L.A.me

An Exchange 8 Minutes Ago

2010-01-27T22:01:00.000-08:00

Man: Hey can I ask you a question can I hang out with you?
Me: No.
Man: YEAH, THAT'S WHAT I THOUGHT, BITCH!

Well then why did you even ask? Now I have to run into the Trader Joe's and stay there until they remove you from the parking lot or close for the night and I will be unable to resist the siren song of their English Toffee even though I'm trying to cut excess sugar out of my diet.

Also, note to the guy who saw the whole thing happen and chose to stand there gawking instead of intervening on my behalf: I know you were just trying not to get stabbed, but now we can never date. You should have just pretended that nothing was happening and averted your eyes like all the other people in the parking lot.

An Exchange 8 Years Ago

2009-12-30T20:09:00.000-08:00

Mom: Do we have any strawberry jelly? I thought we had jelly in the pantry. Does anyone know where the jelly is?
My Brother: I don't think you're ready for this jelly.
Me: Cause my body too bootylicious for you.
Mom: ... what are you talking about?

I Am Skating On Sunday!

2009-11-13T11:19:00.001-08:00

I'll be playing in my second Baby Doll Brawl this Sunday! My team is the ICE VIXENS. Note that a certain someone is playing for some team called Hell's Belles. Ugh. The ICE VIXENS are where it's at!

That's me at 0:37 getting hit into a rail during the last bout! I'm sure it'll happen again this time, so if you want to see the non-stop Sara-crushing action, the Doll Factory is the place to be this Sunday at 3!

Here are more details that someone else wrote up to make my life that much easier:

Watch the Live Feed -- Sunday, November 15th, 3pm Pacific -- RIGHT HERE.

-OR-

Buy Tickets HERE to come see the action LIVE!

Bring the whole family to the Factory on Sunday for the bi-annual Baby Doll Brawl. This daytime, all-ages event is an exhibition bout for the league’s newest skaters and notorious for the most gruesome hits. Scope out the up-and-comers before they’re drafted – this is your sneak preview of the 2010 season! Don’t miss the half-time mini-bout featuring pint-sized skaters from the L.A. Junior Derby Dolls.

Fans will be rocking and rolling to bass n' drum rock duo Evil Beaver, who will perform at halftime. Derby Dolls events offer a full range of entertainment off the track, with the Vendor Village featuring art, jewelry and clothes, food from Garage Pizza and Hot Dog on a Stick; wine from Paso Creek; beer from Tecate and Alex’s Bar.

The L.A. Derby Dolls are one of only five leagues in the U.S. playing roller derby on a banked track. Like most modern female roller derby leagues, the Derby Dolls are volunteer-run and give back to the community that has embraced them.

I Got An Ice Cream Cake

2009-11-12T11:30:00.001-08:00

For Guy Fawkes Day last week.

I decorated it myself. The store didn't have any orange-colored gel icing.

Dear DirecTV

2009-10-20T17:10:00.000-07:00

Dear DirecTV,

We've had a good time together, you and I. Remember when your technicians came and installed you in my new apartment on Superbowl Sunday so I could watch the Patriots lose their perfect season? And then how you were only $40 a month for the first year? And your DVR was so easy to use and the picture so clear -- so much better and cheaper than cable.

But now you're costing me $60 a month, and I just realized that the only channel I watch that I can't get with the $30 per month Family Package is Bravo. And I can watch their shows on Hulu and the Bravo site. Sure, I might have to wait an extra week before they put the episode up, but quite frankly Top Chef isn't very good this season so I don't mind.

But I did try, DirecTV. I called your customer service line and asked Andrew if he could give me a credit or something so I didn't have to find a way to justify spending $30 a month for Bravo. He offered me a monthly credit for $5. Now I have to find a way to justify spending $25 a month for Bravo. Or, really, for Top Chef. That's $300 a year. Um, that's a lot. That's like a hundred Starbucks. Starbucks > Top Chef. So I'll be going with the $30 a month Family Package. But it could be worse. At least I still subscribe to your service, unlike the rest of my poor friends who just get all of their TV from the internet because it's free and you're expensive.

Sincerely,
Sara

We Won!

2009-09-25T19:51:00.001-07:00

So my Baby Doll Brawl team won the bout that was ... like ... three months ago. Whoops! I suck at updating. But there's an awesome clip from the bout of me getting nailed into a railing in this bout intro video! I get hit around 0:29:

FUN FACT: That hit did not hurt. But I did sprain my ankle during warm-ups before the bout even started all by myself! It turns out that if your skates are on really tight and you sprain your ankle, you won't actually feel it until after the bout when you take those skates off. Then this happens:

Worth it!

There is a Slap Chop Rap

2009-07-13T18:24:00.000-07:00

I haven't said much about Vince since that whole unfortunate arrest for beating up/being beaten up by a hooker thing happened, but when I saw this I just couldn't resist. It's the Slap Chop Rap!!!

Apparently, the Slap Chop people liked it so much that they're using it as their commercial and probably paying the guy who did it way less than he deserves. But now that Vince has become all mainstream and everyone knows about his awesomeness, I think it's time to move away from him and focus on my latest infomercial obsession: Tony Horton and P90X. Every time I see that infomercial I am that much closer to buying it. Which is bad news because it ends up costing like $200 with all the additional workout stuff you have to get. But the infomercial says it really works!

And I'll Be Wearing Silver Hot Pants

2009-06-24T12:51:00.000-07:00

Pamie flew off the track at last night's roller derby practice and writes about her fun experience here. She did a lot of screaming at first, but then she got up and re-joined practice like a rock star. Very impressive, but I think she made a big mistake by trying not to land on her head. A few months ago I fell off the track and landed on my head, and I'm totally fine now spiders milk tomatoes sdlajgsajtbasynjs

And if that's the stuff that happens in practice, you know you're in for a treat when it comes to the actual game this Saturday! So ...

Buy tickets now!

NO CAMERAS ALLOWED! MUST HAVE ID IF YOU ARE 21+

First, at 3 p.m., witness the ALL AGES Baby Doll Brawl featuring our newest rookie skaters! This is our
rare, all-ages bout with spectacular spills and thrills and a beer garden for adventurous adults. Children under 10 free for general admission/$5 for VIP for children under 10.

Then, L.A.'s All Star B Team made up of top skaters from all 4 league teams (Fight Crew, Sirens, Tough Cookies, Varsity Brawlers), the Aftershockers, battle it out on our banked track against the Prom Queens, a mix of SoCal flat track skaters from the Angel City Derby Girls and more. Door opens at 6:30 p.m. This event is 21+ and you MUST have your ID.

Double your derby! Double your fun!
L.A. Derby Dolls host TWO bouts in ONE day of all-girl banked track roller derby action!

At the Doll Factory, 1910 W. Temple Street, Los Angeles

My First Roller Derby Bout!

2009-06-22T23:05:00.000-07:00

So I joined the Los Angeles Derby Dolls last year by accident thanks to a certain friend of mine who tricked me into it. And I love her for it, because I'm really enjoying myself and it came at a time in my life when I wasn't enjoying much of anything and I probably wouldn't have had the guts to do this on purpose. It's been an awesome experience both physically and mentally. Except not so much this week, because now I have to actually skate in front of a paying audience and try not to embarrass myself and/or die. Oops! Don't you want to watch me get splattered across a painted wooden bank track? Well, if you live in the LA area, you totally can! Pam did a much better job with all the details than I ever could, so head on over to her site for all the info.

If you do come, be sure to cheer for #1952. Or just watch the above video for some of the greatest hits from last week's scrimmage. I'm pretty sure that's me at 0:28 sliding down the track on my face. Good times!

Shameless Plug

2009-05-13T13:12:00.000-07:00

Quick everybody! Head over to Lilly Likes to read my article about the best places to find full episodes of classic TV on the internet. The more hits they get, the better for me and the site itself, which is then better for me. It's all about me! And you, since you'll benefit from my knowledge and therefore become a better person.

Roller Derby Fun This Saturday!

2009-05-06T09:46:00.001-07:00

So I joined the roller derby. More on that later, but for now there's a bout this Saturday that promises to be amazing. If you're in the area, it's a great time.

Buy tickets here before they sell out!

My New Urban Legend

2009-02-05T16:50:00.000-08:00

I've decided to start an urban legend:

Have you ever wondered why the term "midget" is offensive to little people but "dwarf" is not? Blame Disney. They agreed to donate a million dollars to the Little People of America to keep "dwarf" from being considered offensive so they wouldn't have to rename and edit their 1937 movie "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" for political correctness.

PASS IT ON. I wanna see this baby in Snopes by the end of the year.

Vince Is Back!!!

2009-01-27T14:30:00.000-08:00

Clearly, I am not the only person fascinated by Vince, the crappy product pitchman. Slap Chop scooped him and his little headset up for this slice of brilliance:

I love the way he throws the worthless uncleanable Slap Chop competitor behind his back into the sink. And his little pearls of wisdom! "Stop having a boring tuna, stop having boring life." He's right. My life is boring, and it's because I don't put carrots and radishes in my tuna. It's time for a change. And when he tells me life is hard enough as it is without crying over onions, he's doubly right. Life is hard, and I don't want to cry anymore! And this line: "Fettuccine linguine martini bikini." Exactly.

But is the Slap Chop made by Germans? They always make the best stuff.

OH COME ON

2009-01-16T11:24:00.001-08:00

OH COME ON
Originally uploaded by morrisonsara

I finally get an awesome shot of a hummingbird, and it's taking a dump.

How I Got Rabies

2009-01-07T12:15:00.000-08:00

First of all, I do not actually have rabies. The title is a joke. I feel the need to clear this up so as to avoid a frantic phone call from my mother.

Anyway! Last night I was walking from the laundry room back into my apartment, and came upon two raccoons. I knew they were around, as my upstairs neighbor mentioned them as one of the reasons why I should stop leaving a little dish of cat food out for the neighborhood stray cat I felt sorry for. But I'd never seen them before. One of them took off up a tree, but the other decided to stick around and observe me. It turned out that he loved being the center of attention and was quite photogenic. Look!

Isn't he cute? For allowing me to take pictures of him, I gave him some of the cat food, being sure to do so quietly so the upstairs neighbor wouldn't know of my raccoon-attracting activities. I left a small pile of the stuff just outside my door, and my raccoon friend got brave enough to come eat it. He even brought his shy friend!

By the end of the night, they got greedy and came back to my door and stared in at me in the hopes that I would leave them some more food. I did, although by that point they were brave enough to start walking towards me when I came outside with a bag of food, which was kind of unsettling since I like looking at the raccoons but I don't like getting rabies. Plus, they're surprisingly big and I'm fairly sure the two of them could overpower me and take over my apartment if they really wanted to. So I kind of yelped and threw the food at them and ran back inside. They didn't seem to mind that, since they got food.

New Camera!

2009-01-04T21:57:00.000-08:00

I got a new camera for Christmas! It's not an SLR, but it's close enough for me. It's a Panasonic FZ28. It has 18x optical zoom plus I got a teleconversion lens that adds another 1.7x zoom to that for a total of 30.6x optical zoom! That's so much zoom that I just had to show off:

I wanted to take some pictures of hummingbirds, too, but there's a problem. You see, this other bird has decided that the hummingbird feeder is his territory now, and he keeps trying to get food out of it. He can't, but that doesn't stop him from trying:

He tries all day long and poops all over my porch. And if a hummingbird dares to approach the feeder, he chases it away. This is terrible! What can I do to get rid of it and get my hummingbirds back? I tried leaving it some bread crumbs to eat instead, but it ignored them and then a squirrel got them. Oh, and he also likes to peck at my windows. He'll just fly up and tap away and scare the crap out of me. Stupid bird! I hate him.

Happy New Year From Vince

2009-01-02T17:57:00.000-08:00

Look what/who was waiting for me in my mailbox when I got home last night!

I'm totally going to get me some ShamWows now that I see they can be used to clean sheepdogs. It just so happens that my New Year's resolution is to get a sheepdog!

Please don't ask me why I get catalogs from Harriet Carter.

Intrepid Nature Photographer

2008-12-03T11:35:00.000-08:00

I got a hummingbird feeder earlier this year, and braved my lack of DIY skills to put it up on my porch. So far, it's paid off. Hummingbirds actually come to my feeder! Lots of them! Several a day! I can take or leave most birds, but I love hummingbirds. I tried to take pictures of my little friends to show to all of you, but for months my efforts have been futile:

The hummingbirds were either too fast, as you can see from this gray-brown blur,

or too shy, as you can see from this hummingbird's ass and adorable little feet.

And yes, hummingbirds that refuse to pose for pictures get the dreaded comic sans font. But today, I finally did it! I got a nice picture of a female Anna's hummingbird. ACCOMPLISHMENT! Behold:

Another Neighbor Took Up The Cause

2008-11-23T16:10:00.000-08:00

So I made peace with the lady next door. She still leaves her shopping carts by the stairs, but she leaves them on the other side of the stairs, where they're not in my way. It turns out that there's another, even more Russian woman who lives next to her who's determined to put the shopping carts on the side of the stairs where they're in my way. I keep catching her do it, but when I nicely and politely (seriously, I say please and stuff) ask her to stop and to put the cart back, she does not. So I put it back for her. Then she comes outside and puts it on the other side. Then I put it back. Each time saying, "please keep it on this side. On that side, it's in my way. Thank you." The other day, she actually pushed the cart into me in her zeal to put it on the other side of the stairs. When she did it today, I was ready. With a camera!

Here she is, ready to swing the cart around and put it where it doesn't belong.

And here she is again with the cart now moved to a spot that's in my way.

Please observe the white piece of paper in her hand in the last picture. She rolled it up and hit me with it. Hit me! With a rolled up piece of paper! I could have gotten a papercut! Stupid crazy lady. How does she know I won't sue her or I'm not one of those violent Americans with a gun? She's lucky that I couldn't get the video function of my camera to work right so I didn't get her attack on tape. But I will next time, and then I'll call the police and they can explain to her why you don't 1. steal shopping carts, 2. deliberately put them in the path of other neighbors, and 3. hit people.

She does have cool sunglasses though.

The Cold War Is Over!

2008-10-30T12:49:00.000-07:00

Last night, I somehow made friends with the Russian woman next door. It turns out that she wasn't the person I saw a while back putting the cart under my stairs again. There are no less than three old Russian ladies living in apartments off that stairwell who all look the same to me (I can't tell white people apart), and it was a different one I caught with the cart. And then, the other day, I caught the third lady trying to put another cart under my stairs.

I was heading out to Trader Joe's last night when I saw my next door neighbor at the sidewalk coming home with a cart of groceries. She saw me and, amazingly, stopped her cart and took her bags out to bring them to her apartment -- thereby leaving the cart on the sidewalk and not on the walkway where it is in my way. I was touched, so I offered to carry her bags back for her. She, in turn, was similarly touched, and told me (the best she could, not knowing much English and me not knowing any Russian) that she bought headphones so she could listen to her TV without turning the volume up and bothering me! I can't believe it! How considerate of her! She also said she has a bad shoulder, so I told her to come get me anytime she needed help with her groceries and I'd be happy to carry them for her. And then I returned the cart to Trader Joe's, where the sample station was giving out delicious pumpkin bread.

I Love You More

2008-10-24T23:34:00.000-07:00

I keep seeing this commercial and it creeps me out every time so I thought I'd share it with all of you. I hard a really hard time finding it, and the best I could do was this site that isn't really in English which made it difficult to figure out how to embed the video in my blog. So you'll have to click on the link, but it's worth it:

"Love You More" Sinupret For Kids Commercial

Why would anyone ever buy this product? It turns you and your kid into creepy fake-smiling zombies who lie in fields all year round, staring up at the sun but the eyes seeing nothing ...

It Sells Itself!

2008-10-06T00:14:00.000-07:00

I watch a lot of random TV shows on weird channels at weird times. Therefore, I see weird, cheap commercials selling weird, cheap stuff. I think this one is my favorite:

So many questions. Why is the fact that it's made by Germans one of the big selling points? Why is Vince wearing a headset like a Gap employee? Do they think we won't notice when they show the carpet with a huge puddle in one shot and then cut to another angle and the puddle is magically gone? Why does Vince call his cameraman "camera guy" when he must know his real name? Is there some kind of tension between them, or is Vince letting his ShamWow spokesman fame go to his head? When will a ShamWow tent be coming to a parking lot near me? Why do I always want to buy one of those things when I see that commercial even though it's sooo annoying and I don't need a ShamWow in the first place?

The Lady Next Door is a Criminal Mastermind

2008-09-25T00:24:00.000-07:00

I was going to post an ode to my new laptop, but as I was typing I heard the distinctive clanging of metal and crappy wheels on pavement. I ran to the door and opened it to find the lady from next door shoving a shopping cart under my stairs again. She was trying to be all stealth about it, but she's deaf so what sounds like near silence to her is a thunderous roar to me, especially when it's her television. Incidentally, she was watching a kd lang video the other day. What's that about? Is "Constant Craving" still on the charts in Russia? Anyway, she saw me open the door from between the strands of her cheap fake-ass wig and we had this conversation.

Horrible Woman: This not my cart. Why cart here?
Sara: It's not my cart. Please don't put it under my stairs.

You guys, I was determined not to let her win this time. My stairs are not a storage place for stolen goods, especially not when those goods have been stolen from Trader Joe's, where I've been going for several mornings now to take advantage of their free samples of omelets and coffee. Trader Joe's takes good care of its customers and they don't ask for anything in return except that we don't steal their shopping carts. And they ask it in both English and Russian on several signs posted by the exit, so there's no excuse. Also, I was mad that she was trying to lie to me when I caught her red-handed.

Horrible Woman: Not my cart.
Sara: It's not mine and I didn't put it there. I don't want it under my stairs. If you can't find a place to keep it then you shouldn't steal it in the first place.
Horrible Woman: I put here. Good for everyone.

