They’re hidden on my secret Facebook for Fat Kids site I belong to. All the gory details of my fitness adventures live there: what I eat every day, what active shenanigans I get up to, and occasionally minor temper tantrums when I can’t eat what I want…or when I do, and regret it.

I’m not going to blow up this blog with duplicate posts, but I am particularly fond of my introductory post, so I thought I’d post it here for funsies. Please find attached this entry imported directly from Fat Camp.

—BEGIN TRANSMISSION—

Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your beers!

No, not really. I don’t mean that. My precious Irish Reds and stouts are officially on the naughty list. Empty calories + I’m a lightweight these days = no dice.

No, the reason I’m banging my gavel in the internet courtroom is to announce that, as a way to hold myself accountable and make my fitness goals a priority, I’m committing to writing a daily post here chronicling my weight loss adventures, and all yallz are my witnesses.

So, here we gooooooo! (Cue Peter Pan music.)

Captain’s Log, Stardate 42568.8:

Today was fairly easy. Then again, the first days always are. I’ve had roughly 500 “first days” in the past year (put away those calculators, it’s new math). This time is a little different, though. In the past, I’ve always given myself a window of cheatery to get the naughties out of my system before a new health kick. It tends to go a little something like this: “I really need to go on a diet. But it’s Wednesday. I can’t start a diet on a Wednesday, what am I, a farmer? No, I’ll start Monday.” Two donut binges later when Monday rolls around: “Well, time to kick off the diet! But wait, my Ladytime is going to start soon. I can’t stick to a new diet during Ladytime, that’s criminal! I’ll wait until next Wednesday.” Rinse, repeat ad nauseum, and cut to me exploding out of my jeans Hulk style.

You won’t like me when I’m hungry.

Anyway, this time is slightly different because instead of giving myself time to lead up to (and subsequently delay) a new diet, I jumped right in. It was late at night, my fingers were covered in cheesypoof dust and I’d been texting my marvelous friend Adam about needing to trim’n'slim. So, genius that he is, he suggested I download this site’s app.

And then I was hooked. It’s like Facebook and MyDailyPlate had a baby. A hungry, angry baby. I’m totally misusing that quote and non-Browncoats may take offense, so please note that in no way shape or form do I find this site nor any users therein to be hungry angry babies.

This caveat brought to you by your friendly neighborhood political science major.

So, in closing: felt good about today! Hoping to start waking up earlier to get a yoga session in before work since it’s impossible to fit a workout in at night, so if anyone wants to come drag me out of bed tomorrow morning, I’m game. I am slightly worried about this upcoming weekend: the 48 Hour Film Festival starts Friday evening, so I’m going to have to try and behave while writing and shooting. Throw all your luck at me, fellas, I’m gonna need it.

Signing off.

—END TRANSMISSION—

So, there’s some unmitigated (and frankly unsolicited) proof that I’m gettin’ my miserychunk removal on. I’ll sprinkle in a few of the more entertaining entries here as we go, but I don’t think you guys want to read my whining about breaking down and eating pizza during the 48 Hour Film Project.

Speakinawhich, I’ll be back soon with another Impossible Reflection on the 48HFP. I still can’t believe it’s been a year since that magical weekend. This time around (who else wants to start singing NO MORE TEARS? Anyone? No? Just me, I guess) was less magical, but with added hilarity, delirium, and a few tantrums. All in all, a terribly fun and exhausting weekend with a short we’re actually proud of (something that didn’t happen last year) and even more shiny new friends. Stay tuned, kiddos! Now if you’ll excuse, I’m going to go sleep myself into a coma.

Pirshafiey out.

The impossibly long line behind me was grumbling and peering impatiently around each other like drivers in gridlock traffic, trying to figure out what the hold up was. They needed their Starbucks and they needed it now and what it God’s name could possibly be taking him so long?

He’d been sifting through a huge stack of giftcards, patting his weathered coat pockets and digging in his frayed jeans for what was only about a minute, but what must have seemed like an eternity for him, for the barista, for the caffeine addicts in the line that wrapped around the food bar and back.

I’d already ordered my nonfat, unsweetened Earl Grey latte while I waited, next in line to pay for my drink. In fact, as he started Round Two of flipping through his rolodex of giftcards, the second barista had already made my tea and placed it on the pick-up counter.

“I’ve got it here somewhere, I’m sorry,” he mumbled, barely above a whisper. So quietly, in fact, that the barista had to ask him to repeat himself. During his search, I looked awkwardly everywhere around the cafe but at him, examining all of the contents of the pastry case. Twice. (And being doubly appalled by the number of calories in their selection. 400 big Cs in a scone the size of an ovary? I’ll pass.)

I have to admit, I wasn’t surprised when he had trouble paying. Further back in line, he’d taken a small toy bus out of a Ross bag filled with sundry oddities before dropping the bag on the floor and leaving it there, even when the line moved forward. When he remembered the bag, he bumped past me to retrieve it as if I weren’t even there. And while he was sorting through his cards at the register, I spotted a worn-out card wrapped in Scotch tape: it was one of those scripture name meaning cards, with the name printed across the top in a crappy font and the meaning below it. I remember I’d gotten one as a kid at the Chapel of the Holy Cross in Sedona and used it as a bookmark in A Wrinkle In Time each time I read and reread it. Mine said “Nicole, victory of the people.” His reads “Aliana, highest and surpassing.” Funny. He looks more like a Jeremy to me.

Finally, the barista tactfully tells him that she’s going to ring me up while he looks for his card, no rush. He scoots over, and as she enters my order, I feel terrible that it took me so long to say it. “Can you ring up his drink with mine, please?”

