Musically Theatrical

Hi-yo.

Where the heck have I been? I wish I knew the answer to that question.  I'm truly afraid that the answer lies somewhere along the I-10 Freeway between Santa Monica and Miracle Mile, where my soul dies every day.  Twice.

Woah.  Enough with the melodrama already, right?

Today I'm going to talk about something that inspires me to be a better person, and wear too much makeup, and burst into song and dance in my kitchen with only my poor mother and sisters to spectate and laugh.

Musicals.  Oh, how I love them.  I will pay a lot of money to see a speck on a stage dance about and sing their heart out and hear the orchestra swell.  I've seen a few in my short 23 (!) years (still not over that one, folks) including, but not limited to:

Magical.  Dancing grass, need I say more?

Oh what a night.  Oh!

If I were a rich man...

And a darling dancing boy. 

Last night I was graced once again by one of my faves...

Now THIS, folks, is a show.  There's drama, comedy, romance, some fantastic music, and magic.  And a green girl.  It's fantastic.

I dooooo have one small complaint.  I think I was spoiled the first time I saw this show, because I saw the Megan Hilty version of Glinda- and she is just too perfect.  Now, in defense of Kristin Chenoweth, I never saw her perform Glinda- so I will resist calling Megan Hilty the best Glinda EVER, but I think she is just a hoot and a half.  The woman must drink 4 Red Bulls every night before showtime...

Last night's Glinda was good... but she wasn't this good.  Ah, well.  Can't win them all.  Still a fabulous show.  If you are in LA, make it a priority to go see it.  You won't regret it.

And this brings me to my favorite musical of all time...

Oy, vey. I shouldn't even get started, as I'm tearing up just thinking about it.  Maybe it is the first love phenomena, because I saw Phantom at a young age in San Francisco, but this show has a firm grip on my heart, my emotions, and my tear ducts.  I find the Phantom to be the most tragic hero of all time, and he just gets me.  

I saw this show this past year in Austin, and the poor friends I dragged with me had to witness me at my most emotional sappiness.  It's the music, I tell you.  It just moves you in such inexplicable ways. 

If you haven't seen Phantom and plan on seeing it in, oh, I don't know, 10 years when it comes back to the stage (an outright travesty, I tell you!) then you might want to stop reading.  Because I'm about to re-live the most tragic and melodramatic moments. Sorry I'm not sorry.

Most tear inducing scene- Act 1: As Christine and Raoul croon to each other on the roof, the Phantom looks on, heartbroken, and sings... "I gave you my music- made your song take wing... And now, how you've repaid me, denied me and betrayed me..."  and then he sobs.  And let me tell you- when a masked figure sobs over his lost love, I sob too.

As if this isn't enough... Act II really punches you in the stomach when you're down.  I'm not going to post the video, because it's 11 minutes long and I don't want to admit that I actually spent 11 minutes on this... 

Anyway- just watch "Final Lair" when you have a spare moment and want to have your heart ripped out and danced on.  When Christine begs of the Phantom to have mercy on Raoul, he shouts in reply, in agony, "The world didn't have mercy on me!" 

Oh, come ON.  By the time the poor, tragic Phantom belts out, "You alone can make my song take flight- It's over now, the music of the night..."  I'm one big fat blubbering mess wondering why I like to torture myself in this way.

I think there might be only one musical more tragic- 

And I'll be waiting anxiously in line the day this lovely comes to town.  

Because there is nothing as uplifting as listening to the haunting melody of "On my Own." 

And I shall ask again... why do I do this to myself?  

Pampered Hands

**Disclaimer:  This entire post is about nails.  Yes, the ones that grow out of your fingers.  If this isn't your cup-o-tea, check back soon for something that might be a bit more relevant to your life.

 Okay, I'll admit it.  I have a bit of a nail obsession.  I blame this completely on the fact that my mother's nails have always been perfect and she throws around the term "pterygium" like it's no big deal. (Word to the wise- DON'T GOOGLE THIS.  It's horrifying.)  Come to think of it, my mother's endless knowledge about illnesses and drugs are probably the reason I'm a certifiable hypochondriac too...

But alas, I digress.  So I like my nails to be absolutely perfect at all times with very, very few exceptions.  I spend a lot of time perusing All Lacquered Up to make sure I haven't missed something vital, like a new O.P.I. collection debuting or the introduction of Shellac into the market.  

