Crushing on Lovie

I develop crushes really easily. I always have. Michael J. Fox, Peter DeLuise, Kevin Costner, Sinjin Smith, don’t get me started. Luckily my crushes have changed somewhat as I’ve grown older; they are rarely romantic, males and females are crushed-on in equal numbers and I’ve even thrown in a handful of movies and a couple books as of late. Oh, and a wallpaper pattern in a downtown Seattle hotel. I’m sure some would argue there is a more appropriate word for the intense, and often fleeting, feelings I develop for people and inanimate objects. But for me, they’re all crushes.

My latest crush is on a human…Chicago Bears head coach Lovie Smith. Lovie. Lovie Smith. I just love-lovie saying it.

Eric is a life-long Bears fan, and come football season we fall into an easy pattern based on an unspoken agreement: I support his team (which now involves wearing my adorable new Bears shirt with Eric’s high school football number on the back) and make sure the schedule is free of any non-football television plans on Sundays and the occasional Monday. Eric responds in kind by keeping his enthusiasm for Bears football to a nice, respectable level which means no screaming, no crying and no life-sized wall stickers of Brian Urlacher. I’d say it works out quite nicely for the both of us.

So last Sunday we’re watching the back and forth of the Bears and the Eagles when I became aware of that all-too-familiar feeling of butterflies in my stomach while watching Lovie Smith on the sideline. What? Really? I have a crush on Lovie Smith, don’t I? Eric nailed it when he said that Lovie looks like he could be Seal’s dad. Heidi Klum should be so lucky to have Lovie Smith as a father-in-law. His eyes are always smiling. Always. Even when the Bears are down and turnovers are reaching double digits and defense can’t block to save their lives, Lovie’s eyes twinkle as if to say “I’m going to try my damnest to help win this game, but in the end it really is just a game so lets have fun out there.” I want to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him on the cheek and breathe in his sports deodorant smell and have him promise to take me out for ice cream just as soon as the fourth quarter is over. I’ve never once seen him yell at a referee or player or another coach. He is quiet and thoughtful and even-tempered – all qualities which seem non-existent in the world of professional football. They are also qualities I’ve projected one hundred percent on Lovie Smith with absolutely no knowledge of the man – because a crush is a visceral thing, not a research project. But just look at the guy, he has to be one of the most gentle human beings on the planet. Watch a Bears game and try NOT to crush on Lovie Smith. I triple-dog-dare you.

GO BEARS!

Gretch

Whose Fantasy is This?

I have THREE fantasy football teams. That's just stupid. Football's not even my favorite sport...which makes me un-American. But having a stupid amount of fantasy football teams kind of makes up for my clear lack of patriotism. In fact, the stupid amount of time I have to devote to my stupid number of teams would probably prove an alibi of I were falsely accused of a crime.

Don't get me wrong. I like football. And I like World of Warcraft. But NFL+WoW != Fantasy Football. I don't think NFL+WoW exists, except maybe NFL+Wow=NFL, since playing professional football is probably the fantasy of everyone who plays professional football, don't you think? I would hope so. It's an awful lot of pain to endure if it's not your #1 fantasy job.

I guess it's nice that enough people feel at least close enough to me to easily bear the time it takes to receive my 40 bucks in the mail, see my avatar and "funny" team name on their 15" laptop monitor once or twice a week, and 3-4 times a season exchange a friendly, 2-line "smackdown," that I find myself in 3 leagues with as many as 20, at-least-that-close, friends. Hard to keep my ego from getting inflated.

The Fuckit List

The Fuckit List is the compilation of all those things you wanted to do before you die, but then were all like, "Eh...fuckit." Here's mine:

1) Jump out of an airplane.

2) Learn a foreign language.

3) Get a job.

4) Travel the world.

5) Run with the bulls.

6) Be somebody.

7) Get a tattoo.

8) Live up to my potential.

9) Sponsor an orphaned child.

10) Apply myself.

11) Quit my whining.

12) Shut up and do it already.

13) Try.

14) Open up a cupcake shop.

-M

Shampoo

I just got done cleaning the bathroom. I share the bathroom with a friend and as I moved their shampoo in the process of cleaning, I remembered that it was about a year ago that I threw away my last bottle of shampoo. It was a plastic bottle of strawberry shampoo from, yes, the 99 Cent Store. It was not even empty, just three-quarters empty. I had that bottle for about, oh, seven years.

I'm bald.

It wasn't a choice like I still have the right to get an abortion, it was the hand that I was dealt, and I"M FINE WITH IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Geez, you save a lot of time not buying hair care products and rinsing and repeating in the shower. Geez, you save a lot of time not going to the barber or running to the store to buy a new comb.

Years ago, I had a friend stay over at my house (he of a full head of hair) and after showering he asked me if I had a comb. I just looked at him and said, "Look at me, why would I have a comb?" He said, "You don't have a brush, or anything?" "No", I replied, "I'm like Henry Blake from MASH, I comb my hair with a towel." Which reminds me of the time I was rooting through a closet and I saw a shoebox way up on top of a stack of stuff. I had to get a step stool to get to that shoebox. I pulled it down and I opened it to find stuff like a roll of tape, a can of shoe polish, and a brush and a comb. I had to laugh. A roll of tape and a can of shoe polish? That's crazy why did I still have that stuff? No, of course I'm talking about the brush and comb. It was like finding artifacts from an ancient civilization and wondering, "What were these implements possibly used for?"

