Now I want coffee.

I was avoiding ever posting my poetry (if you could call it that), but I'm sick, so I'll let some odd haiku-ish stuff do the talking. Please hold your applause until the end.

Suntanned Terry
flexes his oiled abs
silently imagining
that he could lift 250 clean jerk
and wow the regulars.

Don't feed the fish, dammit
she screamed at nine year old Sean.
Don't you know how to read?
She realized he might not, so she
patted his arm, and dragged him away screaming.

What possible reason
could Sergei have to leave her?
The painting, she realized
must have been bought.
He's leaving tonight,
bus-bound for Hollywood.

John held her hand in the car
and sadly realized that he feared her.
She would hurt him, and as much as he would enjoy it
he'd still be alone in the end.
Better the evil you know, he thought bitterly,
and watched her fumble for her keys in the yellow lamp light.

Tatty and torn, Lisa lifted the green apron over her head.
Instantly she was like all the rest, young, full of potential,
working her way through college.
She wiped a rogue tear from under her glasses
as she made her first grande latte of the day.

And crown thy good, from sandwich-hood...

Really, there's something about the tea sandwich that makes it superior to all other forms of sandwich. It feels like a rural class-based society. The low-class unemployed Subway party sandwich, the only variation being the indentured servant class, aka 6 inch Quiznos. The mid-low class honda-driving home-made processed pre-cut Dagwood sandwich, the middle-class fresh cut (preferably Jewish) Deli sandwich, high-class expensive L.A. restaurant panini, and the Hilton/Gates/Trump class...the high tea sandwich. Unlike bling, or breast size, the smaller the sandwich... the higher the class.

So High Tea at the Huntington is more like the Circus Circus of High Teas. It's the children-accepted, cheapest-off-the-strip, roast-beef-carving-station... tea. An all you can eat buffet, very Americanized. The cranberry scones are the redheaded bastard stepchildren of English sweet cream scones, and devon clotted cream is replaced with just whipped cream, from a can. A CAN. However, they do have little mini-jars of jam that you can take home with you, a small but important step up from smuckers packets. Also, watercress in sandwiches gives an air of superiority that lettuce just can't compete with.

But, amongst all the attempts at sophistication, the fat American in me clings to the McDonalds drive-thru mentality where more is better, and in patriotic support of my homeland and adopted Paris Hilton class, the more watercress egg salad sandwiches I can cram in my mouth, the better.

Cheryl and the Firecat

There's something surreal about having a friend who wrote a book. It's like all those things you promise to yourself as a teenager that never gets realized...like "I'm going to lose 50 lbs and become a super-model" "I'm going to learn to fly a jet" "I'm going to write a book"...except she's done it! She may also be a super-model and fly jets...I'll have to ask.

The bookstore for Cheryl Klein's reading was busy enough that I had to stand in line to get her to sign my book. My own friend, me standing in line to talk to her. sigh. And then it's a really odd feeling when she's signing my book...like she's a celebrity. I twisted my shirt nervously and tried to find things to say like 'good turnout' and another genius comment 'your reading was good'.

All night I felt like something was wrong with me. Just in a self-removed, there's some cloudy film between me and the world way. I didn't speak to anyone, and an acquaintance that bothered to talk to me was quickly blown off for my book. It's odd that I'd pass up friendly banter for a chance to read 'Films of the 70s'. After the reading, I wandered the bookstore, looking at photos of people who lived in this alternate reality that I couldn't associate with today. It's like being spun off the merry-go-round, and you can't get up speed to jump back on, so you just stand there watching it spin by, all your former kiddie friends a blur of laughing.

This bookstore has a resident cat. It has no tail. Something's happened between the photo above and last night to cause her tail to be amputated. She's adorable and fuzzy and somewhat anti-social as well. I felt exactly like that cat. Listening to the book, but removed from all of those 'people' out there. Also missing something. Something that causes balance, and beauty. That's what I'm missing.

My friend I went to dinner with before-hand has a new fringe-girlfriend-crush. It's the kind of thing where they smile frequently...before they mention her name with a preface like 'omg, the other day Laura said the funniest thing...' which is indeed funny, and makes me very jealous. It's not even at that honeymoon stage..It's at the 'I'm not sure what this is but it's something and it makes me happy all of the freakin time' stage. The stage where everything is beautiful, and everything shows promise. I was in that stage for 2 years once. It's insanely happy. To the point you think something is wrong with you. 'I'm too happy. Something is wrong with me' becomes a mantra.