He starts to protest, and so does the barista. I try my best to smile winsomely at them both (but I probably just look gassy) as I dismiss their protests. “No, please, I’d love to treat you, sir. Can I buy your drink?”

All the grumbling in the line behind us stops. In fact, everything stops. If a record had been playing, it would have scratched. The barista’s eyes well up a little as she takes my credit card, smiling at me and murmuring about kindness. The woman behind me quietly explains the situation to her two small children, and they turn and beam at me. The elderly gentleman behind them actually tips his hat to me. (Yeah, I thought that only happened in Cary Grant movies, too.)

I smile back, uneasy with the eyes on me.  I’m no wallflower, but the attention isn’t what I’m seeking right now. I don’t do it because I want a round of applause, or to hurry up the process and get on with my life. It’s just a small gesture to help a guy out and make someone’s life a little more pleasant. It’s not going to break the bank, and maybe, just maybe, someone will be inspired to do the same and spread some more happiness in this world that can be lonely or joyful depending on what we make of it.

One of my favorite songs of all time is “Make Someone Happy” by Jimmy Durante. He sings (if you can call that ol’ bag of bones’ vocal styling “singing”) that if you make others happy, even if it’s just one person, you’ll be happy too. I don’t know about you, but I actually get more out of helping others than they possibly could. It’s a natural high unlike anything else I’ve experienced, whether it’s giving someone on the street a couple bucks for a hot meal or dropping off my old clothes at a shelter. I don’t believe in God, or any specific higher power. But I believe in love. It connects us and binds us and heals us and it’s the only spiritual thing I have faith in. Yeah, I know: love’s such an old fashioned word. “Love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves.” Caring about ourselves. We’re all in this together, and if we all throw in and lift each other up, there’s no limit to how high we can go.

He tucks away his stack of cards in his pocket and extends his hand to shake mine. He squeezes it tightly, quietly whispering his thanks with a smile, and the gratitude in his young but dim eyes is worth a million bucks.

Best $2.50 I’ve ever spent.

Tune du Jour: Sugar Town by Zooey Deschanel

Why, you ask?  Excellent question, gentle reader!

Reason the First: I turned 25!  I know, I whined and pissed and moaned the entire month of December about my impending birthday, but my besties Jenna and Matt and Donald gave me the most amazing Ferris Bueller-adjacent birthday EVAR!!!1!one!  I can’t even describe the adventure we had that day.  I mean, I CAN…okay, here’s a sample.  When Matt and Jenna picked me up, they presented me with a contract and a set of instructions.  After I signed the contract, they let me read the fine print (which my attorney tells me is wholly illegal, but whatevs), and I was given my first clue.  After deciphering the clue, I had to direct the driver to the location in questions.  Upon arriving at my location, I was given a task to complete, with video and photographic evidence taken to document my success.  While en route, the words EXPECTO PATRONUM! would randomly be shouted out.  At those words, the car would immediately pull over, and the drive would only recommence upon the correct answering of a trivia question posed to me.  In summation: I came home with a thawed out jellyfish named Kenji, two shot glasses from the House of Blues, a handstamp from Disneyland, a flower I stole from a cemetery, a stolen menu from the symphony hall, an impromptu song I wrote on the fly, and more laughs and happy memories than I can shake a stick at.  My friends are the BEST.

Reason the Second: The day after my 25th birthday I had my weigh-in for the fitness boot camp I’m enrolled in.  Now, it’s Confession Wednesday: there’s a competition to see who can lose the most weight/body fat percentage, so what did I do?  I started stuffing my goddamn face with junk food so I could win.  Good news?  I never want to eat junk food again.  Bad news: I only gained 4 pounds.  Well, I say only, but I don’t mean it: I’m only 5’2, so every pound shows up exponentially on my dwarf frame.  Week One of boot camp is officially over, and the result?  I lost 4 pounds!  Which puts me back at my “throwing-the-competition” weight.

Now, here comes a tick in the Negative column: I swear to the almighty Cthulhu, the day I turned 25 I underwent a body transformation.  I may be short, but I’ve always found solace in my proportionality.  All my limbs are in a decent ratio, and my weight has always distributed evenly.  Until 25!  I woke up that morning, and all my excess weight had shifted overnight directly to my ass and hips.  It’s like my body realized that it’s babymaking o’clock!  UNACCEPTABLE!

So, I’ve lost four pounds, but I still have another twenty to lose directly from my Jenny from the Block ass.  11 weeks to go!  So I don’t even have to lose two pounds a week to make my goal.  Excellent.

Back to the good news, I’m getting depressed.

Reason the Third: I got a frakkin’ fabulous job at GLAAD (the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation) as the Entertainment Media Fellow!  One of my major responsibilities is writing TV Gayed, a daily blog about what to watch on television.  You know what that means?  I get to watch and write about television.  I get to work somewhere I’m passionate about doing things I love.  And it’s flexible enough to allow me to pursue my own writing at the same time.  It’s the perfect job for me right now, and I’m so excited.  I’m in love with all my coworkers, I get to swear and wear jeans to work, and I’m just tickled pink.

Reason the Fourth: Two unbelievable writing opportunities have popped up simply because of my inability to mind my own business and not write e-mails and creepy notes to people.  You know you should continue in a writing career when every time you send a letter (or pass a note, which I still can’t believe I did), you find a new ally and make a new connection with hilarious, talented, likeminded people.  I won’t go into too much detail yet, but stay tuned because I’m super-excited.

