out of control.

I spent all day finishing up my recap for Gilmore Girls, which is up. If you hate waiting around to read about notification on the new Gilmores here, you can always sign up for the mailing list at MBTV.

Then I did some phone calls, had lunch/dinner, had more phone calls, opened mail, read some journals and now suddenly it’s like seven. But the strange thing is in LA, 7 is still the late afternoon. I’m not used to that. Everything seems to start later here. Morning events start around ten. Which I’m not complaining about. But it’s a rare event that I’m in bed before three in the morning. It’s like I found an entire city that lives on my time.

On Friday I drove Tyson to the airport, went to see a movie, dropped my friend back home and then came home. Driving from the theater to my friend’s house to mine took almost two hours. Everything is an event. Going to the bank takes an hour and a half sometimes. Seriously.

It’s also hard to feel like it’s Christmas time. I’m in shorts and a t-shirt right now. It was almost eighty degrees today. Very sunny, very warm. I’m not complaining, again, but it’s strange. It gets cold at night, though.

I thought I’d show you why the day gets away from me.

My house is filled with paper and distractions. Between both of these things, it’s a wonder I get anything done at all.

This is the holiday card exchange haul so far. To the right, there, you can see the rotary pay phone that Ray has recently restored to working order. I don’t know, people. It’s Ray. He likes giving himself projects. Mostly people just like calling their own cell phones to make sure it really, really works. It does. Trust me. It also knocks out the DSL and any other phone call you might try to make. The lights that run around those cards like a bad frat boy wanting to get into your pants making a romantic evening are from the party we had like, three weeks ago. I just haven’t taken them down yet. Some nights it’s cool to have the lights on. I’ll get to it. I promise.

See, Michelle? I told you our picture was on the mantel. One of these days I’ll develop the camera from the trip.

This is the dining room table. It’s still sorta in the living room, so it’s now the table. It’s also known as the Traitor Table, which is from the old table that was in the living area that was supposed to be for Eric’s things only. I would occasionally try and clean up the table, and something would inevitably get lost, Eric’s life would be ruined, thus the name Traitor Table. This is really the mail table, the “preparing my headshots” table, the keys table, the “who does this belong to” table, the charging the cell phone table, and the “I’ll put this away later” table. We’re just happy the cats have no interest in this thing. It’s never had food on it as long as it’s been in this house.

This is the breakfast nook area which is really Eric’s computer room. The floor, here, holds all of the DSL lines and is the main braker room for the place. Those cords can reach all the way to Ray’s room, all the way on the front porch and my main working place in the living room. The DSL box sits under the futon there, which makes complete sense.

There are days when this little corner of the house makes me very depressed. Ray’s supposed to find a way to get into the basement of the complex so he can make all of these wires run underneath the house. But it hasn’t happened yet. This means that we have wires running all over the house. All. Over. The. House. We look like hackers.

Okay, so this is where I spend all day working. It’s on the main couch, by the back door. I sit, have the television on, and work. The other half of the table holds everyone’s lunch or drinks, has papers that I haven’t gone through yet, bills I haven’t paid, and things I’m supposed to be charging but haven’t gotten around to yet.

Underneath that table are all sorts of old magazines that we’re keeping because one of us hasn’t gotten around to reading it yet, or one of us thinks that someone else in the house wants us to hold onto it. Including a past tenant who has porn sent here. We just keep it here, in case he ever comes back for it.

That box of laundry detergent in the corner is there for two reasons: I haven’t put it away since Eric did laundry yesterday and it kinda makes the living room smell less funky. There’s a strange smell in here since that party from a few weeks ago. We can’t get rid of it.

This is the ottoman for the big comfy green chair. Somehow it has transformed into a small desk for whoever wants to work that isn’t me. It’s usually covered in newspaper and magazines. It falls over onto the floor, as it’s also a place Cal likes to nap. You can also see here the decor stylings of Ray. Our stereo and television sit on top of two trash cans with a pane of glass. You’re just jealous. Shut up.

