Lemons and melons and pears. Oh my!

My mom and aunt were in town this weekend, and as tradition with the post-Thanksgiving visit goes, one of us had to be sick. This year, it was my turn. I was definitely more than a little green around the gills -- so much so that we nearly canceled our trip to see Wicked at the Pantages Theatre in Hollywood. And the mere thought of doing so is unacceptable.

UNACCEPTABLE.

I saw Wicked for the first time back on Halloween. (See the picture above.) While I definitely enjoyed the show, it wasn't until I started listening to the soundtrack that I became hooked. Knowing that my mother loves Phantom of the Opera, I decided that we should go when she and Kelli visited in December. The show was sold out, but luckily I know someone who knows someone who knows someone and we were able to buy tickets anyway.

We were on the seventh row on the floor this time. I can't even describe the feeling of sitting there watching these people sing their hearts out. By the middle of the first verse of "The Wizard and I," I had tears on my cheeks. Don't get me started on the flying. Or "As Long as You're Mine" (hoooottttt). Or "For Good." (There were some real tears going on there.) The show is beautiful and technologically amazing, but I think what had me going back -- and has me wanting to go back again -- is its ability to make you feel. It's the friendships and the blissful naivete of young adulthood. It's that blissful naivete crashing to the ground. It's that realization that someone actually loves you -- and accepting the fact that you are actually worthy of that love...

Eden Espinosa and Megan Hilty (and Emily Rozek, who we saw in the performance this past weekend) make you feel every moment of that. Eden is just phenomenal as Elphaba -- her voice gives me chills just thinking about it. There are several YouTube clips that I could link to for evidence, but the sound quality doesn't do her justice.

If you live in Los Angeles (or will be visiting) in the next few months, make sure to get tickets and see the show. As of right now, it's set to close in early May 2008, but based on the fact that it's still selling out nearly a year later, I wouldn't be surprised to see the engagement extended. Eden's last show is December 30, so if you get a chance to see it before the end of the year, you should.

(And if you want to buy me a ticket, I'll go with you! Ha!)

It's the most wonderful time of the year!

You guys, I can't even begin to describe how excited I am about the next few weeks. Okay, so I'm a little broke and trying to figure out the whole buying-presents thing, but that cannot detract from the glory that is my mom and aunt visiting this weekend. There will be Wicked-viewage at the Pantages (where I can pretend that I am living in yesteryear) and Disneyland-go-age and just general family-ness.

I can't believe Christmas is coming up so quickly. Things are about to die down at work, though if the strike ends (ohpleaseohplease), all bets are off. People will be pitching like there's no tomorrow. Chaos will reign in Century City. Before I know it, I'll be sitting in the back seat of my parents' Four Runner in Midland, falling asleep as we drive through Grasslands looking at Christmas lights. And I'll be eating at Franco's and getting a massage at The Waterford and eating at Ichiban and and and hanging with my family and my cat.

I'm really excited about the new year, though. I'm fairly hopeful that the strike will be over by then and that maybe -- just maybe -- something will come of the resumes that I submitted. Not that I don't love my job -- I do -- but I just feel like the time is right to make the leap.

We shall see.

(And this post was totally pointless. I need to sleep.)

Things that are annoying Amanda Mason.

Okay, so these mainly fall into the realm of advertising, but whatever...

These Bebe ads drive me nuts. In what universe does Bebe think showing stick figures in sub-zero-sized clothing sells said clothing? Yes, I just realized how stupid that question was. Anyway, I am subjected to these ads every morning once I cross Highland and get into Grove and Beverly Center territory. There's a big friggin' Bebe billboard on the Beverly Center at Beverly and La Cienega. On one hand, though, at least the Mischa Barton Reign of Terror is over.

This ad campaign is classy. I might even go so far as to say "klassy-with-a-k." I freaking hate that expression, but I'm willing to bring it back for Mr. Woodcock. The title -- really? And then I have to see Billy Bob Thornton (who I only liked in Armageddon and Friday Night Lights (but Kyle Chandler is better)) standing with two basketballs like that? Ew.

Speaking of Klassy advertising, I give you Big Shots. Easily one of the worst pilots I've ever seen, by the way -- and I really, really wanted to like it. But that's not what's annoying me. "How long can they keep it up?" Ew. The country club in the show is called Firmwood. What is with this town's obsession with genitalia? I have a degree in P.R. I took Dr. Johnson's Advertising class at Tech. I know that sex sells, but I don't really find myself particularly drawn to this (or the afore-mentioned Mr. Woodcock). Maybe I'm just a freak of nature.

My brain says "buzz."

Do you ever feel like you have white noise in your brain? That's how I feel lately. I hate it. White noise in my brain and butterflies in my tummy. I just want to relax and feel normal again.

That's not to say that I'm feeling bad. At least not all the time. Things are going pretty well for me of late. Work is going amazingly well. My bosses are fantastic (seriously...I am SO BLESSED) and I feel like I'm making a contribution to the company. It's nice to feel appreciated. If people like the evil gynecologist I used to work for would realize that they would get more productivity out of employees by actually saying nice things to them, we'd have a pretty productive society. Well, that and if we initiated mandatory siesta. Ha!

