August 29, 2011 § Leave a comment
I’m the worst at getting up in the morning. I’m one of those snooze button people. That’s right, 7 or 8 times. I think it’s because I have some of my most vivid dreams in between snoozes. Good or bad, I need seven more minutes to see what happens.
So there I am in between snoozes. This was a day after the Zombie dream which ended with a Zombie on my plane out of NYC, even though the outbreak wasn’t as bad as the one in San Francisco. It was a pretty stressful dream and my co-worker and I equated it to our jobs.
In waking life, Mister Red and I have gotten to a whole new level in our relationship. The L-word is being dropped just about everywhere, live-in tooth brushes were exchanged, most recently a razor spent a couple of days near my sink. I think that’s my turning point. The razor. I can’t stand whiskers in the sink, and not that there were any extraneous leftover whisker remains, but I had been happily living whisker free for a while now. This is certainly a double standard because I surly have a hairbrush taking residence in his bathroom, but nonetheless it made me notice the rapid progression of our intimacy.
Now let me tell you my dream. I’m in a large room, vaulted ceilings, huge, fully carpeted, it feels like a church. All of my best girl friends are there wearing the same long dress. My mother is holding open a white gown for me to step into. It’s my wedding dress. I am refusing to step into it like I five year old who won’t finish her peas. My mother is telling me I have to. I know I’m marrying Mister Red, but I say I’m not ready. I try to reason with my mom who is trying to make me feel guilty. She is reminding me off all the people who traveled so far to be there, and all the money, all the time, the huge amount of effort that went into the planning of this day. I try to reason with her, “let’s just have a big party, everyone’s already here. It will be epic!” and “if you just let me call him, I know he’ll agree.” I’m thinking in my head that its way too soon, I need two more years. Just two more years, then I will be ready.
The snooze button goes off, and I wake up, my heart is pounding. Wow. Where did I get that magic number of two more years from? And why was I so freaked out? I do what we all do when we have a dream that leaves an impression on us. I look it up on the internet. This is what it said about a wedding dress: To wear a wedding dress in your dream, indicates that you are evaluating and assessing your personal relationship.
Well, what about my refusal to wear the wedding dress? Am I refusing to be me? Be something I’m not? Maybe it doesn’t have to do with Mister Red at all? I do know that I will be the dirty 30 in two years. The end of my twenties, yet I feel as though I don’t have much to show for it. Sure, now I am ever more confused. I just hope I can dream up this sequel tonight.
August 24, 2011 § 1 Comment
I stood up at the nuptials of a couple of kick-ass people this past weekend. It was one of those emotional weddings that leaves you in an introspective reflective warm/fuzzy state. A love so celebrated between two people that makes you think you’ve just been privy to some important information that couldn’t be understood by just anybody. That crazy shit that makes you feel and think things to negate your rough exterior, and at the same time fooling yourself into thinking you’re smarter for having realized it. Pure raw emotion that only humans are capable of. Maybe chimps feel it too, there is a lot of partner grooming that goes on there.
Anyway, I’m not a very pretty crier. And to be honest, once I get going I can’t stop myself. There are a lot of things that can add up to a good cry. Stress, exhaustion, extreme situations. Let me explain. Not that I have a stressful job, reality TV is not saving lives, although I hear Intervention and Teen Mom are doing great things. But people in my industry are a certain breed of perfectionists who are pushed to a level of high demand with a short turn around. Even taking time out to lay a good deuce in the bathroom could set you back an hour of work and a heap of grief from your superiors. Not to mention, you could be killed by sarcasm with the volume that’s thrown at you by your co-workers. Taking off for a weekend with a shoot day to attend your best friend’s wedding will get your blood pressure rising and a lot of people passive aggressively lashing out.
Just as I exit this production, I enter into another one. Anyone who says that planning a wedding isn’t stressful has too much money to truly appreciate such an event. The thing itself has so much drama and enough opinions that all its missing is distribution from a major network and a primetime time slot. Add that to a red-eye flight across the county, and a dress that’s too small… well that just makes me the idiot for not taking tissues down the aisle with me. I’m a recipe for a breakdown.
So there I was, standing up there in a row of six watching a magazine worthy bride say some really incredible things to this really amazing dude that will unite them legally together in what they call holy matrimony. I hate that, “magazine-worthy.” It’s a very post modern saying that really doesn’t do her justice. She was most certainly transformed into a heavenly creature to make the moment the utmost sacred of them all. And I’m not normally religious, or maybe I was just sleep deprived, but the atmosphere was eerily celestial. The whole ceremony was starting to feel like a dream, or a movie. Of course I lose it. My fellow maid in front of me is whispering, “keep it together,” and the one behind me says that I’m killing her in between sniffles. Crying can be contagious if emotions are high enough. She tears off half her tissue and hands it to me, I take it between whimpers.
