So, you know, just your average day.

Awake at four and out the door a solid 45 minutes later than hoped. But we didn't forget anything! (That we've realized yet, anyway.)

Both boys were much, much better on the plane than I dared hope. Things have gone downhill since then, but my airline-induced ulcer was for naught.

The flight crew from Phoenix to Nashville fancied themselves a comedy troupe, resulting in hearty applause on numerous occasions. Jokes, songs, physical gags - they had it all. My personal favorite: "Be careful when retrieving items from the overhead compartments - shift happens."

I also enjoyed when the attendant tripped and spilled an entire tray of coffee cups on Martin. The whole end of the plane let out a collective gasp as white Styrofoam flew slow-motion style from her tray to his lap. Minutes before the dramatic fall another attendant had come through and passed out actual coffees (what, no hot cocoa?). I've never seen that before and am almost convinced they do it just to make the fake coffee tray more believable. That, my friends, is dedication to their craft. Or possibly just boredom.

The comedy continued upon arriving, as Marty greeted us wearing these.

We had dinner and arrived at the hotel. We got our key cards, hitched up our pack mules and headed to room 423. Cael hit the alarm in the elevator to add a little spice to an otherwise mundane activity. We got to the room, slid the key into the door and opened it.

Huh. A newspaper. Thoughtful. A cooler? They use those in lieu of mini fridges in Tennessee? Jeff Foxworthy would have a redneck joke about this. Cael, don't touch the phone. No, Cael, don't touch the briefcase. Briefcase? Wait - the bathroom light is on! ABORT! ABORT!

Front desk lady was not as horrified as were that six adults, a baby and a two year old just wandered into an occupied hotel room. She kept asking if we were sure there was someone in there since her computer said the room was empty. Two things, lady. One: if it had been me on the room when the Clampetts came traipsing in, I'd have dived into the bathtub too. Two: computers are not infallible (especially when it's humans doing the inputting). If you're not careful you'll turn into one of those people who believes that if it's on the internet it must be true. Those people frighten me.

So, after way too much hassle, we finally got a room (not a suite as we'd reserved) and got the boys in bed. Surprise, surprise, Cael didn't want to sleep. He wanted to play with Mom and Dad and bounce on the bed and turn on the tv and...

It was after eleven before all was quiet.

And at two the noise resumed in the form of a loud thump, followed by screaming.

His third time in as many months to fall out of bed. (Cael, not Ryan. Ryan's gotten much better.) This was the biggest yet. The first was off a trundle and would have barely registered if he hadn't landed on his head and stuck there. The second was over his side-rail, so, farther to fall, but he was awake at the time so it wasn't as scary (and it may have been more of a jump than a fall. Without video footage we can't make a ruling).

Finn, of course, woke when the rest of us did and added his part to "The Screaming Duet," the hit single from our next album, Boys Do Cry. Other tracks include: "When Irish Eyes are Weeping," "Splendor in the Gas," and "Hit The Baby One More Time." In record stores this October!

We ended up having Cael sleep in the bed between us for what was left of the night after he calmed down and we were sure there was no permanent damage. Turns out you can really extend the usable width of a bed by pushing an armchair up to the side and wedging a pillow in the crack. Cool, huh?

Yeah, no. I didn't think so either.

And, yes, my favorite part is Marty's shoes too.

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I find myself constantly surprised (and, I will admit to being a little disappointed) at the lack of attention Cael gets on outings. Surely, this is mostly a *new mother!* thing, but there is a part of me that thinks objectively that babies should draw at least a little attention. I mean, they're adorable. If guys rubberneck at ladies in short skirts, can't the rest of humanity be bothered to look at a passing ball of cuteness?

When we go to the store, even when Cael is making cooing and bubbling noises, no one looks at him, waves at him, or makes cooing noises back. Not even the people at the register can be bothered to acknowledge his existence. I feel bad for the little dude, because he is so used to everyone he sees (read: the flood of relatives) turning into his own personal entertainment system the moment he walks into a room. On outings, when there are tons of potential playthings, they all ignore his advances. He's constantly being shot down. It's kinda heartbreaking.

That is until we encounter that random person (usually a woman) who goes in the complete opposite direction. Instead of ignoring him, she throws herself at him and launches into full on, in depth stories about her life, tells us the names, ages and tooth-counts of her grandchildren (always a grandparent), and is totally inconsiderate about the fact that when we planned our excursion to the store we didn't factor in a thirty minute conversation with a stranger.

On Friday night the sales lady at Macy's stood at the register with our purchases and didn't ring them up for a good 10 minutes, holding them (and us) hostage while she told us grandmothery things. Then, after she rang them up, she decided there were things in the store Cael had to have and said, "Stay right there." She proceeded to rummage through the Christmas decorations and find every stuffed animal, test its beady eye strength, and bring it to the register. Once she had piled up enough, she asked which one we wanted to buy. It was an entirely new degree of salesperson purchase pushing and it made me very uncomfortable.

