boyfriend and I play all the time, and although he won the last game I don't hold any resentment. Honest I don't. Okay, well maybe a little... But that's the beauty of Scrabble. Just like any relationship has its ups and downs (romantic or otherwise), so does the game. Sometimes you lose. Sometimes you win. But if it's a strong bond, you keep playing the game and hope that in the end, it will all just even out.

The Oregon Trail

2009-12-09T09:05:00.000-08:00

Ladies - Do you have a man with marriage and kids on the brain? Does the thought make you break out in a cold sweat? Then, boy, do I have the answer for you. Download the old school computer game, The Oregon Trail, on your boyfriend's iPhone and for hours he can play out his male provider fantasies without the harmful side-effects - horrid white dress, stretchmarks, dirty diapers, college tuitions.

As a strapping pioneer my man protects me and our three beautiful children - Isabel, Greydon and Anderson. And guess what? I don't have to do anything because my gorgeous, dusty counterpart does all the mothering for me. It's a win-win! Of course, two of our children were snatched by bald eagles and the third died of typhoid, but the beauty with the Oregon Trail is that you can always start from scratch and get a whole new set of adoring faces to feed and keep safe from angry natives (who I really don't blame for axing off my arm the other day. I mean, they were there first.)

So, ladies, remember, if wedding dresses make you itch and small children frighten you (as they do me) then take a hint from Blackheart and download The Oregon Trail today... It won't keep him satisfied forever (you can only rebuild so many tornado struck wagons trains before you just give up), but at least it'll buy you some time while you take your biological clock in for repair.

"Oooooh, that smell. Can't you smell that smell?"

2009-12-08T10:44:00.000-08:00

The band Lynyrd Skynyrd said it best in their lyrics, "Ooh, ooh that smell. Can't you smell that smell? Ooh, ooh that smell. The smell of death surrounds youuuuu..." And my god, does it surround me. About one month ago, my boyfriend and I woke up not to the smell of coffee brewing... oh no... no Folgers in our cup... no, we woke up to a horrific stench emanating from our heating vents. So far we've tried everything.

1.) Turning off the heaters, which was fine until the temperature in Music City dropped to below 20 degrees at night.

2.) Pest control. Just a few weeks after the smell set in a mouse appeared in our house. We thought, "that's it!" The same thing happened to me in the Santa Cruz dorms. They had to pry the mouse corpse out of the wall and soon things returned to normal (i.e. the smell of dirty socks, cheap perfume and marijuana.) Turns out, however, that our Nashville mouse was a fluke. We did manage to catch some possums living under our house (they were set free elsewhere for all you animal lovers) and my cat, Jade, will never forget the day her stuffed mousy came alive and scuttled across the room (don't worry, we set that critter free, too.)

3.) We recycled that gigantic collection of molding glass in our laundry room (you have to take it to the recycle plant), but all that did was give me more room to dance as I fold clothes.

4.) The plumber thought we may have a sewage leakage somewhere. Nope, we don't. And that theory sounded so good!

5.) We had workers clean up and attend to the mold growing on the ceiling in my bathroom. Nope, not the source either.

6.) Ignore it. This is the step my boyfriend and roommate have now implemented. And I don't blame them. What else can we do? We live in the stinky house now. The one people make excuses not to come over to. We buy candles (the plug-ins just made it worse, yuck) and burn incense and try not to gag. "Oh no..." we tell friends, "it's not our house. It's the construction down the street. Open sewage line." Hell, maybe it is. Or maybe it's a haunting. We haven't tried an exorcist yet. Does anyone have a good number for one? I'll try anything once.

Mission Accomplished

2009-12-07T09:14:00.000-08:00

Well, I did it. Yes, ma'am. I wrote 50,000 words of a novel entitled "Anchor Them" in one month. I took the National Novel Writing Month challenge and came up a winner. You know what lesson I garnered from the whole experience? What gem of knowledge was left behind in its wake? What deep insight I learned about myself and my place in the world?... Well here it is...

I don't like writing novels.

There you go folks. I've always pondered in my mind what it would be like to be a famous novelist. To hole up in a cabin by a lake somewhere and pen my memoir. Or rent a villa in Tuscany to hash through my latest best seller. But now I know. It's not for me. I'm a screenwriter at heart. I like to write telling dialogue and to tell a whole universe in one frame. I don't like to bother with in depth description. Bo-ring. Grab the heart of the matter, the soul of your character, the core of your message, throw it up on screen in the most concise way possible and relish in the fact that you did it all in 120 pages.

Thoroughly-good For Your Soul

2009-11-11T09:55:00.000-08:00

In Spin Class today I was pleasantly surprised by the sub's awesome and eclectic taste in music, especially her choice of George Thorogood's "Who Do You Love?" What I love about that man and his lyrics is the real sense he instills of the Wild West - freedom, adventure, savage love, all the vices you can handle. I also appreciate his taste for the macabre, something I, myself, am trying to achieve in this National Novel Writing Month challenge - that colorful mixture of life and love and grit and madness and morbidity. In his lyrics you feel death looming around the corner, making his lyrics and you feel ever the more alive. (Kind of like my favorite television show "True Blood", really...) So below I've offered up this tune in all its lyrical glory. Enjoy it if you know what's 'good' for you.

George Thorogood & the Destroyers - Who Do You Love?

I walked forty-seven miles of barbed wire, I got a cobra snake for a necktie
A brand new house on the road side, and it's a-made out of rattlesnake hide
Got a band new chimney put on top, and it's a-made out of human skull
Come on take a little walk with me baby, and tell me who do you love?
Who do you love?
Who do you love?

Around the town I use a rattlesnake whip, take it easy baby don't you give me no lip
Who do you love?
Who do you love?

I've got a tombstone hand and a graveyard mind, I'm just twenty-two and I don't mind dying
Who do you love?
Who do you love?
Who do you love?

Now Arlene took a-me by my hand, she said "Lonesome George you don't understand,
who do you love?"
The night were dark and the sky were blue, down the alleyway a house wagon flew
Hit a bump and somebody screamed, you should've heard what I'd seen
Who do you love?
Who do you love?
Who do you love?
Who do you love?

Yeah, I've got a tombstone hand in a graveyard mine, just twenty-two baby I don't mind dying
Snake skin shoes baby put them on your feet, got the goodtime music and the Bo Diddley beat
Who do you love?
Who do you love?

I walked forty-seven miles of barbed wire, I got a cobra snake for a necktie
A brand new house on the road side, and it's made out of rattlesnake hide
Got a band new chimney put on top, and it's made out of human skull
Come on take a little walk with me child, tell me who do you love?
Who do you love?
Who do you love?

The United States of Racism

2009-11-08T16:47:00.000-08:00

Honestly, I can't take it anymore. When we elected our new president I thought to myself, "wow, we've done it. We've finally grown up as a country." Don't take me wrong, I wasn't under the assumption that's we'd eradicated racism. All you have to do is take the drive along Highway 40 from the West to Nashville, Tennessee to know racism still lurks in the dirty subconscious of our great nation. But, still, I was hopeful. I was also, unfortunately, blind.

This election has only fed the dragon, waking it from it's demonic underground lair so that it can wreak havoc on America, once again. All you have to do is turn on Fox news or flip on AM radio to see and hear the dragon spewing its venom across the airways, making gullible Americans mistake trash for truth. What is the real truth? Well, in things are pretty much the same as they were before the election. The sky isn't falling, Chicken Little. Swarms of locusts are descending on our crops. Socialists haven't taken over the country. The status quo is essentially still in effect. So we have a president who actually wants his people to be able to afford to see a doctor. Oh no! What ever will we do if the country's poor are suddenly leading long, healthy lives? How will be feel grateful for our lives if our fellow man isn't suffering by comparison? The terror!

Change is coming but the dragon is doing its scale-y, slimy best to burn it to a crisp. If you believe the hype the racists put out, you'd think we were experiencing Armageddon. And maybe were are. But it's not Obama ushering in this terrible realm, it's America's twisted hate. It's racism that's taking hold, dragging us down into the muck and mire. Once we as a country can call it what it is, we might actually be able to do something about it. Until that day, I'm going to start stocking up on flame retardant suits.

National Novel Writing Month - Take the Challenge!

2009-11-02T08:40:00.000-08:00

National Novel Writing Month has begun, folks, and in my desire to thrust myself off the cliff known as 'the comfortable life' I've decided to take the challenge. From November 1st until midnight November 30th the goal is to have written 55,000 words (about 175 pages) of a novel, the emphasis being on quantity, not quality. Here's some quotes I love from the website:

"Valuing enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft..."
"Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing."
"We can't do this unless we have some other people trying it as well. Let's write laughably awful yet lengthy prose together."

After trying, yet failing, to get another writer in my life to take the challenge with me, I thought I'd make the plea here. All it takes is a quick sign-up online. Winners (they count your words after midnight November 30th and then immediately erase your prose so there's no worry of plagiarism - you can also submit it scrambled if you're super paranoid) will get their names in the coveted Winners Circle online. Yes, it's a real challenge, but the point is to just go, man, go! Don't think about it too much. Just write for the mere sake of writing and see what wonderful crap you come up with. And please let me know if you sign up so I can add you as a writing partner.

By the way, the site also has a 'procrastination station' and tons of advice when you get stuck, not to mention motivational emails to get you pumped. So what the hell, let's keep our eye on that finish line and get our creative juices flowin'. Who's with me?!

Cleocatra

2009-10-28T12:41:00.000-07:00

Not much to say about this one other than 1.) I'm not a cat lady, I swear, but this is truly amazing 2.) She actually seemed to like it, posing for my roommate, giving us all her good angles and 3.) There is nothing better than cats in disguise. My boyfriend had already searched online for a ninja cat costumes but came up short. As luck would have it, though, while shopping for a gold pen for my Joan Holloway outfit at Target I stumbled upon three marvelous options for $5 - rooster, jester and pharaoh. I chose this one because of the golden cobra (duh) and because it's light-weight; therefore, suitable for her tiny head. Can't you just see her floating down the Nile, male cats fanning her fur and hand feeding her Whisker Lickins? If you can't, you have no imagination. By the way, these photos are a bit blurred because they were taken on my Blackberry. Still, I think they capture the essence of Cleocatra...

The Reason for Sports

2009-10-20T13:12:00.000-07:00

Call me naive, but I've never been able to wrap my head around sports mania. I mean what is it that attracts so many people to their TV screens, radios and sports arenas to watch men and women battle it out to prove their athletic superiority? Why do we care about these people? Why are blogs, television shows and newspaper articles dedicated to picking them apart? How do such strong emotions as love, hate, fear, anxiety, passion and zealousness find their way into something so relatively unimportant? Is baseball going to score a cure for cancer? Will football tackle the health care debate? Will basketball make a slam dunk in the fight against crime?

Bad puns aside, it all just seems like one big distraction from real life and from what really counts. Do we put our hopes and dreams into these super athletes so our dashed hopes and missed dreams don't seem as bad? If they can make gobs of money, score pretty ladies all over the globe and spend their days doing what they love, then it's not so bad that we're in debt to our ears, divorced (or considering it daily) and stuck in a dead end job.