There's part of me that wants to go to graduate school, but I haven't the foggiest idea what I'd major in. I just miss learning. So, I think I'm going to take a couple of classes this fall -- one to replace a sub-par grade from my undergrad, and one that might be helpful with my current career. (The "current career" one is eligible for tuition reimbursement, too, so yay!)

In other news, I tried out Yahoo! Personals and eHarmony. Eh. I canceled both memberships. They were too nervewracking and just... I met one nice guy, but I'm not really interested in pursuing anything romantic with him. The whole online dating thing just feels so inorganic. And IRL, the guys I like never seem to like me back (or they don't say anything if they do). If this means I'm single for the rest of my life, I guess that's what this means. Heck, I already have a cat living on my back deck -- just start calling me the Crazy Cat Lady!

And I'm trying to be at peace about that. Really.

Sigh. I really am a chick-lit cliche.

Dear Me...

Some friends of mine have been participating in a journaling tool in which they write ten things they'd tell the 16-Year-Old version of themselves. I wasn't exactly motivated to participate, but a friend of mine from high school was in L.A. for a day this past week, and our visit got me to thinking. Some of the things are serious and some are funny, but without further adieu, I present "Conversations With a Sixteen-Year-Old Amanda"...

(For ease of reading, 28-year-old Amanda will be identified as 28, while 16-year-old Amanda will be identified as -- you guessed it -- 16.)

28: Hey Amanda, you know that guy from high school that you like? The one who gives you the tummy butterflies whenever he pays attention to you or rests his arm on the pew behind you in church?
16: Oh yeah, Jimmy*? He's so cute and nice and --
28: -- and you need to just forget about him. It's never going to happen.
16: Just because you're the version of me twelve years in the future doesn't mean anything!
28: ...
16: Nana says that one of these days all of the boys in high school who like the cheerleader girls are going to want the nice girls. I'm a nice girl.
28: Sweetie, please. Save yourself the heartbreak and embarassment. Don't buy him a birthday present.
16: But --
28: -- But nothing. Go home. Watch As the World Turns. Mike and Rosanna are SO CUTE. And make sure you label the tape properly so that you can find their whole Montana adventure later on in life when you need a pick-me-up.
16: Oooookay...
28: Oh, and one more thing... In about 8 years, you're going to meet this other guy in a book store. Ignore him. When Katy asks you to go and look at horse books, politely tell the guy goodbye before you fall for him.
16: I'm gonna meet a guy in a bookstore?
28: Yeah. And you're going to be walking on air for weeks until you realize that it's the same situation with Jimmy. You're "that girl." And that is not a fun thing to be. Okay?
16: 'Kay. So if you're here from the future, can you tell me if Ross and Rachel end up together?
28: All in good time, my love. All in good time.


28: Don't give Brian a ride home from that scrimmage.
16: What scrimmage?
28: The Lake View vs. Central one. Senior year.
16: LAKE VIEW AND CENTRAL ARE ACTUALLY GOING TO PLAY ONE ANOTHER?!?! Who wins??
28: It's a SCRIMMAGE, not a game. I don't remember who won -- I think it was a tie. But that's not the point... There's going to be this guy who in a fantastic display of chivalry will save you from being run over by a play. Later on that night, he's going to ask you for a ride home. Don't do it. Get in Marlena and head home to 24th Street.
16: A guy actually gets chivalrous about me?
28: Yes. And that's the only time. Trust me. Do not go home with him. You will save yourself a weekend of tears. You won't scare your mother to death. And there won't be any need for you to hide from him at school or screen your phone calls.
16: What happened?
28: Forgive me if I don't want to talk about it. But taking him home could potentially ruin your life. It will save you years of therapy and anxiety.
16: I don't get it.
28: You will. In time.

28: Tell everyone you love that you love them. One day very soon one of them will be gone and it will be one of your biggest regrets that you didn't tell them that enough.
16: Who dies?
28: I can't tell you that.
16: Why not? If you tell me, I'll tell that person all the time how much they mean to me. I promise.
28: I can't tell you. I'm sorry.
16: Can you tell me...when?
28: Um, I guess. Round about the start of your junior year of high school. That's all I can say.
16: ...
28: It'll be okay. I promise. Do me a favor...
16: What?
28: Give Big Kitty a kiss for me.
16: Okay.

28: I know church may seem boring and overly hellfire-and-brimstone at times, but pay attention. Soak it in.
16: But, the pastor is so negative lately. It's much more fun to flirt with --
28: -- Ahem. We've discussed this.
16: Alright, but did you know that I learned what 69 meant last week?
28: And this has to do with church how? Ooooooh --
16: Eric* taught me. On a bulletin.
28: I certainly hope you destroyed that bulletin.
16: It was his. I don't know what he did with it.
28: Oy.

28: Spend some time with Daisy dog. Promise me.
16: Well, I go out and feed her when it's my turn.
28: That doesn't exactly count.
16: I don't have the time.
28: Don't give me that crap. I was your age once. Actually, I was YOU once. Actually I still am you, but WHATEVER. How about taking some of that time you spend chatting about As the World Turns on AOL and spending some time with the dog you've had since you were six?!
16: Man, I turned into a b-word!
28: Just do it for goodness sakes... She loves you. Even though there've been times you haven't given her reason to.
16: I know...

