adtetastic asked: Girl!!??
Hay gurl!! You found my blog!!
Hi everyone. Today, walking along the multi-million dollar homes in my neighborhood that we have some how lucked out to live next to from our beach shack, I decided my constitution is much more suited to paint the house than to sit in it all day long, if you know what I mean. I recognize this contradicts the very large however impermanent detail that I am jobless right now, but if we focus on that, then we miss the point.
So, this elicited an alarming interest within, to jot down new opportunities I could explore when the responsible head of gainful employment encroaches on my happy days of leisure [pronounced “leh-zure”]. I thought it fitting as well that the horoscope left for busy Manhattan-ites at the Starbucks on the corner of Manhattan Ave and Highland read for me today:
“Only young children and immature adults throw fits and tantrums. If you’re not happy with your current career, go out and explore new opportunities for yourself, and see what happens.”
For about 30 seconds, I set off on a whirlwind internal rage that went something like, “oh, how DARE you come at me with that, random newspaper horoscope. By the way, this is a journey, not a sprint my friend. I will have you know I have more opportunity in my little finger than…why is everyone staring at me!? I am sweating.”
I managed to come down off of a state only to be described as “unaware catatonic toddler” and discovered, oh dear. I have just thrown a tantrum that makes absolutely no sense, thereby catapulting myself into the very category of “young children and immature adult.” When the haze of my tantrum lifted, I decided the horoscope was not directed at me, but for many other people who hadn’t yet found their true calling. I settled on befriending this horoscope, only making a minor mental note to replace “immature adults” with “adult baby”; it just sounds better. Also, I am not immature. That’s for certain.
Nonetheless, I stayed with my earlier goal of jotting down some new opportunities given my inspiring morning. Here are a few below.
1. Stonework Apprenticeship
With the Spanish-speaking crew erecting the new mansion across the street. Not the entire home, just the stone work. To me this project seems intensely rewarding for many reasons. I could reengage my intense love for the Spanish language, brushing off years of college classes just taking a siesta  somewhere deep in my brain. Also, I would become exclusively familiar with and included in their little Spanish jokes that, by way of using context clues and picking up on tone, I have deduced that they are joking but I don’t understand because I never studied abroad like I so desperately wanted and deserved to. It would be like the last semester of college in Granada, Spain I never had.
In addition, I would educate myself on the wondrous craft of hammering postcard-sized pieces of flat multi-toned rock into cement, creating a beautiful tapestry for all the world to see. Or only those fortunate enough to visit this home, that by my professional real estate guesstimation is in the neighborhood of 3-10 million dollars. So about 10 people.
2. Greeting card writer and maker. Here are a few to start:
a. Sorry about your haircut. I still like you as a person anyway, and I’ve heard lots of others do too.
b. Thank you for having an interview with me! It was fun to feel appreciated and liked. I had no intention of taking this position but it was nice to chat and I liked your office decorations. [in script font]
c. “Assume” makes an ass out of you, and me. [inside: I’m sorry for acting like a daft, unaware asshole].
I’m not sure why my new greeting card business focuses on such niche, mostly negative or awkward situations, but with a little more thought and some corporate funding I can get into some happier themes. Please email if interested.
3. Movie script writer/ concept person. This one needs no explanation, after what I saw on my TV prompt for upcoming movies the other day [see evidence below]. If this is truly a movie that has made it through a script, editing of any version of script, casting, production, film editing and on to HBO, then surely I can compete.
“(2003) Man blinded by toxic waste relies on heightened super senses to fight crime.” What!?
4. Hugh Jackman’s deadbeat girlfriend
5. Jason Statham’s deadbeat girlfriend
Of course, my friends, I am acutely aware that Jason, Hugh and myself are all respectively in very loving, committed relationships. Actually I can’t say for Jason’s after running into him at LAX [we didn’t speak or touch so maybe “ran into” is a misnomer. But we didn’t have to; what we have could be felt by every man, woman and security ID-checker person within seeing distance].
I was zoning out in the security line and leered to the other end of ridiculous flashing lights of paparazzo and saw his beautiful, rugged, handsome, chiseled, accented face I’ve admired since the first Transporter, and then saw a tall blonde girl hiding under a faddish cowboy hat made out of felt, the very same color as the brown crayon you never wanted to use as a young coloring book artist, because it closely imitated the very unappealing tone of excrement. This mystery woman and I did however resemble one another in the height and hair department, propelling a conclusion perfectly foregone that I could somehow sweep her legs when he was busy getting his photo snapped, slip her some tranquilizers and shove her in the trash just outside gate 43. Thus, allowing me to sidle right next to his broad shoulders and no one would be the wiser. I didn’t have time though, as I don’t generally travel with tranquilizers and I was too busy looking her up on Wikipedia to discover her name is Rosie and that she’s a Victoria’s Secret lingerie model. This lead to the steadfast conclusion that, because she was named “Rosie”, a model, and they’ve only been dating for 1 year, that the relationship couldn’t be stable. Just a hunch.
