Sunday, December 1, 2013

Advent Calendar Day 1

Happy December! 
This year to countdown to Christmas I am providing an advent calendar to everyone by posting daily holiday videos! My gift of 25 days of me if you will.  Is this project slightly self indulgent? Perhaps.  But I hope you'll enjoy the silliness all the same.

Advent Calendar Day 1: Have a Politically Correct December.




Sunday, July 7, 2013

Short Story Sundays: Counting Sheep

**Warning: serious lack of punctuation!  (This is for the sake of the exercise.  Don't worry. My love of clipped sentences remains.)

Counting Sheep

             I blinked several times to allow the daylight to flood in with the return of my consciousness and with that came the terrible truth of all the things I'd pushed from my mind to make room for the few hours of sleep I'd coersed myself into with the promise that all the worry would be ushered back in with the light as it now had the pleasure of doing with abundant dread I saw the days tasks dance before my eyes like deamonic sheep that wake instead of put to rest because deamon sheep hate the sweet escape that sleep provides and only allow nightmares of taunting failures and bitter lonliness and gloating brothers who sit back and have success handed to them and never have the pleasure of a morning greeting from deamon sheep for the sheep steer clear of people they have nothing to use to torment them so in that way I am much more wealthy than my brother who can keep his wife and kids and home and ferrari because he can't know the joy of what he has when he has never known the empty longing brought about by deamon sheep.


Sunday, June 23, 2013

Short Story Sundays: Napping


Napping

Elongated limbs.  Bodily branches reaching in the air, pulling out in every direction.  Stretching far, further, furthest out to the absolute furthest comprehensibly possible point.  
Ah. There.  
The eased release.  Energy slithering out.   Seeping, sinking, slinking, slumping. Deflating after the urgency of moments before.  Draping legs decorating the sofa. Blanket legs. Curled but not crumpled.  Arms dreamily dangling.  Throw pillow arms.  The tingle of relaxation softly vibrating through the languid living room.  Skin tingling.  Just a rag doll ornament.  Another fixture of the languid living room.  
A lazy daisy.
No pressing or stressing.  No required bamboozling nor prerequisite choosing, cruising, shmoozing.  No daily grind. No grinding grinding grind.  Crack!  Out of bed. Crack!  To the car. Crack! To the desk. Cramming, cringing, cranking. Cantering toward the breaking point until…  Not  today. Nothing.  Only rest.
Only snoozing.  
Soft sunshine seeping in.  All is still. One with the languid living room.  One with the squashy sofa.  One with silent, sleeping air.

New Project: Short Story Sundays

Hey gang!
I've decided to revisit a book of writing exercises that I was a particular fan of in college.  To keep me honest, I'm going to post whatever writing comes out from doing the exercises every Sunday.  If you feel like playing along at home, the book I'm working from is called Steering the Craft by Ursula K. Le Guin.  I'd love to read some of your pieces too. :-)
Happy Writing!

Monday, June 10, 2013

Learning to be Twenty-four

             Yesterday, as I unhappily lurched up off the couch to put in a different movie to watch while I nursed the hangover that would surely loom above me for the rest of my born days, it occurred to me that this was not the activity of a twenty-four year old woman.  Sure, a mere twenty-three year old girl can get by spending an entire day cursing the gods for her own over indulgence, but the twenty-fourth year of life demands a little more elegance.  So today, with all the clarity afforded me from yesterday's water, Gatorade and greasy Chinese food I have comprised a list of things twenty-four year old Becky really should stop or start to do:

1) Twenty-four year old women do not have soul sucking hangovers, an elegant lady of twenty-four learns to politely vomit out the poison and go about her day.  Sure, at the tender age of twenty-three it may seem cool to drain a tenth shot of whiskey without tribute to the porcelain god of humility, but a twenty-four year old woman of grace knows that a private moment of indignity at the end of the night could spare her the next twenty-four hours of confinement to her couch.  Much like a runway model learns to expel her rice cakes for the sake of her career, a twenty-four year old woman must make appropriate sacrifices.

2) A twenty-four year old does not hide dirty cookie sheets in the oven when friends come over. She makes the time to clean everything, no matter how delicious the coffee smells are as they pour onto the street on her walk home.  How could she possibly enjoy that Columbian blend knowing that there is work to be done?

3) A twenty- four year old sends 'thank you' notes to friends who bake cupcakes and give presents, and resists sending 'no thank you'  notes to men who give unwanted phone numbers and cheek kisses.

4) Twenty-four year old women are much too elegant and mysterious to ever receive unwanted cheek kisses.

5) A twenty-four year old woman always remembers to shut her curtains before taking showers.

6) On the rare occasion that she does forget about the curtains, she does not give the homeless man looking at her in her towel a thumbs up.

7) A  twenty-four year old woman is permitted to wear her birthday tiara around the apartment while doing dishes and such, but never will she wear it downstairs and out to the dumpster.

8)  A twenty-four year old woman does not go out in public looking like a mess.  Even when walking home from the gym, she puts some effort toward looking as though she merely has a spritz of glistening lady sweat, not as though she has just stepped out of a pool of bodily liquid.  Should she forget this, her punishment will arrive in the form of an ex boyfriend, childhood rival, or familiar handsome barista, any of whom will smile a little too knowingly as they make polite small talk, trying not to breathe through their noses.

