Thursday, May 29, 2014

My DCH Writing Class & Why Carpal Tunnel Is Worth It...

Yesterday I spent ten minutes writing about a turtle named Elvis who was trying to subtly catch a ladybug in hopes of earning the "hustle jacket" from his Nebraskan turtle clan by a pond. No, I wasn't on shrooms, and no, I haven't gone off the deep end completely, but it was for our 10-minute warm up in writing class at DCH. The word suggestion was "hustle," which completely made my day because I could've written 500 more things revolving around that spectacular verb. And then on my drive home after class I continued to think about Elvis and if he was truly a hustler or not. And then I found myself just constantly thinking about this freaking turtle's personality, his favorite bug to eat, whether or not he got along with his older turtle siblings, how he talked, did he have a mid-Western accent or a hustler's voice, and so forth.

And so, the post about how obsessed I am with writing class now finally comes... (Don't roll your eyes, I know I blab about DCH 94% of the time but this is my blog and according to the late Maya Angelou, "You should figure out who you are and what you need, and don't apologize for it.") So boom. Not apologizing for the fact that I love my writing class, writing family, and writing exercises that may or may not sometimes involve turtle hustling.

At this point I'm basically a Netflix critic/analyst, I read a crap ton of my favorite writers' stuff, and I took film and theatre classes at SMU. But up until this point I've never taken a formal screenwriting/playwriting/sketch-writing class. And I've never considered myself to be a writer because all I've ever done is blog/tweet cynically and B.S. political events/policies in analytical/25-page/scholarly/boring styles. So when I signed up for DCH's 'intro to sketch' this term I had no idea what to expect (I was wanting a challenge and boy howdy that's what I got) and was 1/3 excited and 2/3's terrified. I also found out after the fact that Amanda Austin would be my writing teach and that pretty much sent me into panic mode because as I've told her (and everyone else at DCH) drunkenly multiple times, she's the Madeleine Albright to my Leslie Knopes and was one of the few humans that intimidated me in the world. (And if you don't get that Parks & Rec reference we simply cannot be friends anymore.)

Well, we just wrapped up week four of class last night and it was semi-depressing. I obviously signed up for level two because seven weeks is just not enough for me. I'm finally comfortable writing my heart out with no filter and subsequently performing anything that I deem to be just downright mortifying and/or uncomfortable. I'm also no longer terrified of Amanda because how can you be intimidated by a kickass instructor that signs class emails with "hearts and farts, A." ... you just can't. Don't get me wrong, I respect the sh*t out of her, along with everyone else in my class; every single person is truly different in their perspective on life, writing style, POVs, etc.. That's what makes it so fun. I'm in awe of everyone and what they bring to the table each week. That is my most favorite way to learn; opening up my mind and getting out of my comfort zone and hearing everyone else's ideas. Group mind/think. It's the best. I would do it twice, even thrice a week if I could. (Ok, seven days a week, let's be honest).

Also people-watching has always been a peculiar hobby of mine and this odd quirk comes into great use for this class. If I've ever met you/gotten to know you semi-well, chances are pretty high that parts of you have been in my characters/writings. It's just so great pulling people from my past (and present) to use in forming characters. Because dear sweet baby Jesus, like everyone else, I've met some incredible "characters" in my 24 years on this earth. And I'm not kidding when I say that during my nightly prayers I thank God for who He's placed in my life's path because it has provided me with colossal amounts of inspiration. Colossal amounts, I tell you.

Lastly, there's something about the vulnerability factor involved in taking this class that I'm secretly in love with. For the longest I was wrapped up in others' perception and maintaining normality, (mostly in thanks to an SMU education and Southern sorority experience) and I'm still working on this/getting better, thanks to DCH. But with this class, I have learned that I must let all of that go out the window immediately or else nothing will work. Because if I'm the slightest bit embarrassed or not 100% confident in my material, it will be evident, and it will not help anyone involved. So as incredibly humbling as it is, I love it. My hands only slightly shook this last week as I read my most recent monologue. And on a scale of espresso-ridden/crack-addict shaking hands to a basically deceased person's non-moving hands, I was right in the middle. Which is major progress for me considering my first stand-up presentation in that class in which I nearly vomited everywhere. But to be fair, it was the first class, and all seven (eight if you include my Madeleine Albright instructor) of my other classmates are (or nearly) DCH graduates and insanely incredible performers/humans).

So, with that my fellow Americans/friends, I'm going to wrap this sappy post up and go finish some more writing for class. I vote that you all go read my DCH prof's blog,, which I find to be funny and if I find it funny then it's funny, and/or sign up for a writing class. Because like improv, it will change your life. Also according to my Blogger tracker I have readers in France, Mexico, Italy, and Canada. So, whether or not this is accurate, I'll change the "fellow Americans" to "fellow humans" next time...

PS- the pic below is what I picture Elvis the turtle to sort of be like...

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Ready For Babies When You Are...

So I've had a few people email/text me recently saying, "oh my God, like you're kinda cynical are you anti-kids?!" or "what, you'd be such a fun mom, why are you so crazy?!" and ya know, A) I politely respond with, well, nothing, because here's the thing... my blog has nothing to do with my basically-child-bride-24-yo-ovaries, floating eggs, children aspirations, etc., and B) No offense, (obviously offense will be taken), but the ones texting me this sh*t clearly do not get my sense of humor and are the "bored ones" just reading for the fun of it.

When have I ever ONCE said that I don't like kids or don't want to have children? Never. That's right. So I'm saying this bluntly because I want kids more than anything in this world. I mean, really, I have way better hair than my sister and I absolutely MUST pass that genetic trait on to my offspring so that they can have cousin cat fights at Christmastime. I also have a way better sense of humor than my sister, along with a way higher drinking tolerance, and a way more fun/hippie-attitude towards life, so why in the hell would I not want to have bookoodles of kiddos to pass those fun things onto...  how thoughtful, right?

I was a nanny all four years of college at SMU and I continue to thank God daily for the angels that he blessed me with in my life. I've had kiddos that lived across from Bush that I used to read Bunny books to sleep at night that called me their mother (that was intense, BTW); I've had full-on Dennis the Menace mother f*ckers that I wanted to murder off 635; I've had incredibly beautiful and intelligent angels sent from God that I babysat every day of my senior year at SMU; Gray, Anna Katherine, and Ashley from HP. I sobbed on my very last day of picking them up from school because they were my babies and I knew them and they knew me and we had so much fun at the park, NorthPark, SMU, the library, whatever, together. I'll never forget picking 'em up in the white suburban from their schools and I took 'em to JD's Chippery to get last-day cookies for being so good; they were in their carseats in the back and we were driving past the now defunct Blockbuster across from SMU law school and I just broke down sobbing and had to pull over. I called my mom crying because I was so sad to leave them; I would never get to nanny them again because my semester was over; I was graduating; it was the end. (no, it wasn't that time of the month, either). My mom started crying and talked me through it, all while the kids were having a blast in the backseat with their cookies and I was slowly starting to think that I was insane.

Turns out... I wasn't insane. I'm not going to justify my tears with the whole "it was a female instinct" bullsh*t because we all have good, "parental," instincts, if we're good humans. I'm not even going to go there on the gender thing. But, I am an extremely sarcastic and cynical and vulgar human. I'm only 24-years-old and I've done/experienced some crazy sh*t so it's only normal with the turf I've been given/you've been given. But, just because I'm 24 and single and refuse to have children until I'm in my 30's and have traveled the world and accomplished my dreams does not mean that I don't want children. I can't wait to have babies of my own. I think about it daily. I want a whole clan and I hope that they're as diverse and funny and as weird as f*cking hell because it's going to be so much fun. I pray to God daily for my own little blessings and I know that one day I'll get there and it'll be great. And as much as I'd love to have little ones of my own right now, I would never do that to a perfect little human. I'm not the best that I can be right now and I would never bring another life into this world if I wasn't 100% ready; a little something that I learned from my own kickass parents.