Let me explain... Shellac (or any number of "gel" manicures, now there a million and a half off-brands that do the same darn thing) is a gel-polish hybrid that is painted onto the natural nail, "cured" under a UV light, and sticks there for at least 2 weeks.  Like glue.  And then you can either rip it off, (unfortunately, along with the top layer of your nail) or spend an hour soaking your fingers in potentially toxic liquid to make the stuff crumble and fall off, leaving you with brittle, dry and basically useless fingernails.

Needless to say, this stuff is a miracle.  Because let me tell you... for the two weeks that it is on, your nails are flawless.  Shiny, chip-free, and strong.  (Or at least they feel strong... which is most definitely an allusion.)

So I try to get my nails shellaced (can I make this a verb?) every two weeks, and this serves me well, for the most part.  We get into trouble around a week in, where I can start seeing my cuticles, and thus having a panic attack.  So I've devised a system to sustain the long, strong nails- and keep my devil cuticles in check.

Here goes.  I begin by filing my nails (with shellac on!) back to a reasonable length.  Then I push back and trim my cuticles. (I'm afraid I've become de-sensitized to that and it's really gross.  Sorry.) Which brings me to this point...

Yuck.  Let's move on quickly...

I then buff them to take away all traces of shine- and make the surface a bit more tactile (tactile? tacky? what am I trying to say here?) and to smooth the line of demarkation (I'm totally making these terms up tonight...) and get a nice surface.  Like so.

Double yuck.  Make sure to wash your hands thoroughly before painting to get rid of all the nasty chalky biz.  You don't want that on your canvas.

And then you paint. Just in case this isn't glaringly obvious, you must use a similar shade or darker on too of the original Shellac. Durr.

And bada-bing!

And you have perfect, cuticle-free, Shellaced nails for another week.

You're welcome.

If for some weird reason you don't have all the aforementioned tools at your convenience, well, get yo-self to a beauty supply store and start working with those cuticle nippers.  Your life will never be the same.

Until next time, when I'll hopefully have something of a bit more substance to talk about.

Magic

Next week will be magical.  I've called it. Yes, I know that Halloween has passed, which only means that my favorite time of year is here.  My toes are blue and purple and numb and Starbucks has red cups.  And I'm going to Texas TWICE in the next TWO months.  Holy cow.

But back to this week...

I will not have to dread the day of my birth coming about (although I am very curious as to what my roommate has been hiding from me from my parents- they text) and I have many, many magical events on the agenda.

First and foremost, I get to see my sweet Daddio in seven mere days.  I absolutely adore the fact that he sells giant chunks of aluminum in this strange land I'm living in, because it means spur-of-the-moment, make-your-Thursday-brighter, trips.  I'm picking the fanciest restaurant in town with the most expensive steak that I can't afford and making him take me on a date.

Also, my boss surprised me with an invitation to the premiere of "Immortals," only the movie I'm most excited to see in this whole opening weekend.  Okay, really though, I've been excited about this one for awhile, due to this face.

I'm sure we will meet on the red carpet and fall madly in love and he will abandon his horse-back riding fiance for me.  Or I'll see him from a few yards away and try not to embarrass myself or my boss with my star-struckness.

I loved him first.

I'll leave it at that.  Talk to me in a few months when you fall in love too.

Twenty Something

I am approaching a milestone in my life.

Oh, okay, more like a worthless birthday, but whatever.

I am a little unnerved by my upcoming 23rd birthday.  My mother kindly reminded me that I did this whole panic-attack routine last year, lamenting the fact that I would never be 21 again, and I've managed to not fall apart in the past 12 months.  I was sure it would be the same with 23.

Until I turned on the dang radio.

(I know, I know.  The day I find a blog post that is not inspired by XM radio I'll know I've really made it.)

Today's instigator: Blink 182.  And the line...

"That's about the time she ran away from me... Nobody likes you when you're 23..."

Geez, now I'm really thrilled.  You see, I have this small issue with age and the fact that I'll never be 17 again.

If you're reading this and you're under 17, (are there any of you out there, by the way?) you have this whole holy grail of sorts looming in your future that will pass too fast for you to even realize that you've made it to the pinnacle of your life.

I kid.

Kinda.  Think about it.  How many songs do you know that talk about being 25? Or 32?  Or (gasp!) 40?

I mean, 17 has a whole publication, for Pete's sake.  Taylor Swift is perpetually 17 in her songs. The Dancing Queen is only 17.  Liesl von Trapp feels so strongly about her approaching age that she can scale whole gazebo's in one leap.  In Strawberry Wine... oh, nevermind.

