Episode 105

April 30, 2012 § Leave a comment

The Life Of Walsh Episode 105:

I guess you can tell a lot about a person by their car. My car… it has…. character. I have a history with bad cars, senior year of high school I was voted biggest lemon car in the mock elections. Aside from that, I like to name things, everything. In my life, inanimate objects have personalities.

My phone is Delores, my ipad is Henry, my ipod is Cricket, my external hard drive is Slim Jim, my computer is Fredia who used to be married to Frank (my old desktop) but Frank passed away a couple years back. But my car…

My car is Mama because it was my mom’s car and when I was driving across country to move west she was really fighting to get up those hills. It just felt right to encourage her,”Come on, Mama!” Mama is a 1998 Ford Embarrassment. I rarely wash her, with this smog and that ol’ girl, what’s the point? I never know what time it is because in order to get the heat to work one day I punched her in her sweet spot a little too hard and the clock and the radio stations spun out of control. Manual windows and locks, it’s also a gamble every time I try to start her. And there is a Michigan State Dance Team sticker on the rear window that’s peeling from sun exposure. I can’t bring myself to try to get it off completely because if I ever get pulled over or rear ended, you wouldn’t want to make a dance team girl cry, now would you?

I’m pretty embarrassed by her, especially when I go to valet. I profusely apologize or search endlessly for street parking just to avoid the shame. But what are you going to do? The dream car is a black BMW hard top convertible, who I will name Xavier. Till that day, Mama’s doing a great job getting me from point A to point B (although Mister Red refuses to drive her, and she wouldn’t stand a chance on trips longer than 2 hours).

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Old Bird’s Gotta Point

April 27, 2012 § Leave a comment

Off Her Rocker…

 

 

The Break-up Diet

April 25, 2012 § Leave a comment

This is a throw back to one of my first posts. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

It’s part of the cycle: Start dating Mr. Wrong, start eating caveman sized portions, forgo time at the gym for time with him, get on birth control, eat emotionally because he sucks, become a heinous, fat bitch, get dumped, get depressed, Facebook stalk him, loose your appetite, cry for help in status updates, go off the hormones, lose 20 pounds, tag great photos of yourself, find another boy toy and begin again. I realized this varies from woman to woman, and if you find one of those “keepers” you might not suffer from these symptoms.

So you got dumped. Along with breadbasket of emotional woes that attribute to a decrease in appetite, you now have more time on your hands and fervor for vengeance. Somewhere between I-want-you-back and I-want-to-stick-your-dick-in-the-toaster-oven is the best place to start working out.  Dust off the running shoes, breakout the yoga pants, or better yet, buy a month unlimited kickboxing package and imagine that you are pummeling his face into next Tuesday. And lucky you, beach season is around the corner.

Since before cell phones, single gals in their late teens and early 20s  abide by a formula and established, along with Barbie and marketing, that being fat and pale does not yield male attraction. I think now they teach that in high school right before senior spring break, or maybe it’s a part of the Greek System’s initiation process. Either way, tanorexic or anorexic, we all know what gets attention. After a few weeks at the gym and a wonder bra, you’ll be selecting a new piece of arm candy and wondering why you dated that douche bag to begin with. Especially after you realize the selection that’s out there now.

Even if you aren’t over your ex, your revenge by sex appeal won’t be ignored. He’s been tagged on Facebook with several new floosies? Upload bikini pics immediately. And, Yes, make it my profile picture.

Episode 104

April 23, 2012 § Leave a comment

The Life Of Walsh Episode: 104

The career of a dancer is often short. The dance industry is like a silver fox looking for a second wife, they like ’em young and limber. (Ew, TIB, why would you say that?!) It’s true. As a collegiate dancer, you know this. You’ve been given the lecture. You’ve done the math. You’ve looked at your ass. You know it’s not going to be perky forever. Which is precisely why when I was 20 I spent a few months in NYC testing out the scene. I had an internship at Broadway Dance Center where I worked for a summer slaving salads and smoothies in exchange for classes, seeing if I could hack it in the dance world.

I’ll save you the suspense… I couldn’t. But my young small town eyes were opened wide this summer. I threw myself in the middle of my first metropolis and asked big ol’ New York to give me her best shot. I was debating which story to tell you first, so I’ll just start at the beginning.

I came from Michigan State, my roommate who we will call Sweaty Legs (because after a hearty warm-up in the NY humidity… watch out), she went to U of M. You know, rivals. We were set up by the internship program. I think we met once while we were still in Michigan, but I can’t be sure.

We sublet a room on the sort of bad part of the upper west side from a woman the Dance Center matched us with. I think she taught literature at a City College. First, she had a mullet. Second, she didn’t shave her armpits. Third, she watched endless hours of the SciFi Channel. Fourth, she constantly had a glass of red wine in her hand.

We arrived eager, wanting to throw down our stuff and get out there. Sweaty Legs and I had really never met but had the automatic trust of kinder-gardeners, picking out our debut big city outfits for our first adventure. Then SciFi Mullet Lady then dropped the bomb. We were really subletting her bedroom, and she was going to  sleep on the couch for three months. What? Yes. And that meant two strangers, one bed. Too distracted by the city to deal with this issue, we decided to figure it out later and went out exploring.