And with that, she parked the cart under my stairs and shuffled away. What could I say? She has no values, no logic. She steals a shopping cart to bring her groceries home and apparently expects it to disappear once she's finished with it and is puzzled when it does not. Instead of returning it to the place she stole it from, she parks it under her neighbor's staircase even though she's been told before not to do that and then figures it's not her problem and the shopping cart fairy will come tonight to take it away. As long as it's not in her way, it's "good for everyone." And she's old and decrepit (but not enough so that I'm confident she'll die soon) and doesn't speak English so I can't argue with her. For those of you keeping score at home, that's Horrible Woman: 2 and Sara: 0.

The Flowchart

2008-09-16T22:12:00.000-07:00

This will only make sense if you watch House and read my latest recap:

I had to put the flowchart up here because TWoP can't put images in recaps, even though they can apparently put images everywhere else and on top of each other.

Internet Dating: Y/N?

2008-07-16T00:15:00.000-07:00

So in what I'm sure will go down in my personal history as a real high point, I got dumped. He had the gall to do it after I'd come to his house with dinner ingredients I paid for and prepared him a delicious meal. Asshole! It's been two weeks now and that's plenty of time for me to have gotten over it. Time to re-enter the dating scene and get myself a rebound! But I work at home which makes it difficult to meet people. I mean, if I wanted to date an old Russian woman with a shopping cart fetish, I'd be all set. But I don't, so I'm not. And since I work at home and usually procrastinate and watch TV instead of doing mu job, I'm always seeing commercials for various internet dating services. They've finally brainwashed me, and I'm now considering trying my hand at internet dating. Does anyone out there have any internet dating experiences to share?

The Neighbors Hate Me

2008-06-27T19:17:00.000-07:00

Aside from the loud TV I've written about in the past, the woman next door is also a loud person in general, and when she isn't watching the TV, she's screaming into her phone, on which she receives calls with a regularity that makes me feel like a total loser in comparison. She's also a kleptomaniac. She's old and feeble and doesn't have a car, so when she gets groceries from Trader Joe's, she brings them home in the shopping cart. She just walks right off their lot with it. And it's a different shopping cart every time because she doesn't want to go through the effort of pushing an empty cart all the way to Trader Joe's when it's so much easier to just take a fresh, new cart. Even though there are signs all over the lot that say, in big Russian letters, "please don't steal our shopping carts."

This is a problem for me because I don't particularly want to live in an apartment building that's surrounded by shopping carts. They're difficult to get around to get into my apartment and it makes the place look like some kind of shantytown. My roommate agrees, and we've tried everything to get rid of the carts. We returned them to Trader Joe's. They came back. We threw them out in the dumpster. Someone took them out. We put them all on the bottom of the woman's stairway so that they'd be in her way and she'd get it that it sucks for us when she puts them in ours. She just moved them back into our way. Nothing worked, and the other day I caught her brazenly parking a shopping cart under our stairs. I asked her to please not put the cart underneath our staircase and she just said that she paid for the three bottles of water she'd gotten from Trader Joe's, so this somehow entitled her to steal a shopping cart with which to transport them back to her apartment. I told her she could buy her very own cart, a little portable one that she could fold up and keep in her apartment when she didn't need it and bring it with her when she did. "Where do I buy cart?" she asked with a laugh, as if I had just told her to go out and buy a unicorn. I volunteered to bring the cart back to Trader Joe's for her, but she just dragged it out to the curb and then pushed it down the sidewalk, where it would be in someone else's way. Well, at least it wasn't in my way and we'd reached an understanding, I assumed. Then, today, I returned home to find yet another shopping cart sitting under the stairs. Clearly, there is nothing more I can do. I give up. Until I move out of this place or she dies -- whichever comes first, and I know which I'm hoping for -- this is how things are going to be.

I walked past her apartment on my way to work and saw that she'd left her keys in the lock. I immediately considered taking them and never returning them to her, safe in the knowledge that I'd made her life as unpleasant and difficult as she insisted on making mine. But I didn't do that. Instead, I rang her special deaf people doorbell and, when she came to the door prepared for a confrontation, knowing that she'd just put a shopping cart under my stairs when I asked her not to and also that her TV was, yet again, at a considerable volume, I simply held up her keys and said she'd left them in the lock. "I forget. Thank you very much," she said. "You're welcome," I say. She may have won the war, but at least I won the battle of kindness.

I'm on my way back from work when I walk past another one of the neighbors. She's sitting on the ottoman she's placed on the sidewalk because apparently that's where inside furniture belongs and talking on her phone. I smile at her and walk past, only to be called back with a "young lady!"

She's talked to me before for parking too close to what is apparently her husband's parking spot in the garage. Meanwhile, in an effort not to do this, I park so close to the wall that I've actually hit it twice so I don't know what she's talking about but I promised to do better. I figured she was going to yell at me again about that, but instead she just said "how old are you?" I told her, but she only heard me say twenty and that number was enough to make her point: "twenty years old and you do not know to say hi to the neighbors!" I didn't know what to even say to this. I think I went with "huh?" "You are impolite! I am telling you to be polite!" she said. Meanwhile, I've smiled at this woman plenty of times in passing and not once has she ever returned that smile, let alone said hello. In fact, she usually glares at me as if she wants me drop dead on the spot. So, honestly, I thought I was doing both of us a favor by limiting my overtures to the small smile. I couldn't say all that to her, so I just said, "but ... you were on the phone. I didn't want to interrupt ... " She didn't even answer that, just went back to her phone call. And as I walked away, I could hear her saying to her caller, "twenty years old!"

Just for that I'm going to park extra far away from the wall next time.

It Was A Good Run

2008-06-19T13:50:00.000-07:00

I always say "just because I'm half-English doesn't mean my mouth has to look like it." So I take great pride in my beautiful teeth with their perfect midline. Not only that, but they're free of cavities. Or, at least, they were.

Shockingly, TWoP doesn't come with a dental care plan, so for the past three years I've been putting off the twice-yearly checkups, figuring that my teeth were probably okay since they didn't hurt. I finally bought my own dental insurance and took full advantage of it yesterday when I went to the dentist for a cleaning. First, she scolded me for letting so much time go by in between visits and giving my teeth a nice accumulation of plaque. Then she punished me for it with a session of vigorous scraping. But then ... THEN ... she broke my heart by informing me that I have not one, not two, but five fucking cavities. She was really nice about it, saying that they were in the beginning stages and the fact that I hadn't had cavities until now was very impressive, but still. Apparently, the sealants my childhood dentist put on my molars that helped keep all the cavities away in the past had worn away and cracked, creating little pits that are impossible for my toothbrush to get into and turning my molars into little cavity playgrounds.

I have the first three cavities filled next month. Because they're all located in the "lower left quadrant," the dentist will only need to use one shot for all three. They explained this to me as if I should be pleased, but I still think one shot is too many. Unless they give me laughing gas, although that's probably not included on my budget dental insurance that's already mad at me for going with the more expensive filling material over the cheap mercury poison death amalgams. The dentist refuses to use mercury and I get all the exposure to mercury I'll ever need from tuna, thanks very much.

So guys, uh ... does it hurt to get cavities filled? Not that I'm scared or anything.

As Promised: Too Hot for TWoP

2008-04-25T15:15:00.000-07:00

The computer is working pretty well again, although I have no idea why. I turned it off for a few days to give it time to think about what it had done and then when I turned it on, the battery charged easily and it stopped randomly shutting down. Hooray!

Share in my happiness by watching the video that TWoP said "wasn't what we were looking for" in a "man on the street" piece and was also "an insurance risk." Since they won't put it up on their site, I'll put it up on mine -- with all references to the site cleverly removed. djb filmed and edited the piece and did an awesome job making me as un-annoying as possible, which is no easy task. Hope you like it!

You Can Read Me Everywhere But Here!

2008-04-16T15:25:00.000-07:00

I did a guest blog over at Trashionista the other day -- go check it out, especially if you're an Enid Blyton fan.

I've also updated the "Read Me" section of the sidebar. Now there's links to Soap Opera Digest and Ugo.com, where I've been updating the TV Blog three times a day since last week. Meanwhile, you're lucky if I can update this blog three times a month. What can I say? One pays and the other doesn't. Also, the world of TV is much more exciting than the world of me.

And, of course, you can still read me at Television Without Pity, if you can find the recaps on the redesigned site. They seem to have been pushed to the bottom while new content like the video gets the spotlight. I actually did a video for TWoP but they said it was "too much of an insurance risk" to put on the site. Hee hee hee. I'm so badass. I'll put the video up here as soon as I can figure out how to do it and my computer stops randomly shutting down while I'm in mid

Short Update

2008-04-09T00:13:00.000-07:00

My laptop is breaking down slowly but surely. I had the same problem with my last iBook, where the logicboard goes bad and somehow this makes it so I can't charge the battery. I'll plug it in and the little battery/plug icon will toggle on and off. I got this laptop from a friend to replace my ibook that died after a little more than one year because I couldn't afford to replace the logicboard or send the computer away for the repair and not have a computer for two to four weeks. And now it looks like I'm faced with the same choice here. I don't want to put $300 worth of repairs into a 3 year old iBook but I can't afford a new Macbook either. And if I could, I want to wait for the next redesign (I'm thinking the next ones will be aluminum, be 25% faster, and will be released in June). I don't know what to do, but I have a bad feeling it's going to involve me and a cheap PC craptop. Although, given Apple's track record with me (3 laptops: 1 stolen [not Apple's fault] and 2 with logicboard failures [entirely Apple's fault and has been the subject of class action lawsuits]), maybe going back to a PC isn't such a bad idea.

Enough complaining! This entry is supposed to be plugging my latest article in Soap Opera Digest, on stands this week!!!!! I'd include a picture of it but my battery meter just turned red.

CRIME OF THE CENTURY!!!!

2008-03-11T20:08:00.000-07:00

No, it's not the time my apartment got broken into, although that certainly comes close. This is something far worse: I went to Jamba Juice yesterday after a way-too-long absence only to find that my favorite smoothie, the Citrus Squeeze, was NO LONGER ON THE MENU. And to make matters worse, my second-favorite smoothie, the Orange-A-Peel, was also NOT ON THE MENU. WHAT THE HELL IS THIS. Now there are no choices on the menu that combine my favorite smoothie flavors -- orange, strawberry, and banana. There's some blueberry-banana concoction that probably tastes like ass and some kiwi-strawberry crap, but nothing that combines them all. Peach Pleasure can Peach Piss Off and Mango-A-Go-Go can Mango-A-Go-Go-To-Hell! I WANT MY CITRUS SQUEEZE AND/OR ORANGE-A-PEEL!

People out there, please tell me: is this a nationwide thing or specific to the West Hollywood Gateway Jamba Juice? Because if it's nationwide, I have a protest rally to plan.

I Hate Russian Television

2008-03-04T15:54:00.000-08:00

So it turns out that the walls on my new apartment are not made of paper after all -- we just have a deaf Russian lady for a neighbor. She watches Russian television all day long at an incredible volume. Like, it's so loud that I don't know how the speakers on her TV haven't exploded yet. And the stuff she watches! Horrible songs, horrible singing, horrible sound effects! Horrible, horrible! Why can't she watch Russian PBS like old people are supposed to? Why does she watch music videos? Shouldn't she hate that kind of stuff?

I don't know why the other neighbors haven't complained about this yet, but they haven't, so I had to. But first I had to be nice. I went by her place and rang the doorbell, which was some special Sonic Alert thing for deaf people. BECAUSE SHE's DEAF. WHY IS SHE WATCHING TV IF SHE'S DEAF??? DOES CLOSED CAPTIONING NOT COME IN RUSSIAN?? Anyway, she answered, and when she opened the door she let out a blast of sound waves that almost threw me backwards into her neighbor's door. So this woman is both deaf and Russian, which makes communicating with her really difficult. But I managed to do so by pointing to my ears and then making a "turn the volume dial DOWN" motion with my hand. And it worked! She turned the volume down to slightly more acceptable levels and that was that.

But now it's the next day, and the bitch has turned her TV back up. Am I going to have to go to her apartment every day and tell her to turn it down? Should I go looking for pamphlets on hearing aids with Russian translations and slide them under her door? Or should I just sneak out tonight and destroy her Russian-TV-giving satellite dish? There is a fourth option, which my roommate suggested, of waiting for her to die, but she seems pretty stout and healthy so that probably won't happen any time soon.

I Missed the Lunar Eclipse Last Night

2008-02-21T16:22:00.001-08:00

I won't see another one until 2010.

I missed it because I was driving home from the gym and taking a left turn onto Santa Monica from La Brea, which has those accursed red light cameras. I was second in line to turn left. As everyone in Los Angeles knows, when the light changes, the two people in the left turn lane get to go. So the light started to change, but the guy ahead of me wasn't inching forward. I didn't want to get caught by the red light cameras because the car ahead of me was going too slow (like last time), and the traffic from the other lane had stopped, so I lightly beeped at the guy to move it.

He started to move, and then a bunch of things happened:
1. The red light cameras went off, flashing all over the place.
2. I was blinded by the red light camera flashes.
3. The guy stopped his car like an asshole.
4. I may have brushed against the back of his car. A love tap, if you will.

But it gets better, because after our cars met, he drove off and continued his left turn (FINALLY), while I just backed up and returned to the left turn lane behind the crosswalk. Which I think might mean that I won't get a ticket since I didn't go through the light, right? Anyway, I turned left at the next light and the guy was pulled over on the side of the road and stomping around his car.

I pulled up alongside him, and then a bunch of things happened:
1. He screamed at me: "you bitch! you bitch!"
2. I didn't want to deal with that, so I drove away. He could be dangerous!
3. He followed me in his car. I drove towards a location where I would feel safer. I was close to my apartment, so I headed
for there and hoped my (male) roommate would be home.
4. I turned onto my street, but the guy kept driving.

Which do you think will show up first? The police officers asking about the hit and run or the letter from that building full of assholes in Arizona about my $4,367,454 red light ticket? Although seeing as how I haven't changed my address at the DMV yet, they may never show up. That would be great.

By the way, the guy was handicapped. But don't hate me too much because I think he was one of those handicapped people who aren't visibly handicapped but somehow managed to score a handicapped placard from the DMV in order to get the good parking spots at the mall.

And that is why I missed the lunar eclipse.

Watch MEEEE!!!!

2008-02-18T20:16:00.000-08:00

So I did this commentary for a featurette on the Dallas, Season 8 DVD. And now it's out in stores! BUY!!!! WATCH!!!!!

GLORIOUS!

I haven't seen it yet because I'm still waiting for them to send me my copy, but I can tell you that the "office" you see me in is not my actual office, but a room at the Roosevelt. While I wouldn't mind claiming credit for a workspace filled with Dallas stuff, I don't want people to think I have a giant picture of Larry Hagman as my laptop wallpaper.

It's actually a picture of Jack Webb.

Busy busy

2008-02-06T12:17:00.000-08:00

I got promoted at work (they still haven't figured out that I'm useless) and moved to a new apartment in West Hollywood (see you later, non-responsive LAPD and ticket-crazy LADOT!) so things have been a little crazy.

I would like to take this space to say that hiring movers is like the best thing ever. Worth every penny. Even if they did show up 3 hours late. Also, do not go to the U-Haul on 4550 Hollywood Blvd. They didn't have my truck ready on time and when I asked them to call other area U-Hauls and get a truck for me, since, you know, I paid for the truck and was expecting a truck and had movers coming in ten minutes and no truck, they said "you call U-Haul." I was already a little stressed out, so their poor customer service caused me to explode in screams. I had to raise my voice, you see, because the guy was walking out of the building and I needed him to hear me. Also they said they called me the day before to tell me my truck would be late but "they wouldn't let us speak to you." That's right -- my cell phone apparently would not let U-Haul speak to me, nor did it log any evidence of such a call being made in the first place. Either my cell is evil or U-Haul totally lied to my face. But it all worked out in the end since the movers were late as well. And I love my new place even if the walls appear to be made out of paper. At least the neighbors' conversations are interesting. Also, hardwood floors!

"Woman suffers seizures after hearing Sean Paul's music"

2008-01-18T15:46:00.000-08:00

I just saw that headline on the Yahoo! homepage and wanted to make sure it would be remembered forever.

Unlike Sean Paul, who I don't think anyone remembers except that woman who unwisely decided to listen to his music. Hope she didn't bite her tongue too hard.

Tacky Christmas 2007

2007-12-25T19:18:00.000-08:00

A little late, but it's still Christmas! Time for my annual tacky Christmas decorations entry. I changed things up a little this year and did not go to Norrywood because even though it's a horror show for fans of good taste, it's the same thing every year. Get some new decorations, Mr. Norry. Even the fake snow is looking a little worn out.

Without further ado:

Ye Gods!

Here's a closer shot:

The best thing about this house ...

... is that these are their next door neighbors. I wonder if they're good friends who enjoy decoration together or mortal rivals locked in a never-ending feud over who has the most holiday spirit.

I guess Santa moved.

DON'T FORGET ABOUT JESUS EVERYBODY. NOW APPEARING LIVE IN VEGAS APPARENTLY.

This house wasn't too obnoxious, although I do wonder what Pac-Man ghosties have to do with Christmas.

I like this one because the reindeer look like fat rabbits and that one in the back is doing something very wrong to Blitzen.

This house is loaded with ugly, but the scariest part has got to be ...

... that life-size, motorized Santa hanging out in the front door. The people who live here actually came home while I was taking pictures and had to move the Santa out of the way in order to enter their own house. Tacky AND inconvenient.

And finally, the tackiest house of all. I actually found this picture on some gossip website. It's Charlie Sheen's house. Now that he's engaged again and can't spend his money on hookers, I guess he invested in lights:

PUTTING THE CHRIST IN CHRISTMAS EVERYBODY!!!!

SHOCKING TWISTS!

2007-11-26T21:48:00.000-08:00

... that's what it says on the cover of this week's Soap Opera Digest. Inside, you'll find what the table of contents calls a NEW FEATURE -- a two page article written by ME!

