My roommate Jess is the best. She gave me my Christmas present a bit early (I promised her lots of Paris goodies for hers), and she did it all knowing I was going on a long plane flight.
Gift bag full of:
Glamour Magazine
Baked Goldfish Crackers (The snack that smiles back until you bite their heads off!)
Trident White (mm, fresh airplane breath)
Lavender Lotion (conveniently sized in airplane friendly 2oz size, although I don't think that was intentional, but awesome all the same)
Condoms (I'm assuming that even though they're lubricated, they'll make it through security. Although I definitely had a few images of the airport security holding them up and going "Whats all this then? Trying to smuggle a bomb in through ribbed latex?! How DARE you.)
Trail Mix Bars (in flight snax! Very important) and CHOXIE! the dark chocolate sensation sweeping the nation with little bits of chili powder mixed in. mmmm.....
How awesome is my roommate?
For anyone wondering, no, I still haven't tracked down my Christmas Presents. My ex-roommate's number still goes straight to voicemail, and the building owner's voice mailbox is full (that doesn't bode well, does it?). I did leave a page with the building owner, and I'm very glad I left that note on the mailbox itself. I'm hoping that even if my ex-roomie doesn't see it, her roommate will and might call me. I'm going to drop by one more time before I leave, since it's kind of on the way.
Sigh. But, yay! Flight leaves in five hours.
So, dear blog, I bid you adieu. For now. I'll be back in three weeks. I may be able to post while there, but I wouldn't bet on it. I will do the best I can, however, and of course take tons and tons of pictures :)
Merry Christmas Everyone! Hope you have a safe new year.
So tomorrow is the day I leave for London!
And Paris. And Brussels.
Ok, so yes, I'm insanely excited. That's a given.
Unfortunately, there's something kind of overshadowing this at the moment.
My Christmas presents are being held hostage.
I found out today that all the presents my mom bought from Amazon for me (apparently equalling over $200 worth of stuff here, we're talking Season Two of The Office (US), Firefly, a Shamrock Ring Bottle Opener, among other things, were all delivered to my OLD address from when I lived near USC. These were all delivered during the first week of December, and none of it was returned.
(Aside: it just turned 12am, so I leave for London TODAY! yay!)
The bad thing about this being, my old roommate and I did not part on the best of terms. Not enough to where I really believe she'll keep my presents from me, but enough for me to be worried. I tried calling her (Thank GOD I never delete numbers from my phone), but got her voicemail. I even stopped by the old apartment, but although (forgive the pun) the lights were on, no one was home. Still, according to the mail in the mailbox (another reason I'm worried, the security around that area is extremely lax, and the neighborhood is such where you don't walk by yourself after dark), my little hippie stoner ex-roommate does indeed still reside there. That's better than a total stranger, I guess. At least I do have her phone number. And I have to reason that since the lights were left on, she probably hasn't left for the holidays yet or anything. Besides the voicemail, I also left a note on the mailbox itself asking her to call me about the Amazon packages.
Sigh.
I'm upset at myself for not realizing what address the wishlist stuff gets sent to. I've never had a problem before; I don't know why this address is suddenly the default. If anything, I would've expected the stuff to go back to my previous address before this when I lived with the ex-boyfriend.
I'm going to try the ex-roomie again in the morning. I also got the building owner's number from the next door neighbor, so I may try there too.
Other than that, everything's great. The production manager called and let me know that they're doing four more pickup shooting days, which means an extra two grand in my stocking for when I get back. So...hooray for that! So exciting to have work waiting for me when I get back.
And now it's time for bed, where I'm surely going to spend the first hour remembering all the little things that I haven't packed yet or taken care of that I just HAVE to do before I leave. Like dropping off my manager's birthday present (Trader Joe Ginger Snaps), or wrapping up my best friend's grocery requests (mondo jar of guacamole, bottle of lactose-intolerance treating pills) in my luggage so they're nice and snug. Dropping off Chris's screenplay that I've only managed to read half of so far. And all that.
Last night was my last night at The Restaurant before I leave for London!
Beverly Hills cracks me up. Not only do they have chandeliers in glass boxes
It was actually raining last night, so we closed the patio (to the extreme huffiness of some guests), and had a record seven servers on inside. This meant each of us had a max of four tables each, but considering how busy the inside was going to be, I wasn't complaining. Although three of my tables were right by the men's restrooms, which we all know how much customers love that. I have to say, if I were designing a restaurant, I would put the restrooms only in the front of the store. Right off the foyer, if possible. Yeah, it would mean tables might have to walk a little farther to get their potty on, but no one would have those embarrassing peeks into a World Which They Do Not Want To Know.