So, looking back at the past year and forward to what’s to come this year, I’ve realized what an ungrateful little brat I am.  I have the most amazing friends, family, boyfriend  I could ask for.  Everyone in my family I consider a true friend, and all of my best friends are an inextricable part of my family.  I have a job I LOVE that combines my favorite things into one sassy little ball (television, writing, and LGBT advocacy? Seriously, it’s a dream job.).  I’ve got phenomenal opportunities to grow as a writer, from Ken entrusting me with his story enough to write the pilot on my own, to Mr. Paul Brown’s invaluable mentoring and book lending services, to the mere fact that I live in the BEST city in the country and I meet actors and writers and other people struggling for the art everywhere I go.

As Donnie put it, this is hereby The Year Of The Awesome.  All the struggle and tension and uncertainty of last year has laid the foundation for 2011 to be the best year ever.  EVER!

• This weekend she left me a dry-erase mustache on my bathroom mirror, which I wore with pride and a sense of distinguished nobility.
• She’s the Queen of Typos, which is hilariously in diametric opposition to my grammar stringency.
• She doesn’t get mad when I enforce said severity in harsh and judgmental Red Pen attacks.
• When we have to share a bed, she laughs really hard when I fart on her.
• She was Flava Flav for Halloween once.  Seriously.
• She’ll go on guiltless junk food binges with me in the middle of the night when we have nothing better to do.
• She’ll run and hike and sweat with me when the guilt kicks in as we wake up to the sea of empty wrappers from our midnight foraging.
• She loves and/or loathes the same things about my parents that uplift and/or enrage me, and as such we can counsel each other on navigating the turbid filial waters with a wisdom and insight no one else can provide.
• She can go toe to toe with me in Spontaneous Interpretive Choreography, especially to Disney music and Queen songs.
• She has the same wacky taste in literature as I do.
• When she calls me to commiserate about life’s shenanigans, I always laugh my ass off because her life is Stephanie Plum adjacent, only more hysterically pathetic and with less serial killers.
• Speaking of which, her Tales from the Bus are the stuff of legend, and I quote her life all the time.  Like, ALL the time.
• Regardless, she willingly admits that I’m the funnier one.
• She taught me how to do my eye make-up like a rockstar and not an eighth grader.
• She lets me wear her coat when I’m freezing, i.e., all the time, even though she’s cold too.
• This happened. And no, I won’t explain why.
• She still won’t let me live down the time I dropped an iron on her shin and practically crippled her, from the way she tells the story.
• She’ll never be able to live down the time she dropped her fist-sized pet rock from the second story balcony onto my forehead.
• She was absolutely the cutest toddler I’ve ever seen, and I hope my kids are as hilarious and sassy as she was.
• Her feet are too big  for her to be able to steal my shoes.
• A tough, snarky, no-bullshit bitchbeast on the outside, she’s one of the most caring, openminded, and accepting people I’ve ever met.
• She’ll play Ship’s Mast with me in Paso Robles.
• She can go from talking about sex to politics to Doug Funny to hip hop to Shakespeare to the Bedroom Intruder to organic chemistry without missing a beat.
• She doesn’t try to impress people, which really impresses them.  As someone who is constantly evaluating how others evaluate me, that trait of hers is remarkable, admirable, and infinitely enviable.
• While doing laundry together over the holiday, I found a pair of pajama shorts that used to be mine…in 1996.  SHE HAS SHORTS THAT ARE OLD ENOUGH TO BE A TEEN IDOL.  Now that is impressive.
• “Sisters share the scent and smells–the feel of a common childhood.”  For your consideration in the category of Favorite Thing About Beave, may I submit the fact that she and I can speak in a code that would make the Navajo weep.  We can reference things that happened 20 years ago and still resonate hugely between us…I can hum a song, she can toss out a word, and we’ll both be lost in hysterics because of the shared secret meaning.  “Green toof…hard poof…jewf.”

So, yeah.  There’s a criminally short list of why I kinda love my little sister.  Over and out.

Tune du Jour: You Don’t Know Me by Ben Folds feat. Regina Spektor

We deplaned and grabbed our baggage while checking in with Los Angeles to let everyone know we’d arrived safely.  I piled on the layers: my red peacoat over my black t-shirt and blazer, with a black scarf, hat, and gloves.  We waited outside on the curb, jumping up and down to stay warm while we waited for Ken’s cousin Laurie and her older son Brian, a handsome 19 year old, to pick us up from Kennedy.  Pleasant greetings were exchanged, and we headed off to Laurie’s…we listened to The Beatles and Peter Case as we drove out to Long Island, and Brian was bobbing back and forth with the music as we chatted.  He would chime in with adorable quips and more than a few non sequiters.
“I can say some dirty words but not others.”
“What do you mean, Brian, what dirty words can you say?”
“MUD!”
We all laughed, and he was tickled that he’d made a funny.  Then he requested some ice cream…in 50 degree weather at 9 o’clock at night.  We drove over to Carvel, and since I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, I got some ice cream with everyone else.  Laurie polished off her sundae with an Edible supplied by Ken, and we headed back to the house.  Cue ominous music.

I dragged my luggage up the cobbled walkway to the adorable house that screamed New England and went inside, where I met Connor, Laurie’s 16 year old son.  He smiled sweetly at me, then went back to his rhythmic clapping and humming.  The tiny El Salvadorian housekeeper Julia started yammering on at me in Spanish.  I tried my best keeping up with her, trying to translate for the family and answer all her questions at the same time.  She looked incredibly relieved when she asked me “Estan casados, tu y el senor?”  “NO!  No!  Es mi jefe!”  “Ai, que bueno, eres tan linda y joven, mi hija!”  At that point, she leaned over and started playing with my hair and trying to feed me.  3000 miles from home, and the Hispanic warmth and sense of family is right there.   You can take the girl out of the Macias family….

