Scenes from my birthday party

I wish I was watching all of my 21 Jump Street DVD episodes with Sars. Best moment of the pilot: when Johnny Depp gets really sad because he can’t stop thinking about his father, we watch him from outside his apartment window as he stares at a photograph of his father while soulfully playing the saxophone.

Oh, Jump Street. Loved you then, love you now. Can’t wait to get to the Brad Pitt episode. Continue reading


Lately, people have made a point to let me know their wishes in the event of their untimely death (or persistent vegetative state). But if any of you are hoping to be shot out of a peyote button clenched in the palm of a 53-foot high Gonzo fist, you should probably let me know now so I can start saving up. If it means I work shoulder-to-shoulder with Johnny Depp in order to carry out your memorial service to your specifications, I’m willing to make that sacrifice. Continue reading

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

In her latest entry, Sara gives a tour of tacky Hollywood homes, including my favorite — the year-round David house. This house is lined in white statues of David, and for Christmas they all get tiny Santa hats.

Our neighborhood is decorated with lots and lots of lights, prompting stee to buy some lights at Target yesterday. That’s when we learned our house has no exterior electrical outlet. Every day homeownership teaches you something new. (We’ve found a workaround — please no helpful suggestions!) Yesterday I trimmed the… green stuff… out on the front hill, around the parking spot. It looks really good, but even though I wore gloves I’ve got three blisters on my right hand. I’m sure that the rest of this next week will involve me accidentally slamming my shouder into something blunt, burning my wrist while cooking, burning my neck while doing my hair, snapping a fingernail off at the quick while reaching for the remote control, and accidentally getting my face caught in the middle of a Cal/Taylor brawl. Because I’m a pretty, pretty bride. Continue reading

Virtual Book Tour: Devil in the Details: Scenes From an Obsessive Girlhood, by Jennifer Traig is thrilled to be a part of Virtual Book Tour once again. This time it’s Jennifer Traig’s hilarious Devil in the Details : Scenes From an Obsessive Girlhood. She promises me that the copy of the book I received had a binding issue, and wasn’t intentionally off-center by one centimeter. The three borderline obsessive-compulsives who tried to fix the book before a recent Writers Guild screening of Closer do not believe her. In fact, our discussion of how her publishing company was genius to make a book about obsessive-compulsive disorder have a small, irritating, disorderly flaw garnered the attention of more than one audience member sitting near us. In fact-in fact, the book held the attention of more than one Guild member much longer than Julia Roberts could. Apparently writers like things to be orderly, and Jennifer’s book was calling to us, asking to be fixed, begging to be righted, to be held and taken care of. Continue reading

I Understand Where Jason Was Coming From

This has been a most unpleasant Friday the 13th. I wrote a story when I was nine about a kid who had the worst day of his life (bad test grade, grounded by parents, little sibling gets awesome present), only to figure out it was due to the date. Here I am, twenty years later, living out my nightmare. Today’s disappointments have ranged in severity to where I am now sitting at my computer sweating. I’m typing and sweating because I’m overwhelmingly frustrated. Every new piece of bad news has been followed with someone saying, “It’s not your fault; these things happen.”

“It makes it hard to celebrate,” I told our realtor. “No matter how good the news, you know there’s disappointment coming. There’s always something else.” Continue reading


my new free show.

There’s all this water falling from the sky and I don’t understand it. I had to actually take things off the porch so they wouldn’t get “wet.”

First of all, there’s a new billboard outside my bedroom window. Because it’s the law and the way things are supposed to be, there’s now a giant Johnny Depp head staring into my window day and night. Sometimes Christmas presents come a bit late.

The other giant billboard you can see from our porch is currently getting changed. We’re very happy about this, as it used to be this ugly Tommy Hillfiger (my lack of spelling power on his name shows you how little I actually pay attention to fashion) ad with these vacant models standing in front of a grid. We called it the Eighties Senior Picture, and always wished the models were standing in front of a giant “’87.” They painted over it yesterday and started working on it last night. They stopped after they painted a giant female head without any teeth. It’s the scariest damn thing. Right now they’ve added another man head that’s half finished, and I’m currently terrified that it’s going to be Helen Hunt and some guy laughing at me all the time.