28: One day very soon, those braces are going to come off.
16: HALLELUJIAH!!
28: And Doug L. is going to tell you you look pretty.
16: Really??
28: Yep.
16: I can't wait!
28: Just keep an eye on your retainer. When Mrs. Lowe passes out candy during the beginning of pre-cal class your junior year, don't be so brilliant as to wrap your retainer in the wrapper. You'll accidentally throw it away. And mama is going to be PISSED. (Yes, I said the word "pissed," wipe the shock off your face.) And she's going to make you dig through the trash can in pre-cal.
16: No taking out of the retainer. Good to know.

28: Go to prom. Even if you don't have a date.
16: But it's lame to go to prom without a date.
28: No it's not. Katy's going to go without a date.
16: Don't talk to me about her. She's such a freaking slob. Yesterday, she yelled at me for putting her stuff into "piles" in our room --
28: Hey, lay off. One of these days, she's going to be your best friend. But anyway, go to prom. Use that as an excuse to make Mom, Craig, Dad, and Nancy buy you a pretty dress. Use it as an excuse to let Shari do your makeup. Use it as an excuses to let Gayla do your hair all pretty. And for goodness sakes, use it as an excuse to get your first pedicure. Trust me when I tell you that they are HEAVENLY.
16: But what if I don't have a date?
28: You know what? Sometimes you are just a little too much of a follow-the-rules goodie-two-shoes.
16: Bite me. Or you. Or whatever.

28: Don't cry over the cancelation of 'My So-Called Life.'
16: I can't help it. It was such a good show. Jordan Catalano is so hot.
28: Jordan Catalano was a dick. What did I say about the shock face?? It's not like I've turned into a potty mouth, I just don't cringe when I cuss on occasion.
16: Oh he was not. Through it all, he loved Angela.
28: (laughing my butt off)
16: WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING AT??
28: Love. IN HIGH SCHOOL.
16: Apparently, I become a cynic, too. There is such a thing, you know. Mom and I think I'm going to live at home until I get married. I'm a nice girl and I don't think it'll be too long.
28: Yeah, whatever. That's a whole 'nother story that I don't really feel like getting into. But anyway, they're going to release My So-Called Life on DVD.
16: DVD?
28: Trust me, they are AWESOME. They're like this CD that you can watch movies on. They'll have the entire season of the show out. And besides, the people who created that show will eventually create another show that you are just going to love. You are going to relate to it and it will make you cry and miss, well, being you. And by you I mean the 16-year-old me.
16: What show is it?
28: Can't tell you. For, uh, copyright reasons? But, yeah, there's this popular book out about football...
16: "Friday Night Lights." It's about Permian. I hate MOJO.
28: Lalallalalalala...

28: Hug Mom and Craig and Dad and Nancy and EVERYONE. As much as possible.
16: I already do hug people a lot.
28: Do it even more. And don't get all butt-hurt when Craig calls you "Mama's Little Tit." He's just teasing you out of love.
16: Whatever.
28: At least do the hugging. There'll come a point where you're living a long way away from home and all you want is a hug and you can't get one without riding for three hours on a plane.
16: You mean I'm not going to live at home until I get married?? Or wait -- what if I'm married and we're living a long way away?! I bet it's New York. I AM SO MOVING TO NEW YORK!! --
28: We're not discussing this. And no I'm not going to tell you where you're going to live. You have to figure that out yourself. Just love your parents and your family. Every chance you get. Do you have a kleenex? I think I need a moment...

28: Watch what you eat for lunch.
16: I'M NOT FAT.
28: Well now you're not. Not really, anyway. Just trust me when I tell you that it's not exactly a good idea to have Town & Country for lunch on Monday, Sonic on Tuesday, Taco Bell on Wednesday, Long John Silver on Thursday, and Franco's on Friday.
16: But that's the point of having off-campus lunch privileges!
28: No, it's really not. Go home and eat leftovers or something. And don't drink too many cokes.
16: I think you need to shut up now.
28: Don't talk to me like that. Just listen. Just wait until Steph gets married and you feel like a whale in your bridesmaid dress.
16: Steph gets married??? When???
28: Forget I said that, but let me just... Fine. I'll show you the picture. Let's just hope there's no freaky Back to the Future thing going on and I start missing body parts. Here. That's you on the left.
16: ...
28: Are you okay?
16: Yeah, I, uh... I get it.
28: Good. And I thank you for at least getting it.