You get the point.  I get really sad when I think about the fact that 17 is gone forever.  Maybe I should write a song? It could be called "Seventeen is Gone."

Clever, huh?

Which brings me to my next theory... I have a theory that when we get to Heaven, God is going to offer up a plethora of sorts of characteristics we will get to have for all of eternity.  And since it is heaven, we will all choose perfectly and be forever perfect.  I've long ago decided that I will be tall in heaven, as I have no idea what the world looks like from anywhere higher than 5'2''.  I'm convinced this will happen.

Now I've decided that I will be perpetually 17.  It's about the age I feel, and my interests tend to skew in this direction.  I don't think this is something that will change with time, either.  17 is my soul age, I'm afraid.  I'm certainly not 20, or anywhere close to where I should be given the clock.  There is, however, a large possibility my soul is about 35, but that is a depressing realization that I'd rather skip over.

So, on Friday, when I become unlikeable to everyone, I'm just going to pretend I'm turning 17.

Because I can't miss out on that twice.

Drops of Something

I'm a little tired today.

Also, my ears are incessantly ringing because I stood too close to the speaker at the Pat Green concert in Hollywood last night.  Yes, that Pat Green.  I haven't seen so many boots and cowboy hats in Los Angeles since the Rose Bowl.

I'm also a little emotional.  I have no reasoning for this, so just bear with me.  I was reading this charming little book called "Koala Lou" to my boss' 7 year old daughter last night and I literally had to choke out the last page through my tears.  She laughed hysterically.  Oh, to be 7 and not know the bittersweet stepping stones on the path to adulthood.

Oy freaking vey.  It's sad though.  And it just made me want to hug my mom.  (Love you, Mamasita.)

This whole mess adds up to me being nostalgic (Pat Green) delusional (lack of sleep) and a big blubbering crying mess (Koala.)

Therefore, I've come to some revelations.

And they probably won't make any sense to anyone other than myself.  Here goes...

I am terrified of being a "Drops of Jupiter" girl.

Did ya catch that? Really, no?

Suffice it to say that Train and Sugarland are having a battle in my head.

Drops of Jupiter-this song comes on the radio all the stinking time.  If you know me at all you know that I place great value upon the songs that I hear on the radio.  It's weird and superstitious and wrong.

Take a listen...

So my fear here is that I'm the girl who's wandering around the atmosphere, (hopefully my head is glistening with drops of something) and that someday someone will say to me "Did you sail across the sun- did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights are faded, and heaven is overrated... And tell me, did Venus blow your mind- was it everything you wanted to find and did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?"  "Me" in this case being all of my lovies back in Texas.

I am terrified of finding that I have spent my time frivolously chasing after "faded" lights and an "overrated" heaven.

But I tell you- the second I start wondering these things too much, Sugarland pops in to save the day.  The current radio message is "Settlin'."

Now, I would like to point out that I am taking this from a "life" point of view as opposed to a "love" point of view.  Such girl power going in this one, right?  She's not settling, or setting the bar low, or giving up, or fearing that she is wasting time.  And I shouldn't either...

So you see my conundrum...

(And I'd like to point out- I'm not plagued by this like it might seem, I'm just feeling needy today.)

The only answer I've found for all these wanderings comes from the place where all my answers lie...

"For the LORD gives wisdom; 

From His mouth come knowledge and understanding;

7 He stores up sound wisdom for the upright; 
He is a shield to those who walk uprightly; 

8 He guards the paths of justice, 
And preserves the way of His saints. 

9 Then you will understand righteousness and justice, 
Equity and every good path."

-Proverbs 2: 6-9

In all these things, I am exceedingly comforted by the fact that as long as I am seeking Him wholeheartedly, I cannot be led astray.  My path is not some elusive needle in a haystack that I am searching for, rather my path is my everyday interactions, my work, my conversations.  

Seek ye first...

Amen.

Things to Note

What have I become?

I lamented the other day that my life has become this dizzying array of predominantly worthless things that I am stringing together to try to make a meaningful life for myself.  And before you start thinking that I am unhappy- you just need to take one giant step back.

Because even though the things I do might seem small in certain ways, I am without a doubt aiding and affecting more people's lives than I probably ever have before.  And that is kinda beautiful. 

So, in the midst of all this, I have realized that I really only have about two things I can speak on with any authority at all.  And those things are... drumroll please...

Lean Cuisine Steamers and new Fall television.