Well, at least this is what I've felt for years. But something has changed recently as I watch my intelligent, go-getter, environment loving, money hungry boyfriend cherish every minute of his Sunday football/World Series extravaganza. When I met him I had no idea he was a sports fan. He just didn't fit the bill. Yes he was a living, breathing male - that should have been a tip off. But his cynicism, know-how, worldliness and "total lack of athletic ability" (his words, not mine) made me assume he thought sports were a joke, just as I did (a blackhearted, know-it-all cynic myself.) But, alas, I was wrong. The Red Socks, the Patriots, the Giants - they're all his friends. He's sad when they're sad and happy when they're happy.

Even if he's an anomaly, then what are the other reasons people watch sports and cheer on their teams? Here's a list of some food-for-thought theories I've come up with observing my boyfriend and other sports fans in their natural habitat:

It's a reason to eat really yummy snacks that you normally don't let yourself have. Greasy, cheesy, salty, fatty things that make life worth living.
It's a good way to put off important work - like paying the bills or writing that school essay.
It's a reason to drink copious amounts of beer and liquor. How can you justify screaming at the television screen if you're not hammered?
It's a reason to not "talk" about things - i.e. your partner knows not to bring up "the relationship" or the need for more cat litter when the game's on. (At least not until commercial.)
It provides a sense of purpose. If you didn't watch the game, then it's your fault if they lose. You're their good luck charm! You just know it!
It keeps life from feeling too serious. So you just found out your Aunt Diane has kidney failure and the stock market is plummeting... so what? You can think about them when the game's over.
It makes you feel a part of something. This is your team, your fellow fans, your sport.
It simulates war. Men love war. They're creating new wars all the time. And what is sports other than watered-down war games? The ball for the grenade. The interception for the coup. The touchdown for the bombing. The Super Bowl for the victory.
It helps you blow off steam. You don't need to yell at your business partner, wife or kids when you can yell at the referee and the other team's dumbass coach.
It give you something to talk about with your friends, family and coworkers. Conversation hit a speed bump? Can't think of what to say? Have nothing in common? Don't know how to bond with your son? Go to sports immediately. Ahhh, that's better. Now you're the best of chums.
It's okay to act like an idiot. Ever fancied painting your face, pounding your bare chest and screaming profanities at the top of your lungs in a large crowd? Sports let's you do that and still hold your head high. In fact, it's downright honorable.

When 'Comfortable' Is No Longer Comforting

2009-10-19T12:38:00.000-07:00

My brain has turned into soggy gray matter. I can feel is swishing back and forth against my skull as I twist and turn in Sculpt Class. If I even take our front steps too quickly, there it goes like an orange thrown against a trampoline. Why the sudden blobification of my most vital organ?... Comfort. I have grown far too comfortable with my life. The other day my boyfriend actually called me a "waiter," as in someone who waits, not a food service employee.

It's as if I'm waiting for something to happen to me, twiddling my thumbs, hoping for the best. I wake up. Go to the gym. Do some work. Eat a salad. Do some more work. Kiss my boyfriend when he gets home and then turn on the television and relax with Diet Ginger Hansen's and think "I deserve this for all my hard work." It's not a bad life by any stretch of the imagination, but the next morning I wake up thinking, what the hell did I actually accomplish yesterday besides firming by backside and making some money? Really, what? Well, the waiting ends today. This comfort is no longer comforting.

Every week I vow to do one activity that is out of my comfort zone. I'm not going to advance as a screenwriter, make friends in this new town of mine or really experience southern living until I take that mushy ball in my cranium and make it strong again. Take chances. Have adventures. Fail miserably and succeed beautifully.

First up, finally taking a banjo lesson. Playing an instrument scares me to death because 1.) I'm not musically inclined and 2.) I fear my teacher laughing at me or telling antidotes to his other students about that 'brain dead wannabe banjo player from LA' he teaches every Monday. Wonderfully uncomfortable, indeed, so this will be a great start. My brand new, practically unused banjo (if you count my pathetic attempt at learning from a dvd) is sitting collecting dust in the corner as it gently weeps. No more weeping; it's time to kick comfort to the curb and embrace uncertainty.

Compromise

2009-09-10T09:01:00.001-07:00

Moving in with someone means you have to learn to compromise. And by "compromise", of course, I mean do things you normally wouldn't do in order to get them to stop nagging you. The following is a list of the latest areas of improvement my darling live-in boyfriend has been generous enough to point out:

1.) After brewing a cup of coffee always immediately throw away the filter and rinds.
2.) Don't let the recycle bin get too full. It just makes it harder to carry outside.
3.) My Netflix queue is to be shared, not hoarded.
4.) Don't leave a dish dirty for more than 15 minutes after you're done eating. Immediately make your way to the dishwasher, do not pass Go, do not collect $100.
5.) Do not stop for gas in "bad" neighborhoods. You are bound to get raped and/or mugged.
6.) Do not jog down alleys. You are bound to get raped and/or mugged.
7.) Do not put vodka in the freezer. The bar must hold up to appearances and a missing staple, such as vodka, is suicide.
8.) Don't mix solid whites with light colors in the wash. Those babies must be bleached.
9.) Putting lemons, limes or tomatoes in the fridge drains them of their goodness. Do it, again; lose a hand.
10.) We don't need a large dresser. Clothes must be prioritized.
11.) A desk must always be by a window. Otherwise, your workspace becomes a prison.
12.) Do not tell a helicopter pilot in the Air Force that your friend's father flies helicopters for the Fire Department. It's insulting. (This one still has me scratching my head.)
13.) Only buy meat fresh and never from Trader Joes. Frozen buffalo burgers are a disgrace. Whole Foods is god.
14.) Don't recycle wine bottles. They make ideal ashtrays.
15.) And last but not least (now this is the rule I set down): Always kiss your partner when you come home from school.

Out with the Old

2009-07-27T18:50:00.000-07:00

In 3 weeks I will be leaving this metropolis we call LaLaLand and heading down South to the home of country music, better known as Nashville, Tennessee. As I wade through the dust and grime collecting on the piles of junk I've carried around all these years, I can't help but get a thrill every time I toss, recycle, sell or give-away an item, whether it be a Janet Jackson cassette tape or a bag of unused make-up wedges. Seriously, it's like a workout - you sweat, lose weight (i.e. the pounds of crap you're discarding) and work up an appetite. Haul enough storage bins to the garage, and you'll even tone muscle.

But what is it about getting rid of the old to make room for the new that's so satisfying and, well, liberating? It's almost as if I can breathe better without so much stuff lassoed to my being. I suppose it's all a part of letting go - the process isn't easy, but you're guaranteed to feel better afterward.

This gypsy heart of mine has always given me an advantage in forsaking old life chapters for new ones. I once had a roommate who saved everything she'd ever owned since childhood. She even kept her baby teeth in a jar. I'm not kidding for effect. This is the real deal. Some people just can't let go.

Then there was the old lady on my Meal on Wheels route in Santa Cruz. She lived in a house that was floor to ceiling full of trash, collectibles and memorabilia. You could barely move around, and I won't even get into the state of the fridge (or the smell of the house). It was truly tragic. Like Big Edie and Little Edie, there are those of us who'd rather see our gardens grey than give a go at a new surrounding.

If only we could all see places and objects as ephemeral - here today, gone tomorrow - then everyone could get the same thrill I'm having at selling my DVD/VHS player on Craigslist. I am not my DVD player; my DVD player is not me. That said, there's no way in hell I'm giving up my iPod.

Big Fat Bully

2009-06-30T17:33:00.000-07:00

We humans are such bullies. As my mom puts it to her cats, "I'm the boss mammal." And bossy we are. The other day I was driving down my street and watched in horror as a black Volvo crushed a little bird under its tires. Its partner (was it a mom, a baby, a boyfriend, a best friend...?) flew off, then hovered around its dearly departed, chirping and screeching and fluttering its wings. Just like that, a little life was snuffed out by a big human bully.

I was fuming about it all day. What makes us so special? Why should we have the power to decide which animals roam free and which end up on our plates, which trees get demolished and which get to provide shade for us at the beach, which flowers dot the landscape and which wind up in vases surrounded by dinner party guests? It's astounding the gall we humans have: the ways in which we play god everyday.

Then as I was driving to the gym later and witnessed a giant hawk or vulture swoop down and tear a piece of roadkill to pieces, carrying off a huge bloody chunk of flesh in its beak, I felt better knowing that at least one species was benefiting from all our bullying. Our angry tires, made his delectable dinner. Vultures feeding vultures... Maybe we're not so bad after all.

Nah, we're bullies.

Cat Asses

2009-06-24T14:15:00.000-07:00

In the past 2 weeks I have cleaned not one, but two, cat asses. This, my friends, is not my idea of a fun summer activity. The first was my cat Jade, a dried poo-ball stuck in her fluffy white butt. I had to clean it off, and then scrub her butt in the bathtub as she meowed and yowled like a banshee on crack. Blood curdling, glass shattering, ear drum popping shrieks, as if I were strangling her or sticking pins in her eyes. Our subletter must think I'm some sort of sadist. I kept yelling out, "Really, I'm not hurting her. She hates water!" just so she wouldn't call Animal Control on me.

The second offense occurred yesterday with my roommate's cat, Patrick - the big, furry gray beast with three legs. He has some sort of bladder inflammation, and after taking him to the vet, I noticed he had peed all over his backside. I couldn't let him walk around the house like that, poor dear, so I hosed him off. My arms now look like pin cushions, one particularly gnarly puncture wound currently turning black and blue. A poke hear, a poke there - I wore long sleeves to the gym because I was worried people would think I was a blind heroin addict.

The point of my story is to 1.) bitch and moan and 2.) hope that by writing about it, no other dirty cat butts will fall on my lap. I am no groomer, nor do I want to be. And most importantly, I'm slightly anemic and can't risk loosing any more blood. So, universe, could you lay off for a bit?

Sincerely,
Blackheart

David Sedaris Hates Me

2009-06-23T15:20:00.000-07:00

Yup, you read it right. One of my favorite authors in the world thinks I'm an utter disgrace. How did this come about, you may ask? It all began with a little book by the name of "When You Are Engulfed in Flames." A friend of mine gave it to me for my birthday last year, so when I heard Sedaris was holding a free signing in LA last Wednesday I jumped at the chance. I'm not really one to collect autographs, but there's something about a signed book by a renowned author that makes me feel better than other people.

However, things got dicey when I realized the said book was in Nashville with my boyfriend. Feeling bad, he offered to pay me back if I bought a used copy in town. Did and done. The literary shit then hit the fan, once again, when once arriving at Barnes & Nobles with friends, we realized you had to buy a new copy in store to be allowed to get it signed. "Since when? The website didn't say anything about it!" I demanded answers. Apparently it's a special deal Sedaris made with the bookstore. I was beginning to smell a sellout. Needless to say, I had to buy yet a 3rd copy of the book to be returned at a later date once I got through and had my used copy signed. Sound confusing? It was.

But nothing beats the four hours, no four and a half hours, I spent in line alone once my friends - off to bigger and better plans - ditched me, their unsigned books in my hands. My stomach growled. I wished that I'd brought snacks or at least my Updike book club pick. I'd already read the Sedaris book cover to cover. Plus, the line weaved through the worst sections of the book store - Sports, Automobile, Crosswords (particularly painful since you can't very well do one and then put it back in place), Expecting Mothers. Gross. I did manage to look up the car I'm selling in the 2009 Kelley Blue Book. One small victory.