28: One last thing --
16: -- Nuh uh! The rules were only ten things --
28: Oh SHUT UP. I am older than you. And I know your dreams and I can and will crush them at will, okay?? Okay, maybe that's not a good idea, but whatever. CREDIT CARDS ARE THE DEVIL. Say it with me.
16: I'm not saying that.
28: Yes you are. Unless you really want to be paying off credit cards in your mid-twenties when you could be, I don't know, vacationing somewhere AWESOME. It sucks. So, SAY IT!
16: Fine. Credit cards are the devil.
28: Just be responsible with them and it will all be okay. 'Kay?
16: 'Kay.
28: Just keep being nice, okay? Be nice. Be loving. And enjoy life. Enjoy the little things. Scratch Big Kitty's ears. Take Daisy for a walk. Help Mom with dinner. Watch football with Craig. Don't yell at Katy. Well, don't yell at Katy too much. Talk to Dad and Nancy on the phone often. Give MawMaw a kiss. Listen to Poppy recite your poem with a smile. Just...enjoy it. Cherish it. Remember it all.
16: You sound like a Nora Ephron movie.
28: Really?? Thanks. That's really sweet. You'll understand why when you're my age. Or your age, considering I'm you and all. Oh whatever. Can we watch Friends now?

* Names changed to protect the innocent. The not-so-innocent? I didn't care enough to disguise your name. Punk.

Why do I love country music?

I could just cut to the chase and say, "Because I just do." But there has to be some obvious reason that my car stereo has been tuned to the local country station more often than not these days.

Perhaps the biggest reason is that, to me, country music is representative of home. I can be listening to a song, stuck in traffic on the 405, but my mind will be in the front seat of a minivan after having picked my little brother up at baseball practice. Or sitting in the back seat, my Bible in my lap, on the way to church on Sunday morning. (My eyes are always on the road -- so do not fret, dear L.A. drivers.)

The songs are about the simple life, a life I don't feel I can truly live out here. I see my mom in the kitchen in a pair of sweats and the house shoes we bought her the previous Christmas. Or I see my dad on the couch, dozing his way through part of the Sunday afternoon football game. (Food coma!!) I'm in my brother's pickup, blasting Randy Rogers as we navigate Loop 289 in Lubbock. Or setting the table for dinner, making sure the paper napkins are folded symmetrically underneath the silverware. I'm rocking in the wooden rocker in the living room with my cat in my lap. Or sitting down to a piece of pie and a game of canasta with my grandparents.

Country music makes me realize how I want to be loved -- how much I want to be loved. It makes me realize how much I want to love in return. How much I want to have a go at being half the mother my mama and stepmom are.

Country reminds me of everything I have, which is especially important during the times when I'm lamenting my have-nots. It reminds me that I'm blessed. To have such an amazing and loving family. To have such strong and true friends. To have a roof over my head. Something to eat in the fridge.

Country takes me home, even when I can't go myself. So tonight I sit here in the rocker in my L.A. bedroom and listen to a country song. Mentally, I drive down Oakes and then 19th and then Armstrong until I get where I'm going.

Until I get back home.

** (Note...this is not to disparage L.A. or anything -- sometimes I just get a little homesick.)

Baby, don't you cry, gonna make a pie, all my love for you in the middle of my heart.

I saw the absolute sweetest movie in forever this afternoon. And it only set me back $3! Or, well, Allison -- note to self, pay her back tomorrow night. I can't even describe it. The movie got to me so much that I couldn't figure out what to say about it on the drive home. Just an all out good movie. And I have such a soft spot for Andy Griffith. His character reminds me of my friend Dr. Scott. (Except Dr. Scott is a bit less crotchity.)

It's a travesty that there's no soundtrack released for the movie. I've taken to downloading the most recent album from Quincy Coleman on iTunes. She did a couple of songs in the movie. I'm glad I did -- this album is fantastic. Also, this movie is sadly not showing anywhere around my family, so they won't get to see it. If it's already at the cheapie theatre here, I doubt it'll even hit the first-runs in West Texas. But that means it won't be long until it's on DVD.

(And for anyone trying to figure out what to get me for Christmas -- HEY in 45 minutes it will only be six months away! -- this is a great idea.)

On another note, I may be going to visit my sister in Maryland this weekend. How's that for a last minute trip? She's working on a farm near Hagerstown, so I might just hop on a JetBlue flight to D.C. and spend a couple of days hanging out with her and riding horses and innertubing down the Shenandoah. If I can come up with the moola, that is.

But back to Waitress. I think one of the things that really got me about this movie is that that is the kind of story I want to tell. And it made me seriously think about my pilot idea and how it could really work as that kind of feature. (Minus a couple of storylines, that is.) Or not. We'll see how it goes.

Have a great week, everyone!

Hey there, Cupcake!

Today, I threw two pennies in a fountain. Just because. It was a beautiful day here in Los Angeles and I was on my way to Clementine to pick up my salad. I walked down the sidewalk, my little kitten heels clicking as I went. Rosie Thomas provided a sort of soundtrack on my fifteen minute walk, and I found myself smiling. Sighing and smiling and looking up at the palm trees and blue skies and buildings towering up above. I can't even begin to remember the last time that happened.

I don't know if it's necessarily because I'm happy here in this place in my life, but I couldn't help but appreciate that blue sky and that pretty music and the pretty blue fountain I dropped two pennies in. So I smiled and I sighed and I clutched my big bag closer under my arm as I crossed Santa Monica Boulevard.

At the fountain, a man smiled at me and asked if I made a wish. I kind of did, I guess, but I really didn't know what to wish for. It was more like a wish for "good things." I'm kind of like one of the main characters in the script I'm working on (yay original material!) -- sometimes I just want God to make my decision for me. What would my good things include?