9) A twety-four year old will not listen to the Space Jam theme song more than twice in one day.  This includes performing her own acoustic covers of the tune.  Her neighbors have suffered enough from back when she was a naive twenty-three year old, now they can enjoy the reformed creature whose walls they share.

10)  A twenty-four year old woman never ever makes a move toward a man.  Even when he sits down directly across from her at a cafe and smiles over at her when she looks up from the blog she is working on, she will not be inviting.  Audrey Hepburn is only ever candid with a man when she is drunk or drugged, so shall an elegant twenty-four year old woman behave.  Polite giggles at small jokes is all he will get from her otherwise dignified demeanor.

             My first day and a half as a twenty-four year old woman has already proven many of these goals difficult to accomplish, but I am quite scrappy underneath all this freshly applied mystique, so let's do this.

Monday, March 25, 2013

Jaw breakers and Jean-Claude Van Damme


So, last night I got punched in the face.  Upon later reflection, I actually have reason to believe I was kneed in the face, but whatever the projectile body part involved, the contact point was definitely my face.  Put away your fire and pitchforks, it was an accident and the guy who owned the fist or knee in question is a lovely person.
Seriously, I know what I sound like but put down the phone and stop dialing the abused women hotline.  We were improvising in a show and he nearly tripped over me, so to teach me a lesson he popped me in the jaw.  
Consequently, I have had to punish myself further by adopting a liquid diet, as the alternative is making pitiful cold puppy whimpering noises every time I chew.  This has allowed for a very interesting case study in Hollywood's reaction to dietary habits.  After my nearly two months so far living here, I am already very aware of the hatred that is involved in not appearing to put much thought into what you eat.  Nothing gives a Hollywood barista more pleasure than stink eyeing my choice to allow her to use whipped cream on my drink, and don't even get me started on the distain toward an occasional bagel.  
I have been a vegetarian for eight years, so I have a small stipend of protection from these health crazed busybodies.  Apparently I am allowed to eat mashed potatoes if they are in a vegetarian shepherd's pie.  Thank goodness I let Bambi get to me as a kid.
This morning, when the aftermath of my Jean-Claude Van Damme moment fully set in, I set off to the store to find sustenance that didn't require a jaw be functional.  I was feeling a bit cocky about my grocery run.  With my shopping basket filled with protein shakes and yogurt I looked like a regular Hollywooder!  
How naive I was to feel so confident.  Upon checking out, I was very disappointed to receive a whole new brand of smug looks.  My checkout girl clearly thought she saw right through me.  She assumed that the guy that told Bob Dylan to go electric had gotten to me too and was puppet-mastering me into abandoning my previously adored solid foods. (He hasn't had a lot going on for a while...) 
I wanted to call out to her, tell her I would be back to real food as soon as I was healed.  I wanted her to know that I was the good guy.  (I mean obviously, if I was the bad guy in a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie I would have been knocked out, not just sore from a hit like that, surely this was evidence!)  Instead, I chose to look hungrily at my protein shake, letting my eyebrows tell her, "That's right.  Ten grams of protein per serving.  Delicious."  I strutted right out of that grocery store with my head held high, and you know what?  Later tonight I am going to drink a Latte.  With whipped cream.

Monday, January 28, 2013

Just Worried About the Cat



In a couple of days, Mia and I are moving from our Princess tower in Fullerton, and into a little studio in Hollywood.  Of course I, being well traveled for my age and having regularly made the commute to Hollywood for years, am not worried at all, but I do worry for Mia.  Fullerton, after all is where we first met and has been a truly lovely home.  
Mia has gotten accustomed to the views from all the windows of our tower, each giving the whole place the feel of a treehouse.  She has grown used to having friends pour out onto the balcony when the kitchen/living room is too full of cooks and laughter.  And don't even get me started on the untold joy she gets from throwing up fur-balls and watching them cascade down the tiny wooden staircase.  I may miss enjoying the occasional sunrise and cup of coffee from my roof, but what is that to Mia's sadness at no longer being able to use her intricate knowledge of how to open every drawer and cupboard in this place while I'm asleep?  This is the most beautiful apartment I've ever lived in, but its the only apartment my little alley cat has ever called home.
And what about this community we've… I mean she's.... grown to love?  I've lived in Modjeska Canyon, R.S.M, Chicago, Florence and The Dreaded Valley, but Mia was born and raised in Fullerton.  I know I'll find new adventures in Hollywood, but I worry that Mia will miss walking over to the Night Owl or Max Bloom' s or McClain's for a cup of coffee, or driving over to Sunset Lounge for a game of pool and a Shirley Temple.  (I can only assume those are the activities she engages in on the rare occasions she escapes the house.  That's what I'd do.)
Look, call me a worry wart if you will, say I'm being a crazy cat lady because I'm so concerned with Mia's well being, but seriously: shit, man.  We are college graduates now.  We have to be real grown ups and get real jobs and make money and settle into a new place and get new people to hang out with us (because I care about her and all but when a cat and a single gal spend too much time together, people talk) and find new places to feel happy and safe and creative all while looking slightly aloof and disinterested in everything but laser pointers?  Don't get me wrong, I can totally handle it.  I'm just a little worried about the cat.