I know... I know.  I would like to retain a shred of dignity by pointing out that no matter how helpless I become, I will not go back to the days of regular Lean Cuisine's.  The horror... Oh no.  I am firmly rooted in the Steamer category, and feel that in some ways this gives me a sense of cultured sophistication.

...I should stop trying, huh?

So here are my observations based on weeks upon weeks of scurrying home for my gourmet dinner at 8:30.  I work long hours, folks.  These things are godsends when it's 8:30 pm.

Er, some of them are.  Read on.

Chicken Margherita: Last night I had the great displeasure of experiencing this.  Let me tell you... it was rough.  The green stuff (still not quite sure what it was) clumped up and became super soggy in the microwave, the tomatoes turned orange and the chicken required a steak knife to cut.  My rating: 3/10. Next!

Chicken Poblano: I was really looking forward to this gem.  It came highly recommended by my sister and I looked foward to the spicy goodness inside.  And, well, the green beans were funny.  They didn't taste like green beans.  Maybe that is an effect of the freezing, thawing, and cooking with weird sauces, but they threw me off.  And my pack was LOADED with green beans.  Rating: 5/10.

Shrimp Scampi:  I should know better than to try frozen shrimp.  There is just a disconnect somewhere... Possibly due to the fact that they have been dead for months now.  Eww... Rating: 4/10.

Sweet and Spicy Ginger Chicken: Now we're talking.  Although I could certainly do with less broccoli, (who couldn't?) this just might earn a regular spot in the freezer.  The flavors were interesting enough to keep me from contemplating the meat quality too much, so that makes it a winner in my book.  Rating: 8/10.

And last but certainly not least: Chicken Pot Stickers.  These babies are good.  Ironically they were the first ones I picked up, and there is almost nothing offensive in these.  Pot stickers (I mean, come on- in a LEAN CUISINE?) edamame, (which is basically a food group in my life) and water chestnuts.  What are these things, by the way? Do they fall into the potato category?  Do they grow in those small discs?  I don't know and I don't really care because they just have such a satisfying crunch to them. The only problem I have with this one- sometimes if the sauce isn't totally covering the stickers, you can end up with weird hard crunchy patches.  Nevertheless, 9/10.  Winner winner chicken dinner. 

And on to the second regular feature in my life... the ever-elusive and thrilling television.

It's been a good premiere season folks, and I feel it is my duty as a resident of Hollywood to tell you what I think about all things entertainment related.  If you don't agree- well you can stop reading.  I am fairly opinionated about what I think makes the cut- and as Taylor from "Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" would say, "I finally found my voice and I'm not afraid to use it."

And there went my credibility.

Anyhoo... I have found three favorites.

Revenge, Hart of Dixie, and American Horror Story.

Revenge is kinda great, even though I'm shamefully only one episode in.  Whatever.  I'll catch up.  The poster alone makes it worth watching.

Hart of Dixie: Aside from the fact that I think Rachel Bilson is a terrible actor, there is something really charming about this super cheesy, super old-school WB feeling show.  I mean, one of the lead character's names is "Lemon" for Pete's sake.  But Jason Street makes many appearances, and has so convinced me.  Dillon Panthers for Life.

And last but certainly not least...

I'm going to go ahead and vehemently recommend that no one under the age of 18 and no one over the age of 30 even give this one a shot.  It is weird and scary and certainly nothing like the Tami Taylor I know and love.  But it's also fascinating.  Who is that man in the weird black rubber suit?  Why do the house residents think it's okay to keep pickled bottle parts laying about?  So many questions, so few answers.

But Tami Taylor is still rocking that hair.  Between P-Dubs and Tami Taylor, I'm really wanting to dye my hair red.  I mean, we're talking about two of my role models here, and they are both redheads.  Now, before you go crazy, I would be aiming for the strawberry variety. Thoughts? Opinions?

Until next time, I'll be eating pot stickers and watching bad reality television.  I just won't tell you about that part.

Roller Coaster Living

The highs and the lows and the round and round...

Here goes:

Current high: In less than 24 hours I will be en route to TEXAS. This is the high I've been waiting on for weeks.

Current low: Car wreck. Oy freaking vey.  Such. A. Headache.

No serious damage, just a loss of pride. And a few tears.

I need more sleep.


SEE YOU SOON BUDDIE OL' FRIENDS! TEXAS FIGHT!

Burning the Midnight Oil

My life is a dizzying array of traffic, homemade iced coffee, Home Depot runs, Yogurtland and television.  If you think this sounds pathetic, well, I might agree with you.