I can’t really say what put me over the edge in the moment. I’m usually a pretty tough cookie when it comes to this stuff, but looking back on the moments leading up, I couldn’t even break the tension with a joke. I think I was realizing all the planning that it took to get me physically there was a bargain compared to what I was fortunate enough to witness. And that my job didn’t really matter without having someone there to talk to it about while he cooks us dinner. That money is just money, and that perfect spot where my head fits on his chest could be the best pillow I’ll ever have. I think I was having an epiphany of what love really is, and seeing the best example right before my very eyes. Or I could have just been really really tired. But I wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you were thinking.
I honestly beleive that being at this wedding may have completely changed my views on marriage. Marriage with the right person, a person who seems made to be in your life, who would give you everything he had just to be with you. I wouldn’t say I was ready for it, but I’d say I am open to it. Really I just need the ultimate partner in crime because I’m all about mischief.
I returned 48 hours later, back to my crazy Hollywood life to tell Mister Red the tale. He asks, “so would you marry me tomorrow?” And I said, “I’m really busy tomorrow, it’s a shoot day.”
August 10, 2011 § Leave a comment
I am going to straight up geek-out, and there is nothing you can do about my nerdom. Before you judge just remember, those boys with the comicon hangover would think I was adorkable. Pushes glasses up with a snort. Whatever, I’m a Mac. A loyal user since 2004, even though I went to a tutor twice a week for an entire semester to learn how to use the alternative interface. After I was taught how fun the bouncy icons were it was just easier and far better for my image not to go back. Now, I’m like an elephant on a PC. Two buttons on the mouse, right click – what? Trained imonkey.
I kept the iphone at arms length for as long as I could. My phone by comparison is pretty dumb. So I got fed up and went on to experience what everyone is raving about. At least I made it to the 4th generation. 2 human generations ago there wasn’t even color TV, so I’m thinking the phone better make me coffee before I hit snooze for the third time and deliver it to my lips before I hit it the fourth. That’s real progression. Sadly, there isn’t an app for that, but I am trying to sync it up with my Keureg.
As with any new device there’s a learning curve. Literally no tangible buttons on this thing, which really bent my logic and the predictatext isn’t always reading my mind like it should. There I am, just another user buried in a screen, bumping into people at crosswalks, finishing texts at traffic lights, not talking to the person I went to lunch with. icontact.
iprettymuchloveit. It really does everything except for that coffee thing. It has the capability to balance my checkbook if only I had a seeing-eye dog to tell me where the decimal point is. The thing is so damn dinky, I’ve given up on even reading my daily horoscope or emails longer than 5 words. I regress back to my cavewoman ways, carrying around the whole 15 inches of my laptop constantly on the search for wifi.
My computer has been my right hand lady for 4 years. I just upgraded her and she’s running smoothly in her old age, a great-great-grandmother to my spunky new phone, my notebook and pen their ancestor. Scratch that, I’m carrying around at least 4 college ruled grannys of varying sizes along with my computer that has a full keyboard and my phone that does pretty much everything the pen, paper and computer can do combined, but I can hardly even see it.
So I do what any gen-Yer would do. I buy an ipad. I tell myself, “I’m going green.” It really is just an oversized iphone but that’s where the magic lies. Size matters. I’m a medium sized person, I need a medium sized device. I named him Henry and I love to touch him. I’ve synced him with just about everything I can think of except my menstruation cycle, but that’s only a matter of time.
I love mypad. It’s all my notebooks in one. It’s every list I could ever need all in the same place with Google to boot. It has a great relationship with my phone too. I think I hear wedding bells. Anything Henry knows my iphone knows, they finish each other’s sentences all the time. You’d think it was annoying, but it’s actually kinda cute, and deep down I hate them for it.
It is funny though, for the longest time the race was to create a device that could do it all, and now I have three of them, all in different sizes. I’ve astonished myself with my Macintosh gluttony (I even got appleTV when purchasing the ipad, but that story is for another post). However, productivity is at an all time high and I was able to fit in a little facebook stalking while I read the first 10 pages of a new book on the shitter. Athough I’m still rolling with the MacBook, it’s my security blanket. At any given moment I can be found with my technology spread eagle: small, medium, large. I bet I could ground a pretty good-sized aircraft with this set up… iland.
