My name is... what?... my name is... who?... my name is...

Okay, I've been tagged by Miss DaVida to list "six quirky, yet boring, unspectacular details" about myself... So here goes:

1. I lead a double life... It's a well known fact (or so I think) that I consider myself quite spectacular and am not afraid to say so. I swear I'm not conceited... Not by any stretch of the imagination. Half of the time, I'm living my life like an out-of-body experience. I can see myself objectively and I know that I'm a package that comes with all the bells and whistles... Meanwhile, I'm stuck inside my own head where knowing and believing are two very different things. I am spectacular... and spectacularly insecure.

2. "Quirky" is one of my general characteristics that I am proud of. I'm very quirky. I'm 2 parts Monica Gellar, 1 part Peter Parker, and a Goonie at heart. I am quite literally a comic book nerd in a woman's body.

3. And I fall down. A lot.

4. When I was in the 2nd grade I lied in an eye exam so that I could get glasses... Turned out I have astigmatism in my left eye.

5. I spend a lot of time in the bathroom. Besides showering and make-upping, you might find me plucking, clipping, filing, brushing, straightening, whitening, spraying, stretching, reading, self-tanning, dancing, mugging... and just being a general mirror monkey.

6. I run towards the fire. Seriously. If I'm warned about something (or someone)... if I know it's a bad idea... if there's any chance my heart might get broken... then, apparently, I'm all in. I don't just run... I sprint for the fire. I guess there's a part of me that always hopes I'll be able to put it out before I get burned.

There. Now... the sad news is... I don't have 6 bloggers to tag. So, I'm tagging my two favorites...

Jax in Noho
Not the Murderer

RULES: Mention the rules on your blog. Tell six quirky yet boring, unspectacular details about yourself. Tag six others. Go to each person’s blog and leave a comment that lets them know they are tagged.

And now I'm going to hang out in the bathroom...

Pontification of the Day

Surprisingly enough, as a master procrastinator, I don't do that much blog reading. I do even less commenting on the blogs I read. But, occasionally, I'll find myself having to launch my opinion into the internet ether...

Today I happened upon this blog on the Redbook magazine website (don't ask). And because I happened to have a very specific opinion about the last bit, thanks to my experience in the agency trenches, I couldn't help but leave a comment. Except the damn website keeps Error-ing me like a comment cock blocker. I refuse to let my well-worded pontification go to waste, so I'm posting it HERE:

Look, Sue Mengers was only offering the kind of astute opinion that made her legendary. She knew the biz just as well as Mr. Michaels and her success as an agent was predicated on her shrewd, informed viewpoint of how Hollywood really works. Everyone knows it's as much -- if not more -- about beauty as it is about talent. It's unfortunate that this microcosm of the professional world happens to have the greatest influence on how we, as a society, deem what is worthy of our attention and adulation. In this celebrity-obsessed era, we've forgotten that film & television is created as FANTASY. Logically, we know that we shouldn't be comparing ourselves to the lovely creatures we see on screen... but that's exactly what we do. And thus, we become fixated on how an "average" person like US has suddenly transformed into one of THEM. It's sad, but true. Thankfully, shows like UGLY BETTY are helping to change our narrow perception of this beauty ideal.


HA! Cock block that Redbook!

What I Had to Have...

Harking back to my original mission, I'm going to take a stab at another O Magazine memoir assignment. I'm jumping out of order on this because, let's face it, I'd rather choose a topic on which I feel I have an inkling of something to say right now rather than try to force thoughts on something else. Why make this any harder than it seems to be for me? So. Okay...

What I Had to Have...

Huh. Y'know, this is a funny one to me because, well, there are so many things in my life that I HAD to have.

Let's go with the obvious first...

CLOTHES
I'll admit that up until just a few years ago pretty much every article of clothing, shiny new shoe or bag that I fancied in the moment became something I had to have. I've been this way my entire life. Even in my single digit youth, I remember perusing the Sears catalog and marking all the pages of clothes I wanted. Always with a certain image or persona in my head that I desperately wanted to achieve. This habit has grown with me over the years. Now it's the entirety of the J Crew catalog that I pine for. I must've been born a clotheshorse. Honestly, I think it's a trait that is more inherent than it is learned. We all know there are those girls out there who hate to shop or just don't really think about it as often or as passionately as the rest of us. My best friend Amy is one of them. She's never been the type to plan her monthly budget around a pair of shoes. Sometimes I wish I could be like her. It'd make life so much more simple. Instead, buying new things is like a lifelong addiction and I'm a recovering addict just barely in check. Turning 18 was a joyous day for me. Why? It wasn't because I was of voting age (I registered) or because I could get a tattoo without parental consent (and I did) or because I was finally a legal "adult." No, the most exciting thing about turning 18 was being able to apply for credit cards. To me, at the time, it was like "Woohoo! Free money!" The very day of my eighteenth birthday I was in Express signing myself up for a future of debt management. Everything I had to have came to a grand total of nearly $15K by the time I was 23. This whole "adult" thing is a two way street and I've since been suffering the consequences of my uneducated, wanton credit card adventures. Now I'm much better at reigning myself in. EBay was a great help with that, surprisingly. On EBay I can ooh and ah and put everything I think I have to have on my Watch List. Then I get a certain number of days to decide if I really want that thing I had to have in the moment. I've found that most of the time I'll let an auction pass without bidding... and without remorse. By the same token, the things that really capture my attention then merit the effort of bidding to win them. Of course, when my competitive streak is ignited over a pair of J Crew boots, watch out!

The other category of my life in which this want it, need it, have to have it mentality has proven perilous for me is -- c'mon, take a wild guess...

BOYS
Or men. For some reason, even though I'm at an age where I should be calling them men, I still think of the opposite sex collectively as "boys." Well, most men are still boys anyway. Either way. As I mentioned previously, there is a part of me that likes the chase. Being able to prove to myself that I can win a guy, in some cases, has overruled having any real feelings for that person. But it's the targets that prove increasingly challenging that are the real bread and butter for my have to have it soul. The less they have to have me, the more I have to have them. Like a desperate, self-destructive, dysfunctional junkie I've fallen hard for the ones that were the worst for me and brought out the worst in me. And those situations have landed me in far deeper debt. Now, at 28 years old, I'm having to relearn the power of the poon because my own hunt and gather nature allowed me to fall prey to the deceptive power of the peen.

In general, I think I approach my entire life with this have to have it strategy. It's a double edged sword. Thinking you deserve to have anything your heart desires versus the lengths you'll put yourself through to get it. You think you're in control because you're the one doing the chasing, but really it's the pursuit that's controlling you. At what point does an object of desire trump your own self-worth? The answer should be:

NEVER.

But that's not always true, is it? Not in this greedy, image obsessed, consumerist world we live in (that we created) where we gauge our self-worth based on the shoes we wear, the bag we carry, the car we drive or the relationship status on our Facebook page. And I am most certainly a product of my environment (hello, expensive SUV gas guzzler that I naively thought I could afford!)...

However, with age I'm developing more awareness. I'm realizing that time flies fast. People come and go. Things change from minute to minute, day to day, year to year. Including my moods and desires. Fulfilling a compulsive want in the moment provides only a short term fix before I'm on to the next. What I had to have last year is irrelevant now. What I had to have last week is replaced with a wish bubble of what I have to have this week. Etc, etc, etc...

I've realized that coveting is more like a fun, motivational game not to be taken too seriously. If I can't get what I want right when I want it, that's probably because something better is in the pipeline... If I can't catch and conquer, it's probably not meant to be...

Yeah, I know. It's all easier said in theory. It is a lifelong addiction -- this pursuit that we call happiness. A moment is a gripping thing and instant gratification sure is tempting. But these days I TRY to remind myself that the relief will be fleeting. Because what I want is always changing...

Which is why I have a wardrobe full of treasures I wanted, needed and bought in the moment, but don't wear 75% of most of the time. And, why I've had those few moments of regret, wondering why oh why did I think I had to have him?

HER

This is a story I started writing when I was 19 and living in Paris... I re-read it the other day and had a rare moment of liking something I wrote ages ago. I'm considering continuing the story as a weekly installment on this blog... Just thought I'd check with my fans first.

So please enjoy the read and tell me... Do you want to know what happens next?

******
"HER"

Wakeful dreaming. That’s what I like to call it. That time of night when you roll onto your side, eyes blinking and drifting shut, unseeing. Becoming aware of the city sleeping around you – or just rising. Its breath lifting the sheer curtains on your window, whispering over your furrowed brow. And you try to hold onto it. Onto that perfect dream…

I am always in that place, between sleep and awake. Always chasing the fading memory of a dream. And so it is, then, that I always know when it is time to rise. Sometimes I am thankful. Thankful that I always rise in the dark. When it's easier to let them go.