After making friends with the girl ahead of me, taking deep breaths to calm my nerves and flipping through a fabulous book of postcards entitled "Cute Animals Delivering Bad News", it was finally my time to meet the MAN. I had been watching as he spent fifteen minutes with each person, smiling and making little notes in his pocket notebook. Would they end up in his newest essay? His journal? A NY Times article? Would I make the cut?

That's when I blew it. Blew it big time. I had been praying he wouldn't ask what I did, as I'd hate to tell a professional writer of his caliber that I'm a small fry writer myself. But guess what? Bingo. You got it. He asked what it was that I write. "Screenwriting and an online column." I didn't want to mention the commercial treatments because people always want an explanation of what they are, and I have to watch dismayed as their eyes glaze over in confusion and boredom.

He pushed further about the column, and when I told him it revolved around frugality in LA he asked for an example. Well, I'd written about free book signings. "What about them?" he asked. "Just that they're a great way to meet your favorite author. I also talked about books in general." "What about books?" he prodded. "That used bookstores are a wonderful option and your library of course--"

Silence. A look of pure hatred spread over the jolly man's face. "So what other than telling people to not give author's their proper royalties, do you talk about in your column?" The only thing I could think to say? "Uh-oh. I'm the asshole." He tried to revert to his friendly demeanor, but his agent kept shifting her eyes to the exit trying to get me to take the hint. I couldn't leave, though. I had four damn books to sign! And the man kept asking me all sorts of questions. My palms were sweating. I felt lightheaded. I had to get out.

Later, as I drank a glass of wine to wash down the feeling that I was for once in my life 'the douchebag', I read over what he wrote in each book. They are as follows:

Erin: "Diabetes is for lovers."
Katy: "I'm so angry you're not here."
Lindsay: "I'm glad you're alive."

And last but not least:

Me: "Your story touched my heart."

Bea Sting

2009-05-04T14:07:00.000-07:00

I'm distraught. I'm totally down-and-out. I could use a shot of whiskey. Why? Because my beautiful Bea Arthur has left this world and gone back to the nature from hence she came. When I heard she passed away last week I was driving on the 10 freeway, and my utter shock and profound grief nearly caused an accident. Bea was part of my comedy trinity.

1.) Lucille Ball
2.) Bea Arthur
3.) Tina Fey

First Lucy, then Bea, and now it's down to Tina to hold it together. Have you gotten your annual checkup, Tina? Mammogram? Swine Flu vaccine? These three ladies make me want to be a better comedian. A better writer. A better loony dame.

I still watch "Golden Girls" and vehemently contend that it's one of the best shows ever written and performed. The ladies from "Sex and the City" owe it all to Dorothy, Rose, Blanche and Sophia. But Dorothy was always my favorite. She was me, only taller and with gray hair. Sarcastic, cunning, witty, cynical. What a lady. You'll be sorely missed, my dear. Every time I hear a bass toned cackle of laughter floating on the breeze, I'll know it's your spirit having a laugh at my expense.

Boldly Go to the New Star Trek Film Next Friday

2009-04-30T13:26:00.000-07:00

As a child I was only allowed to watch several hours of television a week. This meant careful timing and organization on my part to make sure I got in all my favorite cartoons and, later, the scandalous "90210". However, there was a catch. I could watch anything my parents were watching, and it wouldn't count toward my hours. So there I sat through episode after episode of "Miami Vice" and "Star Trek." What began as mere curiosity and a borderline obsessive need for entertainment, whatever the cost, (I was an only child) turned into a love affair with Sonny Crockett and Mr. Spock.

My favorite, above all, was Star Trek. The camp. The sexuality. The do-gooder, futuristic Peace Corps mentality of the Academy. The bold wardrobe choices. It was a nearly perfect world where race wasn't an issue and women fired phasers. My mom even had a Trekkie friend who would get us free tickets to the conventions, where we would watch in amazement as perfectly normal people let their freak flags fly. My inner freak wanted to jump up for joy, but I didn't dare became one of them: just a starship voyeur. That said, somewhere deep in a box in my garage is a collection of Star Trek trading cards, a stack of autographed headshots of the stars (both original and Next Generation) and a faux, gold USS Enterprise charm necklace...

With this history of "seeking out new life and new civilizations," you can image my delight when my roommate scored me a seat to a Family & Friends screening of the new Star Trek - a prequel look into where it all began. I don't want to give anything away, but I do want to encourage both fans and Star Trek virgins alike to boldly get thee to a theater next Friday and take a journey into the farthest reaches of our galaxy. It may not be the best sci-fi movie ever made, but the action is good, the script funny and often poignant, the special effects dork worthy and the story one hell of a fun ride. And for all of you who fell asleep in the modern film version of "Miami Vice," as I did, this more than makes up for the disappointment.

So live long and prosper and don't forget to sneak in a bag of popcorn instead of paying full price at the concession stand. If I was a Starfleet alien, I'd be a Frugalian.

Ahh, irony...

2009-04-24T15:36:00.000-07:00

Just a quick anecdote about an incident that occurred on the set of the Carson Daily show the other day. When lining up to get paid I noticed a young man standing behind the fence to the studio lot yelling at one of our audience wranglers. Turns out said gentleman was kicked out because he was caught taping the show on his cell phone, and was now demanding to be paid. I listened for nearly ten minutes as he swore up and down that he wasn't taping the show and that he was only trying to turn off his cell phone as to not distract Mr. Daily.

While listening to him beg and plead his innocence, I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder. The guy waiting in line behind me started laughing and turned my attention to the angry man's shirt. I swear to you that the following is true. Written on this dude's shirt - the same man who was currently insisting on his honorable word - was: "I'm probably lying." No joke. Pure irony. If only all of us would wear something so blantant as a warning to others. Here are a few I've come up with that would have really helped me in the past had certain people warned me.

1.) I have a girlfriend.
2.) I'm a Scientologist.
3.) I'll never change.
4.) Don't sit next to me on the plane: I have gas.
5.) I'm manic and have stopped taking medication.
6.) I'm going to use your deod0rant and make-up as soon as you leave for class.
7.) I'll talk behind your back.
8.) I don't like cats.
9.) I used to be a professional juggler.
10.) I snore.
11.) I'm going to let you wash my dirty Calvins for 3 years, and then break your heart.

Anyone else have any they wish people would wear?

P.S. If you're a fan of lists, check out my friend Kim's new blog dedicated to all things numbered and bulleted. http://thelistlessmistress.blogspot.com/

Winter Time and the Speakin's Easy

2009-03-16T12:02:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday night, some girlfriends and I went to a speakeasy downtown in the back room of Cole's French Dip. At this particular secret drinking chamber, the bartender, clad in 1930s apparel, greets you at the door and ushers you to the bar or table where you order from a menu of mad scientist type concoctions, all featuring one single giant ice cube and pretentious, yet wonderful, ingredients such as rose water and absynth. There's also an old-fashioned piano that would normally have someone keying it if it weren't for the fact that it was broken.

I only bring this special occasion up because it got me thinking about the allure of secret back rooms. Every since I was a little girl I've always wondered 'what goes on in there?' It started with the closets in my teachers' classrooms. You know the one: the tiny room she would disappear to and then bring confiscated toys or aging textbooks out of. It was truly fascinating. So fascinating that I spent a lot of time in my own closet at home, building forts, rearranging my shelves of My Little Ponies and making secret pacts with friends out of my parents' ear reach.

Now I've never been to a strip club except in Vegas - the Disneyland version of sin, so it doesn't count - but as my male friends will tell me, the back room has a great deal of attraction in these type of establishments as well. Casinos, bars, nightclubs, banks, designer clothing stores, wineries, uppity restaurants, sneaker shops... they all have a secret back room or two that we'd love to get into. But why exactly? Why does VIP hold any appeal? Why does the fact that something is 'secret' and exclusive make it so intriguing? It's true, there's some back rooms you hope to avoid, like the judge's chambers or the back room at the vets or HIV clinic. But generally speaking, we love a good secret. And once it's no longer exclusive or it's too popular we brush it aside like stale hamburger meat. Ick, gross, don't want to go there.

I'm not suggesting we do away with these places. Like I said, my fascination with them began in childhood, but I would like to hear your opinions on the motivation behind their existence and subsequent cultural obsession. What's the psychology there? Is it healthy? Or do these places represent a darker side of ourselves that we'd do best to avoid? I can't wait to hear your feedback. Until then, I'm going to try to find someone to get me into Magic Castle once and for all, damnit!

Beware of Dog... Really???!!!

2009-03-11T11:28:00.000-07:00

Here's the thing, I simply don't trust people who post 'Beware of Dog' signs. Take my neighbor across the street. You know what his sign said to me before I even caught a glimpse of him? Macho guy, doesn't respect women, drinks cheap beer and probably has tattoos. Stereotyping? Nope. Dead on. I won't get into it, but let's just say there's a small battle going on between my roommate and his over-sized pick-up truck that he consistently parks in front of our house even when his own curb is free and clear. Not only that, but he parks four feet behind every car instead of pulling up to allow another vehicle to park. Besides, I think if you have to warn people that your dog is a dick, then you probably are one too. Oh, and I caught him carrying home a 12 pack of Natty Ice - tattoos visibly present - so once again, ladies and gentlemen of the court, I've proven my case.

If I had my way, I'd swap out all the 'Beware of Dog' signs of the world with one of the following, all of which can apply to men who put up these signs (honestly, I highly doubt women thinks, 'oh you know what this gate needs?... a giant police sketch of a snarling dog!'):

1.) Beware of Ego
2.) Beware of Machismo
3.) Beware of my Enormous Beer Belly
4.) Beware of Domestic Abuse
5.) Beware of Noxious Gas
6.) Beware of Small Phallus

There you go! Now we're really being honest. It's not your dog we should be aware of, but you. Nope, I simply don't trust people with 'Beware of Dog' signs. 'Beware of Cat' signs... now there's someone I can drink a glass of sherry with.

Introducing Your New LA Frugal Living Examiner...

2009-03-09T15:01:00.000-07:00

Never one to hold back my warped views of the world, I now have the pleasure of introducing my new frugal way of life to a larger audience. Please check me out at Examiner.com where I am the new LA Frugal Living Examiner (under Home & Living, Los Angeles) to keep up with my journey into the land of 'living in my means'. As for this blog, it's back to my blackhearted discussions of love, friendship, fun and adventure. So for more frugal tips, advice and thoughtful reflections go to http://www.examiner.com/x-4969-LA-Frugal-Living-Examiner. Thanks, everyone! And stay cheap...

Frugal Thought #4: Just Say No

2009-02-20T16:55:00.000-08:00

Ever since I went freelance my motto has been 'Yes!' Yes to travel. Yes to adventure. Yes to fun. Yes to life. But being frugal and saving money is not about 'yes': it's about 'no'. And what an ugly word that can be...'no'. It can mean no leisurely Sunday brunches with friends, no weekend getaways, no dinner and dancing, no overpriced movies, no round trip plane tickets to see my boyfriend in Nashville, no cocktails that don't come from the well... no damn fun.

Grocery shopping has become just about the essentials. I can't even remember the last time I allowed myself to splurge on sparkling water or vegan cookies at Trader Joe's. Going out has become an anxiety inducing trauma as I become the annoying 'poor' friend who brings everyone down and reminds them what life was like in college. So what do I do instead? Workout. Read. Listen to music. Write. Watch Oprah. All great activities, but all a bit lonely.