I think Cheryl was nervous, but I say it was that 'I'm too happy' nausea. She had friends and family there, her new cute girlfriend, and a shelf full of her own books behind her. I was just there. Like the cat. Listening, observing, not identifying. Now if I could just lose 50 lbs and become a super-model cat, everything would be perfect.

Cccccchhhhhhuuuuuunnnnnccccc (that's the LOST sound)

Evil Genius

I mean, I knew Dr. Cox from Scrubs is a genius...but he's got relationships (friends and lovers) nailed. Listen up Britney...

"Relationships don't work they way they do on television and in the movies. Will they? Won't they? And then they finally do, and they're happy forever. Gimme a break. Nine out of ten of them end because they weren't right for each other to begin with, and half of the ones who get married get divorced anyway, and I'm telling you right now, through all this stuff I have not become a cynic. I haven't. Yes, I do happen to believe that love is mainly about pushing chocolate covered candies and, y'know, in some cultures, a chicken. You can call me a sucker, I don't care, because I do believe in it. Bottom line: it's couples who are truly right for each other wade through the same crap as everybody else, but the big difference is they don't let it take them down. One of those two people will stand up and fight for that relationship every time. If it's right, and they're real lucky, one of them will say something."

It's just that I get tired of being the one who stands up and fights. I think it's their turn. Or am I fighting for something that neither of us wants?

Preaching to the choir Cox-ie.

The sun is a mass of incandescent gas...

I am surrounded by geeks, and it feels like home. NASA/JPL (Jet Propulsion Labs) Open House in Pasadena is a yearly trek for me. (Trek - get it? Star...it's a joke. Yes, it's funny. Shut up!)

After waiting 2 hours in line to look at the sun - yes, the SUN, woe is me - the irony is too much - I was relieved to find my vision is as terrible as usual, and I was only able to see 3 of the 7 sunspots, and not a single coronal flare. I did lie to the guy with the telescope, though and faked my way through a 'oh...I can see it!' response. It made him happy. Every girl has got to fake it sooner or later. I'm sure I wasn't his first.

Alas, they weren't letting people drive the Mars rover...which was the coolest part of my trip a few years ago. I know it wasn't the one they actually sent to Mars, but I can pretend. The Spirit rover was out this time had a guy speaking about it, while maneuvering it over rocks the size of it's wheelbase, and small children. He commented 'this is pedal to the metal - 2 inches per minute, making this (beat & dramatic voice) the fastest vehicle on Mars." I snort-laughed. Scientists crack me up.

I loved the mannequin in clean-room getup outside the spacecraft assembly building - it's a poor man's mickey mouse, but everyone still seemed to want a photo. Also the stick-your-head-in-an-astronaut-cutout is a perennial favorite. Unfortunately no photos allowed in Mission Control - there were people working, and as Cassini was actually doing a fly-by of a moon then, it seemed rude to distract them. I really don't want to be responsible for crashing a spacecraft into Titan. I'd like to see it happen, just not me being personally responsible.

As a revealing insight into my geekyness, I went to Space Camp in Huntsville, AL when I was 16. A bit too old. All the kids had to answer what grade they were in, and after numerous "8th grade" "high-school sophomore" answers, said "I'm majoring in Theoretical Physics...in college." But we got to wear jumpsuits with mission patches every day, and being the oldest, I got to do the EVA to repair the shuttle bay. I repaired it in time, then got to operate the Canada arm for the rest of the mission. That is possibly the highlight of my fictional astronaut life. Alas, as the poster at McDonalds says..."Not everyone gets to be an astronaut. Would you like fries with that?" I have my astronaut class photo somewhere...if I can find it, I'll post it for you all.

But this JPL meeting of the geeks is really the only time in my life where getting a Saturn tattoo is not only cool, it's in vogue. It's stylin. I washed it off today, but I got to be one of the cool-nerds for a while. Thank god, because honestly...a real saturn tattoo on my arm is just a bit too...geeky. I mean, Titan is the cool tat now, haven't you heard? Saturn is so last season.

Clap, Clap, N-G-O!

I ran up and down the aisle while things were thrown at me in Hamburger Mary's West Hollywood thinking "I better get a gift basket from a hot drag queen for being ridiculed like this." And I did!