So, to any of you out there wondering where my "female instinct" is, it's here. Loud and clear. I dream and pray of it daily. And in ten years, it's gonna be freaking amazing because me and my kid are gonna kick you and your kid's ass. It may be only on movie trivia or the ice skating rink or bowling alley, but 'til then, don't worry about me and my ovaries. We're busy doing improv at the DCH and learning life in the 2010's. (Isn't that what we call this era?).

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Losing An Eyebrow & Halloween...

I cleaned out some of my childhood closet today at home. It was a disaster. I just have too much sh*t. And too many memories attached, so I'm basically a prime candidate for that hoarders show at this point. I'm one of those that won't part with a movie ticket from this movie for no particular reason, or a wristband from that college formal for also no particular reason. It's ridiculous. I also found this photo of Banta and I from junior year at SMU. It was Halloween, my most favorite holiday, and of course, being the last-minute-Linda that I can be, we had to throw together the easiest female costume of all time for my drunken self, Cleopatra. Banta had the robes, I had the jewels, and the Loon had the rest. We had a blast. Man, that night was just too much fun. Surprisingly I remember most of it.

The best part, though, and I can say this years later now that it's finally funny, was the very end of the evening. Caitlin was already at home getting her zzzz's while Banta and I had to make our ritual end-of-the-drunken-night Pluckers run at 3AM; fortunately for us, Pluckers was literally half a mile from the apartment between Mockingbird & Lovers. Obviously, being the broke college students that we were, we preferred to spend our dough on Pluckers mild wing combos with fried pickles and/or mac and cheese, and not cab rides that we could easily walk in Nordy rack heels instead. So, we left the Loon for the evening in the infamous karaoke cab I'm pretty sure (?) and hooked it to Pluckers to get our order to go, and began our drunken, hot mess, ratchet trek home. BTW, I truly send apologies to any drivers that had to witness us that night. Jesus.

Anyways, we're hopping across the Lovers Lane intersection light down by where the old bookstore was that's now 24 Hour Fitness, and apparently there was a huge road stump/boulder/step/whatever that I missed. And, well, we've all seen the 'Scarlet Takes a Tumble' video on YouTube... yeah... mine was times ten. It was bad. I ate sh*t across Lovers like a boss, and I'm one of those that laughs daily at people falling so this was karma getting me back for the twenty years prior. For sure.

And of course Banta was more focused on getting home to her wings as I laid in the street dramatically, face-down, for five seconds or so with a massive head concussion. It was the most dramatic thing but I swear to you guys, I thought I was going to die. I'll never forget this moment for as long as I live. And so Banta grabbed all of our Pluckers and her Jersey ass kept trekking while I had the awful, drunk b*tch tears flowing. I could've won my Oscar that night. But we get home, I'm still crying, blood is everywhere from my forearms and knees getting scraped up like some 5-year-old learning how to skateboard. And I go into Banta's bathroom, I'll never forget this, and scream out in horror because half of my effing right eyebrow is GONE. And anyone that knows me knows that I'm serious about my eyebrows and dream daily of having big, thick, Brooke Shields-esque ones. So that dream went down the drain real quick. And all I could do at that point was eat my feelings out in wings. And I did.

And then came class the next day... And Italian with Professor Brandy, (who will forever be one of my SMU favorites!) who most definitely called me out, Italian-mama style. Yeah, that was fun. I had a huge patch across my right forehead because my eyebrow was gone, truthfully I needed stitches but obviously Pluckers was more important at the time, and my forehead was swollen like a melon. รจ stato molto, molto male! (Italian for it was really freaking bad). And I sat in the back of the classroom like a dog with my tail between my legs because despite everyone else being hungover from Halloween fun, everyone also knew that I had been that girl who had experienced some sort of drunk heels fiasco thanks to my one and a half brows/huge medical patch. And the majority of my class were freshmen, so that was fun being the irresponsible older girl. But hey, what else is/was new.

It took almost six months for that freaking brow to grow back in. I had to color it in daily with a pencil like some kind of washed up, 70-something hooker. Bad. Just bad. But hey, you're only young and dumb once, right? Ha. If I could go back I wouldn't change the evening. I mean, I would've watched my step a little more carefully or worn Toms for the night instead of awful heels. It was so much fun, though, and we've all had many laughs because of it now. I'm also one lucky mofo because no brain injuries were incurred from it (though many would beg to differ at that statement).

And with that, Halloween isn't for several months, but DCH Prom is this Saturday! So go get your tickets and come have funny fun.

Sunday, May 25, 2014

#YesAllWomen & Singin' In The Rain...

For today's post I wanted to gab about my passionate singing-in-the-car that I do on my weekly long drives, along with my super awkward mouth poses and/or quick maneuvers that I've learned to subtly execute (thanks, DCH improv classes) for when a glaring driver passes by and catches me belting out Jo Dee Messina or Celine Dion in broad daylight. Tinted windows only do so much, ya know. I'm also the world's WORST singer, seriously, it is baaaaad and I'll never publicly prove it to anyone. No amount of Tito's in the world could give me the confidence to karaoke, I promise. I'm sure even the sweet Lord above occasionally ponders as to why He didn't spend a little more time on my vocal cords before May 17, 1990.  But I own up to my non-existent talent and continue to croon to my jams, because what the hell else am I supposed to do while driving in the middle of bumblef*ck nowhere East Texas...

And I've had a lot of time to think about the art of singing-in-the-car (I love to say that four-word phrase because it reminds me of Singin' in the Rain, one of my favorite classics and the first movie that I ever studied/wrote about in film class with SMU cinema guru, Prof. Griffin). And I have a lot of mortifying scenarios to tell you guys all about in over-exaggerating, dramatic detail, of course. And maybe at the end of this post I'll lighten things up with one of my best since this blog is meant to provide slapstick-y solace for everyone involved. But... I absolutely must go into annoying activist mode and address/discuss* one of the most important causes (I hate using this term with the subject that I'm about to preach about, maybe 'issues' would be better?) of my life, and your life, and your momma's life, and your local mailman's life, and maybe even your dog or cat's life: women's rights. And the #YesAllWomen hashtag that has created a massive up roar within the past 48 hours.

*denotes that I'm open for laid-back discussion any time & comments are more than welcome

I know that not everyone is a news freak like I am so long story short, if you've been under a rock, Elliot Rodger, a disgruntled, moronic, 22-year-old, piece of sh*t violently murdered/injured several people this past weekend on/near the UCSB campus in California before taking his own life. He did all of this because he was misogynistic, racist, mentally ill, and hated women. Rodger claimed that he was still a virgin that nobody wanted to date and that all women were at fault. He was determined to revenge-slaughter females everywhere as somebody had to suffer for his "loneliness and sexual frustration," because OF COURSE IT MUST BE SO DIFFICULT BEING A SPOILED "ALPHA MALE" IN THE FIRST WORLD WITH 20-SOMETHING DATING WORRIES...

And with that the #YesAllWomen movement was born.