It's kind of amazing to know that something I wrote is sitting on grocery store checkout aisles across the country. I have no idea if this will become a regular feature or not, so if you like it and want to see more (which you will because I wrote it and therefore IT IS GREAT), please let the kind folks at Soap Opera Digest know via email or even regular mail. I'm sure my mother is emailing them up a storm from a bunch of email accounts she created specifically for this purpose, but she is just one woman and can only think of so many fake names!

And speaking of me doing stuff related to soap operas, I will be appearing on a special feature on the Dallas Season 8 DVD, which is coming out in February, which is fitting because February is Black History Month and Dallas has no black people on it. So I guess it's not very fitting at all. Buy it anyway!

Also

2007-11-03T19:09:00.000-07:00

Yes, that was me who was quoted in the New York Times last month, as one commenter asked in my last post. Clearly, after my successful blurb in Los Angeles magazine, I have become a highly-sought-after commenter indeed.

I finally signed onto Facebook. I'm not exactly sure how it works or why I have to be in the network of a school I graduated from years ago and have no interest in donating to, let alone being associated with it for online networking purposes, but it's fun so far. And I just love getting bulletins about roommate requests in Hi-Rise, because those are very relevant to my life now.

Awesome New Diet

2007-10-16T20:24:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I started getting stomach aches in the middle of the night. Since I always have milk and cookies just before bed, I decided that I must have suddenly become lactose intolerant. Really suddenly. As in, on Thursday I drank milk and it was awesome, then on Friday I drank milk and it hurt like a motherfucker. I thought that was a little strange, but I bought some Lactaid and took that before I ate dairy and things seemed okay, so I figured that was the end of it.

And then I was at Dan's house, having just finished a most delicious meal of chili-cheese fries, Patra's style, when I started feeling really sick. Then I threw up. How can something as delicious as chili-cheese fries are going down taste so bad coming back up? That was followed by a week of stomach aches and throwing up, but I thought it was just stress since I had four things due for TWoP, a sample column due for a magazine that was interested in giving me a freelance gig and will be the biggest thing in my career if it actually happens, and my laptop crashed. Thanks so much, Mac, for making iBooks with logic boards that "fail" after only a year and a half. And can only be fixed by mailing it to Mac and waiting two to three weeks for them to install a new logic board. So I was stressed out and sometimes I get stomach aches when I'm nervous, although these stomach aches were different and the throwing up was new.

And then my week of hell ended and all my stuff got turned in and I got a new computer and I was feeling lots better. For three days. Then I spent last Tuesday morning throwing up over and over and over again until there was absolutely nothing left to give.

I reached two conclusions that morning:

1. The underside of my toilet bowl could use a good scrubbing.

2. I had to call a doctor.

So I saw a gastroenterologist, who informed me that you actually can't become lactose intolerant in one day and that if I have unexplained barfing and severe stomach pain in the future, I might want to consult a health professional sooner rather than later. And then he loaded me up with drugs for my ulcer.

That's right -- I have an ulcer. And it sucks total ass. I don't even know how it happened. Apparently, they aren't caused by stress but by some evil bacteria that can live in your stomach even though it's full of acid. Fuck you, H. pylori.

The pain is gone now and I haven't barfed since last Thursday, so the drugs are working. I have to take prescription acid jet blockers for at least the next three weeks. They taste like cherries. I spent last week eating applesauce and bananas (until I threw those up too) and sipping chicken broth. It will be another week before I can drink coffee or alcohol or eat anything with tomatoes in it.

Every cloud has a silver lining, however. I lost six pounds! EXULTATION!

Spare Change

2007-09-20T10:05:00.000-07:00

If you've got any, here's a good place to send it:

The Jamie A. Hulley Fund for the Arts

Happy birthday, Jamie.

MRI of DOOOM!

2007-09-18T21:21:00.001-07:00

Because my knee is a little bitch, I have to get an MRI tomorrow. I hope my head doesn't explode midway through it. This has been known to happen (but only on TV)!!!!!

Someone Needs Sensitivity Training

2007-09-09T20:12:00.000-07:00

I overheard this at a Starbucks the other morning. A woman was making conversation with a man ahead of her in line. It was early in the morning, and I guess they were both tired and bummed at having to report to work after the long holiday weekend. I should also mention that the man was paraplegic:

Woman: "Some mornings, I can barely walk."

To his credit, the paraplegic man did not respond by backing his wheelchair over her face.

Pubic Transportation

2007-08-21T19:53:00.000-07:00

I used public transportation all the time when I was in England. I had to, since I wasn't about to rent a car and drive on those ten-foot-tall-hedge-lined half-a-line-wide things they call "streets." It was cheap (although not as much as it used to be now that the pound is the highest its ever been against the dollar in my lifetime. Awesome), convenient, and reasonably easy to navigate as long as you can understand the thick Welsh accent of the old woman you have to ask for help. I came home to LA inspired. It, too, has a public transportation system. I would use it, and not only would I save money by not having to buy wicked expensive gas, but I'd also be helping to save the Earth.

I'm sad to report that this has been a disaster. While part of me enjoys the thrill I get from not paying for the subway (stations are unmanned, so you're pretty much on the honor system when it comes to buying a ticket. If you get caught without one, it's a $250 fine and 48 hours of community service. I am fully prepared to make a run for it if I get stopped by the Metro police. Even if they catch me, it promises to be exciting!) after Los Angeles has ripped me off so many times for so much money, the fact is that the subway comes every 12 minutes during the day and every 20 minutes at night. You miss the train and you're stuck waiting 20 minutes for the next one in the bowels of the faultline-ridden earth, surrounded by the colorful folks who either take the subway or just like to hang out in the station all day, and with no Metro authority around to protect you from them. Not only that, but the stations are so far apart that you'll probably end up walking another twenty minutes to your destination. And that's if the train goes to where you're going at all. If you're heading to somewhere that isn't the Valley, downtown, or Hollywood Blvd, then it isn't.

Today I tried the buses. They go everywhere and run all the time, based on their heavy presence on the streets. My trip to the gym began at 5:10 pm as I waited at the DASH stop. The DASH line only costs a quarter and it stops right in front of my building and pretty close to my gym. DASH likes to brag about how it comes every thirty minutes. A half an hour is a long time. They shouldn't be proud of that. They should be ashamed. If I have to wait thirty minutes for a bus to arrive, I might as well walk to the gym. The bus was ten minutes late arriving and it took almost an hour to get to the gym, a mere two miles away. During this hour, I came to a realization: I hate people. I hate being surrounded by them and I hate that there are like twenty open seats on the bus but they all have to sit next to me. Go away, people! I really took the ability to lock my car doors and keep people several feet away from me for granted. Not anymore. And, of course, on-board entertainment was provided by a screaming child whose parents must have been deaf because they didn't tell him to shut it once. Deaf, and fucking rude. Surrounded by screaming children and several examples of why Riding the Bus With My Sister could be a completely true story, I decided that whatever I have to pay to drive my own car is totally worth it and that I fucking hate the Planet Earth and want it to die, die, die. Which means that bus ride turned me into one of the Captain Planet villians. I hope I'm Dr. Blight and not the pig guy.

Dr. Blight was a lot cooler before I found this picture of her on an erotic site for cameltoe fetishists.

Time Warner cable stopped by my apartment today for the service appointment that I could have sworn I cancelled yesterday. I told them to fuck themselves and their shitty service, ha ha! That felt good at the time, but now I have to rely on the coffee shop internet again, which means I have to listen to the weird bald guy tell anyone who will listen about how he's from England when I'm pretty sure he picked up a fake accent from watching A Hard Day's Night several times.

I Am Sick Of Paying For Things That Suck

2007-08-20T21:06:00.000-07:00

Who isn't?

But now that I'm back from England and have little money to spare (the trip was worth every penny ... but it was a lot of pennies), it's time to do something about it.

First off, Time Warner cable can kiss my ass. The internet is down yet again and they didn't have time to stop by my apartment for the third time in as many months to fix it until Tuesday, which was a good five days away from when I originally called. UNACCEPTABLE. I refuse to wait another day for the internet service I am paying for to actually work! I told them if they didn't come by on today then they shouldn't come at all. They did not come by today. I cancelled my internet and downgraded my cable service (see you later, "choice tier" that was costing me five dollars a month and included channels I did not and never will watch like American Country Classics Game Show Channel, whatever that is). I will, however, keep the variety tier because it has the Hallmark Channel on it. But the second Hallmark stops showing Walker, Texas Ranger, I am OUTTA THERE!

Second, Progressive Insurance continues its reign of suck that began when a tow truck broke my car and they made me do all the work to get compensated for the repairs. Now, okay, yes, this accident was my fault. I was at a cheap gas station waiting for a pump to open up. When it finally did, I went to back into the pump, only to see a white Volvo out of the corner of my eye also making its way for the pump I was in line for. In my zeal to get to the pump first, I may have backed into another car and sort of ripped its bumper off. I swear, I looked behind me before I backed up. But I was looking at the Volvo while I backed up instead of behind me and a car appeared out of nowhere and I hit it. I thought I hit it pretty lightly, since I heard the accident before I felt it and my car's damage consisted of a scratch, but there was the other car's bumper lying on the ground with a big red streak on it that matched my car's paint exactly. I don't know how to explain the disproportionate level of damage between the two cars, especially when my car is a Ford Focus and thus I would expect it to crush like a soda can under the slightest of pressure. So you can imagine what a pleasant surprise it was that it held strong like a champ! That, of course, was followed by the rather unpleasant surprise that Nissan apparently makes their cars' bumpers out of styrofoam and thread. Thin thread. By the way, that white Volvo sped away without getting any gas after the accident. I hope it ran out of gas in a desolate area. Stupid Volvo.

Anyway, this is the first car accident I've ever been in and only the second time I've had to use the insurance I pay out my ass for. I was rather underwhelmed to find that Progressive's investigation into the accident consisted of getting a vague idea of the driver's first name ("Claudia" apparently doesn't have a last name. Like Cher, except that Claudia is uninsured, possibly unlicensed, and probably illegally in this country), a vague idea of how many people were in the car (I saw two people in Claudia's car. Claudia's husband, who apparently speaks for Claudia when it comes to insurance matters, told the adjuster there were four people in the car. Hmm. I assume Progressive has reported this two invisible people phenomena to the proper scientific authorities), and a vague idea of who was actually driving in the first place. Claudia's husband told them that he was driving. He wasn't even there when it happened, let alone driving -- Claudia called him on her cell phone and he came over to assess the damage and get my insurance info. I then drove over to the nearby gas pump that I was trying to get to when the accident happened in the first place and filled my tank while Claudia, her husband, their daughter, and those two invisible people stood around the Nissan and its now indepedant bumper. That was kind of awkward. When I told Progessive that Claudia's husband wasn't even there when the accident occured, the adjuster said that Claudia was an "excluded driver."

Then my insurance adjuster called. Kiant told me that he was having trouble determining what the damage to Claudia's car was, as her husband's knowledge of English did not seem to include "the bumper fell off." He was also having trouble figuring out what Claudia's last name was. This does not seem like a very difficult detail to determine, but maybe it is. I'm not an insurance adjuster.

So then I guess Claudia's husband called Kiant and said that he wanted to un-involve the insurance companies that he called in the first place and just have me pay out of pocket for the damage. Kiant called to relay this information to me. Unfortunately, he failed to get any additional information from Claudia's husband, such as: what Claudia's last name is, if she's insured, if she's a licensed driver, how many people were in the car, how much the damage they want me to pay for out of pocket will cost, why I would pay out of pocket when my insurance will cover the entire expense with no deductible, or why I even have insurance in the first place if the only time I need its services, they're recommending I pay out of pocket instead. I told Kiant to please call back with the answers to these questions. Instead, he has, without my knowledge or agreement, paid out $700 to Claudia for the damage. Thanks for that, Kiant. It's not like I don't want to pay Claudia -- the accident was my fault, I screwed up, I should pay. I just don't understand why Kiant can't do what has to be his job and get some necessary details and my consent before making decisions like that. Because you know who's going to pay for it in the end? Me, when my rates go up.

OR WILL THEY?! Because as soon as I get a chance to chat with Kiant and wrap the matter up, I'll be giving one of those insurance companies that always leave fliers in Spanish on my windshield. My five years of shitty high school Spanish taught by shitty teachers, approximately four years of which I slept through, taught me enough to read that they are offering car insurance for only $20 a month! I doubt they'll be very helpful if I ever have a claim, but Progressive is just as sucky and I'm paying a lot more for that. Adios, Progressive! Hola, seguro de autos! I'd give you upside exclamation points, but I don't know how to do them in blogger.

I Am Fast And Loose

2007-07-19T17:36:00.000-07:00

I'll be in two plays this weekend, although I couldn't tell you what part I'll have in them or what the plays will be about. That's because Fast and Loose is a show where eight plays are written and staged in twenty-four hours. I'm doing both nights, and rest assured that both plays will be stellar simply because of the presence of me in them. Honestly, I wrote something for this last year and was amazed by what the actors and director did with my play, as well as the seven other plays performed that night. It's impressive, and fun, and if you don't go to at least one of the nights then you're not my friend anymore. Ha!

Pertinent info:

Fast and Loose -- July 21 and 22 at 8 pm.

Sacred Fools Theater
660 N. Heliotrope Dr., Los Angeles.

Tickets: $10.

Cymru

2007-07-12T11:35:00.000-07:00

I've been on vacation these past few weeks. I went to New York, Connecticut, England and Wales! Not bad for someone with no money.

I went to Wales because my Nanny was evacuated there during WWII with her sister while her parents stayed in London. I wanted to see where she lived. I was looking for Stone Cottage in Ruabon. The directions seemed vague, as there are no street signs or even street names or even streets in the hills of Northern Wales, but sure enough, I took a left at the farm, found two red brick houses, and there was Stone Cottage ahead of me. When Nanny lived there, they didn't even have electricity. Now the house had a satellite dish. And, presumably, they got around to putting in indoor toilets.

Ruabon also has the Wynnstay Arms, just across the street from where my great grandad was born, a pub that boasts a bartender who looks almost exactly like Adam Brody.

Wales insists on having Welsh as their official language. To this end, they put Welsh translations on all their signs, even though no one speaks Welsh except for like three 80 year old shepherds who live in the mountains somewhere. Cymru is the Welsh word for Wales, by the way.

It's good that Wales is trying to preserve its Celtic language roots, but it gets a bit silly when it comes to making up Welsh words for new technology. Like so:

All they did was add an extra F. They're not even trying anymore. That said, it's probably pronounced "yanfairchagogogoch." I should ask Nanny; she had to take Welsh classes when she went to school there, although Grandad was quick to point out that it was only the "Easy Welsh" classes. I don't think any Welsh is easy.

Time Warner Cable Sucks

2007-06-14T21:20:00.001-07:00

I switched from DSL to Time Warner cable last month after they promised me a faster internet connection for a cheaper rate.

Three weeks later, I have to go to a coffee shop to access the internet because, for the third time in as many weeks, my internet stopped working. Angry calls to Time Warner resulted in an appointment for one of their esteemed tech people to come by and fix it on Saturday morning, which is the soonest they claimed they could get to me. I told them that I needed internet right now, as I require it to do my work and have a deadline tonight and will be screwed if it's not back by then, and Edwin the Tech Support guy informed me that I could always go to the local library or coffee shop for internet access. I said I might as well do that all the time and not pay for crappy Time Warner internet at all. He gave me a credit for one week of service. That's FIVE DOLLAS BABY!

I've already spent twice that at the wireless internet at the coffee shop, where I am surrounded by a girl with a cold who keeps sneezing and no doubt infecting me with her germs, a man dressed in a clown suit for no discernible reason who keeps smiling at me, a woman eating a pigeon sandwich, that annoying gang of pretentious fucks who hang out outside every night and take all the good seats without ever buying anything and loudly talk about stupid artsy shit, and 374 wannabe screenwriters. Not present is the hot guy who does a puppet show and refuses to acknowledge my clumsy attempts to flirt with him.

Anyway, when I'm the victim of the Los Feliz Clown Killer tomorrow, you know who to sue for causing this all to happen.

Attention Random Google Searcher:

2007-06-13T00:07:00.000-07:00

To the person who came to this site via a google search for "web shots of middle school girls pool party":

IT IS 99% CERTAIN THAT YOU ARE A PERVERT. PLEASE TURN YOURSELF INTO THE NEAREST POLICE STATION IMMEDIATELY IF NOT SOONER.

If you happen to pass one of finer booksellers where my book is sold on your way there, feel free to stop in and buy a few copies. BUT ONLY IF YOU STAY WELL AWAY FROM THE CHILDREN'S BOOK SECTION.

My Book What I Wrote

2007-06-06T11:42:00.000-07:00

First things first: I didn't go to Arizona. Much to my horror and dismay, my weekend was suddenly filled with important things I had to get done and I couldn't spare the day. I didn't let on to Jeff that they invited the wrong person to the party, though, so everyone cross your fingers that they'll accidentally invite me to something else in the near future.

Moving on! So I wrote an essay for a book that came out last week. Coffee at Luke's is a collection of essays about Gilmore Girls, and I was asked to contribute because of those five episodes I recapped for TWoP during Season Five. This is the first time I've ever been published. I have to admit, it's a thrill to hold a real book in my hands and read my name on the back cover. More than I thought it would be.

In all its majesty!!!!

Publisher's Weekly even reviewed it, and my essay was one of the three they mentioned. They said it was "amusing but aimless." I think they really need to up their proofreading standards; even though it was just the Web-Exclusive edition, you'd think they'd have caught such an egregious typo. Clearly, the sentence was supposed to say "amusing literary masterpiece." Don't worry -- I've already written to them about it and I'm sure they'll fix it and issue the necessary correction and apology soon.

A nice woman with incredibly good taste said in her blog that my essay was "one of the most interesting and creative." Suck on THAT, special class for creative students in middle school that wouldn't let me in because I scored four points under the minimum on the creativity test! Even though I won the Connecticut Invention Convention two years in a row!