If Ryan hadn't been there, we would have come home with at least one over sized plush ornament with a holiday scarf. There's no doubt about it.

Oh, and then there was the guy at Fred Meyer who pinned me against the sour cream and told me about all nine of his grandchildren, showed me all of their photos and described in what ways they looked like their parents. When he got to the youngest, newest babies, he told me the story of their births and how he almost didn't live to see it because of a terrible car accident. The accident killed the other driver, hurt the man and his wife, and would you believe their HMO didn't cover it, and he's been to six hospitals in order to find someone who can diagnose, and the pain is right there when he turns his neck like so...

So, maybe I'm not really that upset about the lack of attention Cael gets at the stores now. Huh.

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I think the person who came up with 'click it or ticket' really had something. It's catchy and to the point. Not that it makes me put my seatbelt on... but I'm sure people less stubborn/lazy than myself have been swayed by the existence of this sign on the side of the road.

Obviously, this creative mind was on vacation when the deadline for the litter campaign came around. 'Litter and it will hurt.' ... whuh? Wth? It will hurt? Is that supposed to imply physical harm? Images of a sign uprooting itself and whacking people upside the head come to mind. A firing squad aiming at a line-up of civilians shouting and pleading, "It was only an apple core! It's biodegradable!"

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True story from a day in the life of Ryan.

Mike is the bartender at the restaurant where Ryan works -- and they're not really friends. Not at all. So, Ryan was a bit surprised when Mike came up to him:

Mike: Hey dude... when was the last time you smoked pot?
Ryan: Um... I, uh... I tried it once in college. Didn't sit well.
Mike: You taking any heavy meds?
Ryan: Er... I'm taking Nyquil.
Mike: Perfect. Dude, you could totally help me out.
Ryan: Um. What's going on?
Mike: Dude. I need some pee.
Ryan: Oh. Um. You have to take a test for work?
Mike: No, bro. I got this custody thing for my fuckin kids.
Ryan: Ah.
Mike: I need some piss by Wednesday. [Mike whips out a water bottle] Think you could take a little pee?
Ryan: [Lying through his teeth] Oh, man. Very unfortunate, but I just relieved myself about 15 minutes ago.
Mike: No way, man. That sucks.
Ryan: Yeah.
Mike: I need it by Wednesday, dude. And I see you're not on the schedule. Can you come in and do it tomorrow?
Ryan: Oh, well, I don't know. I've got lots to do tomorrow.
Mike: Man, this sucks. I asked Sean and he said he wouldn't even do it for his best friend. What kind of bullshit is that, man.
Ryan: That's rough.
Mike: Totally. So are you going to be able to make it in?
Ryan: No, dude. Sorry.
Mike: Alright, dude, well I'll call you tomorrow around noon and see if you can come in. I need some piss by Wednesday.
Ryan: ...

Poor Ryan first thought he was being hit up for a drug deal of some sort and it turns out he's wanted for his cleanliness and ability to urinate.

I told him to take the halo off his head before going into work.

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“Twenty-seven five. Jesus Christ! Who cares about twenty-seven five? What happens at twenty-seven five doesn’t affect me.”

--

He sits parked across the street, staring blankly at her empty vehicle. He followed her there two hours ago, watched her get out, slip into the house and disappear.

Maybe it’s her girlfriend’s house. Yeah, that’s it. Just two girls in there, sipping on margaritas and talking about shopping. Silly of him to think otherwise.

But then – why did she tell him she was going to her mother’s?

The house is dark, with the exception of a small flickering spotlight illuminating the address. Twenty-seven five. The large black letters cast shadows across the faded beige siding, creating an eerie feeling deep inside him.

He rolls his window down, anxious to hear the sound of giggling and laughing… or a blender crushing ice.

His ears are met only with the sound of a quiet evening in a quiet neighborhood. Crickets chirp and children laugh in the distance. The peacefulness of it all seems to mock him.

He is anything but peaceful.

His stomach churns as he steps out of the car. The sound of the door closing echoes through the empty street, bouncing off two-car garages and alerting the sleeping masses to his presence. Stealth was never his forte.

Putting one foot in front of the other takes all his concentration as he slowly makes his way across the street and onto the walk. His conscience and his will continue an internal struggle. His heart clenches under the stress.

He halts his movements as he steps onto the porch. He could simply ring the doorbell. But then… he doesn’t want to interrupt her evening with his silly and completely unfounded concerns. No, he will just peek in the window, see her watching one of those stupid romantic comedies she’s so crazy about and drive back home. Simple enough.