A trip home over my five-day weekend for 4th of July, but that's not happening because tickets are too expensive. A call from the producer I met a month or so ago at the Museum of Television and Radio. My first baking order. Something other than ambivalence from the opposite sex. (That's a post in and of itself!)

I had a really good weekend. My mom and stepdad came to L.A. for their anniversary and for Father's Day. We spent the entire weekend at Disneyland -- even stayed at the resort. I don't know whether it's because I was with my family (where I am traditionally more "myself"), or the fact that I've been on medication on a regular schedule, or the therapy I've been in, but I felt like a normal functioning human being for 95% of the trip. It was really a relief. I love my family so much and it's always so hard to let them go at the airport. If I moved home, it would totally be all about being closer to my family.

And on that note, the script I was just printing at work finished. Three-hole-punch and brass brads, here I come!

My name is Mickey.

Anyone who really knows me knows that I've recently been suffering from severe anxiety issues and mild-to-severe depression. Going to sleep at night and having a restful night's sleep is often difficult. Last night, however, I had a truly amazing experience.

When I was a senior in college, I was convinced that a ghost lived in my dorm room. He or she was always benevolent and I only sensed him or her at night. I'd be lying in my bed and I would feel the sensation of someone sitting gently at the foot of my bed. I don't know how to describe it -- the covers would move a certain way and the mattress would dip slightly. Wow. I haven't really thought about my Gaston ghost in a very long time...

Last night before I went to bed, I prayed and asked God for a good night's sleep. I asked Him for peace and for patience. I asked Him for a sign that I'm still supposed to be in Los Angeles, and not near the family I miss so dearly. Shortly after I climbed into bed -- calm as can be -- I felt the familiar dipping of my mattress and shifting of my sheets. And at that moment, I was overcome with thoughts and memories of my Poppy -- things he would say to me. I knew it then -- my ghost was none other than my Poppy. I couldn't see him -- oh how I wanted to -- but I knew he was there. I cried and I cried and I cried and I could hear his voice in my head telling me that it would be okay. I was taken back to sitting in his lap in his recliner, and the way he smelled like cigarettes and Brut aftershave. I remembered "Gilly! Gilly! Gilly!" and how he used to tease me about how when I got my drivers license, I'd break down somewhere between San Angelo and Abilene and have to call him to come and pick me up. And, most of all, I remembered "Mickey's Lament," the poem he wrote for me when I was a baby -- one of the last things I ever remember him saying to me before he was put in the hospital all those years ago. That was the most comforting thing of all.

He was there. And then other people stopped by, too, but only briefly to wave. My Uncle Billy and my friend Betty Fuller. She said, "Hi, Amanda Mouse." Again, it's not like I could see them with my eyes -- my heart and my brain just knew they were there. All I know is that I'm not really that interested in dying at the moment, but I can't wait to get to Heaven.

But yeah... Now I have to wonder... Was my Gaston ghost really my Poppy coming to sit with me on some of those tough nights? Who knows...

A parent's love. Denny's style.

I've spent a lot of time recently being introspective. Actually, I've spent a lot of time recently over-thinking things and freaking myself out to the point of an anxiety problem. One of the things I've thought about is if I'll ever have children. I've also worried that if I have children, I'll be a horrible mother. Lately, kids have just gotten on my nerves. There's a reason I actively avoid Target on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. There's a reason I call Target "Birth Control Central."

Despite the protests from my friends and family that it's "different" when the kid is yours, or the fact that the minute the child emerges from your womb, a love like no other overtakes you, I worry about it. Because worrying is my M.O. these days. Tonight, however, I think I got a lesson. God knew what I needed to see and He showed it to me.

My parents divorced when I was six years old. There are moments that I remember very clearly about this time of my life -- I remember the feel of their bedsheets when they broke the news to my brother, sister, and me. I remember the Mickey Mouse bubble gum dispenser my grandparents bought us to make us feel better. And I remember the absolute despair I felt whenever I was separated from my mother. (My father got custody of us.) I loved my daddy to death, but I couldn't bear being separated from my mama. I remember one particular Christmas when my mom and stepdad came to watch me sing a solo in the Christmas pageant at church. For some reason, they started to leave before I felt that I had had an adequate goodbye. As that old Chevy Malibu crossed the parking lot to leave, I remember sobbing and running as fast as my legs could carry me so that they would stop.

I remember being the child of divorce and it is something that will haunt me for the rest of my life. That's not to say that I regret anything that happened -- my life is truly wonderful now. But the hurt in my heart that came whenever my mom dropped us off -- or vice versa once I moved to San Angelo and started visiting my dad -- was truly killer (and still is).

Fast forward to tonight. My roommate Allison, our friend Lauren, and I went to San Diego for the afternoon. We crossed over into Tijuana for a few minutes, and then stopped at Mission Beach before heading back to Los Angeles. Exhausted and hungry, we stopped at a Denny's in Carlsbad. It was dark and depressing and there were crying children, which only made me want to cry because I was getting pretty tired and cranky myself. Once our food was served, a young couple and their little boy entered. The boy looked to be around four years old. I heard the mother urge him to be in a better mood "for Daddy," who apparently had not yet arrived. I figured it out -- this was either a simple visit for "Daddy" or it was an "exchange" for visitation.