But please, withhold the judgment and let me justify each element of my life.  Please.

Traffic...

This is a given.  If you've spent any amount of time at all in SoCal, you understand.  My dad likes to refer to the highways of Los Angeles as the "world's largest parking lot" and I'm sad to report that he is correct from the hours of 7am - 11 am, and 3 pm - 8 pm.  If you're calculating you'll realize that this leaves almost zero useable time in the day to do much of anything.

Oy, vey.

(Also, I've taken a liking to Jewish phrases.  Happy Rosh Hashana, folks!  All Californian children are off school today, how did we miss out in that in Texas?)

Homemade iced coffee:

This stuff is a Godsend.  Seriously, I would not have the time or money to keep my caffeine IV running without the embarrassingly large pitcher that always lives in the forefront of my fridge.  (Whoa, was that a run-on sentence? More coffee, please)  I'll post an easy breezy recipe (complete with pictures- what a concept!) soon.  You have to do this.

Home Depot:

How I loathe this joint.  First of all, it's ginormous.  It can take me 10 full minutes to cross the store, and I move at a pretty fast pace for all of my 5 feet, 2 and a quarter inches.  In addition, I am only good at home renovation projects when they involve wheelchair ramps or drill guns.  Wheelchair ramps because I build one every summer for about 7 years and drill guns because they are fun.  And I think at some point in my life I used one with my Dad on a swing set.

Needless to say, the Home Depot is not my friend.  And yet I go almost every day.  Heavens to Betsy.

Yogurtland:

Have you all tried this place? You need to, stat.  If only for the joy of getting to put little pink and white frosted animal cookies all over your yogurt.  What is it about these cookies, by the way? They are so stinking delicious, and the they must be made up of nothing more than sugar and water.  My mom commented to me after looking over my bank statement that Yogurtland seemed to be a regular fixture in my life, and to this I have no rebuttal.  I've traded yogurt for Sonic diet cokes.  This could actually end badly, now that I think about it...

And last, but certainly not least- the glorified television.  I'm typically not this lame (am I?) but it is premiere week(s) for Pete's sake.  Therefore my sweet rooms and I have stacked up our DVR to capacity with everything from Hart of Dixie (charming, but how in the world is Rachel Bilson successful?) to Awkward (Also known as the Best New Show No One has Seen) to The Vampire Diaries (Still the most shocking 44 minutes of my week) and everything in between.  Need a new television obsession?  Just say the word.  I've successfully hooked my family on Friday Night Lights (Don't even get me started...) and I can do the same for you.

As Sadie from Awkward would say, "You're welcome."

Back to Life

...Hopefully I will be by this weekend, at least.

I have started my new job!  It is wonderful and crazy and busy and confusing and funny and satisfying.  I also work pretty long hours, like about 11 a day.  That's why I've been completely MIA from the Blogosphere, because whenever I have a free moment of any sort I usually go to the store and buy foods that I shouldn't eat and devour them.

Speaking of, have you all ever had a Marie Callender's Chicken Pot Pie?  If not, whatever you do- DON'T start now.  Because they are really divine.  And this is coming from someone who doesn't like vegetables.

Here's how this misadventure began.  I left work at 8:00 pm, running on one bowl of cereal, two cups of coffee, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for the day.  I was hungry.  So when I overheard a young couple commenting on how many pot pies they could fit in their cart, I had to inquire.  "So the pot pies are good, you say?"  The accolades for the pot pie for so vehement that I caved and threw the darn thing in my basket.  "Just don't look at the nutrition facts," they warned as I wheeled away.  Whatever, I mentally said, I have worked hard today.

Now, it is important we don't confuse "working" with "working out," which unfortunately seems to be the first thing to go when time is scarce.  Whoops.

So imagine my surprise when I got around to reading the nutrition facts on this baby... I can feel my heart closing up now... THIRTY EIGHT grams of fat.  38 folks.  (I'm not sure whether words or numerals better express my disgust.  And about 700 calories... Holy guacamole.  And speaking of guacamole, I'm guessing these weren't "good" fats, a la avocados.

Oy vey.

It was so delicious though, I totally forgot about the disgraceful nutritional value.  Or maybe I was delirious from lack of sleep...

Either way, I'm just bopping along in life.  I have a trip to Texas planned for less than two weeks away (YIPEE SKIPEE DOO DA!) and I'm actually getting paid for all my hard work.

I've reached the pinnacle folks.  It's gotta be all downhill from here...