6. Stay at home mom/ work out nanny. There are clear pros and cons with this one:
Pros: There is a curious little congregation of moms who meet a few times a week to work out with a lady who from my purview is a self-proclaimed trainer, identified by her hat and matching shirt that says, “Fit for Mommy, Fun for Baby” or something equally embarrassing for everyone involved, including those innocent children. The pro here is that if I were a nanny, I could meet up with these ladies and have the BEST beach bod ever. Maybe I wouldn’t even need a baby. I could just find one of those off-road 3-wheeled strollers that they all have, which assuredly you make payments on like a car, and I would stuff mine with a cabbage patch kid. I might even win a few of their mommy mini-races because my baby would never cry, and I could off-road and take short cuts in order to win and bask in the glory of both hot mom-ness and peer appreciation. Oh the status I would have amongst these other ladies of leisure!
The con here is the obvious embarrassment factor(s) of being part of an organized mommy workout, a situation akin to out-of-water synchronized swimming + stroller. A small price to pay for amazing beach buns, if you ask me. Also, pretending to have a baby might be illegal. I haven’t gotten that far yet.
Cons: There is a terrible storm cloud of a stereotype that looms in Manhattan Beach, or probably lots of places, for women who show themselves in the daylight during otherwise “working” hours. This ghastly daytime appearance bellows mockingly, “Hey look at that lady. She is SO spoiled and does nothing but work out all day. Honestly, what does she do? Ugh. I hate that lady”. Now dear readers, there is strong potential this stereotype was fabricated based solely on the observations and freedom-lusting by yours-truly, during an intense time of general irritability and bitter displacement as a working girl [I had an advanced case that I’m pleased to say is clearing up].*
*On further thought this Con is being thrown out, on the grounds that I’m not certain I can be bothered with what other moms or nannies or passers-by care about what I do all day. I have come to appreciate these people. Maybe they own their own LA cupcake business, the decadence of which I so willingly used to partake, and they work within the confines of their safe, happy little kitchens? [Although I think baking out of your kitchen with intent to sell in California is illegal, a tidbit I learned from a campaign that went awry. Maybe advertising does serve a purpose…] Those delectable little treats have to come from somewhere. Or, maybe these ladies have actual sugar daddy’s. And in that case, who gives a shit? I’m pretty sure the world will still turn. Why should I care if a lady wants to work on her buns all day instead of a conference report or integrated media approach utilizing core channels based on target-appropriate location? I really shouldn’t be bothered. I have my own ridiculousness to pontificate over (see volumes 1-5). Case closed.
7. Newspaper horoscope writer
Duh. Obviously the one at the MB starbucks needs some serious ayuda if I’m still lamenting over it.
8. iPhone/ Blackberry/ Android app developer, “Spittr”
Spittr is quite simple. It’s an aggregation of anything one publishes online – Twitter, LinkedIn, Facebook, YouTube – that has been agreed to post by its owner after having a blood alcohol level of at least .10. I know this seems high but really it’s not. In fact, I’m convinced if we did a quick survey, 90% of tweets have been alcohol infused way beyond this level. How else could a giant stream of bullshit be so popular? I will tell you- because we are all drunk with visions of increasing our Klout score, and we are all in on it together. We’re all trying to make ourselves popular, so why not “follow” each other around, thank each other for following, and reposting stuff so that we hope new idiots will follow us, all for the sake of an arbitrary number to keep ticking up and up. It’s the largest and most flawless experiment for narcissism. Brilliant!
Once I figure out how to authenticate blood alcohol level via cellular device, I will let you know.
There are so many more, I can’t even keep them all straight. I suppose I’m still riding the wave of freedom and so literally anything is a possibility, sort of like when the Little Mermaid discovers there’s a real world outside of the ocean, and sings a song about it.
So my friends, this list is a silly one (sort of), but today I hope you all are discovering new worlds, even if they seem out of reach. I hope today is a day you feel excited about something new and different. Tell someone about it, but don’t let them sway the intent of your original thought. A lot of times I think we get distracted about a perfectly good first inclination, that gets diluted by self-doubt or others’ opinions.
Go discover. Tell someone, or don’t. And have fun :)
 “nap” en Español
 “help” en Español
Happy after-Easter everyone. In celebration of Jesus’s resurrection, and the return of whatever vice you may have given up, I thought you might enjoy a recap of a recent reconnection with an old, very old interest.
Now that life affords me the luxury of going on mini dates with myself, I woke up last week in search of a little culture that I suppose I always knew existed, but given obvious time dedication to a very illustrious and steadfast career from 9-5p*, I hadn’t yet indulged in museum visiting. I wasn’t really sure where to start, so I googled “LA museums”. Is that an oxymoron? Anyway, I settled on the Los Angeles County Museum of Art [LACMA]. *No one in advertising works 9-5p only. This was just a test to see if you were paying attention.