Those are video tapes of people performing, or old television shows I’ve recapped, or embarrassing tapes of me in high school. You never know what you’ll get.

As we can see here, Eric went to the gym yesterday. Those things will stay there until he goes to the gym tomorrow, or later tonight, if it so moves him.

You can’t just pick them up and move them because then everything would be lost and the house would be thrown into total anarchy.

If you clean it, you’d better write out a list where you describe where you put everything. The house sucks stuff up. Ray’s lost a box of brand new software, y’all. It’s not pretty.

The porch. My chair. Where I spend a good part of the day educating myself. We get all sorts of magazines sent to this house, and I try and read all of them, as I end up having to write about lots of things. Unfortunately, I keep forgetting to bring a new trash bag outside, so the junk has been piling up. Whatever, Ray’s out of town. Party!

There are magazines under the table, on the table. Buried in there somewhere is the Bust magazine I’m in the middle of. Those cups are probably from the party three weeks ago. I know that candle is.

The table next to the chair has more. The area in front of the chair has more. I’m just embarrassed now.

Does anyone know how I got on the “The Old House” magazine mailing list? Does anyone know how to get me off of it?

This is another corner of madness. The CDs. It’s also where I wrote out all of the Christmas Cards. That’s a bag of software for something I’m supposed to review, but I need a PC to review it, so I can’t do it here or now. That’s Bargain Hunter. It might not ever be played again because I’m a sore loser like that. The other day I had to schedule a corporate party at a bowling alley so I didn’t have to lose a game. Those are videotapes. We’re very very messy people.

Oddly, the CDs are alphabetized.

Mostly.

As I finished writing that sentence, Eric went to the gym. I then had to get in the car and drive to the hood to pick up stee and his sister, as that’s where his car broke down. It’s easy to drive to a place you’ve never been before. You just need a computer, a Thomas Guide, a Diet Coke, five CD’s and an almost empty tank of gas. Then you have enough anxiety that you’ll just keep driving, hoping you find the place. I did.

At the gas station a man asked if I’d buy him a Tootsie Roll. When I said I would, he then asked if I’d let him see my Tootsie Roll. He asked about seven times if I knew how to do the Tootsie Roll. Yes, he sang the song to me. I told him that I wasn’t that much in the holiday spirit. We exchanged “Merry Christmas”es and then I walked away.

“I can get a date like that,” I boasted to stee as I got back into the car.

There have been lots of boxes arriving at the house lately. I just keep letting them pile up, assuming that I’m going to need boxes for packing presents. I need a box box.

This is next to the tiny, tiny tree that holds all presents.

Note the pair of shoes. In any corner of the house you can find a pair of my shoes. I never know when I’m going to need to leave quickly. That and I’m just incredibly lazy.

Realize here that I’m only showing you tiny bits of the house. There are messier parts and neater parts. Showing you the entire thing would be too much though, I’m afraid. Exposing too much of just how lazy one girl can be. I hope you understand.

The bathroom shelf.

Let me explain the Tim Allen book. Okay, so the party. People brought gifts. Junk gifts. In the morning, I found the Tim Allen book in the shower. On the floor of the shower. Listen, it’s best not to ask questions about Ray’s parties, okay? Just let them be what they are. We woke up to a hole in the floor and a Tim Allen book in the shower. It could have been much worse, people. I promise.

As you can see there are plenty of choices for reading material in the bathroom. Unfortunately, I’ve already read all of those Hollywood Reporters twice each, and I’ve read that Onion book twice. That leaves me with that infernal Tim Allen book. It’s incredibly bad. I read it to remind myself that I’m actually a pretty good writer. I’m decent. The scribble of Flowers for Algernon is more insightful.

This is part of my vanity, which I really should have cleaned up by now. I just forget to do it. Plus the kitty litter is in there, and since I haven’t bought enough rugs for this place yet, there’s too much kitty litter in there. I hate getting ready in there right now. I’m just sick of it. I think it might be the source for the strange smell around here.

God, y’all, I’m seriously disgusting. I can’t believe I’m showing all of you this. I hope you still love me.

