I was reading my tattered old handwritten book of inspirational affirmations and quotes this morning because I was feeling a bit disheartened and hallow. I woke up thinking, "Yep, another day waiting tables and not getting to act. Poor me." I knew I needed to snap out of that mind set. No matter what mood I'm in, I always seem to come across one of the quotes in this book and it will hit me as if it were the first time I've read it. Mind you, I've read these probably hundreds of times. I read them, and added to them, every single day in the last half of my time in Singapore to get me through.
"Don't spoil the beauty of the present moment by wishing for something else."
I'm so blessed. I have so much and I spend a lot of time wishing for more. It's great to want and strive for more, of course! But, if you aren't appreciating what is right in front of you, what's it all for? Last night I decorated a tree and had hot cider with my wonderful room mate and then got to snuggle with the man that I love watching TV while getting a foot rub. If I were a working actress, it wouldn't have made a difference. Yeah, the tree would have been real and my apartment would have been bigger but who cares? The only thing that mattered last night were the people I shared my time with and it was beautiful.
So that's what I'm thinking of today. There's no big detailed story, no funny anecdote. I'm just going to concentrate today on the beauty of the present moment. I'm going to go to my job (I HAVE a job, how lucky am I?!) where I work with fantastic people, owners who I adore and be finished within a few hours with the amount of money lots of people have to work an entire day or two for. Then, I have the rest of the beautiful day to do whatever I want!
Today is beautiful and I'm grateful.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
Opening a Gift
I'm not proud of it, but I have come clean to my family. It was a real problem, that I couldn't control through much of my childhood. I hid it, and I completely got away with it, too. My parents never suspected that I would do such a horrible thing.
I opened my presents before Christmas.
After the illusion of Santa was crushed, (and I remember EXACTLY where I was when that happened . . . a story for another day), my mom would put the immaculately wrapped presents under the tree as she bought them, sometimes weeks before the big day. Did she have no idea what this would do to me? Was she under the illusion that I had self-control?!
My parents were asleep . . . I went to the living room to watch TV and there was the beautiful and majestic Christmas tree, with it's twinkling lights and years and years of homemade ornaments. The paper and cotton ball Santa, crumpled and held together with tape, that my dad made when he was in elementary school, Miss Piggy with angel wings and halo (my FAVORITE ornament), and dozens of multi-colored tinsel umbrellas that my mother had from her mother, just to name a few. There's nothing like my family Christmas tree. It's always crooked, the limbs are weighed down with far too many ornaments, and it'll never be the kind of tree you see on TV in a Christmas special, but it's the most beautiful tree in the world to me. And underneath that tree, dozens of mysteries wait to be unraveled . . .
It started pretty innocently. I casually strolled over to the tree, taking a peek at the "to" and "from" cards. (I liked to compare the size and quantity of my presents compared to my brothers . . . solely for research purposes. I'm not competitive or jealous, you see.) And, oh, one of the presents "To Erin, From Mom" is in a gift BAG. "Well, maybe I'll just lift the present, to see how heavy it is. Hmm, I don't suppose it would hurt if I just PEEKED inside . . . if the metallic green tissue paper shifted to the side, that's not MY fault . . . " And just like that, a red-headed, flannel pajama wearing, present snooping maniac was born.
It was SO EASY that year to pretend that I didn't know that the gift bag contained my yearly decorative socks! My performance was pitch perfect! "Oh! Socks with kittens wearing sweaters?! Thank you, Mom! I love them!" And she BOUGHT IT!
After that, there was no stopping me. I'd wait until my parents went out, and I'd get to work. As the years went by, I become such a pro. I could unwrap the Fort Knox of presents and rewrap it with the greatest of ease and no one ever suspected. I was untying and retying decorative bows like a ninja (if ninjas were into untying and retying bows). And I was getting more and more convincing with the shock and awe I would portray opening the gifts that I had previously unwrapped . . . which, let's face it, over the years became all of them. I'd even start to unwrap a couple of my brother's presents (for research, remember?) There was no stopping me.
At around age 14, after opening all of our family presents, I had a hallow feeling inside. My parents had bought all of these amazing and beautiful gifts, as they always did, and I felt like a jerk because I wasn't EXCITED. It didn't feel magical, as Christmas should, because I had known for days, sometimes weeks what everything was. I took that joy you get from giving someone a special gift away from my parents, and the crummiest part was, that they didn't even know (CURSES for being such a good actress!) I had this huge moment of recognition of how spoiled I was. (I still AM, but at least now I know it and I don't open my gifts.)
Years later, I casually mentioned, "Oh, yeah, I used to open all of my Christmas gifts," much to my mother's shock and accusations of, "Oh, you're bad! You're BAD!" And I really do feel bad about it. Why couldn't I stop myself? What a shithead! I'll never get those moments of surprise back.
So, to my wonderful Mom and Dad (and let's face it Dad, it was MOM doing all the shopping), I'm sorry I ruined the magic of holiday gift-giving for years. I guess the only way we could get it back would be . . . hmmmm . . . I mean, I promise I won't look . . . more presents?
I opened my presents before Christmas.