The first window looks into the living room. Okay, so maybe she isn't watching a movie. There are still plenty of other things that girlfriends do together on an uneventful Tuesday night.

The second is the window above the kitchen sink. Well, of course they wouldn’t be in there. He wouldn’t expect them to. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning.

The third window is the one that shatters his heart. In the north east corner of house twenty-seven five lies the master bedroom. And in the master bedroom lies his wife.

He watches the pair only for a moment before turning and retreating to his car. The door that so deafeningly closed now soundlessly opens to envelope him.

He sinks into the worn leather seat and puts his keys in the ignition. Across the street, the small spotlight finally flickers out, swallowing the numbers in darkness and burning them into his mind.

Twenty-seven five…

--

…or something like that.

I was walking down the streets of Studio City yesterday when I passed a forty-something man in worn clothes. He carried what seemed to be all his belongings and a heaping helping of emotional baggage. He repeated the words like a broken record:

“Twenty-seven five. Jesus Christ! Who cares about twenty-seven five? What happens at twenty-seven five doesn’t affect me.”

Every time he repeated himself, he said it with more emotion and more pain. It really was quite sad… and of course… I had to wonder what did happen at twenty-seven five…

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It’s official. Clio is not a threat to national security. At least for the next 29 days.

/Sigh of relief.

I know you were all worried.

In order to take your pet across state lines by plane, you need to have a signed health certificate by order of Homeland Security. Just to make sure she isn’t packing distemper. Biological warfare is frowned upon.

We actually had the pleasure of two pet visits today. Since, well – I’ll get to that. It was a bit of a last minute veterinary visit.

Being new to the sunny land of hell-a, we have yet to find Clio a vet. So, we did what all red-blooded-lazy-cheap Americans do… we took her to the vet attached to Petco. Yes, Vetco.

What kind of people take their pet to a place called Vetco?

While we were in the waiting room a man walked in the door with a paper bag in his hands. I assumed he was carrying canned dog food or something. It looked heavy and cumbersome. Well, of course it was cumbersome. It was a cat in a bag. A brown paper bag. A cat. In a brown paper bag.

Once admitted to the examination room we were helped by a lovely woman named Bridget. Who was a little less lovely when, after she shoved a thermometer somewhere things should never be shoved, grabbed an alcohol swab and dropped it on the floor. She picked it up and looked at it briefly before swiping it once over the thermometer and placing the thermometer back in the drawer. One swipe. Hmm. Thank god it wasn’t going up my butt next.

After that ordeal we were instructed to wait for the vet.

Two minutes later, Bridget returns to say that, oops – their vet isn’t certified to do health certificates. Oops. Should have told us that yesterday when we called, shouldn’t you have, Bridget?

So off we go to vet number two. At VCH the vet actually has the qualifications required to look at Clio for two minutes and deem her healthy.

We shall not return to Vetco.

So… why did we wait until the day before takeoff to get Clio certified? Because EQ2 has sucked in my brains and won’t give them back.

If you call me while I’m playing Everquest, even if I respond – I’m not really listening. If you email me while I’m playing Everquest, and I read it? I’ll forget it ever existed. If you’re Ryan, and you say, “Allie, Clio and I are going on a walk, we’ll be back in ten minutes,” I won’t notice you were gone, nor will I know where you have been.

It’s a disease. But Ryan has it too – so I don’t feel so bad.

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So did you all watch Jon Heder (Napoleon Dynamite) on Jay Leno way back when? If you did, you recall that he mentioned moving to LA. When he told his Mormon mother that was his plan she warned, “You be careful. That’s where Satan resides.”

So, I had this boss. Well, my boss had this boss, I suppose… but I took direct orders from her, so for all intents and purposes, she was my boss. To preserve the anonymity of all those involved, I will call her “E”. Which is fitting, because I think she was high on something the entire time.

Note: There is no possible way for me to describe to you the timbre of her voice, but I can tell you this: it is saccharine sweet, grating, sing-song and nauseating.