Answered Prayers

Apparently I should have miniature emotional meltdowns on public forums more often, because less than 24 hours after I posted that last melodramatic, sappy little diddy on here I received a phone call to schedule an interview.  Which then led to another interview.  Which then led to a job (!!!) that I start tomorrow.

Due to the nature of this job, I can't really give many details on here.

(And I promise I'm not dealing drugs.  That's totally what that sounds like.)

All I can say is that I am gainfully employed, full time, by a wonderful boss and every day of my working life will be challenging and different and hectic and full of adventure.

I've said it once, I've said it a million times:

God is good.  All the time.

Amen.

Place in This World

Ever feel like you're "spinning your wheels?"  This is me today.  And yesterday.  And... Oh okay I'll stop.

It's not that I'm not happy.  I'm quite happy and optimistic and looking forward because that's just what I do.

But some days it just feels like I'm running in a circle, like a gerbil on a wheel.  Hoping to jump off at some point, into some unknown "job," (which, hopefully, desperately, at some point will pay me some cash-money) where I will be satisfied and challenged and fulfilled and content.

Am I dreaming too big here?  If your answer is "yes," kindly refrain from telling me that.  As I'm sure you've noticed, I like to live in my happy dream world where things are pretty and manicured and sunshine-y.

So, as I've mentioned before, my life is reflected in the minds of some radio DJ who controls my Sirius XM radio.  Lately, I've been hearing certain songs A LOT.  A few that stand out are "Baby Girl" by Sugarland, "A Place in This World" by Taylor Swift and "Party Rock Anthem."

We're not going to talk about that last one, because I'm convinced my car is rigged with some system that tells the radio when that abysmal track is on and then repeatedly slams the melody into my brain.  I've said it once and I'll say it again- PLEASE, for the love, stop playing club music before 8 pm.

Sorry, I digress.  The point of this whole spiel is that "Baby Girl" is defining my life in literal ways, "Please Mom and Dad, please send money, I'm so broke that it ain't funny..."

Tell me about it sister.

But T-Swift just goes and does it again when I hear you singing about your place in this world.  First of all, I'd like to tell you something, Swifty.  I think you've found your place, and it involves playing to sold-out arenas and winning awards and traveling the world and being adored and tweeting entirely too often.  Sorry.  But I think your place is pretty darn established.

Which leaves me to beg... How does one go about finding their place?  If anyone has advice, I'd welcome it with open arms.

Until that point, I'm just going to keep singing this song and hoping that some miraculous "place" will appear out of the mist with big flashing lights around it.

Just so I don't miss it.

Here are the lyrics, if you'd like to commiserate with me.

A Place In This World"

I don't know what I want, so don't ask me
Cause I'm still trying to figure it out
Don't know what's down this road, I'm just walking
Trying to see through the rain coming down
Even though I'm not the only one
Who feels the way I do

[Chorus:]

I'm alone, on my own, and that's all I know
I'll be strong, I'll be wrong, oh but life goes on
I'm just a girl, trying to find a place in
This world

Got the radio on, my old blue jeans
And I'm wearing my heart on my sleeve
Feeling lucky today, got the sunshine
Could you tell me what more do I need
And tomorrow's just a mystery, oh yeah
But that's ok

[Repeat Chorus]

Maybe I'm just a girl on a mission
But I'm ready to fly

[Repeat Chorus] 

Thing I've Learned from the Real World

This list could really go on and on, chronicling my various trials and tribulations with things such as "budgeting" and parking tickets, and Yogurtland addictions.

(These are real world issues that plague real world people everywhere.  What a mess.)

But today, I'm focusing on a lesson of the savory variety.  I learned quickly when I moved into an apartment that I need salsa in my life.  I'm a much happier person when I can grab a few Tostitos and salsa and be on my way.  Call it the Texas coming out in me, call it whatever, it is what it is.  And let me tell you one other thing I've learned... Pace picante sauce should never in a million years be considered "salsa."  It is sinful and should be destroyed, one bottle at a time.

So along with my every-other-week habit of making my own iced coffee (homemade coffee helps with the budgeting issue) I also whip up a batch of salsa about every we... Er, dates aren't important.  Let's not focus on how much of this stuff I'm consuming.

Here's the easy breezy directions for the best homemade salsa a California transplant could ask for.