And the #YesAllWomen hashtag refers to the fact that women everywhere face "dating" and "sexual" worries every single day that are way worse than any concern Elliot Rodger ever had. Men swipe through Tender determining their decision by boobs; girls look at a man and instantly question if he looks like a Craigslist killer or not. At any bar most men buy girls drinks in hopes of getting some action; most girls (the smart ones at least) have to babysit any drink bought for them in fear of being roofied. Uptown Dallas bars are full of this crap, which is precisely why I now only drink at the safer, suburbia, brunch-like places full of moms and polka bands. And if I'm trying somewhere new that's mostly locals or hole-in-the-wall, I make sure to put out the vibe (in Lloyd Christmas voice from Dumb & Dumber) that I do not want a man's hands on me 'til we're basically Facebook official. And I'm eternally single so this says a lot. And lastly... "sexual frustration," Elliot Rodger? Really? You had two hands. What more did you need? Us single women have to buy loud, expensive, plastic devices that only come in neon colors to release the natural beast, (am I right?) or live as nuns so that pregnancy isn't a concern. So come on, dude.

AND SO MANY PEOPLE, men and women, posted incredibly powerful statements online, and I wish that I had enough time/room to post them all on here. Many of my favorite comedians and writers tweeted and I've posted several below that were my favorites. I am so glad that so many influential people decided to take action and turn a horrific event into something that will hopefully make a difference to someone, somewhere. It gives me hope. *cue Sarah McLachlan tunes*

As for my personal "story," I'm not going to publicly go there. Don't get me wrong, I've been a Genesis Women's Shelter volunteer and domestic violence advocate for the longest, and I will gladly listen to anyone needing to vent; I'll even share my own tidbits for the sake of helping any woman (or man) know that she is not alone. I probably have four or five thick journals chock full of the awful male encounters that I've experienced alone, with my girlfriends, in college, post-college, at work, you name it. My latest "bad experience" was only two days ago AND IT WASN'T EVEN AT A BAR OR LATE AT NIGHT. See how I naturally tried to justify my "situation" there? I shouldn't have to be ashamed to say that I was at a bar, or in a bad neighborhood, or it was late at night, etc., when something happens, but sadly I do. Because I am a young female that is unfortunately living in an impaired culture, and I pray to God that my own children never have to experience what me and my girlfriends have. I'll move my clan to Italy before that happens.

Harassment and fear have become the norm for women and that's pathetic. And the thing is, as I type this, I'm realizing that I could go on and on for days, which is precisely why I was a poli sci major but I'll try to wrap it up. If I ever make the rare decision to attend law school it will absolutely be for human rights/women's issues/to work at a non-profit. I have been blessed with so much and I will forever help a sister out and continue to speak up when it comes to this ridiculous status quo. I'm past the arrogant stage and I won't get heated or out of control in an issues debate or if faced with a misogynistic fool. My upbringing and spirituality have taught me how to deal with the extremes/idiots, and my education has taught me how to deal with their arguments.

To this day I carry a box cutter with me at all times and I often make jokes about it, but I do not dare leave it at home. Why? Because as knowledgeable as I am on sexual abuse, men's tactics, the escape routines, etc., I am paranoid of being attacked or raped more often than not. Just ask my friends. They'd probably classify me as borderline paranoid/insane. As a naive 18-year-old freshman at SMU, one of the most sexual harassment-plagued campuses ever, I was forced to find my inner "Alpha female" and learn quickly how to defend myself. I even enrolled in self-defense class for elective "wellness" credit with this terrifying, Russian, martial arts instructor; of which I initially failed but that's a whole other post. Don't worry though, I passed in the end. It was a man's world there but I refuse to let my daily life/world revolve around a gender now. I've had my fair share of d*cks, believe me, but I can only imagine what the many girls out there who aren't educated or bull-headed have experienced. And when sh*t like this happens in the news, and this boy gains widespread attention for killing a group of girls because he has severe psychological/egotistical/hate issues, it disgusts me beyond belief. We can have a world of alpha males AND females, asshole; this is precisely why I'm a huge fan of the Kathryn Bigelows, Amy Poehlers, Chelsea Handlers, Cecile Richards's, Sheryl Sandbergs, Lena Dunhams, Malalas, Gloria Steinems, Naomi Wolfs, and geeze louise I could go on forever.

So, to end this long rambling mess that probably had no formal outline/point/structure, go read up on the #YesAllWomen movement. Join the movement. Or at least think about the movement. Volunteer at a shelter. Talk to someone, start writing, go online, or see a priest if you're a victim. And still go see a priest if you've been violent/psycho in the past.

Friday, May 23, 2014


This post will be short and sweet (incredibly cheesy pun intended)...

I just read on the Facebook that the Nutella 2014 truck tour is underway! I would put ten exclamation points behind the aforementioned sentence if I knew that I wouldn't be judged. Most are aware but if you're not, I myself contribute to probably 4% of the annual Nutella sales, which doesn't sound like much until you google their annual revenue. I could (and do) live off of the heavenly hazelnut goo. It is a major part of my daily diet.

So, naturally, I only want to spread (ah ha there's another pathetic pun) and share the Nutella love to let you all know that their beautiful tour wagon will be in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area October 4th-7th. Whomp, whomp, whomp... I know, that's a long freaking time to wait. Trust me, I feel the pain, too. But, it's already in my planner with all kinds of highlighting and sharpie stars around it, AND... according to the tour tumblr... there will be a "photo experience to capture it all!" ...

Ask me if I'm going to allow any photographer to capture that experience... hell no. I'd never find a suitable lad if there were ever any evidence floating around of me at the Nutella tour and/or the extreme joy and happiness that I experience when Nutella is involved. This is definitely going to be a girlfriends-only event but I am super pumped for it. So, you're all welcome.

Also here is proof of my Nutella customer loyalty. This was taken on Easter. Sadly, that's about a three weeks worth, or less.

Thursday, May 22, 2014

Journey, Donuts, & A Move To NYC...

Before I begin writing nonsense I must say that today I started a new Reba station on the Pandora and I'm currently listening to 'I'm in a Hurry' by Alabama, which is one of my all-time faves, so I think that my happiness level as I begin this post is pretty close to a 12 on a scale of 1-10. So that's good for everyone involved.

Music, I tell ya, it's just one of the greatest things. There are probably 500 songs, roughly, stored in my noggin' with so many memories attached. Not to get all sappy and nostalgic here, but isn't that just one of the f*cking greatest things about music? I think so. I can listen to Backstreet Boys or Spice Girls and think of my golden, no-worry, childhood years. Or I can hear Journey's 'Don't Stop Believing' and instantly go into SMU-Boulevard mode. And if 'Iris' by the Goo Goo Dolls comes on, oh sh*t, you better get ready for me to go into theatre/Brown U regrets mode and jam out 'til my emotional heart is content again. My best friend Staci knows this all too well. And if 'Happy' by Pharrell or 'No Place I'd Rather Be' by Clean Bandit/Jess Glynne comes on, this sister will go into my Park City ski trip lane real quick. Thanks to my other BFF Kelly for those.

The list goes on and on. Anyways, I've been working on my homework assignments for writing class and applying to NYC jobs for the majority of the day. Yep, I'm back out on the market. We should all know by now that New York was never a phase. Three, four, five years later, I still have my eyes on the prize that is Manhattan. The 'rents are finally supportive and the inevitable is here. It's scary but exciting. I've been in Texas for twenty-four years, but the only constant in my life is change so I'm ready for the shake-up. So, fingers crossed, I'll be on the island by 2015. That's my goal at least. We shall see... I'm having a pretty good time in Dallas with some pretty awesome people right now so I'm not rushing anything. Life is good. There are no complaints. And who knows, I could be hit by a DART bus trying to get Glazed donuts at 2AM next week so why should I focus on the future too much if it may never happen... (sorry for the morbid-ness).