-Thursday Afternoon-
[Allie’s first day working with people other than Loren. She’s been running all over hell and back making deliveries and doing personal errands for E. Her phone rings while she is mid run.]
E: Allie? E here!
Allie: Hi E.
E: Listen, I need you to call this guy and lie to him.
Allie: Excuse me?
E: Just a white lie. No big deal.
Allie: Okay…
E: So, you know how I had you drive to Venice and talk to that realtor?
Allie: Yes.
E: Well, that’s the apartment I really want, but I have another one on hold, in case I don’t get the one in Venice.
Allie: Okay.
E: And he told me I had to give him the checks by this morning, cause he was going on vacation or something.
Allie: Okay.
E: But I don’t want to. I just would rather not live there. He’s, you know… very gay. And nitpicky. And I just wouldn’t want him being my landlord, you know?
Allie: Okay.
E: Anyway, I want you to call him and tell him you work for me. Tell him you have the checks and you need to know when the latest you can drop them off is.
Allie: I don’t have any checks.
E: I know, I won’t really have you drop them off. I just want him to think you are.
Allie: Okay.
E: Great! Thanks!
[Allie makes the calls to his home and cell, leaving a message on his cell. Her phone rings.]
E: Allie? E! Did you call him?
Allie: Yes.
E: What did he say?
Allie: He didn’t answer. I left a message.
E: At which number?
Allie: His cell.
E: Did you leave a message at his home?
Allie: No, just his cell.
E: Call him back and leave a message on his home phone.
[Allie does as instructed. Her phone rings.]
E: Allie? E here! Did you do it?
Allie: Yes, I did.
E: Has he called you?
Allie: No.
-Twenty minutes later-
[Allie’s phone rings]
E: Allie? E! Has he called you?
Allie: No. I’ll tell you if he does.
E: Did you leave a message on his cell?
Allie: Yes. And at his house.
E: And he hasn’t called you back?
Allie: NO.

With all of the calls that she made to me regarding this guy, one might wonder why she didn’t just call him herself. It would have been a lot easier, and it would have required fewer phone calls. Oh wait! But then when the check she never intended to deliver never showed up at this guy’s place she would have had to take the blame herself instead of blaming it on her incompetent assistant. Silly me.

-Friday, 8pm-
[After a long day of sitting by her phone with her heart in her throat, because she was told she would be called in to work at any moment, Allie’s phone rings.]
Allie: Hello?
E: Allie? E here!
Allie: Hi E.
E: What are you doing tomorrow?
Allie: Saturday? I have plans.
E: I need you to come in and do research.
Allie: I’m sorry, E, but I really can’t. I’ve made prior commitments.
E: I need you to come in for a few hours.
Allie: Well, I don’t have that large of a time block. I can get the research done on my own time, but I can’t commit to a chunk of time.
E: What do you have?
Allie: Plans.
E: I need you to come in. This needs to be done by tomorrow night.
Allie: Well, if you tell me what it is, I’ll get it done by then.
E: I need you to come in.
Allie: I can’t come in, but I can get it done. Just tell me what you need researched.
E: I can’t tell you over the phone. It’s too complex.
Allie: Then I’m sorry, E, but you’re going to have to find someone else to do it.
E: Can you come in tomorrow morning?
Allie: I’m sorry, I really can’t.
E: I need this done by tomorrow night.
Allie: Then tell me what it is.
E: Call me tomorrow.
Allie: I was actually planning on doing most of the research tonight, so if you could just tell me what it is now…
E: No. I need you to come in. I need to supervise.
Allie: Then I’m sorry, but it’s a little late. I’ve already made plans.
E: Call me tomorrow morning.
[E hangs up the phone. Allie dies a little inside with fear that she’ll actually have to go in to E’s tomorrow.]

-Saturday, 8:30am-
[Allie has been up for an hour and is fully showered and ready to go to E’s place for all forms of torture and emotional manipulation. She calls E. No one answers.]

-Saturday, 11pm-
[Allie’s phone rings. It’s E. She doesn’t answer.]
Voicemail message: Allie? E here! So I need you to research images of train cars, tour buses, luxury yachts. I just want to know what the interiors of these would look like. Just send them to me whenever. Bye!

So this terribly important research that couldn’t be explained over the phone and had to be done by Saturday night under direct supervision? Not for the commercial I was hired to work on. Not the commercial she’s currently designing, it’s for one she hopes to design. So not really a rush and not really something she can supervise, unless she wants to sit next to me while I google image search. If that’s the case why the heck wouldn’t she just do it herself? The general consensus is that she just wanted me at her apartment so that she could send me on errands to get her toilet paper and groceries. Poor E misses her personal assistant and can’t seem to cope without one. *Sob*

I met her old personal assistant. A cute girl named Annie. When she handed me E’s key she tentatively asked how I liked working for her. I said, “She’s… uh… well…”
Annie: Crazy?
Allie: I was going to go with psycho.
Annie: I hated working for her. It was horrible. I had to take this job I have now just to get away from her. I came home every day after working for her and cried. I felt like I had been punched in the gut.

E called me this morning at nine to ask me if I did something that no one ever asked me to do. I told her I hadn’t. Then she asked me what I was doing this week.
Allie: I have plans.
E: What plans?
Allie: Plans.
E: All week?
Allie: All week. Yup. Very busy.
E: Well call me.