Because yesterday was a nice day and I was going to spend it driving around and having fun, I did what I always do when I’m in a good girlie mood: I wore a skirt. This is usually An Occasion, and means that I’m happy to be out and about and want people to think I’m pretty. I need this reassurance every once in a while. The problem is I haven’t done this in a while, and I don’t think I’d done it in LA before. I had on my big shoes and a little skirt and a long sleeve shirt. I hadn’t tried this combination before. I now think I won’t try it again. At least, not in places where I will have to be in public.

We went to Starbucks and ordered coffee. As I was looking around the place I saw a boy seated in one of the comfy chairs. He was looking at me, and when I caught his eye, he smiled. He didn’t just smile, he smiled. Like he was saying, “Thank you for walking in here wearing those shoes that make your calves pretty, and thanks for doing that absent-minded kick when you ordered your caramel macchiato.”

But I can’t just enjoy things like that, so the other side of my brain instantly told me that he was actually laughing at me and that everyone hates my big shoes and I look like a giant towering fool and that since we stopped listening to the Spice Girls, we also stopped liking big shoes and it’s time to just accept my shortness.

We had lunch and went back to get the car. The valet opened the door for me. I gave him his tip and then got in the car, but he was shutting the door while I was getting in it, and the big shoe caught on the underside of the door. This means that I had to turn and dislodge myself to get in. This also means that the valet got an incredible shot of my spread legs in the tiny skirt. His smile told me that any skimping I may have done in that tip was fully forgiven. I left with full-blush raging. I think I can now get free parking at Jerry’s if that guy is ever working, though.

We went to the scaryKmart, where suddenly I was surrounded by children. Normally this isn’t a big deal, but I’m not normally near children while I wear the big shoes/ tiny skirt combo. I’d never had children wander between my legs and look up my skirt before. They just walk right under and look up. It was at this point that I began wishing I had made different underwear choices and was confident in myself enough to not take style tips from Britney Spears.

But I really hated my panty choice when I was waiting in line to buy the new bathmat. The scaryKmart is incredibly crowded, and there are people all around you at all times. I was standing still, breathing through the anxiety of auras meshing as I suddenly felt an incredible draft. It was very slow, and started at the back of my legs, and then suddenly my ass was cold. I turned around. The woman walking past me had accidentally caught the bottom part of my skirt on her clothes hanger. The more she walked away, the higher the back of my skirt had gone. She laughed, stammered, and swatted my skirt down. This was not before all of Kmart saw my blue light special, however, and Eric marveled at just how red my face can become.

One last lesson learned: don’t try on new shoes in a skirt. I’d never had so many men offer to help me try on shoes. I finally thought I was alone at one moment and tried on a strappy platform thing. I bent over to fasten the strap and heard Eric at the end of the aisle: “Hey! Woah-ho!”

That’s it. Jeans. From now on. Jeans and shorts. My ass got more exposure in one day of shopping than the time I went waterskiing.

The only control I seem to have over a hemline is if there’s one at all.


“YM Girlz Rule!”
100 Girls Spill

What white lies have you told?

  • 64% of you have falsely claimed a pal’s haircut looked good.How do you live with yourself?
  • 56% of you have let a bud believe her crush was cute when you actually thought he wasn’t.That’s so nice of you jealous bitches.
  • 50% of you have fibbed about your weight.And the other half just ignore scales completely and don’t know your weight so technically you aren’t lying.

Homeward Bound

i still get to call it home for a couple of weeks

I’m on another flight. This might not even be the last for a while. But this one is taking me back to Austin, so I don’t mind it too much. I have my own aisle, which I always love. I’m tired. Stee’s cat alternated between loving me and feeling convinced that I had chopped him up and stuffed him in a closet.

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An Actor Speaks

I may get kicked out of the club, here.

Dear Non-Actors,

I’m speaking on behalf of the acting community, here. I’m about to tell you something for your own good. It’s risky for me to do this, and I’m aware that just yesterday I was pimping Jeff, but here goes:

Don’t date us.

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More Letters

letting you read my mail again.

Dear Beer,

I’m tired of your trickery. I can have three or four beers on a weekend evening and be completely fine the next day, but if I try and have a couple of beers on a Tuesday night you make me feel absolutely horrible the next day. It doesn’t really seem fair. How do you know when it’s the weekend?


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i lived with john travolta

and why i hate samantha mathis

I’ve lived with many famous people. It’s not something well known, and not something I brag about. Okay, I rarely tell a soul. Because if I tell you why or how I lived with these people, you may leave.

Or at least laugh.

But I want to be honest with you, my dear readers, so here goes….

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