Headed to Ericka's Christmas Party afterwards, where there was spiked egg nog galore. The problem with this, as I quickly realized, is once you start drinking egg nog, it's very difficult to switch to any other kind of alcoholic beverage without risking serious stomach injury. Beer? Yes, please, lets mix hops and eggs. Red wine? Eek, fermentation.
I stayed long enough to argue over the sexual orientation of the one tall boy at the party with my gay co-worker Sean. I wasn't particularly interested, but Ericka kept steering me towards him.
Ericka: "MAW! MAW! I have the perfect boy for you!!"
Me: "Oh yeah? Who's that?"
Ericka: "Ok, tall boy, striped shirt, 3 o'clock by the girl in that hideous sparkly top"
Me: "Ok...."
Ericka: "You can have him."
Me: "Um....thanks?"
Ericka: "He's a hottie AND he's Canadian! (Ericka is of the 'aboot' persuasion herself)"
Me: "Again, um...thanks!"
Ericka: "Oh, and he's awesome at munching your crotch."
Yes, please. Because if I'm hitting on a guy, the FIRST image I want in my brain is him munching on my friend's crotch. Interestingly enough, this still did not settle the question of his sexuality, because later on in the night, Sean came up to me.
Sean: "You lose."
Me: "What's that?"
Sean: "Tall hottie? I got his number."
I looked at Sean, glanced over at Ericka who was happily engrossed in kareoke'ing her way through "Silver Bells", then glanced over at the tall boy once more.
Me: "Have fun, doll."
Well, I'm sure those crotch munching skills will be put to good use one way or another.
I glanced at my phone and realized it was far later than I had meant to stay at Ericka's, as there was supposedly another party back at my apartment complex, and I wanted to run into Boy-Next-Door's Brother to remind him that we were supposed to go snowboarding tomorrow. So I said my goodbye's and my Merry Christmas's, begged a few of the Restaurant People to come to my Old Restaurant's Christmas Party the next night (As, again, our's is not planning on having one. Because they suck.), and headed back to my apartment building.
Ran first into Dave in the parking garage. Dave is one of the menfolk who lives on the floor below me. Apparently the apartment building party had been broken up an hour before by one of the douchebags pulling the fire alarm and the building manager coming in and raising hell. Still, it was more than likely that people were still hanging out, so I headed up. I heard voices and thought I heard Boy-Next-Door's voice, so I knocked and was ushered in by about five or six people I had seen perhaps once or twice around the building.
Wasn't awkward at all. Really.
Luckily, about three minutes after I walked in, a group of four more showed up as equally fashionably late, including one extremely tall cutie by the name of Eric. After some small talk and slightly excessive teasing about the fact that they lived in the Valley, they started commenting on the air hockey table the apartment possessed. I, naturally, proclaimed my reigning status as Queen of Air Hockey, and just as naturally, was challenged to a duel. Sadly, not by Eric.
I did keep my title (sealing it with an added touch of bad-assery by actually *breaking* a puck, a fact they seemed much more impressed by than upset), the success added to by the occasional cheering comment from Eric, who was sitting and talking with one of the girls in the group he had come with. But then right as I was breaking away from the table to casually drop by where he was sitting, the whole group decided to move on into the night. I exchanged a meaningless short conversation with Eric that I barely remember, because the whole time I was yelling at myself in my head.
Ask him out!
No! You just met him! You didn't even really TALK to him, besides putting in digs about his living arrangements! That isn't the best foundation there!
Who cares?? He's tall, he's cute, he doesn't seem to be disgusted by you in any way! Come on!
No! What kind of spaz asks someone out after three minutes of talking!
A non-single one! Do it!
Unfortunately, in the end, my cowardice won out, and I spent the rest of the night wishing I'd ended the air hockey game a bit sooner so I could've talked to him a bit more and felt him up...out! I meant out!
Damn me.