Ah yes, Charity Drag Queen Bingo, with Belle-Aire, the drag queen, Bingo-boy, (her?) non-dragged out sidekick, and a Dolly Parton impersonator. She looked exactly like her. It was disturbing so much that I talked with other people I didn't know at our table about it. And if you know how much I hate talking to people I don't know...that will tell you how much she looked like Dolly. My friend Bari said "You mean the sheep?"

Do you call a drag queen 'her'? I assume so. It would be rude to presume she's got the equipment that makes her a man, especially since she's trying so hard to conceal it. That's her in the photo up there. Yes, someone pointed out it looks like me a bit, and that's the second time I've been referred to as a drag queen in the past month. Ahem. But honestly...I wasn't her biggest fan, since she looks way hotter than me. And that's very unfair. Or ironic. I can't decide.

As I called out BINGO! I had a surge of performance anxiety...'Please don't spank me'. Actually that's the lesser of the punishments, so that's ok. But I ran up and down the aisle being pelted with discarded losing Bingo cards and then was given a big prize. Pretty cool. Too bad there were no straight men in the place, one of them would have wanted to go home with me and my spiffy prize. A Beverly Hills Hotel robe, expensive champagne, flowers in a crystal vase, and a free haircut and spa stuff from Aveda (I really need a haircut, so that's the best part). Bari and Ray were super jealous...ok, not really...they were glad they didn't have to run the aisles, and possibly be spanked by a drag queen.

But the whole reason you go, besides the gifts, performance anxiety, and to see a man in drag is for the call-outs. A simple example...when Belle Aire screams B-4, you say, "Not after, but B-4!". "G-68, You do me, and I'll owe you one." "B-11, legs to heaven" "G-69 Dinner for two, sauce on the side." I'm a prude, yes, but those are funny. Especially if you're screaming sex jokes with 200 other people you don't know in a restaurant in West Hollywood. A bit disturbing...but that's why we were all there. And to win, so being that this is the first time I've won...nanny-nanny.

Sleepless in Toluca Lake

It was the perfect meet-cute (A cute setup meeting) in romcom (Romantic Comedy) writer's terms.

I was browsing in the wine aisle, looking for some muscat dessert wine. Without looking, he rounded the corner and bumped in to me. Literally. Our little baskets of groceries clinked together.

He fumbled, looked down. I turned red, and stammered.

"Oh, sorry"

"No, my fault...sorry". He smiled, embarrassed. He had piercing eyes, and a ballcap on, as if he was hiding from paparazzi.

"That's ok" I smiled the biggest smile I could without hurting my lips or looking like a horse.

We got all shy, and pulled his ballcap down lower on his stubbled face. We stared a moment, he smiled again, then he walked on down the aisle. I tried to find him again in the store, but alas, he had gone.

After waiting years to meet-cute someone, I cute-met the cutest man in the whole world at my grocery store.

There's only one problem.

It was Matthew Fox.

Yes, you heard me...from LOST.

I'm fricking pissed. I think karma owes me a meet-cute. That so didn't count. I mean, it was Matthew freakin Fox, and I'm...you know...just me. And he's married! So that's definitely not a meet-cute. Put the counter back to zero folks...that meet is off the record. How dare karma try and trick me into thinking it was a meet-cute! And really, what is Matthew Fox doing here? His show is on hiatus, yes...and it's perfectly reasonable that he might be in LA on vacation or something, but seriously...at my local grocery store? Karma...you can't pull the wool over my eyes. I'm still waiting my meet-cute, and this next one better be amazing. Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan amazing. I better be 'in love' by the time he says 'bye' on this next one, dammit. Or this first one, because Fox didn't count. Nope. This is a do-over. Starting from scratch. Yep. Stupid Matthew Fox. With his name all "I'm so foxy, look at me!"...whatever.

Oh, and they didn't have my wine. Stupid karma.

Scruples

Insanely, I decided to rollerblade today even though it's full sun and 85 out. I was afraid I'd pull an Egan (fainting in Starbucks) so I brought extra water, but that doesn't seem to help. It's the heat, not the humidity. ha ha...ahem.

Only about 6 cars in the normally full-o'-50-lot...but I did see some bikers out. I always used to wonder who these people are that work out in the middle of the day: moms? retirees? students? But now I honestly think they're all unemployed writers. And they all went home from biking to blog about what they saw.