Speaking of school, I decided to send one of the two copies the publisher sent me to my high school English teacher, Mr. Calise. Since my essay was about the town I grew up in and that we both hated, I thought he'd get a kick out of it. More importantly, he was one of the few teachers who really encouraged me and made me believe that I had ability while many of my other teachers were saying things like "you have talent, but not the right kind of talent," "I want to strangle her," and "we're suing you." It's amazing how many people out there are responsible for shaping and teaching children who clearly hate them and their jobs. I have the utmost admiration, appreciation, and gratitude for the teachers who do care. I really do. I hope both the bad and the good teachers realize the kind of impact they can have on every single one of their students' lives. I'm sure Mr. Calise does already, but I wanted to tell him myself.

Here's Smartpop's website.
Here's the Amazon listing.

By The Time I Get To Arizona

2007-06-01T12:22:00.000-07:00

I received a second reminder about Jeff's pool party. They really want me to go. It's tomorrow at 3. Arizona is 6 hours away, according to mapquest.

We can purchase party hats on the way to the party. I'm sure there are some colorful selections at the various rest stops. We can probably get a gift for Jeff there as well. I wanted to get him Salt-N-Pepa's Very Necessary CD, but then it occurred to me that he probably already owned it. I mean, who doesn't?

So, who is coming with me? The rules are that you can't be crazy, creepy, or smell bad. And please behave yourselves accordingly once we get to Jeff's party, or else they won't accidentally invite me to anything else ever again! Also, if anyone has a videocamera, please bring it along. If you happen to own a party bus, that would be ideal.

Quick Poll

2007-05-30T14:34:00.001-07:00

I just received an Evite to some pool party in Arizona that was clearly sent to me by accident. Nevertheless, I like pool parties and have been wanting to go on a road trip for some time. It's some guy named Jeff's 31st birthday, being held at somewhere called the "Morrison Ranch." That sounds like a fun place to me.

Should I go? And does anyone want to go with me? The invitation said to just bring a bathing suit and a party hat, but we should probably all chip in and get Jeff a present anyway.

The Fire

2007-05-24T10:03:00.000-07:00

So I took a few pictures of that fire a few weeks ago and am finally getting around to posting them. Enjoy!

Here's the fire about an hour after it started. I was at work and saw this when a co-worker took a cigarette break. I ran and got my handy-dandy camera while she made sure to dispose of her used cigarette in a safe, non-fire-starting manner.

Here's the fire about five hours later. It looked under control and not a big deal at all, so I wasn't worried.

With the fire looking pretty contained and safe, I drove home from work. I stopped at Staples on my way home to buy some photo paper. Apparently, during the fifteen minutes I spent inside there trying to choose between regular photo paper (useful for school projects) and premium glossy paper (best for family photos, treasured memories), the wind changed and the sun set. There was a huge inferno waiting for me when I left Staples. People were casually walking around the city like the world didn't look like it was about to end as I raced home, ran up to the roof of my apartment where a crowd had already accumulated, and took some pictures.

What was the most amazing/scary thing was how quickly this fire spread. In less than an hour, it went from nothing to this.

Here's a closer shot using my zoom lens. I had assumed that the houses you see there were not much longer for this world.

This picture is blurry because I AM RUNNING AWAY.

I spent the night at Gwen's. When I woke up in the morning, I assumed I'd see a big fiery pit where my apartment used to be, but no! The firefighters had managed to contain it overnight, saving all the residential homes, historical buildings, and zoo. Which is amazing to me.

People had very different ways of showing their gratitude for the firefighters' hard work. On my way to Gwen's around midnight, I stopped at a gas station to fill up. The pump decided it hated me and wouldn't take my credit card, so I had to pay inside. There, I was privy to a heated discussion between a firefighter and the gas station attendant. Appartently, the firefighter had to use the bathroom. Like, he really had to go. He was covered head-to-toe in soot and had probably been working his ass off to save things like that very gas station for the last twelve hours, and yet, the attendant wouldn't let him use the bathroom.

Fireman: Please let me use the bathroom. Give me the key.
Gas Station Attendant: No, bathroom is cleaning now.
F: That's okay, I don't mind if it's dirty. Please.
G: Bathroom cleaning!
F: Are you serious? Let me use the bathroom.
G: Can't, bathroom is cleaning now.
F: If you don't give me the key to the bathroom, I am going to go back in my truck and grab (here he listed a bunch of tools but I don't remember them exactly. I think it was along the lines of the jaws of life and a chainsaw) and break the bathroom door down.
G: Cleaning.
F: Oh my fucking god.
G: Is cleaning. No use.
F: Fine, I'll get in myself.

And then he stormed away. I think he ended up asking whoever was cleaning the bathroom if he could use it and that guy said yes. Which was a little bit disappointing, because I kind of wanted to see the fireman either break the door down, or go back into the gas station and go to the bathroom on the attendant's counter. While the fireman wasn't being the nicest guy at the time, I'll let that go because he was exhausted and had probably been holding whatever he really, really needed to expel for a long time. And the gas station guy was a dick. Worst of all, I now have to use a different gas station because I don't feel comfortable supporting a business that won't let firemen use their bathrooms because of is cleaning now. And that gas station was like the cheapest one in my neighborhood. See? We all lost something that night. Also, one of my contact lenses didn't survive the move from my apartment to Gwen's. So that's two things I lost from that fire. But I will bravely soldier on.

I'm especially pleased that one of my favorite places in Griffith Park, the Berlin Forest, survived the fire. Evil Ex-Roommate and I happened upon it once when we first moved out here, and I remember how happy we were be in a place with the same name as our hometown. My other favorite place in Griffith Park, the Bird Sanctuary, didn't fare as well.

Incidentally, for anyone who lives in the area and wants to get their gas from a place that lets firefighters use their bathrooms regardless of is cleaning, DO NOT PATRONIZE THE SHELL STATION ON THE CORNER OF HOLLYWOOD AND VERMONT. MORE SPECIFICALLY, THE SHELL GAS STATION AT 1630 N. VERMONT AVE. THEY HATE FIREFIGHTERS.

THE END IS NEAR ...

2007-05-08T20:35:00.000-07:00

This is the view from my apartment right now:

I Get Letters!

2007-04-24T00:41:00.000-07:00

The other day the mailman brought quite me quite the abundance of riches. First, there was my pre-acceptance into the AARP that I never asked for and have no idea how I was put on their mailing list, but I'm thrilled to be a part of such a wonderful organization of such active and community-minded people. I look forward to getting great deals on my perscription drugs once my application is approved.

Then, I received a letter from DONALD TRUMP HIMSELF!!!! Can you believe it? I couldn't, but the return address looked handwritten so it must be real. I wondered what he could possibly have to say to me. I opened the envelope to find that I have been specially invited to an upcoming event with Donald Trump! He even enclosed VIP tickets. I'm sure he didn't send those to everyone else since VIP mean Very Important Person and you don't send VIP tickets to just anyone. Surely, I had been chosen for one reason or another.

And I know you don't believe such a fantastic tale, so I scanned them in to offer as proof:

Notice the use of the word "special." That's me!

There's "special" again -- and I'm a VIP!

So I was feeling pretty darn cool and thought nothing else I got in the mail could top that. But then I got a letter from my grandparents:

"Grandma and I got to read your article in the Creative Screenwriting magazine: terrific! So full of facts and written so well ... we are very proud of you."

And that letter TRUMPed them all. Excuse my punning; I tend to get sappy on those few occasions when my cold, dark heart melts.

I Am The Rainmaker

2007-03-27T23:04:00.000-07:00

In case anyone was wondering why this happened, the answer is I paid for a car wash not an hour before.

Even in the freaking desert, it rains every time I get my car washed.

On Newsstands Now!

2007-03-21T00:01:00.000-07:00

Buy them now to avoid the rush!

You'll find a quote from me in:

Read my thoughts about The O.C. ending.

You'll find a wee article written by me in:

Everything you wanted to know about the internet filmmaking community.

And you'll find these in me:

They have 100% of my daily allowance of saturated fat, but they're so damn good.

Witness!

2007-03-08T22:27:00.000-08:00

Evil Ex-Roommate and I were driving home from the gym just now when we witnessed a crime!

It all started when we turning left onto Bronson from Sunset. Evil Ex-Roommate was driving and telling me about his latest date, while I sat in the passenger seat and quietly sulked about the fact that he has so many dates and I don't. So I was looking down at my feet when I heard a noise and then Evil Ex-Roommate shouted "oh my god!" I looked up, and saw a car, a guy and his bike lying on the ground next to it, and two other guys shouting. Evil Ex-Roommate said that the guy was waiting for the light to change to cross Sunset. The front of his bike had edged out onto the street. A car turned right from Bronson onto Sunset and drove into the bike, knocking it over along with the guy holding it. The driver stopped the car for a second, but then, to my surprise, drove right off. I was waiting for him to pull over, but he didn't. He just kept going. "Hmm ... I should really get the license plate number of that car!" I thought, and quickly turned to look at it. Finally, my photographic memory would actually be useful.

But it all happened so fast and I didn't get the plate number. I couldn't even give you a good description of the car or the guy in it, except that the car was grey and old and the guy was smiling, which was why I initially didn't think he had hit anyone. I would assume that when you hit someone with your car, you, like, frown or look upset. Then again, I would also assume that you would stay to make sure your victim was okay, so obviously me and that guy have two different opinions on the proper car assault etiquette.

Evil Ex-Roommate and I were left sitting at the red light staring at the kid and his bike and two other guys on the street corner. I told Evil Ex-Roommate to roll the window down so we could ask the guy if he was okay, but Evil Ex-Roommate said the guy seemed fine -- it was his bike that was hit, not him -- and there were two people with him already. Then two more guys came walking up and it looked like they had also seen what happened and hopefully had done a better job than us of getting the license plate number. Evil Ex-Roommate decided that we couldn't be of any help at the scene and also that it was late and he had been up since five in the morning to drive someone to the airport and he wanted to go to bed and not have to spend the next however many hours giving the police his eye-witness report. And neither of us had any information to give anyway. So the light turned green and Evil Ex-Roommate turned left and that was the end of it.

When Evil Ex-Roommate dropped me off at my apartment, I said that we had let down the guy who got hit by that car and the community at large with our crappy witnessing abilities. I hope the next time I witness a crime, I do better.

Dayle Hinman would be so ashamed of me. Speaking of CourtTV, I'd love to watch it right now but Time Warner Cable says they're experiencing disruptions in the video feed due to "solar flares." So I have no TV. I hate the sun.

My Date ... With DESTINY!

2007-02-28T18:16:00.000-08:00

Please excuse the cheesy title, but once it got in my head I couldn't get it out.

When I was thirteen, my friends and I were talking about what we wanted to be when we grew up. I admitted that I wanted to be an actress. And then they proceeded to tease me about it, saying that the only work I'd ever be able to get would be facial hair bleach and maxipad commercials. They cracked themselves up about it for the rest of the afternoon.

Since then, I've been very careful about what I tell people when they ask me what I'm doing in Los Angeles. I say "I'm a writer." Which I am. I get paid to write, which was the other thing I wanted to do when I grew up. But there was still that other thing, and no matter how hard I tried to ignore it, it wouldn't go away.

Being an actress is a terrifying prospect. You're basically choosing to go into a career field that ninety-nine percent of people have no success in. I didn't want to make that kind of committment to failure, but eventually I got to the point where I was more miserable not going for the acting thing than I would have been if I had gone for it and failed. So I went for it. At the beginning of this month, I sent out a bunch of headshots to various agencies. This is what is called a "mailing" in the biz. I apologize for my use of the word "biz."

I sent out the headshots at the beginning of this month fully expecting nothing to come of it. If I was lucky, one or two of the many agents I sent my stuff to would call me in for a meeting. If I was really really really lucky, one of them would take me. Since I am never, ever lucky except when I play three card poker in Vegas, I figured I'd spend a lot of money on stamps and good resume paper and get nothing in return except knowing that I went for it and actually did something instead of sitting around being afraid to do anything. Which was worth the money to me, so, no problem there.

Imagine my surprise when I got a call from an agent a week after I sent out the headshots! Her name was Jennifer Chandler with Q Management, and she wanted to meet me!

So we met on Valentine's Day, which, historically, has never been very good to me. It was a nice meeting: we chatted for a while, I liked her and the agency but didn't want to like them too much because I didn't think anything would come of this and I didn't want to be too disappointed, and then she told me to call her in a few days for her decision.

I spent ten minutes before the call rehearsing what I'd say when she rejected me. I told everyone that I was thrilled to get a meeting but didn't think she'd actually take me. I'm really good at setting myself up for failure. I'm so good that a lot of times, I don't even try something because I'm so sure it won't work out. But this time, I was ready for the rejection, and for the long road of rejections that would follow it. Finally, I was READY!

And then something very unexpected happened: she said she wanted to be my agent.

And it turned out that I had done such a good job preparing for her to say no that I had no idea what to do when she said yes. I think it went something like this:

Agent: I'd like to work with you.
Me: *gasp!* Are ... are you sure?

She was sure! We agreed to meet two days later to go over all the logistics and stuff and I spent those two days waiting for the inevitable phone call where she told me that she made a mistake. But that didn't happen, so I went in to see her and now ...

I HAVE AN AGENT!

I managed to score an agent in one month, and it's the shortest month of the year! ACCOMPLISHMENT! I spent an hour or so basking in this, forty-five minutes of which was spent trying to figure out how to bask. I settled on just smiling a lot.

And you know what? I'd be thrilled to be in a commercial for facial hair bleach or maxipads. Perferably, a commercial about tampons where I'm in a store changing room next to my friend and she's all upset because she ran out of pads and I inform her ridiculously ignorant ass that there's this thing called a tampon she can use. Then I give her one of mine and we go ride bikes or swim or some other activity you can't do with a pad.

Sunday Morning

2007-02-18T09:19:00.000-08:00

Lately and for no good reason, I've developed the habit of waking up really early in the morning. This is very unusual indeed for someone who used to sleep until three in the afternoon if left to her own devices. A whole new world of early-morning risers has opened up to me now, and they are weird.

On my way to 7-11 this morning to buy some milk for my cereal (Cheerios with raisins and bananas), I encountered three of them in quick succession:

1. A woman who yelled at me when I stepped aside to let her and her shopping cart by (there wasn't room on the sidewalk for both of us. I was trying to be polite. I feel the need to clarify this since there are people out there who think I hate homeless people based on one freaking comment I made in a recap. You know, I once wrote about how Jewish temple services included a buffet line to eat a Christian baby and no one had a problem with that. It's amazing how political correctness works these days).

2. A man holding a small shopping bag who also yelled at me: "all she cares about is her Kotex and her pets!" I thought he was yelling into a cell phone ear piece, but further inspection revealed no such device. I don't know why he thought I would be interested in his wife's menstrual cycle and love of pets over her husband, but jealousy is not attractive, Mister.

3. Some old guy who gently offered me a pamphlet about how God loves me. Actually, it was more like a questionnaire about whether God loves me or not, but I'm just going to assume that the answer is "yes, as long as you open your heart to Jesus" and not actually read it. I took it from him because he asked so nicely and it seemed important to him.

I finally made it to 7-11 only to see that they are now selling Taco Chili Cheese Hot Dogs! I love tacos and I love chili cheese hot dogs, so this has the potential to be the best food ever. Common sense, however, tells me that it will end up being the worst. Lunchtime is coming up soon ...

Catching Up With Old Friends

2007-02-11T20:53:00.000-08:00

Police: Woman Helped Robber

I believe in you, Kate! Not guilty! Not guilty!

Sarah Morrison From The Internet

2007-02-01T22:24:00.000-08:00

Imagine my surprise to discover that there's some girl out there calling herself "Sarah Morrison from the Internet" and making weekly youtube vlogs where she talks about stuff like living in Los Angeles. What the hell. Who does she think she is? I AM SARA MORRISON FROM THE INTERNET. THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE. And it is me. The fact that we spell our first names differently means nothing because they sound the same and people are coming to my blog because they think I'm some 27-year-old who works at cinespace and likes to tell the world about my life while sitting in what appears to be a closet. Well, I'm not. I'M BETTER.

Sarah Morrison from the Internet, I challenge thee! You and I both know you google your own name, so I'm sure you'll come across this eventually. And when you do, know this: the spelling of your first name is wasteful. That H is totally unecessary. The spelling of my name is practical and efficient. Therefore, I am better. I am the ONE and the ONLY Sara Morrison from the Internet. I'm so awesome that I don't even need to give myself a title like that. I have nothing to prove. Another thing I don't have is a video camera, so I guess I won't be entering the youtube vlog world any time soon. I do, however, respect your views on Punky Brewster.

My Day As A Hooligan

2007-01-30T23:30:00.000-08:00

When I was in England last month, I went to a soccer game. It was good times. Here are two pictures.

The red arrow is pointing to my uncles, aunt, and dad, who got to sit in the season ticket seats. My cousins, brother, and another uncle (he married into the family, so he has to sit in the cheap seats with us) sat behind the goal. Fulham has one of the smallest stadiums of any premiership team (they call it a "cottage," for God's sake), so pretty much every seat there is nice and close. In fact, if you happened to watch the December 23 Westham-Fulham game on television, you probably saw me in the crowd. If you have HDTV, you might have even been able to make out some of my facial features. I'm famous!

I ate a meat pie and drank a beer during the game, and only later realized that you weren't allowed to bring beer into the stadium. You had to drink it outside, and the vendors could only sell it before or after the game or during halftime. Not during. Also, they sold plastic bottles of beer only. No cups, no glass. I informed my cousins that this was truly wimpy, and that at American baseball games, you could drink all the beer you wanted in the stadium. They responded that this might be true, but in England, the drinking age is eighteen and also, baseball games are boring. I got my beer into the stadium because I walked right on with it and no one caught me. I think it's better that way; if I had to stay outside with it, I would've had to drink it really fast and that would have made me drunk and surly. The game was disappointingly riot-free, but the score at the end was what you'd expect:

A lovely afternoon!