I've also been shopping around for the perfect housewarming gifts for one of the most awesome humans ever, Maggie Rieth. She was my very first improv instructor at DCH and I adore her dearly. (God I sound like Rose's mom from Titanic saying the previous line). Like Staci, I, too, enjoy shopping for sh*t like that. As much of a feminist as I proclaim to be, I do have an inner housewife persona that I channel frequently. Kind of like Tara Gregson's alter, Alice, from United States of Tara. I also (this will be the last 'also,' I promise) have been picking out my favorite comedy-esque films of all time to watch/analyze for my own writing class benefit. And the winners are... The Squid and the Whale, my all-time favorite movie EVER; Bridesmaids, duh; Burn After Reading; and Young Adult. So get ready for the next blog post where I attempt to sound like some smart film critic.

And hoorah for the sketch shows tonight at DCH. Radio Artists and the Ewing teams. Go watch 'em if you haven't already. And go google it if you have no idea what I'm talking about.

*pics below are two of my favorite scenes from The Squid and the Whale...

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Toupee Trump, New York, & A Lawsuit...

Last night I was doing my usual Netflix/Amazon Prime routine before bed. Ya know, watch an episode of United States of Tara, then watch another one, and then watch some Weeds; then flip over to some controversial political documentary, and then watch another one on the fail of Enron or Goldman Sachs, and then one on September. 11th or Donald Trump, or the like. It's a vicious cycle. Or addiction, rather. Especially for someone like me that can barely commit to anything longer than an hour, let alone half an evening. It makes me feel proud of myself that I can stay fully enthralled in something for so long. And for half of my life, not just a random summer or something. (I know, I know, here's a faux 'hoorah!' to a white girl problem). But that's the thing with "ADHD." Do I really have it? Is my doctor just a fan of writing prescriptions to talkative 20-somethings so that we'll go the f*ck away? Or am I just bored by everything other than writing, watching/making films, and practicing/listening to music? I'm not sure. I've yet to come to a conclusion on that one. Perhaps because thinking about ADHD and whether I have it or not bores me, and rarely crosses my wee little brain. Ah ha, maybe I do have it. See what's wrong here?

Anyways, I first watched the Netflix doc You've Been Trumped, and you guys, I teared up several times during it. For any of my friends that know how extremely emotional I can get over the most ridiculous things, this is no surprise. But basically toupee Trump called this middle-class, hard-working farmer named Michael Forbes a "pig," and said that he "lived in a slum," and a whole bunch of other BS that clearly demonstrated further how big of a nincompoop Trump is. (I've secretly always wanted to call someone that). Forbes is a precious old man that just wanted to stay on his beautiful Scottish land rather than let some American capitalism monster come in and destroy it. I was so pissed. But I am the prime target audience for a contentious documentary, so, yeah, the producers did a job well done there because I tweeted about it, reviewed it, and am now blogging about it. 

I also watched a doc called 16 Acres about all of the hoopla regarding Ground Zero a few months/years post-9/11 and all of the architects, developers, and greediness involved in deciding what was to be built on the sacred grounds. It was pretty fascinating, I must say. But it reminded me of this one time I was in New York (get ready for a story here), and it was February of 2011, I believe. I was interning at MBFW for Lela Rose, one of my all-time favorite designers, and I had one afternoon off so I decided to walk all over Manhattan. (Literally, too. I clocked in 13 miles that day on a walking map app). And I finally found myself down by Ground Zero, just strollin' and having a good time, when all of a sudden I started bawling for no reason. In a flash I was overcome with tears streaming from every orifice that my face was blessed with, so naturally I called up one of my sorority sisters at the time; she thought I had been molested or robbed; I had that messy, dramatic, making-no-sense cry talk going on. I was also in some alley ridden with Wall St. bankers so that was even more mortifying. There went my chance at snagging my future banking husband that would never be home and probably cause me to continue therapy well into my seventies. So maybe that was a blessing. But, I finally explained to her just how the air/ambience next to Ground Zero was so full of incredible emotion and intensity. It was overwhelming. I'll never forget it. I also won't forget what happened next... 

Five minutes later, after I had brought myself down to a lady-like Elle Woods sob, my mom is calling me on the other end. Now, here's the fun part, she didn't know that I was in New York. I tended to do that in college. I would just up and go to wherever I wanted and dealt with the consequences (whatever they may be) later. I thought of myself as a free spirit then; and a total dumbass now, in retrospect. So I flip over and she quickly informs me that my uncle (who is my lawyer) needs me to be at his offices in an hour. (I was dealing with some petty dispute at the time that I clearly gave no thought to). In Dallas. Haha, well, that sure as sh*t was going to happen. I had to confess to my 'ole sweet momma that I was indeed in Manhattan, and unless there was a jet or something waiting at the South Street Seaport I wasn't able to make it 'til next week. 

Needless to say, she didn't get mad because she had a hunch (like she always does) that I was in the city; she could also tell that I had been crying. Of which boy howdy did I use that as my scape goat. I quickly changed the subject to Ground Zero so that I could escape any come-to-Jesus meetings that suddenly were planned. 

I'm not sure what my point is here. I'm no therapist or esteemed human so I don't know why I feel like every post should have this grand, thought-provoking idea to it. I just really love documentaries and New York and surprising my mother constantly and crying. There, that's the theme of this one. And I truly advocate that all of you go and expose yourselves to the world of documentaries on Netflix and Amazon Prime. If you don't have these beautiful subscriptions you can borrow mine. Email me for the deets. I'm all about spreading the film love. 

The end. (for now).

Friday, May 16, 2014

Bradburyisms & A Monologue...

I religiously follow/read a blog-esque website called Brain Pickings that has engaging links with a little more quirk and fascination. (I sounded kinda academic with that line, no?). And today there was a post called 'Ray Bradbury on How List-Making Can Boost Your Creativity' that instantly hit home with me, and was just so captivating and engrossing and [insert any other dramatic gripping adjective].

To be fair, it's not like I haven't heard some of the stuff mentioned before. Constant list-making and writing down thoughts was drilled into my head from day one of DCH writing class. And I'm sure countless other teachers from my past have mentioned the things that are in Maria Popova's article. And I make lists all the time. I'm one of those that writes down everything because if I don't then whatever is happening at the time or needing to be noted or done will be forgotten. Seriously. I would forget my own birthday (which, by the way, is tomorrow, b*tches!) if I didn't write it down on my wall calendar. Fun fact: I'm also super OCD with my lists. For example, I could be listing my June bills to pay, and 'June bills' would be underlined, or written in all caps and with a sharpie, and the bills below it would have bullet points or be different colors.

Anyway, as a scatterbrained person with amateur writing skills and frustration in expressing my creativity at times, 'ole Ray's fruitful advice of "making long lists of nouns as triggers for ideas and potential titles for stories" (citation ?) gave me hope for my sketch writing class assignment that I'm currently working on. I have to write a one-page monologue from the perspective of someone that I know or come in contact with frequently. Don't worry, though, friends (or secret foes), I'm certain that the character I'm using is totally off any of yall's grid. But I'm in the lovely process of editing it and am finding myself re-writing it completely, and then re-writing that version completely, and then throwing my notebook on the ground dramatically like a 4-year-old, because I can't find the right words to use and feel like the whole things is a disaster. And I can hear our writing teach Amanda right now snapping, "don't apologize!" in terms of being unconfident with your writings.

