Thursday, April 5, 2018
I now have thought-fodder of a different sort to delight your days. No longer will I write of short, angry Italians or eerie Hollywood writers in flashy sports cars. Because now my fun and comic relief comes from a short, happy, part-Italian kid and an ex pro soccer player/recruiter in a silver Nissan.
And, reviews. I have reviews.
So, here goes...right out of the starting gate, my review of something very near and dear to my hot bath-loving heart: Eminence Organic Apricot Body Oil
It's meant to be a daily body-lotion-like body oil, but just, no. After a week of trying to use it as is was intended (Damn you, Goop article) my scaly skin resembled that of the creature-dude from The Shape of Water only slightly less sexy and dramatic.
But then this happened---> Totally out of Egyptian clay for my nightly soak, I next-best-thinged it, with the ill-purchased body oil.
Cue the angel voices.
It smelled ah-mazing while steeping in hot tub water, and transformed Creature-from-the-Black-Lagoon into born-after-1995-and-lunches-on-Robertson. Also, it's a clean product with no gunky junk in it- check plus. A small Alice-in-Wonderland-Drink-Me sized bottle is a whopping $29 but, as it is oil and not body lotion (ahem) it lasts a good long time- check plus plus. Color me hook, line and sinkered on this product.
Now, go forth! Pour, soak and conquer. But...
Legal-ish stuff: I do not have any affiliations or partnerships with any products (yet!) and I am not paid to write about anyone or any thing (sad clown face). All reviews are just my opinions. Also, I am not a doctor nor am I recommending any product. I''m just a girl in the world, sharing her favs and not-so-favs.
So, if you try a product and it causes you to break out in nickel-sized lesions that mutate into some oozy version of the Ebola virus don't come crying to me in emojis and all caps.
Love and Rockets,
Girl About Town
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Wait, oh my gosh, that came out all wrong.
My dead grandmother WAS living in my bathroom.
There, much better.
And, since I already sound like a loon...
I might as well admit that once I had her, I didn't want to let her go. So, I locked her in. Yes, yes, I know that's insane. Everyone knows ghosts can float through walls. But, still.
I hadn't seen her in years so I planned to keep her.
Shockingly, there is an awkward side to housing one's deceased grandmother. For one, guests can't use the bathroom. You know...in case they release Nana.
That wasn't always popular.
For two, I started to fear Nana had come for a reason. Why had she chosen to visit ME (aka, chicken liver), given my well-documented disdain for (incredible fear of) all things supernatural (including but not limited to: poltergeists, apparitions, electronic voice phenomenon, the movie Rosemary's Baby, Ouija boards, unexplained noises, people talking about unexplained noises, haunted houses, the Haunted House ride at Disney World, channeling, possession, Jason, Michael, Carrie and Casper.) Why not haunt my sister?! She's brave (clearly touched) and strong (undeniably coo coo) and watches things like The Shining all alone with all the lights off (animal. crackers.)! And, why now? After all these years??!
Maybe she just came by to check on me. Yes, that must be it.
Or mayyyyybeeee...she was trying to tell me something (gulp.)! Like..."Be a good daughter and move back to PA!" or "Stop using jarred spaghetti sauce!" I considered asking her but I was terrified she'd answer.
Nana never revealed the reason for her visit and moved on a month later, just when I was getting really used to having her. I reckon she hi-tailed it back to the great beyond upon realizing my roommate (and her over-cologned, under-achieving boyfriend) was bat crap bonkers.
Can't say I blame her; I barely made it out alive.
Today, I am happy to report that Nana still passes through my new residence from time to time, weaving her scent and reminding me of how wonderful she was.
But, Nana, in case you are reading this blog over my shoulder (and, I sincerely hope you are not.)...
I adore you. But, I do not...let me be clear, DO NOT wish to actually see you. Or, hear you. Also, kindly refrain from levitating objects or flashing lights. I'd really hate to have to move again (I kinda like THIS roommate). ;)
I am, however, happy to smell your sweet Nana scent, anytime.
And, if you come across my Nana McKechan on your travels, please bring her to the states for a visit. I'd love to have her, too! As long as she abides by the above-mentioned rules.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
- I choose wine by the cuteness of the label and by how well it matches my kitchen. Boom.
- You can miss a dog as much as you miss a human.
- It takes exactly half an episode of Long Island Medium to become addicted. And, six and a half seconds to become a crying loser.
- America really does have talent.
- The actor's lifestyle is not for the lily-livered.
- LA is very small world. (and yet, I never seem to run into McDreamy...)