But the first night I dreamt of her, I held fast. Desperately willing my eyes to stay shut, squeezing them tight. She wasn’t a girl I knew. I had never seen her before. In the dream, though, she knew me. And every night thereafter, she followed me. From city to city, home to home. The way she spoke to me, like an old friend, a lost lover – it scared me. I had grown so desolate over time, as those like me do. Never letting anyone in, past the walls I had built. Somehow she got in. So familiar, so intimate. As if we'd known each other, had shared the world together. It thrilled me. Even when she would admonish my choices...

“She was too young.” “He was too dirty.” “Too wealthy.” “Too innocent.” She disapproved of them all. But really, she disapproved of me.

I never knew where she came from, invading my sleep. But I always looked forward to her company. She was beautiful, I knew it, even if I couldn’t distinctly make out her features. She was soft and light and sweet. I could feel her beauty. And that was how I recognized her… when I finally did see her. Awake and alert in the real world…

***

Echoing voices woke me. Lilting vowels and syllables carried on the brisk November wind, lifting from the street and up past the wrought-iron balconies of my ten story apartment building. And mingling with the musical conversation: A cab’s blaring horn... A barking dog... High-heels clicking on pavement... Joyous laughter and drunken shouts...

Another night in the city of lights...

It was only ten o’ clock and the streets just beginning to come alive. Time to get up. It was Saturday, after all, and there was fun to be had. I decided to head to Oberkampf, where I knew that pretty young things were easy to pick and rarely missed.

Always cautious, I never entered or exited through the front door of my building. I liked to come and go as I pleased, without the hazard of a doorman who could track my movement. I decided on my subterranean route, to match the dank and dour mood which had settled upon my shoulders like a heavy wool sweater. Down the spiraling staircase I went and into the cramped basement where, behind the bank of water heaters, there was an opening in the wall. A tunnel. Only big enough for a ten year old child to crawl through… or someone whose joints could bend and stretch inexplicably.

I emerged unnoticed from beneath the Arc de Triomphe and replaced the sewer grate carefully. The few pedestrians around not giving a second glance, hurrying past in their newly bought winter coats. I took the Metro from Champs-Elysees.

I had grown to like the Paris subway immediately, though it stopped running at only 1 am – midday for me. The swaying motion of the train always rocked me into a pleasantly mindless reverie, allowing me for just a moment to feel like one of them.

That night, however, I was anxious. Overcome with the feeling that something was about to happen. I fidgeted in my seat, fingering the collar of my black silk Versace shirt, smoothing my Armani slacks. I was dressed to kill. Hah.

God, I’m old, I thought.

The year was 2005. I'd been in France for three years already. In Paris for 2 years, 5 months, 9 days. I liked it better than most places I’d been. Perhaps because it was the first city I'd settled in for longer than six months. As was my habit on the Metro, I let my mind tick through the growing list of places that had failed to quell my restless spirit:

Nice, Monaco, Provence, Cannes. Malta, Majorca, Milan, San Sebastien. Berlin, Amsterdam, Prague – though Prague was more appealing every day. Hong Kong, Tokyo, Nepal, Bali, Fiji. London, Dublin, Glasgow. Cairo, Morocco, Dubai. Cuba and Mexico. The United States... Los Angeles, Seattle, Houston, Dallas, North Dakota, Missouri, Arkansas – frightening – Washington D.C., South Carolina, New York and my favorite, Miami, with all its gorgeous, blazing, blinding flesh. And of course, New Orleans... I'd return someday.

At St. Augustin the train moaned to a stop and I was knocked out of my thoughts as everything shifted. People stepped off, avoiding those who stepped on. The metro was like a ballroom and the commuters all engaged in a long practiced waltz. It was something I found at once amusing and somehow comforting. This dance would continue forever, as I would.

When those who had climbed on took their positions, there was that moment of perfect stillness. The wait for the lurch of the train that would carry them off into a night of experience. It was in that moment, that suspended time, that I first saw her...

She came flying down the stairs, graceful as a ballerina and possessing such beauty as I had only seen in Renaissance paintings. The loud horn sounded, warning that the train was about to depart, its doors slamming shut within seconds.

In a tenth of a second I was at the doors, resisting against the mechanical force. Holding them just long enough for her willowy figure to slip in past me.

“Merci,” she murmured.

American. I knew it immediately. Her perfect French accent was betrayed only by her pure and innocent gratefulness to a stranger. Her eyes barely met mine, but in that instant I was struck.

I sat directly across from her and studied her discreetly. She was definitely American... California... Los Angeles. It was obvious by her carefully careless look. Tall leather boots over perfectly faded jeans. Black cashmere coat, concealing a hint of some filmy, creamy material at her wrist. And haphazardly wrapped around her neck and shoulders was a shawl. The color blazed against her fair skin: pulsating, vibrant, deep, bright red.

Yes, I was taken with her… even before the realization hit me.

For a fleeting moment, I thought… As I said, she had fair skin. Pale as porcelain, flushing faintly over delicate cheekbones. Her lips were a soft, ripe pink. And to be bold enough to wear such a color, as if it were her trademark, a signature... But, no. It wasn't possible. She couldn’t be a vampire. The plain truth was right there in her eyes.

Her eyes which, every moment or so, would flick over mine, not quite meeting them. She was aware of me watching her. I sensed that she was used to this kind of attention, but not entirely fond of it. However, I could not relent...

I searched those eyes. The same burnished gold as her hair, differing only in the center of the iris where they faded into a clear, olive green. Her eyes were not those of one whose innocence had been sucked clean from her soul, against all will. They were not eyes that looked ahead into a bleak eternity. They were not eyes that had watched the life leave the face of another human being, quickly and gasping.

She was all of nineteen years old, twenty at most. She was fascinating. And so familiar...

That's when I knew.

***

“Why are you following me?”

She spit the words out, trying to enforce her strength as she spun around, wildly searching the dark street. Trying to see the predator she could feel lurking in the blackness. For an instant, she looked like a fierce Athenian warrior standing there in the moonlight. Her arms hung light at her sides, her fists clenched. Ready to attack. But I could feel her fear.

“I know you’re there.”

I let her wait a moment longer, as long as her adrenaline kept her rooted to the spot. As soon as it released her and she finally turned to go, I stepped out of the shadows...

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

***

Yeah, I know...

Halloween is so over... but I had started writing the previous entry on the day of and couldn't not finish it. See? Progress! I'm sticking to my commitments. Now... I'll try a 60 page pilot script commitment...

Halloween

Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. I'm fond of Christmas, too, but in more of a consumerist, product-of-pop-culture-society sort of way because who doesn't love presents, the Charlie Brown Christmas Special and 31 days of unbridled gluttony? (I'd go on a tangent here, but I'll save it for December) Christmas, I am not entirely ashamed to say, is not a holiday I celebrate for its significance. Given my typical reaction on the atypical occasions that my mom has suggested, "We should go to midnight mass" -- shrinking back in mock horror and scoffing, distastefully, "Church?!" -- it's no surprise that Halloween is my favorite holiday.

The truth is, it's mostly thanks to commercialization and the omnipresent church that Halloween is perceived as being at the opposite end of the holiday spectrum. In some narrow minds it's referred to as the Devil's holiday because it "celebrates" and "flaunts" Satanic themes. (I actually heard this at a Sunday youth group service I attended in high school, right after... "God, doesn't care if you get bad grades.") Basically, if you look back at the history of Halloween, the Christian church tried to exert its power early on and now is bitter because it obviously failed.

Okay, here's a Reader's Digest version:

Halloween was originally a Celtic Pagan holiday that often was referred to as Celtic New Year. It started as a festival called Samhain which celebrated the end of the harvest season (the Light Half of the Year) and the beginning of winter (the Dark Half of the Year). Because it was "between" seasons, it was considered a magical day when the veil between the worlds was lifted and the dead walked among the living. This was a time when the dead were honored as living spirits of loved ancestors and guardians of wisdom. The Druids (Celtic priests) would attempt to make contact with the spirits of the departed because they were considered sources of guidance and inspiration, rather than as sources of dread. Then when Christianity spread, the church was unable to get the people to stop celebrating this holiday. So, in order to make the celebration "church sanctioned," two pope dudes decided to move their celebration of good, dead people -- the Christian Feast of "All Saint's Day" -- from May 13th to November 1st. Back in that time days were measured as starting at sunset, thus Samhain became All Hallow's Even (hallowed = holy = saint) and soon "Halloween."