At this point I'm not sure where this post was going. Basically the article is just really good and you all need to go read it because it relates to every aspect of life, really. It's inspiring and uplifting and who doesn't need more of that in their lives ya know. I've got a hundred things going on in my brain right now so I'm gonna get back to list-making in hopes of being productive this afternoon. I'm also heading back to the DCH soon for some shows so I need to get off this here therapy sesh site. Franzia and Roadside Couch are two of my faves performing later, btw, so if you happen to read this hot mess of a blog post before 9PM, and you're near Deep Ellum (or not) go buy tickets and support 'em with me later. And even though I've been at DCH more than my own home this week, tomorrow's my birthday, so I'm gonna do what makes me happy, because I've earned it by being on this earth for 24 years. 

PS- here's a buckets-of-fun photo for you all to enjoy of last night's @dallascomedy fun, because where else would I be... 

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Two Cops & No McDonalds...

The universe was extra rude to me tonight, you guys... I left the DCH around 11:30PM after a long but fun night of writing and post-class improv jamming, and was headed back to my current (but DEFINITELY temporary) residence in lovely East Texas. (Sarcastic font greatly needed for the word 'lovely' here. We need to stop joking about this font idea and start creating this sarcasm necessity). Anyways, I hadn't eaten all day and the only thing I had touched this morning before the busy day began was some cold leftover rice-a-roni noodle things, and about six steamed broccoli/cauliflower florets covered in Tony Chachere's seasoning from a steam-in-the-bag. And yes, I totally just linked the Tony C website because everyone deserves to have this gem of a seasoning in their life if they don't already.

So midway home I exited off towards this gas station I always stop at that has a drive-thru McDonalds attached to it. All I wanted were some damn chicken nuggets and french fries. That's it. A 10-piece would be stretching it, and cheating, I know, but I needed some brain food so that I could safely drive home, yes? Yes. Well... the first thing that the underpaid teenage girl mumbles from the cracked speaker when I pulled up was, "Welcome to McDonalds, before I take your order I must let you know that we can only take cash tonight. Sorry for any inconvenience. What would you like?" Umm... well honestly I'd like an ATM machine to pop out of nowhere because I never have cash on me. Never. Everyone knows this. It's a huuuge occasion for me to have cash money in my possession, which is also why I'm always getting slapped with parking tickets downtown. Go figure. And so I sadly lowered my voice, dropped my head, and responded with the most depressing, "Aw, geeze, well, I only have a card, so no thank you I guess..." in some psychotic hope that a McD wizard would magically come across the speaker with, "It's okay, Mallory, what do you want? It's on the house tonight!"

The magic wizard didn't happen, so ten minutes later I'm zipping down 30-East towards Texarkana/bullshit nowhere, on a mission to pull over in my second McDonalds attempt of the evening. I had just went over the double Lake Ray Hubbard bridges in Rockwall, which might I add, the full-moon-shining-over-the-lake scene tonight was pretty spectacular, when low and behold, a few miles from Greenville/Royse City-ish those dreaded and ultra-dramatic red and blue lights came flaring up out of nowhere in my rearview mirror. Naturally I start cussing aloud with, "Really? What in the f*ck did I do wrong? Jesus Christ come onnnnnn!" in Annie Walker from Bridesmaids tone; I'm just trying to get to my chicken McNuggets! I'm also trying to figure out what in the heck the problem was considering that tonight, in some rare occasion (a true blessing from the big man upstairs, I believe), I was driving at the speed limit, had all the necessary tags, lights on, you-name-it, and had done nothing illegal nor was doing anything illegal. For once I was completely innocent and greatly confused.

I pulled over at grandma speed, flipped my flashers on like a responsible driver, and grabbed my insurance paper and DL that has the most God-awful picture of me ever. (And don't mumble, "everybody's license pic is bad!" as you read this because no, my gender is almost not immediately recognizable due to a slicked back ponytail I decided to sport at 16 when I had it processed). Anyways, the DPS trooper was a handsome fella, I must say, and was a complete gentleman. I have the "get pulled over and get out of it" act down to a tee but my tears and/or an awkward, "But I just started my period and..." story weren't even needed on this one because the guy was so forgiving of my poor envoy having one tiny license plate light out. I didn't even know there were lights on those damn things but whatever. He said a professional goodnight as I said my love-at-first-sight goodnight back to him; I was on the road again, determined to get to my french fries and faux chicken in the only next "major" town that I knew had a McD.

Well, just as I'm a few teeny tiny miles from Commerce, where my 4-piece kids nugget meal with a serving size of fries designed for an ant would be waiting on me (I've downsized meal portion rapidly throughout the night because two previous attempts were voided, out of my control, so I assumed the asshole paleo spirits were trying to toil with me and I was willing to compromise at this point) when of course those dreaded and ultra-dramatic red and blue lights came flaring up out of nowhere in my rearview mirror. Not kidding. Was this a joke? Can a girl not just drive home peacefully and have some McDonalds along the way without any harassment? I was listening to contemporary worship songs from church camp decades ago at this point. Seriously. Shocker, I know.

But I did the drill, showed the prick of a wannabe-cop my paper warning from the handsome devil that stopped me fifteen minutes earlier, and answered several unnecessary questions (which he said in such an antagonizing and condescending tone) from him like, "So where do you live at exactly? Is that where you're actually heading? Did you grow up there?" ... Still didn't get a ticket, though, luckily. And surprisingly. Because this one was a real piece of work. And he needed to wax his unibrow. Better yet, he needed to wax his entire mouth off because he picked the wrong girl to not only A) interrogate irrationally without my uncle Carl or jovial Jon present but B) abruptly ruin any last attempts of at scoring nuggets for herself for the day, because I was done. I just wanted to be home at this point so that I could obviously vehemently type this blog post to vent my frustrations. I also just devoured half of the leftovers in the fridge so any food gods that were playing games with me tonight can go suck it. And you all best believe that I'll be getting that freaking light fixed ASAP tomorrow because never do I ever want to be pulled over twice again in one night, ESPECIALLY if I'm hungry for McDonalds.

I sounded ratchet this entire post, so I semi-apologize, but the pictures below were chosen to best describe my current state/feelings/outlook on the world... Enjoy.

Sunday, May 11, 2014

The Emmy-Award Winning Life Alert Commercials...

Life Alert commercials. I tweeted about this yesterday because I frequently ponder about those who honestly feel sadness or sorrow when watching one. Why is nobody concerned about the well-being of those involved in the production? As a somewhat-normal consumer/viewer/former advertising major for one semester, I truly believe that there should be a Life Alert category added to the Razzie Awards. Seriously. Any rational person would admit that when one comes on TV they forget all about the Life Alert device for sale, and become more curious as to why the [cue Don LaFontaine voiceover voice for dramatic effect here], “old grandma that will tragically die alone from a sprained ankle in two seconds if not discovered…” on the ground is actually wailing like a mother cat in heat to a non-existent roommate…  

Who is the agent that booked these poor actors for this job? How does one even audition for that? Does the CD ask them to do their best dying-on-the-bathroom-floor voice at the audition? And more importantly, what ad agency is behind the creation of these commercial gems? Because I either want to be best friends with the creatives for their incredible sense of humor or I want to anonymously pay for their much needed MRI head scans. I know I can’t be the only human out there that considers this… 

And sometimes I envision this group of extremely uncool, unpopular, 40-something Asians brainstorming Life Alert commercial concepts from a Beijing business room; genuinely believing that their ideas are brilliant. Can you not see some sweet, innocent Asian woman (who publicly wears cat sweaters and is obsessed with anime) bumping into an office chair, and dramatically falling across a conference table to demonstrate an elderly American woman, while sounding insanely fake/unbelievable as she exclaims in her thick Chinese accent, “Oh noooooo! Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up! Where is my Life Alert when I need it? Golly gee!”