Not a snowball’s chance in hell. I’m seeing now why Annie couldn’t just tell E she didn’t want to work for her anymore. You have to have another job, some hard evidence that you are no longer at her beck and call. I’m looking into it.

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I was at the grocery store today, sifting through the green onions, when the sprinklers came on. Usually you hear a little warning noise first, to let you know to get the hell out of the way… but apparently this particular produce aisle didn’t feel the need to alert the shoppers. Anyway, it sprayed me and I let out a little yelp of surprise. The old lady next to me (cucumbers) did the same. Then she shook her head and said, “They think spraying keeps the vegetables longer. If it did, my refrigerator would spit at me!”

Ryan and I had one of the worst dining experiences ever when we had dinner at Red Robin last night. The food was fine, but the people in the booth two down from us were horrible. It was some lady and her 8-9 year old son, and another couple and their 2-year-old boy. The young boy (we shall call him Christopher, for that was his name) was standing on the booth leaning on his father’s shoulder and attempting to put his dad’s dog tag over his head. The older boy (we shall call him Shut Up, for that was his name) was holding his mother’s picture phone and trying to get Christopher to smile for the picture. He did this by yelling “Christopher!” repeatedly and at the top of his lungs. I swear on everything holy he yelled that name straight for at least a minute and little Christopher (as well as the three adults at the table) were taking no notice. I think perhaps Christopher had a hearing problem, or just enough common sense to ignore the older boy. Finally, the mother yelled, “Shut up, he’s not going to look at you!” This only made Shut Up pause briefly, before continuing to shout. After a while, Christopher tired of the dog tag and went to look at the carousel horses that were precariously balanced on a ledge across from their booth. Shut up took this to mean that Christopher wanted to ride the horses. He dismounted from the booth and went over to the horses, one of them a foot of the floor, the other about three feet off the floor, and started shaking them to test their sturdiness. I thought this was wise of young Shut Up. I thought perhaps he cared about the well being of Christopher and would not subject his friend to the horrors of the incredibly rickety shell of a horse. Instead, upon finding that the horse was far from sturdy, he shouted, “Look Christopher! It rocks!” Like somehow this would make the ride more enjoyable. As Shut Up repeated the little boy’s name at an impressively piercing volume, the three adults (amazingly impassive up until this point) look over to the shouting boy and his mother yelled, “Shut Up!” No “stop rocking the precariously balanced horse” or “don’t touch that” or “please sit back down you’re causing a scene” – just “Shut Up” and then she went back to dining. Tired of the horses, Christopher decided to go to the empty booth that separated us from them and sit peacefully. Shut Up decided to jump on the both, stand there and play with the light fixture. As he shouted “Christopher! Christopher look!” the mother once again took time out of her busy schedule to pay attention to her child-run-amuck and shout, “Don’t touch that! It will electrocute you!” At least she’s concerned for his safety.

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Ryan: Our first day finished. Well, your second day. My first day.
Allie: Word.
Ryan: That was pretty cool. I looked wickedly creepy.
Allie: Word.
Ryan: I had no idea that my character was going to be that over the edge.
Allie: Word.
Ryan: I’m guessing you find it entertaining that by changing your inflection you can change the meaning of the word “word.”
Allie: Word!
Ryan: This is going to be one of those conversations, isn’t it?
Allie: Word.
Ryan: Okay. Anyway, speaking of looking freaky – how nasty was that woman at McDonalds?
Allie: Word.
Ryan: Who told her it was cool to shave your eyebrows completely off and then draw them in with a single pencil line? And it makes it especially disturbing is that the line is way above where her eyebrows should be so it makes her face looks all warped and discolored.
Allie: Word.
Ryan: I love you, you know that right?
Allie: Word.
Ryan: Then know that I say this because I care about you.
Allie: Word.
Ryan: If you say “word” one more time I’m going to shave off your eyebrows and draw them back on.
Allie: Bitchin.

.

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I don’t know if it’s just Los Angeles, or just The Cheesecake Factory, but let me tell you – that place is a well-oiled machine. When Ryan and I went there the other night (yes, the faux-Vartan night) we learned first hand their waiting process. First, you go and give them your name. Then, they punch a few numbers in on the computer and they give you one of those plastic doohickeys* that lights up and vibrates when your table is ready. So, we go wait outside, like good little patrons, and forty-five minutes later the device starts flashing. We go in the restaurant (or factory, I suppose) and hand the doohickey to the woman at the counter, who then proceeds to tell us to “wait over there.” She punches something into the computer, and hands the device to the woman behind her. Woman #2 puts the device away, reads info on her computer (seriously, they were two feet apart… just talk to one another) and then writes the name Ryan on a slip of paper and places it on a counter with ten other slips of paper. Apparently, we weren’t ready to be seated, just ready to be moved into the next corral. We are now standing with ten other disillusioned parties who are also still waiting to be seated. As we are on our second wait, a man approaches woman #1 with the typical, “You said our table would be ready in forty-five minutes and we’ve been waiting over an hour!” Woman #1 asks for his name, punches it into her computer and says, “Sir, it says here that you have been waiting for thirty minutes and that your table will be ready in fifteen.” That’s right. He was bitch-slapped. He walked back outside with his tail between his legs. Don’t mess with the machine, Boyo.