After the illusion of Santa was crushed, (and I remember EXACTLY where I was when that happened . . . a story for another day), my mom would put the immaculately wrapped presents under the tree as she bought them, sometimes weeks before the big day. Did she have no idea what this would do to me? Was she under the illusion that I had self-control?!
My parents were asleep . . . I went to the living room to watch TV and there was the beautiful and majestic Christmas tree, with it's twinkling lights and years and years of homemade ornaments. The paper and cotton ball Santa, crumpled and held together with tape, that my dad made when he was in elementary school, Miss Piggy with angel wings and halo (my FAVORITE ornament), and dozens of multi-colored tinsel umbrellas that my mother had from her mother, just to name a few. There's nothing like my family Christmas tree. It's always crooked, the limbs are weighed down with far too many ornaments, and it'll never be the kind of tree you see on TV in a Christmas special, but it's the most beautiful tree in the world to me. And underneath that tree, dozens of mysteries wait to be unraveled . . .
It started pretty innocently. I casually strolled over to the tree, taking a peek at the "to" and "from" cards. (I liked to compare the size and quantity of my presents compared to my brothers . . . solely for research purposes. I'm not competitive or jealous, you see.) And, oh, one of the presents "To Erin, From Mom" is in a gift BAG. "Well, maybe I'll just lift the present, to see how heavy it is. Hmm, I don't suppose it would hurt if I just PEEKED inside . . . if the metallic green tissue paper shifted to the side, that's not MY fault . . . " And just like that, a red-headed, flannel pajama wearing, present snooping maniac was born.
It was SO EASY that year to pretend that I didn't know that the gift bag contained my yearly decorative socks! My performance was pitch perfect! "Oh! Socks with kittens wearing sweaters?! Thank you, Mom! I love them!" And she BOUGHT IT!
After that, there was no stopping me. I'd wait until my parents went out, and I'd get to work. As the years went by, I become such a pro. I could unwrap the Fort Knox of presents and rewrap it with the greatest of ease and no one ever suspected. I was untying and retying decorative bows like a ninja (if ninjas were into untying and retying bows). And I was getting more and more convincing with the shock and awe I would portray opening the gifts that I had previously unwrapped . . . which, let's face it, over the years became all of them. I'd even start to unwrap a couple of my brother's presents (for research, remember?) There was no stopping me.
At around age 14, after opening all of our family presents, I had a hallow feeling inside. My parents had bought all of these amazing and beautiful gifts, as they always did, and I felt like a jerk because I wasn't EXCITED. It didn't feel magical, as Christmas should, because I had known for days, sometimes weeks what everything was. I took that joy you get from giving someone a special gift away from my parents, and the crummiest part was, that they didn't even know (CURSES for being such a good actress!) I had this huge moment of recognition of how spoiled I was. (I still AM, but at least now I know it and I don't open my gifts.)
Years later, I casually mentioned, "Oh, yeah, I used to open all of my Christmas gifts," much to my mother's shock and accusations of, "Oh, you're bad! You're BAD!" And I really do feel bad about it. Why couldn't I stop myself? What a shithead! I'll never get those moments of surprise back.
So, to my wonderful Mom and Dad (and let's face it Dad, it was MOM doing all the shopping), I'm sorry I ruined the magic of holiday gift-giving for years. I guess the only way we could get it back would be . . . hmmmm . . . I mean, I promise I won't look . . . more presents?
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Something that belongs to someone else
I am, once again, trying to get back to writing daily, so I cracked open my A Writer's Book of Days for some inspiration. Today, I write about "something that belongs to someone else."
The first thing that comes to my mind is my heart. Throughout my life, I feel like it's almost uncomfortable for me to have ownership of my heart. I give it away too freely sometimes and I've certainly had it returned in a million pieces. Right now, I feel pretty safe with the person who has it. He wouldn't frivolously toss it aside or do anything careless. It was definitely handed to him cautiously, and covered in band-aids. Every once in a while one of those band-aids loosen and I get scared. I worry about it breaking again because I feel like it's pretty close to having it's last punch so I try to build a wall around it or take it back, but he soothes my heart and mends those tricky wounds.
My friend Jamey put together a show a couple of years ago with artists in all different mediums. There was one scene that has really stayed with me. There were no words, just music and a man and a woman. They both wore a beautiful heart made of metal wires with long pieces of yarn hanging from it on their chest. As they portrayed "falling in love" they would attach one of their yarn strings to the other persons heart. Then, as so often happens, they started to grow apart. The actors moved farther apart in distance, stretching the heart strings to their limit. Finally, one of the actors took scissor and cut right through the strings, eliminating any attachment they had to one another. It was heartbreaking and elegant.
We build connections to each others hearts and sometimes it's really hard to detach. For some, it's easy to just cut right through those connections . . . for others (like me) it takes a long time to detach the strings, one by one, and let it go.
My heart belongs to someone else. He knows who he is. I hope he is as careful with it as I am with his because his is pretty tattered and beaten up too. Maybe that's how we ended up feeling safe enough to let someone else in again, who knows. I'm just glad that I'll never give up trusting there will be someone to take care of it forever.