A few minutes later, I see the child's face light up. He has seen his Daddy in the parking lot. He works to free himself of the high chair he was in and his mother walks him to the front door before returning by herself. In walks this man -- the epitome of "toughness" with his arms covered in tattoos and a beard and earrings -- carrying his child in what was one of the most beautiful displays of parent-child love I have ever seen. The once-semi-rowdy child had his face buried in his dad's neck, while the father held his child close, his eyes closed in the simple relief and joy of having the boy in his arms.

I've been that little boy, but I've never seen what it must have been like to be my Daddy or my Mama. It was a surreal experience to say the least, and even a few hours later, it still makes me want to cry. When we left, the little boy was still sitting quietly in his father's lap. I'm not sure whether he left with his dad or whether he went back with his mom, but I'm glad I wasn't there to find out. Because if it involved leaving his daddy again, I wouldn't have been able to watch without breaking down. That pain never goes away. It may get better and lessen over time, but it's nearly impossible not to relive it. (I can't watch a certain scene in Hope Floats for that very reason.)

On a happier note, I get to see my Daddy in five days!

You look ridiculous.

I'm sure there's some deep psychological explanation for this, but I was humored to realize that when I go home, I always want to look as L.A. (translation: ridiculous) as possible. Big sunglasses, nice jeans, a big purse. When I come back to L.A., I'm always as "Texas" as possible. Jeans, a t-shirt/sweatshirt, sneakers. When I came back in March, I wore fuzzy flip-flops that my sister made for me -- and didn't bat an eyelash. Bizarre.

The funny thing is that I look more ridiculous than I do on a normal basis. I'm a non-hipster Silver Lake girl (whatever that really is). I'm a huge fan of my GAP jeans and Target workout britches. But I can't resist getting all gussied up for a plane ride. Now, the sunglasses thing? That won't exactly be necessary/possible anymore. San Angelo now has jetways at Mathis Field -- excuse me, San Angelo Regional Airport -- so I can't be all cool when I come down the little airplane steps. Or I can, but wearing sunglasses INDOORS would be taking the ridiculous a little too far. (And if I see you wearing sunglasses INDOORS in L.A., you can bet that I'm thinking about how stupid you look.)

It's probably a confidence thing or some attempt at defining myself to people. Who knows. It is what it is -- and trying to figure it out beyond that is giving me a headache. I think I'll just sit here and listen to Coldplay and sip on my hot chocolate.

Dancing.

I've recently come to the realization that I never liked dances growing up.

There were multiple reasons, the main one being that nobody ever really danced at those things. And if they did, no one ever asked me. Perhaps that's why I took a shining to the line dancing craze, and even La Macarena -- no partner required. But from my very first dance during sixth period on the last day of sixth grade, I found out that school dances were never like they appeared on TV. Or on Back to the Future.

Watching the most recent episode of Friday Night Lights, I was reminded of one dance in particular. It was my second dance, held sometime just before seventh grade commenced. All of the incoming junior high schoolers (Midland was not on a middle school system) were invited to a dance at the Midland High School Youth Center to celebrate and get to know one another. This was an early lesson on what junior high school was really like -- Hell.

I don't remember what I was wearing that night. I do remember what other people wore -- probably because, as a wallflower, I had ample time to observe and absorb. The predominant outfit for girls was a pair of plaid "dress shorts" over tights with either loafers or Mary-Janes. I felt so uncool, especially since my sixth grade girlfriends didn't greet with me as much enthusiasm as I had expected. I distinctly remember being ignored for the better part of the first hour I was there, which is probably an overdramatized version of what really happened considering that everything is dramatic when you're 13-years-old. I remember standing in the phone booth crying, trying to hear my parents over the strains of whatever M.C. Hammer song was popular at the time.

My daddy came to pick me up in his blue and silver Chevy truck. We drove out to the Kettle on Wall Street and talked over Cokes and a plate of french fries. I remember a lot of tears. I remember him telling me that I was beautiful and that I looked like my mama. I remember feeling so safe. I didn't need those stupid freckle-faced girls back at the youth center -- at least for the hour we sat in that coffee shop booth.

Sadly, I can't just call my dad to pick me up anymore. Living so far away makes it difficult for me to just drop by his office and lounge on his cool pleather loveseat while he runs joke after cheesy joke by me. (Where in the Bible was a car first referenced? "They all came in one Accord.") But I can still call him and he can pretty much talk me down about anything. Whether it's on my most homesick of days when all I want to do is pack my car and head east, or whether it's more of the same "why don't the boys like me?" stuff from junior high, Dad's got my number. I'm blessed.

(And for the record, I still don't like dances.)

Why no, I'm not involved in film, television or media.

And no, I don't know anyone who works in media research. At all.

So, tonight I was invited to a screening of the upcoming rom-com License to Wed. It was really pretty freaking adorable. Okay, so maybe the ending was a wee bit over the top, but NOT BAD. I learned two things tonight:

(1) I need a cute guy a la Ben in the movie.
(2) I need to make a million zillion dollars so I can go to Anthropologie and buy Mandy Moore's wardrobe from the movie.