So, shampoo. It used to take me two-years-and-four-months to go through a store brand bottle of Pert and then I bought the strawberry stuff at the 99 Cent Store, and I realized, "Why do I need to wash my hair? What hair!? This is ridiculous.

When I'm in the shower now I don't even acknowledge the existence of shampoo. That does change when I'm in a hotel. They leave shampoo in the complimentary bottles and I use it. I use a whole mini-bottle everytime I wash my hair in a hotel.

Are you kidding me? I'm bald, AND I'M FINE WITH IT!!!!!!!! I bring that stuff home for my friends... that have hair and don't go to the 99 Cent Store.

Productivity

OK, so I'm pondering this theory I have that my day's productivity is determined by not only if I shower, but when that shower happens in the timeline. If I get straight up and walk directly into the shower stall (do not pass the coffee machine, do not feed the cats,) then, I feel, I'm off to the best possible start. If however, the reason I'm up is meowing at me, then I think, ooh, better take care of this first. But my cat-feeding procedure takes me right past the coffee machine. And since I'm careful to set up said coffee the night before, my cuppa is just a click away. So, I click. I'm a human being, I confess. So, while it brews for such a short time, and since a HOT cuppa is an absolute requirement, I'm sort of locked in to hanging out for it. And while I sip the morning crack, I might as well check email, no? Both accounts.....and if there are no facebook alerts in my yahoo account, well then I should go and check facebook and see if there's a problem (there must be) and if there isn't a problem, to prepare my list of "friends" who have betrayed me. That takes some time. And well, a girl needs her cereal. Must break the fast, and all that.

And so we can see, in no time at all, it's too late for a good day. It will be about 11ish before I even look up at the clock. And then, well, I'm only a half hour or so away from the time when Louise, my eldest kitteh, needs her insulin shot. So I might as well continue with what I'd doing (namely, nothing and everything - I have 11 tabs open right now) until it's time, and what do you know, it's about noon when I finally get around to giving her the shot.

This is a pivotal time...I can shake off the morning malaise and hop in the shower, or forgo it entirely if a) I showered the day before, 2) I'm ready to embark on a task NOW, or iii) said task is dirty enough to require a shower afterwards (such as gardening - get your mind out of the gutter.) If I decide I'm clean enough, I may pull on some clothes and salvage part of the day. Or not. If I'm in some need of a shower eventually, but my things to do won't take me out of the house, I may pull on "comfy clothes." By far the highest percentage of my wardrobe falls into this category. My sister refers to these as "insta-jamas," that is, any clothing that could also double as sleepwear. This is sort of the kiss of death for the day's work. Because before you can say "Law & Order," the TV is on and I'm feeling a bit peckish.

I may, a couple of hours later, jump up in a fit of self-loathing and DO something, anything, so that I don't have to write off the entire day, and generally speaking, this is the most concentrated period of activity of the day. It mostly deals with the daily grind - washing dishes, watering the plants outside, filling the bird feeders, tidying up the most egregious areas of the house, doing laundry, and shuffling some piles hither and yon. Then I'll stack up a few activities to do in front of the tv that evening, about 7% of which may actually get done.

If, however, I just get in the damn shower and put some clean clothes on, well there's no resemblance at all to the day I just described. What gives? Anyone? I'm finishing up this post and it isn't even 10:24. Yes, I'm showered. And yes, I'm exhausted, but I can keep this up all day. Is it the soap? The shampoo? The footwear? It's a puzzle, and maybe it's just one for the Ages.

I have no time to ponder it, I'm on a roll over here.

Just doing it,

Jenny

thirtysomething

When I was in eighth grade I was obsessed with the show “thirtysomething.” I wasn’t allowed to watch TV that late but I couldn’t help myself, I had to. I’d wedge myself between my bed and the television set, only a few inches away because I had to keep the volume way down low so as not to get in trouble with my parents. The lives of these people seemed so incredibly interesting to me. Their relationships, their careers, their responsibilities; they were everything I wanted to be. I felt stifled and bored as a 13 year-old living in suburban Denver, like I was somehow a thirty-something woman stuck with the life of a little kid. I was ready to take on a career and to find my soulmate with whom I was going to build a home and a family. I was even ready for the arguments over household chores and not having enough “me time.” I was ready, dammit.

Watching the lives of those thirty-somethings, I always told myself I was like the character Melissa. She was a photographer and had crazy hair and wore only one earring. Edgy. I remember making and actually wearing (on more than one occasion) an earring similar to one of hers from the show – a long curly-q photo negative. My stomach aches in embarrassment as I write that. I may have told myself I was Melissa, but I feared that I was really Hope. Boring, prudish, nagging, pure vanilla Hope Steadman. At least that’s how I remember her. But after just pulling up the Wikipedia entry for the show, I see that Hope was kinda cool:

"Hope is a writer and stay-at-home mother who struggles with her desire to be at home with her daughter and her need to work. She sometimes feels like a sellout for becoming a homemaker due to her feminist views. Michael (who is Jewish) and Hope (who is Christian) are also an interfaith couple, a fact which was referenced throughout the series. During the third season of the series, Hope is attracted to environmentalist John Dunaway and contemplates having an affair with him but decides against it."