The first thing that comes to my mind is my heart. Throughout my life, I feel like it's almost uncomfortable for me to have ownership of my heart. I give it away too freely sometimes and I've certainly had it returned in a million pieces. Right now, I feel pretty safe with the person who has it. He wouldn't frivolously toss it aside or do anything careless. It was definitely handed to him cautiously, and covered in band-aids. Every once in a while one of those band-aids loosen and I get scared. I worry about it breaking again because I feel like it's pretty close to having it's last punch so I try to build a wall around it or take it back, but he soothes my heart and mends those tricky wounds.
My friend Jamey put together a show a couple of years ago with artists in all different mediums. There was one scene that has really stayed with me. There were no words, just music and a man and a woman. They both wore a beautiful heart made of metal wires with long pieces of yarn hanging from it on their chest. As they portrayed "falling in love" they would attach one of their yarn strings to the other persons heart. Then, as so often happens, they started to grow apart. The actors moved farther apart in distance, stretching the heart strings to their limit. Finally, one of the actors took scissor and cut right through the strings, eliminating any attachment they had to one another. It was heartbreaking and elegant.
We build connections to each others hearts and sometimes it's really hard to detach. For some, it's easy to just cut right through those connections . . . for others (like me) it takes a long time to detach the strings, one by one, and let it go.
My heart belongs to someone else. He knows who he is. I hope he is as careful with it as I am with his because his is pretty tattered and beaten up too. Maybe that's how we ended up feeling safe enough to let someone else in again, who knows. I'm just glad that I'll never give up trusting there will be someone to take care of it forever.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
I got nothin'
I got nothin'. I have been staring at this computer screen . . . hoping for inspiration . . . for a good 45 minutes. All I've got is this.
I'm grateful right now for:
My amazing family
Friends: from Orlando, New York, Singapore, Australia, Europe, EVERYWHERE
Someone to snuggle
An awesome room mate
Laughing (I did a lot of that tonight)
Group Therapy Improv Group
ACME Improv
A job
A super comfy bed
Ramen noodles
Yummy smelling soap and lotion
The relaxing melodies app on my iphone
.... speaking of which . . . I'm sleepy.
Goodnight.
I'm grateful right now for:
My amazing family
Friends: from Orlando, New York, Singapore, Australia, Europe, EVERYWHERE
Someone to snuggle
An awesome room mate
Laughing (I did a lot of that tonight)
Group Therapy Improv Group
ACME Improv
A job
A super comfy bed
Ramen noodles
Yummy smelling soap and lotion
The relaxing melodies app on my iphone
.... speaking of which . . . I'm sleepy.
Goodnight.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Words
I can't help but write about this because I woke up early, unable to get back to sleep thinking about it.
Words are my downfall. They weigh so heavy on me and it's so hard for me to separate them from my emotions. If you've never read The 5 Love Languages, I highly recommend it because it really opened my eyes years ago. The basic premise is that we all show and receive love in different ways. After reading the book it's usually very clear what your "language" is (and what your parents languages are, which in turn really effects you) and that makes it easier to communicate love to others whether it be in a friendship or romantic relationship. When I read it I was immediately like, "HOLY CRAP!" I completely, 100% give AND receive love in the form of words.
I'm the girl who will always be forthcoming about my feelings (whether they are undying feelings of love or complete and utter disgust). I've always been that way. Sometimes it leaves me feeling incredibly vulnerable. I take what someone says in one moment and hold on to it for dear life. "But you SAID this!" We all know we say things in the moment that we very much mean . . . but then feelings change. That has been a huge lesson for me: to accept that those words were real at the moment, but now the moment has passed and I can't hold that person to those words.
Words are also why I have always loved reading, writing, and acting. They are so moving! I mean, gees, who can resist a Shakespearean sonnet?! (Okay, LOTS of people can resist them, but not me!)
So as I was lying in bed I was just thinking about a situation in my life right now where I feel stuck and it's completely attached to the fact that I am putting a TON of weight on words and how I often let the fact that the words aren't backed up by actions slip by.
"Words are but symbols for the relations of things to one another and to us; nowhere do they touch upon absolute truth."
Friedrich Nietzsche
Words are my downfall. They weigh so heavy on me and it's so hard for me to separate them from my emotions. If you've never read The 5 Love Languages, I highly recommend it because it really opened my eyes years ago. The basic premise is that we all show and receive love in different ways. After reading the book it's usually very clear what your "language" is (and what your parents languages are, which in turn really effects you) and that makes it easier to communicate love to others whether it be in a friendship or romantic relationship. When I read it I was immediately like, "HOLY CRAP!" I completely, 100% give AND receive love in the form of words.I'm the girl who will always be forthcoming about my feelings (whether they are undying feelings of love or complete and utter disgust). I've always been that way. Sometimes it leaves me feeling incredibly vulnerable. I take what someone says in one moment and hold on to it for dear life. "But you SAID this!" We all know we say things in the moment that we very much mean . . . but then feelings change. That has been a huge lesson for me: to accept that those words were real at the moment, but now the moment has passed and I can't hold that person to those words.
Words are also why I have always loved reading, writing, and acting. They are so moving! I mean, gees, who can resist a Shakespearean sonnet?! (Okay, LOTS of people can resist them, but not me!)