Joy And Gratitude

2007-01-29T18:54:00.000-08:00

I joined a soccer team and played my first game since my last soccer team disintegrated six months ago yesterday morning. I am currently in great pain from very sore muscles. But! There is one thing that can make me feel better (besides a strong painkiller, of which I have none), and that is the CHECK I WAS SHOCKED TO RECEIVE FROM THE TOWING PLACE TODAY! Covering 100% of the damages! Hooray for Hollywood Tow for coming through! If you're going to park like an asshole, you couldn't be towed by a better company. Boo to my insurance company, who totally dropped the ball on this and will be losing a valued customer very soon. Because I am a valued customer. I've given them so much money and cost them nothing and they pretty much left me to handle this whole thing. If Hollywood Tow hadn't been so honorable, I would've had to waste my time in small claims court. I'm gonna go change my insurance to one of those companies that keeps leaving notices on my windshield that are entirely in Spanish except for the part that says they're only like $20 a month. They'd probably kick in a few painkillers too if I asked right.

Three Years

2007-01-18T16:05:00.000-08:00

Last night, Evil Ex-Roommate (who is not actually evil, nor was he ever, although he and I did have our problems but they are in the past. I continue to call him this for tradition's sake. Just in case he's reading this) and I celebrated the third anniversary of our arrival in Los Angeles. On my way to meet him at the restaurant, I walked past a guy in his car who asked me if I was cold in the light jacket I was wearing. I may have been here for three years, but I'm still not as wimpy as the real Angelinos when it comes to temperature. So there's that, at least.

We went out to a restaurant and ordered a bottle of wine. We toasted to three years out here and reflected on what those three years have brought us. Currently they are: he is gainfully employed but has a lot of debt to worry about, and I am unemployed. His car is in the shop after someone tried to pry his sunroof open with a crowbar the other night and caused $1200 worth of damage. My car is no longer in the shop, but it looks like getting paid back by the tow company who broke my car won't be as easy as I thought it would be. I went to the tow place yesterday with photos of the damage and my receipt from my garage detailing what had been fixed and how much it all cost, and they tried to tell me that there was no possible way their trucks could have damaged my tie rods and that they didn't think the place had even replaced them in the first place. They shined flashlights under my car and pointed out the tie rod and said it looked like they had merely cleaned it to make it look new. Also, they said the 4-wheel alignment I had been charged for was unnecessary since my car is 2-wheel drive. The tow garage guy got very serious with me and said that he has heard of dishonest car repair places that like to take advantage of female customers, and he was afraid that was what had happened here. He also called me "an intelligent girl," and while he's totally right about the intelligent part, I am not actually a girl. I am a woman. My garage does not call me a "girl." If I had to choose between which two places were trying to rip me off, I'd go with the garage that has proven itself to be honest and trustworthy in the past and seems to look at me as an adult, rather than the tow place that has every reason to deny they damaged my car and thinks I'm some little girl who can be taken advantage of. I just told him that I didn't know anything about cars or tie rods. All I know is that before my car was towed, it worked. After it was towed, it did not. Then I took it to the garage, and they fixed it and I could drive it again. These things lead me to believe that the tow damaged my car and the garage fixed the damage. Appealing to my intelligence will get you nowhere when you follow that up by calling me "girl," thereby signifying that you don't take me very seriously.

Anyway. We toasted to that and then sunk into a depression, because we both thought that after three years, our lives would be somewhere else. And then we realized that they at least were somewhere, and finished off the bottle of wine with a toast to our six year anniversary and to coming into it with gainful employment and cars that worked. As long as you have more than you did before, you've done something. Three years ago, I came here with no home, no furniture, no job, very little savings, and no idea what the future held. Now I have an apartment, furniture, enough savings that my unemployment status is of no huge concern to me right now, and some freelance gigs to supplement my non-income. I still have no idea what the future holds, but that's no longer a terrifying prospect. It's kind of fun.

And if anyone knows what I'm supposed to do if the tow company denies any responsibility for my damaged car and my insurance company decides not to do anything about it since the damage was below my deductible and therefore they didn't have to pay anything out of their pockets, please tell me. I thought I paid my insurance company all that money so that they would handle this for me, but now they're saying that if the tow company says they didn't damage my car, then they can't do anything further. I have no experience in these matters, since, while I've paid out the ass for car insurance, I've never ever filed a claim in my history of driving, nor has anyone filed one against me. Right now it looks like I've given my insurance company thousands and thousands of dollars over the years, only to have them refuse to do anything for me and my claim of four hundred dollars.

I Have To Find A Way To Make This Happen

2007-01-09T06:01:00.000-08:00

OMG.

The smallest country in the world is up for sale. I had no idea this place even existed, but apparently some crazy guy claimed a some manmade island off of England used during WWII as his own and then made it his own freaking country with the rather unoriginal name of "Sealand" and declared himself Prince (I don't know why he didn't go for King)! He then minted his own coins and made stamps! The balls on that guy!

Anyway, now his son, Prince Michael, is selling the country. I simply must find a way to own it so I can become a Princess. Or maybe I could bring sweet democracy to the citizens of Sealand. Nah, I'd much rather be a Princess.

Read more about Sealand's ridiculous history (including an invasion by scheming Dutch and German businessmen!) here.

Edited to add: holy crap, Sealand is selling royal titles! For about thirty-five dollars, I can become Lady Sara or Baroness Sara, which the website says I'll be able to use to get "VIP treatment and go to the front of the queue at important events,vimpress people and make friends, get invited to all important parties, secure the best tables in restaurants, get upgrades on flights," and, possibly best of all, "make co-workers jealous." I can even "demand the subservience of lesser mortals!" CAN YOU IMAGINE?!?!?!

Baroness Sara of Sealand (for it is she): Excuse me, Bouncer of Hyde, but I should like to enter your establishment now.
Bouncer of Hyde: You are not famous. You may not enter.
Baroness Sara of Sealand: BEHOLD! I AM A BARONESS!
Bouncer of Hyde: Of what?
Baroness Sara of Sealand: Of a country off the coast of England that conists of a metal fort perched atop two concrete towers.
Bouncer of Hyde: Oh, okay then.

And then I am allowed to enter the club! And I hate flying in coach. This is a wonderful solution to that:

HRH Baroness Lady Sara of Sealand: Hello, flight attendant. Please make available your finest seat in the business class section!
Flight Attendant: Uh, no.
HRH Baroness Lady Sara of Sealand: EXCUSE ME?!?! Don't you know who I am?!?!
Flight Attendant: Um ...
HRH Baroness Lady Sara of Sealand: I AM BOTH A BARONESS AND A LADY, AS I TOOK ADVANTAGE OF THE TWO-FOR-ONE ROYAL TITLE SPECIAL!
Flight Attendant: Oh, my bad. Please come to the front of the plane and take whichever business class seat you wish.

Glorious Sealand.

I Have Grown As A Person

2007-01-08T16:23:00.000-08:00

So I made the mistake of checking my referrer log after my last post and found a forum full of people who hate me. Or, at the very least, don't think I'm a great person. I believe one of them said I was "a portrait of a paranoid and entitled princess," because I was pissed that a tow truck broke my car on New Year's Eve. That stuff makes me laugh and I print it out and collect it in my special scrapbook, which is called "People Who Are Out To Get Me" and is covered with lace and has a picture of me on the front wearing a crown. Someone else called me "the new Pamie," a title I am more than honored to accept. And then some other poster said this:

"The girl needs to stop with the blogging, she just ain't funny. This latest link is even worse then the first. I hope she can get Santa to bring her a funny bone next Christmas. She's trying so hard to tell a funny little story but fails miserably. Well, at least these two attempts totally failed. Maybe when she's sitting with her pals who are sloshed they laugh like hyenas at these attempts of hers to be amusing but to a sober reader they just fall flat. Thud goes the dud."

and part of me was like "you know what? Fuck this blog! It's not worth it. I don't need this!" And I sat on that feeling for a while. And then I realized something really important:

I was letting someone who wrote "thud goes the dud" and thought a line about Santa giving me a funny bone for Christmas was the height of comedy influence my behavior. And that simply cannot happen.

Personally, when I don't like something I'm reading, I stop reading it and move onto something I do like. I've never felt compelled to continue reading in order to pick out quotes that will demonstrate the cause of my hatred to all or spend my time writing to the author telling them how much I hate him or her. When people write hate mail to me, I think it's awesome. I write to elicit a reaction in people. For that reaction to be so passionate, be it positive or negative, means I've written something that has an impact. I have POWER over your feelings. This, along with the tears of orphans, is what feeds my lifesource. I also enjoy knowing that other people are miserable because of me.

But this time, for whatever reason, it kind of got to me. And I think it's been getting to me for a while now, since I find myself censoring the stuff I say to make sure it all comes across the right way and I don't look like an asshole. Which does tend to make things less funny. It also makes blog entries a real pain in the ass to write, so I don't write them as often, nor do I particularly enjoy the ones I do write. Which means you, readers, are missing out. And missing out you are -- my thoughts are absolutely fascinating and not to be missed! My pals totally laugh like hyenas over all my attempts to be amusing, regardless of their state of intoxication, and you should, too. And if you don't, please make sure your email to me about it is in printer-friendly format.

But before you waste your time, know that I don't really care if you think my blog or my recaps suck. Seriously, who are you to me? I take criticism from people I know and whose work I respect. I don't really care if some random person with an internet addiction isn't laughing. I do care if I'm making random people laugh and I really dig the occasional email I get from someone who say s/he's been going through a rough time and my recaps/blog/whatever really helped him/her through it. I'm writing this blog for ME, to validate my own insignificant existence in my own mind. And I think I'm fucking awesome. Obviously I do, or else I wouldn't have a blog or live in Los Angeles in the first place. And I AM an asshole. Why put all that effort into hiding that? No more.

Now everyone cross your fingers that I'll get my own thread on that other website so I won't have to keep slogging through posts that aren't about me. Just kidding! I probably won't go back there again for the same reasons that I tend to stay away from mental hospitals. People be trippin'.

Tow'd

2007-01-03T08:33:00.000-08:00

On December 31, 1999, I came into possession of my awesome wonderful car, a 2000 Ford Focus. Everyone made fun of it, saying it looked like a "pregnant rollerskate" and that Fords were crap cars that broke down all the time, but I didn't care. I loved my car. On its seventh birthday, I went shopping on Melrose. I checked out a few stores, found nothing, and went back to my car where I'd parked it. Or at least, where I thought I had parked it. It wasn't there now. I figured I must have forgotten where I parked it. Surely it was somewhere on these neighborhood streets. And yet, after an hour of walking and searching, it was not to be found. It was getting dark, so I started calling friends who lived in the area, hoping someone was home who could give me a ride around the neighborhood. While some friends have yet to even return my desperate, semi-panicking messages, Gwen was home and zipped over to help me out. We drove around some more, but the car was not to be found. It was either stolen or it had been towed. I couldn't imagine a reason why it had been towed -- I had made sure to pay off my (many) delinquent parking tickets a few weeks ago -- nor could I imagine a reason why it had been stolen. Who steals a Ford Focus? It only has sentimental value.

Gwen and I found a police car and pulled over. I told the cop my dilemma: "my car disappeared." He was totally not amused by this and asked me to elaborate. I explained that I thought I parked it on Vista and Melrose and now we couldn't find it after searching for hours. He looked it up and ...

as you've probably guessed by the title of this entry, it had been towed.

Why?

I had parked in front of someone's driveway.

Yeah, so, yeah ... I am a dumbass. I was on the phone giving my mom advice about how to make the perfect New Year's Eve party bean dip and had apparently been so distracted that I didn't realize that the perfect parking space I thought I found on the street was totally in front of someone's driveway. I still don't know how I managed to be so stupid, but there you go. I called the tow dispatcher place and they told me where my car was. I asked how much of my car was blocking the driveway, wondering if it was, like, a tiny little bit and some asshole homeowner had called the cops on me. "100%," she said. Well, at least I didn't do it halfway. When I block a driveway, I block the fuck out of it. Ain't no one getting out of there! At this point, I was just so happy and relieved that my car hadn't been stolen.

So the ever-patient awesome friend Gwen drove me to the tow garage and I paid them two hundred dollars and got my car back. While I was driving it to the exit, I noticed it was making a horrible loud grinding sound. I think everyone within a mile radius noticed it, actually, although the tow garage guy acted like he hadn't noticed anything even though Gwen was standing next to him and she heard it, so whatever. The tow garage guy said it must be the fan belt. The fact that he didn't seem to know what a fan belt was or where it was located didn't tip me off that he might not know what he was talking about. This is because I don't know what a fan belt is or where it's located either. He said he could keep my car at the garage (for a cost of thirty dollars a day) until the 2nd when their mechanic showed up. I didn't trust their mechanic and wasn't about to pay them any more money if the problem was the fan belt and not related to anything they had done. So I drove the car off with Gwen following in her car behind me. She had heard the griding noise too and insisted on following me home to make sure my car was okay.

As it turned out, it totally wasn't. I got about three blocks before I had to pull over in a Yoshinoya parking lot. My car was pulling to the right and I had to turn the steering wheel about forty-five degrees to the right in order to make it drive straight. And it was now making whistling noises. So Gwen used her Triple A card and my poor, poor car had to be towed for the second time in one day. I wanted to bring it to my usual garage, but they were closed for the holiday and there was no place to leave it on their lot. So I had to park it on a nearby street to come back to on Tuesday when the garage was open.

So I brought it in yesterday and called my insurance company. Apparently, when the tow place towed my car the first time, they attached the tow hook things to some rods near the axle that they shouldn't have, and those rods are all bent now. Way to go, tow people. I mean, what the fuck. Yes, I suck for parking in front of someone's driveway, but it's not my job to park cars legally.* It is, however, the tow truck driver's job to TOW A CAR WITHOUT BREAKING IT. THAT'S ALL HE HAS TO DO. HOW HARD IS THIS? Fortunately, the bent rods seem to be an obvious tow-truck-related injury, so my insurance company doesn't think it will be a problem getting 100% compensated for the repairs. 100%, just like how much of my car parked in front of that driveway.

My car is still in the garage while we wait for some replacement rods to show up. I got a loaner car, which is nice. Not as nice as my car, but nice. The best part of all this, though, is that it's going to cost the tow place two or three times more to tow my car than it cost me to have it towed. And to this, I say:

HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Think about that next time I stupidly park in front of someone's driveway, suckers!

*apparently necessary addendum to clarify this sentence since some people didn't get it: I was saying that parking my car in front of a driveway, while dumb and deserving of the punishment I received, isn't as bad as it would be if I were, say, a valet, whose only job is to park cars legally. Then my inability to do so would be bigger problem. The tow truck driver's job is to tow cars, and he couldn't do that without damaging my car. Therefore, he sucks at his job. I don't go around parking in front of people's driveways like it's my god-given right and I don't hate homeless people. I do very much enjoy reading your comments that suggest otherwise, but please stop threatening to hurt me. As Captain Picard says in Star Trek: First Contact: "the line must be drawn HERE!" Thus endeth my entitled paranoid princess comment.

Tacky Christmas 2006

2006-12-25T14:29:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the delay in my annual Christmas pictures of tackily-decorated LA mansions, but I was gallivanting around England, where there was no internet and it was foggy:

Really foggy.

So I couldn't post until now. Anyway, Norrywood was pretty disappointing this year. It remains pretty much unchanged from last year except that the lawn now reads "2007" instead of "2006." Other than that, it's the same old black Santas and Davids with Santa hats. Even the fake snow on the lawn is getting boring.

Did the neighbors finally complain? Did Norrywood's inhabitants take a few classes in taste over this year? It doesn't matter, since I've got a new favorite tacky house:

This picture is terrible, but the lawn is absolutely mobbed with mannequins, many of which aren't necessarily Christmas-themed. For instance, they used up all their reindeer figures and had to resort to using plain old deer mannequins I think they bought off of a hunting supply store. And since they ran out of Santas, they had to use child labor:

Creepy child labor.

And then, of course, you've got your typical nightmare-inducing giant Nutcrackers guarding a rocking horse of Trojan proportions:

The Trojans would never have accepted a horse with a shiny purple mane, though.

"Help meeeeeee ... "

Across the street from this house, one neighbor bravely tried to compete with that assault on the eyes with his own special display:

It really isn't bad at all, but something about that neon North Pole sign irks me. It's the North Pole, not Las Vegas. And the sign isn't even pointing towards the North Pole. It's pointing at the snowman standing directly in Santa and his sleigh's path, trying to prevent him from delivering toys to all the good little girls and boys.

Of course, I thought it was lot worse before I saw England's contribution to this segment:

Great ladder placement there. You could at least make it look like it's supposed to be functional.

The big Xmas yard decoration this year seems to be those reindeer lawn ornaments made out of lights. I actually think they're kind of cute, but when every single house has one -- with some houses going absolutely lightbulb reindeer-mad and sticking upwards of 18 reindeer on their lawns even though there should only be 8 at the most -- they rapidly lose their charm. Last year the inflatable Santas and snowmen were popular and my dad threatened to walk around with a pin, deflating as many as possible. This year he wants to get a shotgun and go around shooting all the reindeer. It's the first time he's expressed any interest in hunting.

Remember, kids: decorating your homes for Christmas can not only be tacky, it can also be dangerous. As you can see here in Lisa "Blair Warner" Whelchel's fascinating scrapbook entry entitled "When Daddy Fell Off The Roof," an account of the time her husband fell off the roof and broke most of his limbs while trying to hang Christmas lights. It is absolutely amazing. In case the print is too small for you to read, here's a highlight:

"After the paramedics assured us that he was going to be okay, I ran inside to get my camera. As they were cutting Steve's pants legs off, I, as the family photo historian, began documenting this memory. The girls were appalled and asked increduously, 'Why are you taking pictures of this? I don't ever want to remember this day again!' Obviously, the paramedic understood. He looked over his shoulder at me snapping away and asked, 'Scrapbooker?'"

You can find entries about this and more of Lisa Whelchel's craziness at one of my new favorite sites, The Blair Necessities. Enjoy!

Hope you all have a roof-tragedy-free happy holidays!

