Monday-Manic

• Too much stuff left to do, not enough time left to do it.
• I. MISS. MY. MAC.   
• The cats are mending their disappointment over their missing perches (couch, bed, chairs, etc.) by laying in the middle of the empty spaces like Egyptian Mao’s… No amount of “MOVE!” and “WATCH OUT”s seem to help.
• I have entirely too many stacks of “I’ll deal with this later” mail… don’t let that shit pile up, people.  It will bury you!
• Who wants to come paint my apartment for me?
• Why do apartments in LA refuse to provide fridges?  Now I have this large refrigerated cube that I can’t sell till I’m moving, but no one seems to by biting.  Refuse to let go for a tuppence, I’m probably going to have to haul it home with me and sell there.  Could be worse, I once looked at a place that provided neither a fridge, nor a stove!
• Tired.  Grumpy.  And my carpet is DISGUSTING. 
• Moving to commence Tues. morn.  Expect radio interweb silence for a few days.  Entertain yourself with the lovely FalloutGirl.  That’s where I’d be if I wasn’t here 🙂

Penis Straw

Yes, you read that correctly.  Here’s the deal: last night was my dear friend Nicky’s Bachelorette party.  Now, Nicky is doing it up big this year, not only is she marrying her best friend and long time love, but they’re also having a baby!  So, with baby bump leading the way, we couldn’t do anything that got us into too much trouble… or so I thought.

The night began with riotous giggles over the hilarious Mac-A-Weenie pasta (Last time this little culinary magic made its appearance was at JJ’s bachelorette party.  She got a box of the stuff as a gag, and apparently put it in her pantry.   About three months after that, while making pasta salad for our Thanksgiving pot luck, she ran out of noodles and decided, out of sheer necessity,  to use the box of penis pasta.  A good male friend of mine at the party was really digging the flavor until he looked closer and sputtered a little something like this “Mmm, yeah, everything is really goo- what is that?  Is that…That looks like a c*ck.   What kind of macaroni salad is this?”  Well played, JJ, well played!) 

We also had a blast with the penis tattoos, everyone had to stick one on- cleavage, shoulder, FACE.  Yes, my bestest friend forever and ever, put hers on her cheek.  This is just one of the many reasons I love that girl!  She’s got balls.  Literally.  Right there on her face.

Anyway, the night was a big success, and we all laughed our pretty little a$$es off. 

But then there were the straws…  the glow-in-the-dark penis-shaped straws (with, I’m afraid to say, some fairly unshapen balls) that we drank our sangria from.  Yes, it was ridiculous, yes it was fun, yes it took me a drink or two before I could actually bring myself to use it… but use it I did – and then grab them we did, as we took ourselves, and our straws, to the piano bar and fresh drinks down the way. 

And this bar…  it was rife, no, make that RIFE, with pups… “I just turned 21”  kind of pups.  We were like cougars-in-training, and we got hit on ALL NIGHT LONG.  Now, how about that for ego boost?  10 years older than everyone in the bar, and still drawing ’em in like flies.  It was fantastic. 

We drank our new drinks with our special straws, and laughed when the guy talking to Nicky thought her wedding ring and baby bump were sexy enough to lean in even closer.  It was grand.

Only, I didn’t drink my new drink with my special straw because I couldn’t find it – thinking it had sunk to the nether reaches of that bottomless-pit I call a purse, or else fallen out on the walk over – I sipped from the glass like a, well, like a lady.

Then this morning (and here’s where all of this pays off)  I had a meeting with two older gentleman on a project I am writing.  I had a meeting in which I needed to take notes.  I had a meeting in which I had to rummage through the bottomless-pit-I-call-a-purse for a pen, and damn if that little punk-ass bit of leather and mystery didn’t spit the Penis Straw right out on the table where it bounced not just once, but twice, and then did a little spin before clattering to the hard-wood floor.

Glow-in-the-dark penis-straw at our feet.

Try explaining that. 

Just T-R-Y!

The Long Gone Roomie Blues

My roomate, my very kind and quiet roomate, left today for China.

And I am sad.

We didn’t hang out, per se, but we did live together for 2 years and had developed a very peaceful routine, and now that he’s gone, well, this whole “Vacating LA” thing seems all the more real.

And therefore terrifying.

Because I also had to write my notice to the landlord today.

Which makes things REALLY real.

Which means I am moving.

ACK!

And I’m not a big fan of change…  change… CHANGE?!?!  (insert scary music and dizzying lighting effects)

So let’s not talk about my change…  Let’s talk about Ian and China!