Not steps out of the subway, a bird shit on me. Then we crossed three avenues on foot to meet her friend downtown for drinks. Avenues are long in heels, lesson learned. On that walk we crafted the plan to get an air mattress and a cab back. Then we headed uptown for more drinks with my friend. That’s when we realized how expensive the city was. We met a foreign fellow who told us if you didn’t make eye contact with everyone who was toasting, it was seven years bad sex.  There were a lot of toasts because he was buying and as a result we decided we didn’t have the money for an air mattress and it was a big bed so we’d just share it.

It was a big bed and we were small people. So for three months, her and I shared a bed. Don’t get excited, it was platonic. Still to this day, best first day in any city I’ve ever been. And Sweaty Legs and I are still dear friends.

My Bikini Season Diet…

April 20, 2012 § Leave a comment

 

 

Poor Melvin…

April 18, 2012 § Leave a comment

Okay gimme a break, I’m working hard jet-setting across the country to bring you several minutes of prime time tv. And like prime time tv, I don’t want to leave you hanging, so you’ll have to deal with a couple of repeats while I get my act together. Speaking of which, anyone know when Parks and Rec is coming back? Anyway… This one is from my online dating days.

Enough with this personal messaging masturbation, my profile and textual whit cannot be that interesting to which all these men are satisfied with volleying sentences back and forth for weeks. I’m at the end of my rope, someone man-up and meet me in the flesh! This online dating thing is boring. After coming to the realization that I was over this and ready for real personal contact, I made a date with the first gentleman caller that inquired. I guess beggars can’t be choosers. I agreed to a date with a man named Melvin.

Yes, that’s right, his name is Melvin, a synonym for an extremely uncomfortable man-wedgie. Melvin. I accepted because after I learned his name, I figured it couldn’t get much worse. Poor Melvin. He was doomed from the womb.

I tried not to contemplate how communist his parents must have been, or why in his adult age he wasn’t going by his middle name, and reaffirmed my acceptance by looking at his profile. He seemed like a normal 27 year-old guy, kind of standard, tall with a nice smile. His instant messages were well crafted, prompt and smart. What could go wrong? Aren’t those the famous last words…

He agreed to meet me on my side of town. Damn right, I am not going out of my way for a Melvin. I picked a bar within walking distance from my house, I was sure to need a cocktail or five. I was late of course, and on my way I received a text message from him: I’m sitting at the bar…  with a rose. Really? I almost turned around right there. Great, not only a Melvin, but also Captain Cheese. After swallowing my pride, I resolved to not stand him up. I didn’t want to be rude, his name is Melvin after all, I’m sure he’s been through enough.

Strike one, the hopeless romantic move, automatically putting an extreme amount of pressure on an already uncomfortable situation. Strike two, those must have been glamour shots on his profile, because I almost didn’t recognize him. Things were not going well for Melvin, and we hadn’t even said hello.

Now, I’m not really a hugger or a fan of unnecessary touching in general, especially with strangers. Melvin skipped the handshake and went right in for the hug. Strike three. Poor Melvin. As I sat down to settle in for conversation my eyes darted around for the waitress. Something strong, please.

I was hoping that I could at least get through 60 minutes of conversation without getting smashed, but my fears were confirmed when Melvin made his first Star Trek reference. Thank you, and may I have another. And make it a double this time.

I don’t know if it was because he was nervous or just stupid, but his replies were delayed, like when you are taking an overseas phone call from a third world country. It was because of this and his too eager smile that I retreated to basically talking the entire time just to fill the negative space. My speech was fueled by the alcohol and I became so distracted by the pressure of being entertaining that I couldn’t properly form a plan to get out of there. The only thing I could do was let it run it’s course.

After nearly drinking an entire bottle of wine to myself, Melvin finally realized I was a lush and he should start thinking about how to get into my pants. Now that I think about it, maybe that was his carefully crafted plan all along. Of course I was not going to go along with that. Even when I’m drunk, you have to have at least an ounce of game to swoon me. Poor Melvin, there is not enough booze in the world to impair my judgment to the extent that I would give up more than an embrace. And even that’s pushing it.

He offered to drive me home, without batting an eye, I declined. The night was bookended with another hug, and I stumbled on my way. What a disappointment, and I wasn’t even expecting that much. Lucky for me, I found a sexy tattoo artist with exactly one ounce of game and spent the rest of the night with him. Poor Melvin.

Episode 103

April 16, 2012 § Leave a comment

The Life of Walsh Episode: 103

I went to film school, but as odd as I am, when I was at Emerson I felt too normal. I’m not going to even attempt to describe the fashion show between classes at a liberal arts college because it wouldn’t do it justice. Art is hard and not everything is art. Sometimes it’s just shit that you think would be really cool. I really liked the freedom of avant garde film making, but it’s really hard to get people on board with it. Most of the time it’s the people with money that just don’t get your vision.

My first year in LA was a sobering one. My roommate and I were jobless and lacked furniture for the first couple months. Without TV or internet or a couch, you get creative. We made several collages out of the grocer mailers that seemed to mock us. I still have these as a visual reminder of my number as a consumer. But more important creative nugget that came out of this time was the most brilliant idea for an experimental short film. We call it: 15 Minutes of Steve Buscemi Eating a Sandwich. It’s a turkey sandwich on wheat and he gets a phone call on a rotary phone in the middle of him enjoying his sandwich. He’s not happy about the interruption. But that’s it, 15 mins long, Steve Buscemi, turkey sandwich consumption. Now this blog is copyrighted, so if you steal my idea… I’ll take you to court.  *wink*

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