Oh. My. God. I want to be a writer and, though I don’t have any kids, I’d love to stay at home but I worry I might get bored. I thought Eric was Jewish when we first started dating and I’m making a concerted effort to be more environmentally friendly. Maybe I am Hope. Unfortunately I won’t be able to confirm that as “thirtysomething” isn’t available on DVD nor is it on Hulu.

I desperately want to see it again, even just a couple episodes to see how it’s changed now that I’m an actual thirty-something. I wonder if I would laugh at the thirty-something inside jokes, and nod knowingly at their thirty-something struggles with careers and relationships. But something tells me I’d relate even less to it now. Back then I thought of myself as an adult surrounded by children. Now that I’m technically an adult, I feel like I’m a kid in a sea of grown-ups who know who they are and what they want. I can't even decide what I want for lunch.

When exactly did that switch happen?

Seriously, I’m asking,

gretchen

http://www.televisiontunes.com/thirty_something.html

99¢ Only

The 99¢ Store has everything. I mean it. I'm not even exaggerating. So far, every single thing that I've ever looked for at the 99¢ Store I have found; Tape. Gift bags. Paper plates. Dog treats. Eyeglasses. Krazy Glue. Candy. Carpet cleaner. Pistachios. A bowl. Toilet paper. Princess pens. Bungees. A laundry basket. Gloves. Paper cups. Candles. Batteries. Scissors. A Halloween tray. Wrapping paper. Juice. Ziplock bags. And, believe it or not, a hands-free device for my cellphone. Don't get me wrong, it's a piece of shit, but the point is they had it. There was even another model that was 2 for 99¢, but I thought I'd splurge and go for the one that was 1 for 99¢. And that's not even everything I've looked for. Trust me. Last weekend I thought I'd finally stumped them. I was looking for an ice chest, and after scouring the store a couple times, I finally discovered them next to the ice. They were the styrofoam ones, but an ice chest is an ice chest. Oh, and they have ice too, by the way, which I wasn't even expecting so that was a bonus. In fact, they have tons of stuff that I haven't looked for, but have found anyway; Bananas. Underwear. Toys. Lawn ornaments. Tools. Mouse traps. Plants. Milk. Beans. Lip gloss. Notebooks. Spam. Air fresheners. Sunglasses. Books. A sewing kit. Greeting cards. Plungers. RCA cables. DVDs. Shampoo. Soda. A nose hair trimmer. Medicine. Trash cans. A Dodgers stapler. Teriyaki sauce. And the list goes on. So if you need anything at all, literally anything, and you like saving money like I do, then I strongly recommend paying a visit to the 99¢ Store. It will blow your fucking mind.

Running and Fighting

I don't watch much TV, but I have seen some commercials for running shoes. Where an announcer says that you have a love/hate relationship with running. I have that. I should be back from my run right now, but I blew it off. Now of course I can and I will get up early tomorrow morning and "get a run in." But I have to run hills tomorrow, and after working all day I don't feel like running hills at 6:30 at night. The last time I ran hills in the dark I twisted the you know what out of my ankle. As a matter of fact the three year anniversary of that event just happened. This was at the end of what I like to call the Summer of Injuries.
It all started when I was rehearsing a new stunt for the stunt show I was appearing in. I won't go into details but I slammed into a wall pretty hard. A few days later I ran a motorcycle into a wall, but luckily for the motorcycle I cushioned the impact with the wall by thrusting my hand between said wall and motorcycle at the last second. I woke up the next morning with a hand the size of a Mickey Mouse glove.
That hand throbbed so much that I couldn't run. The bouncing made my hand ache and so I spent the summer in rehab trying to get my hand back.
Days turned into weeks and my hand finally came back to normal and so I was allowed to go back to work and rehearse again. I conquered the stunt that earlier in the summer had slammed me into a wall, and I drove home that night glad to know that I was finally back on track and my body was "back in one piece." To celebrate I decided to go running, since I hadn't done any running in two months or more and I thought doing the challenging hill route would be a good test. Of course near the end of my run, in the dark I stepped off a curb funny and twisted the you know what out of my ankle. I woke up the next day with an ankle that looked like the knee of a camel. I couldn't walk on it without it being taped and I couldn't put weight on it without making a face. I was done for the next three months which of course meant no work at the stunt show. A week later I called my boss and said I was leaving the show.
But I haven't quit running. Oh we may fight from time to time and not see each other, but I always come back. Especially when I need some new running shoes.

Pussy Whipped

There are six open cans of cat food in my refrigerator.

Now, there are several cats here. Four, to be exact. Two inside that were conscious acquisitions, and two that appeared in the yard hungry, and one of them bleeding. So, it was out of my hands. More alarming to me than the fact that I have four cats, is the fact that four no longer seems like that many. Each day, I love them more.