I bladed past one of those crew parking signs. If you're not from L.A., they are little yellow signs with big arrows that have the name of some film/tv production on them. But they're cryptic...so that any Lindsay Lohan fan who knows the title of her next movie wont suddenly hang a U-turn in the middle of the road and follow the signs.

This sign said 'Unscrupulous' I did my impersonation of Snagglepuss' "exit stage left" and pretended to blade that way. I crack myself up.

I love the ones that say 'Numb' for Numbers (films in Pasadena) or 'Scrb' for Scrubs. not really much of a secret. Then there are those that say 'Unscrupulous', and really could just point in any old direction here in L.A. and be true.

I did a 2 minute stop in the shade to stretch, and a really odd and disturbing thing happened. An old guy in a golf cart going the opposite way just slowed to a stop to watch me. I gave him a 'freaking creep!' look, but he continued to stare. Not like I was wearing anything sexy or even mildly interesting for workout wear - and I was gross and sweaty, so he was just totally in the wrong. Perhaps he was wondering why a white white white paper stock white girl was outside in the sun.

When I finally got back to the parking lot, my jeep was the only car left. All the sane people had gone inside for water or food, just sitting eating their roast beef sandwiches watching me blade past and shaking their heads. 'She's crazy'. And really pale. But mostly crazy. And a bit unscrupulous.

Yo ho, Yo ho, a writer's life for me.

It's tough work being a 'woman of leisure'. And that's not a prostitute, I looked it up.

Working on week 2 of...nothing really...I'm getting used to this state of what I'm beginning to call 'writer's life'. It's what I think being a writer must be like, except I'm not actually getting paid to write, nor am I actually writing. Technicalities. Pshaw.

I am, however, catching up on much needed TV and Movies. I am also considering writing an OC spec. Jesus H. Christ, son of a bad carpenter...can Cohen keep it together for his nana? I'm thinking of killing her. Is that mean? A nana funeral. Wait - has that been done? Sigh...I don't know this show well enough.

So...if I'm limited to shows I know well, that would be MacGyver, Quantum Leap and X-Files. All canceled, but personally watched since first episode to last. Those were the days- coming home from school/work and watching bad TV until bedtime! (yes, despite my loving of those shows, I do acknowledge they are 'bad' from a writing standpoint.) Possibly from an acting standpoint as well. Although I have an actress friend who was on both MacGyver and Quantum Leap, and I didn't recognize her. Years into our friendship she told me...I was deeply deeply shamed. Also deeply deeply jealous, as she knew Richard Dean Anderson personally. I am clearly not the fan-geek I thought I was if I have to look up my actual friends on IMDB. I still harbor a secret fantasy that she'll invite RDA and I both to some event of hers and we'll hit it off. 25 year age difference...Pshaw. My Dad said I could marry anyone as long as they're younger than him. RDA makes it by 2 months. Whew.

Too bad Star Trek is off the air. As much as I dislike that show now, I was the utmost of NG geeks. I mean...I went to conventions. More than one. I think I had a crush on Data. Is that wrong? Liking a machine? I mean, he wouldn't cry or call you a poseur, or stalker, so maybe those are the types of men I need. But then he also wouldn't laugh at my jokes...and that is really the only thing I have going for me, other than really nice legs...I'm told.

I was also thinking of doing a LOST, but I'm sure everyone and their long-lost hatch-raised brother had that idea. Oh...did I give away my plot idea? oops. See...it wasn't that brilliant anyway. Maybe I should have a guest star. Like Shakira. She shows up as an 'other' but also Shakira. Brilliant! Why am I unemployed?

So...back to the grindstone. Must watch OC, must come up with brilliant spec so that I'll get hired for some brilliant new show, become famous, hook up with RDA, and become a REAL woman of leisure.

It's a hard life, but somebody's got to do it.

Lost

Wow - what a weekend! (read in Yakov Smirnoff's voice)

My best friend dissapeared on her way to LA, and I was pacing the floor with missing persons, LAPD, Local PD, and hospitals all weekend. The planned vacation we were going to have (Disneyland, beach etc) turned into a 3 day nightmare where nobody knew where she was: Police assumed she was in jail, in a hospital, or dead. Rest assured my friend is ok and home as of last night...but I think I have no emotion left for anything. I think I need to use this experience in writing...it's good fucking drama, I can tell you that.