Brian excused himself to his room, Connor stayed downstairs keeping himself occupied and humming commercial jingles to himself while Ken, Laurie and I talked.  Her Edible started to kick in halfway through her story about her surgery, and suddenly she started laughing.  Her naturally rosy cheeks turned a hot pink, and she kept threatening to kill Ken for getting her so high.  She and Ken, both on a “higher level of perception,” were shooting the shit when Connor came in eating something out of his hand.
“Honey, what are you eating?”
“Salt.”
“Oh, Connor, c’mon!”

Maybe an hour later, we’re all talking and laughing, when in an instant all the color drained out of Laurie’s face.  She immediately stopped laughing, and stared at Ken with terror in her eyes.
“Something’s wrong.  I feel wrong.  What did you give me?”
“Nothing!  It was just one square of the edible!”
“Ken, something’s wrong, it’s reacting with something in me, I’m panicking.”
Cut to Laurie and me sitting in the hall, my arm around her as she was fighting off the anxiety and nerves of a bad, bad trip.  She was so scared that something was wrong, that the chocolate had been laced with something else, that something would happen to the boys and she wouldn’t be able to care for them because she felt so off.  “I don’t even feel like this is real, I don’t even feel like I’m actually talking to you.  Oh god, what did you do to me?”  Ken was no help, cracking up and making jokes about it.
“No more edibles to civilians!  I forget how strong a punch they pack!  Now it’s two people I’ve fucked up with this stuff, the last guy ended up in the emergency room!”
WHAT.  Rewind.  What happened?
“Yeah, Doug, he’s 6’11 so I gave him two squares since he’s such a big guy…couldn’t even move him, they had to load him into an ambulance to clean him up!”
Wow, that’s exactly what someone at the peak of a bad trip wants to hear.  As I talked her down, trying to get Ken to shut up and reassure her that her kids couldn’t tell she was high and that I’d stay up with them to make sure nothing happened and that Julia wouldn’t hear what was going on, I led her downstairs again to watch TV and chill out until the high passed.

I got her a glass of water and a blanket while we watched Letterman and Ferguson.  She curled up under the blanket on the couch next to Connor, who was tugging her hair and humming.  Ken and I started talking about the show, reworking the season story arc and defining the chronology of events when Laurie finally snapped out of the low and mellowed out.  Ken left to go get Dunkin Donuts and coffee for everyone (because, naturally, that’s the common drink of choice well after midnight).

Ken got back around 2AM, handed me my coffee, and we started talking about our fears and neuroses (and holy shit, between the two of us there’s no shortage of those), when Brian comes down with a blanket around his shoulders…and absolutely nothing else on.
“Nicole, avert your eyes!”
“My eyes are glued to my laptop!”
“BRIAN!  C’mon, buddy, pants.”
“Cousin Kenny, you can’t remember when you were very young, can you?”
“No, not without looking at photos.  Put your pants on!”
“Yeah, you can’t remember being young.  Good night good night good night good night good night good night!”

So now I’ve had my laptop out and I’ve typing for the better part of an hour, trying to get my thoughts organized.  Ken has been pacing around talking the entire time, trying to carry on eight conversations at once.  It’s just another example of how he sometimes struggles with social cues.  I’m clearly distracted and trying to write, and he keeps chattering about twenty different things.  Every now and then, he’ll ask me “what are you writing?  What are you looking at?”  And I tell him: taking notes, tweaking my outlines, blah blah blah.  “Oh, okay, so anyway, good good good good good, and then she said….”  I just smile to myself as I keep typing and talking at the same time, the quality of both activities suffering slightly because of the other.

Connor gets up to go to the bathroom while Laurie, Ken and I are talking about something or other.  When he gets back, he has no pants on.  Two teenage wieners in one night?!  It’s like being at a homecoming dance in Chino!  Laurie and Ken shout at him to pants-up, and I just crack up.

I’m one of very few people who could write this story.  Not because I’m a good writer or a great studier of characters and situations, but because I fit into this band of people so seamlessly.  Nothing shakes me, not even the naked teenagers, the Salvadorian housekeeper talking 100MPH at me in Spanish, the bad trip, the crazy conversations.  I’m in a new city, where I don’t know anyone, and I’m totally comfortable.  It’s like I told my dad: I’m going to New York with an open mind, a clear schedule, and a sense of adventure for anything that may come along.

And boy, is it coming along.

Tune du Jour: New York, New York by Frank Sinatra -  C’mon, like I could resist listening to this song on a loop on my flight!

It’s like Ken told me when I filled him in: “You have one wacky life.”  Tell me about it.

But, things look to be mostly back on track, so I’ve got my chin up and I’m shaking it off and moving onward. ONWARD!

What are we onward to?  Well, here’s the work-related recap: tonight I went “undercover” at an industry event to get to know the biz in a way I couldn’t before, and I’m flying to New York in 36 hours for our research trip. Man, my life is weird.  But I learned so much, the experience was absolutely invaluable as a writer.  It humanized the business in a way I haven’t been able to grasp before, and my writing will be better for it.  Of course, when I actually think about what I was pretending to be and really think about the people I talked to tonight, it’s so fucking surreal.  Ken asked me before we got there if I was nervous, and my response was that I was more nervous about the fact that the event wasn’t making me nervous.  When did this become commonplace for me?!

On the personal side…ehhhh.  Things could be better.  My dad describes times like this as a cosmic negative wave, where we all find ourselves simultaneously and unexpectedly mired in bullshit.  Sure feels that way.  Explains all the drinking, anyway.