Perhaps I need to find some poor starving artists like myself who live cheap and free and happy and take up with them. Plant some organic carrots, learn how to sew, travel the Renaissance Fair circuit selling homemade jewelry, play my banjo on the street corner, sell oranges by the freeway, turn in bottles and cans for cash or wrangle up some nude modeling gigs at an art school for the blind.

For now, though, it looks likes I'm just going to have to embrace my new life of 'no'. Take it like a pro and stop complaining. It's just hard when your heart says 'yes' but your head insists on the logical. Perhaps someday in the near future I'll be able to turn that frown upside down and scream from the mountain tops, "Yes, yes, yes! Fill up my Whole Foods salad container until it brakes the scale, pass the bottle of Belvedere, take me through the Starbucks drive-thru, fork over that soy chorizo scramble with a side of $3 avocado slices!" Here's hoping that day comes sooner than later... because man am I hungry.

Frugal Thought #3: Blood, Sweat & Tears

2009-02-11T11:44:00.000-08:00

I have a new obsession, and I'm afraid it's not very socially acceptable. So (deep breath) here goes... I'm obsessed with... blood. I can't stop myself. It all started with my frantic reading of all four Twilight novels until the wee hours in the morning and then led to my current addiction to HBO's True Blood (I'm only on episode 7, so please, no spoilers.) But apparently it's not the vampires I'm obsessed with but the hemoglobin itself because I did the unthinkable recently and signed up with the Red Cross to donate my own O positive life force.

With my new frugal lifestyle in mind, and the constant inner guilt from listening to the KCRW pledge drive with my broke hands tied, I decided what better way to give back when you're down and out then to give your time. LA Works has an amazing site (http://www.laworks.com/HomePage/index.php/home.html) where you can view a calendar of volunteer opportunities in LA over many months and instantly sign up. A huge array of organizations use them to recruit, so you could find yourself doing anything from building wheelchairs to feeding the homeless in the Mission District. (I recently signed up with a friend for the Tree People project this Saturday, but that's for another blog.)

Let's face it, though, some of us don't even have time and sweat to give to planting trees, so that leads to my bright idea to donate myself... my blood, that is. Look at the Red Cross website (https://www.givelife.org/index_flash.cfm?thisHB=02/10/2009%2010:50:24) for a location near you. It only takes about 20 minutes of your day and you get some free cookies and juice afterward, which to a starving writer with a sweet tooth (or should I say, fang), is more than enough incentive. Plus, if you find yourself shedding a tear or two at the sight of a needle in your arm, the more you've given of yourself to the cause. Bravo, I say. Blood, sweat and tears trump money any day.

Frugal Thought #2: Sell It, Don't Smell It

2009-02-04T13:27:00.000-08:00

You got an Ipod? An external hard drive? Then what the hell are you waiting for? Sell those outdated CDs and go digital. I recently downloaded every single CD I own (except my Christopher Guest autographed copy of the Spinal Tap soundtrack - over my dead body) and then backed it up with my new and fabulous La Cie hard drive (http://www.lacie.com/us/products/product.htm?pid=10949)
That's the link to their site, but I recommend buying it cheaper on Amazon (thanks for the tip, roomie!). Now my Ipod is synced and ready to go, and I don't have to shuffle 300 CDs around every time I move. So step 2 of The Year of Frugal Thinking is to begin to streamline your life. Get rid of the clutter and make a few bucks while you're at it. Amoeba Records (http://www.amoe ba.com/content/sell-used-cds-dvds-lps.html) is a pretty cool place to sell if you don't mind having an uber hipster intensely looking over your collection as though he's judging your worthiness as a human being. So I have a Britney album alongside Zappa, so what! I can get In The Zone as much a I can dig an Amarillo Brillo, and frankly, I think that makes me a well-rounded individual so take that smug look off your face before I choke you with your own Emo checkered scarf. Anyway, I made about $80 there (opt for the cash over trade-in, remember we're trying to make money here, people) but took in nearly $200 at Second Spin (http://www.secondspin.com/?gclid=CNK37Kbxw5gCFRYiagodUFvw2g) where they couldn't care less if some of the CDs were a bit scratched or that I had a penchant for Salt n' Pepa, meditation music and Willie Nelson. And, not to mention, there wasn't a checkered scarf in sight. The girl was more like a character out of the movie "Airheads" (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0109068/). If you're not familiar with this exceptional film, netflix it (along with "Empire Records" while you're at it.) It's amazing and a hell of a lot cheaper than a trip to the movie theater. Plus, when you're broke, you can always use a good laugh.

The Year of Frugal Thinking

2009-02-02T14:25:00.000-08:00

As a Blackheart, and black being a color consisting of all other colors, you would think green would be running through my veins. Not the case these days. Hard economic times have befallen your gypsy friend, so new rules of living (and thinking!) have to be set into place. For the next year I'm going to be delving into the world of the poor and imaginative, trying to find ways to stay afloat. If you'd like to come along for the ride and maybe learn a thing or two about the life of a starving artist, please continue to follow my blog. That's not to say that every entry will be financially focused. I'm no Suzy Orman; too much money talk makes me dizzy. I would like to start, however, with one venture I've recently turned to... the monotonous glee of paid audience work. Twice in past two weeks I've dragged my butt into Hollywood to wait in line outside a studio to be ushered into the audience seat at a talk show. There are plenty of shows in Los Angeles that have less audience members vying for tickets to taping than I have money in savings. If you log into Craigslist Los Angeles and check under TV & Film Jobs http://losangeles.craigslist.org/tfr/
you can usually find a posting for paid audience work. If you call the number to sign up, and it leads you to a voicemail recording, hang up and keep calling like when you tried to win NKOTB concert tickets over the radio in fifth grade. At least that's the comparison that works for me. The pay is minimal, but it's cash and given out directly after the show. And who knows, you might stumble upon a great show and end up enjoying yourself. Personally, I've really become an expert fake laugher, not to mention I am developing clap callouses on both palms which are essential for those back-to-back double show tapings. Oh, and if you are a writer like myself, you'll meet the most vibrant cast of characters seated to either side of you. You never know when inspiration may hit or when a friendly peacenik hippie mom trying to earn a few extra bucks after her costly tattoo removal might offer you some baby carrots and an assortment of organic roasted nuts (Thanks, again, Jane!).

So for more tips and anecdotes in this Year of Frugal Thinking stay tuned. And for god's sake don't try to sell your used underwear on Craigslist. It's just not worth it.

Master Oogway

2009-01-24T13:13:00.000-08:00

"The past is history. The future is a mystery. And today is a gift. That's why it's called, 'the present'."

Sage advice from a turtle. They must have a lot of time to think as they hide under their shells. This quote is from the film "Kung Fu Panda," and it struck me as one hell of a meaningful sucker punch to my intellect... and not just because it rhymes. Lately I'm been thinking a lot about the past and future. The article I published recently deals with a time forgotten, and while I had written it some years back, seeing it online and having others read it, really threw me back into that head space for a spell. And then, ah, the future - something that's been plaguing me since the ball dropped on 2008. All the questioning, all the worrying, all the anxiety of what's to come has had me in a in a perpetual state of nausea. As my time in Los Angeles, writing and struggling and dating and hobnobbing, comes to a pinnacle four year anniversary (there goes that damn past, again, rearing it's ugly head), I've been left with a growing pain in my gut telling me I haven't done nearly enough. I mean, I haven't even eaten at The Ivy yet, for god's sake, not to mention sold a feature. So this wise old turtle couldn't have come into my life at a better time. For now, I just have to focus on the present - the gift that keeps on giving, day after day after day - and leave all that stress for some executive trying to get distribution for his feature over lunch at The Ivy.

Published, Baby!

2009-01-19T10:06:00.000-08:00

I have a short story that I wrote several years ago being published today on the online literary magazine Flask and Pen. Check it out!

http://flaskandpen.com/bath-water/

Rage Against the Metabolism

2008-12-12T19:46:00.000-08:00

I just want to say that it isn't funny. I'm not laughing. Why is it that as I near 30 my metabolism has decided to slow down like a party girl on GHB? I used to dance in the crowd, but now I'm slumped over a chair in the dark corner of the VIP room, or worse, on the floor of the bathroom stall. I eat the same. I workout the same. But for some ungodly reason I'm expanding in all directions. I am the Big Bang Theory. So what do I do? Fight? But how? Diet pills, more lemonade and cayenne, Spin classes two times a day, give up everything that means anything to me - dark chocolate, goat cheese, Santa Fe garden burgers from Astroburger? Even my splurges are healthy, so what gives? Am I doomed to never wear my skinny jeans again? Does it only get worse from here or can I pull a Dylan Thomas and "rage, rage against the dying of the light"? I suppose I could get rich and hire a personal nutritionist and trainer. Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. Or I could get really poor and not have enough food to eat. Nah, no fun. I'd probably end up eating one of the cats, which would be truly terrible. Ok, so until I get rich, rage it is. Rage Against the Metabolism... Does anyone know of a good fasting tea?

West With the Night

2008-11-30T22:51:00.000-08:00

"Why am I gazing at this campfire like a lost soul seeking a hope when all that I love is at my wingtips? Because I am curious. Because I am incorrigibly now, a wanderer."
-West With the Night, by Beryl Markham

Beryl, a race horse trainer turned airplane pilot in the 1920s & 30s, was raised and spent most of her life in the country she loved, Africa. Reading her memoir now I can't help but relate to every word on the page, but this quote especially stood out to me as a wonderful expression of what it means to be an eternal wanderer. It's not as if the place you stand has no value. In fact, once gone from it, nostalgia often takes over, creating lasting memories that lean toward exaggeration. What was once a pretty fun time, becomes a pinnacle of enjoyment. What was once a relaxing vacation, becomes the utmost time of Zen in your life. So, yes, there is a great deal of value in the current position, place and time. But what underlines it all is an undying urge to try something new. To explore new territory and devour new experiences. And no one did that better than Beryl. As a small girl she wanted to hunt like the Murani tribesmen, so she shadowed them every chance she could get, despite near death escapes from lions and other jungle predators. She wanted to train horses like her father, so she did, on her own at the age of seventeen in the middle of a largely unexplored, wild land. She wanted to fly planes, so she learned to fly a Gypsy Moth, over elephant herds and into villages that no cars could go. She amazes me, but what gives me pause is the question, "Would I amaze her?" Probably not. So this is what I'm going to work on. This is my New Years Resolution. To amaze Beryl Markham posthumously. It's as good a goal as any other, and definitely more rewarding than being five pounds slimmer or giving up my morning cup of coffee. If I'm going to be a wanderer, I better get my moccasins on and start moving.

Fun with Flan

2008-11-13T15:47:00.000-08:00

Just a quick observation about my new neighborhood. The one difference I've noticed living in a predominantly Mexican-American neighborhood is that no matter what grocery store you find yourself in, there is an abundance of flan for sell. All shapes, sizes and flavors. Coffee-flavored flan at Fresh & Easy - who ever heard of such a hybrid? I never realized to what extent flan was a truly popular dessert. I thought it was just one of those cultural things that people talk about but never really eat, like fruit cake for caucasians. My last memory of flan was a flan food fight we had at my high school in the cafeteria. That stuff can really fly, and it's quite buoyant, even against wool-blended plaid skirts. Plus, it stays in its original form during air transit no matter the velocity of your throw, which is nice if you are aiming at a particular person, such as that b***h who had the nerve to invite your boyfriend to Homecoming or that dork who dressed as Xena the Warrior Princess on career day. So I guess what I'm saying is, when in Rome do as the Romans and get yourself some dragonberry flan and call it a day.