Two are male, two female, two under five and two over ten, two indoor, two that split their time inside and out, one long-haired, three short-haired, one insulin-dependent diabetic, one with kidney disease, one lap cat, one marmalade with seven freckles on his nose, one that is super-easygoing, one that likes things THE WAY SHE LIKES THEM, and two that are mistaken for black although one is chocolate brown and the other has gorgeous red highlights. I could go on, but I think you probably get the idea. They keep me busy, and on my toes. I've written Haiku poems for each of them.

Now if anyone actually read this blog, there would be a percentage of you that automatically went "I hate cats" before you even read past the first line. May I take this opportunity to say, I hate people who say that. I find it a strange phenomenon - when I say, "oh, I need to pick up cat food," or something equally innocuous, someone nearby will say "I HATE CATS." There are almost no other times in polite discourse that someone would tromp all over good manners and make vehement personal opinions known to the person who so obviously doesn't agree. (Barring election years....) I mean, if that same person were talking about, say, a mushroom pie they made and how delicious it was, I would, even if a MUSHROOM KILLED MY MOM, find something to say about it that did not insult the mushroom lover. It's just the right thing to do. "My sister would love that recipe," or even, "I was never a fan of mushrooms, but that sounds good even to me! Ha ha."

If I were a different sort of person, I would, rather than secretly hate the cat haters, see their "I HATE CATS" and raise them something along the lines of "Really? Well that tells me that you are a lazy, complacent a-hole, who wants everything handed to you." I mean, if you can't even take the 30 seconds it takes out of your precious selfish day to befriend a kitteh, why are we even still talking? And, if you don't have the basic manners to keep your damn mouth shut in the face of my obvious cat-ownership, then really, again, why are we wasting our time? This is never going to work out.

Anyhoodle. Back to the cat food. Louise, the diabetic, ought to be eating meat. They all should, with very little to no grains and vegetables. Almost all cat food has grains and vegetables, as filler, and to sell to humans, who perforce must think that grains and vegetables equal good health. Advertising makes the world go round, but in this case it also causes diabetes in cats. They are carb overloaded without a system to deal with it, and so poor Louise gets two insulin shots a day. She is also a grazer, which doesn't help matters, but long story short, I'm trying to get her to like a meaty wet food. All goes well for a few days, but then she eschews the food, arranges her pretty paws, and stares at me. So I open another can of different food. And so on. The other cats seem fine about getting the leftovers, but I think you can see that getting all four cats on the same food would be a boon for this caregiver. But Louise, the eldest, and first-adopted, is Not Happy. Oh, she purrs, and is Doing Well overall, but we haven't found the Perfect Food. Mind you, I've tried 100% Venison, Pheasant and Buffalo. I'm running out of options. But then, no one said they were easy, and I don't want them to be. I want them to be their little individual selves. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Unabashed,
Jenny

Crazy Bicycle Guy

My morning commute used to take me down Santa Monica Boulevard, from West Hollywood to just about twenty-five blocks short of the Pacific Ocean. It’s a rough one, ten miles door-to-door that can take anywhere from forty-five minutes to well over an hour depending on numerous stupid LA traffic variables. The one joy I got out of my morning drive was seeing Crazy Bicycle Guy nearly every day.

Crazy Bicycle Guy was always decked out in a multi-colored jersey and matching bike shorts. No brain-cradling helmet for Crazy Bicycle Guy, he opted instead for one of those jaunty little caps, you know, with a ridiculously tiny bill that were popular the eighties (and for some reason beyond my comprehension, have yet to make a comeback). Crazy Bicycle Guy looked so much the part of a competitive cyclist that it was easy to pretend he was leading us through a dangerous mountain stage of the Tour de France rather than just weaving in and out of boring morning rush hour traffic. I was most impressed by his hands-free riding style, it was an amazing thing to watch. Pure grace and fluidity, as if he and the bicycle beneath him were one perfectly calibrated machine. Crazy Bicycle Guy could easily have been mistaken for a professional cyclist if he wasn’t, well, if he wasn’t…er…crazy. We’re talking koo koo for Cocoa Puffs®. His “look, Ma, no hands” stance was a necessity because his hands had to be free to flip off everyone he passed – while occasionally slapping the trunks of cars, cussing and clapping along with some tune no one could hear but him. It usually went a little something like…
Clap.
Middle finger to the right.
Middle finger to the left.
Clap.
Double middle fingers forward.
“fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou.”
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Shimmy.
Middle finger to the sky.
Clap.
“fuck.”
Double middle fingers forward.
Clap. Clap.
“fuckyou.”
The entire time careening through traffic with a huge grin on his face…it was a beautiful. Crazy, and at first frightening, but beautiful. And there was a part of me that felt like Crazy Bicycle Guy was also expressing my feelings, my frustrations, my attitude toward the morning commute and the daily grind in general. Unfortunately I care way too much about what people think of me to go around flipping off strangers and yelling obscenities, regardless of how much I want to. But when I’d see a multi-color spandex blur approaching in my rear-view mirror I’d smile and think, “You tell ‘em, Crazy Bicycle Guy, you tell ‘em good.”