Don’t worry, I’m doing that old exaggerating thing again (mostly).  So I may have put away an entire bottle of wine, written an inflammatory entry in my Little Red Journal that a certain nosy ass boyfriend of mine happened to read, and gotten myself into a world of trouble that I really didn’t need, but whatevs.  That’s how I do.

It’s funny: my parents are such drastically different people, but on the same day they both inadvertently gave me the same advice on two totally different topics: just focus on making myself happy.  Don’t answer to anyone else, including them.  Just live to please myself and things will work themselves out somehow in some form or another.

Apparently I’m an easy read.  I thought I was doing a pretty decent job of keeping up appearances and hiding all the doubts and worries I have, but apparently that ain’t the case.

But I have amazing friends and wonderful family and a job that I’m passionate about, so I really can’t complain.  All’s well that ends well, amirite?!

At least I’m not stuck in Gilbert with no friends and a fat ignorant dump of a husband.  Oooooo, yeah, I went there, deal with THAT.  Here’s the backstory on that burn: once upon a time, there was a group of friends that was completely inseparable.  They were so inseparable, in fact, that they would often make a single massive bed by pushing all their mattresses together like sad little hobo orphans.  They went on vacations together, spent all their time together, and, well, you get the point.  One day, one of the members of this inseparable group fell in love with a big sweaty racist toad, the kind of rotten hateful Christian that makes other Christians embarrassed.  Well, the rest of the group was pretty shocked by this, but they did their damnedest to try and see what she saw in the son of a bitch.  After several interventions, heartfelt conversations, and a plethora of verbalized concerns over the value of this “man,” the Universe yelled “FINISH THEM!” and he proposed.  Now, a red flag that you’re accepting a proposal from the wrong person is that when you best friend and roommate (aka, Me) finds out that you’re engaged, she bawls her eyes out instead of being happy for you.  But whatever, what do I know about that sort of thing.  Long story short, a few months into their engagement, I finally had enough and ended our friendship and asked her to move out of my house.  Her remaining friend and link to the once inseparable group grinned and beared it as her maid of honor as long as she could, but also eventually severed ties with Mr. and Mrs. Skullfuck after a wildly passive-aggressive display on their end.  Now that former member of the once inseparable group lives back in the hometown the rest of the group left in the dust, with no friends of her own.  That last friend standing is now studying her chosen profession at one of the most elite programs in the country, and the other two friends are successfully pursuing their own dreams of television writing (well, one is…the other is paying the bills and being successful in writing by proxy).

The moral of the story?  I don’t know…listen to your friends?  Don’t make terrible choices and throw your life away on the first guy who pays you any attention?  Stay friends with awesome people?  Who cares.  The rest of the group has been filled in with family and is tighter than ever, and we’re all happy and productive people, so who needs her.

Speaking of weddings, though: Alyssa and Ryan got themselves hitched!  It was a beautiful ceremony and a bangin’ reception.  We all cried like babies…hungry, angry babies.  The night was beautiful and fun and hilarious and everyone had an amazing time, and I’m SO proud of my cousin and her husband.  Here are a few of my favorite photos from the wedding:

I'm all misty because Ryan was crying so hard...look at that teddy bear's emotional face as his bride walked down the aisle!

Biggest wedding party EVER! (And best looking to boot, if I do say so myself.)

Alyssa and Beave, thugging it up. It's how we do.

I LOVE this picture of us. It's the only one ever taken of the three of us where we're all behaving ourselves.

Aaaand there's the misbehaving. This is why we can't have nice things...can't take us anywhere.

The dancefloor was PACKED the entire night, thanks to Alyssa's brilliant song choices. 90's music? Yes please!

All right, that about does it for tonight’s recap.  Stay tuned for a post from the concrete jungle where dreams are made.  Maybe if you’re lucky, there will be a vlog comin’ at ya!  If only I could find the charger for Hot Carl….

Tune du Jour: Tales of the Extraordinary – Season One: The Shadow of the Unknown I went to the live recording of the season 2 finale of this self-described “1920′s Pulp Radio Serial”, and it was hilarious, so I’m going back to the beginning to listen to the entire show.  Join me!  Of course, my opinion of the show may be colored by the fact that some of my favorite people act in it, but don’t let that dampen my credibility as an unbiased referrer of audio joy.

CoffeeMate just put out their holiday selections, so I flavored my coffee with my favorite creamer in the world: peppermint mocha.  Seriously, I have a peppermint problem: I’ll eat drink smoke lick hug sniff whatever if it’s peppermint flavored.  So I sat at the kitchen table and enjoyed my pepperminty caffeine infusion as I read my notes, while the cats danced around my feet vying for attention and hoping I’d drop a piece of my nonexistent breakfast on the floor.

I threw on my outfit (Princess Leia t-shirt under a blazer with black skinny jeans and boots, paired with glasses and enough make-up to make me look human but not enough to get me any attention), jumped in my car and drove to Ken’s house.

Now, here’s where I stop and tell you about my “commute.”  From downtown Pasadena (where I live) to Studio City (where Ken lives), it’s about a 20 minute drive, and in that 20 minutes, the sights are pretty amazing.  I get on the freeway right in Old Town Pasadena:

You have to see the actual downtown for yourself someday, it's adorable and bustling and full of character. I'm so in love with Pasadena.

As I get on the freeway, I immediately drive past the Rose Bowl and my favorite bridge in the world (I kind of have a thing for bridges, sue me), the Colorado Bridge:

I live within a mile of this. !