Tyra Has a Point?

2008-08-17T11:44:00.000-07:00

I hate to give credit to a supermodel of any kind, but I was watching our favorite person to hate the other day, Miss Tyra Banks, and found myself actually interested in the show's topic. It was about men who were married or in relationships and outside female friendships, whether they were dangerous, disrespectful, harmless or even beneficial. In true talk show format, everyone had a different opinion.

Some women thought it was okay as long as the man hung out with his female friend in a larger group or when his wife/girlfriend was also there. Some thought it was okay only if it was a superficial friendship and that there was no "emotional cheating." This means basically they could drink beer together and talk about sports but under no circumstances anything truly relevant in their lives. Then others thought it was no big deal at all. Of course, the only ones who thought that were the men. But still, dissent is dissent and should be noted. Lastly, there was the "When Harry Met Sally" school of thought that says men and women can never truly be just friends. That there will always either be some type of feeling from one or both parties or that the bond between friends of the opposite sex undermines the relationships with their partners since their partner should be their best friend and "enough".

This is where Tyra firmly stood. I'm not sure I totally agree with her. We all get different things out of different friendships. Plus, I think a lot of it has to do with her own past. Girl dated a basketball player, and we all know that's bad news. Also, there's the small, no... large, matter of ego. As a wise person told me, "the girl who recognizes she is jealous is your true self. The girl who is jealous is your ego." So perhaps Tyra's ego is the reason behind her stance. Maybe she's the jealous type because of some insecurity, blah blah blah.

But then maybe, just maybe the former supermodel turned talk show diva has a point just as Billy Crystal did when he said the same thing in that famous cross country road trip with Meg Ryan. It's hard to tell, but the man also said in the same film, "When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible." And ain't that the truth. Besides, once Harry realized he loved Sally I guarantee he stopped making friends with cute blonds. Finally, for once in his life, he had "enough." But that's the movies. And life, like Tyra Banks the person, is far more complicated...

... F' it, I can't resist, one more quote from Billy to showcase his infinite wisdom. The following is from "City Slickers".

Mitch: "Value this time in your life kids, because this is the time in your life when you still have your choices, and it goes by so quickly. When you’re a teenager you think you can do anything, and you do. Your twenties are a blur. Your thirties, you raise your family, you make a little money and you think to yourself, What happened to my twenties? Your forties, you grow a little pot belly, you grow another chin. The music starts to get too loud and one of your old girlfriends from high school becomes a grandmother. Your fifties you have a minor surgery. You’ll call it a procedure, but it’s a surgery. Your sixties you have a major surgery, the music is still loud but it doesn’t matter because you can’t hear it anyway. Seventies, you and the wife retire to Fort Lauderdale, you start eating dinner at two, lunch around ten, breakfast the night before. And you spend most of your time wandering around malls looking for the ultimate in soft yogurt and muttering, "How come the kids don’t call? How come the kids don’t call?" By your eighties, you’ve had a major stroke, and you end up babbling to some Jamaican nurse who your wife can’t stand but who you call mama. Any questions?"

Clogged Drain

2008-07-09T13:22:00.000-07:00

Today I dragged myself out of bed and my Benadryl induced slumber to march to the store and buy some Liquid Plumber. You see, my bathtub is stopped up, and lately I've been showering in a pool of water. I pretend I'm in the tropics in an outdoor shower, rainwater gently collecting at my feet from a summer storm. But even that's worn off, and now I just feel white trash. So as I wait for the chemicals to do their magic, I can't help but think that this situation illustrates the state I've been in lately.

You see, I've had trouble writing. It's not for want of ideas. I have a ton lurking beneath the surface. It just seems that every morning I think to myself, 'tomorrow will be a great day to write.' Or I convince myself that the next trip I embark on will provide me with the space and motivation I need to write. But it doesn't, and the putrid cycle continues. It's like I'm clogged. Something inside me is preventing me from putting my ideas and characters and plots onto paper. Ok, that's passe... onto the computer screen.

Now I just have to figure out what's clogging me up, find the tools to dislodge it and then watch as my imagination gushes out. Man, this is one disgusting analogy. Truly horrific. But i think it can apply to other areas of life... love, career, health, spiritual growth. Not to sound new age, but we all need a little Liquid Plumber now and then to get us back on the right track, or as in my case, so we can take a much needed shower.

Something To Work On...

2008-06-13T13:59:00.000-07:00

I've decided that with my birthday rapidly approaching I need to start working on my New Year's resolutions. This week's goal: patience. Why is it so hard? Why? Tell me someone! Quick!

Patience is one of the hardest things for me to master. I want what I want and I want it now. I've even begun to mark off days of the calendar. This is a true sign of not living in the moment, as if two intersecting black lines will make a future event come that much quicker. The worst part of impatience is that it's a gateway neurosis. It leads to nervousness which leads to anxiety which leads to frustration and then, often times, anger. And no one likes an angry female. Even Rosie the Riveter had a smile on her face.

So here's the plan when impatience rears its ugly head: stop, take three deep breaths and then find something to take my mind off it... preferably something pleasurable and/or relaxing. The John Adams miniseries worked particularly well this week. Thank you, HBO. There's nothing like period costumes and proper English to calm the mind.

The Wild Wild West

2008-05-12T17:04:00.000-07:00

Back from Santa Fe with many more wild west adventures under
the belt. Wrote this on the plane:

"I dream of wild Huck Finn adventures,
Swallowed by the road.
Terminally restless,
Body young but the spirit old.
Longing to be free and follow every whim,
We swim in the desert soil
And plow the Rio Grande.
The mystery is in the adventure,
A new start everyday.

Aspens full of light and giant tents of stone,
Quiet, deserted churches and drying desert bones.
Red hot cacti blossoms catching the western wind,
Endless paths of magic becoming your truest friends.
They speak to me of lives not yet lived,
That I want to capture whole.
At times guilty for who I am,
I'm tormented and blessed by my wanderer's
soul."

Best Weekend Eva!!!

2008-04-30T15:37:00.000-07:00

The title of this blog says it all. Nothing like an 80s party to get the creative juices flowing. I'd like to thank our muses Robert Palmer and Jem for supplying us with pure inspiration. This picture, taken by a delightful crackhead in downtown LA is priceless but not nearly as great as the pics from the roof with the neon "HOT" in the background from a skanky hotel with a few lettered lights out. I'd post them on this blog but then everyman in his right mind would want to stalk me and my friends. What can I say... Might as well face it... We're simply irresistible.

Oh, and if anyone wants or need a blowup guitar, I happen to have one sitting idle at my house.

The Pursuit of Happiness

2008-04-14T14:48:00.000-07:00

Saw Eddie Vedder at the Wiltern in LA last night (3rd row seats thanks to dad's fanclub status!) after a 10 mile hike in the Palisades in 90 degree heat. Utterly awesome and inspiring. The reason I bring this up is because I've been trying hard lately to figure out exactly what makes me happy so that I can follow a strick diet of fun and contentment. This idea came to me after seeing the films "Into the Wild" and "Pursuit of Happyness" and an episode of Oprah with Eckhart Tolle (stifle the laughter, please.) All three had messages of following your bliss, freedom and living in the moment. And I concluded that if I'm going to live in the now, then that "now" better be an enjoyable one. After my weekend, I can now add nature, exercise, going the cinema and live music to my list. Those are obvious choices, but my weekend spent doing solely these things reinforced the idea.

Also added to my list is mochi and read bean cakes from Little Tokyo. Hell, I really don't care where they're from as long as they're fresh and in my mouth. Sipping tea also makes me happy. Coffee, as I've unfortunately come to realize, only makes me happy for a few hours, then it's acid reflux city limits. Eating out makes me happy as long as someone else is footing the bill, it's vegan or it's a bargain. Audience work for $8 an hour on "American Gladiators" does not make me happy, but cash under the table certainly does. Skydiving makes me happy, which is something I just did for the first time with the newly founded Bite the Bullet Club. Next stop for us, Mt. Whitney. That mountian (the highest in the lower 48 states) will make a woman outta me yet.

Temp work does not make me happy. Writing treatments, believe it or not, does. My family makes me happy. My friends make me happy. Large salads make me happy. Historical mini-series make me happy and my boyfriend taking the time out to research our trip to Santa Fe makes me almost giddy. These are all insights from the last week. Stay tuned for more and start to make a list of your own. The list part, really, is easy. It's adhering to it that's the hard part, but I'm doing all I can to follow in Supertramp and Mr. Gardner's footsteps... although I don't think my list includes the Alaskan wilderness without a map or sleeping in a subway bathroom.

"Freelancers' Guilt"

2008-03-05T15:48:00.001-08:00

I'm coining a new phrase that should have self-help gurus rushing to their laptops to pen the next Oprah Book Club best seller. It's called "freelancers' guilt"...

I took a hike today up Runyon Canyon with an actress friend of mine. Here, in the middle of a work day when most of our friends and family were off slaving away in the office, we were soaking up sunshine, getting some exercise and stuffing our faces with Santa Fe Gardenburgers from Astro. You think an activity like this would make you happy. That it would relax you and simultaneously revive your spirit. But not these freaks. So we got to talking about this guilt you have as a freelancer working from job to job and often having tons of free time in between. It's as if you can't sit and enjoy yourself because you're always too busy anxiously thinking about the future.

As a writer, I feel like I have to be doing something proactive all hours of the day, and that a day spent simply enjoying myself will tip the scales of career karma and send me down a dark unemployed shaft from whence I'll never return. It's sick, isn't it? That's when it gets really bad because I start feeling guilty for feeling guilty. This is what I always wanted, right? So the fact that I'm not happy, or more appropriately, anxious and stressed out for no apparent reason, must mean I'm a bad person and deserve to never get another gig again. God, it's ugly.

So if anyone has any advice on how to relive the "freelancers' guilt" so that I can enjoy this time in my life and let the future take care of itself, please pass it on. Or, better yet, write a book about it, send it to Oprah and then have me as a special guest on one of the segments. I could really use the exposure...

Missing in Action

2008-02-21T14:17:00.000-08:00

Haven't written in awhile because I've been holed up in Palo Alto feverishly working on one commercial treatment after another and loading up on "Law and Order: Criminal Intent" episodes and running in between bouts of rain. Tomorrow Jade and I make our way over the Grapevine and back to LA. We're starting to become deficient in vitamin D so it's definitely time for some Socal sun. And who knows, now that the strike is over, perhaps I will finally hook that agent that's going to make me a screenwriting star.

[Alert: Mom, if you're reading this stop now because you've asked not to know when this next event is going to occur... Seriously, stop reading.] One thing's for sure, in two weekends my ass will be jumping from a plane just like the old farts Nicholson and Freeman in "Bucket List," a film I washed down with bubbly at the drive-in on Valentine's Day. Watching them leap sent vomit signals to my stomach, but I sucked it up and kept my eye on the prize... a total adventure worth every ounce of anxiety and 200 hard earned dollars. Until then, I'm just going to keep reminding myself that life is about taking chances and chances are, you'll have one hell of a time.

