What I’ve Done Today: Part II

Screen shot 2013-05-23 at 11.08.36 AMAt the end of every day, my roommate and I usually give each other a run down of how our day went. Yesterday, my roommate came home and found me at about 5 o’clock, sitting on the couch with the shades drawn and the TV on mute. I had a lot to fill her in on:

At noon I made a really strong and impassioned statement on defying racial stereotypes by spending $13 on a breakfast sandwich and coffee, proving once and for all that not every Jew is good with their money.

The day only got more productive from there:

At 2pm I came home, sat on the couch and thought about blogging. But just thinking about blogging wasn’t enough, so I put some of my resume skills to good use by being a self-starter and doing some expert multi-tasking.

So I….

Thought about blogging…

….and picked off my gel manicure.

Thought about blogging…

….and thought about exercising.

Thought about blogging…

….and picked at a scab on my chin.

Thought about blogging…

….and read my own blog.

This went on for about 4 hours until I finally got up to go to the bathroom and toyed with the idea of parting my hair in the center because #YOLO

Spoiler Alert!!! Decided against it.

Then I sat back on the couch and looked at the Facebook’s of people I went to high school with and got really smug about how they’re still stuck in our hometown, married with stupid children who ruin their lives and love them unconditionally, and they have their dumb, steady jobs, with no hope of EVER being famous. And it’s just so sad, ‘cuz like LOOK AT ME, I’m in LA. I saw Sean and Eric from Boy Meets World at a cafe once, I have an air mattress, my roommate and I are thinking about auditioning for The Amazing Race, like, it’s all happening.


So after going through that one-woman show/suicide note with my roommate, she decided it was time to go see a burger about some feelings before I started thinking about getting bangs. 968784_4938956914874_1217821939_nIt worked! Look at those happy faces! We love LA, we love a burger, but most of all, we love each other. 

But seriously, how does everyone feel about me and bangs?

I’m a 55-Year Old Divorcee: Part 112

Sarah Silverman just put my life to music. Just replace the lyrics “weed” with “wine” and “YouPorn” with “The Golden Girls.”

If you’re keeping a log of evidence as to why I’m really a 55 year-old divorced woman, here’s some more proof:

On Thursday, I turned down plans to drink alcohol with people my own age so I could stay in and watch The Office series finale while I had this audible crying fit that only a salt-and-pepper haired Michael Scott could trigger. This is something that hasn’t happened to me since The Nanny was cancelled when I was 11.  

Friday, I spent a couple hours doing a proper, full-body exfoliation and moisturizing treatment, then fell asleep on the couch watching 48 Hours. 

Finally, on Saturday I went out, and I felt like the spritely 24 year-old that I am. Until it came time to decide whether or not to sleep on the floor of the house I ended up in as 20- somethings are so wont to do. And although that floor or couch or bale of hay outside would have been equally as comfortable as the air mattress I was going home to, I ultimately decided that my overnight routine was not something I could just abandon. One night of neglecting to wash my face is not worth the week I would be paying for it– amiright, the cast of Hot in Cleveland?? Valerie Bertinelli knows exactly what I’m talking about.

What I’ve Done Today

Well, after waking up, making coffee and breakfast, and taking a quick 2 hour nap, I did something I’m not proud of:

RE: Anti-feminism blog written by a woman who asserts that Jodi Arias killed her ex-boyfriend because…feminism

jodiariasfemCan I please have a job now? Things are dark here.

(Luckily, I’m not so far gone or bored that I feel the need to reply back to this).

This exchange brings up something scary (besides my feminist self running around town slitting the throats of young, virile men because I voted for Hillary in the primary election), I realized I was following this woman’s blog. I think I just hit the “feminism” tag on WordPress and just clicked on everything that came up. Who else could I be following? Am I on a list somewhere because I accidentally followed an Al Qaeda sympathizer blog after I clicked on a bunch of blogs with “Jessica Chastain” tags when Zero Dark Thirty came out? Is that how Al Qaeda gets you?!


The Story of My Roomie and Me

I asked my roommate to write about our relationship and how we got to where we are today. My perspective is in italics…

Dara and I met while pledging a sorority in college. We bonded over pillow fights, our mutual love of fro-yo, and Paul Rudd. Just kidding, I hated her.

Woah, okay…. I was just pretty indifferent towards her, I guess.