Last year I shifted my commute because my new route often shaves a whole five to eight minutes off my drive. The only problem is no more Crazy Bicycle Guy. I had to ask myself, if I’m not on Santa Monica Boulevard at 9:07am, does Crazy Bicycle Guy cease to make his morning rides? He’s like a tree falling in an empty forest…or am I the tree? Let’s pretend I was contemplating that very question as I sat at the stoplight on Formosa and Melrose last Saturday -- on my way to meet a friend for the meal of all meals, brunch – when who should fly by on his bike? Crazy Bicycle Guy! He flipped me off before clapping along with his inner soundtrack. I grabbed that “fuck you” gesture out of the air and pressed it close to my heart, like an Eric Clapton fan grabbing a guitar pick thrown into the audience. And then he was gone, pedaling off into late morning haze, launching f-bombs along the way.

He lives. He rides. He keeps it real. Thank you, Crazy Bicycle Guy, thank you.

Love,
Gretchen (Crazy Bicycle Guy’s biggest fan)


P.S.
If anybody has ever seen this guy, or even better knows him personally, please contact me. I’d love to find out whether he is fairly high functioning paranoid schizophrenic with a penchant for bicycling or if he’s just really angry at anyone and everyone around him and takes great pleasure in letting us all know about it.

I cut a sofa in half

I rented my apartment about a year ago, partially furnished. It was good at the time, since I hadn't yet moved my shih from the Basin of LA up here to the Area of Bay. The furniture was fine for the interim - very 70s - if I wanted to, I could have laid claim to some uber-ironic, retro sensibility that would have made my friends think "man, that dude just gets it." But hey, I'm no phony baloney, so I owned the mediocrity of my semi-furnished furnishings and swung my feet up proudly on my glass and curved wood coffee table until such time as my own, slightly-less-mediocre furniture arrived from points South. Ahhh...

But. Then I had extra couches.

Sure they were great for my bi-annual dinner/screening gathering. Or to hold up my gym bag when I was too tired to drop it on the floor. Bottom line, most of the time my shui was un-fenged. I had a major couch clogging of the living room artery choking off the flow of my joy.

My buddy took the loveseat part of the equation off my hands. But it turns out my landlord had put the security gate on my door after bringing in the 7' white puffy couch with gigantic, shirred arms. So, when we tried to get the big boy through the door it got stuck. Very, very stuck. I know what you're thinking: "I could have got it out of there, you just have to put it up on its side and piv..." well, you're wrong. I've moved most of my friends, at least twice, I kick ass at sofa moving, and this d-bag of a divan going anywhere, ever.

So I cut it in half. It's what my landlord said to do. Heck, he wanted me to do it before I started the whole endeavor. "I've got a saw," he said. "When you're done with the couch, we'll just cut it in half." But I got cocky - it seemed so wasteful - and I jammed the early 80s monstrosity into the steel security gate and left myself no choice. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

So for the last 2 months, I've had two halves of a sofa in the garage with a large pile of overstuffed pillows, waiting for me to get off my a** and call Sunset Scavenger to come bulky item pick them up - and tomorrow around 6 a.m. my dream of a white sofa free home will come to pass. 

If you love something, set it free. If you hate it, get a reciprocal saw, cut it in half, then leave it in your driveway for the dudes in the pickup truck.

Casting Suggestion...

A painted smile and some speed

I used to work in a restaurant. Actually I've worked in several restaurants. From Pizza Hut to Roy Roger's (for you east coasters), to fancy schmancy places in New York City. Just in New York alone I did 10 years of being a server. That was after the burger flipping jobs and pizza making jobs and all the other stuff I did besides working in TWO different light bulb factories in TWO different states!

Anyway, back to New York and the restaurant jobs. Speed. When you're a waiter you need speed. You want to be ahead of the customer at all times, and you will do anything to stay ahead. And since I was waiting tables in New York, with the most impatient people on the face of the planet, you really needed the speed.

The last place I worked, which shall go nameless because it is not uncommon to see this place on TV, had a locker room downstairs for the employees. I shared a locker with two crazy people but they were nice enough to allow me to decorate the locker as I saw fit. Besides the obligatory pictures of Famke Janssen and some Sorayama pictures, I had at the bottom of the locker a postcard of an old circus advertisement. This was a drawing of a smiling clown from somewhere in Europe and as I said he had a big smile on his face. Everyday, before every shift I would look at that photo of the clown and remind myself to paint a smile on my face before I left the locker room. And so I did. Before every Friday night closing shift that started at 5pm and ended at 2:10am where you could easily have 42 covers (customers for those of you that have never had to wait) at one time. That my friend is a lot of people to keep happy, and that was just the first seating! At the end of the night you could do 80, 90 covers easy. And this was fine dining, we weren't throwing hot dogs at these people.