So as I was lying in bed I was just thinking about a situation in my life right now where I feel stuck and it's completely attached to the fact that I am putting a TON of weight on words and how I often let the fact that the words aren't backed up by actions slip by.
"Words are but symbols for the relations of things to one another and to us; nowhere do they touch upon absolute truth."
Friedrich Nietzsche
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Reality TV: my frienemy
After a long crappy day yesterday I was shutting things down behind the bar at work thinking, "Great. I made this goal of being grateful for something each day and then I have a day like this. What am I going to write about."
I get home, check my facebook and have messages and comments from my friends all over the country saying they saw me in the audience of Bachelor Pad. I started cracking up. The stupid reality show (that I'm hooked on) turned around and made my day. All of a sudden I was reliving that day a week ago when Kat flew from Vegas just to go to the taping with me because we are HUGE fans and remembering how much fun we had. I'm so grateful for her friendship. The tickets were also given to me by a friend I adore and respect so much who wasn't able to make it to the taping because she's a good mommy and it was her son's school orientation. I have good friends. I'm a lucky girl.
And Kirk blew me a kiss!
I get home, check my facebook and have messages and comments from my friends all over the country saying they saw me in the audience of Bachelor Pad. I started cracking up. The stupid reality show (that I'm hooked on) turned around and made my day. All of a sudden I was reliving that day a week ago when Kat flew from Vegas just to go to the taping with me because we are HUGE fans and remembering how much fun we had. I'm so grateful for her friendship. The tickets were also given to me by a friend I adore and respect so much who wasn't able to make it to the taping because she's a good mommy and it was her son's school orientation. I have good friends. I'm a lucky girl.
And Kirk blew me a kiss!
Monday, September 12, 2011
WTF am I doing?
Hi.
I have spent every day the last month saying, "I'm gonna . . . ya know, get some writing done today," and yet every friggin' day, something took me away from that: reruns of Tosh.0, Facebook, staring at a wall, ANYTHING I could do to not have to put my hands on the ever-loving keys of my macbook and actually get creative, I would do. And then I'd convince myself, MAN, I just ran out of time today. CRAZY!
So, this pile of shit blog is where I put my foot down. Even if it's this blog entry that has no significance, I had to write because if I don't write something I feel like I'm just going to find more worthless, time-sucking, reality TV shows to zap all of my creative mojo.
Shits been hard. Yep. I've had a lot of tough shit lately but that's life. When is there NOT shit? Speaking of shit, the thing that got me writing tonight was my friend Julie's blog entry about shit today. She is hilarious and she is doing this whole "living joyously" thing where she basically does whatever she wants (including quitting her job) and knows it's all going to be fantastic. I love her. Julie's blog. (note: "shit" used five times in this paragraph . . . well, now six times I guess.)
Today I had a moment of intense and insane clarity writing down a take out order at the same time as playing tic tac toe with my fellow counter server where I thought, "Woah! Wait a minute. I'm sorry. This isn't my life. I must have accidentally beamed into someone else's body and life because this isn't mine." I think it's a combination of being really hard on myself (as always), being impatient (again, per usual) and being EXHAUSTED (by quite a few things). All I know for sure is that I needed to slap myself across the face tonight, force myself to say something, and hold myself accountable for my total laziness.
I need to focus on the amazing things in my life, even if it's the tiniest thing one day, I'm so freaking lucky. I have a tendency to get in a rut of only focusing on the things I want to change, the things that suck. The problem there is that there is always stuff in your life that sucks, no matter who you are. The difference between a happy person and a miserable one is that the happy person is looking at all the fan-flippin'-tastic blessings they have and the miserable one is focused on the shit they are wading through. Until I have a story to tell, I'm just going to let you know what I'm grateful for and focus on that.
Today I had my graduation show for my 301 UCB class. I love improv. I was hung up for a while, about a year ago, feeling like I just couldn't do it and that I was awful, and well, because I THOUGHT that, I was. Now, I don't even really care that much if I'm amazing at it, I just love that I LOVE doing it. I love making people laugh and I got to do that today. I am so thankful for that. My class rocks, UCB rocks and hanging out at Birds afterwards rocks.
And I'm grateful that I finally wrote something today. It'll make writing something tomorrow so much easier, and now, I have no excuse. I'm sure the THRONGS of people who read this will hold me accountable and urge me to keep writing. (And by "throngs of people" I mean, my mother.)
Goodnight.
I have spent every day the last month saying, "I'm gonna . . . ya know, get some writing done today," and yet every friggin' day, something took me away from that: reruns of Tosh.0, Facebook, staring at a wall, ANYTHING I could do to not have to put my hands on the ever-loving keys of my macbook and actually get creative, I would do. And then I'd convince myself, MAN, I just ran out of time today. CRAZY!
So, this pile of shit blog is where I put my foot down. Even if it's this blog entry that has no significance, I had to write because if I don't write something I feel like I'm just going to find more worthless, time-sucking, reality TV shows to zap all of my creative mojo.