Well, even if you don’t love me. Whatever.

That duct tape on the counter? From inside a box my former boss gave me on the last night that I saw her. The sweater is from the party of yore. The little white thing plugged in is for Ray’s toothbrush. I don’t know why I’m keeping it plugged in. It’s like leaving a light on for Ray, kinda.

Ew! Look at all of that HAIR on my HAIRBRUSH! This is really convincing me to just clean this entire place from top to bottom. All y’all with journals: this will make you clean. I swear. I can’t believe myself right now.

And the cats. They do nothing. All day long. Sometimes Cal runs full-speed into the back screen door and runs out to the porch. Other than that, that’s Taylor’s full-time mode these days. Man, Cal is big. I need to clean that cat. He has to wash himself with a rag on a stick.

No, we haven’t finished unpacking yet.

No, I don’t want to talk about it.

There aren’t enough bookshelves here. We have no place for these things. They are hidden around the hallway, so if you come over, you can’t quite see them. They used to sit in the entryway, but we decided to look just a bit more lived in. These currently practically block the entrance to Ray’s room. We’re terrible people.

To solve the no-bookcase problem, I’ve just been piling books into the hall linen closet, as one does. Pathetic. Here you can also see our sad-ass towel collection. And stuffed animals.

Another place that will get cleaned out eventually. Those drawers hold more of my clothes. If I told you how many places I have to check to find a pair of jeans in the morning, you’d shake your head.

It’s a wonder I even make it to the morning cup of coffee.

Pathetic.

Those crumpled white things on the top shelf there? Linen.

Pathetic.

Our rock and roll posters look kind of cool in this picture, though.

Because I’m pathetic.

I can’t believe I thought this was a good idea. This is taking forever and making me feel like I’m killing Martha Stewart’s soul.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that…

The entryway. Yeah, okay, so we haven’t exactly moved ALL of the boxes out of the entryway. I think one of those boxes is my old office stuff, and since I don’t have an office, but periodically need office stuff, that’s the best place for the box of stuff right now.

The office actually extends from this area to that far light you can see. That’s the porch. My office is this entire living area.

It would be excusable if I was raking in the cash, but since I’m just a poor freelance writer, it’s really incredibly slovenly.

Those bars to the right are for this strange door that we never use that cuts the hallway off from the living area. It doesn’t come in handy ever, because even if we trapped the cats behind it for parties, they’d just run out when someone opened the door to use the bathroom.

I’m clearly just babbling about my architecture here, which is exactly what wins those diarist.net awards, huh?

I’m a winner.

The view. People like it.

I do, too.

It’s not so clear tonight. You can usually see more. That might be my sad-ass photo taking abilities, though. It might also be the fact that I’m short, and I’m standing on a chair to take this picture and I’m probably wiggling a little bit trying to stand on the chair.

But that’s LA. Right in front of you there. At like, six in the evening. It gets so dark here so early.

More of the view. I moved in the chair a bit. I’m wily like that. If I were a better host, I’d tell you what you’re looking at. I know it as “Hollywood.” Other people could probably be a bit more specific.

Cody did that. I don’t want to talk about it, either. Cody did it. It scares me. I want to take it down very very soon, but I think maybe it keeps people from robbing the place. I mean, would you want to mess with someone that had a bird with a stick in its eye hanging in front of the door?

I didn’t think so.

The bird feeder is also for protection. It’s always empty. That way birds know that this isn’t the place you go to for food. This keeps our porch rather bird-poo free. Or so I thought. The other day I was cleaning the table and asked Eric who dropped all of the purple berries I was picking up on the table.

“Those aren’t berries.”

“How do you know?”

“I know poo when I see it.”

“Why’s it purple?”

“What do you think they eat, baby?”

I’m just constantly disgusting, people. I’m all touching bird-poo in my white trash house listening to Destiny’s Child, working on scripts and entries, smelling cat poo while watching my Oprah, listening to my rotary pay phone ring, wondering if someone’s gonna bring me my nonfat mocha latte before my stories come on.

Hi. I’m pamie. I’m nasty.

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