I never did run into Boy-Next-Door or his brother, but after talking to him this morning, snowboarding was a no go. I could've gone by myself to experience the lovely new six inches of powder up at Big Bear, but my life is such that my car would totally break down on those chains-required roads, and I'd miss my flight or something. Ah well. Instead I stayed home, made popcorn and watched Love Actually for the fifthieth time. It's so lovely to not have anything planned for the entire day. To not have to do anything until 9 o'clock at night, and know that the one thing you do have planned is going to involve copious amounts of alcohol and free jumbo shrimp. Hooray!
Got this on InsaneWaiter, who caught this on Bitterwaitress. It's the holidays! Lets recycle! This article is fabulous; he can sit in my section ANY time.
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Customers can fall short too:10 Tips to be a good one
By Tucker Shaw, Denver Post
A couple of times over the past month I've made the point in this column that the standards for restaurant service in the Denver area are, in general, not as high as they should be. But that is not my point today.
Today, instead of griping about service foibles and frustrations, it's time to turn the tables and see a different point of view. Because it's not only servers who are falling short. It's us too. We've all been there: You're at dinner with someone whose attitude and behavior make you cringe. He or she complains about everything, scoffs at and speaks condescendingly to your server, throws attitude and leaves a miserable tip. You find yourself smiling extra broadly to your server to make up for it, even slipping a few extra bucks under a glass of water on the way out to make up for the difference. It's a horrible feeling.
On behalf of overworked, and underpaid and underappreciated servers, here are 10 things the rest of us need to keep in mind.
One: Your server, (not your servant) is a human being and deserves your best manners. A moment of eye contact and a smile up front, the most basic and respectful way to acknowledge a fellow human being, can make the difference between a smooth evening, and a bumpy one-on both sides.
Two: Your server works hard. Quite likely, they work even harder than you do. Staying on your feet for four to six, or eight hours at a stretch is a lot to ask of anyone. Throw in having to schlep plates, fight with chefs, absorb customer frustrations and maintain a positive outward attitude-this is a tough, demanding job, worthy of out respect and admiration.
Three: Your server doesn't make much money. Few and far between are the restaurant jobs in Denver that pay servers to say, buy real estate. And benefits? With very few exceptions, forget it.
Four: Every night is a gamble for your server. Most of us know much we're getting paid every week, whether we're busy that week or not. But beyond their sorry base rate (usually around $2-something an hour) restaurant servers are paid based on how much business the restaurant does that particular day-and how generous people are with their tips. If it's a lucky night at an expensive restaurant, a server can net up several hundred bucks. But $40 and $60 nights are much more common.
Five: You are not the only one in the restaurant. Ever had to do more than one thing at a time at your job? Then you can relate. Don't hog the server with endless questions. Ask about the menu, yes, but think first. Questions like "what should I have" are about as unreasonable as "what size am I?" when you're on the phone with J.Crew.
Six: Your server cannot read your mind. If you need something, say so. Don't stew on the fact that your iced tea needs more ice. It's unfair to resent your server for not noticing, then punish them with a bum tip. Seven: Patience is always appropriate. Berating the host or hostess will not free up that patio table any faster. Stay in sight so you're not forgotten, and be willing to give them a few minutes' grace. And if the wait for your table is longer than you're willing to wait, just say goodbye (A good restaurant will at least buy you a drink if you wait more than a few minutes.)
Eight: Your server deserves the benefit of the doubt. If, for example, the wrong entree is delivered to your table, you can be sure it was an honest mistake. (who would do this on purpose?) Before you go busting chops, give your server a break. Point out mix-ups politely.
Nine: Remember, you chose this restaurant, not vise versa. What's on the menu is what's available. Don't make unreasonable requests, like asking for the three-cheese lasagna without the cheese, or a cold beer for your 14-year-old son.
Ten: Don't skimp on a tip. It's 2006, and a 10 percent tip isn't cool anymore. Between 15 and 20 percent is appropriate. When in doubt, leave a little extra. It's good karma.
Long story short: Good service requires honest participation on both sides. So, if we expect our servers to do a better job, we must be willing to step up too.
| Greed: | High | |
| Gluttony: | Medium | |
| Wrath: | High | |
| Sloth: | Medium | |
| Envy: | High | |
| Lust: | High | |
| Pride: | Medium |
This is an example of the crazy crap casting people pull on us....this is the notice from the Casting Director for an audition I have later tonight for a SAG short film:
Good Morning!
I hope this e-mail notification finds you well and in good spirits. Okay, enough of me being nice!