On the shopping list:

2 cans of Rotel, drained (preferrably one original and one Mexican, but if you live in California and they don't know the glory of Rotel, just two)
1 large Hot House Tomato (diced)
1 jalapeno (seeded if you're a weenie, full fledged if you can take the heat)
1 handful of cilantro

Throw it all in a blender and take a spin. Don't puree, use a lower setting to retain some chunkiness if you're into that kind of thing.  I'm not a fan of perfectly smooth salsa.

Voila! You've just made easy breezy salsa that is a sure crowd pleaser.

You won't be disappointed- I promise.

(Sorry I don't own pretty dishes to photograph in.  The disposable tupperware is going to have to do for now.  Yep, you guessed it, budgeting.)

Also- another tip for girls who have just moved in and don't have all the right kitchen tools:

A bobby pin substitutes nicely for a chip clip to keep things nice and fresh.

Works like a charm.


And a final thought for this scattered entry... A very important lesson I've learned from the real world.  Curtains do wonders for stark white apartment walls.  Especially if they are a lovely blue that lets in just enough sunshine.

We started here...

and within one hour, one dangerously incorrectly attached curtain rod, and a few table-standing near accidents later...

We had this.

So homey, right?


Sincerely,

Learning to be a Big Girl

One Less Lonely Girl

I met the Biebs tonight.

Er, I saw the Biebs tonight, less than a car length away from me.

I have had a few requests for details- so here you go.

I have to say, in all of my celebrity encounters thus far, I have stayed calm and cool and acted like I don't give a pretty penny that I frequently see them in People magazine. Ha.

That all changed tonight.  I was attending my regular Sunday night family dinner with my dear Chi-O buddy and her fam, and as my friend and I were pulling into the gate, a taupe colored Mercedes was coming out.  We politely reversed a bit, and the other car waved us through.

And then the world stopped, because sitting in the passenger seat of that Mercedes was the one and only Biebs.

He looked like this, wearing the loony nerd glasses and all.  And sitting casually there, just minding his own business.

And a strange thing happened... It took me a moment to realize who he was.  I saw him, and thought to myself, "Oh, there's Justin Bieber."

And then a split-second later, I was slapping my friend's arm and hyperventilating and whipping out my phone at lightening speed in order to call my 13 year old sister and make her drool with jealousy.

(It worked, by the way.)

It took me a good five minutes to contain myself to the point that I could participate in normal social conversation.  And I kept finding myself smiling at the memory.

Pathetic? Perhaps.  Star struck? Definitely.

Ashamed?

Never say never.

Famous People I've Met

I started a word document on my computer today under that title.  I'm afraid that one day I'll be old and gray and people will say to me, "Lindsay, when you were fun and adventuresome and lived in LA did you meet any movie stars?" And then I want to be able to say to them, "As a matter of fact, I met George Clooney before he was George Clooney." Obviously it won't be George Clooney, but you get the point.

And let me tell you- today I've done pretty well.  I knew it was going to be a good day when I woke up with an email from an Oscar winning actress whose name I won't mention here wanting to "meet with" me.  I don't know what we're meeting about exactly, but I'm pumped.

Then into my office marched Ashley Greene of Twilight fame,

Aimee Teegarden of Friday Night Lights fame, (I could die happy)

and last but not least, Leven Rambin.

You don't know her yet, but you will.  You see, her character Glimmer is going to be killed off in the biggest deal movie of the year, next year.  If you don't know that I'm talking about the Hunger Games yet, do me a favor and quit reading my blog.

Kidding!  But really, go buy the series.  Or else.

Okay, I'll play along.  Or else you'll feel like a loon when the whole world is freaking out over this movie in a few short months and you are wondering what they are hungry for.

Er... I guess that would be blood.  But not in the vampire way! Ah, these teen romance-action novels are getting all confused in my head.

Just go read it.

Over and out.

Dear John Doozy

I just caught the last 30 minutes or so of the film rendition of "Dear John," and though I shed a few tears, (if you know me at all you know it doesn't take much) I was reminded of how much I despise the movie version of this extraordinary book.

**SPOILER ALERT: If you've been hiding under a rock and haven't read/seen the film and plan on seeing it at some point in the future, you should stop reading.

Okay, here's the sitch.  I read this book a couple of years ago and fell in deep, deep love with it.  I cried my way through the last 5 pages or so and lost more than a few hours of sleep over it.  But in the best way possible.

You see, the thing that is rare and moving and real about "Dear John," book, is that John and Savannah make decisions and chose separate paths and have to live with their decisions.  There isn't some constructed, perfect ending where hearts are healed and lives are perfect and things just "work out."

Who would want to read that anyway?