Then I drive up out of the valley and have an eagle eye view of Los Angeles.  I can see Downtown, the Griffith Observatory, and Burbank (center of the television industry) at the same time:

Okay, so this isn't the actual view from my drive, but whatevs.

This IS an accurate view from my drive. Booyah.

One of the many studios that live in Burbank, NBD.

That commute sure as hell beats out my previous drive down Elliot Road to the ASU Research Park in Tempe, where the highlight of my drive was driving past a Jamba Juice.  Fuckyouverymuch, Arizona.  Okay, pictorial section over.  Onto the good stuff!

After I snaked my way through Laurel Canyon to get to my boss’s house, he and I weaved through the Hollywood Hills (a drive that never fails to make me so carsick I want to die) and met at the Farmer’s Market at The Grove with an accomplished television writer who also teaches TV writing courses at UCLA.  He was so incredibly helpful and encouraging to me personally, and he also managed to create a shitload of more work for me, and for that I owe him so much: he somehow convinced us that instead of Ken dictating the story we tell, that I should be the one determining where we start and what we include.  Since we’re writing about things that have actually happened to Ken, he’s overwhelmed with the reality of the story, and our writer’s advice was to divorce ourselves from what really happened in order to properly dramatize and fictionalize the story to make it as engaging and marketable as possible.  So, Ken and I have decided that I’ll take all the raw material we’ve gone over, Ken will step back, and I’ll put together the story that I think we should tell.

To sum up: a successful television writer thinks I have what it takes to start and tell this story, Ken agrees with him, and now I’m in charge of coming up with my own storylines and character arcs.  And the writer and I hit it off well enough that I got his contact information so I can stay in touch and pick his brain when writing this thing.  I know it doesn’t seem like much, but to have that kind of resource is incredible to me.

Adding to the surreality of this conversation was the setting: at the table next to us, Adam Levine from Maroon 5 was sitting with his hipster friends and totally eavesdropping on our conversation.  A rock star thought that my conversation was worth listening in on.  Could I have felt any cooler?  Nope.  Not so much.

After we said goodbye to the writer, Ken and I worked on some character development, then headed off to watch The Social Network for a character study of Mark Zuckerburg.  It’s a terrific movie, I can’t recommend it highly enough.  Sorkin’s script is a masterpiece: he’s a phenomenal writer and the way he showed so many perspectives and painted an objective, fair portrait of all the parties was terrific.  I was rooting for and disappointed in all the characters at the same time, which is an incredible feat.  And don’t even get me started on Fincher’s directing.  The man’s amazing.  He said that he felt tremendous empathy for Zuckerburg, and it totally shows in the film.

Afterwards, Ken and I dissected Zuckerburg and returned to discovering and defining our own characters.  I’ve met or have scheduled meetings with a lot of people to get a better feel for the industry and the people we’re writing about, and now we’re taking it to a whole new level.   Like, professional writer level.  Are you ready for this?  Ken is flying me out to Manhattan to meet a few more integral people to base characters on.

Again: I’m going on an all-expense paid business research trip to New York.  “Start spreadin’ the news!”

Screw “onward,” my new mantra is going to be “is this real life?!”

In slightly less exciting news, my business cards finally got delivered.  They’re so bitchin’.  Psh, whom am I kidding: MY WHOLE LIFE IS BITCHIN’.

I really feel like there isn’t anything I can’t do right now.  Sure, this show may not get picked up, and that’s okay.  The experiences and connections I’m making are absolutely worth it.  And, not to be a blind optimist (as opposed to being a blind optometrist, which is totally worse), but I have a reaaaaaaaally good feeling about this show.  The content is so unique, and the interest in it from people of note is incredibly encouraging.

The one thing that casts a tiny insignificant detail shadow over all this is that there have been people who’ve implied that I’m getting these opportunities out of sheer luck and timing.  It’s easy to write it off as me being incredibly lucky, because I truly am, but it’s like I say: it’s not enough to wish for good things to happen to you.  Power of positive thinking my ass.  You have to think positive, but then the important part kicks in, which is also the part that most people ignore: you have to get your ass in gear to make it happen.  You can’t just tell yourself that A is going to happen or B is going to come into your life and then sit on your tuches forever.   Sure, I only moved out here six weeks ago, but I started laying the groundwork over a year ago that allowed these opportunities to come up and I positioned myself to be able to take advantage of them.  This business is all about who you know, but my belief is that I can get to know all the right people if I really work at it and pursue this career seriously…let’s be honest, I clearly have a goal in mind: Joss Whedon, I’m coming for you.  Someday, you’re going to let me write for you.  And my children will tell their children and their children’s children the tale of how their Meemaw/Gangy/Grammar busted her ass to make her career dreams come true.  (Okay, seriously, how adorable is the idea of my grandkids calling me Grammar?  It sounds like Grandma, but it’s so Big English adjacent!)

The total bummer to having all this amazing work to do is that I have zero time for a social life.  I’m putting in 10 hour days reading source material and having meetings, and my weekends are spoken for with prior obligations.  Long story short: I miss my BFF!  Jenna’s so busy with PA school and I’m so busy with this project that I only see her once a fortnight.  I’ll get my biweekly fix tomorrow, though, because it’s her 25TH BIRTHDAY OMG WHAT AN OLD BEAST.  I’m probably just going to get her some gingko biloba and a Beltone for her prezzie this year.  Honestly, I get a prezzie on her birthday too because I get to socialize and spend time with my bestie…although, to be honest, I just need to start hanging out with someone who’s not work related, Donnie, or a cat.  Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen any of my friends out here since I got back from Phoenix, which feels so bizarre considering how often I had social engagements before signing onto Ken’s project.