You have an audition for Thursday, December 14, 2006. The role is for JULIE, the surrogate mother for the two leads. She is fresh-faced, with warm yet serious eyes, and most importantly, six months pregnant. PLEASE DRESS ACCORDINGLY. (make yourselves look six months prego ladies...unless you are already, then just show up)
Please bring your sides with you, please bring one stapled headshot. If for some unforseen reason you need a window of time due to whatever reason, it is from 7PM-10PM on Thursday only.
Thank you so much for submitting and congrats on the audition!
Break a Leg
The fuck? Short of going out and buying a fake belly, how exactly do you expect me to make myself six months pregnant? Is your imagination so limited that you just HAVE to have that rounded belly in order to see me as a pregnant person? I can't believe someone is actually going to be more focused on the fact that I have a pillow stuffed underneath my shirt than my acting capability. That's great.
Not to mention the time frame of the auditions. Night? 7-10pm?? Who has auditions then? I had to call my Cold Reading teacher and tell him I'd be late, luckily, an audition/callback/booking is the universal get-out-of-jail-free card for actors. And pretty much the ONLY reason they'll excuse you for anything.
Also, the breakdown specifies I'm supposed to "not be model beautiful".....hmm. Ok, not to sound conceited, but I'm freakishly tall, pretty damn thin, and pretty attractive. Hmm.
It's not that I'm not grateful for the audition, I am, I love being able to go in and act, under ANY circumstances. It is, however, a little disconcerting to be focusingly on the goose down between you and your clothes and not your line delivery. Not to mention worrying that they're going to dismis me out of hand because I go directly against the breakdown description of the character.
Ah well. Check this out:
Oh whoops, that's actually what the dishwashers in a posh seafood restaurant do in their spare time. I meant this:
That is what occupied me for most of the day. Yes! Yes, it is that time to bust out the holiday themed paper and envelopes, find an appropriate handwriting-looking font, and make all the members of my family insanely jealous of my carefree lifestyle. Woot! It's Christmas Newsletter Time! (TM).
Letters sent out to my closest friends and family, and this year I even got fancy and included the pictures in the letters themselves! I will give you a moment to revel in my genius and majesty.
Actually, I'll give you all night, because I just got a message from a photographer wanting to set up a session for Saturday morning (which, AMAZINGLY, I can do! I just go to work afterwards and then first to my co-worker Ericka's Christmas party (festive attire mandatory, apparently) and then home to wallow in the Christmas party that will be raging in our apartment building.
AND, the headshot photographer from yesterday just emailed me with the pictures from the session! Hooray!
After a photo shoot with Dennis Kwan, a quick break to have an audition for Full Tilt Poker @ Jeff Rosenman Casting, going BACK to the photo shoot for a couple more looks, driving to work only to find out I was an hour LATE for work because I am dyslexic with numbers and then closing the restaurant, I am finally going to sleep at 3:bloody:21 in the morning because I just HAD to watch The Devil Wears Prada from the new Netflix arrival from yesterday. Damn you Stanley Tucci and your fabulous line deliveries!
God. Is it wrong that I'm proud that even after all that.......my hair still looks FABULOUS?
Oi. I'm sure I'm a few steps farther down the path to superficial hell by making that statement, but I'm too damn tired to care.
Good NIGHT.
What is your pet peeve, the one thing which really drives you mad?
Submitted by Beki.
Nobody voices my pet peeves better than Foamy, so I will let him take the reins on this one. This is personally one of my favorites because I live in southern California, and nowhere else in the US of A do people understand the meaning of GOOD FUCKING MEXICAN FOOD. Amazingly enough, it's not so much his typical rant and more a celebration of some stuff that we SHOULD be appreciating.
And um, oh yeah, people who don't understand BASIC HUMAN MANNERS need to be shot. Immediately. The wolves you call your parents and the barn you call your home do not excuse you from saying things like "Please", "Thank you", and holding the door for people coming in DIRECTLY BEHIND YOU.
------------------
From Foamy:
Mexico es muy bien! Now, most of you, by now, certainly know how I feel about illegal Mexicans breaking in through our borders and stealing our jobs from US Citizens, not speaking English and blah blah blah.
Unfortunately, most of you people, with your limited thought capacity, are applying this viewpoint to the Mexican people as a whole. What is wrong with you people? Why is it that when anyone criticizes a certain group of people, everyone else takes those criticisms and then stereotypes the whole group in it's entirety, based on those few observations?
It's nuts.