I’m going to leave you with this last thought… I actually saw a co-worker use this gesture the other day, and it made me think about our own evolution beyond words. To write a letter, you mime holding a pen. To send an email, you use both hands and pretend to type. To look up something, you now, thanks to itouch technology, mimic swiping your finger. But to roll down the window of a car you still do the same thing they’ve been doing since they were playing grab ass in the 70s. And the teenagers are still listening to loud music, dressing like fools, and giving their parents lame excuses. No matter how progressive, we will always find our parents embarrassing. There is no app for that.
August 8, 2011 § Leave a comment
I cleaned out my closet. Quite the feat for any woman, giving away much loved shoes, your ‘think thin’ jeans, and that 3am internet buy never worn because of the lack of digital dressing rooms. From time to time you must purge your belonging before you reach max capacity.
Through this process I’ve noticed that I’m pretty sentimental. It’s not really about pictures or keepsakes. No, no. For me it’s clothing, particularly free t-shirts that are to blame for my clutter. It’s a memento, and when I hold it, look at it, I get transported to a time when I wore it often or won a wet t-shirt contest (kidding). Those hose downs mean nothing to me compared to that year in college when I ate cheese sandwiches and wore my Mellow Yellow shirt working on student films. Or my first year in LA when I wore my Maleficent shirt even though I bought it as a gift to my roommate. Or when I worked at that camera house with all those burly men who treated me like a daughter and I didn’t get paid but I got a shirt for every day of the week. Or when I was on vacation and bought that funny marijuana slogan without ever intending on wearing it in public. Or how about that shirt quietly referencing my tits that I wore to work twice before realizing it was probably inappropriate.
Old habits die hard, and on my most recent gig we had what we liked to call, “fish shirt Friday” a shirt I will never wear out of context, but a joke I want to hold onto forever. So I decided to keep my memories and eradicate the ones of ex boyfriends, and stupid decisions. Throwing away all the Yankee’s gear, and slutty tube tops, being selective of the artifacts reflecting my life.
With chosen remembrance I’ve decided to make throw pillows of the old T’s in the hopes of replacing the photographs I forgot to take, and all the journal entries I was too drunk to write. Now, I just hug a pillow on the couch or the bed when needing an embrace from a better time. I think it’s a therapeutic endeavor. Maybe I should have kept a couple from old lovers to punch in a fit of rage? I’ve never been violent, and tossing them in the trash cleansed my soul nonetheless. Getting rid of previous regrets and reshaping the good times of the past. Plus, how hard can it be to sew a couple squares together from the best concert I’ve ever went to? My homemakers tip of the day!
August 3, 2011 § Leave a comment
Betty in the Lime-light: Kentucky Stud Part II
Dates have to progressively get better, otherwise just quit while you are ahead. I think there should be all sorts of fun, butterfly in the stomach, excited, anticipation for a date. That’s half the thrill. I’m a girly-girl; I love high heels, dresses, jewelry and tossing my glorious straight hair over my shoulder when I flash a movie star smile at a man. Dates should be full of flirting and laughing. A woman is never sexier than when she is truly having enjoying herself.
I should have known to just cancel the whole second date with Kentucky Stud when my pre-date anticipation had more to due with the dread of being bored than the excitement of possibility. I like to primp before a date, I enjoy the ritual that will turn me into a knockout but the Kentucky Stud is the type of young Southern gentleman I actually have to dress down for. Big uuuggghhh factor right there. I told one of my girlfriends how nervous he had seemed on the fist date and she told me to dress really low-key as he sounded like the type of guy who would pee his pants with fear if he saw me dressed up. Just the fact that I had to wear a t-shirt and jeans on a date was a big ‘ole red flag. Why be anything less than my true self? And if the Kentucky Stud can’t handle the heat than he should get out of the game. But, taking a friend’s advice and against my own better judgment, I wore a t-shirt and jeans.
For this evening outing, the Kentucky Stud met me at my house and then I drove the both of us to my local “casual yet hip” bar. We were on my turf so there was no motorcycle riding this time. The whole date was awkward and painful and I spent an entire hour watching him nurse one, yes I said one, beer. As I attempted to make conversation I was also calculating how long I needed to be out on this horrible date, how soon could I make an excuse without seeming rude and what in the hell was that excuse going to be? Half a beer did not magically turn the Kentucky Stud into a comedian and although I wanted five more glasses of wine I stuck to one so he wouldn’t know that his boring personality had turned me into an alcoholic. The strong, silent type is definitely NOT my type.
Finally we headed back to my place and instead of inviting him in I said “I have to get to bed because I have to wake up really early tomorrow” which is just another version of the “I have to wash my hair” excuse. He went in for a kiss, which I turned into an awkward hug. A buddy-pat on the arm and I sent that Kentucky Stud on his way. City girls and country boys just don’t mix. You won’t see this city girl trading in her high heels and red carpets anytime soon.