He asked me an interesting question when I first met him: do I place much value in leading a balanced life?  I carefully considered it, and my honest answer was, at this point in my life, no, I’m not interested in leading a balanced life.  I’m completely comfortable with my career dominating my focus.  I don’t know if this is the chicken or the egg, but I’ve always thrived on relationships that don’t require constant attention.  I need freedom and flexibility and the security to know that I can go several days or weeks without seeing a friend and not having to worry about the time or space being detrimental to the relationship.  So it’s a perfect storm in my life and my position right now to be able to throw myself into a project with so much potential to kickstart my career.

So, that’s that!  Stay tuned for scenes from next week’s blog post.

Tune du Jour: Iko Iko by The Dixie Cups – I’m obsessed with New Orleans culture, food, music, history…you name it, I dig it.  This song was the gateway to my love affair with NOLA, please to enjoy!

My career has gotten a lightspeed boost I never imagined.  Okay, so I’m wildly inventive and ever-so-slightly narcissistic when it comes to writing, so maybe I did dare to imagine it, but I never actually expected it to happen.  Not this fast.  This project I’m working on is so enthralling, I spend nearly all my time researching and learning more about the world we’re writing about, and I’m more invigorated than I’ve ever been.  I don’t even want to sleep at night because I want to keep working, learning, exploring, interviewing!  “Choose a job you love and you will never work a day in your life.”  Touché , Confucius.

I’ve been in Los Angeles for 30 days, and I’ve accomplished more than I expected to in a year.  Is this real life?!  To be honest, the odds are stacked against us.  It’s terribly difficult to get a show picked up.  Worst case scenario, I got an amazing experience and an invaluable networking opportunity out of this.  But, ever the optimist, I have a really good feeling about this one.  The story is so unique and compelling, and the contacts that my boss and his partners have are just insane.  Ken is such an amazing character, he’s both endlessly fascinating and frequently frustrating to those around him.  For some reason, I’m incredibly patient with people like him, so I just adore him and all his oddball quirks.  He has Asperger’s, so it’s a total rollercoaster to be around him, but I get such a kick out of the guy.  Together, breaking out the story and developing the characters, we make an excellent team.  He made a totally weird request today, though: he doesn’t want me to wear dresses or make-up anymore to our meetings.  He says that if I look more like a boy, he’ll be more comfortable discussing and breaking down the sensitive nature of our subject matter.

Now, here’s the thing: I love dresses.  But not nearly as much as I love make-up.  I friggin’ LOVE make-up.  My stepmom bought me the most bitchin’ lipstick sampler from Sephora for Christmas and it gave me the squees.  It’s not that I can’t be seen without “my face” on.  I go out all the time without make-up.  I just really, really love the stuff.  Even if I know I’ll be home alone all day, I’ll still put my face on just because I enjoy it.  What I mean is that it’s not for anyone else, it’s for me.  You guys think I look like Shrek without it?  Take a flying leap and use your opinion to cushion the fall, I don’t care.  I put it on because I enjoy the routine, and who doesn’t like having your best features played up and your flaws played down?  That’s just plain old-fashioned good sense.  Sure, my relationship with make-up may be rooted in some weird mommy issues (my mom forced me to start wearing make-up way early, and she’s so obsessed that she, honest to gods, puts make-up on before bed in case there’s an emergency in the middle of the night.  How her skin hasn’t worn off Queen Elizabeth style, I have no clue.), so it makes the fact that I’m being specifically requested to not wear make-up even harder to swallow.

At first, I was a little offended, like it was some sort of judgment that a writer can’t look too put together (because, let’s be honest, most of us rock jeans that could do with a wash and crappy t-shirts).  Then it seemed like maybe he was implying that a woman can’t be taken as seriously as a writer, so toning that feminine look down would make me more legitimate.  And THEN, I snapped out of my cultural-feminist bullshit and realized that Ken’s oddball request was to be taken at face value and nothing more: no innuendo, no hidden agenda or message.  Just an honest to goodness Aspy statement that developing our story will be easier for him if he doesn’t feel like I’m a woman who will be offended by the things we have to write about.

So, going forward, I’ll be rocking the Lesbo Chic look: loose shirts, jeans, blazer, sneakers, glasses, messy hair.  I’ll be what Liz Lemon would look like in real life.

So, confession time: just typing that little blurb above about my mom washed the smile right off my face.  She and I have had a major, major falling out, the worst one to date (and trust me, there have been some doozies).  Part of me feels like a bad person, or an icy bitch, or an emotionally retarded sociopath, because I should be worrying myself into premature greys over the total breakdown of my relationship with my mother, but I can’t bring myself to agonize over it any more.  I’ve been dealing with this for over ten years, and I’m drained.  The woman has emotionally exhausted me.  Over the past week, I’ve really started to come to terms with the depths of my mother’s trauma and her ensuing mental illness, and recognizing its effect on my life and my psyche has been like getting a decoder ring to my life.  Luckily she doesn’t read this blog, because if she ever knew that I’d revealed family confidences publicly, she’d disown me for good (as opposed to the temporary disownment we’re currently in the midst of).  But here’s the way I look at it: this blog hasn’t become the whimsical outlet for funny little adventures  I thought it would be.  It’s a living document that’s a record of my experience, good and bad, and this happens to be a milestone.  To leave it out would cheapen this exercise for me, make me feel like I’m hiding from my own life.  And if there’s one thing you can’t accuse me of, it’s an aversion to confrontation.