In some ways, Halloween is not so different from Christmas (besides the whole birth of a savior bit, Christmas is another Christian holiday all tangled up with Pagan tradition, by the way). It's got the unbridled gluttony and its own Charlie Brown special (The Great Pumpkin, if you've been living under a rock). No presents, but I think Halloween offers a much more worthwhile gift: the opportunity to be whoever I choose for a day. I'm obviously not the only one that loves Halloween for this reason. It's become an annual excuse for all us sexually repressed females to get in touch with our inner trash-tastic whore. Other than 8th grade -- when Natalie and I eschewed the norm of using "slutty" as an adjective to a generic profession and literally went as SLUTS (despite our best efforts we looked less like hookers and more like Fly Girls) -- I've always been into more ethereally pretty mythical/magical personas. Fairy, witch, Greek goddess, vampire...

Which brings me to the main reason why I love Halloween: I believe in magic.

And, literally, magic is in my blood. My family has a moderate history of experience with phenomena. Things like some great-great-great-great etc uncle being able to stop horses in their tracks (yeah, that far back) or make them charge off using his mind. And another ancestor on her deathbed seeing a black cat that no one else could see right before she passed. And my grandmother's prophetic dreams of a litter of kittens that they actually found hidden in a shed in the backyard and of a plane crash that was announced on the news the next day. And my grandfather, whose best friend appeared to him at his mechanic shop at the exact moment he was pronounced dead in a hospital across town. Given that my grandparents are two of the most staid, traditional survived-the-depression Germans you'll ever meet, the fact that they tell these stories with amused reverence and believe in their significance is pretty cool.

As for me, I've always had a strong affinity for the occult, the idea of a supernatural world beyond our own. I believe in reincarnation, psychic abilities, and obviously, inexplicable phenomena... That's why I've never been a fan of horror movies. Slasher flicks, eh, I just think they're stupid and unnecessary. Movies like Poltergeist, The Shining, The Exorcist... they scare the crap out of me, because I believe in their possibility. By the same token, I believe that Halloween is a day for celebrating the possibility of another world existing alongside our own. There's never been a Halloween morning when I haven't stepped outside with a feeling of giddy anticipation. It sounds crazy, but I always can feel a stirring in the air and it puts a swagger in my step. It's like, I finally feel that I'm part of something bigger, something beyond and my part is just as important as everyone else's. It feels like a celebration day for MY people. Magical people. People who believe that anything is possible.

Who knows, maybe I was a Druid in a past life?

Just for fun...

So clearly I have issues with writing this blog in an easy, off-the-cuff, DAILY manner. As you can see, I seem to approach my entries more like little projects... like an essay with a beginning, middle and end that has to convey every side of an argument. I've come to the conclusion this is because I just don't write enough. I'm not a steadily recycling fountain. I'm a backed up faucet. So when I do write, I end up spewing these long-winded epic explorations that must end with a tidy, morally insightful bow. Not to mention it takes me all day. Because I'm constantly editing my words as I type them. No wonder I give up before I even start! It's exhausting. I exhaust myself. Blogs are supposed to be commentaries on life or streams of consciousness or some such fusion of interesting, glib "this is what happened today" diary entries. I'm apparently not grasping the concept. Even something as simple as this my mind turns into something complicated.

What I have noticed is that I'm quite good with pithy one liners on Facebook... Passing observation like that is something I can easily commit to. Why can't status/comment/wall writing be a profession? I'd be a millionaire! And you remember those ABOUT ME surveys that people would email to 10 other people and ask for them to send back and to 10 more and then when Myspace and Facebook were born would post them on their profiles? Those, too, only require short, encapsulated bits of genius. I have always LOVED filling them out. Y'know... that much I can handle.

Funny coincidence... both Jax and DaVida have recently blogged lists of their own. Naturally, I'm enticed to follow suit. (I just noticed... I'm writing as if my audience is more than just 3 people...) I'll start with the one that (hopefully) won't take me all day...

SOME THINGS THAT MAKE ME HAPPY

lazy, hazy summer days by the pool
warm pubs on cold nights
cloudy weather
airports
Galaxy Quest
PG Tips & soy milk
walking in New York City
DANCING... anytime, anywhere
singing passionately at the top of my lungs
driving Mulholland
sunroofs
the first feel of crisp Fall air
a clean home
getting all dolled up
While You Were Sleeping
kitties
when my eye for talent is proven
the Metro / the Subway
sidewalk cafes
big, yummy salads
French romantic comedies
NUTELLA
black & white photography
afternoon movie & lunch dates with Mom
Halloween
TV that makes me laugh, cry, identify
good friends, good food, good wine
toddlers
climbing into bed with freshly washed sheets
Love Actually at 6am on Christmas morning
British accents
realizing i was one step ahead of a trend
the patio at Dominick's
toasted almonds
getting stoned and going to see stoner comedies
live audience sitcom tape nights
Sunday lunches with my grandparents
getting lost in a good young adult fantasy novel
Dlisted.com
bitchy queen humor
the word "cunt"
finding out at the register that something costs even less than its sale price
discovering new music
Starbucks
high heels & jeans
sarcasm
when things work out perfectly
reconnecting with old friends
"Flight attendants, prepare for take-off..."
staring out windows
moments of anticipation
experiencing synchronicity
creating pretty things
imagining the future
liking what i see in the mirror
feeling validated
feeling connected
feeling inspired
feeling like a badass
feeling like THE PRIZE.

Something I'll Never Understand...

but have always been fascinated with: MOTIVATION.

Why do people do the things they do?

I like to think I have an innate perception, or intuition, for sussing out people's motivations. Y'know, all the little bits and pieces I learn about a person -- where they grew up, what their parents are like, ex-boyfriends, past jobs, tragedies and triumphs -- get catalogued into my brain and form a sort of open ended equation until one day I go, "Oh, I get it. That's why..." Kind of like the way Sylar on HEROES can look at the innards of a watch and understand what makes it tick. Except, the screws and dials of a person aren't tangible things you can actually see. Though based on facts, they only ever add up to a theoretical conclusion. And the conclusion is always a very personal thing. So, for instance, you can insist that you know the exact reasons why a guy won't commit but he'll never admit that you're right. Trust me, it's no fun being a know-it-all without the hard proof to back yourself up.

Equally frustrating is knowing, logically, the roots of your OWN motivations and still not understanding them. Exhibit A: ME. I don't get myself. Most of the time I think I get myself, but sometimes I'll turn around and, in hindsight, realize I had pulled the wool over my eyes once again. Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20. This is so true. It's not until after the fact that I can objectively see why I've done the things that I've done. I understand my past self perfectly. And I try to apply the same equation of adding the bits and pieces of my history to conclude who I am in this moment... I'm getting better at it. The gap between "Now" and "What the fuck was I thinking?" is shortening. But a clear understanding of my mercurial present self is ever elusive. I suppose it's a lifelong equation, then.

So, instead of writing about Something I Wrote or Did That I No Longer Understand (numero 3 on the memoir assignment list)... here are a few things that -- while I wish I had done differently -- I fully understand:

1. I ate a diet consisting 95% of Jelly Beans, Sweet Tarts and McDonald's ice cream cones for 75% of my senior year in high school. WHY?

This one at first seemed obvious. Walking down 3rd St. Promenade with my friend Natalie, I noticed 2 cute boys headed in our direction and checking us out. As they came into earshot, I heard one of them say, "Not her, the skinny one." By no means was I "the fat one." And it's possible he'd just said something mean about "the skinny one." But this moment was the catalyst. Years later, I realized it was more than that. One common denominator with anorexics is the need to have control over something in their life. Around that time, I was slammed by two events that I had absolutely no control over: My mom and I lost our house and had to move in with my grandparents. Then, five weeks into the semester, I was transferred out of my Algebra class -- in which I had the highest grade ever in my life for math -- into a class with a teacher who was notorious for failing students AND in the ensuing parent-counselor-principal meeting, I was basically told point blank by the principal that he couldn't give 2 shits about me. SO... I decided to control what seemed to be the only thing that I could -- the food that did or didn't go into my mouth.

2. I chose not to "walk" at my high school graduation. WHY?

See above. There was no way in hell I would've been able to shake the principal's hand and not spit on his shoes.

3. I dated a future Death Row convict who had Fidel tattooed in vato font on his arm. Yeah, seriously. WHY?

He was the sales manager at LA Fitness. He wore Hugo Boss to work. He was a charmer. I was 19. He was older and seemed sophisticated (he wasn't). I'd just had a string of boyfriends and I guess I felt like I needed to keep it up. This was the guy that ruined me for all future relationships. I'd like to say I learned my lesson... but my bad choices in men are a recurring theme. And could've been the main subject of this entry!