Okay, there's a possible third thing. I need to learn how to make my hair purdy. But purdy in that, "Oh this was a piece of cake! I just rolled out of bed and pulled my hair up and doesn't it look good with my perfect glowy skin?"

S.O.S.

Am addicted to House. Stop. Please send help. Stop.

(Image borrowed from Wounded-Hearts.)

Insert witty blog subject line here.

I am up 21 minutes past my bed time. I am a rebel...against myself.

So this afternoon, I up and done it -- I rejoined Weight Watchers. I'm doing the whole online thingy and I'm already whining. How in the hey hey am I supposed to keep it under 19 points in a day? Frickin' Cheerios and skim milk is 4 points in and of itself. I can do this. I just want my size 6's back. And as sick and twisted as it sounds, I miss seeing the outline of my sternum and my clavicles. Oh, and I miss the "glow" that I had, but I suspect that will only return with a regular exercise regimen. Note to self: FIND NEW NON-OUTRAGEOUSLY-EXPENSIVE-AND-SCENEY GYM TO JOIN.

In all seriousness, though, I'm determined to make this work -- to stop the madness, if you will. At least when I was "acting," I looked good all the time. I was obsessive about the gym and what I ate. And I did not have schoolteacher arms. Oh to be that messed up again.

In other news, is it just me or is buying eye cream depressing? Not only is it expensive, but it's to treat LINES AROUND MY EYES. I'm all crinkly anymore. But I do have to say that this All About Eyes Rich stuff is awesome. I think awesome is their secret ingredient. It's what makes it "rich."

Pay no attention to the cranky woman at the computer.

12 of 12: A Photo Essay (February 2007)

A bakers dozen shots of my day yesterday. The bonus shot's theme is "love." Snaps to Chad Darnell for the idea.

Book Update

So I think I'm doing pretty well with the reading so far this year...

(1) "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" - J.K. Rowling
(2) "Pop" - Aury Wallington
(3) "Why Moms Are Weird" - Pamela Ribon
(4) "The Tenth Circle" - Jodi Picoult (currently reading)

I had started "Special Topics in Calamity Physics" by Marisha Pessl, but have decided to read "The Tenth Circle" first, as it's work-related. And honestly, work-related books really haven't steered me wrong -- it's how I ended up reading "The Memory Keeper's Daughter" by Kim Edwards. That one just happens to be my favorite book of the last couple of years.

So, next on the list is "Special Topics" and then the book that Meredith loaned me, which I am having a hard time remembering the title of at the moment. And somewhere down the line will be the new "Harry Potter" installment -- is it July yet?! Riding the bus is good for my literacy!

I go to a cheap gym.

Since the beginning of the year, I've become obsessed with the idea of paying off all non-automobile and non-student-loan debt that I have. Note that I've become obsessed with the idea, as I've yet to actually do any of that debt-reduction stuff. But hey, I'm still trying to earn my SAG money, so after that...

Anyway, one of the ways I had thought about conserving money was to give up my gym membership. I've realized, though, that I'm going to have to have a membership somewhere or I'm never going to work out. I am patheti-sad. So, I tinkered with the idea of going to a gym closer to where I work -- somewhere I wouldn't have to drive half an hour in eastbound traffic just to get to. I work in Century City, right across the courtyard from the much-heralded new CAA digs. In response to the new influx of supah-agents, Equinox is opening a new place across from Westfield. I figured it couldn't be more than what I currently pay so I decided to check it out this afternoon.

Holy. Freaking. Crap. You guys.

Yeah, their initiation fee is $1,200. Their monthly dues are $225. Two hundred and twenty five BONES. A MONTH.

I've been lamenting the $74 I pay every month. Not anymore. Cost-wise, my gym is freaking sketch compared to theirs. (Actually, in the interest of fairness, I do have to say that I like my gym very much -- it's under new ownership and they're revamping it.)

Yipes. Just...yipes.

Jack Bauer is one bad ass boy.

24 is on my television for the first time in four seasons. I don't know why I'm watching this -- perhaps the near constant promotion on Fox and the radio stations brainwashed me -- but Jack Bauer just kicked some dude through the door of a subway train and it was awesome. Thank goodness I have my TiFaux, though, because I'm also in the process of trying to find curtains for my bedroom.

They need to be silk dupioni. They need to match my comforter set, but not be too matchy-matchy. They need to be relatively inexpensive (preferably around $35 a panel or less). And they also have to be available at a store in the Westminster Mall. My parents gave me a $150 gift card to Simon malls for Christmas, and Westminster is the closest one. I could go to Mission Viejo, but I'd rather not.

(Side note: The American Idol promos make me want to vomit. They're so, I dunno, self-important.)

(But I might actually watch anyway. After the initial embarassing auditions.)

(OH MY GOSH IS JACK BAUER CRYING IN THE PROMO FOR TOMORROW NIGHT?)

So, given that I worked my first Television Critics Association tour this past week, I'm feeling game to tell a story. It's a story I've shied away from telling a lot of people because, well...because I've felt like an appearance of apathy is the best way to go. One isn't supposed to be a giggly fan of anything in this industry -- or so I thought. But you know what? It's a great story. It was a life-changing night for me in the sense that it made me a more confident young woman, and in a city as crazy as La-La Land, that is definitely a good thing...