As Ryan and I were walking out of Target this evening, we passed a woman letting two young girls out of her car. The girls could not have been older than thirteen. As they got out of the car, one of the girls yells oh-so-politely** “Mom, my cell is still in the back of the car, if you want to call me, just call Jenny’s.” Excuse me? You are twelve years old, girlies… what do you need a cell phone for? How far away from home can you get without your parents driving you anyway? Shouldn’t they know where you are without having to call? How often are you left alone unsupervised and away from a landline? What is this world coming to?

I find my answer as about two minutes later I walked by a woman and her nine-year-old daughter. The child was sporting a Louis Vuitton purse. Please. What is she carrying in there? Her Barbie chapstick? As I examine the contents of my purse I find: lipstick, checkbook, wallet, cell phone and car keys. I would assume that little Sally is carrying none of these things. She doesn’t even have a driver’s license or credit card, so she doesn’t need a wallet. Why does she need a designer handbag? If she feels the need to clutch something, how about Hello Kitty? It’s much less expensive.

*As I type the word “doohickies” into my computer, I find that is incorrect spelling. It is actually “doohickeys.” I guess when it’s a fictitious word, you aren’t supposed to change the ‘y’ to an ‘ie’ when making it plural.

**Not really politely as much as rudely

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Yesterday I donned my background cap and took the set of CBS’ JAG by storm. Oh yes, I worked JAG. (Lauren, please wipe up that drool. We don’t need to see that.) Sadly, however, I did not work with Catherine Bell or David James Elliot. I suppose the best is still yet to come.

So now that you know I’m not going to regale you with tales of celebrities (unless you count Bud and his dad, Big Bud, among those ranks), prepare yourself to be regaled with tales of the freaks that are my fellow background actors.

Let me begin with the group I spent most of my time with. Somehow I ended up sitting at a booth the entire day (in holding – offstage) with Danny, Renatta and Terri. Danny was way cool. He was incredibly friendly, and had a lot of background/acting experience that he was eager to share. He gives seminars on breaking into the world prepared, apparently, and he basically gave the three of us a mini one. I took notes for Ryan.

For those of you who went to WU with me, to describe Renatta, I would have to say she was a slightly sedated Briana. Yeah, yikes. She even looked like her. The sad part is she wasn’t the most annoying. The most annoying was Terri.

Terri was a busty size 8. I tell you this only because she said it so many times that it was drilled into my head and it is what I assume she would like to be described as. She was constantly posing the question, “Where is the line between vanity and self-confidence?” I assume she wanted us to tell her that she hadn’t crossed it, but I wasn’t about to lie to the girl. She kept saying, “I’m not vain, I just love my body.” She also informed us (on more than one occasion) that you would never see her without a shirt that revealed her cleavage. She worked hard for her body and she was not about to leave the house in an outfit that did not reveal her best feature. She showed us a picture that she carried in her wallet that was taken at Glamour Shots in the mall. In this picture she was a platinum blonde (in reality she was a brunette, but in another picture she was a redhead) with a red strapless dress, leaning over a column with her elbows together. Yessir, she has a large chest.

After viewing her array of pictures of herself, we questioned her constant change of hair colors. She said that it is, indeed, trying on the poor little strands, but that she treats her hair right. She likes to smother it in mayonnaise and sit in a shower cap, letting the oils soak in. The result is a head of luscious, supple locks. The only negative side effect is that ranch dressing doesn’t taste as good anymore. Apparently, once mayo has soaked into your pores the taste is highlighted in all of your mayo-based edibles. Note to self.

The thing that was most irritating about Terri was her constant stream of “facts.” She likes to know things on a molecular level. For visuals she would ball up her fist (the molecule) and smother it with her other hand (the offending chemical). Did you know that MSG is found in 90% of your food whether there is a warning on it or not? Oh, yes it is. There are certain chemicals that combine to create it. You have to look at the labels to see if those chemicals are ingredients. (For the complete list, feel free to ask Terri.) And Equal and other artificial sweeteners will kill you. Antiperspirant is the real devil, though. It has aluminum in it, which plugs up your pores. She uses natural deodorant to avoid such cloggage.