So, okay, I'm going to be lazy and make that the subject. Because there are a few others that I've looked back and thought: Really, Bianca? Really? The main ones being:

4. Chad aka The Gay. WHY? He looked like Hayden Christensen. He was kinda funny. And I hadn't had a boyfriend and/or sex for 2 1/2 years. Turned out he had weird preoccupations with Muppets and Disney movies and Hedwig & the Angry Inch and celebrities and compulsive lying. Everyone that met him thought he was gay. Hence the name.

5. Craig aka The Nottie aka The Loser. My most recent loss of sense. He was 34. And still an assistant with no real ambition. He was also: not cute, not funny, not interesting, borderline alcoholic, a heavy breather and had a little peen with saggy balls. Pretty much the only thing he had going for him was a black BMW. After dating a guy with no car, that was a plus. Look, I'll be honest, I was NOT attracted to him. But he seemed nice (at first). It was obvious he liked me. I figured... a guy like him would WORSHIP a girl like me. I needed that. I ignored all the red flags in pursuit of just being wanted and brainwashed myself into believing that I actually wanted to be with him.

Being wanted. I've done some things (okay, slept with some guys) that I've looked back on and wondered WHY? I'm certain it's some unresolved daddy issue. I am not a slut. That's not me. But I like to feel wanted. I want to feel loved. Yet I'm always flabbergasted when I realize I've tricked myself into caring about someone totally unworthy. I'll never understand how it happens. But at least I understand why. Now the matter of being able to recognize it before it happens again...

Proof...

that I'm getting back to personal basics... Here's something I drew last week:


*Special thanks to DaVida for giving me the tools to get me going.

What Got Left Behind...

“How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?” – Satchel Paige

Age is all about perception and relativity. I am a newly turned twenty-eight year old. Considering that “fifty is the new forty” and “forty is the new twenty-five,” I’m barely pre-pubescent. For me, though, twenty-eight was like my thirty. Not to be confused with what will be my actual thirty. Thirty is that mythical age I’ve aspired to since I was sixteen, which essentially means my thirty will be like my twenty-one.

Still with me?

I’ve now witnessed a few friends thirtieth birthdays and not everyone shares my enthusiasm for entering the 4^th decade of their lives. For some of us, thirty is that dreaded crest of a rollercoaster where you hang suspended for a second, looking back on your twenties, before plummeting downhill into real adulthood. If you’re not strapped in, feet firmly planted on the ground, you might fall out.

My feeling about thirty is that it will be the age when my life finally emerges from this steep, winding canyon to coast along the open road at exhilarating speed. Except this happy middle, if you will, would be contingent on having made every correct turn to find my way out of the canyon in the first place. Thus, twenty-eight was like a marker for my final lap…

Am I strapped in? Feet firmly on the ground? Wait – was that last turn supposed to be a right instead of a left? Shit. What am I doing with my life?!

More than one psychic (a recurring theme of my life) had told me twenty-eight would be my year. By the time I turn twenty-eight I will be very influential in my business. By the time I’m twenty-eight I will have hit my stride. Coupled with a self-imposed wunderkind stigma and I had a lot riding on twenty-eight. I started freaking out as my birthday approached, because I was nowhere near where I thought I should be for those predictions to be true. Now that I’m here, I realize I still have a whole year of twenty-eight to make it happen. After all, I’m only a newborn twenty-eight.

I've spent the majority of my years leaning headlong into adulthood, but now… I think a deeper part of me is responding to some starting-line gunshot and pulling out all the stops. Like, the adult me suddenly woke up and heard the little me banging on the door, yelling, “You’re never going to get there without me, so let me out, you big dummy!”

Because, yeah… The little me got left behind.

The little me is the original me. Just like the little you is the original you. At the end of the day, the little you is the real you and the you we should all be answering to. We become so removed from the person we were when all we cared about was just being, that we forget some of the fundamental things that make us happy. The roots of our dreams are formed during childhood but, over time, experience and necessity chips away at them.

To a certain extent, it’s inevitable. You get older, you get drunk, you flunk a class, you have sex, you crash a car… You get a job, you get credit cards, you get an apartment, you get a new car, you get bills… You experience doubt, worry, frustration, disappointment, heartbreak, loss, and tragedy. You grow up. Life intervenes and the little you gets benched because you have more important things to think about. But that might be one of the greatest mistakes we all make.

“When I was little…” I say it all the time – increasingly so over the past few years.

When I was little… I loved to play pretend. I acted out imagined scenarios with imaginary friends. Once I pretended I was driving a car when suddenly I went blind… and I rode my bike into the pool. (I always had a flair for drama!)

When I was little… I would practice turning and posing in the mirror just like they did during the theme songs of Saved by the Bell and Beverly Hills 90210.

When I was little… I’d rock out to Def Leppard and Madonna on my Walkman, I’d sing and dance to MTV in my room, and I loved to make mix tapes.

When I was little… I started writing a script for Bartman: The Movie.

When I was little (adolescence is still childhood)… I could lose myself in writing or drawing for hours.

When I was little it didn’t matter what anyone else thought.

I didn’t think about why or how. I didn’t second guess myself or worry if I was good enough. I didn’t think about failing. I just did things that made me happy. I thought I was pretty F-ing awesome... and that was all that mattered.

I lost that unerring self-love, that infallible confidence – the original me – somewhere between then and now. As soon as I equated my talents with the potential to earn money... as soon as I realized I had the power to change my life, literally, in my hands… That’s when the little me started to fall behind.

As I got older, the pressure I was feeling to just get there, to make money, to reach success, became crushing. All consuming, really. No matter what, no matter how, I just had to be successful. I set off in hot pursuit of money, designer labels, a nice car and bigger, faster success. And I completely lost myself along the way.

My writing – the one thing that used to come so readily to me – stuttered to a stop. If I pushed myself, I could get words out in fits and starts, but never in the same easy flow. My simple desire to tell a story got all tangled up with thinking I had to do it in order to achieve something tangible. The fun of writing something that I found interesting or entertaining became irrelevant when I started worrying about anyone else finding it entertaining enough to give me money. I’ve only been intent on reaching for the carrot dangling at the end of the stick. It turns out that’s just not the way it works.

So here I am, finally understanding that I haven’t been doing the things I wanted to do for the pure love of doing them. My innocent joy when creating something, my jubilant pride in my own abilities, my love of my own mind with all its varied and quirky facets... That’s what got left behind.

Twenty-eight was my reckoning. I feel more confident now that thirty will be the age I've been waiting for: the age of celebration. Because now I get it. And slowly but surely - whatever it takes - I’m reconnecting with the original me. I’m drawing again, I’m writing free form; the way I did... when I was little. I’m doing it for myself and no one else. It’s necessary to please the little me, otherwise the big, adult me can't move forward.

You never realize how important that connection is until it’s gone. That relationship with your original self is what reminds you where you came from, why you wanted the things you want and what made you happy in the beginning, when joy was your only concern…

Something I Can't Deny...

When I was about 15 years old, I had a friend named Brandon whose mother was a dabbling psychic. I met her the first and only time I ever went over to his house. My memory of this is extremely vague, but… I know after chatting for maybe ten minutes, she declared me a good spirit. She liked my vibe. And she bestowed on me a set of her tarot cards. She wrapped the deck in an uneven cut of brown suede chamois and specified the importance of always keeping them wrapped to protect their “energy.” I think she told me the cards had been passed on to her and were a special brand that was no longer manufactured. The illustrations were lovely and more whimsical than the typical tarot cards you always see. In fact, I only ever found one identical deck in an antique shop in Santa Barbara.

So I went out and bought a book on how to read tarot and began my own dabbling… and I'll never forget one very specific reading I did on myself. Now, whether the cards are guided by a spiritual force or a collective unconscious or your own creative subconscious is debatable. I found that it was easy to “feel” if their meaning was truth or whether the cards I’d laid were a bit off. With this particular reading, I felt the truth deep in my heart. It was a spread to “Determine Your True Purpose in Life.” According to the cards, my purpose was love. Specifically, my purpose was to find love. Find my soulmate. I remember tears springing to my eyes when I read that from the tarot book…

Yes. I want love. That is something I can’t deny.

Back in my senior year of high school, when I started dating my first “serious” boyfriend, I told my mom that I would finally be able to concentrate fully on my school work. I could finally relax and focus on other things since I would no longer be worrying about the daily minutiae of trying to gently prod a crush to fruition. As far back as I can remember, I’ve always had a crush...

In kindergarten, it was Brett. So carried away by my crush (and not having learned boundaries yet), if I were sitting behind him on the blue carpet during story time, I’d find myself leaning forward – so close – trying to smell the collar of his shirt. I can mark in memory every single year of school with which boy I had a crush on. Each year I had a new object of affection. Often I’d alternate between Brett and his twin brother Bryan. In 3^rd grade, I hit pay-dirt. For some inexplicable reason, I became the girl that all the boys liked – including older ones – and I had my pick. I was passed notes and gifted rhinestone jewelry and even had my butt pinched during kickball! Sigh. I’ve never figured out how to recreate that phenomenon.