I was a sister in the sorority and Dara was a transfer student looking to meet a cool group of girls. Little did she know, these females would dislike her to no end. It was essentially a deep seeded hate for her lack-luster memorization skills and couldn’t give a shit personality.

To give you some context, in the sorority pledges had to interview each sister and then memorize every “sister fact” about their lives, which we would be verbally quizzed on every few days. I tried, but basically, I’m just more of a visual learner, you know?  

And to be clear, I don’t have a give-no-shits personality, JILL. But in this particular scenario I gave very few shits… 

I just remember pretty much everyone having a stick up their butts. We weren’t allowed to drink for almost that whole semester we pledged and we had a curfew. Then they’d make us stay in and do things like decorate paddles til 4 am when I had acting class in the morning. I needed to be fresh for that! When you’re rolling around on the floor pretending to be a cat for college credit you can’t just phone it in!

I’m just saying there wasn’t much incentive to learn every sister’s grandmother’s name when I was essentially paying $250 to get yelled at and do arts and crafts. 

Jill and Me in Santa Monica

Jill and Me in Santa Monica

I finally interacted with her my junior year because we happened to live in the same building. I always saw Dara in the latest Juicy Couture velour jogging suit, and I’m not even joking when I say she was either in that, or fashionable gym clothes 24/7. Homegirl was on a fitness mission, and I didn’t hate it! We sort of bonded at the gym.

What can I say? Little Mama likes to keep it tight. 

Then, Dara had to leave Boston in our final semester together to attend a prestigious comedy program in Chicago. Bleh, we get it. You’re talented.

I swear I didn’t write that… but yes….

I went to Los Angeles the following January and thought our paths would never cross again.

Geez…. never again? Way harsh, Tai. 

Post grad, Dara and I surprisingly kept in touch. It was mostly me fan-girling her hilarious blog, and a few texts back and fourth about unemployment depression and satirical self hate. But then, we attended a networking event together in NYC and something clicked. We had so much fun and began discussing what our life paths would be.

Jill even came to visit me in NH where we saw Magic Mike and smuggled in wine and chicken fingers. 

In late 2012, Dara and I decided to be roommates in Los Angeles.

It kind of came up like, “I want to move to LA.”

“Me too.”

“We should just live together! LOL”

For about 2 months I wasn’t sure if Jill was serious or not, and I think she felt the same way, so we were essentially in a game of roommate chicken. Then at some point we bought a WestSideRental.com membership, and it was suddenly real.

After saying yes, I took a giant step back and realized all I knew about this girl was surface stuff, but I was still willing to live with her because she’s a hoot! I have the most deductive reasoning, don’t I?

I knew very little about Jill except she thought I was a hoot which is all I care about aside from her stealing from me or bringing home guys to do it on my air mattress. So far she hasn’t done either of those things! Thanks, Jill!

We couldn’t be more different. I am completely Type A, essentially getting off on cleanliness and organization. Dara is much more relaxed and free spirited. We are the modern day odd couple, and I’m totally okay with it…For now 🙂


5 Signs That You Just Moved to LA

  1. You stare at any thin person wearing sunglasses trying to figure out if they’re a celebrity. And you know what, often times it is a celebrity! Other times it’s the woman from the Wendy’s commercial! God, I love this city. Emma-Stone-Ray-Ban-Clubmastfw550fh550
  2. In case you get pulled over, you already have a lie ready for the cop as to why you haven’t gotten a California driver’s license yet. Though, as of yesterday, this one doesn’t apply to me anymore. And my new picture is AWFUL. When I passed my test, I was pretty excited to take a new photo for my license, and not because it was a bad picture — that picture was taken on my 21st birthday when I had that natural, happy glow you only get on your wedding day and when you can legally drink. TSA agents across this great country have given that photo rave reviews. But because I’m blonde in the picture sometimes I get a little trouble from bouncers, so I was happy to get a new one with my red hair. UNTIL I SAW IT. It’s like some sort of Biggest Loser “before” photo where you think “oh, she’s going to be so beautiful when she loses the weight.” The picture is so close up. I look like a bowling ball with horse teeth.
  3. Up until this week, someone has tried to sell you a Coachella ticket. No, thank you! I don’t want to pay $500 to get date raped in a teepee!63e09e62542d322f6ae4495338a03cc6
  4. You don’t know that when someone asks what you do, “unemployed” or “temp/waitress/receptionist/etc.” are never the right answers. You are either “in between projects” or you’re an “actor/writer/editor/whatever” regardless of whether or not you’re getting paid for it. For the second answer, they will inevitably follow up with, “well, who do you ______ for? Anything I might have seen?” and at that point you can just start exaggerating. While at The Den in West Hollywood a couple weeks ago, I found myself out and out lying about what I did to some guy. Then he told me he was a student at UCLA, and I said BYYYYYYEEEEEEEE as I moonwalked out the door.
  5. You get endless delight from reading street signs and freeway names in a The Californians voice. La Cienegaaaaaaa. tumblr_me6scrlCXa1rnfmydo1_r1_400 That’s really how they talk here!!!!!!