Thanks A Lot

2006-11-30T18:24:00.000-08:00

Didn't I tell you guys to think good, non-jury-duty-serving thoughts tonight? One of you decided to think bad, jury-duty-serving thoughts and now not only do I have to report in tomorrow, but I have been transferred to the court in NORWALK. I don't even know where that is. A mapquest search shows that it's over 20.10 miles away from me. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?! Do you know how long it's going to take me to drive 20 miles during rush hour? FOREVER, that's how long.

Jury Duty: Day 4 of 5

2006-11-29T20:20:00.000-08:00

I did jury duty once in Connecticut. It was a pretty good experience; I went in for one day, sat around watching movies, and then got to leave early. And my job paid me as if I had worked an entire day!

Of course, it's different in California. Here, they send you a summons for an entire WEEK, of which you may or may not have to serve any of its days. Each night after five o'clock, I have to call a phone number and they tell me whether or not I have to report in the next day. Which means I can't make any plans because I don't know if I'll be available or not. While the fleeting moment of suspense when I call the jury service number and wait to hear my fate is kind of fun, it still pretty much sucks. But you can't get out of it, so you just have to hope you don't get called. So far, I have not had to go in, which means that, if you were to stand outside my apartment door, you'd hear me exclaiming "YES! Ha ha! Eat it, justice system!" around five o'clock for the last four days. Friday is the last day of this inconvenience. Everyone think good, non-jury-duty-having thoughts tomorrow night at five o'clock PST, please.

In a delightful change from all the "maruchan instant lunch" searches that usually get people here, someone got to this blog by typing "sara morrison resume search." Whoever you are, I thank you for your interest in my job history and assure you it's awesome and I'm qualified for whatever you're thinking of hiring me for. Unless it's prostitution, and even then I'm sure we can work something out that's agreeable to both parties (just kidding, Mom!). You'll have to wait until next week to schedule me for an interview, however, as I'm not sure about my availability on Friday because California sucks.

Grown In

2006-11-27T21:07:00.000-08:00

Much like the personality that inhabits it, my body is very stubborn. From my hair that refuses to do what I want it to EVER regardless of the amount or type of hair products I put in it or what style I'm going for, to my ear lobes that decided long ago they weren't going to be pierced and will immediately close up as soon as I take an earring out even after they've been pierced for years, it does whatever it wants. It's inconvenient sometimes, but I can live with it. I sort of have to.

Years ago, the nails on both of my big toes decided that they were going to grow the way they wanted to and not the way they were supposed to. So instead of my big toes looking like this:

This picture is slightly inaccurate; my toes are NOT fat.

They looked like this:

Except that the problem was on both sides of the nail, not just one. Both sides of both toenails. Thanks a lot, guys. Thanks also to whoever passed the half-circle shaped toenail gene down to me. I can't complain too much about that, though, since I also received the genes that gave me my fabulous good looks and incredible brainpower.

Anyway, I went along for a while, getting infections from time to time and hating the way my big toes looked until one day I realized that: a. I have health insurance, and b. I could get surgery to correct my toenails once and for all.

So I went to a podiatrist in town and had my toes operated on. What they do is cut off those curved edges of my toenail and then put some chemical in the nail bed there so that they don't grow back. So you end up with a thinner toenail, although it doesn't really look any thinner since I had a lot of extra skin growing over the sides of my nails, as the ingrown nails would push my skin up and over them. Does that make sense? It will have to; I'm not going to put any pictures of ingrown toenails up here. You've all had enough nastiness after the cockroach and house centipede entries, haven't you?

My podiatrist was a very nice woman who told me that the operation would be very simple and relatively painless. The only pain I could expect, she said, was a shot in either toe to numb the area. She said it would be like the shots you get in your mouth when you get a cavity. I've never had a cavity (PRESIDENT of my childhood dentist's no-cavity club for fifteen years running, baby!), so I didn't really have that experience to draw back on, but it didn't seem too bad. The toes would heal up in a few days and she'd even give me a few Vicodins for the pain. This sounded like a good deal to me, especially since any pain I experienced from the surgery would surely be less than the pain of having ingrown toenail infections on and off for the rest of my life.

The toe-numbing process actually turned out to be FOUR shots in each toe. Unlike your upper arm, the site of all shots I've ever had before this, your toe is a fairly sensitive area. The podiatrist explained that this was because the bone was so close to the skin. She explained this as she was MOVING THE NEEDLE AROUND INSIDE MY TOE in order to get the numbing stuff all over the place. Oh holy hell, was that not fun. But I must have beared the pain bravely, as she commented that most people are pretty vocal when she does this. Maybe I'll be the PRESIDENT of her super-brave club.

Numbing my toes and waiting for the numbing stuff to take effect actually took longer than the surgery itself. The doctor was impressed with how deep my ingrown toenails went. Of course they were deep; they're assholes.

Less than an hour after it began, it was over. I hobbled out to meet Pamie, my designated ride home, and we stopped at the pharmacy for my Vicodins and the epsom salts I'd need to soak my toes in for the next two weeks. The doctor told me to stay off my feet for the day, so I spent the day on Pam's couch in various states of Vicodin dopiness with my feet elevated while Pam attended to my every need. It was pretty awesome. I told Pam that I hoped she would get in a car accident so I could repay the favor by taking care of her. Oddly, she didn't seem to appreciate this.

It definitely took longer than a few days for my toes to heal (probably because the nails were so deep), but one month later, they're looking and feeling pretty good. I should have done this years ago.

Spiffy!

2006-11-25T17:48:00.000-08:00

I'm finally buckling down and trying to make this site look a little nicer. Nice to me apparently means a lot of bright red.

The background and the borders around the posts still need work, but that's going to take a while ...

I like it so far.

Special 100th Post Celebration!

2006-11-01T19:12:00.000-08:00

Well, not really. But I have finally started a Myspace account. The picture I'm using for my profile certainly does kick ass, but it's only a placeholder until I find the picture of me going through a red light I got from the Culver City Red Light Project. That picture cost me $400, so it's going to get used as much as possible.

I don't have any friends yet (I deleted Tom because he's not my friend), so feel free to invite me so I'll feel cool. And so will you.

http://www.myspace.com/sarammorrison

What does that middle "M" stand for? Just guess.

In other news, my apartment has been House Centipede-free since my last entry, and will be staying that way forevermore, so my friends should feel comfortable visiting my apartment again.

What The Hell Is This Thing.

2006-10-22T17:00:00.000-07:00

Dude. I found this thing hanging out on my ceiling last night. After dispatching it in the traditional way by spraying liberal amounts of bleach at it while maintaining the greatest possible distance, I was able to take a few pictures for all my entomologists out there to identify it with. Because I have NO FUCKING CLUE what it is. Maybe it's some common house bug in California, but I have never seen this thing before and it may just be the most horrible, horrible crawling thing I've ever seen that wasn't in a zoo. Even worse than that giant cockroach a few posts back. So please tell me what it is and if it's dangerous and if it will bring friends.

Here it is after my trusty bleach took care of it. It took a while to die and moved fast, so I ended up spraying bleach all over my apartment and had to air it out for the rest of the night.

As it died, all its legs fell off and twitched madly, which is just fucking horrible and nasty oh my god what if this thing has crawled over my face while I'm sleeping ew ew ew ew

This should be the last post of mine that features horrible pictures of horrible bugs, as there cannot possibly be anything worse than this in my apartment. But if there is, I will probably run the hell out of there and straight to the local Orkin Man and then to the nearest reasonably-priced apartment with a vacancy.

Best Spam Ever

2006-10-17T12:08:00.000-07:00

I got this in my email this morning:

"Forward message service by FMS

From: Mark
Subject: Weight

This is not meant to be an insult or
anything but people are talking at work
about your weight.I thought you should know.
I know it would upset you if you knew but I
know some friends here and outside work that
have used a program that worked within weeks.
I am not pushing anything on you but thought
it wouldn't hurt if you looked at it. I also
think I am doing you a favor as it's always
nice when people talk about how much better
you look than how much you've been putting on.
I hope I am not intruding, just trying to help
out. My cousin & friend Mike used this and it
helped alot. Here is the site I know they got
it from direct.
**website address deleted so as not to encourage them**

Again, I'm just trying to help out.
Thanks for listening.

-Mark"

Usually, spam comes to me in the form of "enlarge your pen1s!" or it's from some woman who read my profile and really wants to meet me. Stuff that a heterosexual female wouldn't be interested in. Not this time! They tricked me but good.

At first, I thought the email was real and got super pissed off. How dare my co-workers talk about me like that! I go to the gym! I try to eat well! I may have gained a few pounds after a trip home full of local culinary delights, but is it really that noticeable? I mean, Jesus Christ, I'm still a size 4! What the hell? And does everyone just sit around and talk about how fat I've been lately? Don't they have work to do? What a bunch of assholes! And it's not like they're so svelte and shapely that they can really talk. Except for Karrie, who has a side job as a pilates instructor. Thank god there are people like Mark out there to tell me the truth.

And then I realized that: 1. I don't work with anyone named Mark and, perhaps more importantly, 2. As of last Friday, I don't even have a job. So either that was a very clever spam email or someone with an email address very similar to mine works in an office full of gossipy assholes and one guy who thinks he's so above it all that he directly tells his co-worker that everyone thinks s/he's fat now and then has the nerve to think he's doing the person a favor. What a douchebag! I wrote him back on the person he meant to email's behalf:

"Wow, Mark! Thanks for the tip! I'll check that site out right away -- I've been kinda concerned about my weight lately and this might be just the ticket.

By the way, I thought you should know that people at work are talking about your constant emailing of your co-workers with passive-aggressive insults about their appearance. I don't know a website you can check out to fix that, but you might want to stop it before we corner you in the parking garage after work and knife you. Watch your back.

Thanks for listening,
Sara"

A Lesson From Me To You

2006-10-14T15:49:00.000-07:00

If you neglect regular car maintenance, you might end up spending over $800 when you finally do take it in for a tune-up that turns into a round of tire patching, brake replacing, thermostat-housing-repairing, battery changing fun!

Also, don't drive over a bed of nails. Which I apparently did once. Shit.

Neglect

2006-10-13T17:26:00.000-07:00

So I haven't updated since ... uh ... June. To my credit, that's the end of June, not the beginning. But I'll be back. For reals this time. And this blog isn't the only thing I've neglected over the last few months. Here's a complete list:

-the dishes
-regular car maintenance
-clothes shopping
-shoe shopping
-food shopping
-vacuuming
-starting a sensible retirement savings plan
-fortifying my residence against future cockroach attacks
-responding to emails (I swear, 73-year-old guy who emailed me like two months ago, that I WILL write back to you!)

I'm sure there are other things, but I can't think of them right now. Anyway, I'm back. I think.

Time To Move!

2006-06-28T10:36:00.000-07:00

I was coming home from a late night of Bingo with Pamie and Stee and trying to make sure the Denny's Zesty Creole Scrambler I had just devoured stayed down when I entered my apartment's elevator with one of my neighbors. She recognized me before I recognized her, and said to me, in her delightful Irish lilt: "I remember you -- you're the one who accused my friends of robbing your apartment!"

Now, while she is right about that, there is a little bit of backstory here. Basically, I came home from work and saw a small group of unfamiliar people (she had recently moved to that apartment and I had never seen her before, nor was I even aware that the guy who used to live next to me had even moved out) playing around with someone's doorknob. When they saw me, they took off. Then I went into my apartment and found that it had been robbed. Believing that I may have stumbled upon the culprits, I then turned around and chased them down and asked them if they had just robbed my apartment. I know now that confronting a group of potential apartment thieves is not a good idea. At the time, though, I was a little freaked out and I just wanted my computer back. Anyway, they said they did not and the woman introduced herself as my neighbor and then told me to go call the police, which I did. And that was it.

Now, three months later, she was demanding an apology from me. The elevator had long since stopped at our floor, but she had positioned herself between me and the door so that I was trapped in there until I gave in to her demands. Which I had no problem doing, since I really had to go to the bathroom and wanted to get home and also because I did, after all, accuse her of breaking into my apartment. Which, by the way, I'm still not sure she didn't do. Because after she was satisifed with my apology, we walked down the hallway and she asked me a lot of questions about how I thought the person broke in and what the police said to me and if they had any leads. She was way too interested.

So I finally managed to escape from her and get into my apartment and pee, and what should be waiting for me in the bathroom? This:

AYYYYIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Horrible! But not so horrible that I didn't have the sense to whip out my brand-new camera and test out its macro abilities:

Giant cockroaches are amazingly disgusting, but the amount of detail my camera captured here is just amazing.

Look! You can even see the hairs on its legs! I love my new camera.

Anyway, once I couldn't take the giant cockroach's wildly waving antenna anymore, I had to kill it. Not an easy task. My usual method of unsavory bug murder is to spray them with my bleach cleaning products, which were readily available in the bathroom. I did this while making all manner of shrieks and horrified moans, which will probably earn me another elevator confrontation with that neighbor, who shares the bathroom wall with me. People, the bleach didn't work. I mean, I have killed big furry spiders with that stuff, and this cockroach barely flinched.

Aerial attacks unsuccessful, I knew I would have to go in for some hand-to-hand combat. I grabbed a leftover cup from a Wendy's Frosty Dairy Dessert I had consumed a few days ago (between Denny's and Wendy's, I really, really have to start eating better) and tried to capture the bug under it. I was ultimately successful in this quest, but then I didn't know what to do next. Also, I had to keep my hand on the top of the cup or else the cockroach could move it. Horror.

Obviously, the only thing to do was to get the giant cockroach into my toilet and flush it away, as it was too big to squash (I had encountered one of these in my apartment once before and ended up using a hammer to kill it. And it took THREE BLOWS to do it. Never again, people) and simply letting it go unharmed is NOT AN OPTION. I managed to slip a stiff piece of cardboard under the cup (regular paper would have been too filmsy for a bug of this size and weight) and then I just threw everything into the toilet bowl. I carefully picked the cardboard and cup out of the bowl and threw them away.

So now the cockroach is in the toilet bowl. I wanted to wait for it to drown and be absolutely fucking sure it was dead before flushing it, or else I wouldn't be able to sit on my toilet bowl without wondering if the cockroach had managed to climb back up through the pipes and was about to launch a surprise attack on my bare ass. It's one in the morning. I need to wake up early for work tomorrow. The cockroach had managed to climb up the side of the bowl enough to keep its horrible head above water. It was not going to drown.

So I took my toilet bowl cleaner out of the cabinet and poured that into the bowl. That finally did it. I don't know if it was the chemicals or the thing finally drowned or both, but it finally died. The antenna would wave no more. I flushed it down the toilet, hoping it wasn't so big that it would clog the pipes, and did a few follow-up flushes before finally feeling safe enough to sleep.

Happy Father's Day from Court TV

2006-06-18T19:32:00.000-07:00

Now, I love Court TV as much as the next person, but their Father's Day Movie Marathon leaves something to be desired:

Skeletons in the Closet: Will Reid is forced to confront the unthinkable…that his 18-year-old son may be a serial killer. But is his son truly guilty or is he a paranoid, unstable man who for years has hidden secrets about his own past?

Child in the Night: A detective who is desperate for help on a homicide case calls in a psychologist to assist the memory of an eight-year-old who witnessed his father being killed.

Evil Has a Face: Bonding with a young molestation victim unearths a police artist's memories of childhood abuse by her stepfather.

Here's hoping next year's lineup will be chosen by someone who doesn't hate fathers!

VICTORY!

2006-04-15T18:47:00.000-07:00

My incredible, if untrained, lawyer skills and your helpful advice have come in very handy! As you can see below, my stupid unfair traffic ticket case has been DISMISSED and I will be getting my money back! Hooray!

I'll be writing about that apartment break-in soon, but I thought it would be nice to share some good news here too.

Shiny New Things

2006-03-26T22:34:00.000-08:00

I am writing this blog entry on my shiny new iBook, which is connected to my equally shiny and equally new iPod. This would normally be a happy event, as expensive new things are fun and pretty, but the circumstances surrounding my new purchases are unfortunate indeed.

For you see, I was ROBBED!

I came home from work Friday night to find that my apartment had been broken into and many of my precious possessions were stolen. I don't have time to write much more, as I have to install the shiny new locks on my door. I will update when I get the chance ...

A Night In Echo Park

2006-03-01T23:00:00.000-08:00

I went to a birthday party last Saturday night in Echo Park. For those of you who don't know Los Angeles, this is a section of the eastern part of the city that I like to call "Sunset Boulevard east of that Tang's Donuts where all the homeless people play chess (as opposed to the Tang's Donuts up the street from my old apartment where where that old lady was murdered)." I never go down there and don't know the area well, so when the party invitation said that the party was being held at a bar with no identifying features except a neon sign that said "cocktails," I was nervous that I would have some trouble finding the place.

So you can imagine how happy I was to find a bar with a large neon cocktails sign that even had some open parking spaces on the street! Especially since I had stupidly forgotten to read the invitation before I left my apartment and therefore didn't remember the bar's street number or name.

It turns out that bars that advertise themselves with just a neon cocktail sign are either one of two things: hipster faux dive bars that are so popular that they don't need to have their name written anywhere near the establishment, or actual dive bars that don't need to have their name written anywhere near the establishment because they don't want new people to find them. The birthday party was being held in the former. The place I walked into was the latter. I found myself in a sliver of a room filled with older gentlemen. The only woman in the place besides myself was the cocktail waitress, who was outfitted in a bodysuit made entirely out of red lace. She gave me a smile that managed to be both welcoming and so very sad. It was then that I realized that I might be at the wrong place. But I had to make sure, so I walked the ten feet to the back of the bar to see if there wasn't some back room or upstairs area for parties where I would find my friends waiting for me. There wasn't, although there was an old-timey popcorn cart. Its wares were tempting for about three seconds, after which point I started getting propositioned by the bar's colorful patrons and decided it best to make a hasty exit. On my way out, I politely turned down an offer of a ride home before I realized that when the guy said "I'll give you a ride!" he probably meant a ride on his penis and not in his automobile. It was his tone, you see, that made me think his intentions were not so innocent. That, and the hand gesture that accompanied his offer.