Speed. I got so good at my job, I could listen to a customer complain, acknowledge other customers, and make my shopping list for after work all at the same time.
Sometimes when you have a big table, you need the help of your co-workers to carry out the customer's plates. Like I said, speed. Using that numbering system frequently didn't work as people would move while the food was cooking and Aunt Harriet and Uncle Bob would get the wrong thing. So, rather than go into a lengthy explanation of who gets what, it is easier to say this... "Baldy gets the fish, Bucky the Beaver (a child with buck teeth) gets the chicken, old man gets the steak, the uptight lady gets the fish with the sauce on the side, and the bastard guy gets the lamb." In all the years I waited, whenever I had to help someone and they said the bastard guy gets this, or the lady with the attitude gets that, I never made a mistake. You'd walk right up to the table and you'd know, "Oh, he's the bastard guy and she has to be the lady with the attitude." That was a great time saver. And I did it all with a painted smile on my face.

Shut Up & Tan!

I got stuck in the right-hand turn lane on Melrose this morning and was forced to take a detour up Robertson. It’s been awhile since I’ve been on Robertson, just south of Santa Monica - there are some new storefronts and one in particular called out to me… “Shut Up & Tan!” Yeah, with an exclamation point and everything. Seems a bit aggressive for me, especially for fake tanning. Makes me think what it would be like…

INT. SHUT UP & TAN! – DAY

A friendly bell rings as GRETCHEN pushes open the door and enters the tanning salon. The Beach Boys’ “Kokomo” wafts lightly from a speaker hidden behind a fake palm tree in the corner. Gretchen beams, looking forward to her first spray tan.

The solitary SHUT UP & TAN! EMPLOYEE looks up, his eyes bright white against his skin, the color of See's milk chocolate. His canary yellow crepe paper hair is gelled into a perfect faux hawk. He slowly puts his pointer finger to the tip of his tongue. Almost in slow motion, he returns the finger to the In Style magazine in front of him, using the moisture to assist him in flipping the page. He returns his attention to the magazine and chuckles through his nose.

GRETCHEN
Hi.

She pauses to receive a greeting in return, but when none is offered, she continues.

GRETCHEN
I’m interested in trying a spray tan. I’ve never had one before.

The Employee turns slowly and heads down a hallway behind the reception desk. Gretchen looks after him and manages to catch the ever-so-slight gesture for her to follow him. She rushes after the Employee, nearly running into him as he stops abruptly in front of Room 2.

Gretchen follows the general instructions which, luckily for her, are posted on the wall. Standing there in her swimsuit, Gretchen begins to get nervous about the process, feeling not at all informed nor prepared for what is about to happen. She puts her ear to the door, listening for sounds of life.

GRETCHEN
Are you out there?

The Employee doesn’t answer, but Gretchen can hear him pop his gum.

GRETCHEN
Is this spray stuff safe?

EMPLOYEE (O.S)
Shut up!

Gretchen is taken aback by this, the first exchange of words from the Employee.

GRETCHEN
Um, it’s just that I’m not sure if the spray you use is at all toxic and if so, should I somehow cover my eyes and mouth. Or is it like baby shampoo or something like that? No tears spray tan.
(Gretchen giggles nervously)

EMPLOYEE (O.S.)
Shut up!

GRETCHEN
Can you warn me when you’re going to turn on the spray because I don’t want —

Multiple nozzles pop out of the walls surrounding Gretchen and spray a brown liquid, at an incredible velocity, toward her pale skin. The sensation is that of having hundreds of red-hot needles poked into her skin at once. Gretchen screams at first in surprise and then in what is the most intense pain imaginable.

GRETCHEN
Help! Please! Please turn it off! It hurts! My skin, oh God, my skin!

EMPLOYEE (O.S.)
Shut up and tan!!!

THE END

I'm seven

I’m still scared of monsters.

There, I said it.

I’m scared of monsters. Real monsters. Monster monsters. Like werewolves and trolls and things with fangs and boils and claws. You know…monsters.

They’re hiding in the shower at night or in the dark recesses of the closet or down that scary hallway in my underground garage. In rare moments of bravery, I’ve pulled back the shower curtain or poked my hand (or a knife that one time when Eric was in Wisconsin) in the back of the closet only to find nothing there. But bravery doesn’t follow me underground for I always, always run past the hallway off the garage. Hey, apartment manager, how ‘bout a light down that super creepy subterranean hallway that goes nowhere? Just a suggestion.

There are also ghosts, buuut I’m more worried about the corporeal.

I present Exhibit A…

Back in the day, my mom and I went up to our family’s secluded cabin in the Colorado Rockies just two of us - one of the last girl’s weekends before I left for college. On a lark we decided to go see Jurassic Park at the tiny one-screen movie theater in Winter Park. It was well after dark when we got back to the cabin and pitch-black as soon as my mom turned off the car.

“Run on into the cabin and turn on the lights,” my mother said casually as she rooted around in her purse.
“Screw that! YOU go run on into the cabin and turn on the lights.” I replied, nailed to my seat.
“You think there’s a Tyrannosaurus Rex out there, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Beat
“Me too,” she admitted.

We sprinted from the car to the cabin, hand-in-hand; the whole time we could feel the dinosaur’s breath on our necks. I was eighteen so that would have made my mother about forty-seven. Strangely enough, we couldn’t find any Tyrannosaurus Rex footprints the next morning.

