The Apology.
Dear Child That I Don’t Have, But Might Have Someday,
I feel I owe you an apology.
You see, yesterday afternoon I got a clear vision of your future, and… I’m sorry to say, it doesn’t look pretty.
Oh, it’s all innocent enough, but I got a glimpse of what it’ll be like for you when you one day come home for the holidays to visit your old parents, and I saw your point of view from the back of the car.
Your mother (that’s me) had a pile of un-stamped Christmas cards in her lap, and she was wondering out loud if it would be best to go to Ralphs to buy stamps or if it was just a better idea to go to the post office, because that’s where you can get pretty stamps. Yes, it was just as boring as it sounds now, and if you didn’t fall asleep just reading that paragraph that shows you’ve got some of my genes.
Chris and Allison’s Wedding
“I just want one of those damn entries out there to just be called ‘Chris and Allison’s Wedding.’ Is that so hard? Can’t it just say that and then talk about how pretty the wedding was?”
I would have done that anyway, even if the bride hadn’t specifically requested it, because the wedding was perfect. I cannot wait for the pictures. For the first time ever, I can’t wait to look through someone’s wedding pictures — a wedding I attended, even.
So, I’ve said that it was perfect. Now I’ll have to tell the self-centered story that these journal entries dictate. Sorry, Allison. You were the queen of winter, but I’m the princess of pamie.com, so I have to do what I have to do.
Tupper Here.
It’s more than just the excuse to give my house a good cleaning, or the fact that I like having candles lit all over the house. I really enjoy pulling out the extra chairs and placing them around the living room, grabbing extra hangers for the hall closet, and the scattered sound pretzels make when they hit an empty bowl.
I know it sounds very Wifey, but I really like throwing small parties. Gatherings. Groups. I like making dip. I enjoy making Lemon Tea Cakes, and spraying lavender-scented cleaner on the dining room table before placing coasters in an attractive pattern. I get way girlie when there’s company coming, and tonight I think I hit my girliest point yet:
I just hosted a Tupperware party. Yes, a real-live Tupperware lady arrived at my house, promptly at seven, and proceeded to give a demonstration that involved three raffles for free Tupperware and ended with close to a hundred dollars with of Tupperware purchased. Not bad for a Tuesday night.
“You’re blossoming into a lady right before my very eyes,” Liz said to me.
“I know,” I replied. “What the hell has happened to me?”
The Games We Play
I’m currently sitting on the floor typing while another version of me is currently playing on the television beside me. I’m making copies of the Anne Heche show for someone, and I’ve spent the morning calling people while watching them perform monologues. It’s a strange meta thing to talk to someone while listening to them yell. It’s even worse to watch yourself while trying to write about yourself. I’d say it was narcissitic, but I don’t have the ego.
I generally don’t watch myself on television. I still have a copy of my episode Beat the Geeks that Michelle sent me that sits, unwatched. I find that once I see myself up there, see what I imagine other people see, I tend to get a little depressed. I don’t like my voice, my forehead, the way my hair looks tired. I don’t like the way I rush when I talk, how red my face gets when I’m excited, the way my shoulders hunch towards my neck. I don’t like the way I move, the way my chin looks when I laugh, the way I tend to tremble when I’m holding something as a prop.
The more I watch myself, the more self-conscious I get. Then I start talking myself out of what I’m doing, and the next time I’m up on stage, I can’t help but feel like I shouldn’t be there. I try not to watch myself at all anymore, as it makes me change what I’m doing, and takes some of the joy out of my work.
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This month is going to be insane, and so a little sporadic around here. I’m out of town a lot, for weddings and holiday and all of that stuff that comes around this time of the year, but I promise to update whenever I can.
I got sick, which I always do before I take a trip, so for the last two days I was immobile, whining and moaning, complaining about everything, trying to survive for two days without caffeine. I had my first cup of coffee this morning since Saturday, and I just about spun a hole into the ground with my sudden burst of energy. I was so wired that I had to run an errand while I was in the middle of a chore, because I just couldn’t take standing still any longer. I still have more errands to run, including laundry, packing, cooking, etc., so perhaps another cup will be necessary. No wonder I drink so much of this stuff! It’s great! I feel so good, even though I still feel mostly shitty! Coffee rules!
Gobbled
Well, I am more than a little proud of myself. Want to know the secret to the best Thanksgiving day? Mimosas. Serve ‘em when you’ve got an hour before the meal, and keep everyone pretty sauced through the Trivial Pursuit game.
It’s pretty late, Thanksgiving night, and today I cooked my first Thanksgiving dinner. My mother, my sister, and one of my oldest friends shared my afternoon with me, and it was a really nice time.
I got up at the crack of dawn to start cooking. I made pumpkin pie and pumpkin bread pudding (the real winner of the day — T, you missed out on the good dessert). Then the cookies. Then the turkey while I made deviled eggs. At first I accidentally soft-boiled them, but they were fine with a little more cooking. I’m so Martha!
I Miss Money
Yesterday was a very expensive day.
The City of Los Angeles wants two years of back business taxes from me, since I work at home. Did you know this? As a writer, you owe money to the city so that you can work at home. I have to file two years of back taxes. Luckily, since I don’t make a dime from the city, I don’t have to declare the entire amount, but pay taxes on a percentage. But still. There goes Christmas.
“Just work it, girlfriend,” the tax lady on the phone told me. “You know how it goes. Say ‘My baby’s sick’ or ‘My husband’s in jail’ or whatever it takes to get an extension or a payment plan or whatever. You’re a writer,” she said to me. “Write yourself an excuse.”
Happy Thanksgiving.
A Night with the Other One
Last night ended with three of us laughing and gasping in an elevator. I said, “Well, this is the strangest night I’ve had in a long time.” The other two quickly agreed.
I ended up at a bar with a new friend, who happens to be a very pretty girl. Now, listen. I’m aware that I live in Hollywood, where most girls are much prettier than I am. It’s not like I consider myself to be one of the hottest things on legs, but I am getting a little tired of being that girl. It happens whenever I’m out with my pretty single girlfriends, and we end up at a bar.
It: I’m the “other one.” As in, “I’ll take the blonde; you take the other one.” “I want to talk to the hot chick; you distract the other one.” “Do you think they’re gay? The other one’s pretty short.”
Little Miss Racist
Just yesterday I was playing “Follow the Links” and ended up spending half an hour reading a new website. It was one of those sites that’s smartly written and makes me feel just a little bit like an idiot. And hey, they’re all from Austin! So, imagine my surprise when the very next day, they linked me. That made me feel important, and just a little bit less like an idiot, until I let myself get paranoid that maybe they were making fun of me. Little advice: if someone offers you the chance to live inside my head for a day, don’t take it.
And since I’m on a linking spree, I should mention that I was also catching up on my friend Lee’s journal. If you read no other entry, at least read this one, which broke my heart as I laughed, and made me love her even more.
And then, just when you thought I was done linking, here’s another one. For those of you old-school readers, who miss the forum and wish I wasn’t such a failed dot com, Michelle of Michelle Said/ Michelle’s Mom Said has a journal now. If she didn’t want that link up there, she’ll have to pay me to take it down.
So, just as I predicted, the Spinning Into Plates discussion turned into quite the heated debate last night. Nothing like four white people sitting around arguing about racism to prove the play’s point, I guess.
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