Then in Junior High I had my heart broken. Adam was my seventh grade boyfriend and I would venture to say he was my first love. As much as a 12-year-old can truly be in love, I was. He was the first boy that I really, really, really liked – and had for quite some time – who really liked me back. For two months (!!!) he held my hand and put his arms around me and walked me to class. He’d even point out our weekly anniversaries. I liked him so much that I became shy about it. That’s what did me in… because I was too shy to initiate our first kiss. It was the era of Truth or Dare, when we all learned how to French kiss, and I knew how to do it. But I liked him too much and it made me too nervous and, as I later learned, he decided I was too much of a prude. (Ha!) Really, he just never tried. I guess he rejected me before I could reject him.

It was after this heartbreak that I really fell in love with love. It was like heroin. I’d had my first hit and, oh, I wanted more. I discovered teen romance novels and read them voraciously. Every time I needed a fix I’d buy myself a new story of love trumping the odds of class lines and school sluts. I started collecting romantic greeting cards that professed charming quotations like “You enchant me” and “Can you feel my heartbeat?” with the intention of giving them to someone… someday. My VCR played The Cutting Edge on a loop and I bawled like a baby in a dark movie theatre during that scene in While You Were Sleeping when Sandra Bullock says to a sleeping Peter Gallagher, “Have you ever been so alone you spend the night confusing a man in a coma?”

High school was a veritable parade of crushes. Freshman year, I kept a running list in my head which I would re-order depending on which boy smiled at me that day or talked to me in class. I had a few “boyfriends” here and there. Usually these relationships didn’t last beyond two weeks because, as it turned out, I was a fan of the chase. More accurately, I think I was trying to reassure myself that I was likable. But once I’d confirmed that a boy did, in fact, like me back and the deal was done, I was then faced with actually having to interact with said boy on a more personal level… and suddenly it would feel wrong. Obviously, I just wasn’t that into any of them. Or maybe I was scared of being hurt again. Either way, I wasn’t sticking around to find out.

It wasn’t until I met Jeff – that first “serious” boyfriend – that I stuck around. This was one of those things that I believe was fated. I’m of the mind that certain people come into your life for a reason and once you’ve learned what you were meant to learn from them – just like that – they’re gone. My mom liked to boast of how well I “handled” Jeff when we started dating. True enough, he was a slippery one at first and I won him over without losing myself to desperation. Looking back, I think the result was two-fold. I was rewarded with a relationship that taught me how I deserve to be treated (another thing that my mom went on about for years afterward)... but, it also left me saddled with an ill-perceived confidence that I should be able to win over any man. In all of my twenty-eight years, Jeff was the longest, truest, steadiest relationship I’ve ever had. And we were together just barely a year.

Since that relationship I’ve had a string of hits and misses that engendered a new list: The Nickname Graveyard. Roll call, please? The Crying Orthodontist… Fidel the Future Convict… The One I Could’ve Married… The Gay… The Hobbit… The Hottie… The Nottie… and The Mask aka The (Mistaken) One. In terms of time, The Mask has been around the longest. In terms of actual consistency and bang-for-my-buck… he’s fallen quite short of the mark. However, this relationship, in all its peaks and valleys, has taught me a lot about myself…

See, I’ve spent a number of years now with “love” relegated to #2 on my list of priorities. When you have grand scale ambitions such as I do, it’s only natural for “career” to replace “love” in the #1 slot. Certainly, at least for the majority of early adulthood as you try to forge your way in the world, I think it’s important to shift that focus because it’s necessary to build yourself up, flesh out your character and really know what you’re capable of before you can be ready for The One. For a long time I’ve been aggressively career focused. So much that I was insulted when, a few years back, a female boss told me that some co-workers thought all I wanted was “to get married and have babies.” When she said it, I laughed out loud and scoffed at the idea, thoroughly annoyed to be dismissed in such a way. Turned out this was her own theory and she was testing my drive... I passed the test.

Truthfully, I’ve been using the “career” card as a way of justifying the failings of my love life. Many times I’ve explained away my disappointments by saying, “I don’t have time for a real relationship” and “I get wrapped up in a boyfriend too easily and can’t afford to lose focus” and “I’m just not supposed to be in love right now” and “It’s impossible to have a relationship in LA, so why bother trying?” Yet, every day I am contradicting my own stubborn logic, because... even though I say proudly that career is my #1 priority… it is LOVE – the search for love, the attempts at love, the grappling, endless yearning for love – that consumes my focus. Trying to tell myself otherwise, I’m realizing, is pointless. My career has really just served as a constant excuse for the lack of love in my life. Don’t get me wrong, my career is very important to me. But it’s a neck-and-neck race these days and, trust me… love fights dirty.

It is my want of love that makes me a girl that always needs a crush because otherwise life would be unbearably boring. It is my want of love that forces me to watch even the cheesiest romantic comedies. It is my want of love that caused my mind to play tricks on me, convincing me that I had honest feelings for someone who was less than deserving (The Nottie). It is my want of love that wouldn’t allow me to let go of someone that’s “just not ready” and might never be. And it’s my want of love that had me convinced I must not be ready either because I can't love someone else until I love myself.

All this time I’ve denied that I want love – want it and deserve to have it – right now. I've been denying that there is any other path to love than this fatally idealistic rut of waiting for a future with someone that may never come.

Then, recently, I took a trip to New York.

New York’s an inherently romantic city that I’ve visited many times before, but always returned home relatively unaffected by it. Except this time I was touched by some magic as I walked the streets. I felt connected to the pavement, the buildings, the trees and every person walking around me. I felt the thrill of catching the eye of almost every single guy I crossed paths with. I felt the giddiness of possibility. For the first time since I took up the mantra earlier this year, I believed in its power: I am The Prize. My desire for love was suddenly so sharp that I had to acknowledge it. As soon as I did, it was like all my feelings came rushing in and the world seemed to open up and I remembered...

I believe in love. I always have. I’m a romantic, I can’t help it. Love is what has always driven me. Love is what inspires me and excites me. I have so much of it to give. Love has always been my purpose, even before I knew it. I’m no longer willing to sit on the sidelines. I want the fantasy. I want the fairy-tale, with all its imperfections.

And I want it now.

Denying that was the only thing that was really keeping me from loving myself. But it’s something I can’t deny because it’s part of who I am. What’s so wrong with wanting marriage and babies?

I want it all. And I’m ready for it.

The Bianca Chronicles

So, it's been a while and I really kinda thought I wouldn't ever get around to blogging again...

But I recently read an article on how to get started writing your own memoir and it inspired me. By no means am I actually attempting to write my memoirs yet because I hope the best is still to come. I did decide, however, to use the "10 Exercises to Get You Started" as a way to do some much needed self-reflection. My assignments are as follows:

Write 2 pages about...
- Something you can't deny.
- What got left behind.
- Something you wrote or did that you no longer understand.
- Apologizing for something you didn't do.
- A physical characteristic you are proud to have inherited.
- What you had to have.
- A humiliating exposure.
- A time when you felt compassion unexpectedly.
- What you have too much of.
- When you knew you were in trouble.

Stay tuned...!

How do you say BADASS in Russian?

Because I'll bet Timur Bekmambetov has heard it ad nauseum in the past couple weeks. I saw his film WANTED over the weekend. And it was exactly that -

BAD. ASS.

See, I'm one of those girls that can hang with the comic book, science fiction, Legends of Zelda (yeah, I'm old) geeksters of the world. I've never really been a reader of comics, but through the magic of film adaptation and cult TV series, I have realized... These are my people. This realm is my realm. I identify with the themes, you know? It's all about good vs evil, getting revenge, damning the man, saving the empire, avenging the death of your mother/brother/friend and falling in love with the untouchable or ungettable or maybe just your sidekick you never thought of in that way... It's about realizing your strength as a person...

And being a FUCKING. BAD. ASS.

Everyone can identify with that a little bit. And I love filmmakers who do top-notch badass.

Timur Bekmambetov is a Russian director I discovered after a friend recommended his movie Night Watch. Then I saw Day Watch, the next movie in what is a soon to be completed trilogy about the forces of Day and Night battling each other in a gorgeously gritty Matrix-on-acid Moscow landscape. Seriously, I had to watch the 1st movie twice, there was so much going on. But I was hooked. And from that movie to Wanted, with some other Russian titles in between, Timur has obviously honed his directing skills to a fine razor point. He is genius.