I realized 4 things this weekend:

1. Being someone's best friend means nothing to authorities. You have to be a family member, or you might as well be a stranger.
2. Police are actually very nice, and can be your best friends in times of need. Contrary to snippy cop experiences in the past, cops are now some of my favorite people. At least they actually pretend to care, unlike some real people I talked to who said 'you think your best friend is dead?...oh, too bad."
3. When a friend is in danger, there's nothing else your brain can focus on. I understand now why people with missing kids would prefer to hear they're found and dead, than to never hear anything.
4. When you think you know someone (15 years worth)...you don't.

So anyway...nothing funny to report. I blogged through the whole thing, but it's enormous, just me freaking out, and not good reading. I'll keep it for dialogue in this missing person's drama I'm going to write.

Thanks to all those I told who were supportive, and thanks to those I didn't tell also - I'm sure had I told you, you'd have been supportive.
I promise funny blog tomorrow.

god says I'm iffy

I went to church last week - see previous post, I can't link for some reason - and was given a survey to fill out, which I respectfully did not. Most of the survey was 'How satisfied with you with our sunday school program' and 'which aspects of this congregation do you value the most'...but one particular question # 16 on page 2 stood out:

In the past 12 months, have you done any of the following? (Mark all that apply)

1. Loaned money to someone outside your family
2. Cared for someone outside your family who was very sick
3. Helped someone outside your family find a job
4. Donated or prepared food for someone outside your family
5. Voted in the last presidential election
6. Donated money to a charitable organization (other than this congregation)
7. Worked with others to solve a community problem
8. Contacted an elected official about a public issue

It stood out because albeit a logical question about involvement and responsibility..it hits on something very fundamental. Helping your fellow man, and being responsible for your place in society. So here is my response.

1. Yes, I loaned my friend money so we could eat at Disneyland, since her husband won't give her enough 'wifey allowance' to have a good time, which personally includes eating Roast Pork Loin and Mint Juleps in the Blue Bayou. Stupid husband.
2. I can't manage to get my cats to the vet, let alone another person. People don't tend to appreciate vet visits. They take your temperature 'the other way'.
3. Yes, I had a coworker get laid off prior to my layoff, and I called around to see where we could place them. Bastard...stole my position. See if I make that mistake again!
4. I prepared really bad chicken, and after it burnt, I gave it to the local homeless cat. Specifically a cat outside my family.
5. I'm too bitter to talk about it. Freakin Florida. And red states. Red bad.
6. Regularly contribute to Children of the Manhattan Project - which supports historical preservation of the Manhattan Project environs, test site, and education. Also WWF. Not the wrestling. But I support clubbing baby seals. Their cuteness should not go unpunished.
7. I worked with Comcast to solve the cable connection. I like to think this helped my neighbors, as I am less loud and belligerent when I watch Alias. Therefore they sleep better. Really, it's all about them.
8. Is Comcast an elected official?

So...upon reflection, I find I am 75% good person, and 25% pure evil.

But my answer to question #48- "Do you feel any of the following during worship services?" Included bubbling in 'Boredom' and 'Frustration'. (Hey - they included them, I didn't bring them up all on my lonesome!) So perhaps that skews me to 50% good, 50% evil.

Which honestly, reflects my opinions on church, religion, spirituality et al : sort of agnostic, couldn't say, you do your own thing, I'll do mine, zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance, funeral for a friend, elton john, risky investment, ELO, DaVinci Code, devil in the blue dress, Buddhist, Elvis mentality. May James Dean live forever. Amen.

Boom Baby!

It's good to be back! Y'all didn't even know I was gone, did you? Sigh...30 readers...don't you pay any attention?

Yes, I bit the bullet and upgraded to OSX which means:

1. I am now the spiffy teenager in the Mac/Pc commercial.
2. I can frickin blog!
3. The blog is in the right template, the right colors, I can post photos and read it and all the little 'input' boxes show (it's the little things that make all the difference)
4. I am cool.
5. I can now buy things for Mac without looking to see if they say 'yes, we support dinosaur aps'
6. IPOD!!!! It's ALIVE!!!!
7. I love those commercials.

so...why did I wait, you may ask? Namely, I was paranoid said OSX would wipe my drive clean, and I would never be able to open said 'dinosaur aps'. It remains to be seen if this is 100%, but Steve can take my money over Bill any day.