To this day, I still say that the deepest advice I've received came from my former roommate's boyfriend Brad: "Go in through the fucking kitchen." I had just told him of my plan to crash the ABC party at the Television Critics Association that January (2004), and he thought it was brilliant. At the time, I was working for said Satan-With-a-Speculum and looking for my way out, whether it was working in publicity or as a writers' assistant. Considering I'd had no luck with resume submission after resume submission for either type of job, I thought I'd try to actually get face time with people who might be able to help me with that. And I knew that the chances of seeing ABC's publicity head, as well as some show-runners (specifically J.J. Abrams during his Alias days), were pretty good.

Keep in mind that I had never done anything like this before. I was always that kid in high school who did the right thing, if only because I didn't want to get into trouble. In fact, this was one of my worries with this particular plan -- what would happen if I got caught on the way in? Would I have to call my dad from jail, asking him to bail me out? I did it anyway.

The night of the party arrived and I put on my most professional dress and headed down to the Pacific Design Center in West Hollywood. Per another friend's recommendation, I put my hands-free earpiece in my ear and carried my cell phone as I strutted through the PDC's corridors. (Yes, I strutted -- Sydney Bristow was an inspiration!) Before I knew it, I was on the escalator behind Sara Rue and on my way through coat-check. Security never once stopped me. I guess I just "looked the part."

Now looking back on it, I'm thoroughly convinced that I was out of my mind. If I had gone up to the head of publicity, she'd have had security all over me in a heartbeat. It was a very, very, very stupid idea. But I guess that sometimes stupid pays off...

Once inside, I realized that partaking of a free cosmo might help my nerves. Yeah, except they were effing strong. Even though I was less nervous, I was muy tipsy, so I switched to Diet Coke. After a conversation that I swear screamed "imposter" with David Anders and Ron Rifkin (Alias), I saw J.J. Abrams across the room. I decided that I was going to introduce myself. So, I walked over to wait my turn. As I'm standing there, though, someone says to me, "Are you J.J.'s wife?"

Um, no. And that is how I was discovered by Michael Ausiello of TV Guide. Luckily, he took care of me for the rest of the evening, even introduced me to J.J., who said that he thought it was cool that I managed to crash. Eventually, I decided I'd had enough, said goodnight to Michael, retrieved my coat and purse, and headed to my car. (Yay free parking!)

Nothing big ever came of the party. When I woke up the next morning, I went back to my job at the gynecologist's office, as I did every Monday through Friday for the next eight months. But it was awesome, and for the first time, I truly felt like I could make it happen.

Whatever it is.

And I realize that's kind of an abrupt end to the story, but my brain just gave out. I'm watching an old episode of C.S.I. and I don't even think I'm going to finish it. Goodnight.

I am a chick lit cliche.

I'm sitting here in my bedroom on a Friday night, contemplating taking a shower and traipsing around in my pretty fluffy sage robe -- a holiday gift from the head of my department at work. I just got home from having a delicious meal at Baby Blues in Venice (CA, that is...not Italy...if only), and now all I can think about is how I can feel my thighs inflating. It's not a happy feeling. I want to go for a walk, but with a windchill, it's only 40-some-odd degrees outside. I could go to the gym, but my gym is in West Hollywood and I am in Silver Lake and mrah mrah mrah yes I would like some cheese with my whine. (And so the thigh-expansion continues...)

But anyway, I'm reading a lot of chick lit these days. I got it in my head that 2007 was going to be my most literate year ever. I was going to read a whole lotta books, and I was going to start with the classics. I managed to find a list of the "50 Greatest Novels of All Time," compiled by The New York Times. And what's classier than The New York Times? Come on! At the top was Ulysses by James Joyce. I spent $17 on it at the Borders in Century City. After my first bus-and-book session, my brain hurt. Reading is supposed to be FUNdamental -- or at least that's what all those cheesy-yet-endearing posters in my school libraries always said. Headaches? Not fun.

So chick lit it is. I adored Emily Giffin's Something Borrowed and Something Blue. I just finished reading -- and loving -- a script based on a book called Milkrun. I'm now reading Pamela Ribon's Why Moms Are Weird. Oddly enough, even though I loved the movie, I'm not a huge fan of The Devil Wears Prada. The main character really irritated me in the first chapter with all of her whining. I just kept thinking that the girl should just put on her big girl panties and deal with it. (And I say this as someone who spent her first nine months in L.A. working for Satan-with-a-Speculum.)

But anyway, I had a point. Maybe the reason I'm liking these books is because I see something I can relate to. I've never really felt like your "typical" 27-year-old, but now I do. I finally have friends I can call to have dinner or catch a movie with. I have a fantastic assistant job at a fantastic television network. I spend way too much time analyzing the most minute details to determine if the guy I like actually likes me back. I can watch Pride and Prejudice infinite times in a loop and still get all weepy at the end. And one of my favorite things in the whole world is spending time with my best friend. That, and eating Ben and Jerry's...

I am a cliche. And as much as the Silver Lake girl in me wants to rebel, I am a-okay with that.