Shits been hard. Yep. I've had a lot of tough shit lately but that's life. When is there NOT shit? Speaking of shit, the thing that got me writing tonight was my friend Julie's blog entry about shit today. She is hilarious and she is doing this whole "living joyously" thing where she basically does whatever she wants (including quitting her job) and knows it's all going to be fantastic. I love her. Julie's blog. (note: "shit" used five times in this paragraph . . . well, now six times I guess.)
Today I had a moment of intense and insane clarity writing down a take out order at the same time as playing tic tac toe with my fellow counter server where I thought, "Woah! Wait a minute. I'm sorry. This isn't my life. I must have accidentally beamed into someone else's body and life because this isn't mine." I think it's a combination of being really hard on myself (as always), being impatient (again, per usual) and being EXHAUSTED (by quite a few things). All I know for sure is that I needed to slap myself across the face tonight, force myself to say something, and hold myself accountable for my total laziness.
I need to focus on the amazing things in my life, even if it's the tiniest thing one day, I'm so freaking lucky. I have a tendency to get in a rut of only focusing on the things I want to change, the things that suck. The problem there is that there is always stuff in your life that sucks, no matter who you are. The difference between a happy person and a miserable one is that the happy person is looking at all the fan-flippin'-tastic blessings they have and the miserable one is focused on the shit they are wading through. Until I have a story to tell, I'm just going to let you know what I'm grateful for and focus on that.
Today I had my graduation show for my 301 UCB class. I love improv. I was hung up for a while, about a year ago, feeling like I just couldn't do it and that I was awful, and well, because I THOUGHT that, I was. Now, I don't even really care that much if I'm amazing at it, I just love that I LOVE doing it. I love making people laugh and I got to do that today. I am so thankful for that. My class rocks, UCB rocks and hanging out at Birds afterwards rocks.
And I'm grateful that I finally wrote something today. It'll make writing something tomorrow so much easier, and now, I have no excuse. I'm sure the THRONGS of people who read this will hold me accountable and urge me to keep writing. (And by "throngs of people" I mean, my mother.)
Goodnight.
Monday, June 27, 2011
The Worst (and Best) Wing-woman
My bestie Kat came into town from Vegas this past week and in accompanying her to the Roosevelt Hotel's Beacher's Madhouse show I realize that I am the worst (and best) wingwoman. Here's why:
1. I am not smooth. I lost the straw to my drink three times. Once it was in my hair, once I smacked it out of the drink and across the bar in an awkward dance move and I have no idea where the third straw went. We were still asked to join a VIP table area by a group of dudes (because Kat is incredibly smooth and has crazy flirtation skills.)
2. I, on the other hand, got rejected when I wasn't even flirting. I was trying to be funny and sarcastic with the waiter because he had a small flashlight in his mouth while he pouring drinks from the bottle at the table. I said, "Wow, you're really good with a flashlight." He didn't even turn back to look at me while he said, "Yeah, so's that guy over there. Maybe you should talk to HIM." Yeesh.
3. You want a picture of you, a dude dressed like a giant penis, Spiderman and Paris Hilton? You got it:
4. Or a picture with an Oompa Loompa?
5. OR the world's tallest stripper?!
I'm your wing-woman.
6. But the drawback is that you have to deal with me wanting to get up on a platform to dance with a human chicken:
The man to the right looks absolutely terrified/disgusted.
7. I can dance the night away with the best of them but don't ask me to have a seductive conversation at the same time because it will go like it did that night:
Cute Guy: "Hey, nice moves."
Me: "Thanks! It's my 'I got a big penis' dance!"
Cute Guy: <blank stare>
Me: "I mean, my 'I'm nine months pregnant' dance?"
Cue cute guy's swift departure. Whatever, I thought it was funny.
8. I will only have one drink so that I can drive, and pass the glasses of champagne that the random guys at the table pass me to you. GREAT wing-woman!!
That is the end of my list. It was definitely one of the most fun night's out in Hollywood I've ever had (I very rarely do it.) I'm so glad I got to spend an impromptu evening with Kat though! One more picture of Paris and Nikki Hilton:
Loving the expression on the Oompa Loompa.
This happened too:
But most importantly, we had fun:
1. I am not smooth. I lost the straw to my drink three times. Once it was in my hair, once I smacked it out of the drink and across the bar in an awkward dance move and I have no idea where the third straw went. We were still asked to join a VIP table area by a group of dudes (because Kat is incredibly smooth and has crazy flirtation skills.)
2. I, on the other hand, got rejected when I wasn't even flirting. I was trying to be funny and sarcastic with the waiter because he had a small flashlight in his mouth while he pouring drinks from the bottle at the table. I said, "Wow, you're really good with a flashlight." He didn't even turn back to look at me while he said, "Yeah, so's that guy over there. Maybe you should talk to HIM." Yeesh.
3. You want a picture of you, a dude dressed like a giant penis, Spiderman and Paris Hilton? You got it:
4. Or a picture with an Oompa Loompa?
5. OR the world's tallest stripper?!
I'm your wing-woman.
6. But the drawback is that you have to deal with me wanting to get up on a platform to dance with a human chicken:
7. I can dance the night away with the best of them but don't ask me to have a seductive conversation at the same time because it will go like it did that night:
Cute Guy: "Hey, nice moves."
Me: "Thanks! It's my 'I got a big penis' dance!"