Plus, the Mac kid is kinda cute.

Don Music

Last friday, I equated my writing woes with this guy from Sesame Street. Remember him? Don Music from Sesame Street circa 1973. He didn't last long, as parents complained to the Children's Television Workshop that their kids were imitating him by banging their heads against things. I think I was one of those children. It explains a lot. I certainly recall doing in on the piano. Now I've graduated to laptops.

The typical sketch would have him become frustrated by his inability to think of the final line to well known children's dittys such as "Mary Had a Little Lamb". He would then react by banging his head repeatedly on his piano. "I'll never get it! Never, never, never, never...!"
But then Kermit the Frog would save the day and suggest the correct lyric. Don never liked it...but he would be inspired to suddenly come up with a whole alternate lyrical ending which he immediately plays with a full chorus of backup singers that suddenly appear from the next room.

If only my life were like that. I need backup singers.

Mahalo

Poorly chosen love is fickle.

What a lesson to learn from a 15 year old hula dancer.

A Hula Ho’ike brought Hawaiian families from all over the country, to celebrate the beauty of dance. I was invited last minute, and am so very glad I went, as a 15 year old man-boy reminded me of why life goes on.

This lithe young boy in his circa 1970’s shirt, white old-man pants, with a green and yellow hula skirt over them looked all the world like a Hawaiian Napolean Dynamite. His dance began with the song that says ‘be careful in chosing your love, or you may end up with fickle love, and someone who doesn’t truly care.’

As he knee-knocked, gyrated, and shrugged, he also lithely illustrated with his skinny arms from his heart how that pointed heart was broken by some fickle girl, who didn’t understand the beauty of his hula, and didn’t stay with him when he was learning to dance.

His irregular face, and cock-eyed smile elaborated on how she left him behind for older, more handsome classmates, who didn’t dress in geeky shirts and didn’t practice knock-kneed dances for her distaste, and his pleasure. His single rhythmic arm from heart to sky showed his outlet of dance was the only thing left for him to love.

His spins turned faster and faster as his skirt flared out, and the once-geeky outfit became an extension of his body, and his mind, and his soul. A last single quick-stopped spin demonstrated such pain, and such redemption.

And just like Napolean, there was a second of silence, and then deafening applause. He smiled, shocked that we loved him so much. We applauded hard, but his smile broadened wider than ever at the conclusion, when we applauded until our palms hurt at the news that he had won first place with his hula creation in an international competition.

We all knew why he won. He had danced a universal truth. Without a single word spoken, we knew his heartache, and ours. He had shown to us that there is hope after rejection, hope after poorly given friendship and hope after someone leaves you, who doesn’t understand.

He walked off the stage redeemed. Into the wings, ready for some awaiting girl who rushed into his arms. Some girl who finally understood.

An athiest and a gay barista walked into a church...

"I love church."

Holy crap, did I just say that? For the love of Richard Dean Anderson, make it stop! Beezelbub, why hast thou forsaken me?

Ok..so it's not bad. Although the rector wouldn't let me take in my Starbucks grande latte, and once, that's ok... but every sunday? Forget it. But I understand...I missed the whole 'thou shalt not take Starbucks into a house of god' sunday school.

Once again, I've visited the holy edifice to witness the singing of Jay and Corinne Tuttle - the last remining vestiges of the Von Trapp family. They're cute, they're married, and the royal 'we' hate their double-threat talent. Jay sung beautiful baritone French songs, while managing to not actually speak a word of French. Did I mention we hate them?

The recital was chamber music of 20th century composer Francis Poulenc. He was described as "part monk, part bad boy," so obviously I felt he was speaking to me. He was also openly gay, which although not speaking to me, I felt was interesting to add...for a church endorsed and performed program. You may all raise your eyebrows now. It seems as if the church has become more liberal. Let's all say it together..."Halleluiah, Thank the Lord." Amen. This church also has a wine and cheese reception after the show...Amen for that too. My religion flows more freely while buzzed. But think about this...they admit gay composers but not Starbucks...hmm...I sense an irony, but I just cant pinpoint it.