Now I'll talk about the actors of WANTED:

First of all... Okay. I'm one of the few non-fans of Angelina Jolie...
(though, I did finally watch Mr & Mrs Smith - one sweltering evening in my dark, hotbox of an apartment because we have free HBO until September! - and begrudgingly enjoyed it)
...and she was badass in this movie. It made me like her again. Because badass is her forte. Enough with the forties pin-curl roles already. I like her best when she's being all dark and tough and pouty.

Common is in the movie, too. Common is hot. Common can act. But even if he couldn't... he's badass just standing there, man.

Morgan Freeman is all stoic and mysterious and, like Angelina, at his best that way. He's been in a couple soft, weepies lately and they aren't doing him any favors. I have no interest in him and Jack Nicholson sky-diving together unless they plan to kick some ass when they land.

Konstantin Khabensky, the Russian dude that stars in the Night Watch trilogy, has a role, too. It was like running into an old friend you haven't seen in a while and you're like, Hey, I forgot how much I like you! He plays a kooky guy and he's kind of adorable. And he speaks English, which I didn't know. Hello American cross-over career? Some talent manager better jump on that quick.

And then there's...
JAMES MCAVOY.

Yet another of my Brit boy crushes. Actually he's Scottish, which is even better...

*sigh*

I always like to gloat when I'm ahead of the curve and my eye for talent is validated... and this is no exception. I knew about McAvoy before most people did. He was in a BBC miniseries called State of Play that I saw years ago before it aired on BBC America and before Universal decided to adapt it into a film and recast the leads with flashy A-list stars. Among all the notable UK talent in the original ensemble cast, McAvoy stood out. Mostly because I thought he was cute and then, upon closer attention, because he's a phenomenal actor.

(Good-lookers with blue eyes, an accent AND talent to spare? Holy hell, they're like my Kryptonite!)

So, then I randomly saw him at an LA Film Festival party a year later, when he was still relatively unknown. Leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette, of course. I worked up the nerve and went over to tell him how great I thought he was and that he had a bright future ahead of him (ahem...). He was v. gracious and almost shy and when he stood straight to shake my hand......... Yeah, he was shorter than me. Even if I hadn't been wearing 4" heels he'd just barely reach my height. It's always such a disappointment when they turn out to be Pocket People - and a bloody LOT of them are. He still left me all aflutter which I don't usually get around most actors. It's like my "It" factor radar. And whaddya know? Today he's one of the buzziest young actors around. As in he's stirring up the Hollywood buzz. He's done the indie thing... and the romantic comedy thing... and the award-nominated epic period romance thing... and the fantastical creature thing...

Did I ever think he'd play an action hottie with an American accent and PULL IT OFF? Mmm, not so much. Boy, was I glad to be proven wrong. He was a revelation in this movie. And definitely the winner of MOST. BAD. ASS. He has officially ascended the ranks and conquered the sink-or-swim "bankable popcorn action flick star" echelon. Obviously his range of talent is not to be underestimated, but what's more... There's this shot near the end of the movie when he's finally really owning his badassness... Let's see...

Oh my... Uh huh... That's the one. Made me want to cut my legs off at the knee just so I could look UP into his smoldering blue eyes next time I see him. Too bad he's married. Although, who wants to put money on that - when a star rises in Hollywood, the wife is the first to go, right? Actually not so much with the UK actors. They were all brought up proper-like. They keep their traditional values. Okay, not all of them. UK actresses...? Maybe a different story. In some cases...

So, there it is. This wasn't meant to be a review. Clearly, because I made no comment or critique of the plot - which was kept fairly simple, with a not entirely unpredictable twist at the end. Or of the action - which, simply put, is edge of your seat, Holy shit did that just happen, FUCKING AWESOME. I am curious... Who came first? Bekmambetov or the Wachowskis? Similar styles. Who does it better? I think Bekmambetov drew off their innovations and dialed it up about 50 decibels with some insanely creative and clever stunts that have just the right touch of irony to make you laugh and shout, Dude! That's just my opinion. And this is just my enthusiastic recommendation. Because I'm not lying when I say I felt like a geek boy in women's clothing having a full-on comic nerd wet dream when I saw this film.

Yeah, I said it.

GO SEE IT.

Completely random...

I have no idea... Seriously. But this is highly entertaining...

Pick myself up, dust myself off...

Yeah, yeah, I'm the one that threw me on the floor in the first place. I've spent the last couple weeks doing fuck all because I've been in a funk. I needed a break.

Listen, this business is fucking hard, okay? And I have a fragile spirit. I'm a fighter, to be sure. But that doesn't mean I don't let myself get knocked down first. I'm like the kid on the playground who throws herself to the ground at the slightest nudge and spits blood before climbing back up and kicking that ball home (yes, I was the kickball queen). I'm all about the "rally." Nothing gets me fired up like a little hopeless despair...

So, our show was cancelled. Technically not "my" show. My boss' show. The show I worked on and, despite all bias to the contrary, I damn well believed in. Maybe sitcom is dead. Maybe ours was too "traditional" and a throwback to less "edgy" humor. What-the-fuck-ever. It was a GOOD. SHOW. We had Emmy-winning actors pulling their shit out every week. We had a kickass writing team. We had Jimmy Fucking Burrows as our live-in director! A guy that's so seasoned he doesn't even need to WATCH when the show is taping. He just paces and LISTENS and knows what camera moves to make. Then the network fucked with our show from the moment we got back after the strike. Don't give those suits time to sit around and think, please. And still our show was good and heading steadily towards greatness. But apparently "good" isn't good enough in this assbackwards business.

And that is the crisis of conscience I've been having. See, I know I chose this business. I've been around it my whole life and I know how hard it is. It's hard getting in and it's hard ascending the ranks. I've seen talented people try and fail, try and fail, try and fail. And now, I've seen award-winning talent fail.

THERE IS NO FUCKING RHYME OR REASON TO THIS BUSINESS!
(and if there is... it's called MONEY, honey)

It's just incredibly discouraging. You've heard the overnight success stories that are supposed to inspire you. And it does inspire all the Jeds and Mary-Sues who come to LA bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to be "famous!" But for every amazing success, there are 10 tales of shattered knee-caps. People falling off the wall. Giving up and waggling back to Minnesota, tail between their legs. It's not like going to med school or law school and being on an assured path to a secure career as a doctor or lawyer. Sure, nothing in life is certain. But in Hollywood it's all a fucking crapshoot.

SO... it went down like this: I turned in the 1st draft of my script. Two days later, our show was officially slaughtered. I write drama, the show is comedy. So it's not like I lost out on a big break, writing for what could have potentially been the next Frasier. Then I hear from my manager that my script still needs A LOT of work. And I'm just sitting there thinking...

FUCK. Who do I think I am, trying to be a "writer"? It took me months to write something (fine, essentially 3 weeks when I got down to it) that apparently was way off the mark and now I'll have to spend another month reworking it all. Meanwhile my boss, who is an established, successful "writer," just got royally screwed on something he put so much effort into. Like, really, am I kidding myself? What if I try and fail and never get anywhere? What if, for all my hard work, I'm just never good enough? In a business where even proven talent sometimes isn't good enough to win the game...

WHAT'S THE POINT?!

Well... the point is... (yes, I do have one) What would be worse? Trying and failing until the spaghetti sticks? Or not trying at all and never knowing what I could have achieved? I think that idea SUCKS. This is the business I chose. And I'm not hiding behind a Gucci suit and getting my rocks off by dashing the dreams of MY people. No, I'm on the creative side. I'm choosing to be one of the brave ones. I'm choosing to be among those that bare their heart and soul on the page. I will try, try, try again. Ratings and box office numbers be damned! It wouldn't be worth it otherwise.

"It's our wits that make us men."

See? Hopeless despair = Braveheart rally. Give it a go some time. It really works. Why? Because...

They may cancel our shows, but they'll never take... OUR FREEDOM!

(okay, yeah, I'm done now...)

On hiatus...

I am officially on hiatus until May 5th.

I've been given a deadline to finish a draft of my script and I'll be damned if I can't meet it.

Copy that.

Over and out.

Uuuunnnngggghhh...

I. am. so. hungover.

To quote one of the only bloggers I habitually read...

"Jesus H. Christ on a bike... Argh."

I couldn't in good faith claim the wordage as my own and (being the avid benefactor of talent that I am) had been meaning to do this guy a solid anyway with some P&A on my own less accomplished blog. And yes, he's British.

Anyway. Back to me.

I remember always laughing when people over the age of 35 would complain about not being able to bounce back as easily after a night of partying. Thinking, Ha! That'll never happen to me. In my exuberant, bouncy youth I rarely suffered hangovers and was sure I was immune. Granted, I've never been the hardcore 5-nights-a-week type, but I've done my fair share and handled it with aplomb. Four Ecstasy-fueled nights in a row in Miami when I was 21... Combat bowling until 3am on shots of Baileys and vodka when I was 23... Film premiere after-partying until it was time to shower for work the next morning when I was 25... Speaking of work... Two years of coke, booze and late nights in the middle of the week then rolling into the agency by 8am (well-dressed and perfectly made-up) and managing to be on my A-game for 12 hours straight while navigating the minefields of my boss' moods and learning what "work hard, play hard" really means.