Tumble Weeds, Bumble Bees, E.T.s & Celebrities (Welcome to Santa Fe)

2008-01-29T07:56:00.000-08:00

Tumbleweeds: Coming down the I5 on our way to Kingman, Arizona, dad and I ran into a bit of trouble once I took over the wheel. Giant tumbleweeds, some the size of sedans, began dodging across the interstate, threatening to ignite a pile up. It was like a game of Frogger. Dad would yell that one was coming from the right, so I'd swerve to the left. If one was coming from the left, I'd quickly change lanes to the right, avoiding fellow cars and other smaller tumbleweeds. For the next hour I'd see cars in the rear-view mirror with giant tumbleweeds stuck to their grill. That and about five rainbows that dotted the sky as the sun shone through the dark storm clouds. Life got even more bizarre once we hit some parts of Route 66 the second day. We kept driving past The Road Kill Cafe, opting out of that unique experience.

Bumble Bee: This is the name of the best taco stand in town. I've only been here three days but have eaten there twice. And it even has a drive-thru. I recommend the fish taco on a corn tortilla (skip the special sauce: I don't trust any creamy sauce that claims to be non-dairy, like what the hell is in it, anyway?) with a side of black beans and cilantro lime rice. The place is colorful, clean and they don't frown on this silly white girl when she asks for no cheese. Excellent place to go after a good snowshoeing sesh.

E.T.s: Last night me and the fam went to a documentary screening at their new neighborhood's community center (the pic to the right is of a bedroom in their new home), which is really just a comfy little room with plush chairs and one gigantic television set (future site of our Super Bowl viewing, I'm sure). So we settle in, meet some new folks and suddenly realize that the twenty minute documentary is on Extraterrestrials. That's right folks... Welcome to Santa Fe! When it was over, everyone took turns either sharing their UFO experiences or speaking from a more cynical viewpoint. I loved every second. And don't get me wrong, I am totally open to the idea. I mean, why the hell not? So if you're a UFO reading this right now, what's up and let's do tea sometime.

Celebrities: Well, I saw Natalie Portman in the parking lot of the grocery store, seemingly on her way to the movie theater. Same theater I saw "There Will Be Blood" in: a great movie that is more than worth you're $12/$15. (Paul Thomas Anderson, if you're reading this right now, what's up and let's make babies sometime). I guess she's filming here right now with Jake Gyllenhaal. Shirley McClain also rambles around these part. Probably looking for E.T.s with Dennis Kucinich.

2008-01-25T20:26:00.000-08:00

Some days I'm crippled by the most intense desire and exquisite longing for places I've yet to travel, people I've yet to meet, dreams that have yet to be fulfilled and lives I have yet to live. No song has ever touched on this element of my character, which is a little darker and a bit more difficult to comprehend, than this song, "Guaranteed" from songwriter Eddie Vedder and the movie "Into the Wild." Amazing. Beautiful. And so much a part of me, it aches to hear it. I know I rarely go to such cheesy lengths, but I had to share...

"On bended knee is no way to be free
Lifting up an empty cup, I ask silently
All my destinations will accept the one that's me
So I can breathe...

Circles they grow and they swallow people whole
Half their lives they say goodnight to wives they'll never know
A mind full of questions, and a teacher in my soul
And so it goes...

Don't come closer or I'll have to go
Holding me like gravity are places that pull
If ever there was someone to keep me at home
It would be you...

Everyone I come across, in cages they bought
They think of me and my wandering, but I'm never what they thought
I've got my indignation, but I'm pure in all my thoughts
I'm alive...

Wind in my hair, I feel part of everywhere
Underneath my being is a road that disappeared
Late at night I hear the trees, they're singing with the dead
Overhead...

Leave it to me as I find a way to be
Consider me a satellite, forever orbiting
I knew all the rules, but the rules did not know me
Guaranteed"

Check out the video on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O3SxCph5I1Q

Do You Know the Way to Santa Fe?

2008-01-23T14:06:00.000-08:00

I'm off again to another Wild West adventure. My cat is currently curled up on my lap praying to the kitty gods that the suitcase I have open is a mere figment of her imagination brought on by an overdose of catnip. This time I'm headed to Santa Fe with a quick stop through the mighty port of San Francisco. My plan of attack while there is to finish a spec script for "House of Payne" and start brainstorming a pilot my writing partner and I are dreaming up. Two words: Psychic Half-sisters. Intrigued? You should be.

Gonna dust off the snowshoes as well and explore the town. I've only ever been there in summer, so I'm sure I'm in for a not-so-pleasant surprise. I'm a California girl and resent having to leave my skirts and shift dresses at home. Love snowshoeing though. Gets the heart rate pumping and the sweat freezes in your crevices creating a very fun situation when it dethaws back at the house, which is, by the way, a hotel since the movers won't be there yet with the furniture.

I'll be back come Super Bowl Sunday and am planning a very humorous blog on organized sports and accepted male butt patting. Something to look forward to. And it's the one time of year I allow myself a single Ruffles potato chip with French onion dip. Can't wait!

Apologeez

2008-01-16T09:30:00.000-08:00

I recently received an apology from a fella that left me scratching my head. It came via text message and read, "Sorry if you felt duped." Interesting. Not "I'm sorry I duped ya," but "I'm sorry you feel duped." This man should have pursued a career in politics. I mean, what a wordsmith. It's the perfect apology for someone who doesn't desire to apologize at all but wants to appear somehow regretful. I love it. Here's some of my own generic double-talk apolo-geez I've been inspired to develop, and please feel free to use as needed:

1.) I'm sorry you're sad that I ran over your cat.
2.) I'm sorry that rash I gave you irritates your skin.
3.) Sorry you think I'm a ________. (Fill in with whatever superlative works best. I tend to prefer "asshole," an old-fashioned favorite.)
4.) Sorry you feel upset that I gambled away your college fund.
5.) I'm sorry you're hurt that I slept with your best friend.
6.) I'm sorry you feel angry since I broke into your car and stole the new Ipod Touch you got for Christmas.
7.) Sorry you didn't see me at your birthday party, but quite frankly, I forgot and went to get my nails done instead.
8.) Sorry you didn't like hearing me call your mom a fat cow.
9.) I'm sorry you felt that the end of year bonus I gave you wasn't adequate. Have you considered a Kia Spectra instead of a BMW?
10.) Sorry you felt lonely when I left you to pursue my futile music career.

Look, the list goes on and on. And don't forget, when you use them, make sure you do it in text format. It adds more emotional distance and really shows off your modern flair for literacy.

Back in the Saddle

2008-01-09T09:24:00.000-08:00

Once again, I'm back in la la land, only this time I have the odd suspicion that I actually missed this place. First off, it's supposed to be in the low to mid 70s this weekend. Hello, McFly, it doesn't get any better than that in the middle of winter. As we made our way back from NorCal you could actually track the changing color of the sky from a misty gray to a red carpet ready blue. Disturbingly cliche thoughts like, "this is the life," and "my future's so bright, I gotta wear shades," pop in your head and refuse to let go with paparazzi-like stubbornness.

Then there's my home, a precious junior one bedroom gem set in the stone face of the Valley. My kitty actually hissed at me as I walked through the door - a first. Now she's stuck to me like Whitney to Bobby, demanding love at all hours of the day and night. I'm emotionally exhausted, but it is nice to lay in my own bed listening to the sounds of the Ventura drag racers zipping past at 2am with my kitty snuggled next to me and a pot of tea making steam on the kitchen window. So I suppose I'm back home for awhile or at least until the road trip with my dad to Santa Fe at the end of the month. Yes, they're moving... again. Freakin' nomads these people.

Wait, shit, major life realization: I too am a nomad. I may have a hut waiting for me in Tinseltown but when you walk into your front door and can't remember where the light switch is, you know you're becoming more and more like your father every day. And he's happy. In fact, him and my stepmom may be two of the happiest people I know. So here's to the life of the wanderer, to gas station bathrooms, busy airports, cats with abandonment issues, friends that actually miss you, suitcases that never have time to be unpacked and, most of all, for the wonderful reasons you wander in the first place. You know who you are. :)

Squall of the Century

2008-01-04T11:37:00.000-08:00

Sitting here in Palo Alto, staring out at the storm from hell, I can't help but think about the squall that has been this Blackheart's life. Squalls aren't all that bad, ya see. Remember Lieutenant Dan from "Forrest Gump," on top of that mast crying out for God to give him His best shot, rain pummeling his tattered veteran's jacket, the wind threatening to throw him out to a tumultuous sea? He was rather enjoying himself despite the dire situation. Sure, his heart was as cynical and hard as mine, but life's disasters had only made him more defiant and adventurous. And that's the image I have of myself. Perhaps I should climb up to the roof and see if there's a weather vain that can hold my weight...

Boys and Their Toys

2007-12-26T10:35:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning proved to be a frenzy of present wrapping (yes, I'm a procrastinator) and feverish unwrapping. My dad's dog went nuts, pummeling its full weight through the towers of discarded red and green metallic paper as me and the fam exchanged gifts. However, even with all the yuletide stimuli one thing stuck out amongst the layers of trash and piles of Christmas delights and that was a statement by my youngest nephew who I believe (and don't hold me to this as I have a black hole in my brain where ages and birthdays should be) is four years old. This is a direct quote from his mouth as he waited not so patiently for his turn at gift opening: "I don't like to wait. I just like to rip into them and get them open." My completely inappropriate response was something along the lines of boys both young and old pretty much having the same line of thinking. Delay gratification? Hell no. That's for suckers with too much time on their hands. What's refreshing was that a young boy was able to put it so eloquently out on the table without fear of judgment or female backlash. Finally, someone speaks the truth that us women have always known to exist. That no matter how pretty your packaging or how painstakingly you put it together with scotch tape, all the boys really want to do is rip it off and enjoy the gift inside.

Temporary Boredom

2007-12-19T16:10:00.000-08:00

Today is my first day as a temp. As exciting as that sounds, trust me, it's about as fun as watching paint dry, even if that paint is cerulean blue or magenta. Here's what I've done today. Get ready for some thrills.

1.) Answered every email and myspace message I've put off for the past month, even those I never intended to respond to in the first place (you know who you are.)
2.) Drank lots of water because trips to the bathroom mean a change of scenery.
3.) Mapquested my bikini waxers office. See you in an hour and a half, Stella. http://www.starwaxing.com
4.) Watched the crew from the city delimb some poor tree outside. Lots of action going on there. Men in orange hooting and hollering at each other. I pretended I was in Italy.
5.) Stared at the clock a lot... Just did it again.
6.) Researched the cost of velvet material for the new website (see past entry.)
7.) Walked to Quiznos for a heartburn sandwich with a side of homeless guy singing Stevie Wonder's "I Just Called to Say I Love You."
8.) Made a detailed to-do list with neat little boxes that scream to be checked.
9.) And activated my new debit card. The automated operator's voice was so friendly I stayed on the line to hear about how I can protect myself from credit card fraud. Thanks, lady, I didn't know that!

Tomorrow will be more of the same, so I'll spare the day by day details. Just know, I'm working hard at hardly working, and I could use a vacation.