Finding a Job

Hey, you know that kinda recent episode of Girls where Hannah goes middle-class-white-girl crazy and shoves a Q-Tip in her ear due to the stress of having a book deal? If that’s normal and soooo “relatable,” how would a normal person’s stress manifest itself if that person just moved 3,000 miles from home and had to find a job and pay rent? If the stress of getting paid to write a book at age 24 is a Q-Tip, and let’s say single mother making minimum wage and raising two kids is a hot steak knife…then I’d say I’m holding steady at a toddler’s tooth brush stuck firmly into my ear canal. In the grand scheme, it’s just champagne problems, but shut up, I’m Beyonce in my tiny universe, and having no job is stressful!!!

Now that I’m on my own, Girls makes even less sense to me. Why isn’t Hannah constantly talking about rent? If they wanted this show to reflect the feelings of a generation, then their scripts should have just kept alternating the words “rent” and “wine” for 30 pages. That would speak to me!

As of press time, so like, right now, I’m working on a bottle of wine after a long day of job lookin’. A day that was meant to be full of some completely undeserved relaxation, turned into a day of running back in forth through sand trying to get to an interview. That only kind of happened, but feel free to picture me doing that in a neon, wide brimmed sun hat.

b219f9e8a95011e2a22022000a1fc78f_7{This was me just prior to hell breaking loose}

My gal pals and I drove about an hour to Santa Monica for a beach day. Goddammit! I should have known I didn’t deserve a relaxing beach day!!!

Just about the time we got to the promenade, I got an email about a job opportunity that was very time sensitive. So in the ensemble you see above, my roommate and I went to the Apple store to tweak my resume and cover letter. After an hour of me hovered over a Mac laptop in my Coachella reject outfit, I finally sent off my stuff, and strutted to the beach, ready to relax after the stressful hour I had. What an hour.

15 minutes later, my shorts are OFF and my Trader Joe’s organic sunscreen is ON, and I am ready for some professional TLC from the California sun. Until! I get a phone call saying I have an interview and can I be there at 4:30, and of course I can ’cause all I have to do is put my mind to something.

So, my poor friends and I.. my poor, poor friends- May God bless and keep you, Jillian and Caitlin (my friends go by their full names, they are cosmopolitain ladies, THANK YEH). They were such great sports. SO, we run… picture me running through sand in that hat to the car. We finally make it to the other side of town, only so I can spend 15 minutes throwing on my interview outfit and showering in a bath of dry shampoo mist, until I was right back out the door.

For my 45 minute drive back, I meditated on the mantra that greasy hair would not be the determining factor of whether or not I got this job.

And hopefully that is actually true.

My interview happened and it was nearly the most majestic 15 minutes of my life, second only to my experience at Disney World’s Main Street Electrical Parade. Just kidding, it was okay, and I hope I get the job, but I release it into the universe like Deepak Chopra tells me to.

It was a stressful day, but it gave me an excuse to have a burger which I’ve been craving. That burger might end up being a celebratory burger or a depressed burger, but either way I enjoyed the burger. Breathe in, breathe out; rent money is just a man-made construct.

******If you’re in the Los Angeles area, please give me a job.

The Problem with My New Apartment

I have spent the last year of my life wishing I could move out of my parents house to sunny, beautiful Los Angeleez. Three weeks ago, I finally did that, but in true, miserable human being-like fashion, I have already found something to dislike about living on my own, making me miss how good I had it at home.

Now, what could I possibly have to complain about with my beautiful townhouse that includes a guest bathroom, yes, guest bathroom (with guest towels!), and a garbage disposal?