I don't know why I like to make myself cry like this.

Okay, here is the last snippet of the book.  Hang on...

Okay, I just ran down to my car to grab the book.  I knew I'd been meaning to unload that for the last 2 months.

If you're still reading, I assume you know that Savannah and John broke up when he was away at war, and she married Tim, who is now sick with cancer.  John sells  his dad's coin collection in order to help with his treatment, the treatment is successful and Tim is in remission.

John goes to Savannah's house and, spying on her, sees her happy with her new family.  He also sees as she wanders out late at night to look at the moon, which is significant to their relationship for some reason that I can't remember at the moment.

And here are the absolute last, final words of the novel...

"She pauses then and crosses her arms, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one has followed her.  Finally, she seems to relax.  And then I feel as if I'm witnessing a miracle, as ever so slowly she raises her face toward the moon.  I watch her drink in the sight, sensing the flood of memories she's unleashed and wanting nothing more than to let her know I'm here.  But instead, I stay where I am and stare up at the moon as well.  And for the briefest instant, it almost feels like we are together again."
-Nicholas Sparks

Ugh.

I'm having trouble containing myself right now...

She loves him! And he loves her! And it should be so easy, but it's just not.  She is married, and he made a choice to stay away at war and she made a choice to marry someone else, but, oh heavens, she still loves John.  Is this incredibly heartbreaking and tragic to anyone else or am I just losing my mind?

I am telling you, this ending haunted me for days.  And I waited oh-so-anxiously for my sob-fest at the theatre when the film came out and I watched Channing Tatum's lovely face watching Amanda Seyfried's face looking at the moon and yearning for things that could not be.

And you know what Hollywood did to me?  Well, they screwed me over by creating an ending in which the sick and second-best husband dies, making room for John and Savannah to conveniently meet up at a coffee shop later on and hug and oh of course they are going to end up together now.

Bologna.

I can't even think about how infuriated it makes me that they turned all this heartbreak and longing into one perfect, ribbon-wrapped gift box of a film.  Ugh.

Sometimes I wish Hollywood would just let me cry some more.

Challenge Schmallenge

I'm over this whole 30 Day Challenge Business.

Can you tell?  Here's the deal.  I'm not excited about the posts that are supposed to be next on my agenda.  I don't feel like I can be clever or charming or funny using these ideas as inspiration.  And the truth is that I think of things to talk about every day that would be more fun than this challenge junk.

So I'm giving up.  No, I'm seceding from the challenge.  (How can I word this so that I don't sound like a flake?)

And I hope in this pursuit to be more interesting than this challenge was allowing me to be.

So I'm back! Unbound by restrictions or obligations.

First thing I want to tell you about is my apartment.  I am obsessed with it and it gets cuter by the day.

(If you want to see the live-action view, let me know.  I'm really into Skype lately.)

Here's what has happened lately:

We have a whole living area.  I'm currently too busy using the couch to take a photo, so you'll just have to wait on that one.  Soon we will even have curtains.  Imagine that.

But wait!  We have an entire dining area.  It was created in the minds of my sweet rooms and myself, and came together piece by piece.  It is really quite astounding that it turned out so beautiful.

Yes, those are palm trees in the background.  Welcome to California.

A little tidbit about us- we are in love with the zebra rug.  In. Love. Last night I had an incident with some slightly-burning bacon wrapped jalapenos, and for a moment when I though we might have to evacuate, I remember thinking, "We have to take the rug."  It is of the upmost importance to us.

Also, I am now a home improvement expert.

I found stools for free, they were ugly, I made them... less ugly.

That's the best I can do.

We started here.

U-G-L-Y you ain't got no alibi, you ugly.  AND this is the picture without the other mismatched stool.

So I bought some spray paint and went to work.

Well, at least the legs are the same color.

Then I surveyed the damage...

Word to the wise: When spray painting something close to the ground, be sure to cover the entire surface area.  Otherwise you will end up with a geometric design on your balcony.  Oops.

Then I got to work with the staple gun.

And made up how to staple fabric onto a chair.  I think next time I would be a bit more careful.  Or maybe Google it.

Here's why.  I ended up with this.

Do me a favor and don't look too closely at the draping of the fabric.  And for heaven's sake, if you come visit, please, for the love, don't turn the chairs upside down.

It's like a war zone.  I am no pro with a staple gun.

But I can bake.

It's a good thing, too, because we had a certified party last night.  All in honor of Bachelor Pad.

Did I really just type that?  What is this world coming to?