Right, so maybe that last section of my party-girl career was a bit hardcore... at least for me.

And now we're up to date.

I used to be invincible, man! But now... Oh to be young and naive again. I'm not even 30 yet and I can't fucking deal. True, ever since I went all Less Than Zero at the agency I've sort of been on hiatus. Nesting and focusing on goals and such. I've become a little old lady that, when someone says "Meet around 10:30?", replies with "At night?!" It does make for more fulfilling fun when I do go out... but as I age it's getting harder and harder. The hangovers are getting worse and worse. It used to be that a good omelet and some juice in the morning could turn the booze crown upside down. Then it progressed to a dependable lunchtime dissipation. Now we're at 4 o'clock, I've had 2 full meals, protein, carbs AND sugar - blasphemy! - and I STILL have a cloudy, achy head and a queasy stomach. And I can't even discuss the morning. It's a miracle I made it to work... safely...

And all because I decided to take up a spur of the moment invitation to go dance like a nerd at a back-alley rock bar (okay, not so nefarious) on a Monday night. Seriously, if someone had told me yesterday morning that by 12am I'd be going ape shit up on a platform at some all ages 80s night and getting kicked out of the place for I'm not sure what because I don't remember and neither does anyone else... I would've been like, pssshhh, riiiiiight. Apparently, I'm unpredictable like that. Who knew?

All that is to say... I'm just not sure if it's worth it anymore. Not when I have to spend the next whole day completely out of sorts and feeling like I might pass out on my desk.

[insert labored moan here]

And it's still nowhere near time to go home. Wah.

Decidedly Simple #347

I'll be the first to say that I can be... difficult. Okay, my mother probably would be the first. I think of my personal quirks and expectations of the world around me as endearing. Call me a diva, call me hard to please, call me fickle... I say YES. All are a badge of honor that proclaim my high standards. But there are some things about me that are Decidedly Simple.

Witness: Exhibit #347

Bianca Responds to Positive Reinforcement

In my last job I had a boss that was super demanding. She was the matriarch of this company I worked for and therefore very successful and very, very good at her job. And I respected her. But let's just say, my nickname for her came to be Cunty Cunterson. While I know she thought highly of me and was only as hard on me as she was because she felt that I could not only meet but exceed her expectations... she was just a B.I.T.C.H. I worked my ass off for this woman and nailed it 98% of the time... But very rarely was acknowledged when I did good. No, she only ever harped on the 2% of the time I fucked up. Because she expected 100%. Sure, I get that. Nonetheless... only being recognized for things you're not getting right can be disheartening. I found myself dropping from 98% kickass to 95% and so on. Because it's all a mind fuck. And when she smelled blood, she went for it. Thus, a bad day would turn into a bad week and into a bad month. That bitch wore me DOWN. And I use "bitch" as a term of endearment here, because at the end of the day, when I basically decided I didn't want to BE her in 40 years and I quit... she helped me and I do love her.

At the opposite end of that spectrum... is the motivation that is sparked in me when someone compliments me or tells me I've done good. It's a little thing called Validation. While I'm locked in my little den of self-doubt wondering if I'm smart enough, good enough... One kind comment and BOOM the door blasts open. It can come from my mother or my manager or a friend or a stranger... I'm not picky... And it puts a big smile on my face because it has been confirmed that all my toil hasn't been for naught. And THAT inspires me to keep fighting the good fight.

Pretty simple, eh?

Shakin' off the stank...

Of another person is truly something I struggle with on a daily basis. Stank, in this context, is defined as:

stank /stAY-nk/ Noun - A negative, foul or offensive aura, vibe, mood or disposition that hangs about a person and infects everyone within a 10 foot radius

I am particularly sensitive to people's stank. For whatever reason, all my life, I have always been highly perceptive of a person's mood or attitude, however subtle. (This talent also thus encompasses my ability to communicate with cats, but I won't go there now...) There is just something in me that is in tune to people's emotional constitution. So much so that I find myself feeling what another person is feeling. I'm sure I'm not the only one.

It can be as simple as being in the same space as another person, without interaction. Like, you walk into a room and you don't know why but suddenly you feel different. You can't figure it out and certainly don't know where it's coming from. That's when you're picking up another person's stank. Most of the time when this happens, I find myself plummeting into melancholy, uncomfortable awkwardness (okay, sometimes that's just me) or biting pessimism without any discernible reason. Sometimes it turns me inward, but usually it causes me to act out. Usually against the person whom I'm feeding off of. Imagine how bad a situation like that can go...

The greatest and most prevailing example of this is my relationship with my mother. We finally figured out at a certain point that our moods infect each other and we end up getting stuck in these escalating bitchfests until we're screaming at the top of our lungs, crying and then apologizing. Being aware of it now really makes no difference, emotion being as gripping as it is. Except maybe we're able to stop the ride sooner. Like before we vomit all over each other.

And sometimes, I pick up a person's stank through direct interaction. Whether in person, over the phone or even over email. Whether they're being bold about their negativity or are unaware of it. I pick it up... and it fucks me up. It can fuck me up for the rest of the day, depending on who the person is, my relationship to them and the color of my own emotional outfit du jour.

In either scenario... it is difficult to shake off the stank. The greatest thing I've come to learn is that 95% of the time, it has NOTHING to do with me. For a long, long time I'd translate any projected negativity as a form of rejection. Then I read somewhere that all people act out as a response to their own subjective view of the world. (Most general example I can think of is when a person cheats on their spouse and then is constantly accusing the spouse of cheating... projecting the guilt) Whatever it is that they're feeling, whatever emotions or subconscious insecurities they've got going on... it's all them. Not me. When I can remember that - and in some cases, it takes me a little while - then I'm cool.

So... Today I had a short email exchange with a person who triggers some strong emotions in me. Part of the problem is that I know too much about this particular person and probably assume too much, also. Lots of unacknowledged bodies at the bottom of this lake and whatnot. On a scale of 1-10 I'd give this email exchange a -1 for enjoyable and a 10 for fucking tiresome. See, at first, I was offended. And upset. And hurt. And feeling dismissed, which is actually a lot worse than feeling outright rejected. Then I accused this person of being "bitter." Then I realized that I was responding from my OWN bitterness in relation to this person. Then I realized that this person probably IS bitter (for entirely different reasons) but would never admit it. And THEN I realized that whatever this person's problem is...

IT'S NOT MY PROBLEM.

And just like that, I shook off the stank.

Everyone needs an Eli Stone...

I love the new show ELI STONE. And I looooooooove Jonny Lee Miller. The former is a young love, the latter has been quite enduring. I've loved Jonny Lee Miller ever since seeing him in HACKERS playing opposite his soon-to-be-ex-wife Angelina "vag trap" Jolie.

Yes, my Brit love goes way back. And yes, it is of a particular tall, lanky, brunette and sometimes borderline Hobbit variety (they of the up-turned nose and elfish charm). There are many on my list... But Jonny Lee Miller was one of the first. And I'm very happy that after years of proving his talent in small films (most notably, Trainspotting) he's finally getting the major exposure he truly deserves in America. Even if he is starting to look a little light-bulb headed and pointy-nosed as he gets older, I still think he's adorable and would marry him and bear his Elvish babies.

So, when I watched the pilot of ELI STONE early last year, I was thrilled because I loved the show and he really pops off the screen in this role. Then, seeing it again when the show premiered on ABC, I was having second thoughts. I liked the concept of bad lawyer turns do-gooder prophet because of inoperable brain aneurysm, but it felt a little heavy-handed in places. It seemed like a recycled Ally McBeal, except with a male lead who has cheesy flashbacks of his alcoholic dad and envisions gay pop icons instead of dancing babies. I was bummed. I had such high hopes for ELI. Especially in light of Greg Berlanti's other new show of the season, Dirty Sexy Money, which had become a rabid addiction to rival the early days of Grey's Anatomy. BUT I gave Mr. Berlanti the benefit of the doubt and stuck with it. I can happily say now that ELI STONE has surpassed my expectations. It's just a fucking great show. Everyone in it is good. Victor Garber is always amazing, but here he's given a chance to sing and camp it up a bit like you know he always wanted to on Alias ("But can't I wear a wig this time, J.J.? Why does Jen get to have all the fun?"). His character makes a triumphant pirouette from bad guy to awesome guy in the most recent episodes and thank god, because I really didn't want to hate him. Natasha Henstridge is beautiful, but she looks like a linebacker next to almost every other male on the screen - which is unfortunate as it reminds you that most actors are Lilliputian pocket people that should be wearing lifts in their shoes when stood next to Amazonian goddesses. But otherwise she's good. Loretta Divine is, as always, divine (sorry) especially because she and Jonny Lee Miller have this unexpected, totally crack-up chemistry. Even the other supporting player lawyers, who've now each had their turn at a 2-hander episode with Eli, have been fleshed out and I'm finding myself rooting for every. single. one of them! Most importantly, the ongoing theme of damn the man, fight for what you believe in, save the underdog is a consistent tear-jerker. I don't know about you, but I love shows that can reliably induce a good cry. That is where the show could've gone all wrong and been entirely too shmaltzy - and, okay, some of it is shmaltzy - but the writers do a clever job and it just keeps getting better and better. I don't know if they'll sweep the Emmy noms... certainly not with Dirty Sexy Money as their competition... but I really, really, really, reeeeeaaaaally hope Jonny Lee Miller gets nominated because, even though it's just TV, he's turning out the performance of his life so far.