As he was waiting for his shuttle this morning he told me that he’s basically accepted a job in a country that he dislikes – a job in banking that requires him to be in utter obedience to his boss, the odds being pretty good that he’ll have to work 80 or more hours a week, where drinking is a near daily required social activity and where he’ll have to entertain clients at their mercy – this is where my quiet, kind-of-shy, homebody of a roomate is heading?!  I just can’t imagine it.

But he’s doing it because he thinks it will be a good work experience, he will learn a lot and it will look good on his resume, even though he already knows he will be (in all likelihood) miserable.  (Is that how you spell likelihood?  The red squiggle isn’t showing up, but my goodness that’s a strange looking word!)

I sat there, listening to him describe this terrifying sounding environment, (there’s no facebook in China!  WTF?) and just couldn’t believe he was going!  Knowingly going… knowingly heading into something he knows he won’t like… and I wondered if I could do it.

I didn’t wonder long, I mean, I’m not moving home because I’m unemployable.  I’m moving home because I didn’t apply for any of those full-time jobs that would get in the way of my writing.  I’m an artist, I give in to the muse and the muse doesn’t like strict rules or even 40 hour work weeks, much less 80!?  ACK!  There’s no way I’d survive that kind of life.

But he’s on his way, on his way to this new crazy place that sounds like some kind of punishment.  He said he’s thinking of it like a jail sentance – one year.  He thinks he can do it for one year.

I told him that since his boss here in LA is holding the door open for a return, if he gets over there and hates it?  He should feel no shame or worry at all about coming back… soon.

It’s interesting what we tell ourselves, and what we are willing to do (or think we are willing to do) when told it’s going to be good for us…  It’s interesting and a wee bit scary.

Cold and Shivering for $8 an hour

Extra work.

Yes.

I did it.

Look, let’s just talk for a moment.  I came out to LA 11 years ago to act, got some degrees that say so and everything, then I discovered writing and felt my soul sing.  It’s not that I stopped loving acting, but I did love something else more.

So I never really adopted a particularly strong “DO WHATEVER IT TAKES TO GET THOSE SAG VOUCHERS” attitude (a lot of actors do Extra work as a means to procuring hard-nearly-impossible-to-get vouchers that help them join the Screen Actors Guild)  In fact, I only did it once and hated it.

But right now I am BROKE as a (really bad, not funny at all, in-poor-taste) JOKE.  So I signed up with Central Casting and started throwing my hat in the ring.  And last week I worked on a big studio set on a sound stage and the sheer enormity of the project was interesting and cool enough to make the day pass fairly quickly.

Today, however, I stood outside in downtown LA for 10 hours, shivering and sucking in everyone’s exhaust for my kibble.

And it was NOT fun.

Because the mystery and excitment of Hollywood and its projects is no longer there to sustain me.  I don’t wander around wide-eyed and hungry for more… I just want to get paid!

10 hours in the shade and wind was just enough to clarify some of my present panic, and I can distill it to these few words: If staying in LA means doing more and more extra work, then I don’t want to stay.

I mean, it’s more interesting than working at McDonalds, and after you work 8 hours you get time and a half, and then there are a host of other possible pay bumps you can rack up… But it’s hard work- you are literally breathing, eating, scenery!  I mean, it’s not hard to wave a flag and pretend that you are at a St. Patty’s day parade, but it IS hard work to wave your flag and pretend you happy to be at a St. Patty’s day parade for 10 hours, shivering.

And yes, younger, hungrier, chattier folk than I don’t seem to mind it much.  But they’re not having the same “But, I don’t really like people all that much” epiphany that I am having as total strangers stationed near my elbow rattle off stories about previous background gigs and their favorite musicians, and their actor “Plan” to “Like, get totally famous.”  No, they’re engaged in the social structure and having fun.

But I’m just dreaming about coming home and sinking into a hot bath, because my toes are numb and my nose is dripping.

So that was my “Extra” experience.  I don’t know that I need to have any more of them any time soon…  I do know that eucalyptus bath salts are a blessing from the Gods!

And the past makes up your (vivid) mind

I used to read A LOT.  I don’t anymore because I haven’t as much time- which pains me – but as I spend much of my time writing, I find that my past obsessions come back to color my present imaginings.  Even now as I work on a writing assignment for someone else, I find the many books I loved – a lot of fantasy and awe- left an indelible impression on my palate.  There is such magic to be had, and I can’t help but be tickled at the familiarity- at the synchronicity involved in landing this particular project before me; a project steeped in mystery.

Much of what I write pulls on my fascination with the theatrical and extraordinary (at least in sense that I strive to tell unique stories, stories that take people to new and adventurous places)  I don’t see the point in rehashing something already too familiar… if it’s not going to stir my own excitement and enthusiasm, why would I want to devote days, months, years of my life to its telling?  Which is why ( I think ) my work keeps me so breathless with anticipation.  I LOVE telling these stories, I rejoice in their discovery.  It’s an incredible love affair, and it’s what keeps me coming back for more, even when the telling gets tough.

