well, it’s another entry about my boobs.

Just got back from seeing Inside Man, or The Inside Man, or whatever it is. It doesn’t matter. I wanted to see it because Clive Owen is amazing, and if the entire movie was him doing that first monologue straight to the camera I would have been much more entertained.

Consequently, about half an hour into the movie I started thinking about writing this entry.

There’s a scene that’s in the trailer, so I’m not spoiling anything, where the bad guys make everybody in the bank strip to their underwear. This taps into something I’ve never talked about here, mostly because it hasn’t come up. I recently confessed my this confession to a co-worker, and while he did give me the, “Every day I learn something weirder about you” look, he didn’t suggest I keep this neurotic fun fact to myself, so I’ll blame all of this on him.

The scene confirmed my fear, and let me know that it was a perfectly normal, rational thought to have each morning.

When I get dressed, I always think, “Is this what I want to be seen in when the bad guys bust into the building and force us to strip down to our underwear?” Continue reading

Changing of the Guard

About a year ago, if you’d asked me if I’m a guarded person, I’d have told you absolutely not. I write books and scripts that usually come out of some story from my life. I write quite publicly about my life online, for Pete’s sake. Clearly I don’t have a problem talking about myself. But I don’t write about everything here, and in the last month I learned quite a bit about my guard. Mostly I learned what happens when it goes down, even just a little bit. Continue reading

fur and feet

I wore a new sweater today, and it shed everywhere I went. I first wore it a couple of days ago, and I thought the little grey hairs on everything I owned were due to Taylor hanging out around my bag, which he does sometimes. But today I wore it all day and it was clear — the sweater was leaving pieces of me everywhere. Continue reading

writer’s ear + office ass = runner’s tears

Well, it’s official. Lately when I order my coffee from whichever boy is behind the counter that day, he calls me by my name and makes a joke about either my current order, or one I’ve had before. I’ve never had a coffee shop where people know me by name. This means I have logged some serious hours here, and the staff is very friendly. Continue reading

my shortcomings

I’m in the middle of cooking dinner, and by that I mean I’ve put water in a pot and I’m waiting for it to boil, which means I have a few minutes for an entry. It means I have just enough time to talk about the weird things going on with my own body, because… well, why not. If you’d rather hear about other people’s bodies, Tara and Dave have been examining their poo. Seriously. So quit your bitching. Continue reading

Three Stories

LA Story

I felt my first real earthquake today. I mean one where I knew an earthquake was about to hit and then it did. I sat through lots of earthquakes when I lived in Palm Springs as a kid, but I don’t really remember them. We lived above the laundry facility at a hotel, so we often thought it was the machines rumbling when it was actually a quake.

One happened when Dan first moved here to LA, but I was drying my hair at the time and thought Ray was doing some dumb-ass shit underneath the apartment. By the time I realized the world was shaking, the earthquake had finished. Continue reading

“It says repeat, but YOU DON’T HAVE TO.”

Remember when all I could talk about was how much I needed that soap? Well, I got it. A distributor found me through a Google search, and shipped me a bar from Taiwan. Are you looking for Arsoa as well? You can email Lawrence and he’ll send it to you. Please tell him I sent you, and don’t scoff when it costs thirty bucks. That’s just what it costs. You want to be pretty? Pay the price!
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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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Update

Just wanted to check in on the Twitch, which seems to have completely disappeared since I did what it said and told the world about its powers. It might also be the Potassium that a few of you suggested. Thanks for writing in and sharing your similar twitch woes, and for making me feel like less of a freak, once again.

For those of you keeping score on the pits, I’m currently trying Arrid XX, which is what I used back in high school. It’s working okay so far, and I’ve been using the Rolling technique to keep the white streaks off my clothes. There’s a White Stripes joke here, but you know… it’s all about The Vines now, isn’t it?

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Pity Party

Originally I was going to just try all of the different suggestions you sent in for my armpit problem. I wanted to write back to each and every one of you and let you know how grateful I was that you wanted to help and to let you know how it went.

Well. That was before close to one hundred of you wrote in to explain how you’ve approached your pit dilemma. Now I’m just going to have to address all of you here by showing you a bit of my mail bag.

As we start reading letter after letter, you might notice that it appears it’s only women who have this deodorant-streaking problem. It can’t just be fancy tight-fitting clothes, as I know some of you fancier men read and none of you knew what the hell I was talking about. I’m really thinking it has something to do with boobs, and the deodorant made for women.

Continue reading