No? Well, maybe I’m just the asshole here and am too entertained by these outstanding infomercials. But not in a good way, if I haven’t made that clear enough here. And sadly, at the end of the day, the genius marketers responsible for this promotional disaster did their jobs because I don’t think I’ll ever forget a Life Alert commercial. 

Friday, May 9, 2014

Bikini Car Wash Auditions...

PSA- I haven't fully slept in about three days so I'm hoping that this post will make some sort of sense.  Again, I apologize in advance.

So I spent the entire day with my younger sister doing errands and whatnot in the tiny, boring town of Sulphur Springs, Texas.  I turn twenty-four in exactly one week so ya know what my birthday present was this year from my parents?  A new set of tires for the Envoy.  Yep.  And while I am beyond grateful and appreciative I sadly now know that I've reached an adult age where the presents are only going to get more serious from here on.  No more booze or bounce houses!  And in addition to getting the new tires, my sister had to get an oil change/inspection/something rather on her car, which led us to my favorite king of capitalism... WALMART!  *cue the dracula music*

(As Lily Allen would sing, "if you can't detect the sarcasm you've misunderstood.")

I try to be a lover, and not a hater, but dear sweet baby Jesus I despise Walmart with every fiber of my being.  I would rather gnaw my pinky toe off than be trapped in a Walmart shit hole for longer than ten minutes.  Just typing about it gives me anxiety, you guys...

Anywho, as my sister and I pull in the back of the ratchet auto center to park her car before we head to lunch, we're approached by two employees that were smiling a little intensely and appeared to be on a mission.  Now... ever since we were born my sister has been the introverted, no-B.S., number-crunching, confident sister that has never given a damn about what anyone else thinks.  And I only wish that I could have more of her b*tch factor in this sense.  I on the other hand have always been the car salesman/people person of the family, and I'll talk to anything with a heartbeat.  So, naturally, I smile/greet 'em back while Sylvia** (names have been changed to protect the innocent; Sylvia was the suggestion by my mother) is glued to her iPhone, not thinking twice about ignoring them.  (Stephanie Tanner saying "how rude!" probably popped into your mind after picturing that.)  But nope.  Sylvia was the smarter shrew on this one, because do you know what these two psychopaths asked us to do?

ON LAKE FORK TOMORROW.   And they were dead serious.  I am not even joking, guys.

...I'm sorry but as for me, they asked the WORST girl in the world to do that, as we all know I'm a women's rights prude.  Also, not that I'm body-shaming myself but I am no shape to tan nude on my private patio, let alone GET NAKED IN FRONT OF HORNY ZOO ANIMALS.

Now to be fair, the girl was missing one of her front teeth, and quite frankly she was just a younger version of Mama June from Honey Boo Boo.  And the man, well, go google "Texas trailer park trash" and you'll get an idea.  Therefore, I couldn't be offended in that sense and think that they were making fun of me or something on a candid camera.

But, being the charming asshole that I tend to be I just smiled, acted extremely interested, and even "saved" the girl's phone number in my iPhone after Sylvia still wasn't looking up to acknowledge these delusional buffoons.  Typical.  

An awkward minute or so passes as they continue to bribe us to come, and at this point, Sylvia and I are about to have muscle spasms in our face from holding in the laughter.  I know that my face was red, and my emotions are always portrayed through my facials, but they still weren't picking up on the thanks-but-no-thanks vibes.  And at this point Sylvia was just reveling in watching me B.S. RSVP to these weirdos so that we could get the heck up out of there.  I mean really, I don't go to Walmart for anything, but I REALLY don't go to Walmart to get harassed.  And as soon as we escaped a few moments later, I went into offended activist mode, texting my mom an over exaggerated novel of our experience; all while Sylvia had already forgotten about what had just happened and was too busy downloading crap from iTunes to even be phased.  Again, typical.

Needless to say, I only wish that each and every one of you reading this half-assed post could've been there to witness the awkward conversation in person, because it was so. dang. funny.  And absolutely prevented any future Walmart visits from ever happening again.  Ever.  

Thursday, May 8, 2014


Last night was my first writing class at DCH.  Yep, you read that right.  Yours truly is taking an intro to sketch writing class. Maybe this momma will learn how to write with some grace or proper etiquette. Maybe there's hope for us after all. Anyway, there were a lot of this girl's brain cells being exercised, and in a very creative and emotional manner, (I'm saying this to justify my later actions), so when Amanda (her name is linked to her Twitter so that you all can enjoy her funny-ness via 140-character lines), our kickass instructor*, turned to everyone at one point and said, "Hey, our final showcase performance will be on Thursday, June 26, at 7:00PM... does that work for everybody? Yeah? Ok, great.," I just nodded my head like a robot with no thought process happening/no recollection of prior, pricy June plans I had made...

A few hours later I get home from DCH and I'm going through hundreds of emails that I haven't even paid attention to from the past few weeks.  At around 2AM, I suddenly realized that I had a flight booked for Thursday, June 26th, at 3:15PM, out of the madness that is DFW airport.  (My brain has an excellent spam filter when it comes to my Gmail accounts, but clearly I need to work on filtering the important ones, like, oh, maybe effing Delta flight reminders).  

So, in natural Mallory fashion, my lips pursed together like Miranda Priestley's in The Devil Wears Prada.  I felt nauseous and had to grab my Tums.  I glared at my screen with the same look that the dumbass crow's nest boy had after spotting the iceberg for the first time in Titanic.  This was no bueno.  Obviously as a diehard DCH groupie, I was not going to miss an event!  Especially one that I'm supposed to be in!  The thought of that is just absurd!  Pure blasphemy!  But so is the idea of canceling a non-refundable flight with Delta...  -__-  

You see, about a month ago, after a night of Tito's at the DCH, I had this brilliant idea of just up and going to the annual Del Close Marathon in NYC.  It's held at the UCB, which is where my idol Amy Poehler holds some stomping grounds, and it's supposedly one, long, hot, amazing weekend chockfull of super great improv shows.  Heaven on earth?  Sounds like it.  I mean, why the heck not, right?  So I booked a flight that night, called up Diana, one of my best friends from the city, confirmed couch arrangements, and said YOLO.  (Yep, I went there with that one.  I'm already ashamed).

Clearly, I just have bad luck with timing.  Always have, always will.  Nowadays I just try to embrace the fact that my name truly means 'bad luck' in some cultures.  So, I spent all of this morning trying to negotiate a deal with Jen, a young, sweet-sounding-but-policy-knowing Delta agent with just the kind of annoying customer service skills that an airline agent must have to survive in the jungle that is the aviation industry.  She had a thick accent and was trying to B.S. me from the get-go.  I've worked in all kinds of customer service positions so I never get irate with anyone working with the public because I get it.  Us former/current customer service slaves have to band together.  But, you can't bullsh*t the queen bullsh*tter, sister. I was not going to pay any cancellation fees because technically a few weeks ago Delta had changed my returning flight time, so I was legally free from having to give my arm or leg had any subsequent changes been required as a result of Delta's unreliable service.