Cute Guy: <blank stare>
Me: "I mean, my 'I'm nine months pregnant' dance?"
Cue cute guy's swift departure. Whatever, I thought it was funny.
8. I will only have one drink so that I can drive, and pass the glasses of champagne that the random guys at the table pass me to you. GREAT wing-woman!!
That is the end of my list. It was definitely one of the most fun night's out in Hollywood I've ever had (I very rarely do it.) I'm so glad I got to spend an impromptu evening with Kat though! One more picture of Paris and Nikki Hilton:
Loving the expression on the Oompa Loompa.
This happened too:
But most importantly, we had fun:
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Daddy's Girl
This is a repost from my Road to Singapore blog. I haven't recycled any blogs yet but I wanted to in honor of Father's Day. I hope you are having a great day with your Daddy! I won't be with my Dad until August but I'll be serving many dads free burgers today at work! I hope you enjoy!
My dad is celebrating a milestone birthday this year (he's turning 65,) along with my mother who is turning 60 and myself (I'm turning 30). In a recent conversation with my mother, she told me that my dad doesn't want to celebrate his birthday (which is in June) until November when I get back to the United States and we can all celebrate our birthdays together. I got teary-eyed, of course. My dad is certainly not much of a sap, but in the past few years, there have been times when he does or says something that is surprisingly mushy. My dad never really likes to celebrate birthdays anyway, but that fact that he wants to wait until I'm home was sweet. It's probably because my dad and I share a special bond that no other father and daughter share. You see, my dad had me.
Yes, I mean that my dad gave birth to me.
My brother and I each have a photo album that my mom put together from our first year on the planet. The first page in both of our albums is a picture of each of us in the hospital, bright pink, only moments old. The only difference in my album is that the first picture you see is of my father, in a hospital gown sitting in a hospital chair holding me with pink and white balloons floating behind him with a big smile on his face. He looks exhausted but elated, I mean, he's just given birth for crying out loud; give the man a break! My mother, who hates to have her picture taken, was no where to be found in any of the hospital pictures. She must have been working that day and left my father to have me, all by himself.
I somehow got it into my head one day, very early on, when I looked through the photo album, that I had found out a huge secret that my parents were trying to keep from me. I confronted my mother.
"Dad had me, didn't he?" I asked her, through tears. "Why on earth would you think Dad had you?" my mother replied. Oh, okay, she was going to try and play hardball (with a 6 year old). I had THE EVIDENCE! I opened the front page of the photo album and presented it to her. "You aren't in any of these pictures and Dad is in a hospital gown holding me! Why didn't you ever tell me that dad had me?!"
"Oh, you're a silly goose," my mother replied and didn't elaborate, because, well, proving my theory wrong would be quite a conversation for a 6-year-old. I'm assuming that's why my belief went on for so long. I eventually got over the sting of betrayal that I had never been told this secret, and defended it with great honor. This was a constant source of amusement to my family, along with the fact that I am the ONLY person in my generation (and the generations before me) in my family to be born outside of New York. (The icing on the cake being that I was born in New Jersey, but more on that another day.)
I remember several family gatherings vividly where someone would say offhand, "Well, that's because Rich gave birth to Erin." I could sense sarcasm from a very young age and I would fly into a tantrum! "He DID have me! I have PROOF!" I would shout as I would stomp off to get the photo album. My father, of course, didn't help me accept the truth. He would laugh through a big smile and say, "That's right honey, show them!" I liked feeling that my dad and I were a team that no one could quite understand because WE had a special bond. None of my other friend's dads had had THEM! Obviously, those dads were too lazy!
Years went by, and I remember realizing that it might not be true, even before I knew the scientific reasons behind it, but I still insisted that my dad had me. Part of me didn't want to lose that special link to my dad. My mom and I got closer and closer as I became a woman, but the father-daughter bond is harder to keep strong.
One day I will have to re-post this with the picture (THE PROOF!) of my father and I, because it is in storage somewhere in North Hollywood until next year. I've just been thinking about this story and wanting to share it so I couldn't wait that long! I hope you enjoyed it! (UPDATE: I STILL can't find the picture! I spent an hour this morning looking! rrrggghhh!) This is a beautiful moment caught at my brother's wedding in December. My dad and I are both workin' double chins but I love it.
My dad is celebrating a milestone birthday this year (he's turning 65,) along with my mother who is turning 60 and myself (I'm turning 30). In a recent conversation with my mother, she told me that my dad doesn't want to celebrate his birthday (which is in June) until November when I get back to the United States and we can all celebrate our birthdays together. I got teary-eyed, of course. My dad is certainly not much of a sap, but in the past few years, there have been times when he does or says something that is surprisingly mushy. My dad never really likes to celebrate birthdays anyway, but that fact that he wants to wait until I'm home was sweet. It's probably because my dad and I share a special bond that no other father and daughter share. You see, my dad had me.
Yes, I mean that my dad gave birth to me.