- "Loving What Is" (Byron Katie) is just the Serenity Prayer, expanded.
- The Cirque Du Soliel people are VERY bendy.
- You CAN learn to like something you've hated your whole life. Even when it's yogurt.
- Michale Cerra and Jessie Eisenberg are actually the same person.
- My thumb is not black after all. It's gangrene. RIP, plants number 1 thru 7.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Or so I thought.
He pulls his shiny black Porsche in front of me as I walk out. He'd been eying me in the canned foods section and I'd given him a smile as I passed, thinking he was kinda cute.
"You have a fantastic smile," he says. "You have a fantastic car," I say. "Can I take you out for a drink?" he says. "Sure!" I say. We exchange first names and phone numbers and before I finish my five-minute drive home he has texted. "Awww, that's nice," I smile.
Johnny- Very nice meeting you :)
Me: thanks, you too!
Johnny is a writer on a very popular television show and was a writer on a #1 show that ended a few years ago. Johnny is also a writer of text messages. Johnny wants to know everything there is to know about me from birth to present day, via text. I avoid questions, attempting repeatedly to meet him out (at a very public place) to talk instead, but Johnny is having none of it. He wants to text. And text. And text.
The next night...
Johnny- What's your last name. Are you on Facebook?
Hmmm. Weird. We haven't even met in person yet and he wants to Facebook me. Ok, I reason. Everyone's on Facebook; I guess this is normal. I stupidly give him my last name (instantly regretting it and flashing back to a Lifetime movie involving the murder of a girl who stupidly gave her full name to an on-line predator.)
I search for Johnny only to find that he is not actually ON Facebook. Johnny has a Facebook page. But, his page has no picture and absolutely no information (except that he's a television writer, which is how I know it's him), wall posts or activity at all. I am irrationally relieved that there aren't three names on the profile (John Wilkes Boothe, John Wayne Gacey, Lee Harvey Oswald...you get the gist.), but it's a stalker page, nonetheless.
Feeling like the girl in the horror film whose murder you want to assist with because she's THAT stupid, I quickly make my name unsearchable.
Johnny- hey, i can't find you on Facebook. Friend me so I can look at your page. I'm going to google you now.
Hold. The. Phone. Or drop it...which is what I did.
Me: Um.....what? You want to google me??? That's a little creepy.
Johnny: What? Why? That's what people do these days. Why are you freaking out? (oh, I don't know...I guess the kill room in your basement wasn't what I had in mind when we said we'd meet for drinks...)
Crap, I've pissed off Dexter.
I put the phone down and back away slowly...expecting him to actually walk through the screen holding the length of rope and roll of duct tape he purchased earlier today. You know, the evidence the police will later find in his trunk along with my DNA.
Johnny: Where did you go? You haven't answered. Are you on IMDB? Where did you go to college?
I can't block him...and I can't even ignore him. Because, Johnny is a writer on a very popular television show. And, in television, the writer is God. And, God better not have an axe to grind with you (or into you) when you audition in front of him or you'll never been seen again. By anyone. Ever. Much less book his show. You never piss off the writer. Or the psycho.
Thinking of my acting career and the fact that it will be slightly harder to book while in pieces in his freezer, I decide to respond.
Me: Early day tomorrow...gotta run. But, have a good night and pen something brilliant tomorrow.
Cordial. Acknowledges his talent. But, not encouraging. Not engaging. Perfect.
Johnny: Oh...ok. Yeah, you too. I'll try.
And, just like that, the horror film ends. For the night.
Over the next 2 months, Johnny randomly texts the word- hi. I don't know why, but I have always found it eerie when people just text- hi. I wait the appropriate you're-so-weird-but-I-can't-be-rude-to-you-in-case-you-kill-me-or-worse-yet-blackball-me 24 hour period and text back, hi. (hey, he started it!)
A week later...
Goosebumps. Check the locks.
At this point, I know he's either losing interest or plotting my demise. I give up my favorite Beverly Hills grocery store and keep an eye out for shiny black Porsches. There are almost no black Porsches in Beverly Hills. (That, Miss Morrisette, is irony. A fly in your chardonnay, is not.).
Two weeks later...
Johnny- Where have you been? I haven't heard from you. Wanna meet me for a drink?
Annnnd, there it is.
So, i do what any strong, capable, woman of the new millennium would do. I make up a fake boyfriend. A big one. One whose bodybuilding competition has kept me away from my phone for a while.
Johnny wishes me luck with Arnold Fakezenegger and disappears. Just like that.