I mean, look at the beginnings of my tropical resort hotel themed bedroom. I have a succulent garden for Christsakes. What could be wrong with this set up???

I mean, look at the beginnings of my tropical resort hotel themed bedroom. I have a succulent garden for Christsakes. What could be wrong with this set up???

Well, besides a 90 year-old woman tenants call “Grandma” who speaks no English and lurks around the complex for hours on end (which, in my opinion, gives the place a quirky charm that the landlord could start charging for as a utility), basically everyone here is moderately to severely attractive, which is just enough attractive to make me want to look presentable at all times. It’s exhausting.

There is one specific person that I’d really like to impress:

About two weeks ago I had a full on Dreamweaver moment in the garage. As I was pulling out, this hunk of man, like, I mean, a real credit to the male species. If I dated him, he would clean the slate that I defaced with all those actors and stand up comedians I dated in college.

So, he gets out of his car in just some running shorts.

He walks by my car and waves, and I basically just Anne Hathway-ed a “derp, derp, derp, a-woooooga” reply to myself while my mother waved back.

Also, know that this post is getting deleted the second he and I have a real conversation because it’s only getting worse from here.

Since then, I have sat in my car pretending to set up my GPS while I waited for him to pass my car again so I could wave. And, most recently, as I was running late to my off-brand Ballet Barre class, Pop Physique, I opened my front door only to find his back turned to me, talking to a maintenance guy. Except I was in gym clothes, and not like, Lululemon lycra/spun gold blend yoga pants (that’s what they’re made of that they can charge $150 for YOGA PANTS, right?), but American Eagle men’s boxer shorts. I slam the door, and watch through the peephole until he leaves, and make my full descent into madness.

Now, why was I wearing boxer shorts when I have several pairs of perfectly adequate OLD NAVY yoga pants? Oh, well, I hadn’t done laundry in a while because I was trying to find a day when I already had both make up on and time (I won’t put make up on just to do laundry, I’m not insane). When I finally do find that time, that perfect bewitching hour, I loiter in the laundry room, then slowly make my way to the stairs, try to invent a new way to climb them where I never actually lift my feet, finally make it to the door and see how long it takes to unlock a door with my eyes closed, hoping somewhere along the way I’ll see him.

I think I now know how my favorite living ghost, my neighbor, got her start. When Grandma was but a girl, she locked eyes with a handsome personal trainer, and would lurk these corridors just for the chance to talk to him. He moved out years ago, but 65 years later, she still waits for him in her nicest black dress. Or her only black dress. I’ve only ever seen this lady in one outfit like some cartoon character.

How Mom is Adjusting to Life Without Me

Since I’m no longer on my mother’s couch watching the Jodi Arias trial when my mom gets home from work everyday (instead, I’m on my couch in LA watching the Jodi Arias trial when my roommate gets home from work everyday), I’ve been getting a lot of texts from her checking in.

You are about to read original texts from my mother, complete and uncut:

For a little background, I sent my mom home with the brand new GPS my dad bought me because I thought it was defective. Apparently, a quick once over of something called “directions” would have proven that the GPS was, in fact, completely functional.

photo 2-1 photo 3-1This next group of messages occurred after I told my mother I was going to a bar called The Den, an establishment once frequented by my confirmed (by my mother) soul mate, Jason Segel.

Please take note of the fact that it is 3 hours later than the time stamp where my mother is in NH:

 photo 1

So, besides the text I got from my brother the other day informing me that my mother was crying over my inevitable death in an earthquake, I think she’s doing okay. Until she remembers about California brush fires.

Road Trip to LA: Days 5, 6, & 7

At 6 am, my mother and I left our Amarillo hotel room in the same clothes we wore (and slept in) the day before. You can judge us, but we decided not to bother with bringing in our suitcase because the longer we stayed outside, the more opportunity some backwoods hillbilly had to murder us. Sorry, if you’re from Amarillo, and maybe it’s actually a lovely place to grow up, but all I’ve seen is one of your hookers, 3 of your Marriots, a Japanese steak house that looked suspiciously like a strip club, and the worst Whataburger I’ve ever been to.

photo-3One of my top three favorite foods is Whataburger’s honey butter chicken biscuit with extra honey butter. It’s been a few years since I’ve had one, and I looked forward to getting to Amarillo, solely for this treat (because what else is there to look forward to in Amarillo besides the relief of sweet death?) and it was such a disappointment. My chicken was dry and I’ll be DAMNED if that was extra honey butter. I give a rating of C- for the Whataburger on I 40 East, in case you were thinking of making a trip.