Two hours and two "supervisor consultations" later, Jen gave up.  She felt the defeat.  And she soon realized that I may have lost the first battle... BUT I WON THE WAR.  I got my flight canceled with no problemo.  Ha, I say that.  I was on my iPhone for two effing hours.  There was clearly a problem at some point.  But nevertheless, I got what I wanted.  And I was able to put my theatre skills to use by pretending to be a night nurse whose boss needed her back for night shift that Monday (my return flight that Delta delayed arrival times on), no questions asked.  That was fun/interesting, keeping up with the details that I had made up and B.S.'d to her an hour ago.  Side note: if you ever get Jen with Delta, just know that the homegirl doesn't forget details so be prepared.  With a script.

In conclusion, did I learn a lesson from this?  Nah, not really.  Yeah, I'm going to miss the Del Close Marathon, miss seeing Diana, and miss visiting my most favorite city in the entire world.  It sucks but sh*t happens.  Will I ever use/call Delta airlines again?  Heck no.  But I can't really complain in this situation.  It's not like my alternative was being shipped to Guantanamo Bay.  I'm going to get to spend all weekend at DCH, where they can't get rid of me!  AND, I get to go to my writing showcase.  *cue ice cold beer glasses full of shiner cheers-ing*

The most appropriate photo to illustrate how I felt this morning/feel in general in regards to speaking with Delta Airlines agents is of Laura Dern from Enlightened, one of my most favorite shows of all time.  She is my spirit animal.  For sure.

*denotes that ye all reading this shall visit DCH and watch Amanda perform.  She's in several troupes so you'll have to do your own DCH site research, but she's hilarious and legendary and I tell her this drunkenly all the time, so you guys can be the next ones to do so.  FYI, Local Honey & Manick are two of my all-time DCH faves.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

A Sincere Congratulations...

I'm determined to make this post one for the record books.  I'm sarcastic in most all things that I say, and I'll try to include some humor with this one, but, I'm also trying to make a point here, so strap your balls tits on and let's get going...

Last night I found out that one of my best friends from my past is engaged.  As in marriage.  As in forever.  As in a wedding dress and rings and champagne and all that jazz.  (I mean, technically, it's 2014, so I hate to say 'forever' because you just never know anymore).  Anyway, this girl used to be my main PIC.  She was thirteen years older than me, so she was more like an older sibling/mentor, really, but we had dinner/drinks/went shopping a hundred times a week, and she never judged me when I'd show up at her place the next morning for brunch after being out with my idiot ex the previous night.  To make a long story short, I was young, did/said some young, dumb things; she was older; going through a 30-something phase; God put the both of us in each other's lives briefly for a reason; things ended on a dramatic note; a lot of lessons were learned; we've not been friends for a while.    

Now, I currently have some kickass best friends in my life.  They may be scattered all over the US of A but I would throw myself in front of a bus for any one of them.  No questions asked.  They're my lifesavers, if you will, and I am beyond blessed for everyone presently in my life.  But... my point here in regards to this engagement thing is that had this have happened three or four years ago, when I was still young and dumb and had resentment (young and dumb is the theme of this post/my life, can't you tell?), I would've Facetimed my besties in two seconds to b*tch about it for hours.  I would've driven ninety miles an hour down US-75 to the Loon to throw back some shots because I would've been upset/jealous.  Ya know what, though, that wasn't the case last night, because I've grown the f*ck up (mostly) and I realize that being a mean/envious/dramatic girl isn't worth it.  Responding negatively to something that is actually a beautiful thing, even if it's by/for your biggest enemy, isn't good for anyone.  The overly-used saying, "anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it's stored than to anything on which it is poured," is not a quote.  It is a fact.  (Snaps to Mark Twain for that one.)

My best friends then are my best friends now.  Our relationships have changed; not only for the better, but I myself have learned so much from them in terms of how to be a better friend and better human.  And as women, we have to be advocates for one another, no matter what.  (The boldness is supposed to emphasize, FYI). I know, people are sick of hearing that feministic line, but get over it.  Man bros never leave a man bro behind, do they?  Nope.  Nothing can break a boys club.  If you don't believe this then I'll take you by the Dallas Country Club one afternoon or you can join my family on any holiday (it's basically a Mad Men scene rehearsal).  To summarize this rant: I am a girl's girl and I don't have time anymore for those who aren't.  However, these days, instead of going into Blair Waldorf mode when meeting strait-laced meanies I instead buy them alcohol, suggest they visit, or just move on and talk to nicer people.  (A lot of them do exist in the world!) 

Nevertheless, getting back on topic to three paragraphs or so before... as soon as I found out that she was gonna be tying the knot, I instantly had this rapid heartbeat of excitement for her because I knew then and know now that that's all she ever wanted, to find her true love.  I mean, isn't that what we all want anyway?  (It is.  Don't deny it).  And to be honest, I cried for about twenty minutes to my dog because I was so upset that I wasn't there to share the initial happiness with her.  And I won't be there to make fun of her at dress rehearsals or eat more than everyone else at cake testings.  And the fact that I'm going to miss all of these exciting things in her life greatly upsets me.  I've gotten over what happened in the past, and I no longer have resentment because I've learned so much within the past few years in terms of relationships, how to ruin them, how to strengthen them, and how to know which ones are a blessing or a poison.  

I'm at a point in my life where I know that it's not worth bickering at a best friend over missing an event or being unable to go on this weekend getaway or that.  We all have our own lives, and yeah, back in college, we coordinated our schedules to where we basically drank/slept/went to class/had hangovers/you-name-it at the same hour; but nowadays, we're "grown-ups."  We have "adult" things going on and it's hard enough being a 20-something female navigating the workforce and this world, let alone being one with no supportive girlfriends.

So, I make it my mission these days to support each and every female that I come across.  I don't care whether they are twenty-one, fifty-two, single, married, homeless, lesbian, whatever.  I know what it feels like to be the mean girl, have the mean girl be mean to me, have friends, not have friends, have everybody, have nobody.  I get it.  And I would never in my wildest dreams want another female (or male) to feel the pain that I've regrettably allowed myself to feel in the past, whether it be from a friendship, bad relationship, sh*tty job, running out of Nutella, whatever.  

In conclusion, I say now, to my fellow Americans, young or old, support your friends.  Support everybody.  Appreciate them.  Enjoy having them in your presence.  If they're just super shitty humans, definitely let them go and move on.  That's a given.  But if they're mostly good, just see the good in them.  Don't nitpick or do things to wreck the friendship.  It's not worth it; especially if you're in your early twenties and you just have a lot of millennial hatred towards the world.  Because one day they might get engaged and you might miss all of the cake samplings.  Instead, lay off the liquor, drink some cabernet sauvignon (my personal preference), and do not take for granted any second that you are given with your current crew.  And if you're a female, especially a Cady-Heron-post-Regina-George-but-prior-to-Ms-Norbury, then just stop being mean and go love your fellow b*tches.  Trust me.  You never know when one's gonna leave or die.  Or get married.  

Ha, that's so scary telling people to trust me.  Anywho, I have my first intro to sketch writing class tonight at DCH.  I'm in a fabulous mood just thinking about that.  We'll end this super-long, torturous note with a picture of my beloved angel child dog, Phoebe, who wants to tell everyone, "peace, b*tches."   

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

PSA To Those With Siblings: Wine...

Alright, I've received a lot of feedback within the past twenty-four hours on my first blog post.  And I must say, you guys rock.  I am so thankful for the awesome people in my life that continue to motivate me daily.  You know who you are and this is how I know I'm doing something right.  It may be the only thing that I'm doing right, but it's something.  And I want to say THANK YOU, and beers for everyone that comes to DCH for my birthday on May 17th.