So, today, let's talk about the positive impact of Mexican culture on American society. Now, for me, the best part of this influx of Mexican culture are the tacos. Tacos and Fucking Chalupas! Mexican food, in general, just fucking KICKS ASS. No more of this second hand rate, Taco Smells fast food nonsense. Nope! We're going to get the real shit!
For those of you who've actually eaten real Mexican food, you know what I'm talking about!
Next up, sombrero's!
I love sombrero's. Those big ol' hats are more fun than a clown car on fire. I'm constantly on the lookout for a hat big enough and a brim large enough to keep me and my friends cool, on a hot summer day. And I think the sombrero, could be that hat.
Kudos!
Another thing. Pinatas! I personally love the concept of beating the shit out of something and then getting candy in return. It's pure genius, and KICKS. ASS.
Another thing I'm looking forward to? Afternoon siestas. What's better than taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon? I personally get a bit weary around 2pm after a long morning of bitching and complaining and need to charge my batteries. A siesta is a perfect concept and needs to be put into law, immediately.
Yo me gusta!
Now, ya know, a strong work ethic and some family values wouldn't hurt Amercian society either.
*cough* welfare moms.
With all this being said, I welcome aboard the new American citizen of the future! Just don't bring over any Mexican water, learn some English and leave that repetitive Mexican music at the border.
Today I only officially worked for four hours, and yet it was a typical Very Busy Day. Welcome to the life of the perpetually-seeking-work MAW.
10am: Wake up a bit later than I like to, but keeping in line with the 2am bedtime of the night prior. My alarm as of late consists of the sounds of fans screaming their heads off as Matt Scannell of Vertical Horizon goes into the live opening riffs of ‘The Man Who Would Be Santa”, whom my college roommate adored and I blame her entirely for me owning the entire anthology. Have usual breakfast of nonfat vanilla yogurt topped with bananas and soy granola (Jeezum crow, could I GET any more fucking Hollywood? But...dammit, it’s tasty!). Sit down to attach the mailing labels to 117 postcards (and no, that number is not an approximation in any way) going out to feature film and TV Casting Directors, notifying them of the electrifying performance that will be gracing their television screens on Wednesday. Briefly curse the producers for delaying the airing of my TV episode until RIGHT before Christmas, when most shows and casting are starting to lighten up for the holidays, but hey, I’m gonna be on TV, and dammit, no one can say I didn’t try and pimp myself out as much as possible.
11am: Realize of course that I had need of both more labels and the stamps to send these postcards out. Wash face and tie my non-washed hair up in a bun, because I am exceptionally disgusting and did not shower after working out last night. I first stop at the post office for the stamps, braving the immense crowds of people getting all that pesky Christmas stuff finished. Was a tad proud of myself for making the typically unflappable postal workers (hah!) blink when I asked for (120) 24 cent postcard stamps. Next stop was Staples, where not only did I pick up more labels, but reminded myself that I needed boxes for sending out both the parents and the sister’s Xmas presents, and hey, that’s some pretty stationary with which I can send out Christmas newsletters! (Yes, I am one of THOSE PEOPLE).
12:50pm: Finally finish up addressing, updating and
stamping all 117 postcards and I carry them, plus a check to my old roommate
finally repaying her for the security deposit and the final balances on bills
to the post office on the way to the gym. Meanwhile my current roommate owes me $150 for back rent and the old roommate $75 for a key deposit. This distresses me slightly.
1pm: Do a slightly
abbreviated version of my usual workout; 45 minutes as per usual on the
elliptical machine, but only 10 minutes worth of jogging before cooling down
for 5 and walking the six blocks home.
....What? You thought I had this bombastic body merely because of good genes? Although I literally have no idea what I weigh right now because the Hollywood YMCA, in a stroke of either genius or sympathy, took out the scale in the women's locker room. When asked about it, they merely reply they have a new one 'on order'. Suuuure.....
2:15pm: Jump in the shower, call TIGI salon while towel drying my hair to schedule a touch up coloring session for tomorrow morning, cutting it a tad close because really, who gets their hair colored THE DAY BEFORE a photo shoot? God, don't you know ANYTHING? But it should be done because it's slowly regaining its coppery glory from the Bedhead shoot, and again, it’s the magic F word; FREE, so who cares? Schedule hair appointment for 10am tomorrow morning.
3:40pm: Arrive at The Restaurant, a full five amazing minutes early for my shift, but alas, no Iranian manager present to appreciate my complete lack of lateness.
