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!
Friday, January 26, 2007
Friday, January 19, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, January 12, 2007
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.
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.
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