Before I forget, do not ever, ever unless you’re held at gunpoint, and maybe not even then, park at the museum parking garage at Wilshire and S. Curson. It’s 3$ for every 15 minutes, or 18$ maximum. I had a few things against me, preventing the very clear understanding that this was a dastardly and unacceptable amount to pay for parking:
#1: I am practically an adult baby when it comes to parking somewhere I’ve never been. I have to turn the radio down all the way to concentrate, and even then it’s like I have a sheet over my head.
#2: A feverish and reckless state of excitement to get to the museum.
I guess only 2 things, but formidable nonetheless. So, I sailed swiftly and unwittingly hours later into said maximum 18$ territory by the time I retrieved my car. For 18$ I would have expected my parking spot to contain a hidden car lift, and an entire Formula 1-esq pit crew to outfit my car with brand new everything- maybe even a signed head shot of Jenson Button left lovingly in the front seat; I don’t think that happened, I for sure didn’t see a photo.
Moving on from my obvious disdain for this parking structure, in thinking that if I said to someone,
“hey, I hung out at the George C. Page La Brea Tar Pit Museum today”
it would sound way, way less awesome than,
“hey what up you guys. I hung out at the LACMA on Thursday, what’dyoudo?”,
I started earnestly toward the cool, seductive light show display at the entrance of the LACMA. Now, the problem is, I have parked on the side of the museum that first you have to walk by the La Brea Tar Pits. Which literally is a smelly, bubbling pit of tar with some weird mechanically-charged fake elephants pretending like they’re stuck. Seriously who wants to look at that sad mockery of something that happened tens of thousands of years ago?
Well, I did. What happened next was a beautiful blur of dinosaur bones spurred by a forgotten kindergarten lust for information about anything related to old dino bones. Suddenly, I could not see the LACMA, or even know that it existed. Almost instantly my mind was held hostage by an old 5th grade dream of becoming an archaeologist/ dino bone excavator, and questions flooded my brain. Why was there a random tar pit there all that time ago? Why didn’t some cro-magnon man save those poor elephants and more importantly the cute baby ones? How many old dino bones could there possibly be in this pit, and when can I find them and put them back together?
Overwhelmed by questions and excitement, I threw visions of looking cool and saying “LACMA” down the toilet, and made a beeline for the entrance to, you guessed it, the George C. Page Tar Pit Museum. Now, let’s put this into perspective quickly.
Here was the goal:
And here is where I chose to spend my day:
Staring up at the entrance alone was enough to make me think, hmm, maybe Mr. Brady and the Aztec Indians collaborated to build the George C. Page Museum, La Brea Disoveries building. I didn’t care. My serotonin levels were off the charts thinking of what awaited me inside this curious building from the future. Or from the 1970s. Either one.
I will spare you with the hilarious details of standing in line next to a 6th grade field trip, and get to the good parts. I walk in, mystified at all the treasures behind glass, years of excavations and trips to uncover bones, and display them in tiny cases hung on the wall with detailed description for young minds [and mine] to relish in. Oh the mysteries!
I stumbled down the hallway and into this little dark room with lots of families and field trip classes, and sat down to see a giant screen:
Oh, right on time. It’s a sign for sure. I wish that baby would stop crying. Maybe that’s a sign…
And so it begins. Millions of years of history summed up in 10 minutes of one cinematic masterpiece, using a new form of documentary I hadn’t yet experienced. A mixed media treasure of still photography, cartoon, and black and white film:
Duh, I knew that! How exciting. I am entranced.
An invitation. “No thanks” I decided, but very much appreciated there is an actual handle/ pulley-like system that simulates tar entrapment at this very museum.
Oh no! A cartoon reenactment of a tar trapped horse. I am all for education, but I began to wonder if the little children sitting next to me were afraid. I mean, we have just viewed what usually typifies a happy cartoon forest scene, literally get demolished and eaten by a steaming pit of tar right before their very eyes. No one seems generally panicked, so it keeps going.
The movie ended eventually, and I wandered around some more and I felt alive with the connectedness to something I used to enjoy. In a few short hours I had reinvigorated a part of something that once interested me. Purposefully hidden of course. I can’t really go around telling people I used to want to go on dino bone digging trips in Europe with my babysitting money. Although in some circles I suppose this childhood dream may be respected, cultivated or even cool [okay not cool], but in my experience it’s better left dormant. Like really all the way dormant.
The point I will try to make here is this: during times of wondering what you’re doing, or wanting a little more information about who you’ve become in order to be greater, go waaay into the dormant places. Go back to when you didn’t have so much responsibility, and take yourself on a date. Oh, a quick word of advice and this is important- go by yourself. It will enliven you. It will inspire you. You will be surprised. The reason this works, is that it will come from you. No one else. That’s the best part :)