In college, I took a class on Victorian London. I remember being especially chafed at the fact that, after dusk, women were to be accompanied by an male chaperone everywhere they went for reasons of propriety. I was grateful to live in times that were so much less restrictive for my gender. And then I moved to a city where the same rules apply, except that they're now unwritten laws of common sense and personal safety for the young woman alone at night.

A Few Updates

2006-02-22T22:08:00.000-08:00

My job is keeping me very busy. I did get the morning off the other day to see a doctor about my nose, which seemed to have healed in such a way that it made snapping sounds if I moved the tip from side-to-side. The doctor took a look up there, and it turns out that they have tiny little speculums just for your nostrils! Things got scary for a few minutes when he said he might have to drain some of the swelling, but then he decided that it would go away without the use of needles and what was sure to be horrible pain for me. That was as exciting as things got -- he said that the popping sounds were just because my nose hadn't healed yet, and that when it eventually did heal, there would be no more popping or pain. He also said that my nose would heal faster if I stopped making it pop to entertain/horrify friends and family members, so there goes my latest party trick. I can also look forward to spending the rest of my life with a septum shaped like an "S," as it bent up like an accordian when it got smashed, although not severely enough to cause me any breathing problems. That means I can't get a nose job and then claim that I did it to fix a deviated septum.

The lesson to be learned from all of this is that if you get kneed in the face and your nose bleeds a lot and really hurts, you should go to the ER and get it taken care of right away, so that they can straighten it out before it starts to heal. If I had done that, like Pam told me to do, my septum might be "I" shaped instead of "S" shaped today.

Also, in regards to that stupid traffic ticket I got a few months back, I sent my trial-by-mail in and am waiting to hear back on the judge's decision. I think I raised some really good points in my argument and that I will be vindicated. Okay, truthfully, I probably didn't raise any good points, but I'm banking on the Officer Why You No Stop not bothering to fill out the response and my case getting thrown out. Apparently, officers often don't bother to respond to the trial-by-mails because, unlike court appearances, they don't get paid extra for it. I'll let you all know the outcome ...

I Got A JOB!

2006-02-08T21:38:00.000-08:00

It's true: I'm working again. The hours are long and the commute is bad (although the long drive is helped significantly by the presence of my Sirius radio!), but I'm so happy to be working again and the stuff I'm doing is really cool and the people I work with are great so it's okay. Plus I get catered meals and get to stare at Larry David's car sometimes. Yes, it's a Prius. No, I haven't seen Larry David himself.

They're All Gonna Laugh At You!

2006-01-30T19:25:00.000-08:00

Well, now you're all sorry that you didn't go to my improv show, because last night was an amazing one-of-a-kind experience that will probably never be repeated.

The show went on its merry way, being extremely funny and entertaining to all, including audience members A.K., Casey, Dan and Pam. Towards the end, I was doing something that was no doubt HILARIOUS when one of my fellow performers ran on stage. He didn't get very far, though, because he ran into something.

And that something was MY FACE. Specifically, his knee went into my nose. Even though she was sitting in the back of the theater, Pam said she could hear resulting "crunch" sound, followed by my muffled cry of anguish. At this point, the guy who nailed me dragged me offstage and said "please tell me you aren't bleeding!" I looked down at my hand and noticed a small spot of blood and said "no ... " Pam heard that too, as her ears are apparently highly receptive to my voice's unique frequency. She said the way I said "no" was when she realized that I was not okay.

She was pretty much the only person who did realize that, as the rest of my group continued performing and the audience continued laughing, even though the show could not possibly have been as funny without me on stage. I looked down at my hand again and realized that the small spot of blood had grown exponentially in size and, even more upsetting, some of it had gotten on my awesome new jacket. So I ran backstage and got some paper towels, because it wasn't like anyone else was going to get them for me. Then I ran back to the stage, where I was surprised to see the show still going on despite the fact that I had lost a pint of blood on its stage. So I just went back on stage and kept going, because if I was going to be uncomfortable, I wanted to make everyone else in the audience feel that way, too. My improv coach would later describe the audience as being "horrified," which is great, because, as a performer, it's important to be able to elicit many different emotions from your audience. Fortunately, someone took a picture of me, so you can all enjoy the sight for yourselves:

They're all gonna laugh at you!

Anyway, the show ended and we all went backstage, where we were soon joined by Pam, who was ordering people to get me ice and tissues and things, because I couldn't get them for myself and, again, no one else was doing it. The rest of my group checked in to make sure I was okay and then went out into the hallway to get notes for the show, where they were very annoyed at being disturbed by our loud voices as we wondered whether or not I should go to the hospital and showed their displeasure by slamming the door. At this point, Pam decided that she hated everyone in my improv group and all of IO West, a hatred that would only grow when, once I got out to the lobby and was pulled aside by my improv teacher for the show notes I missed while the rest of my group made some passing inquiries as to my health. As for me, my attention was split between the notes and wondering when, exactly, I would be passing out from blood loss. Also, my nose really, really hurt.

A.K. and Casey made sure I was okay before they left and Dan drove my car home while Pam took me home in hers. She had valeted her car, and when we went to the garage to pick it up, I commented that I needed more tissues. Without hestitation, the valet guy produced a roll of toilet paper from, like, the inside of his coat. We would later wonder what, exactly, he was originally going to use that toilet paper for and also how many people come to that garage covered in blood for him to have been so nonchalant and instantaneous in his response. They made sure I was well-equipped with ice and tissues and painkillers and then left. I then spent the next four hours waiting for the blood to stop (it was no longer gushing; just a light trickle), soaking my clothes in Shout, and making plans to buy some iron supplements to prevent anemia.

The next day, my dad called to see how I was. I told him how pissed off Pam was at everyone else's lack of concern, and he said he couldn't really fault my improv coach for it because she's originally from England, where injuries are traditionally treated with the combined healing powers of the Magic Sponge and walking it off. He reminded me of the time about eight years ago when he got hit the face by a soccer ball during a game and proceeded to leak blood and eye fluid all over the field. His teammates kept on playing, and when he said that he was pretty sure he could not play now that his eye socket bone was broken, they said "yeah, okay," and then let him drive himself home.

Sara: I remember that! Oh, it was horrible!
Dad: Yes, my eye almost fell out.
Sara: Worse than that, our vacation to the Bahamas was cancelled! Ryan and I were so upset!
Dad: Right, because I couldn't fly because the pressure change could have made my eye explode.
Sara: We tried to get Mom to take us and leave you at home, but she said no.
Dad: ...
Sara: God, that was an awful time for the whole family.
Dad: ...

To add insult to injury, the ER nurse laughed at him when he told her how he did it, saying she was used to seeing "much younger" men with soccer injuries. Mom, who I should point out was much more sympathetic to my dad than her two children were, urged Dad to stop playing, but he refused to heed her wise words, although he has toned it down a bit and joined an over-40 league. As for me, my nose is not broken and has assholishly decided to swell just enough to make my nose look bigger, but not enough to make it obvious that it was the result of trauma. I can't tell if there's bruising under my eyes or it's just the omnipresent dark circles that always make me look so well-rested. I expect to find additional bruising on my upper lip in the shape of a Hitler moustache because my body hates me. But not as much as Pam hates my improv group.

ME! Live And In-Person!

2006-01-20T18:27:00.000-08:00

To quote one of my favorite video games, FORTUNE SMILES UPON THEE! Because if you live in the Los Angeles area, then you have a chance to see ME on stage!

I have finally graduated from my classes at IO West and now we get to perform some improv comedy every Sunday for the next six weeks. That means you only have SIX CHANCES to have the distinct privilege of seeing ME. Don't miss out!

Every Sunday at IO West from 6:30-7:30.

IO West is located at 6366 Hollywood Blvd between Ivar and Cahuenga. Admission is FREE, which is absolutely ridiculous because I'm pretty sure I'm worth at least five dollars a ticket. And there's a full bar for you to enjoy, which means you have to be over 21 to enter.

I think that's it. Come see!

And now I shall await my brother's response to my video game quotation in the comments.

George Takei = Comedy Genius

2006-01-14T15:06:00.000-08:00

I was sitting around my apartment, thinking about venturing out in the rain to buy some two cent stamps I need now that postage rates have increased to thirty-nine cents and all I have are the old thirty-seven cent one, when my phone rang. I walked over to pick it up and talked to my mom for about a minute before there was an awful crash, so loud that my mother heard it on the other end of the phone. "What was that?" she asked.

It was the thick glass dome cover of my ceiling light fixture. And it had fallen RIGHT WHERE I WAS JUST SITTING, smashing on the ground and sending bits of glass everywhere. This means two things:

1. My apartment manager is getting an earful from me about the importance of making sure that light fixtures are properly and securely installed before a new inhabitant moves in, and:

2. My mom totally saved my life! Please step away from your computer and give her three cheers.

It is odd, though, that my light fixture, which has gone untouched since the day I moved into this apartment back in July, would suddenly decide to succumb to gravity like that. I can only come up with one reason: forces beyond my control took issue with some of the things I said about Mr. Sulu and his protrayer, George Takei, in mine and Keckler's recap of Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home after he has proven himself to be so amazingly funny on this past week's Howard Stern show. It is worth the $12.95 monthly subscription for him alone. Everything that guy says is comedy gold. Everything!

And so I take back my harsh words about George Takei, because I'm sure he cares about that and also to prevent the Trekkie God in the heavens above from sending more things crashing down on my head.

Happy Holidays!

2005-12-24T19:49:00.000-08:00

I'm sad to report that I did not have time to get some get pictures of over-decorated LA homes like last year before I flew home to Connecticut for the holidays. Do not despair too much, though, as I did manage to get a few shots of the infamous Norrywood:

In all its glory!

I'm not exactly sure what this means. Whose people, exactly are we supposed to feed? God's? The black mannequin in front of the sign who apparently plays a mean saxophone's? Please be more specific next year, Norrywood.

Norrywood loves its black Santas! There's one black Santa for every David statue. And there are, like, three thousand David statues.

At least Norrywood didn't go for the this year's height of yard decoration tackiness, the giant inflatable Santa. I hate those things, but not as much as my dad, who keeps threatening to walk around the neighborhood with a pin and deflate them all.*

That's enough bitching from me, even though there are a few things I'd like to say to the place I ordered my mother's present from that didn't deliver it in time despite the fact that I ordered it WELL IN ADVANCE and it didn't seem to have any delays when it came to charging my credit card. I will send them a strongly-worded letter about this, and the stamp will have been moistened by my mother's tears, which will fall freely when she wakes up tomorrow and finds that her daughter didn't get her a present.

But anyway, happy holidays to you all!

*My dad would not actually do this. I think.

Jail Update!

2005-12-14T22:32:00.000-08:00

I am no longer going to jail.

I went to court on Monday and stood in line for an hour and a half because even though there were four windows, only two windows -- 7 and 8 -- were actually open. This confused and angered me and my fellow line-standers, but it also bonded us all together under our shared hatred of traffic court. We were thinking of rallying to turn the unused Window 10 into a Starbucks, but no one wanted to risk losing his or her place in line to actually do that.

Finally, I was called to Window 8 after the people ahead of me refused to see her, electing to wait for nicer Window 7 to tend to their traffic needs. Whatever -- Window 7 was only nicer because she somehow managed to get the handicapped accessible window, which was lower to the ground, thereby allowing her to sit down behind it instead of having to stand all day long like Window 8 did. Also, Window 7 had a woman helping her. No one understood why Window 7's helper couldn't have just opened up her own Window 9, but we didn't ask because we didn't want to risk losing our places in line.

Refusing to be intimidated by her brusque manner, I stepped up to Window 8 and tried to explain everything to her. Her no-nonsense attitude faltered somewhat as she tried to figure out what to do next, but then she just took my original ticket and entered it into the computer system herself. This was something the San Pedro courthouse woman told me was totally impossible to do. The San Pedro courthouse woman is a dirty, dirty liar.

I got an extension on my ticket, so I have another two months before I have to enter my plea. And when I do enter it, it will be NOT GUILTY. Then I went home and watched I Shouldn't Be Alive on the Discovery Channel, because that show is awesome.

I Am Going To Jail

2005-12-11T17:45:00.000-08:00

So here's what happened: I was dropping my mom off at LAX in late October. Not four feet outside of the short-term parking lot, I got a ticket for violating Los Angeles Municipal Code 89.05 - "failed to stop for stop signs in airport." My speed was "approximately" 5 mph, and, despite the wording on the ticket, I did not fail to stop at multiple signs. Just the one. The one four feet after the parking lot ticket payment booth.

I saw the cop when it happened, too. I was at a four-way intersection that was totally deserted except for me and the cop sitting on his motorcycle. I really honestly thought I stopped, so when I noticed him pull behind me with his lights flashing, I assumed he had just been called to the scene of, like, a real emergency, and pulled over to let him pass. But then he pulled over with me, and I wondered if my taillight was out or something like that. My license plates were fairly new; maybe I had put the registration stickers on wrong. He walked over to my window. I rolled it down.

"Why you no stop?"

It took me a second there to realize what he was saying, both because I wasn't expecting to be pulled over for not stopping at a sign when I believed I had, in fact, stopped at a sign, and because of the strange wording of the question. But I answered him very politely that I thought I had stopped, and he said:

"No, you go right through."

And then he made a motion and a "whoosh!" sound, as if anything going "approximately" 5 mph can even "whoosh!" Seriously, do you know how slow that is? It's so slow that it doesn't even appear on my speedometer, which starts at ten. That's TWICE as fast as my "approximate" speed, which is faster than I believe I was actually going, which was zero. Because I stopped. But anyway, here's a graph that shows my speed relative to members of the animal kingdom to give you some perspective here:

That's right; even chickens move faster than me. The only animal I could find that travels at 5 mph, by the way, was a bird that has the unique distinction of being the slowest-flying of all birds, the Woodcock. The Woodcock also has the unique distinction of being called the "Woodcock."

He asked me for my license and stuff, and I asked him if he was giving me a ticket. He said he was afraid that he "had" to. I asked if perhaps I could just have a warning, as my record was clean and I hadn't even gotten onto the road yet when the infraction occurred and I was very sad about having to drop off my mother just now. He said he was sorry, but he "had" to give me the ticket. Now, you and I and everyone know that the police officer never "has" to do anything when it comes to traffic tickets. It's always the officer's discretion what your fine should be or if you should get one at all.

He took my stuff back to his motorbike and then I started crying because I was already sad about saying good-bye to my mom and I was hoping that crying might help me out. Everyone always tells you to cry to get out of a ticket, right? He came back and gave me the ticket and seemed kind of guilty that I was so upset. He reassured me that it was just an infraction, no points would appear on my license so it wouldn't affect my insurance, and I wouldn't even have to appear in court for it. I thanked him before I realized what I was actually thanking him for, and we went on our way.

There was no dollar amount on the ticket itself, but the courthouse I was assigned to (so much for not having to appear in court, Officer Douchebag) was on my way home from the airport so I decided to just stop there on my way back to find out how much the ticket was for and schedule a hearing to contest it. Because no way am I going to pay for a ticket for going 5 mph through a stop sign without a fight. I drove there, had to pay to park, waited in line, and finally saw a clerk, who informed me that since my ticket was issued in an airport zone (although by an LAPD officer, not an airport officer -- I have no idea what the airport officers were doing that day or why they needed help from an LAPD officer, who should have better things to do if the crime rate in my neighborhood is any indication), they couldn't tell me how much it was for, nor could I sign up for a court date. I'd have to wait until the courtesy notice was mailed to my house in three weeks, and then I'd have to go back to court, because all violations in airport zones mean you are required to appear in court, which means either that clerk was confused or the officer lied to me. I was thinking that Mr. Why You No Stop was in the wrong in this case, because I hate him.

Finally the courtesy notice came in the mail. It says I owe $147, and that in order to plead not guilty, I'm supposed to send them a check for the full amount and write "not guilty" on the memo line. Having to pay for my ticket in order to contest it is like serving ten years in jail for robbery before you're allowed to plead not guilty, by the way. It's not like that in Connecticut, where you get to have your traffic ticket hearing and then pay, depending on the outcome. Not like I'd know that, seeing as my record is totally clean. Once they have your money, they're not really going to want to rule in your favor and give it back now, are they? But it was still worth a try, I figured. $147 isn't much to pay, but you also have to consider the fact that my insurance rates will increase exponentially for the next seven years, as I'm figuring that the officer was lying about that like he was about not having to go to court, as well as the fact that I don't have a job. So it's a lot for me, in the end. Especially when I shouldn't have to pay anything at all since I stopped at the sign.

I have until December 13th to act on the ticket. I really don't trust anyone to look at my check hard enough to see that "not guilty" comment, nor do I trust myself to not write something like "not guilty, you assholes," which wouldn't help my cause at all. So I decided to go to www.lasuperiorcourt.org and schedule the court date through there.

I look up my ticket and get an error screen. It says that no citation exists with my ticket number. And yet, I'm holding the ticket and the courtesy notice in my hand, so I know that it certainly does. I called the phone number and tried to use the automated system to look up my ticket, and that, too, said my ticket did not exist. So I had to talk to a person in the office. I called back during the time when the message said the call volume was at its lowest -- Friday between noon and 2:30.

I am 78th in line to talk to an operator.

By the way, I'm using my cell phone to call since it's not local and my land line can only call locally because I have the cheapest possible plan. So I'm 78th in line and I'm paying for every minute I have to spend listening to Vanessa Williams' hit single "Save the Best for Last." Also, I hate that song.

Finally, I get to talk to a real person. I tell him my ticket number, and he says he can't access my ticket because it's for the San Pedro courthouse. That's odd, since my ticket said I was supposed to deal with the West Los Angeles court. The courtesy notice said San Pedro, but I figured that was just the courtesy notice headquarters or something. The guy was nice enough to give me a direct phone number for the San Pedro court so I wouldn't be on hold again, and I called that.