Imagine a stream of information, including, but not limited to, these tidbits, presented to you at a very high pitch by a pair of large boobs. That is what my day was like. Too tell you the truth, I have no doubt that most of her information is right-on. But really, everything is going to kill you eventually, so you might as well spend you life without pit stains. It was impressive how much information she spewed. I guess the key is to type the list of ingredients on any food you eat or product you use into Google. Then you can find out all you need to know. That’s what she does before she uses anything new.

While she was ranting on the horrors of aspartame, the AD came into the room and said, “We need some people to sit at the bar. Does anyone smoke?” With the enthusiasm of a kindergartener asked who wants an extra Jello cup, Terri waved her arms in the air and shouted, “I do! I do!” After filming several scenes in which she lit up, she went outside to have a smoke break.

She came back to our table later and began her antiperspirant spiel again (because a new person had pulled a chair up to our booth and the poor girl probably had no knowledge of the horrors of the Degree she applied every morning) and Danny and I, in amazing unison, shouted incredulously, “But you smoke!” Terri looked at us like we were aliens and countered that yes, she did smoke, but her lungs got just as polluted by breathing the air when driving behind a bus. Danny asked her if she rolled down her window and stuck her head out to better inhale the exhaust. She rolled her eyes and informed us that the world is a polluted place so smoking wasn’t doing her that much more damage. I told her that was like saying, “I already have antiperspirant in my armpits, I might as well apply it to every inch of my skin.” She told me that it was nothing like that, and that it was a choice she made. Danny and I just looked at each other and changed the subject.

I also spent some time at the bar between two sailors, Bench and Jeffery. Jeffery was very annoying, baby faced, and followed me everywhere. I wanted to punch him. Does that make me a bad person?

Also irritating and freaky was Michael. For those of you who went to WU, again, I can best describe him by saying he was very similar to Bennett. I’m not kidding. People like that exist. He was very weird. At one point he stole some papers from the second AD’s desk. They were crew info sheets or something. He took the papers to his little chair and started reading them. The AD walked by and saw that this kid has his papers, snatched them away and said, “Where did you get those? These are confidential!” To which Michael just stared blankly. He also spent a great deal of time in his chair rocking back and forth like a crazy person. It’s too bad I can’t describe him better to you guys. You really had to be there.

So the scenes we shot took place in Big Bud’s Bar, which not only served drinks, but provided the patrons with entertainment. Specifically, female lingerie wrestlers. Yeah. I am sure that they are going to have to do some cutting of the footage, because I saw plenty that was x-rated. Not NC-17... X. I swear. Eww… It should have been called Big Bud’s Vu Show.

Anyhoo… that’s what happened yesterday. You wanna hear what didn't happen? I didn't get to work on Alias because I was working when the call was on the line. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, it is now official. The casting company I work for is the one that books background for Alias. And I didn't get to do it. Bugger. What makes it even worse was that Alias was filming outside Matt’s office yesterday and I didn’t get to go stalk the set because I was working JAG. Grr… Vartan was there. He bumped into Victoria and smiled at her.

Oh, to be Victoria. *Sigh* Although, next time Vartan apologizes for something, you should definitely say that you don't forgive him, and that the only way he can pay you back for the harm he has caused would be to go out on a date with a certain individual you happen to know that is a big fan. What were you thinking???

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Ryan is obsessed. Seriously, he can’t stop. It’s an addiction and I just don’t know what to do about it. He is constantly looking at himself in the mirror. Our closet doors are mirrored and he sits at his computer, or on the bed, or sometimes just stands there and looks at himself. The worst is when we’re sitting and having a conversation – does he look at me? No. Why would he do that when there is something more attractive to fixate on?

Celebrity sighting. Oh, that’s right. We were in the Gap with Abigail Breslin. Who is she? Well, she’s a child star, according to her website. She was the little girl on Signs with Mel Gibson. That’s not why I recognized her. I remembered seeing her on Law & Order once. She was a little girl who had two moms due to some fertility clinic mishap. The reason I remember her is because she sobbed practically the entire episode. Kyle and I were making fun of her… we figured the casting agency was like, “Give us a human sprinkler,” and they landed her. No acting skills, just the ability to spew salty tears at the drop of a hat. Anyway, she was accompanying her mom. No paparazzi. Apparently “child star” doesn’t warrant constant attention.

On our way out of the Gap we saw something interesting. A lady in an SUV was pulling a horse trailer – complete with horse. An ugly white thing, but a horse, nonetheless. What is odd about this scenario is that the woman pulled into a parking spot, got out, and proceeded to go into the shopping center. She went into the Gap and left her palomino in the parking lot. HUH? Did the urge to buy a fitted-tee strike her on the way to the stables? Could she not have stopped another time? Without the horse, perhaps?