And before you say anything, yes, dinosaurs count as monsters.

I certainly don’t blame my mom for my heightened fear of monsters, if anything I was the one driving the dinosaur craze that night. And as far as I know she hasn’t suffered from another episode, whereas I’m still sure I can make out the shapes of creatures hiding in the corners of my dark bedroom. Just last night I was convinced I heard a zombie on the roof.

You may think I’m crazy, “there’s no such thing as monsters.” Oh yeah? Why don’t you tell that to Fox Mulder or Buffy Summers? Look them straight in the eye and tell them that. You can’t, can you?

That’s what I thought. Point goes to Gretchen.

Next time we’ll delve into primal fear of Yoda and E.T. It goes deep, people.

smooo,
gretch

WashMewtch

A friend was insulted by Washington Mutual's campaign to nickname themselves WaMu. I remember being a bit baffled myself. I mean, did they really think they could just make us call them their cutesy-poo name? But then, it happened. Another example why advertising is scary. If Mad Men isn't terrifying enough to make you pee yourself, there's the WaMu example.

I'm in the whateverth circle of hell today, trying in vain to recover Online Bill Pay information that was wiped out when I opened a new account and had all the accounts linked together. After all, it would be so much easier if they were all linked, right? And how about opening that new account in the first place? Over concerns about possible identity theft, I was doing the fiscally responsible thing. So, I realize, it's just information that I have to rekey, and yes it's annoying, but it's not the end of the world. Suck it up, Jen Jen. So I go in to add in all my payees, when I realize that long ago I made the ecologically responsible decision to go to email alerts instead of paper bills. So I don't have the necessary mailing addresses or account numbers to put in, in order to prove I'm me and that I am not an identity thief. Oh, the irony! To sum up, I can't set up the payees again without the information I elected to no longer receive hard copies of. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Isn't it all too, too funny!??? What do I get for all my grown-up decision-making? A big fat effing donut hole.

{the laughter turns to tears}

Anyhoodle. I have some automated calls to make. If you'll excuse me.

eHugs,
Jenny

Brendan Fraser Is The Greatest Actor Of Our Time

I'm tempted to just leave this blog alone as a title. I mean, how does one elaborate on a statement like that? One may attempt to comprehend how or why Brendan Fraser is, in fact, the theatrical force that he is, but doing so would be no less in vain than attempting to comprehend the confines of the universe. Before long, one must invariably give up on trying to understand it, and rather, accept in awe the vast glory of the unexplainable with grateful solace.

For most, it all started with Encino Man. Unquestionably a flawless performance as an unfrozen caveman adapting to the culture shock of early 90s grunge. For the savvy, perhaps it was the made-for-TV movie, Child Of Darkness, Child Of Light, in which Brendan's unflinching portrayal of "John's friend" was nothing short of breathtaking. But by 1994's The Scout (his fourth film of that year), Brendan had no doubt reached a level of international superstardom that would never be matched.

Now, despite my inarguable thesis, I find myself compelled to illustrate several points. While Brendan's work quickly reached a level of quality as to render all other actors unnecessary, it was not until much later in his career that he actually rendered himself unnecessary. That is to say, that Brendan, in effect, actually stepped out of himself in order to accomplish things on film that had never been attempted before and would never be attempted again.

One of those things took place in 2001, when Brendan signed on to a little project called Monkeybone, in which he co-starred with a cartoon monkey of the same name. No easy task to say the least, given that, as W.C. Fields once said, cartoon characters are incredibly difficult to work with, second only to animals and children. However, unfazed, Brendan promptly jumped back into action only two years later, again sharing the screen with animated co-stars, in Looney Tunes: Back In Action. Impressive? You bet.

Now you're asking yourself, "What in the world could be more challenging than acting opposite cartoon characters?" How about ACTUALLY PLAYING ONE? Or better yet, TWO. That's right, lest we forget that Brendan achieved the impossible when he valiantly took on the title roles in two different films celebrating the world's most beloved animated characters; George Of The Jungle and Dudley Do-Right.

It's hard to imagine that an actor who has accomplished so much would still have so much yet to give. Likewise, it's hard to imagine that the Sun just keeps burning. But it does. One of Brendan's latest Earth-shattering endeavors rained down upon Hollywood in a jarring double-whammy. In 2006 and 2008, he starred in the major motion picture releases of Journey To The End Of The Night and Journey To The Center Of The Earth, respectively.

As if this wasn't noteworthy enough (most actors never even star in one "Journey To The..." movie in their entire careers, much less two "Journey To The..." movies within the span of only two years -- that's an average of one "Journey To The..." movie a year!), I would be remiss not to mention that the latter was shot in 3-D. If there's anything more difficult than acting opposite a cartoon; even more difficult than acting as a cartoon, it's acting in 3-D. That's one whole D of acting beyond what any other actor has ever accomplished -- even including his JTTCOTE co-actors! A feat which he executed, not only with courage and bravado, but with a raw tenderness, the likes of which the world has never seen.