Then there was driving. Then there was Vegas. Thanks to a $20 bill slipped to the front desk lady at Caesar’s Palace, we were upgraded to a suite, which helped me develop my new definition of success: having a TV in the bathroom.
photo 1-2Then, I experienced my ideal Friday night, which is watching true crime shows on HLN, snuggled in high thread count sheets.
photo 2-2

On Day 6:

Happy hour hopping with my mom.

photo 4-1

We made a stop at the Palm’s Steakhouse. For a classy joint with some bomb-ass sliders, they have a pretty tacky decor situation. This covers their walls:

photo 4-3I imagine that people must pay to get their picture done and put on the wall, and I had to take a picture of this corner because it’s the saddest little corner in the universe. They must be some of the loneliest people in the world. Sure, Steve and Heather Kaplan have each other, but I bet they feel alone even when they share a bed, but I’d bet they haven’t slept in the same room in years. Have any of these people met their fathers? Has Sammy Wong ever felt the touch of a woman he didn’t pay for? Is Flash Man still alive or did he succumb to his opiate addiction years ago? I guess I’ll never know, but may God bless and keep these beautiful, lost souls.


photo 1-3Barbra Jo Batterman, my inspiration and role model, is having the time of her life! She is single and thriving!

photo 2-4In the casino, we stumbled upon Shania Twain’s costume for her “That Don’t Impress Me Much” video, and at that moment, life could only be more perfect if a living, breathing Connie Britton was in that outfit.

We saw “Peepshow” with Coco T, which marks the second time I’ve seen “Peepshow” (with Holly Madison), so my self esteem should be a lot lower than it is. All I’ll say about Coco is boobs, and also she is a national treasure and a delightful dancer/entertainer.


Day 7:

We drove the last 4 hour leg to LA to my apartment…. excuse me, TOWNHOUSE, yes, TOWNHOUSE, which idk if you know, means that our bedrooms are UPSTAIRS, and we have a lemon tree next to our front door so we are living The California Dream. Basically, I’m living the California Dreams theme song music. *Surf dudes with attitudes.*

PS Big thanks to the best mom in the world, SUGALYN, for going on this trip and spending 16 hours a day in a car with me, and footing the bill. And dad for also footing the bill, and fitting all my stuff into a corolla.

LA Preparations


Now that it’s March 1st, the countdown really begins for my road trip to LA. There’s so much to do in order to get ready for a move, particularly one that involves driving across the country, so I’m trying to be really organized and keep my priorities in order. I’ve accomplished some important things so far, like:

1. Lost 2 pounds. I’m trying to subsist on a diet comprised of primarily kale and alcohol, so I’m prepared when I actually get to LA. My goal is that by the time I get there, I’m able to complete a Soul Cycle class on just a belly full of vodka and Pressed Juicery.

Screen shot 2013-03-01 at 10.01.35 AM

2. Bought a really cute floppy brimmed straw hat because I needed it because the sun! And I’m on a never ending pursuit of being a hat person.

3. Went back to the orthodontist to get a removable retainer for my bottom teeth because last year I had my permanent retainer taken out. My teeth shifted, and every time I looked in the mirror at my janky teeth, I was overcome with the anxiety that if I was ever in a movie, people would see my crazy crooked bottom teeth while I was talking during a close up. Now I just have to wear this retainer 24 hours a day. If you’ve figured out that when I’m writing about how I’m a loser who drinks wine by herself while I watch SVU, I’m really scraping the bottom of the comedy barrel. But now I’m 24 with a retainer that gives me a lisp, so I’m somehow an 11 year old nerd and 45 year old divorcee, both with no life. A whole new set of things to talk about!

4. Took all my shorts out of my bureau and onto the floor so I’ll know where they are when I have to pack up the car.

5. Bought a Clinique daily wrinkle cream with SPF 25 to wear during the road trip.

The important things are pretty much out of the way, I just need to get my hair done and buy make up while I’m still in tax free NH. Still no job or place to live, but I’m pretty confident that if I hang around West Hollywood in my new hat someone will just approach me with a job offer or something.