6pm: Get message from Manager saying I have an audition tomorrow! Wee! As per usual, I have no idea what it’s for, because they email all that information to you, and if you let the call from them go to voicemail, all they will say is exactly that.
7pm: Get call from Agency (which is different from Manager), also for an audition! Unlike the Manager, the Agency will give you all the information on the voicemail, but will require you to call back to confirm you got the audition information. The Manager simply assumes you are confirmed, because no reason short of dismemberment or immediate family death is good enough to keep you from going on an audition they’ve booked you on. (See “Prada, Devil Wears”) So the Agency’s audition was for Little Caesar’s Pizza, and is for 12pm. Hmm. May have to reschedule hair appointment.
I had actually been considering firing Agency for quite some time now, because the only audition I’ve gotten from them in the last six months was a double submission and I had the same audition through my Manager. Most likely, this audition is much the same and I got the Little Caesar audition from my Manager as well. Promise myself that if this is the case, I will look up the most inoffensive and polite way to fire an Agent on Google when I get home.
7:45pm: Get cut from The Restaurant because it is bloody cold outside on the patio and no one in their right mind would want to sit out there, even with the pathetically sparse number of heaters placed out there For Your Convenience. Still, I will never be surprised by what people will do for Happy Hour. I curse fellow co-worker Jackson once again because he’s spent the last twenty minutes rubbing it in my face that a table I gave up to him ended up spending $200 on food and another $100 tipping him. Dickface.
8:30pm: Get home and look up audition info from the Manager, only to find it not there! Email Manager to ask what the audition is.
9pm: Dying for a Gingerbread Latte fix, so change into the the newest love of my life and head to Borders.
The Second Assistant - Clare Naylor and Mimi Hare
Dammit, I know it's pathetic summer reading chick lit, but it was all mired in Hollywood trappings and references to George Clooney. It's like when I was into ice skating and all I would read was Silver Blades. I KNEW the writing was crap, but it kept talking about all this stuff my life was revolving around! I was even sad enough to keep my not-quite-finished copy of Mysteries of the Middle Ages on my lap to give the casual passer-by the idea that maybe, just maybe, my psyche was deeper than a kiddie pool.
Bah.
9:45pm: Get a call from Manager saying that the audition was NOT for Little Caesar as I expected, but rather for something called Bugaboo Strollers. Snicker. In any case, the audition is for 10am, so I will DEFINITELY have to reschedule the hair appointment tomorrow, if I can get it in at all. Figure latest audition is at 12, get out at 12:30, 1pm at the latest, takes 1 ½ hours to get down to Irvine’s TIGI, so get down there at 2:30pm, takes….2 hours ish to get hair done (oi), and another 1 ½ hours to get back up to Hollywood for my Cold Reading Class at 6pm. Which will finish at midnight. Sure. I could do that.
Attempt to call TIGI to reschedule, but obviously it’s far too late for that tonight and they have no voicemail (!)
Things overheard at Borders:
From the Coffee Shop:
Guy 1: “Get off the counter, you faggoty redhead!”
Guy 2: “What?!”
Guy 1: “You heard me!”
Guy 2: “WHAT?!”
Guy 1: “YOU HEARD ME!!”
At The Table Next To Me:
Worker: “Mind if I clear all this away for you?” (Motioning to plates and such in front of customer sitting at the table)
Guy: (mumbles something)
Worker: “Working on that drink?
Getting that last sippypoo in?”
I swear to freakin God he said “sippypoo”. I know this because I literally spent five
minutes thinking over every other connotation of anything RESEMBLING that word
to try to explain what else he might have said. I came up with nothing.
Guy: (again mumbles, I would’ve given a lot to know what)
Worker: “Well you just savor
every last drop there.”
This said without even a hint of sarcasm.
So, tomorrow I will wake up at around 8:30am, call up TIGI to try and reschedule the hair appointment to EXACTLY 2:30, get 'dance stuff' for the Bugaboo audition, get ‘spunky Cashier girl’ wear for the Little Caesar’s Pizza audition, get respectable Cold Reading Class wear together, pile it all in my car, and head out on my day. Wee!
Oh, and have I mentioned that I leave in 8 days for London?!? Eeee….
I heard a woman tell a homeless guy that he "ain't dirty 'nuff!" on the way back from the gym today.
God, this town is harsh.