And perhaps it’s the same wonder I used to experience as I picked up a new book- the joy of discovery settling all around me as I set fingers to keys…

Whatever the making, I am so thrilled to be able to be a part of this world of words… painting pictures with my muse on my shoulder, the mystical conductor tapping out time as I color in the notes…

Can you hear it?

Tap, tap, tap…

Tiffany’s Data Entry SNAFU

Sooooo, I don’t know if it was here or elsewhere that I spoke about my upcoming potential office temp job… Basically it was a data entry position in Westlake Village, 40 hours a week.  My good friends needed someone in their office, they thought of me, sounded wonderful (except the 40 hour work-week part… but I thought, “Hey, I can do it!”)

And then 6:15 a.m. this morning happened, and I crawled to the bathroom bleary eyed, confused, and wondering how on earth I was going to manage these early hours 5 days a week, but then I felt my imaginary pockets and thought “Hey, I can do it!”

Then I got in the car and drove… and drove… and DROOOOVE, because Westlake Village (for all you non-Angeleenos.. or hell, even for those of you that do live here) is WAAAAY up the 101.  I had to call my friend after 40 minutes to ask if I had missed the turn-off.  I was, after all, already leaving Calabasas.

I hadn’t missed anything.

So I’m driving, thinking all “Hmmm, 4o minutes without traffic,the drive home with is going to take, like… 2-weeks!”

And I started to sweat.

But I got there.

I told myself I was anticipating unnecessary panic and shrugged it off with a “Hey, I can do it.”

And I met some of the office folks (who were nice), and I sat down at my station (which was nice), and as my friend started explaining what it was the company does I realized that I never took any business classes, I never took any sort of anything about the market, I don’t even know what an IRA does… and here I was about to be messing around with market info details on their computers and I sweated a little bit more.

But it was interesting.  Very interesting.  So I told myself that I was learning stuff, I was getting new experience… and I like to learn new things.  The world is a mysterious place.  And as he continued speaking about this whole financial world of mystery I realized that it is a damn miracle that the stock market even works!  I mean, here is a system manifested by men who speak numbers and decimal points… a vast collaboration of suited individuals who speak the language of $$… A system so complex and layered that it employs thousands of people and the whole thing actually works.

And my friend hands me over to the girl who is going to train me, and I watch her confirm addresses (because this is all I’d be doing- I’m not expected to know much more than how to confirm and correct the client data in the system) and even this has its own little sub-system of functionality that requires more understanding… it has a code, it has rules, and my fingers are saying “Haaay, this is different…”

And the sweat is collecting because my eyes are starting to glaze over because I’m sitting there listening to her thinking “40 hours a week.  40 hours a week.  I will be doing this for 40 HOURS A WEEK!”

When would I write?

Because that’s the key question.

I’ve been hired to ghost-write a screenplay and that shit ain’t going to write itself, or write itself on 40(+ driving time!) hours of $10-per-hour -data-entry diet… (sigh) So the sweat went running.

And so did I.

So much for my foray into the world of Data Entry.

“Let me check my Calendar”

I was talking with a dear friend last night about the battle of “Yes”; Friends, peers, businessy types who present exciting opportunities.  All of them coming at you with interesting propositions that you don’t want to turn down for fear of missing out or losing out…

“Hey, can you…” Yes.  “Would you be able to..” Yes.  “I would love it if you could…” Yes. “You’d be perfect for…” Yes.

Which all starts to pile up like the 405 at rush hour until you want to scream from the congestion “I DON’T HAVE ANY DAMN TIME!”

And everyone turns to look at the pink-faced lunatic who’s screaming in the check-out line at the CVS.

Yeah.

I battle this problem, and I think a lot of creative aspiring types do as well, because we don’t want to miss out on any opportuities, and so many of them are fun, exciting, artistic challenges that we pile our plate ridiculously high… so what do we do?  Well, as someone once suggested, the best thing to do is NOT say “Yes” right off the bat, but throw this little adage out there:  “Let me check my calendar”

Oh there are many ways to do it, and many times I forget, but I’ve learned that this simple sentence can really help me avoid the pile-up (If I remember to use it)  It’s an opportunity to consider my options, decide if it’s really something I 1-have time for, 2- am really interested in, and 3- won’t regret signing up for a day later.  Plus, a little “Gee, this sounds great, but I want to make sure I have the time.  Can I check my calendar and get back to you?”  also excuses me from having to say “No” to the person’s face if it turns out I can’t make it work.  I get to go home, weigh the clock, and then call or email my un-availability.

So there you have it, just a little something to consider if you too suffer from “Yes-dom”