My brother and I each have a photo album that my mom put together from our first year on the planet. The first page in both of our albums is a picture of each of us in the hospital, bright pink, only moments old. The only difference in my album is that the first picture you see is of my father, in a hospital gown sitting in a hospital chair holding me with pink and white balloons floating behind him with a big smile on his face. He looks exhausted but elated, I mean, he's just given birth for crying out loud; give the man a break! My mother, who hates to have her picture taken, was no where to be found in any of the hospital pictures. She must have been working that day and left my father to have me, all by himself.
I somehow got it into my head one day, very early on, when I looked through the photo album, that I had found out a huge secret that my parents were trying to keep from me. I confronted my mother.
"Dad had me, didn't he?" I asked her, through tears. "Why on earth would you think Dad had you?" my mother replied. Oh, okay, she was going to try and play hardball (with a 6 year old). I had THE EVIDENCE! I opened the front page of the photo album and presented it to her. "You aren't in any of these pictures and Dad is in a hospital gown holding me! Why didn't you ever tell me that dad had me?!"
"Oh, you're a silly goose," my mother replied and didn't elaborate, because, well, proving my theory wrong would be quite a conversation for a 6-year-old. I'm assuming that's why my belief went on for so long. I eventually got over the sting of betrayal that I had never been told this secret, and defended it with great honor. This was a constant source of amusement to my family, along with the fact that I am the ONLY person in my generation (and the generations before me) in my family to be born outside of New York. (The icing on the cake being that I was born in New Jersey, but more on that another day.)
I remember several family gatherings vividly where someone would say offhand, "Well, that's because Rich gave birth to Erin." I could sense sarcasm from a very young age and I would fly into a tantrum! "He DID have me! I have PROOF!" I would shout as I would stomp off to get the photo album. My father, of course, didn't help me accept the truth. He would laugh through a big smile and say, "That's right honey, show them!" I liked feeling that my dad and I were a team that no one could quite understand because WE had a special bond. None of my other friend's dads had had THEM! Obviously, those dads were too lazy!
Years went by, and I remember realizing that it might not be true, even before I knew the scientific reasons behind it, but I still insisted that my dad had me. Part of me didn't want to lose that special link to my dad. My mom and I got closer and closer as I became a woman, but the father-daughter bond is harder to keep strong.
One day I will have to re-post this with the picture (THE PROOF!) of my father and I, because it is in storage somewhere in North Hollywood until next year. I've just been thinking about this story and wanting to share it so I couldn't wait that long! I hope you enjoyed it! (UPDATE: I STILL can't find the picture! I spent an hour this morning looking! rrrggghhh!) This is a beautiful moment caught at my brother's wedding in December. My dad and I are both workin' double chins but I love it.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Say Cheese!
A friend of mine showed me a picture of her adorable two-year old daughter tonight. In the photo, her cutie-pie was sitting at this horrible angle and doing the smushed face, double-chin action that no adult would ever do (or we would force whoever took the picture to delete it, immediately). It made me giggle and feel wistful for the days that I didn't have that awareness of the camera.
I absolutely hated seeing pictures of myself, probably until I started getting headshots done and realized how to angle myself in a way that looked attractive. Oh, and not let the complete and total spazz within my soul shimmy it's way out of my face. For example:
I like how my childhood friend Brianna couldn't be less interested in my present-opening. BRIANNA: it's a California Beach Taxi! Wake up! She seems pretty fascinated with that party horn, so all is forgiven.
Or what I believe was next years birthday:
I'm the one on the end in the glasses with the arm that resembles a stork or seagull leg. Not my best angle. (And no matter what I did, apparently my birthday parties were not enthralling enough to squeeze a smile out of Brianna.)
But the picture that really captures the full awkwardness of my childhood, the one that used to send me whining and crying to my mother to PLEASE take it out of the frame and destroy it as a teenager was this gem:
I absolutely hated seeing pictures of myself, probably until I started getting headshots done and realized how to angle myself in a way that looked attractive. Oh, and not let the complete and total spazz within my soul shimmy it's way out of my face. For example:
I like how my childhood friend Brianna couldn't be less interested in my present-opening. BRIANNA: it's a California Beach Taxi! Wake up! She seems pretty fascinated with that party horn, so all is forgiven.
Or what I believe was next years birthday:
I'm the one on the end in the glasses with the arm that resembles a stork or seagull leg. Not my best angle. (And no matter what I did, apparently my birthday parties were not enthralling enough to squeeze a smile out of Brianna.)
But the picture that really captures the full awkwardness of my childhood, the one that used to send me whining and crying to my mother to PLEASE take it out of the frame and destroy it as a teenager was this gem:
I'm definitely not worrying about my double chin here! Not to mention my WAY before the times Kate Gosslyn haircut with confetti style headband. Boy, oh boy was I a looker. This was around the time that I asked my mother if she thought I would grow up to be beautiful. She responded with, "You will always be unique-looking and that's even better!"
I ran to my room crying.
The funny thing is that of all the "glamorous" or "sexy" pictures I have now taken, THAT horrifying 4th grade school picture is my absolute favorite picture of myself of all time. I have no awareness of what I look like and frankly, I think I look fairly pleased with myself.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
The Inspiration
The inspiration for this blog comes from studying improv at UCB. In many of our exercises we have to tell a story that comes to mind based off of a one word suggestion. My stories always end up revolving around some horribly embarrassing situation I got myself into. The story I'm going to tell you now is what inspired me to start a blog retelling the cringe-worthy episodes of my past. I hope my unfailing dorkiness brings a smile to your face.