Anyways, enough of that sappy stuff.  I've had some wine, I'll admit.  It takes like ten Tito's vodka sodas for me to get truly deep and emotional, though, and I've been attempting this Paleo thing as you should know, so you're all good for now.  It's only 5PM, I know (I strive daily to be more like an Italian).  But my younger sister moved back home from college for the summer to my parents' today, and I helped them move this afternoon, so, my vino is well earned, okay?

That's right.  The younger, skinnier, blonder, emotionally-tougher version of me is home for the summer after her first year away.  She and I are five years apart so we've always had an awkward relationship.  It's okay, I've made up for it with wine, my animals, and Nutella.  I'm an old soul; the political, opinionated, nerdy, book-hoarding, pokemon-collecting, world-traveling sibling; she's the small-town, rodeo-attending, shoe-collecting, cowboy-loving, hair-teasing sibling.  I say that with love, honestly, but we are truly polar opposites.

Now, the rare times that I moved home from SMU (once you go Dallas, you never go back) the back of my Envoy was packed with political theory/film books I couldn't part with, Container Store organization bins, my red/blue beta fish George W, buckets of class notes, polos and Nike shorts, and my favorite indie DVD's.  My sister, on the other hand, had THREE BOXES OF BRAS AND UNDERWEAR.  I'm sorry, but are you going to college to prostitute or study?  Where are your books?  Did you even buy them?  Are we even from the same family?  Let's go get a DNA test.  Jesus.

Also, there was one point in the day where I was driving, sister's in the passenger seat, mom's in the back, and I'm trying to blare the radio (JoDee Messina was on, I'm all about the 80's/90's country, all the time) while they talked about one of her (many) past relationships; I'm thinking to myself, dear God, how did I end up in this situation?  Why aren't we talking about the Lewinsky anniversary?  Why am I not making them do improv exercises to open up and learn to listen better?  I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR ABOUT MY SISTER'S SEXSCAPADES.  Yes, that's a word that is used in 2014 and I'm going with it.

Needless to say, it was an interesting day.  I stopped bitching after fifteen minutes because like me, my sister doesn't listen to negativity for longer than, well, fifteen minutes or so.  And she also shares my sense of humor, which is all that really matters, right?  Sylvia** (names have been changed to protect the innocent; Sylvia was the suggestion by my mother) may be more interested in boys, marriage, and makeup products than I ever will be but, at the end of the day, we're strong-headed b*tches and will tell each other to stop when it's time.  My mom was also there acting as mediator (as per usual) so no Mean Girls-esque cat fights broke out.  So that was good.  I remember those days when you're young, emotional and dumb, (oh wait that's me still at 24), so I wasn't too hard on the girl.  I do thank God I'm not nineteen anymore, though.  

In conclusion, I'm gonna abruptly end/wrap this post up with this... a picture of my sister and I when we first knew it was going to be a long lifetime.  Also, if it's been a long day, or you have a college-aged sibling, have some wine.  Wine helps with everything.*

*denotes that wine does not help when it comes to ex-lovers.

Monday, May 5, 2014

You Can All Thank My Therapist...

A wise friend of mine that I greatly respect recently suggested that I get back to blogging/writing.  Back in the good 'ole days of college, I blogged daily; it was therapeutic and my way of escaping sorority drama.  I was also frequently called into sorority standards for something I had mentioned in a post that was either deemed "controversial" or that had just pissed off some shy, fun-sucking sorority sister that never had the balls to say anything.  I was a pre-law, political science major, wannabe-feminist that had just escaped a small East Texas town; of course I had things to rant about.

Needless to say, expressing words online has always been and continues to be an outlet for me that I am going to re-commit to.  I was a little more sane and focused back in college so I think that this will be a good thing, even if my jack russell terrier/child, Phoebe, is the only one that reads it.  It's time that I meet up with my old carpal tunnel club buddies again anyway.  After all, I am a millennial, so I have to post my thoughts publicly on the world wide web for them to be valid, you guys.

I mentioned above the "good 'ole days of college" as if it were thirty years ago or something.  I graduated in 2012.  And I don't think I've wrote (or is it written? Jesus, I need to go back to college, evidently) a damn thing online or on paper since 2012.  Perhaps that's why it's mid-2014 and I can say with one-hundred percent certainty that I've reached that quarter-life crisis phase.  Yeah, yeah, it sounds like a typical "white girl problem."  I get it.  I'm not asking for a pity party here.  That's not my style.  I thank God daily for my bed, Nutella (even though I'm currently trying round two of the Paleo diet), kickass family, Netflix/Amazon accounts, the air in my lungs, and so forth.  However, the past two years have been the most overwhelming and emotional years of my life; I feel around fifty-four years old, both physically and mentally.  Whether that's good or bad, I don't know.  I'm not going to spend a lot of time analyzing it.  I can add some positivity to this post, though, when I mention the one constant in my life right now that is the Dallas Comedy House...

My best friends live in Houston/Austin, TX, Greenville, SC, and New York City, and as hard as it has been for all of us (mostly me because my friends have it together for the most part), I think that after the past five months of me talking non-stop about DCH (that's short for Dallas Comedy House, it's gonna be mentioned a lot so get acquainted with the acronym now) they're probably glad that we live miles away; otherwise they know I'd be dragging 'em to classes or a show every night of the week if they were back in Dallas.

Anyway, I started improv classes with DCH this past January as a random thing, not thinking much would come from it.  All I was doing was working 20852 hours a week and needed some sort of outlet/social life.  I did film work and fell in love with theatre back at SMU, amidst all of the ridiculous frat parties, Bush-stalking, fashion week interning, etc., so I figured I'd give DCH a whirl to see if I could find some new friends that would appreciate my dark and cynical humor again. (**Note the previous sentence: I am very cynical/sarcastic and my writing will reflect that. If you have a sense of humor, you'll appreciate this/please continue reading; if you're an uptight human, you've been warned/can voluntarily leave at any time.**)

Now I could go on for hours about how great DCH has been, how my improv buddies are my family now, how it was the best decision of my life, blah blah blah, but I won't do that to you guys.  I'll just instead post some pictures of the new (and funny) humans in my life that I now thank God daily for.  I'm also more comfortable around them than my own family.  That's not a joke.  To be fair, though, the majority of my relatives are GOP-ers so that really doesn't say much.  But, if I were held at gunpoint and told to strip down in front of my improv troupe, that'd be no problemo for me.  If you do improv, then you'll get me when I say that.  If not, I'm sorry for making this post creepy.  

Don't get me wrong, I'm still trying to figure out what in the world I'm going to do with my life.  I really just like to play with puppies and kittens and tweet from my iPhone while instagramming from my iPad and googling from my Macbook, all while sitting in yoga pants next to a pitcher of espresso or champagne (depending on the time of day), just like every other 24-year-old in America. However, I laugh more now in one week than I ever did in 2013, and the first thing that comes out of my mouth when I'm networking/at events/shopping/meeting new humans anywhere, really, is, "have you ever been to the Dallas Comedy House?" because that's how much I love the place.  DCH keeps me fully committed to something each day/week, which is a huge accomplishment considering the past two years of life if you know me, and I am beyond grateful that I drunkenly googled "funny people clubs in Dallas" last Thanksgiving.

In conclusion, my semi-diagnosed ADD is coming on and I'm going to leave you all with this: take an improv class.  Or three levels worth, like me.  It's worth every dime.  Just like therapy.

PS- I try to be filtered, somewhat, but I do apologize in advance for any "unprofessional cursing."