I'll Be Home For Christmas

2007-12-15T14:47:00.000-08:00

I know, I know, LA misses me. It's roasting chestnuts and hanging stockings, wistfully thinking of my sweet embrace, a nostalgic tear making a streak of white down its Mystic-tanned face. But here I am biding my time in Northern California, hoping we can be together again for the holidays. In fact, it's the only thing I asked Santa for for Christmas (sha right, I'm a greedy bastard). Actually, up North things are a bit more, shall we say, "christmasy" with the cold weather bestowing upon everyone a red nose to make Rudolph jealous (where as if you have a red nose in LA you probably just got done doing blow in the bathroom at Sky Bar.) All we have in LA as far as Season's tidings is that the girls in mini skirts exchange their flip-flops for Uggs, and Starbuck's starts selling their peppermint mochas by the thousands to anxiety ridden, prescription pill-popping, holiday shoppers. But now that's Christmas to me, and I can't wait to return home, some well-earned money in hand, to buy myself that peppermint mocha (with soy, of course) and enjoy it with a bag of roasted chestnuts from the West Hollywood Whole Foods. Does anyone make a soy egg nog?

Velvet Ties

2007-12-09T19:50:00.000-08:00

My friend Emily and I have decided to start a business. True, we decide on a new one every time we have one to many glasses of wine or vodka sodas, but everyone needs that special someone to drink, I mean think, big with while under the influence. Our last idea? An Inn and tea shop based on our abnormal obsession with The Gilmore Girls and its small time, big drama appeal. She's in hospitality management making her the perfect candidate to run the B&B while I spend my mornings in the tea shop and nights feverishly penning the next blockbuster screenplay and chatting it up with our single male guests over homemade hot chocolate. The shop would be called A Spot, as in "a spot of tea," and we would serve a piece of dark chocolate with every cup and offer a different signature soup every Sunday, cumulating in our future cookbook/coffee table masterpiece entitled "52 Soup Sundays," which a friend of mine in LA's DP boyfriend would shoot uber creative and cinematic stills for. We'd also have plenty of Sherry, Brandy and miniature organic sandwiches to pass out to our minions. Sounds good, right? Well, after plenty of Pinot Grigio, we sure as hell thought so.

Our latest venture, planned out over Irish coffees at San Francisco's Gold Dust Lounge late last night, is to create a website where we sell skinny velvet ties of the darker hued variety, aimed mainly at the hipsters and fashion forward thinkers of the world. We'd also sell a variety of ingenious and artfully designed tie clips for men and women, brighter colered bow ties and modern indie meets francophile berrets. God, we're good. And if I suddenly see this site up and running, I'll know that obviously someone read this blog and stole our intellectual property, and I'll have no other choice but to file a grievance with The Court of That's Not Fair and get my money.

Stay tuned for more thrilling entrepreneurial delights and lighting strikes of pure genius in the future. And if you feel you can't wait, come to Sacramento this week, and by all means, buy me a drink. ;)

Volunteers of America

2007-12-06T15:49:00.000-08:00

I've had a strange week. Yesterday I went to the Bodies Revealed exhibit, currently making its home in the least cultural district of Sacramento, Alta Arden. I was intrigued at the thought of going to see a bunch of dead bodies and body parts, especially after finishing a book like "American Psycho," not that the book is for lack of graphic visuals. However, I have to admit, when my step mother was raving about how great the exhibit was years back, I found myself leaning more to the, "that's disgusting" and "how creepy" side. But this time I swallowed my grade schooler reaction and decided to go with a scientific eye. I can't say that I flipped out over spleens and nervous system functions on display in the way I did when seeing the Mona Lisa for the first time, but the experience was quite eye opening and, yes, interesting to say the least. However, if you decided to go, my advice is to avoid the embryonic babies in jars area. I know it sounds like a barrel of fun, but it gave me nightmares.

Today I volunteered with my mom at a local Women's Center. We woke up at the butt crack and made our way over there to serve breakfast and spread some holiday cheer. I was a bit nervous at first because the last time I volunteered to serve meals my friend got a stale loaf of bread chucked at her head by an unsatisfied costumer. After my friend fell to the floor the homeless woman exclaimed for all to hear, "Whoops, my hand slipped." That memory has stuck with me, but I found the women and children today to be friendly and easy going. I even got hit on once which served to provide plenty of laughter for my mother who was so tired she even slipped a double chocolate chip muffin onto her own plate when no one was looking. Nothing like a dose of sugar to keep you alert. Just ask the addicts who I watched dump a pound of sugar on everything, from a hot cup of coffee to a bowl of salad. Apparently, it helps calm their addictions by trading one vice for another: drug addiction for diabetes.

The women were very ethnically diverse but I did notice that the various nationalities separated into different tables. The kids, however, played games together and no one was want for good company or second helpings. What I missed though was the type of closeness you get from smaller deeds, like the year I volunteered for Meals on Wheels. I knew every person inside the houses I delivered to. That Christmas I received a handmade, woven Kleenex box holder with snowmen on it from one of the elderly ladies who was also a Holocaust survivor. She was the funniest old lady I've ever had the pleasure to hang with, and no one could put together a 500 piece puzzle as fast as she could. She was like the Bobby Fischer of puzzle putter togetherers. Oh well, the experience was definitely something I needed and have been missing out on in my life of networking and schmoozing and worrying about whether or not I'll be able to get in a certain club or what the hell I'm going to wear on my date with the latest and not so greatest future ex-boyfriend and/or stalker. So if anyone is up for some more volunteering (as long as it doesn't involve reading L. Ron Hubbard books to underprivileged children in the ghetto - true story) then call me up, and let's do some good deeds together. Hell, what else you got to do until this writers' strike is over besides drinking wine and watching re-runs of "Gossip Girl"?

Say Cheese

2007-11-29T13:06:00.000-08:00

I recently went to Disneyland with my mom, and she reminded me of the following story. When I was 4, after a fruitful trip to the happiest place on Earth, I told her that I had every intention of marrying Mickey Mouse so that I could live happily ever after in Disneyland. Cute sentiment, right? Thinking about this, I came to the realization that that moment may be the only time in my life that I've ever thought of marriage in a positive light, as something that may actually have benefits to it. No kidding. So while in Toontown this last Monday I dragged my mom over to Mickey's house to try to relive this old nostalgia for one of America's dying institutions. As I walked through his quaint, brightly painted cottage with overstuffed plastic furniture I thought to myself, hell, maybe I could do this. The Mouse has money, his own place with no roomates and he could probably hook me up with the screenwriting internship at Disney that I applied for last summer...

However, as we walked over to Splash Mountain to cram in a log with strangers and get our butts wet, the old Blackheart sensibility started to rear its lovely head. First off, how could I possibly share an oversized, yellow blow-up bed with a Giant Mouse? Christ, what would our kids look like? I'm aiming for Brangelina type offspring, if any at all, not the Elephant Man. Secondly, his on again, off again ex girlfriend Minnie would be living next door, and the bitch won't even give up his last name let alone his precious free time. Also, I've seen her kitchen, and the girl can cook. I can barely make toast. Plus, I'm lactose intolerant, and they'd always have a love of cheese in common. Lastly, having a workaholic husband who spends more time with his friends (i.e. Goofy and Donald Duck) and on the soundstage than with me, just doesn't appeal to me. I need some comfort and love, damnit, if I'm going to make the effort to walk down the cartoon aisle. And Disneyland is filled with kids and obese Americans at all times, which quite frankly, is not my ideal living environment. I'd rather live on Wisteria Lane with those Desperate Housewife skitches (translation=skinny bitches.)

So, folks, despite my youthful desire to fall in love and marry my childhood hero, my adult self just can't follow suit. Maybe someday I'll find my Prince (barf) and make my own happiest place on Earth (barf, again), but until then, this Blackheart will keep sifting through the Plotus of the world and playing fetch.

Top 10 China Highlights

2007-11-25T18:18:00.000-08:00

1.) Climbing the Great Wall of China. Absolutely amazing. We took the harder, more scenic route, and I worked up a sweat despite the 40 degree weather. There was a huge group of people from India all wearing matching Burberry jackets, and one couple demanded we visit their country next, so who am I to disagree? Anyone down to climb the Himalayas with me?
2.) Boat ride down the Suzhou canals. My favorite vignette from the 300 year old stone houses along the embankments was: a house with a fat orange cat watching us float by, next to a house with a bird cage with 3 multi-colored birds hanging from an open window, next to a house with chickens in the backyard pecking at the ground. Every Suzhou resident would smile and wave at us as we passed. A "Ni hao," a nod and a wave, and we were on to the next idyllic scene.
3.) Summer Palace. Loved walking along the lake down the Empress' endless, painted wooden promenade which she had built so she could wander her grounds without ever being in the sun or rain. A major diva of Mariah Carey proportions. But she deserved it seeing as she only got to get it on with the Emperor 2 times a year in between his hundreds of concubines.
4.) Walk through the Ming Tombs down the Sacred Way. Through the long, broad expanse of willow trees, we waved to the many stone statues of Chinese officials and mythological animals guarding the dead rulers while enjoying the faint sound of music and the leaves rustling in the wind. Fyi, they filmed "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" there.
5.) Last night out in Shanghai which included attending the Chinese MTV Music Awards where we had no idea what they were saying but loved the hip-hop dancers and cheesy love ballads that caused the teeny boppers in the audience to cry out God only knows what. Then it was off to Babyface, a locals hangout where we met a group of Australians who shared their Chivas and green tea with us. Danced all night and got a ride home in style in one of our new friend's private town car.
6.) Eating sauteed tofu and quail's eggs in Chinatown (Shanghai) with toothpicks. We bought it from a vendor out of a giant hot pot in the window after roaming the gardens there. Then we gorged ourselves on mochi. My mom bought a sampler pack. My fave? The red bean and the black sesame. Too bad mom ate the entire pack in 2 days or I would have brought some back to share.
7.) Terracotta Soldiers. It's all about pit #1, baby, with thousands of soldiers and their horses lined in row upon row, guarding Emperor Qing's tomb. There are still twice as many waiting to be unearthed but because the oxygen destroys the clay the government is leaving them buried for future generations to enjoy.
8.) 8 motorcycles driving in circles, upside down and sideways, inside a giant steel cage at the acrobatic show. If they bring this shit to the States it's bound to make some major Yuan. I nearly pissed my pants.
9.) The Birds' Nest and the Water Cube, a.ka. the site of the Beijing Olympics August 8th, 2008.
10.) Tiananmen Square. Owen, our ultra-hot 28 year old tour guide who rocked Prada glasses and used to play in a dance metal band, told us that once outside of the tour bus he couldn't discuss the events of 1989 since China was full of government spies who would arrest you for talking against Mao and the government, despite the fact that the guy has been dead since 1976. We were also warned not to take pictures of anyone wearing t-shirts with political slogans or holding banners because the spies and/or guards would confiscate our cameras. On one side of the square was the past, Mao's larger than life picture, still looming over this communist country and its people, and on the other side was the future, a giant clock counting down the minutes and seconds leading to the 2008 Olympics and their capitalist fate.
**Last final small world note: We saw Paris Hilton at club Attica the night before the MTV Awards in Shanghai. As she posed for the club goers and their camera phones, mere feet away from us, I wondered for a second if we hadn't magically beamed back to some lame Hollywood club where the little people take second string to celebrities. But then as I watched her peer at the crowd from behind red ropes, not a sole with her except for some men in suits and whoever was on the other end of her blackberry (a.k.a. security blanket,) I couldn't help but feel sorry for the little princess, all alone in Shanghai, when I had 3 of the best girls in the world with me to enjoy the music, free drinks and fun.