I snoozed during the 'before' church service, but they had thoughtfully provided doodling cards for 'our youngest episcopalians' and so I crossed out episcopalian, wrote 'athiest' and then proceeded to doodle bibles and crosses. It's a compromise.

I was also given a survey on religion, and asked to fill it out...but after bubbling the first 3 pages 'No', "Does not apply' and 'Never' I figured I didn't need to skew the numbers anymore. They might think there were athiests in their midst. We prefer to go unnoticed, but the bursting into flames is usually our giveaway.

So all in all, a lovely afternoon in church...the only uncomfortable part was the whole 'kneeling before thy god' thing in the service. It got me in a bit of a twitter, but otherwise I survived unscathed. And in case you're wondering, no, I did not kneel. It's against my religion.

The IE Blues

Schrodinger's Kitten

Technology is the bane of my life! Grr...

So, to all my readers, I sadly got laid off on friday...which most importantly means no easy blog access. Somehow IE5 on my home computer does not support blogger formatting, and I cannot acccess dashboard to enter/edit blogs or comments. I've gotten the laptop to 'somewhat' work so that I can at least see what I'm typing now...Also running os9, which means safari/firefox etc..are not options. Don't berate me about os9. I hate you all running osX. If all else fails, I'll be trekking it to an internet cafe somwhere and playing tourist.

So, bye for a few days...will be online as soon as I can
(I feel like I'm in some hatch in the jungle somwhere entering numbers in a computer for no reason)...and in the meantime, if anyone knows of any film or TV production/development positions, let me know. ;^)

At least Robert Redford Likes Me

And Al Gore. And Ben Bernanke.

I got an e-mail today from Robert Redford. He was just chatting, telling me how much he missed our long chats while sitting next to the fireplace in Sundance, and how I should really get into films, possibly direct him in something. Then he suddenly launches into some rhetoric about the gas hike, the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, and how I need to go to this link and solve the oil crisis all by my lonesome.

Now, nothing against the man, but why is he e-mailing me so directly (it says 'Robert Redford' in the from box) and yet speaking so indirectly? It's almost as if this e-mail was NOT from him at all, but from some committee using his name to get me to think 'Hey! Robert Redford sent me an e-mail! I knew he missed me!' and get me to open it. Which I did think, and did do.

I feel like the guy in that spam commercial who says 'Who's Nabbucco?' and opens the email just to have his system crash. My excitement system crashed when I realized my buddy Bob had not written me at all.

And Ben Bernanke writes just to tell me he's hiking the Fed. Um...thanks?

Now, in case you're wondering if I'm a bit dense...I did not think that when Al Gore sent me an e-mail. My first thought was 'How did Al Gore get my e-mail?' My second thought was 'Did I meet Al Gore last year?' My third thought is 'Well, he must have heard about me and got my e-mail from Bill Clinton.' So I opened it. I was shocked, SHOCKED I tell you, to realize it was not from Al Gore, but another environmental action committee. How do I get on these lists? I hate the environment! Club all the baby seals! We were here first!

And really, my entire frustration stems from the fact that if Bob Redford REALLY wanted to talk to me, he'd just pick up the phone and call. I know he has my number. It's just rude.

Ballerina or Fireman

My friend Mauryia and I were discussing what we were going to be when we finally grew up. I suggested fireman, but she said ballerina. After shoving a smaller child in my ballet class, I was banned, so that was out. Turning to income-free ideas, we also had to narrow it down and consider if we should be whores, or nuns. She says 'Having sex with god is so not cool'. And I tend to agree. Plus, marrying god when you're an athiest - may not fly. I'll have to call the Pope and ask, but I'm thinking he's not in the mood.

But God...
Not now, Sara, I have a headache.

So I decided. I'm going to be a trophy wife.

I've got the Martha Stewart/Betty Crocker stuff down pat. What I need to work on is the trophy part. The part where I'm super-georgeous and don't know it. Also my celebrity knowledge (I'm going to subscribe to Star - that should do it) and designer labels. If I can't tell a Versace from a Chanel - then how can I scoff at those wearing last year's design? Gold chains are so last season. I'm so embarassed for you.

I hear I also need to buy a tiny dog. And a tiny dog carrier.

Most importantly, I need to get lots of Botox so my face can't move and lose 10 years in age. I think 32 is FAR too old for a trophy wife. The Malibu-enforced cap is 22.