And that's all I have to say about that.

P.S. For further evidence as to why Greg Berlanti is currently topping my Show-Creator Hero list, do yourself a favor and check out his Why We Write essay written during the WGA strike.

An AHA! moment...

I had an epiphany this morning. I'm aware that the phrase "an Aha! moment" is Oprah-related and generally refers to more in-depth realizations about yourself and personal growth... Actually, as I was about debase my own epiphany by saying it wasn't quite as significant as that, I realized... NO. It IS significant. For me. Alright, so here it is...

I want to direct music videos.

Okay yeah, sounds silly at first after that intro. Here's the deal. I'm a writer. That's always what I've wanted to do with my life. All this time... ever since I was 17 and started really getting into screenwriting... I've been inspired by music. Literally. I hear a song and get a flash of a scene in my mind. It doesn't happen with every song. Only certain songs. Whether it's the vibe or the lyrics or the emotion a song evokes in me... Whatever it is, my imagination is triggered and I SEE a scene. That is how A LOT of my writing has come about. I remember thinking, when I was younger, I really must have a "gift." That's how it felt. Like something bestowed on you without even reaching for it. All I wanted then was to create vivid and compelling scenes. It wasn't work and I wasn't second-guessing myself and at the time, un-jaded as I was, I thought it would be easy and had no concept of failure. And the gift CAME to me. Easily. Because I was completely open to it. Now... maybe not so much. Because I got off my writing track for a while there. I lost faith in my ability, I got scared and I shunned my gift. But I didn't forget. (I can't tell you how many people I worked with, how many of my bosses, would tell me what a good writer I was and that was based on business letters and actor bios and thank you notes!) And the flashes never went away. Now they're becoming more frequent again. Like a bolt out of the blue, the scene I see when I hear a song reveals something about a character in a script I'm working on that I hadn't thought of before. Or it adds flesh to an idea that I've been thinking about. And it's like BINGO! That's it! And I am a very detailed, very descriptive writer. When I see things in my head, I see them just so. That's why I have ALWAYS figured I will have soundtrack consultation or approval worked into every deal when I sell a script. Which is not typical. The writer usually doesn't have control of much once they've signed over their baby. The soundtrack, if anything, falls under the jurisdiction of the director's vision and the work of a music supervisor. But I am determined because if I ever see on screen a scene I've written set to an entirely different song than what I imagined... Well, that would just ruin everything.

So the question you're thinking is: Why not aim to direct the things I write? My answer has always been: I don't want to. Mainly because a) I can't possibly conceive of all the elements that go into making a film and leading an entire crew and b) I know what a fucking headache it is to be a director. I didn't go to film school. I don't know all the technicalities or how to set up a shot. I'm good with still photographs, sure. Directing live action is something I've never desired to touch even with a 10-foot-pole.

BUT I have vision. And this morning, it suddenly became clear.

I was hiking in Runyan Canyon, as I normally do few mornings a week before work. It's my thinking time. And I couldn't do it without my iPod. Today as I passed this particular spot I've walked by so many times, with it's vista of L.A. framed by each side of the canyon... I had a flash of a scene. Then on my way back up, passing it again, while a certain song played on my iPod... the scene came together with a story set to this song. And that's when my Aha! moment happened....

I have a photographic eye. A sense of aesthetic style. Songs inspire my mind to produce stories, quite naturally. Wouldn't it be great to direct music videos some day?

I got that excited, tingly butterflies feeling in my stomach and thought... Okay, I'm really feelin' that idea. Why not start now?

SO. That'll be my next project. A spec music video. I have no idea how or when or how or where or how or who or fucking HOW to do it... But I WANT TO. And I WILL.

Salad Stealer

So, someone stole my salad out of the refrigerator in the kitchen at work last night... and I'm still annoyed about it. I'm territorial about my food. No, I did not grow up as the youngest of 5 siblings in a household where I had to fight for the last crust of bread. I was an only child with a single mother who would buy anything my stomach desired... but who, at any given moment, would feel compelled to finish off a 3/4 full container of ice cream or peanut butter or [insert anything you can eat with a spoon until scraping bottom] much to my foot-stamping disappointment when I would come home after school, anticipating a yummy snack only to find an empty spot where the ice cream/peanut butter/whatever used to be. This is probably also why I think the funniest line in the history of FRIENDS is when Ross said: "I grew up with Monica. If you didn't eat fast, you didn't eat!" For me, looking forward to eating something is almost better than actually eating it. I'm a bit of a hoarder. I have my vices (ie my own bottom-of-the-Nutella-jar-scraping tendency) but generally I'm the girl that can keep a stash of Kit Kats for weeks without touching them.

Back to the salad stealer. To be fair... the refrigerator here is a hotbed of abandoned food. It's eat or be eaten, so I should know better. But I never thought it'd be necessary to start writing my name on things! Let me start by telling you, the biggest perk of working in TV production is FREE FOOD. Our kitchen at work is so ridiculously overstocked that we could feed Sally Struther's entire village of starving Ethiopians and still have leftovers. Seriously, I'm not kidding. We have little elves (okay, Production Assistants) that go grocery shopping every week, buying anything and everything that is requested. Every shelf in every cupboard, upstairs and downstairs, overflows with a staggering variety of chips, crackers, nuts, cookies and candy... OH MY. Add to that the dependable B-L-D schedule and it's a bit overwhelming. Goes a bit like this...

Every morning, one little elf brings in a dozen bagels. For a while the bagels arrived with a platoon of flavored cream cheese spreads. It's gotten to the point now where we have an entire shelf in the refrigerator door devoted to the cream cheese. If you're not careful when opening it, you're assaulted with flying little tubs that splat at your feet and ooze herb & onion shmear all over. The bagels hang out all day, the poor unchosen left hoping that someone will wander in for a 4pm carb nosh. This never happens because... After breakfast - nay, DURING the consumption of breakfast - one of our little elves comes around with a lunch menu from that day's restaurant of choice. The choice is at the elves' discretion however there is often heated debate or a flat-out veto from one of my bosses that results in a new menu passed out. One day a week, a family spread is ordered from a short-list of approved restaurants and it's first come, first serve. By the way, I'm not even going to discuss trips to stage for rehearsal and run-thru. There's a whole other catered lunch for the crew and sometimes you're tempted to eat twice. Lunch usually is the high point of the day. Then shortly after lunch, there's a Coffee Bean run for the writers. And throughout the afternoon, multiple trips to peruse the upstairs and downstairs cupboards for a snack until it's time to go home. UNLESS the writers are having a slow day which turns into a slow night... Then we get to order dinner. That process is always a little more slap-dash than lunch, but still an elf, a restaurant menu and bags of excess food.

Well, yesterday we had a lunch spread from this Italian place. There is always so much left over that gets tossed, it's a real shame. And considering the salary I live on, I'm not above taking home food that would otherwise be wasted. Unfortunately, I'm never interested in the vat of spaghetti bolognese or chicken parm and there's never much of the healthier stuff left. This time though there was a good amount left of this salad I particularly like. I scooped most of it into a large Ziploc, stuck it in a drawer in the fridge intending to eat it for dinner. But when I stopped at the fridge on my way out, much to my annoyance, it was gone!

So, I was really pissed off. Like, more than I should have been. I mean, it's not like I paid for it. It didn't have my name on it. But it was IN A DRAWER. Which means someone foraged through the other options of less obviously hidden food and made it all the way to the Bottom Drawer and TOOK MY SALAD. I told myself, it's just lettuce. There are more salads in your future. Let it go. But oh... the letdown... I couldn't let go. Which is why I've clearly gone on way too long telling this story. But y'know what? Now I feel better.