Road to China

2007-11-13T18:25:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is the big day. I'm finally taking that leap into another continent. I'm all packed and am currently awaiting friends who are coming over for a dinner party/let's drink lots of wine and throw everything in the wok and eat too much shindig. You know you have great friends when they throw a farewell bash for a 10 day vacation.

I have a few worries that I'm trying to keep under control, most being of the can-a-vegetarian-eat-in-China-the-land-of-skinned-rabbits-and-ducks-hanging-from-storefront-windows variety. Food is very important to me. If God told me I could either never have babies or lose my taste buds, I'd rescue the buds in a blink of an eye. Other worries include a lack of adapter for my ipod, whether or not they'll allow fruit into the Beijing airport if it's of the dried variety and whether or not this tour company is secretly run by the Scientologists or any other freaky sect/cult that will lead us down a dark alley, steal our Yuan, beat us senseless and leave us for dead, rickshaws unknowingly criss-crossing our bodies in the early morning, Shanghai traffic. Ya know, the small things. So in reality, there's really not much to concern myself with other than making sure I have lots of fun and try not to fight with my mother. The latter will be aided greatly by her supply of restless leg medication (i.e. the one-two sucker punch, lights out wonder pills).

Also, I'm bringing a friend's copy of American Psycho, which I feel will not only entertain, albeit shock, me but will also ward off any lame-ass American tourists that may try to make conversation with me on the bus. You know the type, spouting out diet restrictions as they float on their insoled sneakers... oh wait, that's me. Crap. Oh well, bringing Ellis with me anywho.

Alright, first guest has arrived. Time to discuss the WGA Writers' Strike over a bottle of schwag vino. China pictures to follow. Perhaps I'll even sneak some of the new Olympic site and beat that damn Ann Curry to it. Today Show sucka!

Funny Ha-Ha

2007-11-03T21:30:00.000-07:00

Recommended laughter:
1.) "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia"
2.) The Groundlings
3.) Salt n' Pepa's "It's None of Your Business"
4.) Weddings (as a former wedding florist myself, nothing says humor to me more than two people pronouncing their love in front of others)
5.) JC Penney
6.) all things Tina Fey
7.) Martin Lawrence stand-up (when he was still wearing the all leather suits)
8.) My dad, always
9.) Christian Womanhood class (it's been years, but I the laughter still echoes in my ears)
10.) Steve Martin as Cousin Rupert in "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels"
11.) John Mayer's blog (the man is hilarious, I swear)

**Added bonus: Cats with tape on their paws (terrible, yet true)

Midnight at the Garden of Eden

2007-10-30T16:42:00.000-07:00

Halloween weekend. Good god. Can a girl get some recovery sleep? All the sinning culminated at the Garden of Eden party in Hollywood last Saturday night were two boys who looked all of 15 and dressed as the Gotti brothers in their matching white bandanas, over-sized cubic zirconia crosses and tight black t-shirts harassed my friends on the dancefloor. Can a girl get some personal space? When the clock struck midnight this Cinderella Blackheart did indeed turn into a grimy handmaid, and by 2am my pumpkin cab was ready to roll me and my mice friends away. Did I leave a glass slipper? No, indeed. But I did leave behind a great deal of hard earned cash, a tube of cheap lipstick, my sobriety and a bit of self respect.

When I was young, Halloween was my favorite holiday. My stepbrother, who was a dj and amateur carpenter at the time, used to transform our humble home into a den of horror. My friends and I would take turns leading kids through our haunted house and jumping out at unsuspecting victims through smoke machine clouds. His dj lights would spin rhythmically, hypnotizing me as I allowed myself to freefall into a sugar induced coma. We even got in the newspaper once, our home becoming a dot on the historical print landscape. Those were the good old days. Gone are the days of guarding my Reeses cups from my mother. (One time I sniffed the mix of chocolate and peanut butter goodness on her breath and found wrappers in her bed, stuffed under her sheets. Busted.) Gone are the days of someone else sewing a Snow White or bee costume for you. And gone are the days of begging my dad to let me watch just one more horror film with my stepbrother, then regretting it as I ran from killer clowns in my nightmares.

Next year I'm going old school. I'm watching horror films in my bed with a giant pumpkin bucket on my lap full of candy. I may even mail my mom a Reeses cup for old times sake... or maybe just the wrapper. Ah, who am I kidding? I'll probably end up half-naked taking shots of Pitron at some totally pretentious LA party and loving every damn minute of it. That is, at least until I wake up in the morning with a hangover and somebody named Zorro's number on a cocktail napkin in my clutch. Can a girl get some aspirin?

SF vs. LA: The Ultimate Showdown

2007-10-24T15:02:00.000-07:00

In my constant battle over which city to reside in, I've come up with a list of pros and cons for both cities. Actually, it's more of an ultimate fighter competition between the two, without all the blood and drool. LA fires vs. SF earthquakes. Well, I'd rather be swallowed by the earth than burnt alive, so one point for Frisco. LA Dodgers vs. SF Giants. I hate baseball, so scratch that. LA men (actor/somethings obsessed with outer appearances) vs. SF men (musician/somethings with lots of facial hair). Hmm, both cities have an excess of gay men, whom I love but who make it a bit difficult for a single woman, but I like a hairy man so SF wins again. Plus, after dating many an actor/_____, I can tell you, it's a lose-lose situation, and who doesn't love a musician? LA smog vs. SF fog. Fog won't kill ya; 3 points for SF. But fog can be depressing, and nothing can beat LA weather. One point for LA. Griffith Park vs. Golden Gate. No comparison. Besides the bums in GG are much nicer. LA traffic vs. SF transit. Love that BART system and you too Muni, you cute lil' thing. Man, SF is kickin' ass. Let's continue. LA vs. SF night scene. Wow, too close to call. It's a tie on that one. LA beach vs. SF beach. LA beaches don't require you bring a parka and wool blanket so LA racks up another. Flat LA streets vs. SF hills. Love them hills. One weekend there, and my calves and butt cheeks feel like rocks. LA vs. SF culture. Both towns house about as many nationalities as the UN so I'd say another tie. LA eateries vs. SF restaurants. The two best meals of my life have been in SF, and I usually side with my stomach.

Look, I could go on and on, but one round remains. The showdown. LA vs. SF charm. Not many people have written love songs to LA. In fact, I can't think of any, except perhaps The Doors' "LA Woman," but that's not exactly a glowing review. SF has an endless amount of songs written in its honor, many of which line the walls in the lobby of Geary Street's Hotel California. But there's only one true love song that sums up my thoughts on who the winner is, and that belongs to the illustrious Tony Bennett:

I LEFT MY HEART IN SAN FRANCISCO

The loveliness of Paris
Seems somehow sadly gay
The glory that was Rome
Is of another day
I've been terribly alone
And forgotten in Manhattan [insert: Los Angeles]
I'm going home to my city by the bay.

I left my heart in San Francisco
High on a hill, it calls to me.
To be where little cable cars
Climb halfway to the stars!
The morning fog may chill the air
I don't care!
My love waits there in San Francisco
Above the blue and windy sea
When I come home to you, San Francisco,
Your golden sun will shine for me!

(*Sidenote: Love the use of exclamation points in your lyrics, Tony. Well played.)

Fire Starter

2007-10-23T17:45:00.000-07:00

As my plane touched down over Los Angeles last night on my way back from San Francisco, the pilot pointed out that to our left we could catch a spectacular glimpse of the LA fires. Like a bunch of eager tourists on an urban safari, we turned our heads, piling on top of one another to take a look at the destruction. "Oooohhh... aaahhh." And it was spectacular: little lines of sparkling red light dotting the black canvas below. The woman next to me scoffed, rolling her eyes as she dug her face deeper into her book. Apparently, she was above all of this. We were rubberneckers, and she was a highly sophisticated woman of good breeding who preferred not to make light of the tragedies unfolding on the ground. But what she missed was the beauty of it all, a beauty that was short lived once the plane came to the terminal and smoke started to fill our lungs, causing our throats to swell and our eyes to itch. Once home, I spent hours cleaning the soot off the sills of my open windows and prayed that my poor cat didn't have a case of the black lung. Then watching the endless news coverage and the morning sky fill with an eerie orange and black light, I missed that simple moment, when thousands of feet above the earth, the fires looked like little more than grand city lights.

Motherly Advice

2007-10-12T19:39:00.000-07:00

As far as careers go, I've been a bit lost of late. Sure, I want to write, but an unclear path makes an uneasy traveler. Here's a quote mia madre send me to ponder, and, no matter how Oprahesque it seems, it's dead on. "... Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Then, perhaps without even realizing it, you will live along some distant day into the answer." - Rainer Rilke After all those questions, today was one of those phenomenal distant days, and what a great damn day it was.

Noodle Survey

2007-10-09T17:33:00.000-07:00

The other night someone reminded me of something I haven't thought about in a long time, and I've come to believe that the ensuing question it brings up could be a metaphor for life in general. First the item, or in this case, the dish: spaghetti with butter and cheese. Now the question, and I would greatly appreciate any and all responses for this is big, is which type of person are you? Are you the type to prefer a fancy restaurant and a lovely plate of penne pasta with your favorite sauce and all the works, including a waiter to clear you dishes when you're through, or are you the type who would rather stay home with a bowl of good, old-fashioned, buttered noodles with cheese and a ready remote? Think about it. There's no right or wrong answers here. In fact, I can't seem to decide myself. Whether it is a metaphor for various aspects of your life or simply a matter of taste, I think it says a lot about who we are and could answer the great mystery we all ponder: who the hell am I and what the hell do I want?

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

2007-10-08T08:07:00.000-07:00

Not to sound cliche, what with a nickname like Blackheart, but I'm feeling a bit down today. Not the sort of down that makes you stay indoors with the blinds drawn watching 90210 reruns and eating candy corns mixed with honey coated peanuts (no kidding, it tastes like a Payday.) No, it's the sort of down that comes with the end of a long hiatus, in this case, my month long hibernation in Castle Rock, CO. I've become joyously used to long breakfasts over the paper (Denver news, in comparison to LA's, contains such happy problems), watching the Rockies kick ass as Grandma hoots and hollers then takes naps during commercials (don't know how she does it), going to the movies twice a week, writing when I want to and reading a book in the sun when I don't, watching crap TV and not feeling the least bit guilty and working out everyday even though my lungs feel like they're bleeding having never gotten used to this god forsaken altitude. I have loved every second of it, and now, with reality breathing down my neck I feel disappointed. Maybe I should have gotten more done while I was here, or on the flip side, maybe I should have spent more quality time with grandma and less time staring at the computer screen. I suppose I have to resign myself to the fact that I had fun here, that I was able to, for the first time in a very long time, relax and take a well deserved breather from the Merry Go Round that is life after college, that is the working world. And I can't say I miss it or that I'll be anxious to jump back in. I suppose the only way out would be for me to marry rich and spend my days sunbathing in my professionally landscaped backyard until my personal trainer and/or professional cook stops by to whip me into shape. Ahhh, the good life. But, unfortunately, that ain't me either. I'm cursed with the need to be busy, to have some sort of function in this world and to make some use of the skills I was given. So damnit, here I go, back into the wonderfully harsh realities of LA and up to my neck in the thick of it. Bon voyage, Denver. Hola, Los Angeles.