I also should work on my party-face. You know, the one where you look genuinely interested in what the men are saying, and yet won't retain anything afterward when the DA calls to investigate insider trading?

Oh - and the best part? I'm getting the frontal lobotomy tomorrow. Watch out world! Here I....wait, what was I saying?

Shiny Happy 6 Foot People

Sounds like the name of Russell Crowe's band.

I am 6 foot 1 inch today. How you ask, do I manage that? Because I'm tall in the first place, and I'm a ho. Not in general, it's due to wearing 4 in heels to work.

I used to do it all the time, but that was sadly, to impress a guy that could have cared less for my black patent stilettos. Still work-innapropriate, but with explanation, I look less like a ho, and more like a girl with a crush. Awww... and I even wore his favorite dress with them. His favorite dress of mine, I should clarify. He did have a favorite dress of his own. Do you get it now, why we didn't work out?

Now, these are espadrille wedges, so they're not ho-ish at all, just tall. I'm taller than my boss today. I don't think he likes that. He he he...

To follow up from my past few days of hair-care blog roll (and I promise after today, no more hair care blogs) - I've just tried a product called 'Shine Happy'. Of course I read about it in Lucky or something...and HAD TO TRY IT. That's in caps because that's how my brain works when I see something that implies shiny hair and happiness in the same sentence. SARA MUST DO NOW- GRUNT GRUNT. And therfore, I did. Actually, it's more like a Pavlovian response, than a caveman....happy, shiny, salivate.

In the small print it says that you cannot wash your hair for 48 hours after you do this. Of course, I didn't read this until I was done. "Dammit, I know how to dye my hair...give me that!" very man-no-read-directions. Of course also, you have to do it to unwashed hair. So I'm on day 3 of a no-washing exile, and this is coming on the heels of wax-bed-head-disaster, so needless to say, I look pretty scummy today. But shiny and happy.

Ok, more indifferent. But 'Shine Indifferent' wouldn't sell as well.

And being 6'1", I will stomp on anyone who claims otherwise.

Bedhead

I don't think bed-head hair is all it's cracked up to be.

I bought some spray hair wax that promises I'll have that 'sexy, just got out of bed look'. And what I actually have is that 'stayed up all night partying and smoking got sticky stuff in my hair and didn't take a shower before stumbling into work look'. And it's kind of gross to touch. Is that sexy? Because I can't tell.

But it is truth in advertising, because that is how I normally look when I get out of bed. Maybe it's sexy to someone, but it scares my cats. Why am I paying for something I can get by just not washing my hair?

And since I'm on a hair-product roll (see previous post on the analogy of friendship and conditioner) I have to argue that words like 'sexy' shouldn't be on grooming products. Aren't there small teenage girls who use this stuff? Do I want my 12 year old daughter trying to look 'sexy' before she huffs off to 6th grade? If Harry Potter finds her sexy, then we're going to have a problem. He's mine.

Unfortunately, I have a bit of a hair-product addiction. I try a new conditioner every week, and am constantly buying anything new I see in Lucky, Glamour, Cosmo, or any such useless magazine, thinking "If I just try this shampoo, my hair will make me look like Kate Moss" And I usually am impressed for a day or so, and am under some delusion that I look better, or hotter, or more 'stylish'. But the irony is...my hair is my hair, and as long as I put something in it...I look the same. If I leave it alone, I have this blond Rosanne Rosannadanna look. Or Einstein, depending on if I'm feeling the 'crazy mad-physicist hair' vibe. It tends to make men fear you're a stalker, so I dropped that hair-care option.

I personally like men's hair, because even if there is crap in it, you can run your fingers through and it usually feels soft and clean. However, women are so hair-sprayed that oftentimes we have to worry about being too close to cigarettes or toasters for fear of our industrial-grade furniture shellac going up in flame.

And you know what the style is now? Straight and clean. Ironically you can't get that look if you wash your hair. It's only after pounds of lotions, gels, straightners, 3 days not washing it and horse hair conditioner that you can get that 'natural clean' look. And then you have to spray it down so that when you move your head, it moves with you like a metal gladiator helmet.

I think I'm going to start wearing head scarves. The kind where you also wear big oval sunglasses and look like Audrey Hepburn. Audrey Hepburn if she was up late smoking, partying, got sticky stuff in her hair and didn't take a shower before stumbling into work. Yeah...that's the look. Sexy.