In summary and in conclusion, I realize that this has been an exercise in self-evidence. But sometimes we all need to hear things that we already know. Let this be your daily reminder of the majesty that is Mr. Brendan Fraser. I recommend downloading your favorite photo of Brendan and setting it as your wallpaper (if you haven't already). And when you turn on your computer and gaze upon his staggering physiognomy each day, know that the world is a better place for his being here, and that you are fortunate to exist in a time and place in which your reality is shared with, not only the greatest actor of our time, but the greatest human being of all time. Including the future.

Appreciatively,

Mitchell

You've Gotta Ask

Saturday night/Sunday morning  in the grocery store parking lot, a package of Van de Kamps doughnuts as my date seated in the passenger seat beside me. Start the car, no wait, she won't start. What the...? Do I panic? No. I eat a doughnut. And then another one. Hmmm. All of the electrical stuff seems to work that I'm trying and still the car won't start. Well, I know that it can't be the battery. I mean, I just bought that thing new a little while ago. Well, I'm not going anywhere, better pull out my cellphone... no wait... it is a holiday weekend and I didn't bring my cellphone with me because, "Who is going to call me on a Saturday night and who do I have to call on a Saturday night?" Well now I have to call AAA. Luckily the grocery store manager allows me to use his phone and the truck is on the way. 

As I wait for the tow truck I figure I blew an ignition fuse. I check the fuse box under the dashboard and under the hood where the engine lives. No burned out fuses. The AAA guy shows up and he says we should try jumping the battery. I figure that this will do no good since it can't be the battery, I just bought it!

The jump works, the car starts. Skip, skip, skip.

It is now two days later and I'm at the dealer having the electrical system checked. "You need a new battery and with inspection and everything that'll be $122".  I'm thinking okay, that's a lot of money but I GOTTA ASK. "Can you tell me the last time I bought a battery here?" My service advisor clicks through about 12 screens and sees that my battery is still under warranty and he tells me, "...there'll be no charge." 

Huh, glad I  *!!&%#$ Asked!

Hump Day

I've always been uncomfortable with "hump day" as a phrase. I learned it when I was little, and no doubt I was suspicious of the person who told me it was okay. There was a troublemaker in my grade school - who shall remain nameless, but whose initials were Jon Kramer - who made me say "sugar, honey, ice tea" before he told me what exactly it meant. Then he acted like I'd transgressed. Which, of course, I had.

Suffice it to say, I wasn't very trusting after that. And hump day? Who are we kidding? I was embarrassed when the morning DJs would just yell it out, and there I was eating breakfast with MY PARENTS. It was unacceptable then and it's unacceptable now.

And while we're on any use of HUMP that isn't referring to sex, who is the genius who came up with speed humps? I'd like to call for a moratorium on all alternate uses of HUMP. Who's with me?

xoxo
Jenny

Teen pregnancies and hurricanes

In this, my first addition to the Big Hollywood blog, I don’t offer any answers,only questions…


Is it just me or is CNN totally bummed that Gustav was downgraded to a Category One hurricane?

Will James Franco receive a much deserved Oscar nomination for his role in Pineapple Express?

Which teen pregnancy is going to get more attention, that of Sarah Palin’s daughter or Jamie Lynn Spears? Hey, Mom, if you’re reading this…you’re welcome.

Will my downstairs neighbor leave his laundry in one of the only two dryers our building has all day? Really, dude? Really?

What’s you’re damage, Heather?

Is Jon Hamm really human or is he some sort of cyborg sent from the future to make me uncontrollably angry in response to his handsomeness?

Is anyone else surprised that “handsomeness” is actually a word?

Could Arrested Development possibly be any funnier?

Why does my internal voice sound like Chandler Bing?

Can I have a snack or is it too late and eating anything will ruin my dinner?

What’s for dinner?

Is this at all entertaining?

Where’s my brush?

Is it just me or is that music really annoying?

Do I really have to go out in the heat to retrieve my laundry?

Can I reprogram the Jon Hamm cyborg to do laundry?


Answers to these questions and more next Monday…

ciao,
gretchen

You're in on the ground floor

You did it. You found a blog that's just starting. It's like being there for the Big Bang some 30 billion years ago - it was just a dot, and now it's a friggin' universe.

And like the Big Bang, this blog is just a dot - practically a singularity - if it weren't for those images up there and that profile we've got over there, ignore them (for now) - BUT, like the BB 15 hundred million years ago, we have mass. And right now, all that mass is compressed into the tiny volume of this post. And do you know what that makes this post? Anyone? Anyone pay attention in Physics? Does anybody at all know that that makes this post friggin' dense?? No? Well it does. d=m/v. It's only like the most basic Physics formula. I know it and I failed Physics. Whatever.

Anyway, we have 5 people and we each will be writing at least one post a day. So if you're thinking, "well, if I commit to this blog, what makes it like all those other little blogs, that I got so excited about and they got a dog or had a baby and it just stopped - I can't go through that again, my heart can't take it." Commit away. We have five people who will bring you something every freakin' day, just like that first Big Bang, all those 10 million years ago, continues to bring something new and interesting...every day of our lives. Whether we like it or not.