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Last night I got another glimpse into the life of a citizen of Los Angeles coping with the rain. It’s not a pretty picture, my friends - not pretty at all.

Let’s take for example, the lady at Ralphs. It was pouring down rain, I will admit. Okay, her hair was nice and dry – this is also true. But even when I put these two things together I can't find a reason for her to do what she did. Standing inside of the store, the woman grabbed a plastic shopping bag and put it over her head. My first instinct was that she might be attempting to suffocate herself. Not the case. She spent a little too much time completely covered for my liking, but eventually she pulled her face out of the bag and used the handles to secure the plastic over her hair. I have two questions for this woman:

1) It’s 8pm. Where the hell are you going that is so important that you cannot get your hair wet?
2) Was it really that well styled to begin with?

Her poor children looked on with expressions somewhere between bewildered and embarrassed. I couldn’t blame them. The younger one asked her mom to wait a second while she gathered the bags from the cart. Her retreating figure informed them that she was not to be slowed. The two girls watched as their mother shuffled the 30 feet to her car, then they grabbed the groceries and doddled after her – unbagged, of course.

I was talking to my online friend (oh, come on – all the cool people have them) about “real” friends. I have decided that they are incredibly hard to come by at this point in life. Where does one go to meet a new friend? I can’t meet them in class or on campus, and I’m certainly not going to meet them in this foreign land people call “the workplace.” Should I go to a bar to pick up a friend, like trashy men pick up trashy women? But then wouldn’t I just end up with a trashy friend? Other suggestions include taking a yoga class, or a play on a sports team, even joining a gym. I find these ideas problematic considering my distaste for physical exertion. Perhaps I could join a chess club? I don’t know how to play. Rotary? Do I look like an old man to you? I find that I have no friend-making hobbies. Except of course, Alias… but then again I acquire friends that could not be placed in the “real” category. Maybe I’ll just hang out with Clio. She’s real, right?

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Batten down the hatches!

Hide the children!

Run for cover!

Save yourselves!!!

It’s… it’s…

IT’S RAINING!

AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Well, shiver me timbers. Am I wrong to assume that Los Angeles has seen rain before? 'Cause I had thought they saw the odd drop or two, but from the sounds of the news anchors, it seems as though this is a foreign thing for them. They’re declaring storm warnings and warning us of the hazards of driving. Yes, Ms. Weatherwoman, I will hide in the safety of my home, lest I get wet and ruin my new perm. What the hell?

This must be what people from Colorado think when Salem schools close because of three inches of snow.

So, Ryan and I have been having a Smallville marathon. He bought the first season (at WB for half-price) and we’ve watched it practically straight through. Now we just have to buy the second and third season to find out what happens.

I must admit, it is a pretty good show. Although, I could do without the villains. I know, I know, they’re an integral part… blah blah blah. I find them creepy and tedious. We know what’s going to happen. We know that some random Smallville citizen is going to stumble into some kryptonite – I’m sorry, “meteor rock” – and gain some power. But said citizen, not being as morally sound as Clark, is not going to use his newfound power wisely. He is going to abuse it and cause harm to an innocent victim. But never fear, speedy Clark will be there just in time to stop the bullet before impact.

And while we’re on the topic of predictable, let me just say – I have trouble with the concept of prequels. It’s like the Star Wars thing. Why would I watch it when I know what happens? How do they expect me to root for Natalie Portman and the blonde dude when I know he turns into Darth Vader? How do they expect me to want Clark and Lana to get together when I know he’s going to end up with Lois? Why do they want me to believe that Lex is a good guy when I know he’s eeeeevil? And why that twist, huh? I’m feeling bad for the bad guy. I don’t want him to go evil. It’s not his fault – it’s the people around him! They made him do it! EVIL PEOPLE. You see what this prequel nonsense does to me?

And don’t get me started on the Alias prequels… Noah??? NOAH? I’m supposed to believe she gets goosebumps around “No!Augh!” – not likely. Vaughn. It was always Vaughn. Even before she met him. Vaughn, Vaughn, Vaughn.

Because of lack of material, I am forced to supplement this little post with a few special requests:

1) To my dear readers: If you would like to make Ryan do the ‘happy dance’ please click on this link. Once there, click on the digit that corresponds with the number you see spelled out on your screen. No, you will not win anything (besides his undying affection) and no, you will not be signed up for anything (besides the list of people who he will love forever.) You will simply add another soldier to his army (currently at 13) in his online game. And yes, in case you were wondering, you can do this once every twenty-four hours, furthering his chances at defeating the online baddies.

2)

3) “Hummers support Terrorisim!!!” – Jeff Pritchard

4) “Michael Vartan is gorgeous.” (Okay, it was me, you caught me.)

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