The San Pedro courthouse clerk was kind of annoyed that I had even managed to get her phone number, but she looked up my ticket and finally figured out what had happened: my ticket had been in the computer system, but sometime between when my courtesy notice was mailed out and now, it had been deleted. I was pretty psyched about this, figuring that a deleted ticket meant that I no longer had to worry about anything. Not quite, said the woman. The reason why it was deleted was because whoever entered it in the first place had entered the wrong courthouse -- San Pedro instead of West LA -- and then once the error was realized they deleted it and it's sitting on someone's desk waiting to be reentered correctly. I can't act on the ticket one way or the other until it's in the system again, but, unless a miracle happens, that won't happen until after the 13th, meaning that whenever it is entered, I will immediately be penalized for failing to appear, which means lots of fines, my license being suspended, and, best of all, a warrant being issued for my arrest.

There's absolutely nothing I can do to prevent this. They won't go through the thousands of tickets waiting to be entered into the system to find mine and do it before the deadline, and they can't flag my record to show that I didn't actually fail to appear. My only option is to spend the two or three hours driving to and from the West LA court, where I will then have to wait in line to see a clerk, explain the situation to him or her, and then get a piece of paper that says that I tried to deal with my ticket before the due date, but was unable to through no fault of my own. I will then show this notice to a judge when I get caught for not appearing on the first ticket, and he will dismiss everything. And then I'll get to go back to court yet AGAIN to deal with the ticket that I shouldn't have even gotten in the first place.

What this means is that at some point in the future -- and there's no way to tell when -- my ticket will be entered into the system and a warrant will be issued for my arrest. Hopefully it won't interfere with getting a job, because they do check one's criminal record when you apply for certain things, and an outstanding warrant never makes one look like employee material. As for getting arrested, that would suck too, but at least I'd get a cool mugshot that I can use for my Christmas cards, even if it happens next July, which may very well happen, as the justice system moves extremely slowly. How slowly? Well, I just happen to have a graph showing its speed relative to certain members of the animal kingdom right here:

That's right; -4 mph.

Incidentally, I'm not the only person who something like this has happened to. Also, if anyone has the name of a good traffic lawyer in LA, please pass it on to me. Or even, at this point, a criminal lawyer. Because as of December 14th, that's what I'll be. A CRIMINAL!

Thanks

2005-11-23T18:47:00.000-08:00

Evil Ex-Roommate seemed to be reforming his evil ways after losing his ranch job, becoming unemployed, broke, and homeless, and then getting a new job that actually paid him more than he was spending. We were talking again and I was really happy that I was finally getting my friend back after losing him during the last two years.

Like last year, we were both stuck in LA without any family for the upcoming Thanksgiving holidays and had made plans to spend the day together. I wasn't about to cook this time, though; we were going to go to a casino and spend the day basking in the artificial daylight and try to forget about the fact that we were giving the Morongo casino money even though their radio and TV ads are really annoying.

And then, of course, he backed out of our plans, saying that he didn't think we had set anything in stone and he didn't have any money for a casino anyway and, most importantly I believe, he had gotten an invitation to a party at some of his ranch friends' house. I told him that next time I would be sure to make it absolutely crystal clear that we did, in fact, have plans I was relying on to the point of not making plans with anyone else, except that there will not be a next time. We were friends since fourth grade. We are not friends any more. I told him I hoped his new friends would drag him out of his bathrub the next time he passed out drunk in it at three in the morning, stopped him from driving drunk by standing in front of his car while he screamed at them, and let him take advantage of them, because that's apparently what he needs from his friends. He said he hoped I would find some new friends who wouldn't make me sad. I said I was pretty sure I'd be able to manage that just fine. I hope I sounded a lot more sure of that than I actually felt.

This leaves me alone tomorrow with the following food items to try to make a meal out of:

-French's French Fried Onions, chedder flavor
-Pasta, dry
-Milk, skim, slightly spoiled
-Poppycock brand chocolate and peanut butter popcorn, very delicious
-Ten cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon Light beer

I'm sure some type of casserole can be fashioned out of this.

Fortunately, the Stabucks down the street will be open for a few hours tomorrow, and I will drop by there for some human interaction. There are some days when they are the only people I speak to. This is why I really need to get a job outside of my apartment. Working at home has been fun, but the vacation is over. The people at Starbucks know that my first name is spelled with no "H."

Aside from all that, there are things I am happy about and thankful for and I will think of them tomorrow. Tonight I will wallow in self-pity.

A Reason To Watch The News

2005-11-10T10:04:00.000-08:00

Jim Hill thought he had it goin' on over at the KCBS nightly news with his perfect newsanchor name: the familiar first name that suggests he's more of an informative friend than a stranger broadcasting to thousands and a solid, unmoving geographical feature for a last name that creates an impression of a trustworthy and dependable news source.

But then they hired JOHNNY MOUNTAIN, who totally one-upped him with his even MORE familiar first name and an even BIGGER and MORE SOLID geographical feature last name! JOHNNY MOUNTAIN is like Jim Hill times one thousand! And he knows it, too. Just look at his face! He is goddamn proud of himself. Meanwhile, poor Jim Hill, squished into a corner, bravely tries to pretend none of this is going on. But his smile doesn't reach his eyes, where his sadness and anger can clearly be seen. Hell, his smile barely reaches his moustache.

Meanwhile, human buffer zones Paul Magers and Laura Diaz are just like " ... awkward."

If this dynamic translates to the news broadcast, I may just start watching.

Bad Company

2005-11-02T16:14:00.000-08:00

Hey, at least they didn't go with their first company name idea: AIDS (Amazingly Ignorant of Disease-name Shortenings).

And Now, the Answers

2005-11-01T16:30:00.000-08:00

The answers to the three questions posed at the end of my last blog entry, written back in 1979 at the dawn of the internet (I really need to update more often, I know. But, you see, I was trying to build suspense with the three-month absence. Totally):

Evil Ex-Roommate does, in fact, live in a barn surrounded by hay bales. There is no indoor plumbing.

We were able to move my things without incurring significant damage to our persons, even though my friend's meat-free diet lacks sufficient amounts of protein and my mother and I are small women. This was accomplished by the on-the-spot decision to leave my couch on the curb of my old apartment building, because it was way too big and heavy to get into my new building's elevator. That brings us to the last question:

We were not, in fact, able to avoid confrontation with the neighbors. If you guessed that that was the "no" answer, you win! Also, if you know me personally and did not guess the answer that involved me getting into a fight with someone, you should be ashamed because you really don't know me at all. Call me sometime.

The fight was because my apartment building's next-door neighbors (I always called them The Sims because they have at least two room's worth of furniture hanging out on their front yard, not unlike when you first start to play the popular computer game and you don't have enough money to build all the walls or floors of your new house so you and your SimFamily have to live outside until you get a promotion in your SimJob because you SimWorked out on your SimSoloflex for one day), did not appreciate that we left my couch on the curb once we realized that it was not going to fit in the elevator of my new building, which was built in the twenties when people were apparently really small and fond of real wood paneling. I'd like to point out again that these people have two couches, a dining table that would not be out of place in a Medieval Times, and two old-fashioned salon hairdryer chairs in their yard, so you'd think they didn't really have a leg to stand on with the no-furniture-outside argument. Unless, of course, they were standing on the leg of one of the fifteen chairs around their massive table. That's, like, sixty legs. I tried to point out to them that maybe someone with a goddamn FIREPLACE hanging out in his front yard shouldn't have a problem with other people trying to create their own outside living rooms, but the guy insisted that we live in a "nice neighborhood," which apparently means that we are to keep our outside couches behind the high walls of our ugly and cheap-looking stucco fence. Dude, just because you were stupid enough to pay over a million dollars for a house that was condemned just a year ago and then renovated by a team of laborers who I'm pretty sure were taken to the jobsite directly from the Home Depot parking lot they were hanging out in in hopes of getting hired for an odd job, doesn't mean that the rest of us have to conform to your standards of what a million-dollar home neighborhood should be. And by "the rest of us," I mean me, the homeless man who built a two-room tent with adjoining greenhouse on the sidewalk, whoever it was that stole two loads of my laundry out of the goddamn dryer, those kids who kept sneaking into my apartment building to use our pool, the dead pigeon, and, of course, this guy:

I will miss you (the pool, not the guy. My new place doesn't have a pool).

Independence Day

2005-08-13T11:33:00.000-07:00

I spent this past Fourth of July moving to a new place, because the symbolism of my freedom from Evil Roommate falling on the same day as America's freedom from the supposed tyranny of British rule was just too good to pass up. And also because the long holiday weekend enabled my parents to fly out here to help me. This is very important when you have furniture that, despite being mostly from IKEA, is heavy and not possible to move on one's own. Here's how it all went down:

Evil Roommate didn't come home one night, which was not especially unusual or notable until he called me the next day to report that he had spent the night in jail after being arrested for drunk driving. He did not call me at the time of his arrest because the police took away his cell phone, which had all the phone numbers he knew stored on it, including the one to HIS OWN HOME. That's right -- he doesn't even know his own phone number, for which he pays half the phone bill to maintain. Anyway, the next morning, his place of work noticed his abscence and wondered if it had anything to do with letting him leave the bar they were partying at the night before and drive home drunk off his ass. Someone took the initiative to call around to local hospitals and police stations until he was finally located. If they had not done this, Evil Roommate may still be in jail today, because he has no sense. It should also be noted that, had the police not pulled him over, Evil Roommate would probably be dead today, taking any number of innocent people out with him, because this was the only way he was going to learn his goddamn lesson, although that remains to be seen. He know puts his too-drunk-to-drive mark at ten beers (before it was twenty, I believe), and still thinks that, despite the fact that his BAC was twice the legal limit and he was swerving on a highway that he still doesn't remember why he was on, since it wasn't on his way home, he was still driving safely when he was pulled over. He gets his license back in a few weeks. Watch out, Los Angeles!

A few days later, after enduring several speeches (some angry, some tearful) from me about the dangers and stupidity of drunk driving and the dangers and stupidity of being friends with people who had no qualms about letting others drunk drive, Evil Roommate informed me that the ranch he works at was offering him a room in their barn for free. Since the DUI fine and doubled car insurance rates would make it almost impossible for him to pay rent, and the revocation of his license would make it impossible for him to get to work (yes, I know you can get a provisional license. No, he didn't want to bother with all that), he had decided to move out. This left me slightly upset for the following reasons:

1. I was planning on moving out on him because this was not the first time his alcohol abuse had affected the lives of people around him (namely me, who had to fish him out of his bathtub after finding him passed out in it at three in the morning, faucet running and drain thankfully unplugged, and thinking he was dead for a good five minutes until he finally woke up and started speaking to me in rapid Spanish), and now he had gotten the drop on me, which is annoying.

and,

2. He wanted to move out at the end of May, and meaning that I would either have to cancel a trip home to see my brother graduate from college and my grandparents visiting from England, or pay double rent for the month of June, giving me enough time to go back to Connecticut and then get a new apartment when I got back to California.

In the end, I decided not to let Evil Roommate's arrest affect any more innocent people than it had to, so I went home to see my family and we were all very happy. And then I came back to Los Angeles and freaked out because I now had to pay double rent and look for a studio apartment that was both safe and affordable. Plus, Evil Roommate decided that, since I was still living in our apartment and he still had the keys to the place, he would just not move any of his stuff out until he had to, so his furniture was still in my apartment, taunting me. And, of course, he hadn't cleaned his bathroom before leaving, which was to be expected since he hadn't cleaned it EVER in the year and a half since we moved in. It took me two days to clean that bathroom, and I saw things in those two days that no one should ever see, let alone describe to her readers. I wanted to sell all his crap off to try to make some of that double rent money back, but I ended up chickening out and letting him in a week later to get his mattress so he could sell it to some ranch guy for two hundred and fifty dollars. I also let a friend of his, who had given him a ton of furniture to borrow, in to get her stuff back before it disappeared forever. Everything else, I either took with me to my new place, like the television and the pots and pans, or just left there for the next tenant to deal with, like the furniture.

Next time on L.A.me:

Can Sara, her parents, and her non-red-meat-eating friend move all of her possessions without throwing out their backs or getting yelled at by the neighbors? Does Evil Roommate actually live in a barn now, surrounded by hay bales and horses, like Pam thinks? The answer to one of these questions is "no."

I Am Finally Reconnected

2005-08-02T15:11:00.000-07:00

It took four weeks, countless cell phone hours, and billions of whatever unit one uses to measure frustration, but my internet privileges have been restored.

Oh, sweet internet! I shall never take thee for granted again.

Many More Apologies

2005-07-25T11:27:00.000-07:00

Yet again, I have let everyone down with my apparent refusal to update this blog at anything even remotely resembling a regular interval. And yet again, I'm very sorry for that. You see, I went and moved earlier this month (details to follow!) and now I am without high speed internet because the company I ordered it from is ridiculous and keep screwing up and every time I call to complain and ask where the hell my internet is, they put me on hold for forty minutes and then ask me to take a customer satisfaction survey. I do have dial-up, but that sucks so I only use it for TWoP stuff and it cuts off all the time so it's really not reliable enough to use for blogging. I feel so cut off from the world; the internet is my only access to the awesomeness that is daily comic Mary Worth, and all kinds of cool stuff has been going on in there and I've been missing it all! But then this place I used to work for called and asked if I could work for them for a week, and since their office has air conditioning and internet, two things my apartment does not, I jumped on it. Not to mention they pay me and I get all the frosted strawberry Poptarts I want. So that's why I'm able to update now.

My internet is supposed to make its triumphant return by the end of this week. Of course, that's what they said would happen on July 11. And then the 18th. And then the 20th. And then my head exploded so I couldn't call them anymore to get more fake dates they pulled out of their ass. Whenever I get it, I'll post all about my move and how I am free of the Evil Roommate, who went to live in a barn.

R.I.P. Depresso Man

2005-06-21T10:10:00.000-07:00

Back in November, when I updated this blog at a more reliable and regular pace, I talked about some of my neighbors. It turns out that Depresso Man and Gargoyle Guy were, in fact, the same person, and that my instinct that there was something a little off about Depresso Man, mentally, was pretty accurate.

I first noticed something was wrong when the gargoyle wasn't poking out of the open door at night anymore. I hoped that Depresso Man had perhaps realized that having his front door closed and locked was better protection against intruders than a plastic gargoyle head, and thought nothing of it. But then stuff started accumulating in front of the door, like notices from the management about the fifteenth rent increase in the last six months despite the fact that our building is supposed to be rent controlled, and the collection of festive fall gourds that had long since outlived their seasonal decorating purposes. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Depresso Man was no longer leaving his apartment. Optimistically, I hoped that perhaps Depresso Man had adopted a new fitness regimen and was now leaving his apartment via a rope ladder off his balcony. Maybe he was on vacation, and was getting a nice tan on a Carribbean beach. I hoped he would take his motorcycle boots off for that, or else he'd get some weird tanlines. Maybe he was working on a masterpiece of fiction, and needed to hole himself up for a few weeks to get the creative juices flowing.

Evil Roommate and I started becoming really concerned when a foul-smelling cloud began hovering in front of Depresso Man's door, and then expanded to encompass our entire hallway. Admittedly, most of our concern was that passers-by would think we were the culprits of the smell as opposed to concern for Depresso Man's health and well-being, because we're shallow assholes who care more about outward appearances than we do the well-being of others, like everyone else in our peer group. I don't want strangers thinking I live in a trash hole, okay?

And then I came home one day to find Depresso Man's door open and two strange people packing up his possessions. Depresso Man was nowhere to be seen. The people were wearing latex gloves. "Moving out?" I asked the nearest packer. I stood around waiting for a response, but it was not forthcoming.

So I asked the apartment manager about it, because if someone went and died in the apartment across and to the right of mine, I'd like to know about it. The manager said that Depresso Man suffered from "dementia" (I don't think he got the wording right, but you get the picture), and a few of his long-time neighbors would check on him every once in a while to make sure he was all right. They came to the manager saying they were concerned about Depresso Man as he hadn't been around lately, so he had the uneviable task of going up there and opening up the guy's apartment to make sure he was still alive.

Which he was, I'm happy to report. Alive, but not well. His family were called, and they came out and put him in a mental facility, then decided to bring him back to their home state so they could keep a closer eye on him. Those packers were his brother and sister. The unpleasant smell was coming from his fish/turtle tank, which was near the door and had not been taken care of properly in a long time. So something had died, but it wasn't a human.

Over the next few days, boxes upon boxes upon boxes filled with books and DVDs filled the hall. I took a peak into Depresso Man's apartment and it was just filled with stuff. The walls were lined with tall stone statues, crowded together so densely that you couldn't even see the walls behind them. He had so much stuff in his apartment that, despite having already packed four stacks of boxes about six feet high and five deep, the movers hadn't even made a dent. According to the titles in Depresso Man's library, now boxed up and on its way to the nearest Salvation Army, he was a big fan of the medieval science fiction genre, and he had kind of built his own magic castle in that apartment, a safe place to escape to when the real world got too stressful for him to deal with. It must have taken years to accumulate all the stuff that was in there. It took two weeks to move it all out.

Good News First

2005-06-12T22:03:00.000-07:00

Remember those ads I used to have on the right-hand side of the page? Well, my wonderful awesome readers, you clicked on them enough to raise $137.25! I got the check last month and then, as promised, sent it out to the Jamie A. Hulley Fund for the Arts. Here is the front of the card I got back, which belongs to all of you so you should see it:

Inside, it says:

"Thank you for your generous support of the Jamie A. Hulley Fund for the Arts. It is our hope that Jamie's joyous and innovative spirit will continue its celebration of life through the works of other young artists." Yay!

A few days after sending out the check, the ad people emailed me to say that they determined that I had been generating fake clicks for the ads on my page and so were terminating my account. I asked them for proof of my fake-click-generating, but they said that their algorithms were far too complex for me to understand. Algorithms, my ass! My guess is that it came down to simple mathematics:

Lots of $$$ from sponsors - $$$ paid out to Sara = not as much $$$ for Google Adsense staff.

Ah, well -- I'm thrilled that we raised what we did. Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who clicked on those ads!