But I don’t want to write entire posts about that…not yet anyway.  When I was telling my boss about this little catastrophe, he was giddy and told me to use it as a tool to give my writing depth and emotional scope.  FALSE.  You know why I want to be a television writer?  It’s not because of the paychecks, or the success, or any of that.  It’s because I want to make people laugh.  I want to make it easier for other people to get through their own lives by providing a little ray of sunshine.  What better way to reach out and make people laugh than through a weekly infusion of giggles?  I know that the one thing that’s consistently gotten me through my years of emotional and mental abuse has been comedy, and if I distill my life’s goal and purpose down to its purest form, it’s that I want to make people happy through humor.  So, at the end of the day, I don’t want to write about gritty emotional trauma.

Which brings me to the challenge presented by the project I’m working on now: it’s rooted in gritty emotional trauma.  Awesome!  So, of course, I’ll be tapping into my own personal mama-drama for inspiration, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it!  You’re not the boss of me, Emotions.  Don’t tell me what to do, you’re not my dad!

I know I promised a review of the fall television line-up, but right now I’m a little more preoccupied with creating content for a future line-up right now.  *SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*

Tune du Jour: Phone Song by Magic Kids

Apparently I have some magical power where I can trick people that I really like and really want to impress into liking me.  Their feedback on the spec episode of 30 Rock we wrote was incredible and gratifying and shot my confidence waaaay up.  To be told by writers that I’m in the right industry and that I’m way talented…well, I pretty much fell over myself thanking them.

So while this project is gearing up, I’m spending my days writing and reading like a madman.  Even though I’m already juggling five books right now, I started reading a Jules Verne novel in French to brush up on my favorite second language.  Sure, I could read it in Spanish, or resume my Farsi or German studies, but I’m not in the mood for any of those.  I’m totally shocked by how much I can understand in French.  Yeah, I took seven years of French classes, but I never use it, so I fully expected to be running to my dictionnaire on the regular.  Not so much!  Je suis la jeune fille!  I’m pretty sure that my brain is pre-wired to pick up languages fast like a freak.  I’ve always excelled in my foreign language classes.  Maybe it’s because when I was a baby I only spoke Farsi and picked up English as a toddler.  Or maybe it’s because I’ve always been a reader and a writer and my mastery of English linguistics allows me to pick up on other linguistic rules easily.  Who knows?  I just know that I enjoy learning new languages as much as I enjoy writing, and that’s saying a lot.

More good news: my hiking and yoga routines have paid off and I easily fit in my maid of honor dress!  I no longer look like Sally Struthers trying to fit into her old Gloria wardrobe.  And there was MUCH rejoicing.  The dress is so effing gorgeous, the bride (my “baby” cousin Alyssa, who’s three weeks younger than I am) has impeccable taste.  She completely designed and created all the stuff for the wedding herself, and the dresses she picked for us are flawless.  Most bridesmaids dresses are totally hideous, or at the very least understated and plain so the bride can be the star.  Alyssa’s a genius, though: she put all of us in gorgeous dresses that totally complement her dress and the vintage Hollywood theme of the wedding, and it’s going to be stunning.  I’m so excited for her, she and her fiance are crazy in love and I’m so proud of them.  I’m a total cynic when it comes to marriage, but I know the two of them will be together forever.  They remind me of B & Pat: people who are so sweet and so deserving of each other.  For a generation that comes from broken homes and messed up marriages, my friends are doing a bang-up job of learning from their parents and being smart about being in love and making relationships work.  Mazel tov!

As for me, I’m still a Lost Boy.  I don’t want to grow up.  I don’t want to get married, at least not any time soon.  To be honest, I do want to have a wedding someday, absolutely.  I want a big enormous party with my big enormous family where we all dress up and get smashed and dance into the night.  But if I could get away with having just a reception without a ceremony, I TOTALLY would.   I absolutely want children someday, though, and my friend Matt pretty much laughed in my face when I suggested that I get knocked up without putting a ring on it.  Whyyyy?!  Why do I need a marriage license to make a baby?  Do not want!  He made an excellent pro-late marriage point, though: as long as I’m living in sin, the only question I’ll be pestered with is “when’s the big day?”  If we do get married, then we’ll start getting “when are you gonna start popping out a junior?”  DO.  NOT.  WANT.

I’m know I’m almost 25 and that’s a perfectly acceptable to age to get married and start a family.  But let’s be honest, I’m in no place to do either of those things.  I can barely manage a live-in boyfriend and two cats, let alone a husband and babies.  Barf.  Plus, as a husbandless, childless woman, I don’t feel bad at all about chasing my dreams and putting my career above everything else.  I moved to California with a dream and purpose, and I’m going to do everything in my power to make it happen.  And that’s no attitude for a wife or a mother to have.  So I’ll carry on being an impulsive, flexible, optimistically hard-working writer dedicated to making it happen, and I’ll settle down when I’m good and ready.

And to back me up, Jon Hamm agrees with me.  If Hamm says it, it must be so.  Sweet Jesus, if he’s not the closest thing to perfection I’ve seen, I don’t know what is.  Hilarious, smart, hardworking, phenomenal actor, progressive outlook on marriage, Liz Lemon’s dopey ex?  Um, yes please.  I want to go to there.

In my next blog, I’ll start praising and/or bitching the fall TV line-up.  Spoiler alert: The Event was crazy good, Nikita can kiss the fattest part of my ass, and when the fuck did Vampire Diaries become a legitimately good show?!

Tune du Jour: Do Re Mi by Kids In The Hall.  I was so obsessed with this particular sketch, it was the first thing I ever downloaded illegally.  Oh Kazaa, how I miss our days of pirating  files together.