If I do ever audition for him, I won't know it. I can't even remember what he looks like anymore, but I no longer think he's kinda cute. He, however, will definitely know me, as he sits with a panel of producers, my name in block letters on the headshot in his hand.
At least he won't be holding my actual head.
Friday, May 13, 2011
The top ones...would suffice. They didn't spread like black spiders approaching the lid-ville county line, as they did when i was twenty, but they were decent, adequate. The bottom ones were another story. Sparse, unless onyx-drenched, and even then there were gaps, empty foxholes where now fallen tress once lay. Wounded, i assume, in a past assault with a deadly curler.
Then came Josie.
Waving a wand of enchantment and argan oil across the battlefield, restoring life where once there was none. And, now, life. sprouts. hope.
Hope's full name is Josie Maran Instant Natural Volume Argan Mascara. You can find her, this angel of eyes, atop a shelf at your local Sephora. And when you do, never let her go.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
2. Everybody is on Facebook. Or, as the film industry likes to call it, "Cha-Ching!"
3. Twitter is the new Facebook. Or, as the film industry likes to call it, "2011's Cha-Ching!"
4. P90X was actually designed by Kim Jong-Il as a means to torture Americans. And, who owns a chin-up bar anyway.
5. The Secret can suck it. I've been "secreting" snow in LA for 3 years and have yet to see a flake. Not a snow flake, anyway. Perhaps, I should have been more specific.
6. Not having a roommate is Heaven. Having a roommate is the place below hell where the people who fail hell go.
7. Comedy is hard.
8. I may not be a good redhead.
9. Parking garage columns are strategically placed in your car's blind spots...by Geico.
10. "Dogs don't say goodbye."
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson.
So, today, I pay tribute to each.
One battled fearlessly against an insufferable cancer and
the other died suddenly, much, much too young.
Both are loved by many, both will be remembered...always.
Feb 2, 1947- June 25, 2009
Aug. 29, 1958- June 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
This explains a lot.
As a kid, I was a tomboy. Of course, I played with barbies and stuffed animals and used Play Dough to make pretend hot dogs, which I served at my pretend restaurant... and I adored my Easy Bake oven (I ingested a LOT of raw ingredients. It is simply not reasonable to expect an 8 year old to wait for a light bulb to bake brownies.). But, I also played in the mud, built forts, climbed trees, jumped fences, rode bikes, played softball, skateboarded, ice skated and roller skated. Along with such activities came sprained wrists, crutches, stitches and...concussions.
Four, to be exact.
One occurred while ice skating (I naturally suck at all winter sports), one while roller skating with a cup of Kool Aid in my hand, one while skateboarding down an insanely steep hill in an attempt to impress the cute boy who lived at the top...and who didn't know I existed and probably wasn't even home at the time, and one while playing "run and slide on the ice patch" during 8th grade recess. We were 13, what do you want?
The ice patch fall was a doozie which caused temporary blindness (No, Mr. Thomas, God rest your mean old soul, I wasn't faking it to get out of math class that day. But, I'm not sorry I missed it.) and, I now believe, a whole host of other issues including, but not limited to, the following:
-Last week it took me 4 full minutes to figure out how to get a travel toothbrush back into its case. yep.
-My math center doesn't work. I'm not even sure it exists. I don't know exactly where it is located in the brain, but I'm pretty sure I fell on it during the skateboarding incident. Stupid cute boy.
-I utterly adore brand new jars of peanut butter. Specifically, Skippy. If i get to be the first one to break the unnaturally smooth surface, my life feels complete. Tell me that's not brain damage.
-I once forgot my dog's name. The vet tech said, "Who do we have here?" and I said, "um..." followed by a blank stare and head tilt. uh huh.
-I have watched all three seasons of Rock of Love. And, I'm hoping Brett breaks up with Taya so there can be a Rock of Love 4. God help me.
-All these years I thought Michale Jackson was saying, "keep on, do the bus stop, don't stop 'til you get enough." Figured the "bus stop" was a kind of dance. Astonished I had that wrong.
-I continue to throw myself into the horror that is the LA dating pool. I think the use of the word horror is explanation enough here.
The list goes on...and on. But, I'll stop now for fear of scaring off...everyone single one of my readers.
***This post is dedicated to my childhood partner-in-crime, Charlotte, who bore witness to many of my mishaps and who got side-swiped by a speeding car while biking to DQ with me via a highway we were NOT supposed to be on...something we manged to hide from her parents despite cuts, bruises and limping. Hopefully, her mother is not one of my followers... ;)***