It was a sunny humid August day in Altamonte Springs, Florida. This day was a big day. It was the Erin and Erin 14th birthday party celebration. My good friend Erin O'Brien and I both had birthdays within a few days of each other and both had the name Erin. If that doesn't scream LET'S HAVE A JOINT BIRTHDAY PARTY, I don't know what does. This was also going to be one of my first co-ed birthday celebrations and I don't want to brag but the guest list was pretty impressive; the creme de la creme of Teague Middle School and Lake Brantely High School were going to be in attendance. (This had much more to do with Erin O'Brien's popularity than mine, I assure you.)
I was looking fly in my fantastic birthday outfit. I showed up to Erin's house in my sunflower print, rolled up Bongo shorts, matching sunflower sneakers and bright yellow shirt feeling HOT. (I scoured my pictures looking for a shot in those shorts. I came up empty handed, a true tragedy.) Our friends started to arrive and I breathed a secret sigh of relief that the gossip at school the next day would not be how no one showed up to the Erinx2 party.
Now I don't know if it was a puberty thing, a nervous thing, or what but for a short window of time in the transition from child to teenager, I had a secret shame. When someone would make me really laugh, I'd nearly pee my pants. I assure you, it's not an issue today, or else I would most likely not tell this story. I still possess an uncomfortable laugh when I don't know what to say but the uncontrollable bladder is a thing of the past. (Don't be jealous.)
The party was just getting good when I was having a conversation with Brad Gomez (remember, I had BOYS at this party: boys, I tell you!) Brad Gomez is a funny guy. Who knows what he said, but it must have been funnier than a Judd Apatow movie marathon (or it could have been just mildly amusing . . . my bladder was weak, people) but it started happening, I was going to pee my pants. At my own birthday party. In front of boys.
I couldn't think of anything that made more sense then to rip open the sliding glass door that separated the large living room where the party was taking place from the swimming pool and jump in, fully clothed. So, that's what I did. I also threw in a, "Woooooooo! Pool party! Come on everyone! Jump in!" as I sloshed around the empty pool in the dark by myself waving my arms in the air to the faint sound of the music from the real party taking place inside, my poor brand new sunflower shorts already suffering the chlorine damage.
Needless to say everyone just stared from the living room, dumbstruck, until I gave up on trying to make the pool seem like the most obvious fun place to be. Erin O'Brien (bless her heart) walked me into the bathroom with a towel around my humiliated shoulders and let me borrow dry clothes. She asked me, "Why on earth did you just jump into the pool?!" I can't remember whether I told her the truth or not.
When you are faced with two choices: peeing your pants or looking like a totally cool party animal . . . . well, I think you know the answer to this one, guys. WOOOOOOO! Come on in! The water's fine!!!
 |
| Fashionista Middle School Erin |
I was looking fly in my fantastic birthday outfit. I showed up to Erin's house in my sunflower print, rolled up Bongo shorts, matching sunflower sneakers and bright yellow shirt feeling HOT. (I scoured my pictures looking for a shot in those shorts. I came up empty handed, a true tragedy.) Our friends started to arrive and I breathed a secret sigh of relief that the gossip at school the next day would not be how no one showed up to the Erinx2 party.
Now I don't know if it was a puberty thing, a nervous thing, or what but for a short window of time in the transition from child to teenager, I had a secret shame. When someone would make me really laugh, I'd nearly pee my pants. I assure you, it's not an issue today, or else I would most likely not tell this story. I still possess an uncomfortable laugh when I don't know what to say but the uncontrollable bladder is a thing of the past. (Don't be jealous.)
The party was just getting good when I was having a conversation with Brad Gomez (remember, I had BOYS at this party: boys, I tell you!) Brad Gomez is a funny guy. Who knows what he said, but it must have been funnier than a Judd Apatow movie marathon (or it could have been just mildly amusing . . . my bladder was weak, people) but it started happening, I was going to pee my pants. At my own birthday party. In front of boys.
I couldn't think of anything that made more sense then to rip open the sliding glass door that separated the large living room where the party was taking place from the swimming pool and jump in, fully clothed. So, that's what I did. I also threw in a, "Woooooooo! Pool party! Come on everyone! Jump in!" as I sloshed around the empty pool in the dark by myself waving my arms in the air to the faint sound of the music from the real party taking place inside, my poor brand new sunflower shorts already suffering the chlorine damage.
Needless to say everyone just stared from the living room, dumbstruck, until I gave up on trying to make the pool seem like the most obvious fun place to be. Erin O'Brien (bless her heart) walked me into the bathroom with a towel around my humiliated shoulders and let me borrow dry clothes. She asked me, "Why on earth did you just jump into the pool?!" I can't remember whether I told her the truth or not.
When you are faced with two choices: peeing your pants or looking like a totally cool party animal . . . . well, I think you know the answer to this one, guys. WOOOOOOO! Come on in! The water's fine!!!
 |
| Me, waiter at Planet Hollywood that's a little to creepy, Erin O'Brien and Lisa Heckerman |
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